Most days I wish I was like an accountant, a good capitalist. Charging down that homespun American path. The road most traveled. Pot-holed and littered with the broke, the broken. Its shoulder cluttered with the debris of the American dream. That acceptable route.
Instead, I was neck deep in a creative dry spell, the well of inspiration had run dusty months ago. The unavoidable curse of the artist. The paintbrush fell silent and taunted from a petrified paint pile. I reached for a camera that had been collecting dust in the corner of my room.
Everything changed.
While painting lent itself to entertain my comfortable and usually preferred isolation. The camera flung me into the world. There was no negotiation, the pictures live outside, so I had to go get them. Nothing had ever connected me to the moment like a camera. The notion “Be Here Now” always seemed like a far-flung fantasy. The camera is a magic wand that freezes time. The only thing on the planet which wields such a power. Nothing has ever marched me in step with the seconds of my life before or since.
I have taken pictures every single day since that moment.
What began as a mediation has slowly evolved into a journey. As I progress along this path, so have my aspirations. Street/candid photography is the love of my photographic life, paired with living in New York City, there is no lack of inspiration. Over the last couple years, specifically in 2020, I have been lucky to amass an intensive collection of photographs.
As everyone knows, 2020 was unique. My relationship with then and the years since is also unique. My job that I worked kept me commuting into the city everyday. I watched as the city devolved into a “Life After People” episode. It was not uncommon to walk dozens of blocks without crossing paths with another person. Above, I could hear the skyscrapers moaning in the winds. Below, ghost trains cruised from empty station to empty station. Surreal. The streets abandoned, yet high rises were bursting with people. All the while, walking passed humming refrigerator trucks, the sounds of death acting as markers of such an extraordinary time.
As weeks turned into months, and the reports of Black people being murdered by police poured in, the streets flooded with people. Those who hadn’t ventured out of their apartments for months suddenly found themselves in an unfamiliar city, fighting an all too familiar battle, arm and arm with both their hearts and their comrades. As a protestor with a camera (as opposed to a photographer covering a protest) I had a unique and vulnerable viewpoint.
Wishing you the warmest welcome. Thanks for stopping by.