Essay Waiting Bus Stop

Simply to wait for something routine and forgettable as a London bus.

In transient, with time to kill, and often amongst strangers, each collection of these individuals proves completely unique from the next.

There were two more stops until Brooklyn's and she peered into the sea of new faces, there were smiles, frowns, colours and sizes of all sorts but Brooklyn didn't feel like judging as she had done before.

She gazed out of the window, she felt like the scenery was recurring, going round and round, seeing the same trees, houses and fields just different people.

These were the kind of days that Brooklyn wished she could hide from.

She pulled her coat on over her meagre, nutrition starved body and stepped out into the rain.

The way people take ownership of the space, how they congregate, is often better than anything an art director or photographer could ever deliberately replicate.

Each collection provides a little insight into London’s incredible diversity, how we relate to our surroundings, and each other.

I mean the ordinary city buses, those vaguely purposeless-looking, bulbous-faced, blue-and-bone M2s and 3s and 4s and 5s that chug up and down the avenues and along the cross streets, wheezing and whining, all day and night.

For twenty-odd years in New York, I never rode the bus at all—not, at least, after a single, traumatic bus experience.


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