Walking through Sycamore park in Davis, with a camera in hand, I watched youthful residents negotiate the lumi-coloured playground equipment and short, puffer-jacketed mothers walking and walked by their relatively oversized, preened and fluffy grey-white dogs. Suburban tennis dreams and maximized stroll path circumference punctuated the parkland, whilst minor adjustments to the trees aligned them with its purpose.
Park squares and graveyards are not so dissimilar. Punctuation marks above the ground frame endless known dramas in which we occasionally, but always ritualistically, participate by walking through.

Hofn, Iceland
(2006)
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