Alley Mon Amore

I’ve had a long relationship with alleys—honestly I’ve felt somewhat lost the times I haven’t had an alley I could call my own in my life—I associate certain alleys with certain times and events in my life—they’ve acted as meeting places, waiting rooms, business establishments, bedrooms, playrooms, romantic getaways, and venues of petty misdemeanors—

In the morning I take the alley down to the shop—making way for delivery vans and garbage trucks—this is where the city works—there’s nothing shiny about a proper alley—it’s the concealed reality that houses the truth of a city and there is beauty in that—they have a distinct aesthetic value—

My present alley has an amazing balance of filth and beauty—granted usually it smells pretty awful but sometimes the smell of coconut buns from the asian bakery is able to overpower the stench of urine and garbage—the hidden murals and rudimentary tags meld into a gallery of color on brick and cement—I’ll stay away from making obvious analogies to the human condition and just post some photos I took walking home from work--