Issue no. 1
Hey, it's good to see you. Here we all are on the other side of undoubtedly the most challenging year of our lives. After a year devoid of so many kisses, a year without the feeling of fingers running through our hair, the comforting weight of arms draped around us, without knees brushing each other, without the taken-for-granted sensation of skin against skin. We (the lucky ones who have come this far) are now happily reacquainted with the profound and necessary sweetness of affectionate gestures.
As a photographer, these are the moments I like best: quiet moments of tenderness, fleeting loving glances across a crowded room, stolen kisses in under the train stairs, fingers weaving together under barstools, the way the space between a neck and shoulder is the perfect cradle for a loved one's head to fit into on late-night subway rides. I have always viewed the documentation of these moments as important work - a necessary juxtaposition to the widely accepted cynicism. A respite from the flaming doom-nado that is the news cycle. A necessary reminder that life can still be beautiful if you are willing to open your eyes to all the small moments unfolding around you.
I took the featured photo above while assisting a workshop for my favorite photographer, Peter Turnley . I've admired the deep soul and humanity of his work, and the fact that he too, sees moments of love, grace, and poetry as important (even after decades of photographing war, famine, and other massive moments of geopolitical change). It's good to see that someone who's seen many of the world's decidedly most important moments still has a sense of wonder for the everyday moments that only impact a tiny microcosm of two people.
I actually secured the assistant position about a year and a half ago - I'm sure you can guess why it was postponed. I shared this news with very few people - I was nervous that if I got too excited about it it might go away, and then I'd have dreaded explaining to do. For someone who is fascinated by vulnerable moments, I still find myself very protective over myself, sometimes reluctant to be witnessed. However, I do believe that this kind of thing - writing, sharing, giving you a peek under the hood - keeps me accountable and growing in a way that's more important. So, with this in mind, I will tell you that over the past year I've photographed….next to nothing. While I wanted to go out and make a name for myself and hone my skills in time for the workshop - keeping creative momentum during lockdown felt insurmountable to say the least. Aside from my own lack of momentum, it just felt like those loving moments were nowhere to be seen. They were happening behind closed doors, away from the streets, away from the crowds. They were happening in smaller towns where many had fled.
New York felt desolate and devoid of soul to me. It went from being the city I love to just steel and concrete. My return to street photography began with this workshop - a week of constant shooting, editing, lectures, and critiques. I was up every day at 7, never going to bed before 2 am. I worried that I wouldn't be able to produce compelling images after a year out of practice. I put pressure on myself to do well as the assistant, as the youngest person in the room, and the only black person in the room, one of a handful of women in the room, all before the eyes of someone I respect so deeply. My head was an echo chamber of relentless questioning: Could I do it? Would I be enough? Can I approach people in the street after a year of isolation and convince them to be photographed? Am I capable of being even a hint of the person I'm hoping to be - at least for a week? Happily, it turns out the answer to all of these was yes. In fact, I think I needed that pressure to force myself out of my comfort zone ad produce what have now become my new favorite photographs. After a year that felt as though I was experiencing it with my head wrapped in gauze, I feel like I have learned to see again, and that my vision is better than ever (not literally, in fact, I have an optometrist appointment on the 7th.) I feel that my capacity to be moved by small moments of affection has grown. After a year of starvation, I truly know not only the act of tasting but also just how deeply moving and wholly necessary the visceral pleasure of it is.
I know that how I feel is not singular. I know because I remember just how many articles The New York Times published on their Modern Love page about the hungry loneliness and the triumph of new or lasting love in lockdown. I know because The Atlantic wrote a whole article on why we miss people we don't even know that well. I know because I saw a handful of my friends who lived for the short game look around and admit a need for a deeper connection for the first time. And I know because once I was fully vaccinated I remember the first hugs I received were the longest and tightest I've felt since I was a child. When I first posted that photograph it got much more attention than I'd seen much of my work get in a long time. I know that people felt connected and comforted by the proof of the existence of love in the world. Now, newly inspired, I see how life has come bursting back into the streets: friends and lovers run to embrace each other, families huddled over tables and park benches, grandparents holding their baby grandchildren after a year of only seeing them through a screen. New York, I'm glad to have this part of you back. I'm glad this part of me is back. And I'm glad you stuck with me to read about it.
