I was back at the shelter serving dinner today and asked about Charlene. She was not in the dining room so I asked Carmela where she was. Carmela told me that she is now in another shelter where she has her own private room. She did not know exactly where the shelter is in the City. I made a mental note to ask one of the Sisters about this when I go there next week to show them this project.
I spoke to Ruth briefly while she was leaving to go to her room. She was smiling and told me she is doing well. I did not ask her how her volunteering is going at Metro Baptist Church, across the street from the shelter – another mental note.
And Dorca came over to me to say hello. She look good and was as talkative as always. I told her that a friend of mine really liked her self-portrait drawing in the gallery. I told her that my friend told me to tell her to continue drawing. Dorca like the comment and said she will think about it. We made a point to speak to each other in the next few weeks. She wants to write more about herself and her life.
We served around 38 women on this very cold and bitter night. Barbara, a volunteer there on this night said that it might be the weather which kept more of the women from coming out for dinner.
The shelter served chicken breast, mashed potatoes, vegetables and pudding for dessert.
Every morning for nintey minutes, the mens’ class practice Ballet techniques under different instructors. The same perspiring funk lingers in the studio as it does everywhere else in the school. The floor is quite bubbly from time and falls of ballet.
Eric has been in the ballet for twelve years. It shows in his poise and aura. It is cliche to say ballet dancers are like swans. Ballet dancers are fluid performers. Eric is an inspiring professional ballet dancer. He was chosen to be the Prince in Cast A of the Nutcracker performance.
A freelance instructor, Alexandre is a often at the Joffrey Ballet School. He is a walking accomplishment of a ballet career, his elocution and instruction encourages the students to be prepared for the “real world.”
The most energetic, he gives extra umph to his spinning and jumps. Here he is performing a simple ballet technique, sickling ( pointing) your foot away, and returning your foot sidways against the other.
“A product of the Bejing Academy of Fine Arts,” he says without hesitation. “My mom made me dance and do ballet as a child because nothing else interested her, I had no say.” Then he smiles and says ” Now I love the ballet, I hated it as a child, but famous actors and dancers come from Beijing. Someday, I will too.”
It was a strenous effort to photograph the dancers, their legs would occupy several square feet of space around them, the several square feet of space I needed to photograph them more efficiently. I was too close to Eric, and his foot, which I prefer to be the whole top right corner, is a way of saying ” you’re not welcome yet, but keep knocking.”
Precision with hips idle and legs moving independent from the body, ballet is succinct with physical prose.
Alan and Eric have their time in the air. With regular instructor Cammy, students were told to propel in the air and perform double heel clicks. Some with ease, others fell and stumbled and laughed it off.
After photographing this class, I tried my own windmill.
There were times when students would practice unsatisfied techniques during the five minute intermission. Most of them stretched out their limbs, Stephen decided to spin.
Extending one leg then stopping to spin three times seems as rigorous as it looks.
Two weeks from the Nutcracker Performance, the womens’ class joined the mens’ class in morning exercises. Women performed their precision with minimal effort while the men seemed to strain on several exercises.
Eric, a cavalier in both plays in Casts A and B, whil Stephen ( red overcoat) plays the prince in Cast A and the second cavalier in Cast B. Cory, (far left), is one of the menacing cats in Cast A, then the prince in Cast B.
Eric, the cavalier, with sugar plum fairy, Caroline.
Stephen , as the Prince, kisses Clara,the heroine and owner of the Nutcracker doll, with Alexandre, ( Clara’s godfather, a magician)
George, the artist director of the Joffrey Ballet School ( Center), sits with Stephen discussing subtleties and performance.
Abraheme Hassan
Studio 1
Tchaikovsky, Victorian, leotards, bulges, glutes, pink slippers, poise, and power. My initial thoughts of the ballet could be anonymous with anyone else – superficial. My time at the Joffrey Ballet School is insufficient; I’ve only scratched the surface. However, my preconditions have advanced and matured dramatically.
I grew up frolicking to Michael Jackson and MTV tunes, sparred with my older brothers in martial arts and wrestling bouts, and played every sport I could get my hands on. The performing arts (if you consider wrestling or martial arts – performing arts) were and are a significant part of my life. Ballet was the void and stagnant part of my curiosity. Ask any boy about the ballet, ‘ballet is for girls and sissies!” said my seven year-old cousin. “Sissies” in my neck of the woods were not respected nor harmed. Men who dance professionally other than hip-hop were like steel bubbles, floating in grace but with a macho exterior.
