Michael Ast

I remember looking up, debating whether to photograph the conspicuous scene. Irony was something I grew tired of illustrating. The challenge to depict its omnipresence had become second nature, no longer rewarding. My wife and I were killing time before a wedding celebration in the beach town of Delray Beach, Florida. Our friends had taken their vows a month earlier. We were perusing the stores and tchotchke shops. Materialism was being sold effortlessly to the elated, sun-drenched crowd along Atlantic Avenue. Coughing out his simple message above, I was certain the pilot’s proselytism was directed toward the consumers and tourists below. I couldn’t help but chuckle, probably uttering an “amen” snicker to my wife. The letters began to drift, blur and dissipate. We walked on. I couldn’t ignore it. Stopping beneath the unruly grid of telephone and power lines, I shot a single frame of those three letters. GOD. Language and communication ensnared in a tangled mess.