Exploring the Neon Boneyard, I recognized the names on the salvaged signs from casino chips that my father brought home as souvenirs when I was young. Through the relics I was transported to the “golden age” my aunt and uncle told of “when the mob used to run it.”

In Las Vegas, novelty wins. There is a constant metamorphosis - sexier, bigger, louder - to separate visitors from their money. Opposite this sits the Boneyard, quietly preserving the city’s history through the reclamation of iconic signage that would otherwise have been scrapped to build the next big thing.

Once outlandish, these signs mocked convention; proclaiming the vices of gambling, sex, and excess. They beckoned America to the experimental oasis in the desert. Now, patina belies their iconography; their typography and design appear quaint to this generation of tourists.

But when I finished shooting and returned to my room overlooking the strip, it was suddenly easier to see through the city’s elaborate facade, and I longed for a simpler time.

With permission from the Neon Museum.