My curiosity of the ballet was reignited once again by the film “Billy Elliot,” a boy in a Northern England coal-mining town finds his true calling in ballet, a stark contrast to the his father and brother’s lifestyle. This project is my first glimpse of the ballet. Specifically, male ballet dancers, who testosteronal grace repulses many but intrigues and captivates me. Syncopated in classical composure is a delight you can enjoy and experience other than the clashing in sports. Continue reading “Studio 1- Ballet”
Thoughts had during the pictures (aka field notes):
The speed reading was terrifying. Every so often they would take a loud, deep gasp. So many words uttered in one breath and one gasp only to utter so many more. Their chests shuddered and fingers shook. Nerves were at the front of every debate but they were veiled by a confident composure. The debaters are impersonal. A connection, if any is distant and professional as it should be. I like the subtlety. Connections are made in the community not during the actual debate but in the process before or celebration after. It’s a community built on competing against one another; on rising above the ranks. Still at the end of every battle comes the handshake. “Thank you for the debate.” Although still impersonal the shake is strong and reminiscent of the trial.
I went back to McFadden’s today for another game, hoping to find more people since the Buffalo Bills had won last week. As I was walking over, however, shivering and finding refuge under my small umbrella, the thought crossed my mind that perhaps this week, the bar wouldn’t be so crowded once again. And, unfortunately, I was right. There were even less people than last week, due to a combination of the team’s record, the weather and the holiday weekend.
As soon as I walked in, however, I was happy to notice that many of the people present were fans I had met last week, and they were all standing or sitting in the same areas. I started to take pictures, quickly noting that this game was not going very well – there were a lot more angry and frustrated cries and outbursts than last week. I got access to the area behind the bar, which provided me with a great new angle, and I got a few pictures of the very expressive, sole fan of the opposite team. She happened to be sitting next to a particularly emotional and angry Bills fan, which made for some great entertainment and photos.
The latter girl, who kept yelling at the television screen and giving it the finger, is referred to as “the girl who yells at Matt” (Matt being the bartender). Her defense, Pete told me, was “But you don’t understand. I grew up in Buffalo.”
When I reached the corner of 42nd Street and 2nd Avenue, I grew extremely excited at the sight of the dark green awning under which a 6’3″, 300 pound black man was standing, chatting with a small group. Frankie, the bouncer, was the first person I talked to, and from the very beginning was nice and apparently made up his mind that he would be helping me (he later invited me to stand on seats to get a better view, and told me about the crowds the bar usually serves – sometimes there are so many people that he’s forced to send them next door).
Once Frankie let me in, I walked through the door and met Pete, the owner who welcomed me and walked me through the bar. Some fans had already assembled along the bar, wearing their jerseys and seemingly in good spirits at the prospect of a game that might treat them better than the last had. The smell of Buffalo chicken wings drifted up to my nostrils, but it was nothing compared to the intensity of the smell that came later, once the place had filled up and everyone was enjoying what they had paid for. On a game Sunday, customers can pay $15 for unlimited chicken wings and soda, or $20 for all you can eat and all the beer you can drink. “They’re the best in the world,” said one fan. “It’s all about the sauce.” Then he ran off to eat his two plates of wings without giving me the time to ask his name.
The first people I talked to were Steve and Jon, who met at Mcfadden’s through “being fans.” They said they are usually part of a group of about five people, but the Bills lost a game on Monday, their fifth loss in a row, so the morale was very low. The bar was usually packed, they said, and today was nothing.
Sitting a few feet away were Rebecca and Jocelyn. Rebecca was told about the place about two years and has been coming since, and she’s the one who invited Jocelyn, who was wearing a white shirt and pajama pants. They were nice enough to hold my coat and bag so I didn’t have to struggle with them.
Everyone agreed that this was not the best game to witness, due to Monday’s loss. But Tim stayed positive: “If we’re not gonna win, at least I’ll get drunk.” How long would that take? “At this rate, not long at all,” he laughed. He attibuted the relatively low attendance to the fact that most people were probably disheartened or away for the holidays.
