I grew up in a place where, on summer evenings, the lowing of cows and the chirping of crickets floated through our open windows. I later moved on to a place where endless stretches of green Civil War battlefields and uninterrupted sky were only minutes away.
From there, I moved on to cities, forever sleepless until I learned to tune out the chiming of bells, the roar of trains, the wailing of sirens. I learned that gazing upward at night brought not stars but the pink haze of light pollution to my eyes. I learned that before sunrise the river over which I silently skimmed in my rowing shell would still be lit by gently arching bridges and yellow sulphur street lights.
I learned to love the constant noise, the gentle rocking motion of the train as it picked up speed and carried me home, and the ever-present lights. I learned to love that I could walk in the cool shade of the buildings or cross the street to stroll in the warmth of the sun. I learned to love that, in the city, I could purchase ice cream at all hours of the day or night.
I love the worn and warm stone buildings built in the years my grandparents were born. I love the gentle decay, the patina, the detail. I love the eclectic mix of styles, assembled by generations, graffitied by the next. These images are my urban hymn, my song that celebrates city life.
1 comment:
Beautiful pictures. Last night, we watched a PBS show about Benjamin LaTrobe, and how he was such a wonderful architect, but somehow managed to bankrupt himself twice, and die in obscurity. Fascinating. But none of his buildings are on Charlie's MUST SEE list. He may have to amend it....m
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