It was in early January that I was walking down HaYarkon street in Tel Aviv. In summer it’s a busy and hysterically hectical place, packed with people on the way to the famous Tel Aviv beach, guarded by the bluntly posing luxury class hotels along the promenade.

But now in the first moments of a cold and rainy winter night falling over the city, the streets were empty, just some taste of melancholy mixed with the far away smell of coffee from a closing bar.

Shadows of people passing by flying into the wet darkness, the shrill and glaring lights of a car here and there tearing apart the night for some seconds, jumping up and down the wet walls, throwing abstract shadows on the silhouettes of the decayed buildings on this part of HaYarkon.

So I was one of these ghost shadows slipping down the street, packed in a wet jacket, hiding my camera carefully from the rain.

All of a sudden a downpour changed the street into a sea, filling the gutters and drains until they couldn’t take any more water, flooding the roads around. Through the hood of my jacket I saw the cold and sterile lights of a public laundry on my right side. Feeling my toes soaking in water, I jumped inside to cover from the rain for some minutes.

The room was empty, just one of the washing machines turning. It’s rhytmically gurgling noises mixed with the rain and water outside like a Kraftwerk’s doomsday hymn. So I sat down, watched the turning drum, listened to the “song” and started to do some pictures. Click.

CameraNikon FEFilmKodak Tri-X 400 @ 3200LocationTel Aviv, Israel.Year2019