Todd Rethemeier, who was standing nearby, saw my camera and said “if you wait, in just a couple of yards we’ll score and go nuts.” I waited amongst them, feeling the tension build up, crash when the team didn’t quite make it, and then explode when they did. Everyone jumped up, yelled, chanted the place’s own call and response song, hugged, danced, high-fived, and threw napkins in the air.
“If you want the sports fans, well you got us. We’re here,” said and excited Jill Kerschensteiner, who had gathered a stack of napkins to throw in the air when they scored.
In the seating area behind the bar, through which waitresses carried pitchers of beer to the tables, Alex Valentine and Rachel Schaeffer were enjoying chicken wings, mozarella sticks and beer. Alex has been coming to Mcfadden’s for three years, and this was the third time Rachel joined her, for a photography project she was doing.
Sitting at the next table, trying to listen to what I was doing, was Kenny. He was there with Kim, and he has been coming to Mcffaden’s ever since it first opened. “My brother lives nearby and when the place opened, one of his friends was here and called him to come over. Been here ever since.” He says the reason he comes to about 14 out of 16 games every year is the atmosphere – “it’s the only place that plays the Bills game.” Kim, on the other hand, seemed to be more of a fan of the chicken wings. When I asked her how they were, all she could muster, her mouth full, was a nod of approval and a thumbs up.
I came back around to the bar area, where people posed for pictures thinking I was the usual photographer’s replacement. I indulged them before meeting Hope and Tommy, who were in charge of the money, and then Dave Godvin, who comes here twice a year from Florida. He’s been a Bills fan since 1961, and is originally from Buffalo.
Over the sound of “Sweet Home Alabama” and dozens of voices joining in, I then spoke to Earnest Wallace, Barry Walbrop and Ben Irvin. Ben and Barry have been coming for years, Ben being the first, and Earnest was only at his second time. “I’m being converted by these two,” he said with a smile. Will he come back? “Oh yeah!” he said enthusiastically before taking a gulp of beer.
Ben, who is also a Buffalo native, comes here because he calls it “a little piece of home.”
The newest residents of a traditionally Spanish neighborhood are embracing it with the same Latin gusto as their predecessors. Since the 1950s Spanish Harlem, or El Bario, has grown into a predominantly Puerto Rican community that has hosted other Spanish cultures originating from the Dominican Republic to South America. Over the past 15 years, Mexican immigrants have begun to occupy this area in much the same way that previous Latin cultures have, carving their traditions and culture into the neighborhood.
The physical geogrpahy of the area has become defined as situated roughly between 96th St. to 116th South to North, and extending from the East river to the Harlem River East to West. Boundaries of the community over the past decade have been chipped away at by gentrification even as the Mexican community continues to grow within it.
Their occupation of the neighborhood parallels that to other cultures that have inhabited various plots of the city during the great migrations of America’s industrial era. They have had to persevere through strikingly similar conditions that late 19th century settlers faced such as overcrowded housing, lack of rights, lower pay and arduous work days. Mexican immigrants are looking for greater opportunities for themselves and their families in much the same way that European and Asian settlers worked for in the early 20th century.
Their population has grown substantially throughout United States, particularly in New York, California, Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. Their working class role has become a vital support for the financial infrastructure of both large and small businesses, who continue to exploit their lack of American citizenship and rights.
My project will document and focus on the Mexican community occupying Spanish Harlem and how the neighborhood has changed as a result of their cultural influence. Restaurants, bodegas, interviewing residents and attending community gatherings will fuction as my initial, observational stepping stones, which will ultimately serve to illuminate how a new generation of spanish culture is redefining a neighborhood, city and country.
Already the Internet is a force to be reckoned with. Along with changing the way economy functions globally, it has also transformed human interaction. No more do humans have to be in the same general proximity to trade, communicate, and interact overall. This growing community is making an outstanding impact on the way we conduct our everyday life. I would like to tap into this element and photograph moments in which an Internet community breaks the bonds of cyberspace.
Interactions between these “familiar strangers” are quite unusual. There is a warmth, cocoon of understanding, and a strange comfort that radiates from this community when they finally do meet. I have been to several events in the past and each time has proved time and time again that people are no longer inhibited by their geography.
My goal is to attend a few internet/reality upcoming events. There will be an event on Halloween that will last approximately 24 hours in which Internet people will join and band together for a day of getting to know each other away from the computer screen.
