BY THE WEEK
“Its inhabitants are, as the man once said, ‘whore, pimps, gamblers, and sons of bitches,’ by which he meant Everybody. Had the man looked through another peephole he might have said, “Saints and angels and martyrs and holy men,” and he would have meant the same thing.”
-John Steinbeck, Cannery Row
By the Week
The motel is no longer the portmanteau of motor and hotel as was initially conceived. Homogeneous in its features—guest rooms, manager's apartment/office, and small reception—these roadside icons, meant to be a stopover for a night, are home to countless individuals. There is no mailbox, doormat, or front hall closet where they can hang their coats. Instead, room numbers, neon lights, and the smell of grease from the neighboring drive-through welcome the tenants. Whether a temporary solution, choice, or desperate measure, the motel is home—at least for this week.
My visits, often lasting hours, are a break from the monotony and isolation for the denizens of these 15’ x 20’ rooms. Each person I photograph writes a note that I take with me. The images serve as a case study in hard luck and hard living, and resilience.