Migrant Caravan Mexico 2021

Single woman with children, before rainfall at night, Chiapas Mexico
Refuge after hours in the rain, Huixtla, Chiapas
Resting in a small town recreational space after a long March in the rain.
Woman with her children, March during hard rain
Exhausted woman with children resting
Single mother and daughter after March in the rain
Elderly woman rests in the chaos
Densely packed crowd resting
Children get hosed down during extremely hot afternoon before resuming March
March resumes in the sun
Single mother and child
Children wait in line as local church prepares a donated meal
Waiting in line
Father with children
Children with their belongings
More rain approaches….Chiapas gets incredibly heavy downpours almost every day which thoroughly soak anything not completely secured in plastic.
Contemplating Chiapas
Dressed up for the day
Handicapped child completely overwhelmed by the intense afternoon heat is held upright by his father while being offered water by passing motorists.
Family resumes desperate March to the USA despite the child suffering with the heat and a physical handicap.
Afternoon portion of walk to America begins..

Kapporos 2021

Kapporos, 2021, Williamsburg and Crown Heights, Brooklyn, New York City

Shochet in Williamsburg, Brooklyn

Kapporos Bird and Prayer, Crown Heights, Brooklyn

Evening before the start of Yom Kippur in Crown Heights, Brooklyn
Shochet, Night, Kapporos on the eve of Yom Kippur, Crown Heights, Brooklyn. Birds are slaughtered by a certified practitioner who must abide by Kosher law in methodology as practiced during animal slaughter. Because of the volume of birds being killed, some locations do not adhere to established protocols. On this night in Crown Heights, I observed strict adherence with this particular Shochet. The Shochet must continually check his blade for sharpness and efficacy.

I’ve photographed Kapporos in Williamsburg three times, from 2018 until this year, 2021. Williamsburg has a very antiquated ambiance that I love to witness and photograph generally, and Kapporos is a time period that’s extremely provoking, despairing and captivating to photograph. Briefly, Kapporos is a ritual performed by a subset of ultra orthodox Jewish communities just before Yom Kippur. A special prayer is said, and a live chicken is waved over the head, in order to absorb the sins of the past year for the person reciting the prayer. Girls and women use female birds, and boys and men use male birds. The bird is then supposed to be slaughtered immediately, according to strict kosher law, and then processed for consumption and donated to charity.

Just before being handed to Shochet for slaughter.
Processing birds on the street in a tent in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Men wait in line to hand over birds to one of the Shochet’s assistants for slaughter.

In practice, many birds wind up in the garbage. The largest sites in Williamsburg do butcher and donate, but unfortunately in Crown Heights some sources claim that the birds are put straight into the garbage afterwards. Sunrise in Crown Heights the morning before Yom Kippur finds rescue crews opening giant green garbage bags behind the staging area where most slaughter took place the night before. They painstakingly search for living birds who are stuffed haphazardly into the plastic bags, birds not used during the ritual but who must be removed before sanitation comes and hauls the garbage away forever.

I had never seen the ritual in Crown Heights, but knew that it was a much bigger event there, and that it attracted visitors from all over the world, especially Israel. I went to Crown Heights late in the afternoon, in anticipation of a wildly active and vibrant neighborhood that was almost completely new to me. I didn’t know if my presence would be well tolerated because the event is extremely controversial and the presence of activists and their specific style of photographing and videoing would make it difficult for me to work independently, working to create natural images of the people and the event without my presence causing ripples of tension or anger. I wandered the neighborhood,eating pizza, talking with people, and feeling like I could understand why the neighborhood is so attractive to so many from around the world.

Pizzeria on Kingston Avenue in Crown Heights, Brooklyn
Kingston Ave, Crown Heights
Kingston Avenue, Crown Heights during Kapporos

It reminded me a bit of parts of Jerusalem. It was like a giant block party, including the area near President Street getting ready to accommodate the slaughter of thousands of birds, with all of the accompanying odors and sights and sounds. I want very much to be able to photograph as naturally and honestly as possible. This ritual is highly charged and controversial because of the birds and the immense suffering they endure. The innocence of the children involved as well as fair practices regarding photographing a community with care and justice can become nearly impossible because of the immense distrust that is a direct result of the Hasidic Jewish community being vilified in the media at times, and by the public in the relative privacy of person-to-person negative encounters over the years. Anti Semitism is commonplace and in evidence daily, resulting in physical attacks, verbal harassment and a general sense of exclusion.

