Odd is my middle name. What I photograph reflects my own nature, which
keeps me isolated and thinking odd thoughts and writing odd books.
The first odd sign I shot was in 1971 near Capetown,
South Africa. I was nineteen and a student traveling the world on
two dollars, protected by the radiance of sheer ignorance.
That first sign wasn’t funny as so many
signs have been since. It was posted on a public restroom in a park,
a prominent and tidy rectangle reading “Damas Blankas”.
White
Women, I read. White women, I thought. White Women? Oh my god. They
even have separate sewers here? is my stupefied response to this sign.
I was disturbed. I was disbelieving.
I was angry, and then I had to pee. But could I go in? I looked at
my skin, tanned and freckled from three months at sea. I looked at
the building painted a blinding white and couldn’t decide if
I qualified.
That’s when I pulled out my camera and snapped a photo of this
odd sign, and I’ve been doing it ever since, every time I run
into one that stops me in my tracks. It is an
odd addiction, I know, but no matter where I go, I am always able
to find a sign to feed my beast. And, I have learned that each location
infuses its messages with a regional flavor, making its signs uniquely
odd. In the end, odd signs are honest. They
provide evidence of our historic and ongoing struggle with communicating
well. They provide glimpses of ingenuity in a multi-lingual world,
and this alone makes these revealing messages precious.