North America

from the back alleys to the avenues and back





   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.


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


Montreal / Canada · 2016   sticking your neck out, with pride


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







photos | urban

Night Delight

allures of the dark side

...for the daring nocturnal creatures among us, there is a deserted, silent world waiting after hours; and like moths we flutter towards its discoveries, wherever a speck of light flecks the darkness.   see more

photos | urban

Office Prison Symmetry

behind bars: office or prison? 

Looking at it from the outside, I can’t help but seeing bars in the symmetry that comes with the sterile and institutional blueprint of office buildings around the world. see more

photos | essays

The Street Around the Corner

tripping over nothing in everyday streets


Not imposing any art on them or desperately extrapolating some moxie that isn’t there, I strip their description down to only one statement and this is final: these are streets. see more

photos | essays

Disposable Nature


human agency in the enslavement of nature


...equipped with consciousness we are quite possibly the only animal around that has a notion of tomorrow and certainly the only one capable of actively shaping our future days together... see more





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