
Beneath a sky painted with drifting cotton clouds, the late afternoon sun casts golden light over this rugged pocket of Kensington, a moment frozen in 2006. A red car, almost defiantly small, speeds towards the underpass—a tunnel of bricks and history, its weathered facade whispering tales of trucks that didn’t quite fit. The bold yellow sign warns of the low clearance, but it’s the layers of posters clinging to the walls, their edges curling in quiet rebellion, that tell the real story of a city forever in flux.
On the left, a chain-link fence leans slightly, its metal bones intertwined with weeds and time. A stern red-and-white HAZCHEM sign adds an air of caution, though the true danger here seems to be neglect—the creeping wildness reclaiming the edges of industry. Further down, a wooden pole tilts, holding onto its own directive: LEFT LANE MUST TURN LEFT, a command as absolute as it is ignored in the stillness of this near-empty street. On the left, a transmission tower—its upper reaches partially cropped—stands as a silent sentinel, its metallic lattice etched against the sky, a testament to industrial ambition and urban decay.
Above it all, power lines slice across the sky, connecting past to present, whispering electricity into the bones of a city that hums, even in its quieter corners.
At times, this thoroughfare gets very busy.
One of several projects, that explore photography as evidence amongst other ideas.
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