I just returned from my 6^th show of the year, this one in Chicago’s Old Town neigh­bor­hood. It was a fairly typ­i­cal fair, with all the stim­u­lus that entails: the thou­sands of peo­ple in the hot sun, the hun­dreds of fan­tas­ti­cally tal­ented artists’ booths, bands play­ing, dogs and strollers jock­ey­ing for posi­tion and mak­ing their stan­dard noises, the smell of the brats being cooked on the cor­ner. It can be over­whelm­ing, and occa­sion­ally I have to seek a reprieve in the back of my booth, a quiet moment to myself that acts as a reset of sorts.

At this par­tic­u­lar show, how­ever, my booth space backed up against the front stoop of an apart­ment build­ing. For this week­end, it too became a place of respite, the rest stop for the tired or over­whelmed fair goers. I was fas­ci­nated by how this pub­lic place had become a quiet, inti­mate place of rest, and began doc­u­ment­ing the peo­ple that some­times needed a break like I do. The ones that need a moment to them­selves to reset, to recom­pose. And it struck me that it was all the same — the back of my booth, the front stoop, the open plain. They all can become a place to catch your breath, a quiet inter­lude before div­ing into the fray once more.