The Weight
What the city puts in the hands of those passing through
I go out walking downtown and it is always whoever is carrying something that holds my attention. A man standing in the sun, hidden behind a bunch of balloons, as if his head had turned into a party and the rest of his body were left there waiting. Another crossing the street with no face, just a white box on top of two legs. One carrying buckets of paint through the shade, like someone carrying another person's afternoon. Black bags bigger than a man, passing right by a golden gate he does not even look at. And at night, in front of the bus, a third one with the balloons the street did not want — they are still colorful, he is not. I photograph because I cannot walk straight past. Afterwards I am left holding it: a box is heavy, everyone knows that. But something light that nobody comes to collect, where does that weigh?