Family on President Street during Kapporos in Crown Heights
Family just after performing Kapporos in Crown Heights

For me as a photographer it is still very important—despite accusations that the images may promote Anti Semitic commentary— that I include the images of the birds and the slaughter because it’s part of daily life. Although the slaughter is part of the ritual of Kapporos, the acts that cause death are performed millions of times each day all over the world in the worst, most unimaginable conditions. The birds themselves are engineered for consumption, a breed called the Cornish Cross that reaches slaughter weight at 6 weeks, an astonishingly short period. These birds are what feeds and powers the population of the United States and are universally consumed. Because this event takes place in the street and is public, accessible and highly visible, it is the first time most people have witnessed an animal dying during this process. My personal feelings have become separate from my drive to capture this complex and deeply rooted tradition. Most Jewish people have never heard of Kapporos, and most New Yorkers are unaware of the practice. It is an arcane and particular ritual, confined to a community of ultra orthodox people who must be carefully photographed in order to present the beautiful complexities that are visible on the street.

Williamsburg, Brooklyn
Williamsburg, Brooklyn
Williamsburg, Brooklyn

It would be unfair and totally inaccurate to present anything other than a wider perspective. I found the most beautiful and engaging people engaged in a horrific practice with little regard for the suffering of the birds who withstood intense heat, no food or water for days, and sometimes very haphazard and cruel treatment after slaughter. The families who participated did not have a window into the suffering for many reasons including the one we all have regarding animals we consume or otherwise use: the inability/refusal to perceive the sentience of animals, and the willingness to concede that even the smallest beings have the same rights as humanity expects for itself.

Child in Crown Heights, caring for bird before its slaughter. Many families tried hard to be gentle with the birds.

I found an incredibly engaging community and a sense of belonging and vitality that is just as important to photograph as the chaos of Kapporos and everything it entails for for every person who consumes animals or their products, including myself. During the night I spent photographing, I was asked if I wanted to do Kapporos. Young boys, around ten or eleven years old, startlingly mature and well-spoken, offered to help me with the prayer, hold the bird, make circles over my head, absolve me of sin for the coming year. I could feel a pull….and I almost wanted to say yes….if only there was no death involved. Although I have no regard for religious practices of any kind in my own life, I understood in those moments the intense feeling of belonging and warmth that people feel when they are doing something like Kapporos together. I felt tremendously conflicted on a personal level. My self-imposed role as a photographer trying to be as fair as possible in my representations means that I must photograph people in a way that not only represents objective reality, but also tries to capture how people feel about themselves, offering a faceted view as opposed to a monolithic judgement. I don’t feel judgements are my place. I found myself feeling disappointed that the people participating are not recognizing that the suffering and ill treatment of the birds can and should be acknowledged and rectified, and that the process of this particular observation of Kapporos methods represents a human failing. A deep flaw in an otherwise perfect gem that can be overlooked only at times when the light is just right.

Kapporos Bird, Williamsburg, Brooklyn

Traditional restaurant in Crown Heights, Brooklyn
Williamsburg, Brooklyn
Reading prayer in Williamsburg
Williamsburg, Brooklyn
Parent performing Kapporos ritual for child in Williamsburg, Brooklyn
In Crown Heights, the approach was different than what I have observed in Williamsburg. After the chicken has its throat cut, the Shochet pictured turns the bird upside down and squeezes a drop of blood onto a pile of sawdust directly in front of him. The person whose bird it was and who transferred his or her sins to that bird then takes a pinch of clean sawdust from the cup at left, and sprinkles it over the blood to cover it. This process is repeated thousands of times throughout the evening.
A drop of blood as proof, a sprinkle of sawdust completes.

Sensitive Content Control

Boulevard de Magenta, Paris, July 2021

I love the graphic nature of this image. I dislike categories, and so I’m not sure if this is street photography or documentary or reportage. I don’t think it matters. I just take pictures according to how I feel in the instant. I saw this guy and I was immediately fascinated, as were many other people walking towards Boulevard Barbés early one afternoon. The biggest risk involved with making this portrait was from observers on the street around me—the man in the picture was fortunately oblivious to my presence. I needed to be close, even with a 90mm lens, and so I waited until I felt that the people in the immediate area didn’t pose a significant threat. It took me three attempts before I was able to achieve the exact image I had in mind. I was so pleased to have succeeded…. It was a rush of adrenaline that was dizzying.

This image is one I made for myself, it’s not one for social media….I know that if I post it on Instagram, I will not do myself any favors with the platform. Censorship on social media is a serious problem, one that affects me directly as an artist and photographer. It creates psychological obstacles to overcome in the pursuit of true artistic expression, it encourages copycat behavior from other artists, and rewards sameness. The benefits of sharing images with great people are sometimes not enough to offset the negative impacts of censorship and the tremendous difficulty involved with getting work exposed in a fair manner. Artistic content is being categorized and the platform sanitized and that’s a shame.

