Wherever he went Evans thought of himself, consciously or not, as documenting Pompeii just before the volcano blew. He knew that the monuments would be excavated and restored. What would be obliterated were those small and handmade or loud and disposable objects—advertising, whatever its less savory qualities, is always highly perishable. It’s not that he wanted to save those things from obliteration, exactly. He loved decay, entropy, ruin, and he liked nothing better than to witness its progress. It was an ongoing activity on the part of nature that could be considered art, that created even as it destroyed. He prized the vulnerable human gesture equally for its heedless bravery and for its unavoidable doom. He preserved it in photographs not because he wanted to arrest its disappearance, but because he wanted to participate in its making.