Along with this event I hope to capture other moments. I first became interested in this not as a spectator but as a participant. The events have so much soul that it becomes impossible not to become a member. The community made me feel like I wasn’t just existing but I was truly living. Even so the community remains undercover, which is perhaps a part of its majestic quality but I would like to uncover some of the hidden beauty. There lies much that is veiled but such a splendid community is not meant to stay in the shadows and I would love to be part of exposing these untapped free activities that essentially bring people to life and bring life to people.
Sports fans exist in every country around the world, and, depending on their sport of choice, are seen in waves throughout the year. With the football season into gear and the Super Bowl approaching, more and more football fans will be spotted in the streets of New York, wearing their favorite player or team jersey, heading to a variety of sports bars that broadcast the game of the day.
From what I’ve heard over the years, many people, mostly men, crowd the bars on Sunday afternoons to have a few drinks, some snacks, and cheer on their team with a group of friends. Out of habit, many will return to the same place week after week, thus forming bonds and relationships with the other fans who flock to the giant screens and alcoholic beverages.
It is those people that I want to capture, that community of loyal and dedicated fans that I want to expose through pictures and words. By going to bars known for their high attendance on sports events, I hope to observe the fans, talk to them, and take their pictures.
I am hoping that the former two will help me to understand the passion and the dedication of those fans, as well as establish the rivalries and rituals that are involved in the games. I also expect to find multiple generations, sometimes father and son groups, who have been coming to the same places for months, if not years.
After getting some good pictures and information from sports bars around the city, I will try to go to an actual game, though perhaps not actually enter the stadium. But arriving before a sporting event and walking around the parking lot is sure to provide me with many images of tailgate parties, people who have camped out, barbecues, and, I assume, fans dressed or painted in the colors of their team. This will fit in nicely with the other part of my project, the bars, and I think my subjects will be more than happy to talk about their traditions and teams.
I got the idea for this community because I spend a great deal of time commuting. I’m also a fan of the performing and visual arts, so for years I found myself stopping to absorb and enjoy the virtually free entertainment provided by the various artists that descend the depths each day to make a living from their craft.
As I stand on-looking and finger-tapping, droves of my fellow straphangers buzz by indifferently, completely absorbed in their own minds. I wonder whether they can even hear my creative comrades — or if the sounds of the Spanish guitar, koto, pail drums, steel pans, or whatever other medium of sound — are muted out with the rest of the city din.
Recently, I noticed that many of these artists, who I had previously thought to be a heterogeneous group of traveling performers, are now donning a conformed banner, signifying an organization of some type, a community.
Thus, I went out to capture this underground community. Given the crowdedness of the NYC subways, it was difficult to snap these shots without a commuter ruining each one, so I went out on a quiet Sunday morning. These were my favorite shots…
Photo 1: Workspace
I came across this fellow strumming and plucking away at his Spanish guitar strings at the 59th street E train station. I was at first a bit nervous so I tried to snap a few quick shots without being noticed. Of course I inevitably was, but the guitarist smiled and nodded yes when I asked if I could take a few photos. I stood there for quite some time, waiting for a clear shot with no intruders. As I waited, another man approached our guitarist and spoke to him in Spanish. The man asked if he was from South America, and he said yes and that he was from Chile. They talked and laughed for a few minutes after that, then the man walked on.
I called this photo “Workspace” as sort of a play on words. For one, this was indeed the guitarist’s workspace, though one might not think of a subway platform as such. I also wanted to highlight the empty space this photo captures, mirroring the solitude this sort of profession affords.
Photo 2: Tools of the Trade
This gentleman was parked in the 42nd street underpass which connects the ACE trains to all the others. I called this one “Tools of the Trade” because I loved his improvised drums that create a beat all their own.
Photo 3: All in Day’s Work
I loved this photo. It captured the sweat on the breaker’s face and the money bucket. He truly works hard for the money. He also wanted to be photographed, so this was one of my easier to attain shots.
Photo 4: Direct Deposit
This was my favorite image. I had been trying to capture reflection photos for quite a while, only to be foiled by the glare of the flash. Here, I snapped a quick shot of the money bucket, and was not only able to capture the bright colors and signs of life in the otherwise dark and dreary subway, but was able to finally get a clear picture of reflection.
