Stinky Shoes

I didn’t stage the boots. They were already there — resting, waiting, perhaps forgotten. Red leather, worn smooth at the toes, zipped and upright like sentries. The scene caught my eye not because of the shoes themselves, but because of their place within this cage of repetition: iron grille, mesh netting, and behind it all, the geometry of a city reflected in the glass.

The photograph rests on layers. Foreground: a net that seems both to protect and to obscure. Midground: the wrought iron, rusted and ornate, Victorian in its stubborn elegance. Background: the shoes. And beyond them, windows reflecting windows. This multiplicity of frames becomes the structure of the image. You’re not just looking at a pair of shoes — you’re looking through them, around them, past them.

Compositionally, the image is a strict frontal. Everything aligns to the grid — or almost. The slight tilt of the camera breaks the symmetry just enough to keep it from being sterile. The boots are placed slightly off-centre, disrupting the order and giving the photo its weight. Without them, it would be a study in pattern. With them, it becomes human.

Technically, the exposure is flat by choice. The light was diffuse, filtered by the overcast sky, offering no drama. That suited the mood. I didn’t want shadows or high contrast; I wanted surface, texture, a kind of quiet confrontation. Colour is subdued, except for the red — the only warmth in a sea of greys and browns.

This isn’t a sentimental photo. It’s a document. Of absence. Of presence. Of someone, once, who lived here, or worked here, or simply stepped out and hasn’t yet returned. I don’t need to know more than that.