0155: Waking Wardlow Metro Blue Line down the tracks, from the ocean of Long Beach—into the subterranean gut of the city—waiting room among columns and rings of lights and parking lot palm trees’ shade the decay of sticky bottles in golden grass, feet tapping to metro jazz, “The next train to Los Angeles will be here in six minutes—sorry for the construction—have a nice weekend.”
0158: Go 710, we can race, this mirror and your wastelands—containers containing promises of prosperity for the passing consumers, panting like the plants that line freeways, choke and die to be replanted by prisoners in orange reflective vests and baggy pants.
0161: Artesia prison with spa and casino in a phantom parking lot; now guards look over the empty “spaces”—divided and numbered with punctuation—dissenting ghosts wash over the fence and descend, a carbon sink yearning for validation. Look.
0167: A refuge for tired machines and oxidizing metals; stained wood makes mountains that bathe everyday like clandestine gold while dreams of LA are renewed everynight by the jetsam of time, not but like memory, piling up rather than dissipating until you go crazy from passionate transition.
0168: In the backwashes of approaching LA—without culture and language—Industry is still king.
0170: Jesus visits Korea but stays matte white—you can’t see the smoke through dirty windows.
0172: Into the shadows of bank buildings, homeless roost, graffiti blooms, and an addict sleepwalks away memories of war—explosions underground and dead hands reaching for the cold sky like antennae—the sun fogs the glass of the firmament in the reachless distance before taking the super structure and leaving us in peace.
0175: The sun wanes (still) but the painting stays flood lit from the underground; the brushstrokes betray the carbon soot patina of the buildings’ facades emerging from luminescent steps to a sweltering marble plateau and an infinite of ceilings. Everything glints the sun—an endless field of portals to subsumed lives, relationships, and transactions like cars passing optics in undersea cables the echo of tunnels to disappear, leaving smoke, which signals danger and we dive again.
– Michaël Veremans, Canon point n shoot