None of this existed when I moved to Portland. The Pearl was one muddy construction pit after another, surrounded by eight-foot storm fences with realty signs bolted to the corners. Signs promising granite counters and nickel hardware, 500 square feet for $250,000. They had portraits of the future neighborhood, printed to look like watercolor, the kind where each stroke disappears into the paper, ending in a faint pastel. Pastel grass, pastel brick, pastel umbrella above the head of a tiny pedestrian.
I used to go there when I needed peace. I walked along the clean sidewalks, whistling. I brushed my fingertips on the exterior walls of empty lofts and pretended the whole city was like this - abandoned or brand new, depending on my mood. Either way, the point was silence. Then I would turn around and walk the opposite direction, scraping my left hand on the lofts.
I've always been like that. I have to touch things with both hands.
this photo was taken a few weeks ago, without looking through the viewfinder. Lomo, of course.