Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Livable Cities.

 This is what housing looks like in the third "most livable city in the world." There are so many of these mobile homes scattered throughout the back streets of Vancouver and paying the odd parking ticket still makes it a more viable option than trying to find a place to rent. This is the city I live in.




Saturday, July 1, 2017

YVR 2



A beginning. And a first image wreaking of hierarchy, depth, layers. It's a good metaphor to start with.




The empty spaces, with proof of occupation, of caring. Connections. It's a discussion of human connection on the side, in the margins, honest places. Stuff happens behind that door. The real stuff happens in those two chairs. 




Intimate spaces marginalized. Edges. Exposing a document, a component of a "thing" (I hate that word in descriptive narratives, such a cop out, such a lack of understanding), a component of a moment where modesty is shunned, when people are people, when filters are removed, in a context with filters, with social conventions different than what one might subscribe to where this artifact might normally be. 

The coke sniffed off the lid, the incontinence, the stink, the bold confessions of a body... Chucked into an alley. Cleaned, first, because we're civilized... Maybe. 




The energy that went into this. The answer? You'll never know no matter how many times you ask the question, but the one answer you'll get time and time again is, "maybe."




Addressing, nothing. "You are here, and here is nowhere." 



There's a loveliness to the evolution of this building. 



Cliched, yes, but; ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. We build these things that are consumed by the environment we rail against. And the environment does it with flowers. One can't argue against that. 



Spiderman isn't afraid of your dog.



To protect that which you have discarded. It's an interesting analogy, that we might protect that which we no longer want, like we're imbuing a value to a thing that we care so little about that we'd leave it in an alley for anyone to take. Or maybe we question the validity of our past decisions, to think that something we invested in is worthless. It's an admission of guilt, of knowing that we made a bad decision, but if someone else sees value in our mistake, then our mistake has value. And that can only be good, right? Right?



Someone painted this wall a brilliant aquamarine which sets off the orange of the foreground flowers so perfectly. So perfectly. 



One couldn't recreate that colour. Or the glint of chrome. Or the subtle curves interacting. Or the flaws. Nor should one try.



I like when expensive boots have scuffs on them. It proves they are owned, worn, and loved. 



You can't see it from this side, but an extension cord runs from the trailer to the house. And the weeds growing out of a crack at the back end of the camper suggests this relationship has existed for a while. Laneway House 1.0. The original improvised home. This is what living in Vancouver looks like in the 21st Century.



Monuments.



Monuments, again. 


Something is being contained here. This photo is about being kept out as much as it's about being kept in. There's tension without understanding what exists on either side. Do you fight to get in? or out? And how do you know?



Home. Someone could live here. Someone did live here. I'm alright with this one home being replaced by a dozen homes. It only seems right. 



I mean, I know that this stupid little house on Cambie St sold for 2 or 3 million dollars, and the houses that replace it, or rather, the condos, there will be at least 6 of them, maybe more, will sell for nearly a million dollars each. No reasonable human being can afford the condos that replace this house. Vancouver has become Dubai North America. The people here can't afford to live here. 



Was this restaurant good? I'm sure they tried. I'm sure that what replaces it will be a Starbucks, or McDonalds, or Earls. I'm sure it won't be as good, or soulful. I'm not sure of a lot. I'm sure of this. 



This is my favourite photo in the series. I don't usually talk about my photos in such great detail. I won't discuss this one in any great detail. But, it's my favourite. 



Douglas Coupland is fucking brilliant. Sometimes. This is one of those times. 



He took that stupid hollowed out tree in Stanley Park and make a replica of it at the base of the most obnoxious real estate development at the base of Cambie. He, literally, guilded a Vancouver icon. Wait, a reasonable facsimile of a Vancouver icon. And parked it in a prominent position for all to see, and, I would argue, without a single photo opportunity. It's a well placed anti-monument.



One antiquated means of moving information intersects another antiquated means of moving goods. Artifacts. 



Artifacts. And resistance to change while facilitating change. Entropy. 



This simply acknowledges the intervention upon intervention. While water naturally seeks the lowest ground, we stick things in that ground that stick up proud, ruining the canvas, or keeping the canvas honest. 



And then a plane. When one walks towards the airport, there will eventually be a plane. 



Stuff. It's there. These logs. Randoms. Fringes. Accidental. Collected and noted. You (colloquially) walk through spaces and try to impose order upon it, and yet order is imposed on the spaces you walk through before you get there. Random order. Oxymorons. And other types of morons...



Transitional spaces don't need explanation? From below to above. From solid to liquid. From tangible to ephemeral. From....



Planes. A hundred passengers. A thousand conversations? Or are those electrical wires? Or is that plane a cargo plane? 



That tree....



Paths. People going places guided by things. There is so much tension between that plane and that lamp post. 



As cars move across a bridge, people move through the air. Mice. In a maze. Different mazes, but still, context moves a living entity through space relative to a construct. Constructs. A question directed at "freedom." Who is freer? The person in the plane, or the person in the car stuck on a bridge? I don't think either is free, even if being able to afford a flight shrinks the scale of the planet. 



An honest living is all one can really hope for. I think. 



So much energy put into connecting places, or spaces, or ideas. Placebos? "Everything would be alright if I could just drive to Richmond a little bit quicker. I mean, I have to drive to Richmond anyway, But this being my biggest challenge, it would be nice if it happened quicker." 



I like how the space underneath has little connection with that above, while understanding the monumentality of what's happening above. 




Precious items. Stored. "This dream will one day come true." Probably. Probably not. 



I believe the promise of dinosaurs is about equal to the promise of Santa Claus. The Richmond Night Market used to promise a large rubber duckie. I'm sure I used to promise myself something as well. Probably. 



Somebody made this. It's probably worth paying attention to. Probably. 





Transitional spaces without transition. This whole image is an oxymoron. Which is great. 



Dreams. Hopes. Aspirations. I'm done. No more explanations.