The Burning House Revisited

A year ago I started asking my friends what they would take with them if their house was burning.  As an example of what I envisioned the photos looking like I sent around a post I did here.  A few weeks later,  I launched Theburninghouse.com as a home for these images and hopefully others submitted by friends and people I didn't know.

Within a week the site had grown larger than I ever could have imagined.  Submissions were coming in from around the world.  It was wild to see people responding to an idea and question that I thought had merit.

Despite appearing to be about objects, The Burning House is a project about people told through their most cherished possessions.  When I first thought about what I would take,  I included all sorts of stuff that at the time I felt was important.  Jeans,  A Rolex watch,  my iPhone.  Now after leaving New York, hearing answers to the question from thousands of people and living in a van for the last nine months, my material priorities have changed a lot.

I hope that Burning House has prompted other people to consider what is important materially to them.

Name: Foster Huntington

Age: 24

Location: Mexican Hat, Utah

Occupation: still working on that

List:

• A few rolls of undeveloped film from the last week of my travels including the half-shot one in my Contax t2
• The keys to my VW Syncro

For more photos from people around the world and info about the upcoming book that comes out July 10, head over to theburninghouse.com

Here are some more links,

The Burning House Book,

The Burning House (Facebook).

Granada

The cab pulled into Granada late Friday afternoon, just as the sun was sinking over the jagged horizon of the volcanoes to the west.  Bouncing around the cobblestone streets in a constant fight for right-of-way with horse-drawn trailers, tourists and the occasional Toyota Hilux, we eventually found Hotel Con Corizon.   After checking in,  I left my bags in my room and headed out to explore the 500 year old colonial city.

The central square felt relatively subdued for a Friday night,  save for a few groups of fellow gringos and a handful of street vendors.  Semana Santa,  a week-long holiday celebrating Nicaraguan's resilience, assaults of Tona's (the local beer) and cheap rum, the week before had apparently taken the wind out of their sails.  The streets were vacant and the restaurants empty,  rather fitting for my last night in Nicaragua I mused.

Emptying my pockets and hunting around in my camera bag, I collected the last of my Nicaraguan Cordobas in my left hand.  "That's a nice dinner," I mumbled to myself as I pulled another wrinkled 200 note from my coin pocket.   365 Cords.  That works out to be about 15 bucks, I estimated.  With no sense of urgency,  I wandered the streets looking for a dinner spot.

 My attention was heightened by the knowledge that at 7:15 the next morning,  I would be on a plane back to the states. 

Hand painted signs.

These buildings were built long before electronics.

Double parked.

Scooter.

For whom the bell tolls.

Note the string bike lock.

Garden.

2012,  could be 1972.

After sticking my head inside a handful of cafes,  I eventually I settled on small restaurant with a garden in the middle.  I ate by myself and listened to the conversations of the other travelers.  A group of middle-aged women discussed their trip to a nearby organic coffee plantation. "Tourist trap," I grumbled.  Two recent high school graduates assured each other of the importance of a gap year.  Probably not a bad thing.  My steak came quickly, and I tipped with the remainder of my Cordoba coins.

Even though my flight didn't leave until the next morning,  my mind was already elsewhere, ready for the next leg of my journey.

Hera are some more links.

Granada (Facebook),

Twitter.

Siesta

Out of delayed frustration, I rolled over and brushed  a gallon of sand out off the cot with a flick of my forearm.   Enjoying the newfound smoothness of the unfitted white sheets, I adjusting my head on the pillow and studied the knots on the plywood ceiling.

Slowly my eye lids drooped and I dozed off.

My watch beeped, indicating a change of the hour.  2:00 PM.  Still three hours until low tide and it was hot as fuck outside, too hot, I thought to myself.  Through the screen window,  top 40 hits from yesteryear blared on an over worked set of outdoor speakers.  Investigating, I leaned up and peered out at group of European and Australian travels smoking cigarettes and engaging in some heated conversation.  The thick accents,  distance, and Lupe Fiasco thumping in the background made it hard to deduct the subject. That Dutch chick sure was steamed.   Perhaps they're debating their favorite Dubstep DJ I chuckled to myself.  They love that shit.

Rolling over on my stomach I put the pillow over my head.  Still more time to Siesta.

Here are some more links,

Gigante (Facebook),

Changing Tide (ART).

Changing Tide

 The Toyota Yaris bounced down the one lane road through the barren farm land.  My tshirt, saturated with gringo sweat, stuck to the wooden beads covering the passenger seat  despite the frantic efforts of the overworked air conditioner.  Two surf bags secured to the top with nylon straps, accentuated every pothole with a creak and grind of sun worn paint.   The cab driver, unfazed by the frequent pigs and log sized ruts in the road,  focused his attention on sorting through the hundreds of songs on his USB powered stereo.  Skipping through tracks that seemed about as similar as houses in a Phoenix suburb, he picked one and let it play through.

"How many Kilometers did they the say it was from Rivas?" I asked Cris in the backseat.

Looking back from the window, "I'm not sure,  cant be more than 40," Cris said with a tone of calming indifference.

"We must be getting close now."

A few hundred feet ahead, a Mercedes flat bed truck crested the hill with a cloud of dust and whir of a powerful diesel engine.  Adhering to the nautical term,  "Might has right,"  our cab pulled off to the side.  As the truck bounced by,  I noticed the logo of an aspiring golf course/resort painted on the door.

"Mucho trabajo,"  the cab driver said pointing in the general direction of the truck as he shifted from first to second.

Cris and I nodded in agreement.

"This road is sure getting a lot of use," I said, making mental note of the thick layer of dust covering the trees within twenty feet of the road.

"Yah,  the richest family in Nicaragua is building a huge resort out here.  It's a ten year project.  They want Americans and Euros to buy places,"  Cris said, maintain his gaze out the window.

"Jesus. When did they start?"

"Two years ago, I think.  About the time we first came down here."

"Changing tide, I guess."

Point of View.

Transport.

Hammocks.

Siesta time.

Sunset glass off.

The quiver.

Handmade.

Travelers.

Heading back.

The local quiver.

Despite the commotion happening a few miles inland,  the fishing town seemed sleepy in the mid day heat. Fisherman tended to their nets and maintained their outboard engines under the shade of corrugated fiberglass roofing.  On the other side of the street, at the lone cafe, a handful of sunburnt surfers  drank iced coffee and enjoyed the bounty of satellite internet from the comfort of a few hammocks.   Time felt still,  as if everyone was waiting for an inevitable change.

"It wont be like this in a few years," I said to Cris.

"No, no it wont."

Here are some more links,

Gigante (Facebook),

(Twitter).