A brightly lit hallway of a storage unit recedes into the distance. All the doors are closed, and the space appears clean and sterile. The walls and ceiling are white corrugated metal over a concrete floor, illuminated by cool white fluorescent lights. Red exit signs glow in the distance.

The storage unit is an urban reality, a liminal and curiously egalitarian space. These spaces hold intense emotions and human drama behind their indifferent rolling metal doors. A new arrival to the city loads in their boxes of hope for new opportunities. A family with grim faces and a crying baby secure what remains after a fire and eviction. An owner of a catering company sorts silver and décor for a wealthy client’s glamorous wedding. A student, unhoused, shuffles through papers, books, and assorted disillusionments. A young couple hauls out their skis and snow chains, excited for a long-awaited mountain getaway. A grieving caretaker, too exhausted to cry, empties his mother’s unit with decades of memories and stories he’ll never know.

One late night, I shot this in the building where my storage unit is, where my business supplies, art material, backpacking gear, years of letters, photos, and objects accumulated over nearly four decades in San Francisco. I see the faces of the other tenants, and I wonder about their stories. Sometimes, there are cheerful greetings; some turn away, avoiding eye contact and human recognition, and others still seem lost in deep thought. I wonder... What is your relationship to this betwixt place?