The makeshift architecture captured under the neon night. The interior design formulated in formica and freaky fashions. The porcelains in Madam Barbara's room. The gates and wire fencing and bars. The barren landscapes. The emptiness. The red nylon carpets. Timers. Stones and souvenir shops and racks of shoes.

Brothels of Nevada is never titillation, transmogrifying instead its candid views of America's legal sex industry (as the subtitle reads) into a journey through the boudoirs of the human condition.

With empathic detachment Timothy Hursley's photographic investigations reveal the flimsiness of existence via a voyeuristic attention to artifacts. The only humans featured are two hookers at the keyboards of the internet lounge at Sheri's Ranch (and two pairs of legs in a parlor).

The opening image a list of the "rules of the house" metaphysically terrifying in its random authority.

A marvelous book.