...a TRIPOD quest...

road less traveled

2009-09-22T08:52:00.006-04:00

Incarnation Center
Ivoryton, Connecticut

camera: Nikon D60, Nikon 50mm lens

night 1

bonfire

day 2

the road

feet

day 3

worship

baptism

joy

the boogie down

2009-09-21T23:47:00.005-04:00

the Bronx, between 161st St. and 170th.

mural along the Grand Concourse and the Tree Museum public art project.

camera: Nikon D60, 18-55mm Nikkor VR lens

dark

2009-08-24T22:48:00.005-04:00

I've been told that I tend to shoot such dark pictures. I think this is true. These photographs surely aren't 'technically' perfect either but between shooting something darker and shooting something lighter, I feel the former is, shall we say, a more 'interesting mistake' I'm willing to make. The following were taken on the same day, with the 50mm lens, but I shot without the sunlight, indoors, or at night.

doors closing

1 2 3

at Eisenberg's Sandwich shop

rooftop of the International House, Columbia University

bright

2009-08-24T22:00:00.008-04:00

The idea was to use the 50mm Nikon SLR lens on 'Niccolo', my D60, with the hope that my pictures would turn out with a vintage look without having to post-process the photos and adjust them digitally. Since attaching an SLR lens on a DSLR camera removes any options for auto adjustments, I did everything manually. As to be expected, I ended up overexposing half of my shots, unintentionally. But, though technically "imperfect", I liked the look. Here are a few shots wherein, I believe, the overexposure (considering that it was a bright afternoon and I was using an old lens) actually worked out ok.
Thoughts?

looking out the 7, P.S.1

obviously not an outdoor shot. just getting off the 7. I'm actually glad I caught her looking back.

by Madison Square Park

a former church building, Chelsea

lightning

2009-08-20T00:22:00.004-04:00

My first and only captured shot of lightning, during a thunderstorm that decided to interrupt an otherwise seethingly hot day in NYC.

for the photo geeks, the specs are as follows:
18-55mm Nikkor VR lens
ISO 400
1/60 sec
f/ 3.5

dreams

2009-08-19T23:51:00.003-04:00

I was walking from Strand Bookstore on 12th and Broadway, and I came across this couch on the sidewalk.

Aren't sayings like the one vandalized on this already dilapidated piece of furniture usually packaged a lot more...neatly?
Now "Be the change you want to see" comes across as pithy and insightful (though perhaps a tad over-used...), something I could ruminate upon peacefully.

This jumped out at me like a mandate I had to submit myself to immediately. As if I had little say. As if it was what was expected of me, or all of us, here in this city.

Perhaps it's that underlying message that seemingly anchors all that we commit ourselves to doing, to being, as we commit to simply being here.

And maybe that's why these words left such an impression on me. It was simply reiterating something I have already known intuitively, and by now, quite intimately.

Because I fight with myself to remember this very kind of thing, everyday...

chinatown

2009-08-10T00:42:00.006-04:00

I finally made it out to Columbus Park in Chinatown to check the outdoor installation, America's Chinatown Voices. Outside of going to get my occasional dumpling fix, I am hardly ever in Chinatown (this is sad, yet true). Still, once I get around the tourist trap that is Canal Street, I can appreciate the sensory overload I receive when I walk down Grand, or Eldridge. Somehow the smell of fresh fish, the overly crowded streets, and the children frolicking about as though all of Chinatown was their personal playground, makes for a grounding, even endearing experience. I admit, I am surely an outsider in this place. I feel particularly 'foreign', well aware that I cannot speak any Chinese language, despite probably passing as Asian-looking enough to draw less attention than my lighter-skinned brothers and sisters who foray into this hood too.
On this night, I was south of Canal, in between Mott and Mulberry, and things had quieted down to a peaceful pitch. Minus the chatter from the handful of elderly Chinese folks sitting around in the park, and the occasional outburst from school-free teens loitering about, being at the park, with the art installation still up for its final evening, made for a reflective time. It is easy to forget that for some people, Chinatown is actually 'home', and not simply a stop for last minute souvenirs or cheap, late night eats.
If only Columbus Park could literally 'speak'. Oh the stories I'm sure it would tell..

playing

2009-08-08T09:53:00.005-04:00

At Hudson River Pier 54, and watched 'Tropic Thunder' with good friends. Somehow we got into a conversation about remembering to enjoy what you desire to do. Sounds redundant, I know, but I think it happens. Sometimes we do forget, don't we? When the things that seem to lie so closely to our core selves begin to feel so distant from us, or the things that had come so naturally for us become more mechanical than personal...I suggest we might want to stop, and start over. Not entirely, necessarily, but the challenge I believe, is to rediscover a way to make things fresh. To play, even...

So, I played a little. At the end of the day, it still has to be fun.

esperanza

2009-07-10T00:11:00.007-04:00

The story: Nearly a year ago I went to my first Central Park Summer Stage event, and watched Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings absolutely kill it. It may have been my best outdoor concert experience thus far...

