Skinjo and Lacuna Look Beyond the Signs

Halfway across the pedestrian footbridge, Skinjo slows and invites Lacuna to the rail. Afternoon light lies silver on the expressway. Further along, cars pass beneath a steel sign gantry, each briefly disappearing under its row of boards.

“Look behind the directions,” Skinjo says, tracing a triangle in the air. “All that work holding a few words up.”

Lacuna follows the line of the truss. “Heavy words, once you include the boards.”

The traffic makes a continuous rushing sound beneath their conversation. Skinjo picks out the diagonal braces, then the columns at the roadside. The boards' weight has a route down to the ground; the open frame carries them across every lane without a forest of posts between the cars.

“And the wind has all that sign surface to push against,” Lacuna says.

Skinjo settles both hands on the rail. “So it isn't enough just to hold them up.”

“They need to stay steady enough to read.”

A gust tugs at their coats. The structure must resist bending and twisting, not merely survive a still afternoon. Skinjo watches the small bright roofs move through its shadow, then looks back at the bracing.

“I'd have painted the signs first,” Skinjo says. “Today I think I'd start with the frame.”

Lacuna looks from the boards to their supports. “The part almost nobody reads.”

They stay for another stream of cars, giving the steel a little of the attention usually reserved for what it carries.