How can Harley Weir take photographs of landscapes and capture a natural or industrial scene as if it were a pubescent teenager? Each one of these photos is vulnerable, oily, undulating, smelly, confused and slightly sad: like a grumpy 15-year-old fumbling about for clues of its existence.
I don’t know what Harley looks like, but I can imagine her in these isolated spots standing on a cliff edge or in a patch of sunlight in an abandoned farm, clicking her camera into place and lowering her eye to a viewfinder. What happens next I can’t imagine or predict, because no one really knows how she creates her images, and what makes them so endlessly chaotic and boring at the same time. Maybe it’s best to leave it, never find out, wander off back to the main road and leave her to it.