gary duehr
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No Man's Land

The ambiguous territory of modern airports represents a kind of limbo that is neither here nor there.

The runways' vast expanse is interrupted by mysterious signals and markers, as well as by circus-like caravans of luggage carts. The noses of planes loom against plate glass, which reflects the ubiquitous neon of fast food and luxury shops.

And passengers wait in anonymous gray-carpeted holding areas, surrounded by aluminum panels--as if the whole edifice might suddenly take off.

What does it mean to be nowhere? How does passing through No Man's Land add to an anxiety of displacement, as well as suggest possible escape?