Just because a thing has shed its original skins or asked all it can of its first and only bones, does not mean it is now destined for obscurity and eventually oblivion.  Its pre-defined purpose may have been rendered obsolete by time, and perhaps the sounds of footsteps and human doings are now mere whispers, overpowered by the slightest breeze.  All lays quiet and still, but I assure you, there is more there than whispers.  There is breath.

    Ruins are not devoid of life.  They have changed, and now breathe different breath.  Some eyes see a rotten thing of no more use, not worth lending a second of precious modern moment.  I understand the subjectivity of ugliness and I understand the subjectivity of inspiration.  So be it.  I see the living of a second mythology, one that is unstable and mysterious and uncertain.  Is there a thing more vigorous than that which is constantly changing?  It is that energy from decay that attracts me.

    There are everywhere, keyholes.  They exist simultaneously with everything on this planet and remain clear and open, waiting.  However, their discovery is possible only with an exploratory eye.  It is that exploratory eye that experiences and examines what lies just beyond, the initial flirtatious glimpse having sunk its hook deep.  I am helplessly attracted to these keyholes, and surrender myself fully, every time.   

    Ruined keyholes offer endless new sights, new because they are changing.  I photograph such sights in the hope of aiding their resuscitation and helping them breathe.  I step into the second life cycle and record what I can.  It will be different next time.   

Look through the broken window.  You never know who or what will be looking back.