A whole month has tumbled past at a breakneck pace. Unlike me at the Berlin half-marathon. There I just tumbled forward, slower and slower, watching the tunnel of people in front of me extend to infinity as they passed me. No matter. I finished the run and could even walk back home on my own two feet.
I don’t think I ever traveled as much as I do now. Business and pleasure both. It’s an interesting life, with the suitcase a constant presence—Encouraging? Accusing?—from the recesses of the hall. At some point, between one hotel room and another, you wake up to take care of a pressing need, and you no longer recognize the geometry of your environment. Rooms, offices, trains, and planes become background noise. Beds a soup of sweaty linens and uncomfortable pillows.
Where am I?
Berlin, Frankfurt, Berlin, Baden-Württemberg, Poznan, Konin, Poznan, Berlin, Tenerife, and back to Berlin.
Oh. Right. But when are we? If I could only look at my calendar.
Times like these come and go like a fever. Sweltering, confusing, with no clear beginning, and then over without warning. So much activity and motion, a journey like few others, but the direction—Where is this taking me? Did I even want to arrive at this junction, this destination?
At some point in my life, I’m not sure when, photography became my antidote, my ibuprofen to this fever. Paying attention, noticing, and seeing what everyone else walks past requires presence in the here and now. A gentle kind of focus. And, the way I shoot, an acceptance of what is. The place, the people, the conditions, the light. And working with what I have.
See for yourself:
As well as:
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