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.
Mojave desert, California. Only the occasional shredded tire or decaying ranch interrupted his fantasy that he was driving on another planet.
Highway 1, Florida. And we keep going.
Yellowstone, Wyoming.They gathered together and waited, a dozen strangers searching for a sign, perhaps instructions for how to live.
Niland, California. A dog stands guard over the Imperial Valley.
Ely, Nevada. He rocked big sideburns in the mid-1970s. He decided to grow them back now that he was on his own again.
Green Bay, Wisconsin. They searched for a few more minutes before conceding that the lake had finally won.
Mississippi. A plate of sweet potatoes with brown sugar and the jukebox says, “You’re a bowlegged woman and I’m a knock-kneed man.”
The graffiti splashed across the buildings next to the Agora felt appropriate now that our sacred institutions have become obscene and profane cries of resistance sound absolutely spiritual.
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.
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.