Oil on Concrete from David Driscoll '05
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One day, as I was leaving my car, I noticed something on the ground. Iridescent colors in what I thought was the shape of a woman jutted out from beneath my car. I snapped a picture, but the image didn’t reflect the beauty of what I had seen. Later, I figured out how to increase the saturation and add a little vignette until it showed the colors the way I had felt them, alive and flowing.
Within days, I was seeing rainbow-colored oil slicks everywhere. Boston in the early spring is wet and cool, and the crowded streets and parking lots became my artistic hunting ground. I learned which parking lots tended to accumulate the most oil, which streets had recently been resurfaced with rich black asphalt, and that the city busses were the most reliable spillers of oil.
When it began to rain, I would emerge from my workplace, camera in hand, and begin the slightly disturbing routine of crouching on curbs, in the middle of a crosswalk, or behind someone's parked car in the supermarket parking lot, eyes focused downward. I can only imagine what passersby assumed I was doing.
Although no one else seemed to, I saw so much in those oil spills. Some of them looked like the nebulas photographed by deep-space telescopes. Others, like color-enhanced topographical maps of far-away terrain. And still others were mirrors, allowing me to step into a colorful, if polluted world, much like our own.
I wish I could say that I am a good hunter of oil spills, and while I have my tricks and know-how, in truth, they're far too easy to find. We dump countless gallons of gasoline, oil, and other pollutants onto the streets and into sewers and waterways every day.
I often wonder how something so terribly unnatural can also be beautiful. I wonder what it means to get down close to the ground and stare at it through the camera lens, and then, through editing, to bring out the reds, blues, yellows and greens even more.
A few years ago, I moved to Arizona of all places. Now, I can expect only a handful of days each year with rain. Sometimes I'm too busy to go out. Sometimes it rains at night—no luck. When a rainstorm does arrive, I dash out more passionately than ever, crouching low, looking for momentary treasures, natural creations with unnatural content. I find all these things.
Occasionally I'll move a twig or a piece of trash, but I don't orchestrate the photos. These images are there for everyone to find. Sometimes, I wish they weren't.