Charleston in these photos isn’t “pretty,” it’s composed. Night becomes the editor: lamplight and window-glow decide what gets to exist, and everything else stays in the black margin.
The houses read like faces with good posture and old secrets, and the modern bits (neon, signage, passing cars) don’t modernize the place so much as reveal how many eras are stacked inside the same skin. When people show up they’re just weather moving through, not the headline, which keeps the city as the subject.
The result is a quiet, uncanny Charleston where nothing is explained, but everything is suggested, like a museum that never quite closed.
