She takes a picture that is blurred, out of focus, because the moment he feels those petals land on his head he turns around to look up, frowning. Not displeasure, but simply natural paranoia, the knee-jerk tension whenever you feel something and don't know what it is. He relaxes again as soon as the petals fall off his head onto his shoulder.

"What do you want to do with them?" You're not helpless, Sonia. Don't you dare get into that mindset. "These are Cetagandans. The artist, and the will of the artist, is the be-all end-all of importance. What happens to the photos will be, I suspect, what you want to happen to the photos. Hell, you'd probably be allowed to burn them at the end as long as you could convince them it was a performance piece about the transience of beauty."