Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
We walk the way the city wants to be walked — slowly, uphill and down, over polished cobblestones that catch the light, stopping whenever something asks us to. There is no route. We follow the low sun and the small openings the day gives us: a doorway, a turn of a face, the way a wall holds the afternoon. Between the stops we talk, and between the talking we go quiet, and in the quiet you begin to notice how much you usually walk straight past. That is the whole secret of it. The walk isn't how we get to the photographs. The walk is the photograph, beginning.
We walk the way the city wants to be walked — slowly, uphill and down, over polished cobblestones that catch the light, stopping whenever something asks us to. There is no route. We follow the low sun and the small openings the day gives us: a doorway, a turn of a face, the way a wall holds the afternoon. Between the stops we talk, and between the talking we go quiet, and in the quiet you begin to notice how much you usually walk straight past. That is the whole secret of it. The walk isn't how we get to the photographs. The walk is the photograph, beginning.