That was until I saw Esperanza Spalding perform some weeks ago for this year's concert series. I was on a high, just by watching. Jazz surely takes me places. Seeing Esperanza play (quite literally 'play') the way she did took me higher than usual. I cannot get over how much talent, and how much poise she has. And the girl knows how to have fun.

So, taking away nothing from the serious funk Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings brought on the first show I watched, and while much, much (I repeat, MUCH) praise is due for Ledisi, who headlined later that evening, it was Esperanza that did me in. (But can I stress that Ledisi is CRAZY good?! And the fact that I MISSED Esperanza and Ledisi's scat duet is my one regret from that day. Here's the link to it for our viewing and hearing pleasure.)

No need to ramble on. Here are some pictures of Esperanza at Summerstage.

camera: Nikon D60, Nikkor VR lens 55-200mm
location: Central Park

guess who...

I just like the angles formed here...

rooftop

2009-07-09T21:49:00.008-04:00

Last month here at the "Bushwick Palace" in Brooklyn. Best part of being here was the rooftop view.

This I will most certainly miss.

Camera: 'Niccolo' my D60, 18-55mm and 55-200mm lenses

spring

2009-05-11T23:56:00.009-04:00

The story: Spring is officially here. Or at least it, by now, it should be. Unfortunately, it is my enemy, humidity, that signals even warmer climes fast approaching. (The rain makes the occasional appearance though, stubborn like a petulant child, determined to pester after having already been told to stop.) I shouldn't expect the weather to ever be well-behaved here in New York City, so a string of sunny days are a treat, and like with most treats, I indulge handily. The crowds are out and about, as am I, and instead of clamoring for space on the streets, I sit back and watch. It is my belief that people not only want to be out this season, but they want to be seen. So I'm doing them a favor, really, and giving them an audience. Me and 'Niccolo', my dutiful camera companion, soaking in some spring.

camera: Niccolo, 18-55mm VR lens
location: Union Square (shots taken on different days)

b-boys

musicians

may 1

2009-05-03T10:05:00.009-04:00

The story: A heavy downpour could not put a damper on the May 1st demonstrations here in New York City. From ending ICE raids and mass deportations to passing the DREAM Act, the cries for immigration reform are far too urgent for postponement. The needs are clear. They have been. But on this day, while I could not ignore the pangs of desperation, neither could I overlook the sights and sounds of joy and the sheer hopefulness that kept the crowds firmly in place. Joy ought not be postponed, either, and hope, not deterred. Not by nativists protesting against us across the park, nor the police blockading the demonstration, and certainly, certainly not the rain..

May Day
camera: Nikon D60, 18-55mm and 55-200mm VR lens
location: Union Square, New York City

performance closing out the demonstration at Union Square

some youth 'moshing' over some Latin ska

unidos

taking a stand

remnants

the rain

for more photographs of the LA and NY demonstrations, see here.

structures

2009-04-27T15:58:00.020-04:00

It could've been because I have a clenched fist graphic on my shirt, signaling, of course, that I am a suspicious character. The reason they gave me, however, was because I was photographing structures.

Two police officers stopped me, from photographing 'structures'.

While waiting for the J train to head downtown, I decided to photograph some of the stained glass art along the subway platform. I only took about three shots (two of which, are below) before I was stopped by the officers.

Apparently, one of the officers thought I was merely taking photographs of friends or family, but the moment he realized I was shooting the subway, he needed to inquire about my activity.

One of officers asked me what I was shooting, and his inquiry put me off, considering that, one, what did it matter to him, and two, I don't like being bothered while I'm 'working'. So, curtly I answered, "art".

I was irritated, but cooperative, allowing the officer to obtain my license and get my information, but I had to ask what exactly the deal was. He explained that they couldn't have possibly known what it was I was really shooting, and for what reason, and so it was imperative that they got my information. Apparently, shooting at subways is now being policed. This I had been completely unaware of, as I hadn't seen anyone else in the subway stopped for taking a picture at, and of, the subway. People did it all the time...

I couldn't ignore my mind's own restlessness so I bothered asking what the concern really was on their end. The officer sternly said, "terrorism'.

This caught me off guard more than being stopped in the first place. "Terrorism?" I asked, I admit, almost mockingly. The officer then reiterated why what I was doing was considered suspicious, that it was a precautionary measure on their end. Of course he cited 9/11. And he re-explained the whole argument about shooting structures. It seemed as if he was hoping I would simply understand that the measure was, well, understandable. At this point, I just wanted the whole ordeal to be over. I already missed the train that would've gotten me downtown a little less late than I was already going to be. And being late, also bothers me. I am late, all the time.

I eventually stopped listening. I didn't feel he adequately explained why the photographing of a public structure was a matter worthy of suspicion. Instead, I arrived at my own conclusion - the obvious one - that if some terrorist were indeed to plan an attack, he or she would have to prepare for it in advance. Like, photographing the target area (of course...)

