India Street

It is busy on India Street most of the day. The deli on the corner serving its signature cold cuts to busy passer-bys, and the couple sipping wine on the patio at the Italian restaurant across the street. But here it is quiet. Here at the little square house next to the freeway the vines crawl eerily up the awning and the hidden trees cast shadows on the retouched wall panes. The black door and window are uninviting; as if darkness is imprisoned behind the bars and screens. The broom leans against the mailbox and waits to sweep away another layer of dust off the crocked floor mat. Still, the chair stands alone on this porch. It’s a throne from which to watch the life on India Street; straight, tall, rusting, and ripping. Posing, like the ghosts of all who have sat there.

This photograph represents the passage of time. In the empty chair I imagine a man on Sunday morning, sitting straight with his right leg crossed reading the newspaper. Or a woman in jeans balancing a baby in her lap who giggles and shouts when German Shepards and Labradors walk by on the sidewalk. To me it is about imagining the rest of the photograph that isn’t there. Seeing the past, the history at the little square house. In printing this photograph, the comment I received the most was that it was eerie in its emptiness. I like that comment. It is. This throne holds the secrets of India Street.