Photo 6: Brand Management
I spotted Professor Alvarez at the 42nd street station near the 123 trains. He was hunched over and smiling into his lap. His head nodded along with the dancing dolls before him. He had the familiar banner I had been seeing so much lately, and that inspired me to explore the underlying organization of the subway artist.
It is a blustery day, the wind whips at me, lashes out at me, pushes me as if to say ‘get out, you don’t belong here.’ The clouds hover ominously over the ocean. Gray and forbidding. Just like the people. Gray and forbidding. I want to leave, to turn back and run away and return on a different day. But instead I remain where I am. I take out my camera and begin to shoot.
It feels awkward at first; people don’t want an amateur photographer following them, taking their picture, invading their privacy. Or so I think. But I am wrong. Some smile their acquiescence, others shrug indifference. Many are willing to pose. And what of the rest? Well, they’ll never know. And so I begin to freeze individual moments in time.
A veteran’s vision The old man sits alone on the bench, seemingly lost in thought. I approach hesitantly; it doesn’t seem right to invade his privacy. The man is lonely, he wants to converse. He tells me that he is a 94 year old veteran who is now blind and partially deaf. He says that I may take any photo of him that I wish, and asks how he should pose. When I am finished he asks disappointed, “That’s it? No more pictures?” I assure him we’ll make a model of him yet.
The Walker’s ClubI passed this elderly group of women on the boardwalk and snuck a shot of them. I couldn’t help but wonder what brought these women together? Was it merely their infirmity? Or perhaps they were lifelong friends who had grown old together? I was reminded of an old Jewish saying by the celebrated Rabbi Akiva: “Don’t walk in front of me I may not follow, don’t want behind me, I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend.”
Army of One This woman walked right past me, but the look on her face made me stop. It was a look of determination. Her lips were pulled tightly together, her eyes set firmly ahead. Her very existence seemed to be a struggle. She appeared to be fighting the world. Her walk held in it a certain resolve as though she was saying, I made it this far, and I’ll continue going.
Uninvited Guest- I snuck my head in an open restaurant doorway, and quickly took a picture of diners in the midst of their meal. How thrilling it was- to just steal a moment.
The Present of the Past- There is something very nostalgic about this image. The boardwalk which spans from Brighton Beach to Coney Island is a relic of the past. In sepia, the image seems to be lifted out of a history book. It’s almost as though nothing has changed from a century ago.
First image: This image captures an Upper East Side toddler and his nanny. It is not rare that children in the wealthier communities are raised by their nannies. In this image you see a high-end modern stroller and a modestly dressed African American baby sitter. Even though it is just a babe, you can see the disparity of class between him and the nanny. The reason I captured this image “Out of site out of mind” is because while waiting for the light, the babysitter is lost in thoughts. Perhaps while taking care of this darling Upper East Sider she thinks of her own children and whether they are being taken care of while she is taking the baby of the affluent for a walk.
Second image: A darling Junior, born into the Upper East Side family is coming back from an expensive, private school. What I love about this image is that he is so young, yet he belongs to this upper class of people. The woman who happens to be captured in the background of this image is amazed by this lifestyle as she is looking around and is walking with astonishment. Meanwhile the junior and his mother walk confidently with a sense of belonging home.
Third image: This image portrays some of the luxuries that come along with living on the Upper East Side. Most of us take trains some try to catch taxies, however living on the Upper East Side doormen do most of the work for you to make your life as comfortable as possible. On this image a doorman found a taxi for a woman, unloaded her bags into the trunk and pampered her in every way he could in return for a couple of dollar tip. Many who belong to the community of the Upper East Side even have their own drivers waiting outside their homes. If you look on the left hand side there is an outsider observing with envy and vicariously living the life of the affluent.
Fourth image: The juxtaposition of a street vendor and a Bergdorf Goodman department store makes this image intriguing. What makes it even more unique is that a business man, who we would typically expect to find in a high end department store, was distracted from his upper class life by a street vendor. Just like some of us would venture to walk in to Berdorf Goodman to catch a glimpse of the Upper class life, he ventures in the opposite direction as he is looking through $5 silk pahminas who anyone can afford.
Fifth image: 5th Avenue has some of the most upscale stores in the world. This image captures a Louis Vuitton Store and a guy who just came out of it. He is dressed like those who live on the Upper East Side and he is holding a Louis Vuitton bag, which costs more than many of us make in a month. Moreover his attire alone costs more than some low middle class families make in a year. What strikes me the most is the red velvet and the red shirt he is wearing. The red velvet rope usually means that this is a VIP area reserved for some and restricted for average persons. Perhaps the attire he is wearing and the color of his shirt subconsciously signifies the same thing.