Packing up Niccolo (my D60), I waited for the J train, again. I thought they'd go their own way, but instead they stuck around. The two officers even hopped on the same train car I was in and didn't leave until after a few stops, getting off at Marcy Avenue.

Questions raced in my head again. "How suspicious did I seem to be really?" "Was my questioning of their policy all the more 'incriminating' for myself?" "Why haven't they left the train yet???"

No matter, I don't need to know. It all felt after the fact anyway. Besides, I gathered some information of my own from the conversation the officers were having with each other, which interestingly enough, put me a bit at ease. After letting me on my way, I overheard the officers talking about how they didn't enjoy locking up young kids for minor offenses. That one of them wanted to do real "crime fighting" work, then he'd be ok...

I sensed the dissatisfaction in their voices. As if there was a lack of conviction behind simply following procedure. Perhaps for them, much of their work really feels like mere protocol. And perhaps there wasn't a real 'suspicion' with me, only duty.

a relevant article, written just this past February in the NY Times

Obama's 100 Days

2009-04-25T10:13:00.001-04:00

easter

2009-04-18T23:38:00.007-04:00

The story: I figured I'd see an actual 'parade' of sorts - some marching, some floats...and I was hoping for free chocolate, delivered by a giant, chocolate (edible?) bunny. Perhaps I set my expectations too high. Still, the extravagant head wear, the adorably aloof children in costume, and perhaps best of all, the sun (finally, New York...) made for more than a consolation. The brightness was surprising, and it took me a while to figure what camera settings to use (I settled on shooting at f-8, with varying shutter speeds, at 100 ISO). Like most other shoots I do, I feel as though I'm a sniper on assignment. But on this day, I couldn't have possibly taken my mission so seriously. It was Easter. It is a day of celebration, and I was determined to simply have fun with it. The rush, the crowds, the vibrant colors, and yes, the sun, made for a most pleasant shoot.

(note: this post is quite a bit overdue, considering that Easter was celebrated last Sunday)

camera: Nikon D60, 18-55mm VR lens and 55-200mm VR lens
location: 5th avenue, between 49th and 57th streets, Midtown

bunny sightings

press

the standouts

tree

2009-03-07T00:15:00.010-05:00

camera: Nikon D60, 18-35mm Nikkor VR lens

Columbus Circle

Riverside Park

Battery Park

Bryant Park

the strangers who beg

2009-03-06T22:44:00.011-05:00

His name is Ralphie. Or Alfie. His speedy, monotonous speech makes it hard for me to tell. Ralphie always hurriedly enters the L train car, lugging in a big black sack and a separate bag for his pile of newspapers. Selling newspapers is his business. He is also homeless.

The routine is the same each time, lines virtually rehearsed, machine-like with his delivery. He introduces himself hastily, seemingly aware of how quickly he loses customers. He only has several minutes until the next train stop. He must know his papers are a tough sell. For a city whose residents still can't seem to function properly without a morning paper, charging for news that had freely circulated its way into the hands of jittery, java-induced New Yorkers many hours beforehand sounds like a tough sell to me.

But this is his 'business', and he keeps at his routine. He also asks for food, or clothes even, if no one cares to buy a paper. One night he hinted on wanting a pair of clean socks. A passenger handed him a powerbar instead, and she seemed pleased enough with herself after doing so.

Ralphie is a regular on my train rides home. I only see him on the L, and only at night, and only selling papers. I also never see anyone buy anything, from him. How far down the Brooklyn-bound L Train he goes, I do not know.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I do not always give money. Most times, I'm fumbling for change I do not have. And whatever I do have, I hope they're quarters. I need those quarters for laundry.

Several times on the train, I've heard beggars qualify their own begging, making sure to let us passengers understand that their act of asking is a last resort out of desperation. That it is never a choice they want to make.

Several times on the train, I've seen folks who have had no choice but to beg with the one hand they had left, for the other was severed, or gone entirely, or walk the length of the train car on one leg because they had a stump in place for the other.

On these nights, I give. And hope, a little harder.

subway

2009-02-24T23:51:00.006-05:00

the finer things in life

2008-11-17T23:47:00.006-05:00

For this entry, I would've hoped to have accompanied it with pictures. But, see, I was on the job...

I work now for the Rizzoli bookstore on 57th Street in Midtown Manhattan, one out of a relatively small chain of booksellers owned by the Italian Rizzoli publishing company, which, to my knowledge, specializes in a lot of visual art books, architecture, fashion, and the like (and not to mention, Italian books).

While the bookstore itself is classically beautiful, with its interior trimmings well-preserved, showcasing the elegant architecture belonging to the remaining old New York townhouses in the city, on certain days, I could take a break from shelving or ringing up customers behind the register.

I had my first off-site job recently, which means that some of us at the bookstore travel to a location outside of the bookstore and essentially, do a 'favor' for a particular author whose book we currently carry, and sell at the actual venue hosting the release and signing of his or her book.

