Take a seat in the canteen, one nods and another sits, ignores you, takes a pile of bread from a brown bag and starts chewing, staring a few degrees off your sight-line: you ask how the platform is going, he looks confused, the first throws up his hands, rage passes round the veins.

There is a fiction of community, of unusual objects (we define “objects” as those embroiled in the digital transformation encouraging each other to kill it, crush it, natch) that runs counter to the inner-heat of the lonely office worker: he dreams of Joshua Tree, of taking acid and shooting guns at the moon.

She gets tired of the photos of the old cars, the Buicks and Pontiacs rusting in the desert or shiny on the silicon hills, the vending machines and street honeys, the demands to make the gatekeepers see, to show some wisdom in her movements, so in Paris she snaps a photo of a small laundromat as a requisite contribution to the community: she’ll have to decide whether it goes in a series, see about the likes.

That old-world stone upon stone may have been worth up to $6,000, which reminds you that you too are a tourist, that hostile architecture is new in the popular vernacular of poseur ur-texts: yet here you are, telling us about the research and image-making, like a copperhead ready to snip at the heel.

It’s all guess work, like getting flipped by an unfamiliar wind, moving from memory to history: a ringing phone has to be answered, doesn’t it.

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