Rue Vielle du Temple, Paris, July 2021

The image above was not satisfactory in the immediate moments after making the photograph. I had been chasing this woman down the street for twenty minutes, on a hot late afternoon in the Marais. It was a stunning day, a happy to be alive Saturday in Paris….this picture is a beauty and most would understand why I worked so hard to get it right. But is it more worthwhile and satisfying than the rough, bloody image above? I don’t know….maybe one could argue that I should not have photographed someone cutting on the street. But….that’s Boulevard Magenta near the Gare du Nord….hard, raw and dangerous sometimes. So I think it’s important to shoot pictures of everything, and stop caring about repercussions. Both images represent different parts of me as a person and photographer, and both have equal weight in my mind as an artist.

One picture that I did not make stays in my mind. I was walking along a quiet street in the 10th arrondissement in the early evening. I came to an out of the way bus stop, where three women were seated on a bench. The two women on the left were almost elderly, and characteristically French, conservatively dressed working class white women. Seated on the right was a black African woman, dressed in beautifully bright patterned, waxed traditional fabric from far away, with a matching turban, carefully wrapped around her head. She held a baby, aged approximately six months, an equally beautifully dressed baby girl. She was breast feeding, and the contrast between subjects was so extreme that I could hardly contain my desire to take a picture. The simple pale yellow background of an old French building behind the women was a perfect counterpoint, and the silence of the situation was serene and unforgettable. I knew, however, that this picture had to remain in my mind. Had I photographed the scene, I would have possibly traumatized the breast feeding woman, and she would have forever remembered the moment as a horrible exploitation. And I never want my endeavors as a photographer to be reduced to that kind of memory for someone else.

I’m learning to move past these moments, trying to forgive myself for not working out a way to take these photographs that may have unexpected consequences for the people in them. I’m still struggling at times with the moral questions involved with some of the images I make. Most days I don’t give it any thought at all, and shoot exactly what I please no matter the consequences to myself or those in the pictures. When I do need to devote some thought to the issue, it becomes very difficult to find my best path forward.

Climber, Montmartre, Paris, July 2021

La Fête des Jeunes Femmes….Pride In Paris 2021

Place de la République

Something about Covid and lost days due to excessive rules relating to lockdowns have created a kind of wild abandon. I’ve noticed this in young women especially, in New York City and in Paris. Paris is far more conservative in expression generally but much freer emotionally. More free, more natural, less constructed and far less grandiose and self centered in dress and self expression than what I see in New York City lately. There was a strange lack of diversity in the crowd this year….it was mainly young girls and women, but virtually no women over the age of 25 or 30, and few men of any age save for some young couples. I was surprised….I’m told that the celebration was very curtailed, no music or floats because of Covid fears. Which….is crazy considering that there were only a few masks, and everything and everyone was packed on the metro and outside. Many very young girls, reticent in front of the camera, not there to show off or to alert their parents to their presence at Pride…..

At the foot of the statue….République
Near Gare du Nord, Paris
Observers, Gare du Nord
Place de la République

Pride week is also observed quietly and for personal reasons….out of the spotlight. Intense and appreciative of freedom of expression, never to be taken for granted.

Cadet, Rue de Buci, Paris
Silent Celebration


Little Bit, 34th Street, March 2021
My first sight of Little Bit after weeks of searching.

I have never really given much thought as to how my images may be perceived by others, as I generally work completely from instinct and hope that I’m somehow reflecting the time accurately. I feel immense pleasure when I manage to get a few that do justice, but I have a lot of failures. What do I photograph and what do I leave out? All of it is important to depict scenes and complex, intricate lives with total transparency and urgency. But when telling stories sometimes you have to leave a lot out that matters. Why? And what to leave out? Is it ok to eliminate information or images that are just too hard to look at, too personal? Is the subject matter too polarizing? Will someone get upset, will the work be categorized as too difficult, thereby increasing the likelihood that fewer people will be exposed to the images and story? I find that there’s tremendous urgency in these images, because more people are finding themselves lost on the street, and many of them seem to be there because of an inability to be diagnosed or treated for mental illness and developmental disabilities.