A few days ago, I was assigned to work at an Upper East Side locale, an apartment on the 9th floor of a building overlooking the East River. I was partnered up to go with Alfred, a southern gentleman in the truest sense of the word, carrying with him a noticeable twang that passed itself off as graceful and not country. Alfred is an elderly statesman of Rizzoli's, though I do not mean to demean him in any way. He's put in his time there. He was a manager for the store once, juggling his position with his ventures in the theater and forays into film. I should've known. There was an entertainer's air about him that was all too familiar for someone of my own family's performing background, the kind that I could sense followed his every footstep and lingered on at the end of his sentences.

Venturing out to this off-site with Alfred put me at ease. Neither of us said very much on our taxi ride together. Just a few cordial exchanges between co-workers, though for that night I had hoped we'd bypass the informal getting-to-know-you's and dive into the what-is-the-meaning-of-life variety of questions. I would only find out the story on Alfred after he had broken the ice with me first.

Once we arrived at our off-site, Alfred was quick to point out all the things about the Upper East Side apartment that I was glossing over absentmindedly because I was too caught up figuring out in my head how I was going to swipe people's credit cards on a machine we brought that was older than the abacus. He asserted how the video installation on the white wall was making him feel nauseous. I laughed. On the job! I laughed! My tension was broken.

Other things began catching my eye. Like the dining table lit like a Christmas tree. And the room we were stationed in, with stark-white panels that made me feel like I was walking into a sample room in IKEA. The random collection of furnishings along and around the panels that made it seem as though these people were perfectly contented living at an exhibit and not an apartment. The chandelier shaped like a dolphin, or any other sea-faring animal...

For me, most noticeably, it was this: bejeweled elderly couples strolling into the apartment, hands molded into the perfect position in which to insert a glass of fine bubbly, promptly. (Served by young men all dressed in cookie-cutter crisp white shirt-and-ties, broad-shouldered, clean-shaven twenty-somethings with an ample dosage of hair product, and adorned with enticing hors d'oeuvres for the guests, of course).

I'd exchange glances with some of the young servants, and share a laugh. We were quite noticeably and admittedly, out of our element, the appetizer and champagne servers, myself, and Alfred. And Alfred was having the most fun watching it all.

As expected, our customers rushed to purchase the books (they were on Indian Jewelry) at the very last minute, but at least it made Alfred and I feel rather accomplished, and we, with some degree of eagerness, accommodated the guests, then left promptly.

I left the Upper East Side knowing I had plenty to say about the whole affair. But it was Alfred's wise words during our cab ride over to the Upper East Side that stayed with me for the duration of the night and thereafter. He had asked me how I had come to find the job at Rizzoli. I explained that if I were to settle for a retail position, I'd want to be around books. To which he replied, and I'm paraphrasing, "Yes, books...some of the finer things in life."

And after the night was done, I really couldn't agree more.

“transplant” (a rough cut)

2008-10-19T00:37:00.012-04:00

I get off the L train at Bushwick and Aberdeen. A two-minute walk eastward along Bushwick Avenue, toward Furman, takes me to “The Bushwick Palace” – a newly redeveloped four-story apartment building fixed between two other apartment buildings that bear no such royal titles, or renovated facades.

I walk briskly toward the “Palace” where I live, such a grand name for a building that barely sets itself apart from its bordering twin brothers, who shamelessly stand on either side of it, as if laying claim to its elevated status.

Why I walk home from the train at such a determined pace, I do not know. God forbid something freakish happen in the .1 mile distance it takes for to get to the gate.

Zooming by the car dealerships that face each other competitively on either side of Bushwick Avenue, past the Laundromat on the corner of Furman run by the heavyset lady falling fast asleep between spin cycles, and the Delek food and gas station, whose lights illume my way home in the wee hours of the morning, I arrive at 1496. Check our mailbox. Head up the three flights of stairs that get me winded far too quickly. Close my door at 4B. And bid Brooklyn a ‘good night’.

Every exchange I have in the neighborhood is brief. Dialogues with the Superintendent and his son revolve around building concerns, requests for tools, questions about the heat or water. The times I actually visit the grocery on Granite street, it is often to purchase last minute necessities, like detergent. I’m hardly a regular. When I hurriedly saunter off towards the Laundromat across the street, I luck out if I get a smile from the other customers putting in their loads. But, out of surprise, I respond back with a quirky little smirk that reveals ever so easily that I’m the kid that didn’t grow up on the block.

That uneasy expression on my face that advertises like a billboard “I’m not from here”.

The thing is – and this, I haven’t had the chance to tell any of my new acquaintances…

I like being here.

If only they knew the refreshing relief to my soul the moment I step off the Subway in Brooklyn, the crisp air brushing my cheek, as if to wipe off any residue the City had left on me. The air is different here. As if it wasn’t bound by high-rise buildings with room to roam freely, becoming this shared freshness the Bushwick residents breathe in communally. We can inhale together, and relax.

But it is only the air that I can share with the little kids on the corner, the brothers on the block, and the mothers with the mindful eyes, keeping their children close with their gaze acting as an invisible leash.

