A week ago I found myself sitting cross-legged on my couch sifting through the smooth matte finish of 30-some-odd photos. Some greeted me like a pair of sandals being dug out of the bowels of a closet on the first warm day, others I had no recollection of taking, dig as I might through my rumble-and-tumble, chaotic memory.
The film had been spent almost a year ago, one sticky summer day when I rode the staten island ferry to the secluded island and back again. As I contemplated photo after photo, the salty smell of the water came back to me, the relieving sea-breeze rustling my hair, the sensation of my fingers stroking the cool, brown leather of my camera’s (1950s Kodak Signet 40) case, the itch in my eyes for the next photo, the exhilaration of seeing patterns, juxtapositions, pictures everywhere.
My Pony camera is my best friend. It’s seen my accidental double exposures, my strange experiments with photographing subway stations that ended up with the strange, dark, green hue, my long walks on spring days with perfect lighting, my friends’ crazy poses.
Enjoy my long-past trip through Upper-New-York-Bay