Below is a twenty-plus-year-old image I don’t recall ever seeing from a celebration I first attended as an eight-year-old. New York’s China-Town and Chinese New Year have long captivated my imagination and left me in a state of jaw-dropping amazement. Watching and photographing the event has always fueled my respect and interest in different cultures, their noteworthy observances and celebrations. In case you were wondering. Yes. This rare, yet rewarding B&W image is designated to be printed. Any thoughts on the celebrations you enjoy partaking in?
It’s become a daily commitment/obsession to go through old image folders, delete, label, and review them to see how much I’ve improved as a photographer. Just as reviewing images has reminded me of where I’ve been, as well as the places I frequented and returned to time after time. It also reveals how much composition and editing have become essential to my understanding of an important part of the process. Last night I found this image from a Chinese New Year celebration in NYC’s Chinatown. I shot it back in 2007 and, to be honest. This was the first time noticing it, and I plan to print it in the coming days.
As a photographer who has a hard time letting go. Often thinking, once the image is deleted, so goes the memory. I can assure you, that train of thought might score you an appearance on the show “Hoarders”, if not in a chair with a licensed psychotherapist. Therefore, I highly recommend that you regularly revisit and delete photos that no longer feed your art. Trust me. Your closet and computers hard-drive will thank you.
As someone who’s been a slave to that before mentioned belief, I’m incredibly grateful for both the space I’ve created and the emotional freedom of not holding too tightly to the past. When I think of my earlier days of getting peple to show up at my tiny home studio in Hoboken.
Looking back, I can’t help but recall Roksolana. Her energy and personality were and are unmatched. She was always two steps ahead of me while often sharing her own ideas. And rather hard to keep up with. In the end, she helped to teach me about patience and expression through her beauty and personality.
For all the people I met and those who allowed me to take just a few moments to capture their beauty and individuality. I am forever thankful for their time and patience in indulging in my weirdness and helping me grow as a photographer. Thinking back to those days and looking upon the days when my apartments linen closet was filled with books of negatives, slides and random photo products important to film photographers. It’s hard to believe that, while I was quite occupied with the art. I wasn’t all that serious and wouldn’t bust a gasket when I made a mistake.
In 1997, I embarked on taking photographs for my first ever portfolio. With little knowledge and beautiful women from all over the world entering the lair of the east village record store I worked nights at. In the short time I worked there. I met the world and built many lasting friendships. Before long, I had people from nearby universities to visitors from France, Germany, Italy, Croatia and countries in Africa, Asia and South America guaranteeing my portfolio would be deep and diverse. Most of what I shot was in the East Village and my Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood. The image below was taken at Pier 84 on the Hudson River. A beautiful woman from the lower east side. I made a lot of mistakes back then and still today. However, I try to learn from them without being so hard on myself.
Over the weekend, my wife and me took a trip north to the area of New Jersey we once called home. During those two days we covered a lot of ground and met up with a respectable amount of old friends and loved ones. One, a long time friend and photography mentor met us at a otherwise overlooked Irish spot on Clifton. This friend, one who had met some health issues head on and conquered them was full of life and laughter. He made my wife smile from ear to ear and even knocked my hardened personality back to life. As our meet up began to wind down. He pulled out a coffee table book on the famed photography and directorial icon Herb Ritts While the book served as a priceless token of our friendship. One I can’t imagine I earned. It served as a reminder of my childhood visits to DDB (Doyle, Dane, Bernbach.) where my Mother was a financially struggling secretary.
As a ten year old, it was such a privilege being brought up to the art department where artists and designers were working on the next, best sketch, art piece, or movie poster. The work, along with the artists I met, gave me an early passion and understanding of art that influenced me to draw and ultimately dive into photography. Years later, I was sitting next to a friend catching up on one another’s travels and run ins. The time was short, yet conversations through regular phone calls Kept us up on the important things. As our time came to an end, he revealed a old brown bag. Within, a book to brought back the memories of the apartment I grew up. Yes, we were poor, but my Mom always brought art and art books given to her at work. Things and memories that enriched us in countless ways. Funny how two unrelated stories reflect one another. I guess that’s life.
