The onset of summer triggers the return of the yard sale. Major intersections blossom with flourescent paper, taped to upturned moving boxes, bearing addresses scrawled in sharpie pens. For some, yard sales aren't just a pre-moving ritual or an annual downsizing of household clutter; yard sales are a steady means of regular income. For those with the saavy to aggregate inventory, especially within a specific genre, yard sales become makeshift outdoor storefronts.
Usually the garden variety yard sale, while fascinating if you stop to explore the minutiae of discarded desires and retired appliances, is a bit of colorless blur on the drive-by.
But one Saturday morning this past summer, on my return from an early morning shoot, the site of this particular yard sale was so arresting, I actually had to stop, turn around, and return, just to take it in. I don't know what it was - I'm rarely, if ever, drawn to a pink pallette, but something here - the vibrance, the promise of little pink patterns, the repetition of form, the showy driveway window-dressing - it just hypnotized me. It said summer. Not my summer, really, but all the little summers that would be seen and run through and stained and eventually outgrown by these little pinks.
The days are getting shorter now, and there's even been a roaring fire or two in the kiva to stave off the approaching chill. Much as I love fall, when I look at this image, I can already feel nostalgia for summer - all those little summers - settling in.