Sons of the Living by Bryan Schutmaat

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Sons of the Living is a story. A story of men and land, of silence stretched across the highways of the desert. It unfolds over years, over the light fading into dust, over time that never moves. Bryan Schutmaat watches them—those who remain, those who are always leaving. The road is vast, endless, but it goes nowhere. They are the drifters, the forgotten, caught between what was promised and what never came.

The land is dry, broken. It echoes with absence. The people, too, are empty, shaped by a world that has left them behind. They walk, they stand, they wait. Endurance, yes. But endurance without end, without hope. It is not survival; it is something else, something quieter, something unresolved.

There is no open road anymore, not like before. What remains is the dust, the heat, the ache of what could have been. The past weighs heavily on this place, but the future is no lighter. There is a great fear, a sense of loss, but no one speaks of it. No one looks ahead. The decline is slow, almost imperceptible, and yet, they know. They know.

In these images, the landscape is wide, and the people are small, vanishing into the horizon, as if the earth itself is swallowing them whole. Sons of the Living doesn’t seek answers. It only shows us what is already there. It is the story of a world that has forgotten itself, a place that was once everything, now almost nothing. But still, there is something—an echo, a flicker—something that refuses to disappear. Maybe that is the hope, the only hope: that they remain, for now.