How do I say that Little Bit gave up smoking K2 for nearly two joyous months only to completely relapse, that she now has a room in a managed living situation and doesn’t have to sleep on the street, but that her intense addiction is jeopardizing her placement? That her mental illness is intensifying and preventing family from even the most basic knowledge of her status and location? That the abscess on her leg may end her life and result in another amputation because she is terrified of the hospital? That when she does go to the hospital she is often left feeling degraded by condescending attitudes and dismissive, callous commentary by hospital staff about her lifestyle, staff that should understand the mental health complexities and resulting disabilities that incapacitate so many people living on the street? Do people really want to know about the episodes of copious, uncontrollable vomiting in public places that K2 ingestion causes? The horrible weight loss? The head lice, chronic and entrenched, whose activity on her scalp elicit horrifying hallucinations brought on by the combination of heroin, meth and K2? I’m debating even now as I write this….should I clean this up?

Should I say that we are all responsible for the mental health crisis in the United States and the travesty on our streets is because we don’t really want to know? We have completely discarded a segment of the population that is unable to exhibit basic self care, grappling blindly with disability that cripples insight and the execution of the most simple life plan.

Little Bit has a family that cares about her deeply, loves her and misses her. She does not have to be outdoors, or in a shelter. She is the victim of a society that does not truly understand the depth of despair that she suffers each day as a result of mental illness, or the desperation of families unable to secure basic services to help children and adolescents at risk. Early interventions that should be easily accessible to all people regardless of income are in fact nonexistent, or very nearly so.

34th Street between 6th and 7th Avenues.

I believe more people want to feel and understand these multi-layered stories and that the number of people who want more are vastly underestimated. That’s a problem, a really huge one, because we desperately need our media to reflect the reality of our times. It’s hard for photographers to be simultaneously politically correct, honest, unbiased and fearless if we have to worry about keeping things palatable and suited to a general audience, a vast miscalculation that undermines the viewer’s ability to gain a more complex, layered appreciation of life in the United States and elsewhere. A general audience that has a genuine desire for knowledge and wants very much to be allowed to make up their own minds about what they see and how to feel about what is presented.

I’m often completely immersed in the visual juxtapositions, elements of physicality in the images that bring meaningful clarity and irony or humor or dissonance together in some way. Whatever I’m thinking or seeing at the time. What’s right in front of me, immediate and compelling. I never think about how to sell or market my images, and that’s a problem. I don’t consider anything other than the mechanics involved with creating the images. Lately I find that I’m saving pictures, waiting longer periods before showing them, hanging on and retaining privacy in order to better understand what it is that I’m trying to say.

Images from Little Bit’s world.

34th Street and 7th Avenue
6th Avenue near 32nd Street
Hidden stairway near the downtown platform at 34th street where Little Bit sometimes hides from the city.
8th Avenue
Friend under the scaffolding on a rainy day.
Dollar Pizza on 31st Street
Looking for Little Bit near her hidden perch in the subway.
Little Bit, 34th Street, New York City, September 2020

I think that I’m able to photograph people because, for whatever reason, they are a version of themselves in the moment that is accepted gratefully, carefully and completely noted and preserved in a picture. Whether it’s a beautiful image or a rough one….it works for us both similarly I think. Particular people seem to bring about my best work because of the way they make me feel about myself as I’m working. Some of my worst pictures happened because I felt bad about myself in the circumstances I was in while attempting to make photographs. Huge fails that stay with me for absurdly long periods.

Piece of Little Bit’s collection, 34th Street

Who I am when I’m with the people I photograph stays with me and is hugely beneficial on days when I don’t like myself or I’m burdened with something I can’t change….or I don’t make a picture that’s everything it could have been.

What version of someone do I find when immersed in a long term essay or series? I don’t like describing my work in this somewhat detached manner, it’s so much more than a photo “project” and I never think in these terms, but I do find the unfortunate necessity to speak at times using these terms. It’s not really possible for me to identify my work or images in this manner, and describing my pictures as a project is not really satisfying or accurate.

Versions of Little Bit…..who she is and how she is being summarized when she is photographed is never the same twice.

The nature of the person I encounter has changed over the few years I’ve been photographing Little Bit. She is her best version sometimes and on the days when she is far from her best she is increasingly unknown, unseen and impossible to reach.

I think more and more about the people I’ve seen around 34th Street who were once solidly fixed to a spot, but who have since disappeared. Something will remind me of a face and I’ll have the memory briefly and then I move on, forgetting completely as I move down 34th Street looking for a picture.


