The election ran on forever; the potential elected carved of the same cheap Italian marble as so much tchotchke that collects minuscule flakes of dead flesh all over the world. Nope,nothing original here. But it begs the question: Would we really expect change? Could we deal with it?
Change is much like choice; it is always just over there beyond reach; a rock as Sisyphus would say. Nothing seems to come without some level of tumult, a friction of signals. This is the period of unrest, anxious manoeuvring knowing a direction should be taken but the signage is weathered, paint long since faded by the sun. Every path looks just about as unkept. Any choice will change things, but every choice offers brambles, deadfall and general muck.
This all has very little with why I took and decided to use these photographs. I can still call them photographs can’t I? There were thunderstorms all around, a strange stereo of thunder off in various distances mixed with that interesting sound and smell of tires on wet-warm pavement. The moment called for the contrast of mixing the flash with natural light (fairly warm and dim). I knew the flag would pop like crazy, as would the ice cream cone. It was possible to get a bit of information from the sign and maintain the “glowiness” of the neon, again, the flash was useful for that.
The images capture a certain Canadian vanity I may have that always wants to treat America as “
the simulacrum“; not just Canadian I guess as I am just now recalling a text by Umberto Eco (Travel’s in Hyper Reality) that explores this idea quite eloquently. But the image are are really very tongue-in-cheek since I am very aware of this strange kind of transverse orientalism; it is more me-looking-at-myself-being-condescending-and-aloof than anything else. I always wonder how much of this come through and how much gets lost in the translation.