Something troubles the men in Prinos’ street photographs. They stand lined up, tensely, their heads bowed as though at a state funeral. Another one, opposite, holds a silver-plated ornament. Is this the ceremonial object of their veneration? What tragedy or triumph does this scene mark?
It takes a moment to understand that these portraits were snatched separately and assembled only in the gallery. Prinos’ frames are precise, tight, and formal, as though the street were his studio. A found image curio from the tabloid’s ‘funnies’ section attached to the gallery’s window breaks the spell, only to make the others more daunting.
