Nick Prevas

The camera records haunted places – not necessarily ones where a spirit or apparition lingers, but places haunted by a story, sometimes one that’s waiting to unfold. You imagine the opening lines of a film you’re watching in a shadowy, forgotten theater; mysterious words spoken by some character so beautiful you can’t imagine how you’ve lived your entire life without knowing them. Tanner Almon’s untitled photo of a vacant Japanese phone booth is not like his other delightfully imaginative photos: those brilliant lush scenarios where he and his wife Vicki don elaborate and campy costumes to pose with antiquated props that are reminiscent of our forgotten sitcom childhoods; instead, this image that’s devoid of human characters whispers its own narrative, or rather your own narrative. With its Tommyknocker-green telephone box and eerie fluorescent hue emanating from within – it radiates omniscient power, as many haunted places do. It mumbles a tale of the last call it was privy to: a girl breaking up with her older lover, a man calling his bookie to place a bet he can’t afford, a run-away kid telling his parents he wants to come home. Setting is Character in every sense, though few images can harness the power of a place and channel its story to the viewer. This phone booth is a place I’d like to visit, on a night that’s similar to this one. I watch as the headlights hit the parking pad that same alluring way, the bicycle without a rider is perched somewhere in the background, then the phone starts to ring. I cautiously approach the phone booth, fingers grazing the cold aluminum door frame, I pull open the door and my body crosses the threshold. The phone rings again and I answer it… a story begins.