It begins with the people,
because they are always moving—
a banker stepping out of a cab,
jacket slung over one shoulder
as if this were an ad
for a life none of us quite have.
Then the empty shopping mall—
vast atrium of tile and glass
where only the echo of old Muzak
and the last three sales signs remain,
like artifacts of some extinct tribe.
On a bright Saturday, the boardwalk is another matter,
thick with bodies in motion—
bare arms freckled by the sun,
faces frozen mid-laugh or mid-bite
into paper boats of curly fries.
The candle shop is easier—
rows of waxen stillness,
their faint scents hovering in the air—
juniper, cinnamon, something called
distant rain.
Landscape takes patience,
waiting for the right light,
the shadows slanting just so across
the rusted barn, the field of brittle corn,
or quiet indifference of a mid-west sky.
And always, I am trying
to photograph Americana itself,
though I never quite catch her—
the flag in the diner window,
a pick-up truck nosed into a feed store lot,
an old man in bib overalls,
leaning on the counter at the VFW,
staring through me and the lens.
Each click another attempt,
a little elegy in a square of light,
for something that was here,
almost here,
or maybe never here at all.
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Originally Posted by tailor STATELY
