As I walked down the sidewalk in an old neighborhood that was nearly indistinguishable from any other of it’s age in the American West, a man from somewhere behind demanded I stop.

“Can I help you?” he said.

I told him no. I was taking a walk. And when I do, I photograph what I think is beautiful.

Indignant and not believing me, he told me look around.

He saw an old neighborhood.

I saw the pictures.