Wheelbarrows in Kensington Market

There’s something oddly mesmerizing about watching people move cement in wheelbarrows. I found myself caught in that trance last week in Kensington Market, of all places—not exactly where you expect a concrete pour to stop you in your tracks.

I was wandering Augusta Avenue with my camera, looking for color and character, when I spotted a crew repairing a floor in a building. Three workers  were taking turns hauling loads of wet cement from the truck, up a narrow plywood ramp, and into a shop. No machines, no noise beyond the scrape of shovels and the occasional joke—just good, old-fashioned elbow grease.

I never worked in construction. I’ve never lifted a shovel full of cement in my life. But as a teenager, I was the guy who stood at the edge of the site, watching. After school, on weekends, during summer breaks—I was always fascinated by it. The teamwork. The rhythm. The quiet choreography of hard work. There was something so grounded about it, so different from my own world of notebooks and doodles and, eventually, camera gear.

Back then, I’d hang around the local building sites a little too long, asking questions until someone told me to scram—or, if I was lucky, answered one. I think part of me always wanted to be involved, to learn how to build something real with my hands. But the truth is, I stayed on the sidelines, camera in hand, recording rather than doing.

And here I was decades later, still watching. Still fascinated.

One of the guys in Kensington looked up and gave me a nod—the universal sign that says, “You’re okay.” I nodded back. It felt like permission to stay, so I did. I didn’t take many photos. Just stood there, letting the sound of work fill the space between us.

There’s an honesty to that kind of scene. No branding, no performance—just people getting something done. In a neighborhood like Kensington, where every corner bursts with life and color and chaos, this little slice of order, this repetition of lift-pour-smooth, felt almost meditative.

I left with maybe three photos. Nothing dramatic. Just cement, wheelbarrows, shadows, and sweat. But they felt more personal than anything else I shot that day. Not because I lived that life, but because I spent years watching it—and in some quiet way, admiring it.