Living in Hell’s Kitchen was nine years of growth in countless ways. It was where I became a photographer and sharpened my writing and storytelling skills. I met and befriended a wide array of people from diverse backgrounds and I got married in the community garden directly across the street from my apartment on 48th Street. With all the rolls of film I shot. I wish I had spent more time photographing the character and character of my neighborhood. Accurately depicted in movies such as Sleepers, State of Grace, Gangs of New York, and countless others. As a kid, my Father would share his stories about his encounters with James Coonan and the Hell’s Kitchen gang, The Westies. When I look back, it’s surreal.
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.
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.
Below are six color variations of street art I photographed in New York City’s S.O.H.O. neighborhood, just below Houston Street. I’m selling 11X14 prints in your color (offered here) for $80. each. Images come unframed and without borders. Currently, I’m accepting Paypal as my only form of payment. Contact me here or at DamionPhoto@gmail.com with any questions.
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.
While retrieving an old hard drive featuring many of the negatives from my film camera days. I notice an image that was somewhat foreign to my eyes. One that captured my imagination while dialing back to my days of living in the storied NYC neighborhood, Hell’s Kitchen. At the time, I was going out to see bands two to three times a week. Although I went to clubs and bars throughout the tristate area. CBGB’s and The Continental were more or less, second and third homes for me.This particular image caught my eye, perhaps due to my often lamenting, wishing I had taken more time to photograph the attendees and personalities that often hung outside the clubs. Upon close investigation. I came to the conclusion that it was The Continental, a downtown, east village bar on 3rd avenue, just off St. Marks place. My other guess is, due to the ethnicity of the woman filming the action. That it might have been the Asian/Female fronted punk band Yellow Scab. As much as I’m guesstimating. Finding an image I don’t remember taking or seeing, was cooler than an eskimo sitting by a campfire. Though the picture was taken some twenty five years ago. Noticing it for the first time gave it a new shine.
The other night, I came across a documentary about New York City photographer Ricky Powell (R.I.P.). Perhaps best known for his raw images of NYC personalities and the up and coming graffiti and hip hop scenes. Powell, was, amongst many artists whose art and images inspired me to pick up a camera and document the world around me. The documentary features many of the highs and lows while remaining focused and very interesting. Overall, it had me thinking about organizing, printing, and even attempting to display my work at a local gallery. With so many other, perhaps more important, tasks on my to do list. The reality that I don’t know anyone outside my immediate neighbors in the area. Chances are slim for any exhibitions. Still, I plan on consistently sharing my images on the internet and with anyone who’s willing. The image below was taken more than ten years ago when I lived and worked in Hoboken, New Jersey.
My journey as a photographer has endured its share of bumps and bruises along the way. Though I had had a few images published and had my first paid gigs a few years before. I had very little knowledge of putting a cohesive portfolio together. I was a hobbyist and an enthusiast. One that had become passionate of the art, but had little grasp of how to get from A to B. Somewhere in my twenties, I picked up a second job working nights at an East Village record store. The owner, himself a published stock photographer became somewhat of a mentor, giving me the green light to build a portfolio from the continuous flow of interesting characters who came in the place. Good, bad or ugly, I was photographing and documenting much of my city life. Many, if not most of the people who took me up on my offer to use them as my instruments of creativity would meet me at a certain time and near place. I was more than happy to share prints with those who agreed to meet up. At the time, I was working with a very basic Nikon film SLR film camera that another boss gave me a few years before. While revisiting some old image files. I found a folder marked “slides”. I recall shooting almost exclusively with slide film at the time. While I don’t remember this particular woman’s name. I recall the session taking place within the lower east side’s Tompkins Square Park. In indulging myself in looking through old files. I’m surprised to find so many keepers.
Going through old slides, I found this image of a Tupac Shakur memorial mural that appeared shorty after his still unsolved murder in Los Angeles. Over the years I’ve come to love, and respect Tupac’s legacy to hip hop and life in general. Looking back, I’m grateful for making an effort to protect my slides and negatives.
Looking back, I’d say my journey as a photographer began during my early days in Hell’s Kitchen. Though I had been fascinated with taking pictures since my teens. It wasn’t until I was occupying a one-bedroom in the heart of the west midtown area of Manhattan that my then boss gave me his old Nikon EM SLR along with some film and a couple of photo books that my hobby turned into an obsession. I quickly began documenting my surroundings while graduating from one-hour photo chains to professional printing services such as Duggal and B&H. Within a short time, the towels and sheets that fit neatly in my apartment linen closet were displaced by boxes of photos and trays of slides. My trips to places like Duggal and B&H quickly quadrupled. From my eight years in Hell’s Kitchen to my married life in New Jersey and Washington state. My passion and obsession for photography never waned. My need for living space grew, and the number of photo boxes, enlargements, and ane studio gear morphed. Quickly realizing less is more, I used the premise of moving to digitize all those negatives, slides, photo boxes, and albums before tossing them in the garbage.
As I begin to get the digitized photos back, I can see the vast progress I’ve made over the years. Kicking myself, in a sense, for holding on to the past for so long. Undoubtedly, many photos accurately documented the time and people. Most of it, unfortunately, was junk. Luckily though, there were a few that jogged some serious memories. Photo’s that still show a measure of intent and purpose.
Taken on 48th street and 10th avenue shortly after a snow storm. You can hopefully see the emphasis on the reflections the puddles give. You should also get a rare view of a traffic-free New York City street. Not bad for a photo I took more than twenty-five years ago.
Photogeek Blog 