Ginette, December 2019
November 2019…..Ginette in her apartment on Avenue A, in the East Village of New York City. Ginette has lived in the same apartment for forty-six years. The apartment exists in a state of suspended animation, as it has no modern fixtures and is typical of many rent controlled apartments in older walk-up buildings. Old pipes, dysfunctional heating, poorly maintained plumbing and rodent, cockroach and bedbug infestation characterizes the experience of day to day life in Ginette’s apartment. She has been collecting odd bits of other people’s lives from the streets and at times the garbage, filling her space, each bit of detritus meaningful and weighted by memory and association. I used to come upon her at night, with her little dog Vanille, as she carefully picked through neighborhood trash, gathering discarded food for Vanille, and cast off treasures for her apartment which has become a museum of her life.
One of my first pic of Ginette and Vanille on Avenue A, September 2017. Vanille died suddenly in early 2019.

December 2019….Severe pain sets an insurmountable hurdle, limiting Ginette’s ability to participate in life outside her apartment. Chronic pancreatitis, arthritis, lifelong hip deformity and degenerative spinal disorder have made free and natural movement impossible. On this morning, a film crew focusing on my work with Ginette was in the apartment, and she graciously allowed us to work to document her experience. Her plan to go make her way downstairs to sit on a bench outside her building to watch the parade of life in the East Village had to be postponed because she was unable to get on her feet.
November 2019

Morning brings bright light, a signal that it’s time to begin the arduous process of getting out of bed, and time to weigh the prospects of perhaps making her way down two steep flights of stairs to break into the daily stream of the neighborhood below her window.

December 2019….When Ginette was able to cook for herself she used a hot plate on top of her ancient refrigerator, always afraid of the potential the rudimentary plate had to overheat and start a fire. Frozen green beans and hotdogs will slowly warm up while Ginette sits in a little chair nearby. Ginette’s refrigerator is in very poor condition, full of mold and bugs, and barely able to preserve food. She has insisted on keeping it and has refused offers from her landlord to replace it.
December 2019…contemplating descent, moving slowly but purposefully to reach the stairwell. Once Ginette is dressed she is not easily deterred from reaching the street below. The memory of people and sound and the potential interactions she will have galvanize and energize her. Simple neighborly exchanges on the days she is able summon her body’s resolve to bull her way to the outside light up her face and animate her expression.
December 2019…..Ginette sits outside a cafe for dogs and people on the street below her apartment. The ability to do some shopping without help allows her to preserve her memories of independence and self sufficiency.
Ginette sparkles once outside her apartment, and greets every passerby with intense happiness.
December 2019

Ginette slowly makes her way down 12th street to a medical appointment a few blocks from her apartment. She has insisted on complete independence, refusing offers of help from passerby who are startled by the sight of her cane and bare feet on a frigid morning. She removed her shoes because she was having heart palpitations, and she thought that the rough shock of the frozen pavement beneath her feet would distract her from the discomfort of the palpitations.

