Alleyway Ramblings

I have found myself wandering around the alleyways of Denver more than any other place. They have coddled me and given me a home in a new city— reminding me of the alleys in Columbus, Akron, France, and Costa Rica. That’s the thing about an alleyway— no matter where, they often remain constant, though their minute differences make it a world of exploration. As a result, they feel like the forests of the city— a place that is familiar, a place to explore, a place of refuge to get away from the publicity of the plains and find a cranny to crawl in. Oh, these alleyways in Denver prove no different to me. As Josephine splundors, Columbine and Elizabeth’s alley whispers a sweet tune in my ear.

The main streets are starting to feel more foreign to me with their public façade, busy undertones, and aloof nature. They have names, but they are lacking the alley’s depth of soul. When I walk down an alleyway, it feels like I am searching for intimacy that the main roads can not provide. I find a delicate nature, a community of outsiders, and intimate interactions in the alleys. It’s a place where each house is vulnerable with its back door unguarded, garage open, slews of trash and useless items thrown about. Each person is vulnerable too— hidden from others where no one watching and, thus, a dangerous place to walk alone. The cats lurk— waiting for their next prey, hiding from the covered eye. But, when I am here in these delicate, dangerous, intimate, dirty places, I feel the most alive and I am able to palpate the city’s pulse. You cannot hide your life from an alley observer— I see your trash, the chair you don’t want, your dirty garage, your latest woodworking project, the unmowed grass, the hustle into the car on an early morning. Oh I see it all— traces of your lived experience, untouched, untampered, unhidden.

My dad taught me of my love of alleys. They were always a subject of his pictures in foreign places, catching his eye and portraying the unique culture— and similarities— of each town in his photographs. They were also often the backdrop of my childhood portraits. I would be staged being hugged by the close walls around me or act curious as I inspected an alley trash bin. Though as I was being staged or acting, I was learning to be curious and to be hugged by the darker places of life. I was becoming comfortable with being different and exploring the dirty places. Slowly I have noticed this return to the alleys of my youth. They have become a subject in my own photos and writings— sparking curiosity and comfort in my new home of Denver. Though I have not only returned to physical ones, but I am ducking into the more intimate, vulnerable alleys of my childhood mind and experiences. As if when I am walking down these new, physical alleys alongside that young hazel-eyed shaggy brown-headed boy in the photographs— letting him guide me towards the strange, the beautiful, and the unique inhabitants of the alley ways of Denver and my mind.

Alleyways are deeply engrained in my psyche as places of exploration, intimacy, and vulnerability. They have allowed me to connect to my inner child and my father, which has provided comfort and familiarity in a new, scary, and unfamiliar city. I feel like I am part of the city— the storyteller of lost items and the underbelly of Denver homes. These are places not often cleaned, not often looked at in a beautiful way. If I dropped a basketball on a busy street it may be picked up within the hour. Though, if I dropped it in alley it may stay for months or years. In fact, I have a few thing stashed in the alleys of Columbus, waiting for me to return and find use for them again. Our traces can stand against time in alleyways— both those of our cities and our minds. Oh, my hope for these alleyways is that they are not tidied up and made to look like Colfax, but that they remain objects of our curiosity, riddled with the traces of our lives, so we can look back and try to unravel the stories.