i stopped the car, three times, after driving around the block four times, slowly trying to build up the courage to stop and photograph an amazing site; a hobo with a home made up of thousands upon thousands of tidbits, all catagorized into a neat mayhem underneath the bridge at Kings Cross.
the sun (which had been hiding for days) was shining through the concrete pilons, saturating this mans home in a treacle coloured sunset.
each time i drove past, the bum smiled a little more, through his antiquated beard. a teethy grin jsut visible beneath the grey forest of whiskers
this welcoming grin was the clincher. the photographer in me ached to capture this amidst his sunset home.
i stopped the car. again. walked up the windy pavement of New South Head Rd and there he was. amassed beneath his threadbare blanket. his face buried, escaping the sudden bitter wind.
the treacle glow had gone, the fire in the hearth was out, and what was once such a 'home sweet home' image had turned into the harsh reality of life on the streets.
i did not, could not disturb him. he was gone. hibernating, harboring the warmth that was quickly retreating as the sun clawed its way over the sketchy Sydney horizon.
depleted....i took this shot on the way back to the car.... dolls frolicking 4metres away from this homeless man. i want to give him a print. to put on his make-shift wall.
