Ancient Photography
An exercise in resurrection
New York City — Spring 1983
All photos taken with a Minox Color-Minotar 35mm f/2.8 camera unless specified.
Soho
I was recovering from a painful breakup
and a mental breakdown.
The prior October, Lauren, my wife of barely 8 months,
told me that she was leaving me, that she wanted a divorce.
Over the holidays she moved into an apartment in Jersey City.
Devastated, I hunkered down to lick my wounds.
As the weather warmed up I slowly began to emerge
from my self-imposed imprisonment.
Her absence created in my life enough unforeseen space
allowing my own transformation to unfold.
One day I dropped some acid and went for a walk.
It was an unseasonably hot May afternoon.
I saw some things and pointed my scrappy little camera at them.
Patriotic garment scraps strewn across the sidewalk like so many leaves.
A man with all of his possessions in a dilapidated shopping cart
in front of an abandoned bakery.
Graffiti and dripping splotches competed with the defunct bakery’s branding for my attention.
The man had nowhere to go but wanted to show me his belongings,
which included a broken television.
The Soho International Arts Condominium,
oddly itchy against the humid sky…
an alien landscape.
The White Papers
Were they a band? A collective?
I don’t remember.
I never knew.
Their poster was up high,
above an alcove.
Not sure how it got up there.
I liked it though.
Wayfarers were very popular
back then.
Anonymous artists’ street work
Muñecas aquí.
The juxtaposition
was sumptuous.
Buildings scaffolded
with the detritus of the past,
conveying a code no one paid any attention to.
This black cat on the inside of a real estate office window showcasing, what… islands for purchase?
Harbors?
The redhead was smitten.
The remnants to her left are what caught my attention;
I hadn’t even seen the cat until the girl came along.
(No, I did not know her.)
This building’s facade
radiated a delicious visual confusion;
the shadows from the ladder
suspended menacingly above,
arcing across the ribbed columns,
jumbled with the cacophony
of anarchic communications.
These doorways and windows
are exactly what I’d been seeking on my walk.
Documenting archaeological artifacts;
the leftover yawps and squeals,
touting and enticing everyone
to explore all the entertainment
and educational opportunities
inherent in the arts.
All haphazardly applied,
overlapping the old,
obscuring the recent,
rendering their intent moot,
their meaning irrelevant.
Layers upon layers;
bark on steel tree trunks–dried up and peeling away,
revealing mysteries beneath.
In many cases, color was unnecessary
to convey the dilapidated nature of
Nearly.
Every.
Surface.
Drops of oil
from some long-gone mechanical device.
Freckles permanently staining smooth surfaces.
I made my way
to the Hudson waterfront,
where I found some grandstands
without the stands.
In anticipation of, or in mid-tear-down,
I had no idea.
No one around;
the area devoid of context.
I did what I’m compelled do.
Perspective.
Alignment.
Parallax.