世代

Thirteen static shots of coal-fired power stations across the United States. Some are observed from a distance, others dominate the frame, they stand in rural landscapes, urban settings and sites in between, within fields, among electrical pylons, on the edge of lakes and rivers, next to highways and railways. They are shown at all times of year, encased in frost, hemmed in by bare boughs or green foliage, given texture by varying degrees of sun and cloud. Sometimes people are visible before them, playing sports, walking, relaxing, dwarfed by their size, and sometimes not a soul is in sight. None of the plants look modern and there are few obvious markers of time: combined with the past-evoking 16mm images, this could be now, ten years ago, the previous century or further back still. Time is the operative word here anyway, as each striking vista is surveyed for minutes on end, long enough for the differences between each image to become apparent, long enough to trace shifts in light and to see that smoke too casts a shadow; long enough to notice the other common element: there’s always at least one chimney belching out fumes, it doesn’t ever stop.