I go to the city to photograph dragons, which balance en pointe atop most public building: the libraries, assembly houses, theaters, and art museums. In the ballet of Cardiff architecture, the dragon is the prima ballerina.
When I return, my photos consist of graffiti, trash, and food.
When I'm in a new place, even the ordinary is mythical. A plastic tarp shimmers in the wind like a magic carpet. When the tarp/carpet becomes tangled in a low-hanging branch, I personify further: how dare that tree piss on that carpet's parade.
There's a play going on, I'm sure of it, a drama so serious I can't stop laughing.
The city hums with imaginary actors. The objects we leave behind are dancing in our footsteps.
Turn around. You might just catch the ballet.
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