Photographers step out of hazy stairwells, tired eyes adjusting to dim light, looking for their next muse. “Works of art take time” they tell themselves they look for the next spark of intrigue, their next fix. You’ll find them on public transport, in old cafes: cameras slung around their necks like billiard boards captioned ‘the end is nigh’. Buzzing with anticipation of their next good catch, biting the lips of their disgruntled faces like ancient gladiators biting the dust. Castaways, oil paintings once brilliant and beautiful thrown into apartment blocks and grey buildings, ruins of art cast adrift by time. Haunted by still frames and possibilities, all burned onto retinas, they stumble across traffic jams; finding beautiful people, forcing themselves into their lives. Fleeting whispers rotate into double takes and flickers on the film of a Polaroid camera; the subjects become muses, cities are reborn as golden flood into spotlights: vibrant, reckless, insomniac.