I grew up smelling BBQ, mostly on the weekends, always with friends. The laughter was honest and the games were competitive. This was family life.

Weekends. I love them. The streets are quiet and empty. So I throw on my backpack and jump on a train. Just me and the camera and some sleepy—on the verge. This was a Saturday afternoon and I was headed to the Maryland Art Place (MAP) on West Saratoga Street in downtown Baltimore. The night before was the opening of a holiday inspired exhibition that I wrote about here. I had taken some casual photos of the merriment on Friday, but I wanted to capture the space when it was deserted and calm, which is my aesthetic-du-jour.

Red bows indicate a sale. I had three photographs displayed on the wall behind the stage; two of them sold. I got me a bow, yo. When I first moved to Baltimore I visited an art gallery in Hampden. While walking around the space the owner inquired if I was looking for something in particular. I asked if they had any photography. No, photos don't sell, was the answer. I was like, dang. Most of the art exhibited at the MAP holiday sale was also—not photography. Out of the 70+ artists represented, I think there were two photographers. I was lucky to be included in the exhibition and super grateful that my work appealed to someone else. But who was that mysterious someone? I wish I knew who purchased my work. Where did they live? Was it for them, or was it a gift? Yes, I could have done a better job while I was at the party paying attention to the elves, who were the festive folks assigned to manage the sale between patron and artwork. I could have lurked behind a pillar and spied on any activity buzzing around my photos; but I didn't. I was looking at the other work and awkwardly speaking with artists and basically snooping around MAP since I hadn't been there before, especially in such a privileged capacity.

Living in retrospect.

After taking a few pictures of the gallery and silently reminiscing, I left MAP and headed uptown via Tyson Street, which is basically a back alley. My plan was to walk home and take a bunch of photos along the way. (I ended up taking 160 pics over the course of 4 miles and eventually posted 23 of them on Instagram.) But I needed to eat first. I was in the mood for a falafel, something I could hold in my hand and tear up. I was getting weak. Then I smelled it: BBQ.

Trevor was grilling chicken and ribs in the parking lot at the Downtown Cultural Arts Center. I told him I was a vegetarian and asked if he could make me something good. He said he could make me one of them Beyond Burgers. I said, ok, and started rubbing my hands together, excited as I watched him expertly tend to the meats, smoke all in my face, remembering the swimming pool on Kittridge Street in Canoga Park, CA where something was always sizzling on the grill. Trevor said he could put cheese on it: lettuce, tomato, onion. I said, yes sir.

So there I was, sitting on the curb, eating my cheeseburger. Trevor gave me a water on the house which I used to clean my hands after devouring the drippy deliciousness. I took a nice, long chug and looked up; nothing but blue skies and puffy clouds.

The perfect day for taking a picture.

⌘