Your Gaze, Brought To You By Our SponsorsTim Maughan

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Filter: Summer In the Citysponsored by Vogue

The sun falls in sheets from aqua blue sky, exploding into yellow lens flare as it crashes on to glass and steel. Where it hits concrete it threatens to warp the ground itself - the pristine, unsoiled sidewalks baking off radiation, making the air in front of you shimmer and flex. A sea of yellow cabs floods past, their vividness only momentarily desaturated by skyscraper shadows, neo-gothic cliff-faces studded with sculpted, art-deco elegance. On their peaks billboards nestle under the romanticised silhouettes of water towers, broadcasting black and gold designer label glamour into the sun-drenched valleys below. The grey hairline finger of a road sign gantry arcs over your head, suspending street names associated with exclusivity and comfort in snow white text against deep, lush green.

You glance over at the woman next to you at the bus stop, bathing in the sophisticated exuberance that radiates from her carefully selected outfit, and awe at the precision colour coding, how the shocking red of her near translucent dress matches the exact pantone of her lipstick, how the gem encrusted gold hinges of her sunglasses mirror the clasps of her clutch bag. How it all contrasts perfectly with the marble smoothness of her skin, her complexion so flawless that it looks like she's been carved from hot wax. Slowly, with measured, deliberate precision she turns to face you, and from behind pitch black lenses her gaze meets yours, and you feel the hot flush of guilt as-

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Filter: Wild Style sponsored by Adidas

The sun sprays golden light through white cloud stencils, ricocheting into gunshot paint splatter as it falls on brick and tarmac. Where it hits the ground it threatens to bounce away - the pulsating, litter-strewn sidewalks vibrating in time to deep sub-bass hits, distorting the air in front of you into ever shifting sound-wave patterns. A rainbow convoy of jeeps and SUVs crawl past, the sampled breaks and megaton-heavy drum machine rumbles booming from their hyper-polished shells, making even the skyscrapers shake, tenement building fronts awash with aerosol graffiti, a never ending urban gallery of a myriad shades. Words and pictures, names and faces, breeze-block textures soaked with vibrancy. On their peaks hijacked billboards nestle under tag-drenched water towers, broadcasting the urban uprising of illegal colours over corporate logos like pirate radio stations shifting their transmissions into the visible spectrum. The felt-pen scrawled finger of a road sign gantry arcs over

your head, suspending street names associated with authenticity and hard-knock lives in text that you struggle to make out through the mosaic shards of multi-layered stickers.

You glance over at the woman next to you at the bus stop, thrilling in the pristine freshness of her threads, and awe at the bold blocks of colour, how the green/brown camouflage patchwork of her Adidas OriginalsTM tracksuit matches the trim of her boxfresh white Adidas Stan SmithTM sneakers, how the silk of the suit's patented Three StripeTM piping mirrors the gold circles of her oversized hoop earrings. How it all compliments perfectly her warm, dark skin, her head nodding with effortless style to the landscape distorting beats, so flawlessly bold that it looks like she's freshly daubed art, like she's been ripped from the walls around you. Slowly, with measured, deliberate precision she turns to face you, and with dismissive screw-face her gaze meets yours, and you feel the hot flush of guilt as-

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Filter: Rose Tinted Spexsponsored by Urban Outfitters

The sun melts orange syrup through vaseline-lens focused skies, embracing you with gentle warmth as it falls on your face and shoulders. Where it hits the ground it bleaches concrete out into a familiar, reassuring polaroid fade - the chalk scrawl-strewn sidewalks revealing purple numbers nestled within green hopscotch squares. An ocean blue VW camper van slides past, the achingly hip acoustic rock seeping from its ageing cassette deck sounding as obvious and plastic as the flat, stylised blue and yellow flowers that decorate its sides. The surrounding buildings seem to lean in to listen, the warmth of their brownstone facades tempting you home, the air between them and you filling with a playful breeze of soap bubbles, a myriad of colours spiralling on their oily surfaces. Silhouetted against the tangerine sunset, wood-cast water towers throw sepia shadows across billboards announcing the most familiar of brands with forgotten antique elegance, Coke reds and Levi blues triggering nostalgic comfort. The reassuring frame of a road sign gantry arcs over your head, suspending street names associated with co-opted rebellion and timeless chic on metal plates that look like they've been plucked from an Americana obsessed diner's wall.

