A Printed Sweatshirt and an Indigo Chore Jacket

The sweatshirt is the only loud thing here and it is loud in text rather than image — a personal ad reproduced as a block of type across the chest, the sort of joke garment that only works when the rest of the outfit refuses to join in. Tan chinos, cuffed once at the ankle, black boots.

Beside it the indigo chore jacket is doing the opposite: no print at all, just a workwear cut in a denim dark enough to read as navy, worn open over wide black trousers that break flat on the shoe.

Both of them are carrying. A white plastic bag, a white canvas cross-body with a row of enamel pins, two totes on the far arm. It is late in the day and this is what the end of a flea market looks like.

The light has gone long and gold and neither of them is looking at the camera.