As I passed the fountain in Washington Square Park. My attention turned to a Father playing with his daughters. While the young man’s tough, street wise look wouldn’t merit him as a poster boy for Fatherhood. His loving, protective manner with his girls was, to say the very least, moving. As he began to turn towards me. I began to notice the tattoo on his forearm. Being that I had just been complaining how, if I had known twenty years ago that tattoos would become so common and flat out random. I might have never gotten any. And while I still can’t fake any interest when a friend asks me “Want to see my new tat?” I can certainly appreciate a good one when I see it.
As a photographer I’ve always been intrigued with bikes. Big, small, I love them all. As an owner however, I am a complete and utter failure. If memory serves, I was given my first two wheeler, a red schwinn, at the age of five. Since that time, I’ve had every single one of my bikes sacked, snatched, stolen, swiped or shanghaied.
Despite this life long run of bad luck. I still hold this ancient form of transportation in the highest regard. With lessons learned I find myself remaining grounded giving the soles of my feet the job of getting me to and fro. Regardless of my choice of transportation. I’m still drawn to the eye candy that a road travelled bicycle can bring.
So whenever I come across a sweet looking cycle I make it a point of composing a worthwhile image. One that might detail the bikes history, character or uniqueness. This past weekend I spotted this particular set of wheels outside of a store on Thompson St. in the West Village of Manhattan. I couldn’t help but wonder what treasure that bike’s purse had carried through the years. I’ve promised myself time and time again, that one day I’ll pull together my collection of bicycle portraits, print them up and put them up on the wall. With my luck. They’ll end up getting stolen. Oh well. Such is life.