driving through a seemingly endless road in the Mojave
Desert, we stopped in the small town of Mojave for the night.
As the sun started to melt into the horizon, we ventured out
onto the main boulevard. The hot, sandy wind was blowing hard,
rotating the turbines that surround the town. In this golden summer
hour, there was so much beauty; Mojave felt industrial and
Wandering this ghost town, we couldn’t help but think about
American movies set around abandoned motels. The place felt as if a
town of passage, one where people drive through but never stop.
The atmosphere that night was one of contemplation surrounded by
mysterious aesthetics. In an aeroplane cemetery close by, inactive
planes silently baked in the desert heat. It seemed like a mirage,
albeit one closed off to civilians.
We felt isolated from the rest of the world for a moment, lost
in a city of loneliness. Where were the people? What do they do?
Who are they?
Upon leaving, we wondered why we were so moved by this surreal
environment. Perhaps it was the serene stillness that fascinated us