what time is it?
There's no better time to think about the passing hours than the night before our collective clock goes haywire, plunging my morning commute back into darkness.
My grandfather repaired watches for a living, and bits of repaired timepieces littered his workbench after he died a few years ago. When my grandmother died this winter, my mom rescued a bag full of hands and gears and springs and widgets and sprockety things from the basement. I brought the bag back to D.C. with me after Christmas.
I've been posing them here and there and hadn't really hit on a shot I liked until I pulled out these watch hands during the Flickr field trip to Ocean City last month. Something about sands and time and how it passes and ...