Even the awkward exchanges aren’t shared. Incredibly, I am marginalized in my own moment. As if I can claim neither space nor time with them. They are the rightful heirs of this place, the designated stewards of this time. They should be. I know this. It’s just, I wish it weren’t so.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Transplant”. I suppose it is fitting. In all my years learning to grasp my own identity, never had I chosen “transplant” as a self-descriptor, of course. Being “immigrant” connoted my movement, my Diaspora, simply and succinctly enough. But as is the case with identities, they are both appropriated and imposed. “Transplant” was imposed. And appropriately so.

While this scientific, procedural term initially caught me off guard, it soon made sense. If I remember correctly, the first time I had encountered this mantle bestowed upon us unlucky ones, it had been in a casual conversation with my roommate, Mark, who began explaining to me how he had heard somewhere that the New York City populace can be roughly aggregated into three groups: the locals, the tourists, and the transplants.

It became clear to us how Mark and I had belonged to this last grouping. By no means are we locals, simply because our current address now adheres to a New York City zip code. And we have neither the years nor the accent to successfully pretend that we are so. Yet adamantly, we refuse association with the tourists. “Tourists”! Ugh. They carry some kind of disease and spread it with their ignorant questions and point-and-shoot cameras. The nerve…

But I must temper my disdain. I regretfully admit that I have more in common with “tourist” than I do “local”. And to the locals, perhaps the transplants, ironically, proliferate a far more potent disease…

Some of us now live here indefinitely. Not definite, like the locals do. They can say fifty years and round it up to forever. And to live here forever is indeed definite. Transplants seem to operate within a fluctuating range, and the uncertainty with a timetable constantly in-flux may be a bit unnerving for many whose lives remain bound by the five boroughs. Who do not have a choice, but to commit to being here. And so, it is like we send alarm across communities, warning that we are as sly and dangerous as a swinging, non-committal partner.

“When will they up and leave…” I hear the Bushwick breeze whisper.

Some of us morph into the mainstays that form the fabric of New York society. The struggling artist. The suit. The small-business shopper. The small-business owner. Dogwalkers. Whatever. We can adjust. And we’ll do it well. Because we’re determined to appear as locals, us transplants. To veer as far away from the tourists as we can, and as close to the homegrown New Yorker as comfortably possible. And we can deal with the attitude. Maybe.

At first, I told myself, “Whatever it takes.” In a hushed whisper of my own, of course.

Is it really worth it, the effort to secure my spot at the “table” here, when I’m destined to be out of touch with the unspoken rules and remain out of place, anyway? Why achieve much when all I really want is to fit in. Quietly and humbly. Submissively even, out of service, to my new community. To the city of which I am now a part, yet not in full. A single cell within the living, breathing organism that is New York. And like cells, we will simply regenerate. There will always be more of us. More of the same. Same dreams, same goals, same roles to take and play.

Just play along, I say. Know your part, but play it in full. And keep smiling, no matter how awkward or impish or smug the smile might truly be. They won’t know the difference, but it’s the least we can do. They should know that we are not really from here, and at the end of the day, the city is still theirs to keep.

everyone's taken everything

2008-09-24T12:31:00.007-04:00

A recent conversation with a fellow Teaching Assistant at the photo school went something like this:

me: Have you gone around the city yet and take pictures?
her: I haven't really...Everyone takes pictures of New York. There isn't any picture that someone hasn't already done here.
me: Yes. You're right. I should go home.

Perhaps what I said at the end is merely a rough translation, but it's my story.

I did feel that way, though, even if I didn't verbally confess so. I must have responded with an equally awkward response, as I tend to, around other photographers. To even refer to them as "other photographers" implies that I too, am a photographer. And throughout my whole stay here, that title, still, does not sit well with me.

I have thought of a numerous combination of words that could serve as an introduction instead. Freelance photographer. Not quite. Freelance photojournalist. Not yet. Aspiring photojournalist. Accurate. Artist....maybe. "Transplant"....that's for another blog.

Anyway, I've digressed somewhat. The discomfort in owning up to such an artistic title is essentially part of a larger insecurity about engaging in artistic things in a city that's been subjected to all sorts of art, over and over, and over. Everything here has already been done. Every picture of every statue, building, storefront, taxi, subway, person selling stuff, person on the street, persons walking...it's all already been taken.

One of the other T.A.'s eagerly contributed to our conversation, deciding to describe his own work by suggesting it was nonetheless the artist's prerogative to capture pictures of popular subjects, so long as he or she was committed to creating something beautiful.

Except he said so, in not so many words, and not as graceful a manner. But it's my story, and I'm being gracious.

Somehow, I found encouragement from the brash T.A., as if he had broken through some engagement unceremoniously, and yet his entrance somehow infused life to the party. True enough, he had something poignant to say.

In the end, I left with a good word, to simply do what I do, well. Not to mind much how often it's been done. Just learn how to do it differently. To keep in mind that my eyes look at the same things but with different settings, adjusted and manipulated by my convictions, by a heart that is equally as unique as my set of tools to see.

