Every once in a while I grab my camera, a Canon Rebel, and walk around our neighborhood, Pico Robertson, here in Los Angeles, snapping photos of, well, whatever.
Here are some snapshots—isolated textures and geometric details—of my local gas station.
It’s true, gas prices are painfully high; it’s true that bums—drug addicts and alcoholics—panhandle at the station; it’s true that the gasoline fumes make me ill, but there is great beauty in this space.
Hey, I’m just a romantic fool.
The round plate, the inner triangle, and the two bolts create an organic composition.
White on white, an elegant window that’s never open.
Red and orange spheres, bisected by a slanting shadow.