‘A theatrical factory,’ Gus Bender called it. ‘A factory for dreams, hopes, fantasy and illusions. Nothing more and nothing less.’ It was the main function of his work and had been ever since he had started out with a plate camera and a couple of lamps to supply these commodities for the hundreds of determined young people who had set their sights on fame and success in the world of the theatre. And who very seldom succeeded. However, his business thrived from the start, as his prices were modest, his skill undoubted, and his premises fortunately central to the activities of that world. He also did his best to keep ahead of fashions and was always willing to experiment as long as everything was kept within the limits of what he personally considered to be good taste: being a sensible man he made these limits reasonably flexible.

At some time in his career, and he always blessed the day, an elderly actor of some fame and distinction visited the studio to arrange a private sitting for a nephew who was just about to embark on his road to the Theatre. He stressed that his nephew was quite unused to the ways of the profession as yet, having only recently left the Army, and that he himself would be present at the sitting in order to assure that everything possible was done to relax the sitter and bring out the very best in his personality. He hoped that Mr Bender would not be annoyed by this suggestion, and that he would keep the appointment as private as possible since the whole thing was to be ‘a delicious surprise’ for the young man’s unsuspecting family. He added that he was fully prepared to pay extra for any trouble he might put Mr Bender to, and suggested that a very plain and simple backing would be all that was required, perhaps a grey velvet curtain or something?, as the subject was exceptionally good looking and needed no embellishments. Which was perfectly true, and clear for everyone to see, for all he wore that day was a pair of thigh boots, a lifeguard’s helmet and a three-foot sword.