I MEET PATRICK AT HIS AGENCY. IT’S A WHITE OFFICE, SLICK like a laptop, on the main floor, with the word Kolektiv printed in red on the white wall behind a symmetrical, straight-haired secretary, a Seven.
Patrick manoeuvres me through a bright hallway filled with cubicles filled with guys and girls typing on their Macs, toys and boxes of crap towering on their ergonomic desks. The ceiling is punctuated with skylights. Nobody looks up as we walk by. I let out a silent fart.
We go inside a small conference room, where Patrick gestures toward a chair and I sit down across the table from him. He says, “Got your message. We use two girls. Tens. We shave their heads and we shoot them just talking. Just talking to the camera, recording one of those vlogs, yapping on about, I don’t know, The Sop
