V.

Every waking city has its own acoustic. For me, Berlin at 6am was a quiet cascade of white noise — not silence, but something beneath silence, the city’s nervous system idling between states, the frequency of the hours before language reasserts itself. Many of these images were made in that interval: in the residue of the night, in the cold geometry of streets that belong to no one, in the particular quality of light that exists only after the clubs empty and before consensus reality reconvenes, when the city is neither one thing nor the other. The empty street in these hours is not merely deserted — it is a transient space, a locus of anagnorisis.