An ongoing series dedicated to the beauty of the midnight interstate, the pump islands and motor lodges glowing on the horizon like sanctuaries from the chaos of the three o’clock in the morning mind.
Christmas Eve in Kentucky. Sometimes a Waffle House is a home.
South Dakota. He found salvation in a pool of light twenty-three miles east of Rapid City.
Montana. The motel clerk watched a flickering old black-and-white. “What time is checkout?” she asked. The clerk shrugged. “Whenever the hell you feel like it.” She gave him a fake name. No reason except it felt good to lie.
Scenes from the white spaces on the American map—the mythic geography of junkyards, ghost towns, forgotten cars, and furniture by the side of county roads.
A photo-essay from the first week spent with my father at the Veterans Hospital in Wisconsin, where we would wait nine months for a lung.
Welcome to Two Guns, Arizona. Pick through the litter and listen to the sound of your shoes crunching broken glass. Dig these crumbling buildings and read the writing on the walls.