In some ways these two buildings, which I have never set foot inside of, are more familiar to me than the building I am photographing them from. At least in terms of Facade. That blue and yellow isn’t something I could conjure, but it’s something I recognize instantly, as from a dream.
If you asked me:
I would be utterly clueless.
what colors are the buildings across the parking lot from the building you grew up in?
I would be utterly clueless.
But I’ve taken that photograph half a hundred times, and nondescript as it is, every time I come across some new iteration of it on my computer or on a roll of film, I know precisely where I am and what I was doing when I took it. I can read the sun across it the brick, the temperature of the light, the cars in the lot, I can look at those images like Lord Baltimore and extract from them a depth of context only the truly local can, the real townies.
Sometimes, when I was working in glass blowing studios, I’d be doing the same thing I was doing the day before: making a cup, putting a piece away in the kiln, whatever. I’d be doing that and I’d be struck with such dejavu that it occured to me that perhaps sleep and my life outside of the confines of this small place were a hallucination.
I have similar thoughts about the recurring hours spent looking up at my ceiling, or climbing in to bed to read.
The repetition of a place can often feel like it’s making of itself it’s own universe. A private bubble of time and feeling to which you return, unto itself, again and again.
Maybe life is just that way, a bunch of bubbles of Earth, bubbles of earth! Bubbles of Earth!
I have similar thoughts about the recurring hours spent looking up at my ceiling, or climbing in to bed to read.
The repetition of a place can often feel like it’s making of itself it’s own universe. A private bubble of time and feeling to which you return, unto itself, again and again.
Maybe life is just that way, a bunch of bubbles of Earth, bubbles of earth! Bubbles of Earth!