In the next few months I will begin sifting through the stories I witness in New York City, and zero in on the ones I will choose to tell. I may not be the first, nor the best, but I intend on doing it with a new frame and voice. Below are the beginnings of a move towards something fresh. They are not "fresh". But somehow I am convinced that I am beginning to see differently. Whatever readership I've gained from this blog will likely see my work at its rawest form, and hear my processing of such, uncut. My gift for you, more than the work itself, is my honesty. The vulnerability I choose to practice is not at all natural, but I deem, necessary.

the city

2008-08-24T01:24:00.003-04:00

I felt it was about time. Considering that on the Friday night I took these shots, none of my plans unfolded as I had anticipated, it was a good night to embrace my solitude, as well as embrace the city that oddly enough, was keeping me company.

Strange to think that a city that seems determined to remind me of my own smallness, to reiterate how alone I will ultimately feel in such a densely populated place, to reassure me that I will remain a transient within my own dwelling...can still charm its way into my welcoming arms.

And so I take it all in, as it does me. The way "lonely hearts", I hear, do for one another. The way a lock and key fits, fittingly. Or perhaps like...photosynthesis. Yes. I don't fully understand it, but I know there's some symbiotic process going on, nature's way of teaching us interdependence...

So there I was, bent prostrate before the city...or did it lay prostrate before me? Whatever the case may have been, perhaps we were at each other's mercy. At my worst, I fold and surrender myself before the city's immensity, its emanating power. At my best, it yields to my determination, at my refusal to cooperate and to simply submit. That on a any given day, it is I that is large. No skyscrapers stand in my path. No bright lights blind me. Taxi cabs and cart pushers pause in awe of my defiance to let them pass. It is I who will pass. Regardless of what signal the walking person shows. I will go.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Upon recognition that I need this city, and with confidence, that somehow, it needs me, an unspoken harmony ensues. We are bound together in some balanced state of coercive submission and symbiotic bliss.

In spite of its grandeur, from a distance and in the dark, the city's beauty becomes soft and subdued. Humbled, even. A moment wherein it concedes a little that perhaps, it is not as overbearing as it lets on. That at times, its defenses are drawn up to protect this secret vulnerability. That there is gentleness and peace, and quiet, within its walls (or buildings). In this moment I too make a concession. That in the short moment that I've managed to shrink its size before me, it remains, indeed, beautiful. That from afar, I can see clearly how it still charms its way back into my arms, as if to remind me that, as though a lover, no matter what it dishes out, I desire her still. Sincerely. And I do.

Chrysler Building, in the middle

Empire State Building, on the far right

the view from Williamsburg, in Brooklyn

apartment

2008-08-22T00:53:00.006-04:00

Trying to apply some simple techniques to give a bit of perspective on an otherwise not-so-interesting subject matter - my apartment. Particularly at the moment, considering how bare it is. So, I'll spare you the bareness in this set.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

'models': Mark and myself
camera: Nikon D60

decisions

"peanut butter, again?"

"there's gotta be another choice"

choices

"OK, mustard on wheat bread it is"

fridge

essentials

flush

grooming

more decisions

life in luggage

move

2008-08-08T00:26:00.002-04:00

To live in New York City is to keep on moving. There hasn't been a day since I've switched to this coast wherein I haven't trekked my way from one subway stop to the next, in some sort of trance-like state of transit, when everyone is brainwashed into being on time. Inevitably, this has been a struggle for me, as my 'moseying down the road' mantra remains firmly embedded into my body's clock. So the jumping from station to station routine literally shakes the sweat out of me. Beads of salty sweat perch upon my brow, clinging on for their dear lives as if to refuse surrender against my enemy here - humidity.

Moving is survival. I do not question that it may very well be THE necessary mode setting for the New York City local. Hence, my facade is worn thin by the frenetic pace, and the California in me is unearthed as the hours wind down. Without that glow of sunshine though, because by dusk, I am simply tired. I drug myself with iced coffees to stay afloat in the whirlwind of commotion (and in a way, locomotion) that this City never fails to deliver.

And yet, in the midst of all the motion, there have been those pockets of peace. Those times when I manage to remember that I really need not power-walk past everyone, and I look up. The snapshot of a face, for once. Check. Ah yes, what do you know, the Empire State Building is before me. Duly noted. The quick breeze that carries away sweat beads to safety. Grand.

I have to try harder, here, it seems. Peace feels just as fleeting as time. But I'm not alone. Maybe no one says anything, but it is naive to assume that the person to my left or right has no means of tapping into the tranquil things of life the city brings. It IS possible here. It better be.

Below are a few shots I had taken in my first week here in NYC, as an actual resident, that is. In spite of all the things that sap my energy away, the following had given me some of my life back. Bought me some time, to stop for a while, and let my senses take over the reins a bit.