Memories stored in an old address book. Everything touched in Ginette’s apartment seems pressed and softened by handling. Paper is worn and smoothed from being held many hundreds of times, kept in spots that haven’t been cleaned in many years. Pictures of Ginette at her seventieth birthday party, snaps taken as she rifled through the contents of a garbage can, pictures with dogs that accompanied her on her journeys throughout the East Village over the years but who passed away long ago.
Ginette at forty-nine years with Charlie in 1986.
November 2019….Ginette holds a picture of herself taken when she was in her late forties.
November 2020…. Big changes in the year 2020 as Ginette’s health has significantly deteriorated. After a summer spent in a nursing home, and intervention by Adult Protection Services, she clings to her life inside her apartment, desperate to avoid a court order that will remove her. After workmen partially destroyed her collection and personal possessions, she struggles to care for herself physically. Because of haphazardly done repairs to the ceiling in her apartment, an onslaught of bugs—cockroaches and bedbugs—infested her apartment after years of being held in check. Dust and ancient pieces of crumbled ceiling plaster, some of it pulverized into a fine particulate, covered almost everything in a filthy, powdered grime.
November 2020, a few days before her apartment was partially destroyed by workmen.
A workman stands in Ginette’s apartment, after painting over the area that was repaired.
Ginette sits after returning to her apartment after a day spent downstairs on a bench outside her building as she waited for workmen to replace a piece of the ceiling that was collapsing. Without proper protection for her living space, they left the apartment in an untenable state. Some items were missing and presumably discarded, others were destroyed during the repair. Pictures hung crookedly, papers were torn and deeply damaged by soot and dust and plaster as well as decades old detritus that had built up in the walls, detritus from rodents and bugs and years of neglect.
Television and phone were damaged and left on the floor. The apartment was left with no phone or cable service, the floor covered with pieces of the ceiling.
Devastated by the condition that workmen left her apartment in and without electricity, except for one working bulb left dangling from the ceiling.
In a state of disarray after returning home, Ginette is mute as she sits on the edge of her bed. To outside observers, her apartment has always been a mess, but in fact it had been very deliberately arranged in the manner of a finely tuned hoarder, each object bearing witness to an important moment in life, and held with patient reverence.
Delicate…..November 2020
Ginette and Leo….Leo has lived in the building in a tiny, dilapidated ground floor apartment for over thirty years. Ginette’s phone is a lifeline to Leo, who will come upstairs at any hour to assist her. It wasn’t always this way….they haven’t always been friends, moody and silent interludes lasting for years have pockmarked their friendship. Leo understands well the need to forgive and truly forget meaningless trivia, but Ginette sometimes gets mired in past misunderstanding and recollection, making it difficult for Leo to help her.
Leo helps Ginette lower herself into a chair he has placed in the sun for her to sit in just outside their building.
Helping hands assist after leaving an appointment. Ginette cancels most of her medical appointments because her lack of mobility and pain can be too much for her to face when the calendar says it’s time for her to get dressed and make preparations to visit the doctor. Once dressed and out of bed, small distractions can interrupt any resolve and momentum present and cause her to suddenly give up and forfeit another opportunity for medical care.
Leo physically supports Ginette as she rises from a seated position in the chair outside and readies herself for the climb back up the two steep flights of stairs to her bed.
Portrait of Leo in November 2020
Aging in the era of COVID-19 in general isolation and poverty has presented intense stress and despair.
September 2020….Ginette shortly after her return from a nursing home she had been involuntarily placed in for the duration of the summer. A social worker found her to be unable to care for herself and the temporary placement was ordered. She improved physically despite being upset by the upheaval, and once a little bit better, she was discharged and returned home. Finding herself without any follow up care or in-home support, and unable to perform basic, unassisted self care such as bathing, Ginette finds that her lack of mobility on her own presents serious obstacles obstructing independence.
Painkillers and alcohol sometimes mix to clear Ginette’s chronic pain, a deadly combination that force the few who care about her welfare to contemplate creative ways to hinder her, such as hiding the bottles or pouring the contents into the drain while she sleeps.
December 2020….Besides a rudimentary shower located in the living area, the only source of water in the apartment is an antiquated faucet and sink. Its slow trickle of tepid water is used for basic grooming and bathing, and dish washing and storage.
Ginette’s apartment is entirely unrenovated and is exactly as it was when she moved in over forty-six years ago. The rudimentary shower is located in the living area and is set two feet above the floor. The water flows weakly, and is lukewarm and erratic. Ginette manages to shower once a month because the effort required to climb up and into the stall is too great. She feels most at ease showering when someone is present and within earshot should she fall or otherwise become incapacitated.
After showering.

Ginette is a prolific writer and storyteller, and loves to read aloud her exploits as an adult and her feelings regarding her past life and childhood with an abusive parent. Her writing is characterized by her penchant for relating traumatic events with an irreverent and humorous irony, without euphemism or apology.

January 2021….Lost in memory one night after finding an old journal.
Determined to exit her apartment one temperate winter day, Ginette rises from the walker she uses as a chair to struggle into her jacket. She will make her way slowly to the door, picking her way through papers and objects and boxes placed haphazardly on the floor. She is full of laughter and anticipation on the days that she’s able to exit.

November 2020….Refusing help, precariously and stubbornly navigating the stairwell alone, and seeking the air of the city, alive with the smells of New York and any interactive experiences she can provoke outside.

December 2020….Every day is a miracle.

Once outside, Ginette’s running commentary includes all, from young children and their mothers walking little dogs to elderly people from the neighborhood….any and all who pass by her roost on the street.
Lunch outside.

Life indoors, forgotten.


Ginette, East Village, New York City January 2020


In Ginette’s apartment I think about the air. It’s on my mind in every moment, as each second passes, sentimental and weighted with her tenacity. When I’m photographing her it’s there, when I’m maneuvering along the narrow path that cuts through the debris that lovingly intersects every attempt at movement, and as I evaluate my breathing status as it relates to my asthma . How long do I have before I need to launch myself with difficulty into the little hallway for a mask break outside her apartment, the door partially disabled by the blockade formed by bags of cat food and memories? It’s always there, this consideration and awareness, calculated ruminations, the air that surrounds me impartial but deadly in its potential to wreak havoc on my airways. These days I don’t get any mask breaks, however.