You glance over at the woman next to you at the bus stop, struck by how her apparently thrown together scruffiness has in fact been so carefully hand-picked and calculated, and awe at the atemporal blocks of colour, at how her 90s alt-rock T-shirt has become utterly devoid of cultural significance when placed next to the kaleidoscope of her ironically artificial leopard-print leggings. You marvel at how the trinkets that hang from her arms and neck,

the endless circles of pink and baby blue crafted from injection moulded sweatshop plastic, candy-bar jewellery saved from landfill to give an air of carelessness that's ultimately betrayed by the precision assembled, salon fresh haircut. Slowly, with measured, youth-filled arrogance she turns to face you, and her disinterested gaze looks straight past yours, and you feel the hot flush of guilt as-

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Filter: Falloutsponsored by Sony Playstation

Despite struggling to pierce the thick, black layer of cloud that blots out the sky, when the sun hits your hands and face it feels like its white-heat will evaporate your skin, burning your exposed bone into fine, noxious ozone. Where it hits the ground it exposes the dark red of blood stains baked into half melted, half shattered concrete - the the tell-tale signatures of the city's dead, grey murder-scene chalk lines of long lost bodies blast-fused into tarmac. The vast olive green, rust-tinged-bulk of a tank limps past you on mud splattered caterpillar tracks, un-oiled wheels squealing above it's diesel drone, the bone yellow skulls of its victims rattling on chains along it's flanks. The surrounding buildings reveal themselves as nothing but facades, empty shells dripping with the off-colour beiges of splintered plaster and burnt wallpaper confetti, the air between them and you filling with a choking cloud of toxic particles, a fine mist of ash spiralling sickeningly on Brownian currents. Silhouetted against the grey horizon, the shattered skeletons of poisoned water towers throw acrid shadows across billboards riddled with bullet-holes, the tattered fragments of a forgotten dictator's face triggering memories of pain and hatred. The twisted steel of a road sign gantry arcs over your head, suspending street names associated with crushed resistance and summary executions alongside the sun dried, green decay and blood flecked corpses of unknown victims, bird-plucked streamers of pink intestine hanging from gouged stomachs.

You glance over at the woman next to you at the bus stop, horrified by the shreds of damp, greying cloth that fall from her body like flayed skin, aware that somehow, amongst the filth and desperation, the outfit still holds some significance to her, some memory of before. You can see it in the trinkets she's fashioned for herself - snippets of colourful brand names, silver bottle tops and tin can fragments - that hang from her arms and neck, the once important shards of identity shaped by consumer products, saved from landfill to give an air of belonging and choice that's ultimately betrayed by the matted mass of hair that she can't summon the energy to push from her face. Slowly, with diseased, bile filled pain she turns to face you, and her vacant, defeated gaze looks deep into yours, and you feel the hot flush of guilt as-

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Filter: Infinite DetailSponsored by Google

Projected sun data falls from whitespace sky in a visual cacophony of numerals, graded through crisp yellow to burnt red based on their value: temperature (Fahrenheit/Celsius), intensity, ultra-violet rating, sunrise/set times. Where it intersects with the ground it fades into nothingness, unable to disturb the rationalised, hyper-neat wireframe grid of space classified as sidewalk. Traffic data flows past, abstracted out into generic automobile shapes, contextless icons varying in colour and size only to suggest speed or congestion, the only occasional exceptions being those car-jacked by advertising algorithms and given solidity to promote taxi services, parcel deliveries, and luxury car brands. The surrounding buildings sprout from the ground, more empty wireframes growing with fractal efficiency, leaves of data budding and opening on polygonal branches, ranking the towers as they continue to reach for the sky: property prices, occupancy rates, the stock positioning of the businesses housed within. The air between them and you is filled with a cloud of information, a fine mist of near translucent grey statistics, so subtle they only come into focus when you squint, revealing air quality ratings, humidity, and ambient temperatures. Silhouetted against the featureless sky, the abstracted shapes of water towers serve no purpose but to add some rare stylistic flair, a contextual background to the many billboards that nestle under their shadows, beaming colourful bursts of brand identity tailored to tempt your individual gaze. The simplified geometry of a road sign gantry arcs over your head, suspending street names that morph into multi-coloured arrows and icons, offering directions and rating local services; gold stars hanging like user-graded fruit.

You glance over at the woman next to you at the bus stop, unsurprised by now to find just the approximation of a person, a generic clipart figure ripped from a conceptual architectural construct. There's no individual here beyond the meta-data that solidifies into the air as your gaze falls upon her: age, occupation, interests, relationship status - the publicly mineable shadow of her social imprint. Gaze long enough and images form out of the mesh of words and numbers; a myriad of coloured pixels forming photographs: parties, family, holidays, pets, the ever present selfies. In turn from this data her wireframe mannequin starts to dress itself, items of clothing plucked from algorithmically recognised brand identities, yet more numerals floating alongside each garment, popularity, price, availability. Slowly, with motion captured awkwardness, she turns to face you, gradient shaded eyes interrogating your own data, and you feel the hot flush of guilt as-

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