It is perfectly fine for me to keep moving. As long as I'm moving towards joy and peace, joy and peace, joy and peace...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Anti-war Rally in Midtown
Manhattan, NY

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Capoeira at Union Square
Manhattan, NY

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stop 125
Washington Heights, NY

coffee

2008-07-13T01:28:00.000-04:00

I had thought about experimenting with some sort of fictional story beginning with a person having his/her coffee. I know what you might be thinking. It is an incredibly vague premise, lacking depth or direction. Well, since I choose to be honest in this blog, the truth is, I really was indeed playing with a rather underdeveloped idea. To the writers out there, this may not sound like a terrible start. Unoriginal most likely, but salvageable, perhaps. Makes for an opening sequence for the beginning of a film, at least, doesn't it? Black and white, with smoky lighting if it's noir, throw in a donut or two and you might have your cop film, with one detective rushing through the morning paper, waiting for his partner to finish "breakfast". It is typical, but it is a start.

But I need not worry about replicating some over-used film sequence. Neither would serve as the premise of my story. I just wasn't too sure what it was going to be. All I had was a few beginning "scenes". Just some still images in my head, really. Took a chance to snap some shots since my friend, Charity, was kind enough to volunteer her time, as we caught up over some coffee...

In retrospect, often times, it's not so much about the coffee. Don't get me wrong, a mere whiff of some freshly ground beans already starts my day right, then the lingering aroma of a freshly boiled pot of joe puts me in good spirits, bright and early. While I will proudly defend java's honor in the midst of those who desecrate its true value (you know, the casual coffee drinker types, a frapp here, a latte there...my apologies), fact is, the act of "having coffee" is incredibly loaded with meanings that delve beyond the luring addictiveness of its caffeine-induced flavor. it means quality time with friends and loved ones, it means "Let's go out but spend little", it means "I would like to get to know you", it means happy hour hasn't arrived yet...?

Clearly, it means a lot of things. Essentially though, at its root, at its core, at its most boiled down, I think they really translate to "more time". To kill, to spend, to waste, to wait. The coffee could be terrible, and yet it still can successfully fulfill its societal purpose.

The following is a documentation, not about coffee, but something else. It is a story I didn't know I would tell. A story that you choose to see. A thing that fills the blanks. A thing that reminds you that it really isn't about the coffee. That it's about what passes in between the first and second cup, or third...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(sequence shot with Nikon D60 and 18-55mm lens, by Miguel de la Fuente
model: Charity Bernardes)

cup in hand

dusk

warmth

inside

still

graff continued...

2008-07-07T16:13:00.001-04:00

Here is a second set of graffiti-centered shots (which I actually took prior to the Melrose set) by Haight St. in San Francisco. This time, I actually used an older Nikon Digital Coolpix model (can't remember the actual model number), which is at least 5 years old. Anyway, a bit of post-prod work and I managed to restore some of the vibrant color that popped out at my initial glance upon the art-laden walls. Yet while I was hoping to accurately capture the smörgåsbord of color plastered on the concrete 'canvas', to my surprise, editing the pictures so as to create a monochromatic effect worked wonders as well. The black and white contrast that muted the vast array of hues that normally take center-stage, I feel, for graffiti shots, made for an interesting backdrop to my subjects anyway. (By the way, much thanks to my brother, Mark, and Josh for being patient with me that day and letting me snap away...shots that is, not at them...)

free exhibition

an urban canvas

hip-hop mark

my bro in mid-story

business

graffiti

2008-07-03T19:32:00.002-04:00

Prior to my purchase of a Nikon D60, I had labored with the old-school Nikon SLRs of my father's day. I say "labored", not to mean disrespect, but rather, to draw attention to the precision and skill necessary for serious photography, pre-digital era. That, and the fact that these cameras are HEAVY (durable, but still). It goes without saying how the photographers of old (again, no disrespect) had to truly master their craft, having far less "perks" and user-friendly features we in these digital days are spoiled by. Yes, spoiled. I'm not complaining. Merely stating that we have it good. In fact, my favorite feature right now on cameras is still the delete button. THEY did not have that luxury. How their pictures would turn out was a surprise. As was the case, with this shoot...(and then, I turned to basic photo-editing software so I can live with the finish product)

The following set was taken with my old 35mm Nikkormat (Nikon) SLR. The shoot took place in an alleyway behind Melrose Ave., in Los Angeles. It must be noted that by no means, am I a "graffiti" or "bombing" afficionado, nor do I necessarily support its illegal proliferation on wall upon wall of private property. BUT, I do enjoy art, and this is art. AND, it is free for our viewing. And I definitely enjoy free. Plus, I love hip-hop, and I respect all of its elements, with graffiti being one of the four, for those of you who may not know. It helps that I shot this set with film, creating a warm, older quality for the images that really does feel a bit reminiscent of the "back in the day". And so, a little ode to free art, to hip-hop, to old school photography, and to the streets...

my friend Josh, serving as my model for the day. thanks bud.

kickin' it

bring the boombox back

skull door

by the bunny

what's good

beginnings

2008-07-03T15:44:00.000-04:00

Over the past year, I have had plenty opportunities to rehearse and deliver the line I would recite, in response to the logical question most folks would ask a recent graduate without hesitation (or even sincere interest, for that matter):

"What are you going to do now?"