I stand outside the door for a few minutes, desperately wiping my nose under my respirator, a mask worn before masks had to be worn to protect me from the air in her apartment. I talk to Ginette through the door, and listen to her recount a memory of her mother and Switzerland that I know by heart, one that she relives with the same intensity as the first telling. When I’m ready, I step through the door, and feel the carpet beneath my feet, decades old and stiffened with time and a density of grime that would defy logic under a microscope.

Portrait of Ginette in November 2019 in her apartment, 199 Avenue A, East Village NYC

I think about the air. Close, stifling, heavy with mold and a moisture that can be felt as a luster on the skin, lilting wisps of cat hair and cobwebs floating somehow without current to guide in the absence of ventilation, dense pockets of potent decay that startle even through my respirator. Markers of long dead things in the layers of detritus that test the limits of my curiosity and force me to consider every footstep. Innumerable exhalations that lend weight and credence to lifelong laments, an unwavering and unrelenting recount of childhood and adolescent misery as I race to record each precious sight.

After spending time with Ginette, photographing her in the marshes of misery and memory, I had to wade through my own mixed emotions about the intricacy involved with such a clear intrusion. Sometimes I found myself treading as softly as possible, speaking at times and at others remaining silent….a balancing act intended to preserve my right to persist, lingering at times beyond welcome so that I could catch that one image that will accurately reflect and portray everything that I was witness to in her world.

Every minute that I spent photographing, composing, moving through challenging lighting and deep emotion, I was also calculating and measuring and evaluating my own breathing status. My respirator never really fit correctly, the bandaids I used to tape it securely to my chin were never adequately fastened to my skin. For every minute I took joy in the photographic work, I was risking hours of intense discomfort caused by allergic asthma resulting from everything that had taken up residence in Ginette’s world. I would exit at the end of these sessions, tearing my mask off, wiping my face, racing down the cramped, moldy stairwell to the street. I held my breath till I reached the door to the outside world, respirator-free, bursting through my worry about my breathing, relief to be outside. Out on the street. Joyous inhalation. Freedom from my mask.

January 2020


Avenue A And 12th Street, East Village, New York City

I left my camera at home and went to the gym after midnight for a workout. My gym is 24 hours and I love going late at night because there are few people in the place and I don’t have to be polite. I generally don’t carry my camera when I go for three reasons: I just don’t feel like it after having carried the thing all day, I’m in desperate need of a break from everyone and everything and, of course, I don’t want it to get stolen. Walking back sometimes by myself at 2 a.m. is pushing the safety limit as it’s on this route that I was physically assaulted last year. Since there’s usually zero photographic interest in anything I see I don’t usually miss the weight of bag and camera on this trip.

But this night was different. I left the gym and made my way home along the relatively quiet streets, a few late night bars along the way so that I didn’t feel isolated. I stopped at a red light at 12th street and Avenue A. As I waited I turned my head and saw a young woman seated on one of two benches placed outside the NY Deli on the corner. She was under a bit of light, and at her feet was a small collection of garbage. The deli is open 24 hours, selling sandwiches and smoothies, snacks, cigarettes….the usual fare. People are in and out under the bright lights near the entrance but this woman was just around the corner on the furthest bench from the doorway. I saw that she was in a stupor–the familiar opioid-induced state of completely suspended animation that I unfortunately observe every day on the street.

It was a strikingly sad image and I immediately knew that it was important for me and that I wasn’t going to have an easy time walking away. I castigated myself endlessly in those moments for having left my camera at home. Because, no matter what the risk or how tired and in need of a break I am I know this: never, ever leave the camera at home. It’s just not worth the agony of endless, obsessive recrimination that comes with having no camera and an image in front of me. I guess it’s not healthy to be this obsessed with taking pictures but the truth is that I am.

And so I stood, observing the scene, trying to tell myself that it was not that important and that absolution was granted, and that I could just return home and forget about this visual tragedy…but as I did, I was creating the image I wanted to make in my mind. I decided on shallow depth of field, focus on her feet and the trash, wide angle lens, fade up to her face, indistinct features that would be somewhat privacy-protective in the final image. I could make my point about the scene and not have a sharp focus on her face.

Two blocks home and I was back with my camera….and I saw that the scene had changed. She was not alone and now had a man next to her, equally vaporized by whatever they had bought in good faith. I was disappointed by the loss of the previous narrative…and then I realized that the image before me was more important than I had at first understood. I felt that this couple, who were clearly not homeless or otherwise a stereotypical depiction of addiction were more powerful because of their ordinary appearance. People who are going to work, on the subway, in the supermarket, in a restaurant….people that are neighbors and friends and sisters and sons. Regular everyday people who went out to buy drugs at night, got sandwiches, and then were overcome by the unexpected power of whatever it was that they ingested as they sat with their late meal. Her hands were beautifully manicured and his accessories were carefully chosen. For me, this is street photography…pictures of life. Pictures of exactly what I see and how what I see is translated by my feelings into an image.

