“Todd Hido finds the poetry in that strangeness, which consists of all the matter implied but unsaid in the margins of thrillers. It lurks in the high-tension wires, the high-intensity lights, the leafless trees and ambitious weeds, the hurricane fences and concrete knee-walls, the red night sky of light pollution. If in these pictures it is forever midnight and you are forever stranded and chilled and at a loss, you still have to pay attention to the way the prowler’s footprints hover in the snow around the window. The jumble of cars around the bungalow may mean that many adults live there, but it may mean something you don’t really want to know about. These pictures might represent views from the undercover surveillance car, if the driver drinking endless coffee waiting for someone to leave or to arrive were capable of appreciating the scene. The silence that permeates these pictures is before or after the fact, or a result of the muffling effects of weather, or else it is permanent, deathlike.”
— From the Introduction by Luc Sante
