I love the idea of someone’s world told through photos in real time. It is a kind of journalism. Forever, I’ve taken photos but not had a venue to give the work a direction (and conversely, a direction the work). Instagram presents a forum to maintain this train of thought and become a venue of people going places.
After writing this, I am going to take a picture of an engine. Here is what I’m going to do before: I am going to look for my keys, grab them (the whole hunk of them are sure to be found anchoring the bottom of my coat pocket), or maybe I slip on said puffy coat (because really, its silken-polyester fabric adds lovely ease to putting it on – as if there is little difference between itself and the air, literally). I will then walk out of this building (my boots’ click-clacking will echo even louder against the thin, linoleum-covered floorboards of this empty gallery space. The matte-black, glass-encased metal door will hinge and swing open. The sound of the metal, gold-colored and round bell dangling from the door’s handle on a piece of long thin cream-colored rope will clang against the glass and both bell and glass will cause a little cacophony of sound that resonates a different pitch or timbre, depending on the person walking in. It can be said that the sound is really a portrait of the person opening the door and to clarify more than that, it is a portrait of the person themselves, and how they open a door. How one opens a door communicates everything!!!!
After opening the door and letting it close behind me (as it will), I will cut across the lobby of pale, trampled hunter’s green, slightly turquoise-speckled carpet – by the looks of it, it probably has been there for over 15 years. It is so thinned, gently faded and impressed. I will walk out of this building’s front entrance, that is, I will pass through two solid gloss-brown-painted, heavy, wooden doors and finally, step outside, walking around to the right, up through the walkway – it being skirted by concrete columns and the building’s own, almost unnaturally light-brown brick facade. A wheelchair-access ramp of brittle, crumbling shale tile with a raised curb marks the end of the walkway and of the building’s extremities itself. It is common for people (who aren’t in wheelchairs) to walk up, on over this ledge and step down, which would put you to the side of the building, where there is a two-lane driveway of light-gray, newer pavement that runs along the building’s side and to the back where, demarcated by a 75-foot long, matte-black, wrought-iron gate – made irregularly bent by cars from the parking lot on the other side, smashing into it over the years – a lone parking lot sits on the other side, at slightly varying levels to the building’s alley. Finally, I see my car, huddled as it is, facing out and away from me, towards the rear entrance of the building’s premises, against the darker, redder front brick wall. I have put my coat on as previously mentioned, and unlock the car remotely, with my fingers feeling the squishy rubber button’s round, triangular pad from within my pocket. I have worn the rubber pad over the last 6 years to become soft and pliable. I have to get closer to the car than I expect for the remote to work. The signal is obscured through the materials of the coat. Otherwise, it will work from about 15 feet or so. As I draw within 5 feet of the car, the yellow tail-lights flicker telling me that the car has responded to its key. I pull under the latch to the driver-side front door, pull as it unbuckles, opening the door and with my right hand and arm, pull the hood lever noticing (under to the left of the steering wheel) how it takes extra strength to give, before the deep and vibrating sound of an unbuckle is heard/felt from within the car’s belly. I return to the front of the car, leaving the driver-side door open. I lift the latch under the hood. The engine is still warm from a previous drive. I lift and place the rod’s hook under the hood where there is an arrow pointing to a small, oval recess. Here it goes.