Last image: Upper East side is a perfect location to step out of your house and walk around in the Central Park getting away from all the hastles of the city. After a relaxing walk, one who lives there can cross the street and be back in the city that never sleeps.
Chinatown continues to be an epicenter for a variety of Asian and American cultural aspects. Much of the neighborhood’s physical changes undergone over the past decade reflect how the community has been able to accommodate new business and development while still retaining its historical heritage.
These photographs were taken close to Chinatown’s main street of Canal, which is always bustling with cars, people, noise and seafood. Vendors are most prominent in these areas as there is always a high volume of people, particularly tourists, on the streets.
I decided to document Chinatown because I felt that, in the process of exploring the mainstreet area, I would find emerging cultural patterns from the people and the neighborhood . Chinatown’s success seems to result from being able to preserve its cultural traditions and diversity over the past 100 years with moderate change, which contrasts greatly to Little Italy’s slow but continuous recession into the nearby Asian neighborhood.
Field Notes:
Photo One: I picked this man randomly out of the hundreds if not thousands of other vendors attmepting to make a living by canal street. I was intriqued more with the wandering expression in his face than what he was actually selling.
Photo Two: The colors and loudness of this building seemed to frame the Starbucks on its street level. There was a simultaneous co-existence of traditional and contemporary voices when I looked at it.
Photo Three: The color contrast of the Apple billboard to the rustic building is almost comical given the sheer size of the advertisement.
Photo Four: Walking by this Chase bank, I observed how both languages were very similar in proportion but differed greatly by the structure of their vocabulary.
Photo Five: The streets at this intersection were quite narrow when I took this picture. I also don’t think there there were any traffic lights. I thought that this sign post reflected an intriguing confluence of language and physical symmetry when I passed by.
Photo Six: I was done taking pictures for the day and was looking to grab a bit to eat when I noticed this food vendor. In addition to seeing the usual suspects on his ad hoc menu, I noticed he was also selling fried chicken gizzards on a charming wooden stick.
Entrance of Little Guyana: jewelry stores, salons, restaurants, delis are interchangeable West Indian, Guyanese and Indian products and services. A main difference between Jackson Heights and Richmond Hill is the cuisine and population. Guyanese food is less spicier than its counterpart and enjoys a less claustrophobic lifestyle. Otherwise, they both have a train track above their heads.
Near Forest Park which borders Richmond Hill on the north, Victorian houses embellish the neighborhood with history and architectural glamour. Shimmering in blue-green amongst the surrounding foliage, the circulating porch is a key feature of Victorian design.
Khalid, 19, Trinidadian and sophomore at BMCC. A few blocks away from Little Guyana on Liberty Ave towards the edge of Richmond Hill, radiates a stronger Hispanic presence. With all the hues and tones of the neighborhood store fronts riding on the sights and smells, Richmond Hill is as multifaceted as its colors and people. “I was born and raised here and I see nothing hostile about the neighborhood, people are friendly, no tension beween the Guyanese and Indians. The train and traffic is what keeps you up at night.”
Ramo, Guyanese, 38, owner of the Ramo Jewelry Store for one year and owner of a previous store also on Liberty Ave for a decade has his finger down on the neighborhood. He shares half of his store with a hair salon. “Most of my customers are Guyanese and Trinidadian, the Indians hardly come to my store,” Ramo said with emphatic i’s and r’s. “Indians don’t go to Guyanese jewelry stores because we don’t have the designs they like and karat count,” with his arms crossed and raised brows,” and they’re cheap too, they don’t pay ticket price for Guyanese merchandise, not even from their own. But otherwise this neighborhood is pretty safe despite the tension.” Business is part bargaining, part culture.
Kumar, 45, Indian, Owner of Liberty Curtains for the past seven years. Kumar owns a second Liberty Curtains on Hillside Ave. “Richmond Hill is to the Guyanese as Jackson Heights is to the Indians, if they don’t recognize each other; at least they have their own neighborhoods.” Joseph, 50, Amerigroup Health Insurance Agent married to a Guyanese woman from Richmond Hill. “I was born to live here, everyone’s peaceful in Little Guyana,” Joseph said Richmond Hill. Joseph is multicuralism personificed; he lived in Abu Dhabi for 25 years and was born in India to Chinese parents; fluent in Hindi, Arabic, English, and Cantonese.
