Improbably seated on a kitchen stove
in a 1990 portrait shot in Los Angeles
by Herb Ritts, a still-young Johnny Depp,
his eyes deep pools of brown, gazes
at the camera. He’s dressed in T-shirt,
jeans, black boots, a single pendant
suspended from a chain circling his neck.
He sits on the burners beside a kettle,
left foot resting on the open oven door,
right leg crossed over knee, both hands
clasping boot, cigarette between the
fingers of the left. His hair, shorter than
in later years, a careful mess on top,
razor-cut wedges on the sides; there’s
a bit of scruff above his pouty lips,
a small tattoo adorning his left bicep.
“This is me,” he seems to say, “the way I am.
Accept it, deal with it, or just move on.”
T. Allen Culpepper