Most of the shots below were gathered along the tracks following Interstate 94 in Minneapolis and Saint Paul, with a couple from the Saint Anthony Falls area. I'm not sure what my intention with these are. I've no desire to write myself, but still I'm fascinated by the form, what endures and what doesn't, where it's seen and unscene and what it means to create it—what is lost when power sprayed away, sheathed in dull gray, a clean slate inviting new missives. Collecting this evidence also takes me places I wouldn't normally go—stalking tracks trespassing, in the wooded and enclosed, climbing ledges almost killing myself and other lifedeath affirming activities. I romanticize never knowing who these artists are. Who scales the sides of buildings and dares the arcs of bridges. More often than not I can't read the letters, can't make out the symbols. But I understand distinctly what they leave behind.
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