In my earlier days I'd been to sea with a tall rawboned fellow from Louisiana called Big Slim Hazard, who was a hobo by choice. As a little boy he'd seen a hobo come up to ask his mother for a piece of pie, and she had given it to him and when the hobo went off down the road the little boy had said, "Ma, what is that fellow?" "Why, that's a ho-bo." "Ma, I want to be a ho-bo someday." "Shet your mouth, that's not for the like of the Hazards." But he never forgot that day, and when he grew up, after a short spell playing football at LSU, he did become a hobo."
Jack Kerouac, On the Road.
I keep meaning to do a shoot like this. Searching homeless on google is really sad, but sometimes you come across pictures like this. Is it not a way of life? She has all her bags of things which she carries a round, it looks like she has been collecting things for years. Would she even feel herself indoors?
I feel a bit intrusive looking into this life with intrigue. It is cold, sad and harsh, not something to be admired. And yet there is some kind of beauty in it. I think Kerouac agrees. Supposing somebody did choose this life, would it not have its own fulfillment?