I love the roughness of the numbering here*, on what will someday be fancy lofts in the Pearl. I love the way process is exposed, how passing pedestrians get a peek into the structure . . . the work.
Whenever I pass by construction sites, I think about the strangeness of building a space - spending long days wiring the lights, installing water pipes, smoothing plaster - all the time knowing you will soon be forbidden from entering. Those construction workers will not be living in the lofts. They will not carry keys to the very doors they lock into each shiny hinge.
And when I think of these things, I think of my dad. He sometimes worked construction (sometimes worked as maintenance at a chemical plant). In his life outside work, he was still constructing: building spaces he could never again enter, the dark and unfinished houses spreading inside him like suburbs, all starting to look the same.
*photo by me, using the lomo. taken yesterday, when the sun made a rare appearance . . . hours later, it was raining again. alas.