I park and search the darkness ahead for movement, nothing, no scrabbling of nocturnal creatures to disturb the stillness. Looking in the mirror, the same in reverse. I sit a while concerned that my presence may have been noticed, not by the stateless, but by the sleepless.
Low clouds, illuminated by the streetlights have now dispersed. I ease myself out into the frigid air. The blackness above is given weight and form by the lack of stars. Following the concrete curb defining the border between the path and the road I'm lead past a sapling tree, to the right and into the cul-de-sac, the no-through road.
Within, the silent houses gawp at each other through the murk. Walking swiftly, stopping intermittently, I take in each cold home, illuminating the scene for a split second. The smooth asphalt arc, fringed by acceptable lawns and mild mannered shrubbery, guides me back. At the feeder I put away my tools and walk to where it began.
Cul-de-Sac represents a nocturnal walk through an unnamed middle-class suburb of the UK. Each piece is a scaled down replica of a real home.
We find on the walk that this apparently benign location might not offer the homely comforts or warm welcome we are lead to believe will greet us. Things are not quite right.
These homes are dark and lack the signs of people within. There is no comforting electric glow warming the curtains, no muffled sounds of conversation, the inhabitants, naturally, asleep. Or, maybe the occupants have moved on, these are empty carcasses, haunted by what once was. The presence of absence being a reminder of what we can lose, that we can lose, hopeful that we haven’t already.