Rivers of Headlights
Leave the shutter open and traffic confesses what it really is: a current.
Stand on a bridge at rush hour with a camera on a tripod, and the worst part of city life turns liquid. Eight seconds of exposure and the brake lights braid into a red river, the headlamps into a white one, flowing opposite ways in the same bed. Nobody down there is enjoying the commute; everybody up here can see it is secretly beautiful.
Light-trail photographs are time made visible — each streak is one stranger going somewhere, compressed into a single stroke. A junction becomes calligraphy. A roundabout draws its own halo.
As wallpapers these have a peculiar honesty: your day probably includes that traffic. Better to keep the eight-second version, where it has already become a painting.
