Will someone please tell me why I keep photographing walls? Or, better yet, why I can’t stop photographing them?
When I see a wall like this — something flat and, I think, beautiful — a guilty smile bubbles up inside. It’s almost like I’m sneaking downstairs for another midnight snack, or climbing up on a chair so I can reach the cookie jar on top of my grandmother’s fridge. I look around as I hold the camera up and wave cars or passers by with a toothy smile smeared all across my chin like mayo. “I’m sorry, I just can’t help it anymore,” I tell them in my head. Then I take shot after shot until I feel shamed into walking away. I like shooting people, or whatever, too. But I shoot like this when I’m alone and I don’t completely understand it.