Back in 1990 to 96′, my uncle and father owned the most productive supermarket in Richmond Hill on 118th street and Liberty Ave. My brothers and I would run throught the packed aisles of West Indian products, much like the cars weaving and swerving on congested Liberty Ave under the A train. I only knew Liberty Ave, or “Little Guyana” for the predominant presence of Guyanese and Trinidadian people.
One day a Guyanese and Indian cashier exchanged hostile accents in my father’s store. And I didn’t know why some Indians didn’t recognize Guyanese people of having Indian descent. So I asked a few locals around Richmond Hill to tell me their stories about the ongoing tension, if there is, between Guyanese and Indians.
After that I went to the historic section of Richmond Hill which was an Italian neighborhood in the 1900’s to 1960’s. Along 86th ave, there is a handful of Victorian Houses which survived the years and are being supported by local legislatures to preserve and officiate them as New York City Landmarks.
The day was overcast, sunlight peeked in and out of the clouds. Sort of chilly. I felt like a tourist taking these pictures. It felt strange. People stared at me, with questioning looks. What is she doing? They must have asked themselves. I tried to take each photo without letting the subjects know I was taking their photograph. Some knew though. I asked permission for some shots taken but others I pointed the camera and prayed I caught something interesting. Some people were welcoming and did not have a problem with being photograph by a stranger. Only one person asked “Are you going to put my picture on the Internet?” My answer was no then yes, when I remembered the website. He laughed then went on his way. I did not include his photo here. Overall it was an awkward, somewhat frighteningly weird experience. Maybe I felt this way because I went alone.
Tried to take a picture of the man’s face but he gave me a stern look to suggest disgust. Was headed either to or from the synagogue. Stark difference between him and the background but through it all he still blends in and maintains his individuality.
Behind Closed Doors
Wasn’t allowed to take any close up. Boy just turned 13 and had his bar mitzvah. He is now a man and allowed to wear the black band to bring him closer to God. Radiates from the curtain.
droW s’doG
No black band, boy is younger than 13. Reading his prayer from the bible. Not rocking back and forth. Allowed me to get closer to take his picture.
Kiss and Tell
About to leave the synagogue. Kissing the mezuzah. Look of devotion in his eyes and overall posture. Arch of the door parallels the arch of his garb.
Sleep Perchance to Dream
Rocking back and forth during prayer. Very melodious movement, sleep-like. Silent prayer. Like his placement between the corner of the wall. Fits him.
Watch Your Word
Fully concentrated in book. Didn’t notice me. Presumably headed toward synagogue. Walked quickly past. Stark contrast in colors between him and his background.
Detailed Note
The synagogue looked forboding and desolate. I was the only female in the room but bystanders would not have noticed me behind the wall. “Stay behind the wall,” he said to me. How can I take good pictures under such conditions? I thought. I had so many pictures in mind to take but here this would be impossible. I just have to do the best I can under such circumstances. There was only one time I felt more like an outsider than at this moment and it was when a Russian person looked disappointed when they realized I was Jewish. My father stood beside me the whole time (he is my backbone and muse in life). Without him the situation would have been so much more stressful. Taking the picture of the boy who just turned 13 was the most difficult. I tried many times just from behind the wall but it was near impossible. I strayed from the original contract, then. I cheated. When no one’s eyes were on me I crossed the wall and came close to a curtain. Click. There it is; the picture that is a testament of will, determination, and brute rebellion. I became so conscious of the wall that it became an entity that leeched energy from me. Picture after picture to no avail. I was dribbling into myself, the camera shaking from my uneasy disposition. I felt like Tantalus except instead of water that lay before me until I stretched out my lips it was the perfect moment to capture. The perfect picture was right before my eyes but I could not come closer to entangle it with camera technology. No sooner had I come close to the wall I heard “behind the wall.” I could not risk bringing more attention to myself so behind the wall I stood, clicking away in despair and disappointment. There was so much potential that couldn’t convert into a kinetic force because of my genetic limitations. At least I can offer a glimpse into the world. A challange may not always bear fruits but it always bears worth.
