In my neighborhood of northeast Pasadena, there are narrow alleyways behind residential streets that easily go unnoticed by the casual observer. From a bygone era, they continue to provide an alternate route for trash trucks and service deliveries hidden from view.
Unlike the gritty, graffiti-laden alleys we commonly imagine, these back alleys seem oddly clean and orderly. The gates and retaining walls are utilitarian intended for security and privacy, but occasionally brightened by a splash of color or an ornamental vine. Many original facades remain untouched dating back nearly a century. It’s a place of close proximity and anonymity, of timelessness and a lingering sense of danger.
I wanted to capture this strange and desolate environment made more poignant by the isolation and loneliness of living in the pandemic. I wondered, too, what stories lay within these structures, what traces of life could be detected in the shadows and in the light.
Unlike the gritty, graffiti-laden alleys we commonly imagine, these back alleys seem oddly clean and orderly. The gates and retaining walls are utilitarian intended for security and privacy, but occasionally brightened by a splash of color or an ornamental vine. Many original facades remain untouched dating back nearly a century. It’s a place of close proximity and anonymity, of timelessness and a lingering sense of danger.
I wanted to capture this strange and desolate environment made more poignant by the isolation and loneliness of living in the pandemic. I wondered, too, what stories lay within these structures, what traces of life could be detected in the shadows and in the light.