The weather finally changed, it felt like winter even though it came a little late this year. The brick buildings as seen from the inside out, littered with wires attaching themselves precariously like vines, amongst splashes of color, hangers, t-shirts, socks, pajamas, second and third floor, dangling.
It was art of life, survival, unintended space used to capacity for lack of anywhere else to go. Outside in, inside out, cappuccinos and cigars, tattered, yellow pages and garlic, stale beer, the smell of bleach, inside out.
Grey skies ne’er seemed less depressing, comforting, art of life, gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe, snapping pictures by my overweight neighbor with the loud shirt, he was welcome here too.
Outside in, flashing neon signs on Broadway Street, Columbus Avenue no more, Cuban Jazz on Grant and Green, girls, girls, girls, they were all welcome here too.
Red, white and green, climbing up the poles, bells ringing not in the distance but right here, up close, and loud, calling someone, anyone outside in but I’d rather stay inside out I thought. It might be safer out here on the streets rather than on the steps to the steeple or the ones that led to the park.
Rust colored facades were also part of the staple steeple, foggy light still creeping in through the cracks.
I was the king of San Francisco and these were my subjects. All were welcome here, outside in, inside out, so is the art of life.
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Photo by Navid Baraty of San Francisco
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