As a child who spent much time at his grandmother’s, I always looked forward to visits from my aunt Mickey. She was a lovely lady who was one of my grandmother’s many cousins or nieces. Her visits always felt special as she lived in this magical place called Maryland . I couldn’t have been more than five years old and not yet traveled outside the borough of Queens, New York. Her visits always seemed accompanied by history books, crossword puzzles, and fancy pastries. (The kind they grew on secret farms in the country.) Those early experiences and the eventual discovery of realism were accepted. I never lost my appreciation for that historic land til’ this day. The city boy in me still gets a rush when I experience farm life and enjoy those fancy pastries. The photo below was taken as the skies turned dark and the thunder moved in.
When I think of my childhood adventures, I try not to over-dramatize my experiences. Knowing full well how many people had similar and much, much worse upbringings. Mine, for the most part, were very different from my friends and the kids I grew up with. What seems unique is how colorful and detailed these experiences remain. It’s almost as if I cherry-picked to relay these stories somehow with the knowledge that, in many cases, I was too young to understand what was happening right before my eyes. I try to write with a split sense of vision. One as a young observer. Another as a knowing adult.
While many, I would say, recollections feed off of repetitious encounters with regular people in my life. It’s the memory of brief encounters that baffle me. One, in particular, stands out due to how detailed I can still recall the short yet memorable meeting. By the age of eight, my parents were divorced, and my Dad had left his job at the bus company to pursue other ventures. He was involved with several hustles, including running numbers, loansharking, and illegal casino games near the local bar. Nothing too shady, yet nothing you’d bring up at school when the kids were asked, “So tell the class what your Dad does for a living..” According to the divorce, my Dad had weekend custody, and the weekends always featured nights at the bar and collecting money from those who risked but, did not cover the spread.
When my grandmother wasn’t available to watch me, my Dad would bring me along to collect money from the many degenerate gamblers I got to know over the years. One in particular stood out, and here’s why. Imagine this muscular yet thin 6’4 Black Irishman (That’s what they called Irishmen with black hair and eyes at the time.) walking through the door with this dwarf-sized eight-year-old at his side. Imagine the mix of fear and folly. No matter the time, place, or situation. I always had that wide-eyed curiosity that amassed countless questions to fire at will throughout the night. Although we had visited many houses, apartments, and basements before. This guy’s scene was on another level. His loft apartment had several pinball machines and a giant waterbed with ceiling mirrors above it. (Now remember, I was only eight years old.) I couldn’t help but think, “Who the hell wants to look at themself when it’s time to sleep? The guy was greasy, fat, with black, wavy hair. (Former male porn star Ron Jeremy comes to mind.) Then came the big WTF? His fingernails were manicured to a standard size, with the noted exception his pinky, which was uncut and eccentrically long. At the time, I had very little knowledge of drug culture and ways to consume cocaine. It was weird and a bit scary. I remember wanting to get the hell out of there. How the experience and sacrifice might award me some Chinese food on the way home. I never returned to that place and don’t recall seeing that guy again. But the memories remain.
Growing up in Jackson Heights, Queens. The nearest swimming pool was in what seemed like a far off world. Without the money, or knowledge of the transit system. We were often left to our own devices and local fire hydrants when cooling off in the hot Summer sun. The joy of jumping in and out of the hydrants canon. Applying a hollowed out plastic bottle to better direct the waters flow. Or better yet, giving the passing cars a thorough soaking. Hoping that one unprepared driver would drive past with his guard and windows down. The childlike excitement of soaking the interior and occupants of an automobile felt as if it would last forever.
It’s safe to say, my interest in photography was born out of necessity. As a teenager in love with hardcore punk and going to Sunday matinees, I started a fanzine which needed pictures to go with my interviews and show reviews. Admittedly, my pictures were terrible. I really knew nothing about composition or camera settings. When I think about it, I didn’t even own a film SLR until I was twenty four. by then I was more interested in documenting my new surroundings in a neighborhood known as Hell’s Kitchen. While I was still going to shows regularly. and taking much better photos, I eventually got bored, which started my focus on experimentation with light and movement. Ultimately, is was within the shadows, movement and darkness, that I found my love. The more I learned about composition and waiting for the right moment, the more my images stood out. While it wasn’t alway pretty, I felt that I was finally capturing the energy, raw emotion, and elements that capture the essence, and intimacy that smaller venues offer.
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