The question will then undergo a series of transmutations, from "going to do" to "have been doing" to "did you do (anything?)" and others of the sort.

Buckling down on the proper reply has been a process of trial-and-error. Some responses I have given have quite simply made me out to be seemingly purposeless, lazy, indifferent even...while others have taken a much more optimistic tone, the kind that begins with "I dream to be..." or "I hope to make change by..."

Frankly, it is only now that I have fairly comfortably settled into my knee-jerk answer to the countless questions my family and peers have been quick to ask.

"I want to be a photojournalist." replies Miguel, most...ardently.

I have observed that my answer often draws a sigh of "oohs" and "ahhs" from my audience, a majority of whom have never really been exposed to my work, or were even aware, for that matter, of my love for photography, let alone, that I knew how to hold a camera and might even adequately explain what "aperture" meant (though I have yet to REALLY understand the whole "depth of field" concept, but that is neither here nor there).

Truth is, I believe the desire to freeze time and frame a story has always been my dream "ability", more than seeing through walls, superhuman strength, or flying. Thankfully, reality often whispered to me that this ability was quite achievable, with a little help from a camera and some film (and now, some advanced digital technology that puts images in pixelated form...neat).

And then somewhere along the way, POETRY began to dance with my pad and pen, and the rhythmic narrative spilled onto the page...messy, but honest. I realized that words could move fluidly as water, and the images that seeped into the page could be as vivid and as vibrant as the pictures birthed from stills.

Soon enough it dawned upon me that the power of story was built on multiple fronts, with film as foundation on one end, and words as anchors at another. And if this were true, I hoped a blessed partnership indeed began for me, between the written word and the captured image...

The more accurate response I should be giving is:
"I want to be a storyteller" said Miguel, most sincerely.

And so, it feels fitting to begin with this...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"change?"

I Dream Revolutionary
words: Miguel de la Fuente
image: Miguel de la Fuente

Must one become a fist-raising gun-totter or peace-making rhymesayer…
Or recycling hemp-wearing earth-tone matching tree-hugger
Or writer slash poet slash activist not actor?

I speak to US who check-off this list of identities
In order to resist and persist and press on with the revoluTION

I speak to US who punch the sky and lift those picket signs high
And sing change the world chants till the notes tire and die
And to US who boycott stores and wear sweat-shop free drawers
And stay indoors cuz consumerism stinks and it bores
And we stop with the shopping till you drop galore
And to US who go door-to-door to get folks to sign up against war
And propose another plan of action that peace be restored
And to US who proudly shroud ourselves in the culture of our kin
And find the strength within as we stroke the color of our skin

To US, I say to keep on BEING revolutionary

But a quandary came upon me
What if revolution just evolves into the image of it we see
And the Devil’s resolution is to give us the illusion
That “free” cannot really be…

What if my eyes fall fast sleep
And it is my soul that stirs awake
And my spirit embarks on a tour of reality
In tune and in touch with life in its entirety

When my bohemian-style chic means nothing to kids without clothes
When my slick spoken word speak meets silence and oppression imposed
When my life to live simply is still a luxury I chose

And so jaded I become at the powers that be
At the authority with which it drives humanity to insanity
Before gravity pulls me back down to the hell that is earth
I keep my eyes closed and pray for my spirit’s rebirth
And with no verses left to say
God, for what it’s worth…

I want to DREAM “revolutionary”!

I dream that closed fists can open
And anger be relinquished to the Most High
That fingers long buried in palms can point up to the sky
And realize that submission ain’t so bad when God Himself can cry
I dream that when we weep it can sweep nations off its feet
And make them look at the new world as it shook
And listen to the small voices whose voices they quelled yell FREEDOM!!!
From the ghettoes to the streets to the cells

I dream that hopeless folks locked up in the yoke of poverty
Get liberated and labeled from now on “God’s property”
And when the break of dawn yawns those pawns become kings
When the secret of the kingdom will give them thrones and give them wings
And we whisper in their ears not to fret for hope is here
And so I dream today
That the poor will not fear

I dream that the case closes on those
Who misplace grace with the lies they chose
And their racism replaces friends now with foes
Instead I envision a cross-cultural prose
A dialogue between US and YOU teach me how love ebbs and flows
And YOU make ME a disciple and send me to ends where I’ll go

I dream that when the blows of our enemies
Who reap what injustice sows
Leave us bleeding and reeling and wounds gush and tears show
We make our last stand first by kneeling…

I dream that the act of activism
Fused together any schism
Between you and you and me
And that our union reflects the love within the Holy prism
And sets free the hate that binds and imprisons
But rather intertwines all our being in one purpose and vision

I dream that love surpasses seasons
That love bypasses reason
That love is the brush that covers the canvas of our treason
That love hovers over seas and oceans of our despair
That love repairs the brokenness of our human condition
That love makes us stop staring…
And CARE.

And so I declare…
A love movement shared…
Is MY dream…revolution