The peripheries are a landscape of perpetual movement. Sidetracked, yet upheld by scattered, supplemental labor, they remain an important conjunction for the global system. A charmer blows his pipes. Unhinged, astray – the wayfaring limbs flinch to the sound. A unifying force manifests throughout. Dusty king's portraits hang every few storefronts to remind everyone, that even this decentralized territory is subject to a secular map. The voice of a rallying call rides the searing wind. A body, inebriated with sun, rises potent and empowered. Vague, cacophonic machinery dreaming its' own coherence and prosperity.
My arrival begins with an influx of enchantment and the sounds of a great poliphony. Sensory is overloaded – with the crowd, the excess, the grains and the clutter. After time, eyes and ears adapt and I begin to notice a complex, unsettled – yet consistent and well maintained – machine, made up of stalls, shacks, salvaged cars and second-hand air-conditioning units. A richness of scents, minerals and flavors endures. This hinterland's nature remains elusive, erratic and weightless. Bedlam is the anti-impasse. It is a restless, vibrant hum of a hornet hive, a suppressed thump of sand and dust, a reverberating chord of makeshift, precarious integrity.
Bedlam is an ethnographic record and an iteration of a road immersive – a body, a presence, a mass and a motion. Albeit the illusory impartiality, the narrator is entangled in the reality, which in turn adapts to his presence. A corporeal spectacle, that speaks its' own voice and demands to be photographed.
