THE AIRPORT IS JUST AS MUCH AN END AS A BEGINNING. IT IS AS INDISTINCT AS IT IS UNMISTAKABLE. A PLACE OF ALIENATION AS MUCH AS CONNECTION. IT'S A PLACE OF EXCITEMENT, ANTICIPATION, DESIRE. IT'S A PLACE OF LEAVE-TAKING, OF BOREDOM, OF STRICTURE. IT'S THE GATEWAY TO A WHOLE NEW LIFE. IT'S A DRAG.

Photos & Sounds: Gareth Smyth & Ian Maleney
Words: Ian Maleney

THE AIRPORT IS ALL ABOUT MOVEMENT. ALMOST EVERYONE HERE IS ON THE WAY TO SOMEWHERE ELSE. THEY ARE PASSING THROUGH. THE STRUCTURE REMAINS ALWAYS THE SAME. IF ALL IS WELL, THEY LEAVE NO IMPRESSION. NO DUST ON THE WINDOWS. NO STAINS ON THE FLOOR. IT’S ALMOST REASSURING, THE DEEP-SET CERTAINTY OF OUR SAFE TRAVERSAL. IT WILL NOT STAY WITH US. IT’S OK, NOTHING IS GOING TO STICK, WE CAN LEAVE IT ALL BEHIND.

TRAVELLERS CIRCULATE WITHIN THE SPACE ALLOWED US. WE ARE GUIDED SEAMLESSLY FROM ONE DOOR TO THE NEXT. THE SMALLEST TEAR IN THE FABRIC OF THE AIRPORT EXPERIENCE ECHOES OUTWARD. THE SPACE BEGINS TO FRAY. THE PRESSURES OF THE SPACE — SO IMPERSONAL AND EXPOSED, SO MONITORED, SO TIGHT — PUSH HARD UPON THE TEMPER. BOREDOM IS A FIRE HAZARD. NOTHING WILL HAPPEN.

UP AGAINST THE PLATE GLASS, STOLID ON THE ENDLESS TILES, THE DISGRACEFUL WEIGHT OF EMOTION FINDS ITSELF IN A PLACE NOT BUILT TO HOLD IT. REUNION OR SEPARATION. THEY COME IN WAVES. ONLY CHILDREN SMILE WITH ALL THEIR BODY WHEN THE FAMILIAR WALKS THROUGH THE GATE. THE REST OF US ARE WEARY. WE’RE NOT THINKING ABOUT MIRACLES. WE’RE THINKING OF THE TRAFFIC.

TIME BECOMES A SOLID THING. BEFORE THE SCREENS AND ACROSS FORMICA TABLES, WE GAZE UPON IT. IT TAKES UP THE SPACE LEFT BEHIND BY OUR STRAITENED DESIRE. STRETCHED OUT ACROSS A ROW OF SEATS, I MIGHT TRY TO IGNORE IT. (I’M ALREADY SOMEWHERE ELSE.) FLUORESCENT, IT BEGINS TO OOZE. IT COLLECTS IN THE CORNERS OF MY EYES. SOON I’M CONSIDERING BUYING AN IPAD I DO NOT NEED.

THERE IS ALWAYS THAT WHICH WE DO NOT SEE. IF TRANSPARENCY IS SECURITY, IT ONLY WORKS ONE WAY. THE SENSE OF BEING WATCHED MIXES UNCOMFORTABLY WITH THE LACK OF CONSEQUENCE. WHERE DOES ALL THE PLASTIC GO? WHAT’S BEHIND THAT DOOR? WHO PUTS THE BAG IN THE BOTTOM OF THE PLANE? MY PASSAGE DEPENDS UPON NOT KNOWING. MY ACTIONS HAVE AN OUTCOME, BUT THE PROCESS IS OBSCURED. IT’S ALL HIDDEN FOR A REASON, WHICH IS COVERED UP IN TURN.

NOTHING CHANGES BUT THE DATES ON THE NEWSPAPERS.

EVERY VOICE IS AUTOMATED. EVEN THE VOICES OF THE COUPLE BEHIND YOU IN THE QUEUE FOR BURGER KING, OR THE SILENCE OF GUY WHO WATCHES YOU AS YOU WALK UP TO THE MACHINE TO SCAN YOUR PHONE AND THE BOARDING PASS IT CONTAINS. IT BECOMES SO DIFFICULT TO LISTEN. YOU’VE HEARD IT ALL BEFORE. WHAT’S REALLY GOING ON HERE? GOING IS GOING ON. EVERYONE IS GOING, AND THOSE WHO ARE STAYING TAKE ON A DIFFERENT SHAPE. THEY ARE ON-GOING, EVEN AS THEY ARE PASSED-BY, EVEN AS THEY FADE IN WHAT LITTLE MEMORY THIS PLACE ALLOWS. THIS IS THEIR LIFE, OR A PART OF IT AT LEAST. HOW MUCH A PART OF MY LIFE IS THIS? I CIRCULATE AND LEAVE AS QUICKLY AS I CAN.