Or, rather, he began to photograph what he saw. During the long stretches of empty weekends, Ushman would insert an unmarked cassette into his player in the van and drive around the city, the camera between his legs. The voices on the tapes were varied. Conversations that began and ended abruptly. Often, the same man's voice speaking calmly to a variety of different people: women, children, another man, an elderly woman with an eastern European accent. Ushman assumed they were family. Or a troupe of actors, rehearsing. Or a psychotherapist and his clients. He accepted that he would never know who they were or the circumstances of the recordings, but as he listened to their voices, the city began to look more full of possibility. The slant of a building, the grayness of concrete, the blur of traffic, the canary yellow of taxi cabs; all these things adopted a drama which Ushman had never before recognized. The voices in his van were like dialogue in a movie. His snapshots were the filmmakers' backdrop.