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urban

North America

from the back alleys to the avenues and back

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   From across the pond a child had dreamt what are memories now. What the books and films and songs had suggested was all true – the cities were as vast as they were tall and their lights always a million more than fathomable, and all the expected unusual cars were parked in all the right alleys. Taming those dreams and turning them into domesticated realities did not leave the man with less, but more; for the cities’ unsung, unanticipated, unimaginable tales were the sweetest. Whispered and inaudible from afar, they were of the kind no one but oneself could find, up close, with the right ear pressed against the pulse. Like the time he heard someone play the public piano and could almost decipher the pianist’s motives in the notes. And that strange, tingly, crisp feeling of frozen nostrils on deep winter days. And all the cool back alleys with their ivy towers and warm backyards. And maybe most of all he loved the human blend, which was rich and fresh here. Diversity, once a foreign concept to the kid – when people were just people, not subsets of people labeled with superfluous minority-adjectives – was something he had long learned to perceive and acknowledge, and he thought the local abundance beautiful, while dreaming of returning to a future where diversity was implied again, like it was for the child.

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a glimpse

a glimpse
evening commute in San Diego

glimpse: COMMUNAL COMMUTE | Day in, day out, day in, day out, day in, day out... Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Monday. Allies aligned in highway lanes, side by side through dawn and dusk. Calendar days and weeks and months flying by like road signs, years and decades going past, until the exit.  

Cité Memoire projection of a face on a tree in Montreal's Old Port neighborhood

 

glimpse: SHE | Scars adorn her face aplenty. Gripping and remarkable. She keeps these tales to herself and ignores the skinny rumors, petty shots in a dark where they don’t belong, trespassing questions that don’t merit answers. She is pure in her imperfection. She is who she is. She is. A tree. A projection. A piece of art.

stapler needles on a utility post

 

Verdun, Montreal / Canada · 2020   all those nights out

white wooden house

 

Hemmingford, Quebec / Canada · 2019   eternal porch

 

Seattle / USA · 2019   gumwall

gum on a wall
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Montreal / Canada · 2016   sticking your neck out, with pride

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Portland / USA · 2019   over the surface under
 

Optimus Prime sculpture in PEI / Canada
red maple leaves in autumn in Vancouver

 

Prince Edward Island / Canada · 2016   the real Optimus Prime

 

Downtown, Vancouver / Canada · 2019   winter murder

gallery

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gallery

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