It wasn’t easy to do this one, as the shutter speed had to be very slow and I needed to focus very specifically as the aperture would be bigger. I had a few ideas but needed to be careful as I didn’t want to get harassed as I worked by someone who wouldn’t or couldn’t understand what I was doing. As I worked I observed. As the few people who passed observed the couple, I was interested to see that most had a bemused or sneering expression. The woman was slumped and completely out. The man never moved. A trash truck pulled up at the intersection, stopping at the red light. They hit their powerful horn, yelling and shouting coarse, teasing commands to wake up. This angered me and I walked after the truck, saw that they stopped at a 7/11 for snacks and decided that I had something to say to these guys. I know that I should let these things go and that I need to use better judgment at times, say less, shut my mouth. I ignored common sense and allowed my anger to guide me as I walked the block ahead, and waited by the truck. When they emerged I asked the man I knew had shouted why…why be so cruel? Do you understand that this is a disease? Why bother being mean at 3 a.m.? After an initial denial he expressed his distaste, incredulity and dismay at the sight, especially at the male who was passed out and vulnerable. He said that they should wake up! He told me that he could see vomit and that it was ridiculous. I hadn’t noticed the fact that she had been sick as I was hyper-focused on my task. His vantage point allowed for a more subjective view. And he apologized for his behavior. And then…I understood. They didn’t have the ability as working men to tolerate the sight of another man in a vulnerable state, a state of complete inertia, and they reacted viscerally.

As I walked back towards the couple I realized that there was another woman very close by. She was extremely thin, a little on the tall side, mid thirties. I had seen her earlier as I worked, another woman on the street who was obviously an addict looking for bits and pieces to collect to sell. She was touching door handles, trying to gain access to locked apartment buildings, silently looking to exploit any openings found on her ramble through the neighborhood. I realized she was headed back to the couple and it hit me that she was going to rob them, and that my presence earlier with my camera had prevented her from actively fleecing the two. She walked back and so did I. We reached the deli and she turned to look my way. I watched her as she approached the bench, and I knew that she was going to find the handbag the stuporous woman had wedged between her body and that of her boyfriend. It was this ongoing and bizarre little silent tragedy, unraveling in front of me close to 3 a.m. on a warm summer night two days ago. I saw for the first time that the woman on the bench had been sick and that the truck drivers had not been mistaken. I realized suddenly that they may not be in an average stupor, commonly observed every single day all over the city. I told her to stay away and leave them because it was time to call for help. She was a clever mimic, seemingly concerned but trying to get close enough to take their belongings. I made my call, and told her repeatedly that she had to leave them alone until help arrived. Someone in a passing car offered water, and the would-be thief entered the intersection to take the bottle, using the gift of water as an excuse to get close to the couple. It was unnerving, her persistence and stealth. I told her no water! They’re sick and can’t have any fluids until they’re in the care of EMS. We could hear approaching sirens and, as the first police car pulled up to the corner, she disappeared into the night.

I know now that there were three predators that night. The taunting men, who focused on the man as he appeared on his half of the bench in a state of complete helplessness. The gaunt woman, intent and purposefully targeting the possessions on the female side of that sorrowful bench. And me with my camera, focused on the image and the vision, the story in the picture that will be forever unknown. The families of those in the picture who will never know about their loved ones on this night, their calamity, the stories that happened around them during these minutes. The families that may be unaware of this disease of addiction until entirely too late, a surprise overdose that nobody saw coming.

All of this intersected in one little picture on one night buried in a city full of sleeping people. As I walked home, the couple safely surrounded by EMS workers and police, I wondered for the first time how many people suffered this same loss of control and consciousness. How many does this same thing really happen to, everyday? People in their homes, in front of a television set, in a bathroom, a darkened bedroom, a studio apartment…..unseen. For every public overdose that may or may not result in the administration of Narcan–people either eventually getting up and making their way back to their lives after a near overdose– there are hundreds of people who are struggling to keep this disease a secret.

This picture is a secret revealing a secret. I’m not sure about this picture because of the nature of the personal tragedy of the situation. I felt compelled to make this image and I think that the narrative is important despite the loss of privacy and the nature of the exploitation involved in creating the picture. Documentary photography is documentary photography, whether it’s done in a plague-or-famine-ravaged landscape depicting starving people without clothes in an impoverished country far far away, a war zone, or a city street in an affluent community in the United States.

–Suzanne Stein