In the grand, messy history of portraiture, we have progressed from daubing pigment on cave walls to wielding camel-hair brushes, from lugging glass plates into daguerreotype studios to the glorious, terrifying instant of the Polaroid. And now, we arrive here: staring into the tiny, unblinking pinhole of a computer camera.

And then you click.

You look at the photo. It is grainy. The white balance is off—your skin has the pallor of a Victorian ghost. Your hair is doing something strange. There is a slight delay between your smile and the shutter, so you look vaguely startled. By every metric of traditional photography, it is a failure.

Forget the rule of thirds. The computer camera is mounted to your screen, which means your portrait is forever tied to the landscape of your desk. Your background is not a studio backdrop; it is a bookshelf, a pile of laundry, a poorly lit hallway. The first interesting decision you make is curatorial: what do you want the tiny lens to confess about you? A potted plant suggests sophistication. A half-eaten bagel suggests honesty. A blank wall suggests either a minimalist or a hostage. Adjust your chair not to flatter your face, but to control the narrative behind you.