United States of Asphalt
It was the Fourth of July. The scent of lighter fluid and burnt chicken, people shuffling about the streets with cases of cheap American beer, and a swell of patriotism in the hot summer air. I paced a stride along the street, glancing at my feet swing out from under me. My attention fell on the asphalt beneath me—the wallpaper array of gravel, petroleum, half-eaten candy bars, gossamers of cracks, skid marks. I followed a rift in the asphalt, jumping up and down like a musical scale, changing in tone and in depth. I got on my motorcycle and rode a circle around Los Angeles, chasing the cracks in the asphalt with my camera by the side of a freeway, in the center of an alleyway, down a mysterious cul- de-sacs, to create a map of the United States.