Aisles.
Here you can see what remains of the outer wall, and the striped walkways where the shelves stood. The thin row of bending trees at the far end echoes the aisles that would have stood when the store was open.
Fingerprint.
The grooves in the mastic hold different visions for everyone I've shown them to.
This image comes from the far corner of the store, near the break room and offices, away from the lined aisles and freezer cases.
Floes remain, when the ice does not.
This is the genesis of the entire project. In late October, saw the shattered objects glitter in the sunlight despite it being too warm for ice. When I came closer, I saw they were fragments of tempered glass. I came back 4 December 2023 in the fog and drizzle, to see if they were still there.
They have remained here for years.
Unlike aluminum cans or copper wiring, the broken glass isn't worth anything to salvage or recycle. It isn't even worth the effort to clean up.
Grid systems in industrial design.
Six feet separate the image of the single tile, surgically removed, and this haphazard mess. Almost whole tiles, slivers, half pieces, everything in between. They're heaped atop each other or scattered around.
A survey.
The gap between the black pipe in the middle ground and the first rebar was the entrance. The concrete in the foreground was the northern wall that ran the length and sloped down to the back, until it met the loading dock at the rear of the property.
The last conversation.
Looking away from the remains of the lot, this is what you see.
Whether the title is meant to be funny, or sad, I don't know.