In the Jewish religion, Purim is a holiday commemorating the failure of an ancient plot to kill all the Jews in Persia. Purim revolves around the story of Queen Esther, who alerts the Jews to their coming destruction and concocts a plan that eventually saves them. Every year on Purim, Jewish communities around the world hold public readings from the Book of Esther. But more importantly, they dress their children in adorable costumes.
Today’s hurricane may have only been a Category One, but the fashion it inspired was most definitely Category Five. Finally, the prayers of the fashion world were answered: a hurricane above the Mason-Dixon line! Even though the floods were less than expected, a giant storm surge of glamour filled the streets. To report on all the super hot action, I laced up my Pradas and headed out into the eye of the storm. But not before taking a good long look in the mirror. For fashion photographers such as myself, there is tons of pressure to look good all the time. Luckily that’s never been a problem for me.
In the world of Facebook pages, Gay Marriage for New York is a juggernaut. Anyone who’s ever tried to start a Facebook page can tell you it isn’t easy. With some heavy arm twisting, you can maybe get 25% of your friends to “like” your page. Unless you’re Justin Bieber, that’s not very many people. Gay Marriage for New York has 143,000 members. It represents an electronic mass of color coordinated, democratic, Lady Gaga loving humanity. The administrator of this page, whoever that may be, holds the key to 143,000 newsfeeds. That’s a lot of power. With a simple post, he can gently steer his rainbow colored herd toward whatever cause or idea he wishes to promote.
I first met Chris Coon three months ago in Union Square. I was speaking to my friend Manuel when Chris walked up and asked for a dollar. I told him no, using the brusque tone that I normally reserve for panhandlers. “But I’m conducting an experiment,” he said. He had a clipboard in his hand. “I’m going to ask one million people for a dollar– to see if I can get out of being homeless.” This sounded like a pretty self-serving experiment to me. I was ready to turn Chris down for a second time, but Manuel started to lay on some peer pressure: “Trust me,” he said. “It’s legit. I gave him a dollar earlier.” Legit? What is that supposed to mean?
I’ve wanted to write about some one on Wall Street for awhile now, but its difficult. Because information is very valuable on Wall Street. Huge, expensive decisions are being made based on tiny pieces of information. A cardinal rule of Wall Street is “keep quiet.” In many cases, this rule is contractually enforced. So not many people are interested in talking with strangers. Especially strangers who carry cameras and ask a lot of questions. But last Friday I noticed a trim, well dressed man standing in front of the Capital Grill. He carried himself confidently and wore an awesome hat, so I requested a photograph. Unlike most of the men on Wall Street, he was warm and unhurried. He posed for a couple portraits and seemed amused by the process. When we were finished, he introduced himself as Jim.
Larry the Homeless Sensei serves as grandmaster of the Washington Square Park dojo and guards over the homeless community. Though his martial arts prowess is a subject of contentious debate, he is a ninth-degree black belt in “heavy drinking,” “being hilarious,” and “livin’ life.” Yesterday Larry entrusted me with his thermos of vodka, and gave a $4 drunk karate demonstration in the middle of the street.
On 125th Street in Harlem there is a man who wears an army uniform, and stands at the edge of the sidewalk with his arms crossed. He is part of the street, like a lamppost or a mailbox, and I see him every time I go to Harlem. Every major street seems to have a permanent person like Army Man. 125th Street has several; among them are Franco the Great, the “Buy Black” man, Lord Harrison the hustler, and of course, Army Man himself. Army Man especially stands out because he’s the only guy on the street in full camouflage.
I was photographing in the Lower East Side, down by the river, when I noticed two men walking toward me. One was medium sized and heavily tattooed. The other was huge. Inhumanly huge. Had to be pushing 300 lbs. The guy was so big that he didn’t walk in a fluid motion, but rather haltingly, one leg at a time, like Godzilla, in the Japanese version. I was intimidated at first so I let them pass. But then I chased them down.
Being an artist is tough because you have to sell yourself. You aren’t selling cars. You aren’t selling microwaves. You aren’t selling computer code or insurance policies or surgical procedures. You’re selling your mind and your thoughts, and if you believe in such things, your heart and soul and energy. You are putting yourself up on a platform and asking for bidders. Attention world: for your consideration, I present my entire thought life in a song, or a book, or a canvas, or a blog. And if nobody cares, or bids, or clicks, or buys– that shit’s fucking embarrassing. Too much of that abuse, and you’re heading straight to the University of Phoenix. And every artist gets abused. Even the best get ignored and abused for a long, long time. So being an artist is tough.
I have a habit of investigating commotion. Whenever there is a loud noise, or a bright flash, or sirens, or a gathered crowd, I want to know the source of the trouble. Screaming too. I always run towards screaming. I suspect that this habit will lead to a violent and embarrassing death. (What’s everybody running from? I’ve got to see this.) But so far, I’ve seen some sweet fist fights and a real live skyscraper fire.
New York is a tough place to feel important. It’s a bit like Twitter—it’s a place where people come to be heard, where not many people are listening, and everyone is trying to make a statement. If you’re lucky, you rub and you rub and you rub and you spark some sort of local fire, in the Village perhaps, or maybe Brooklyn. The aim is to make enough smoke so that the media machine will take notice, package you up, and ship you to cornfields and suburbs where people have a bit more time and longer attention spans. But like I said, it’s tough. Because everybody here is trying to start fires and everybody here is trying to get noticed.
I’ve always been a little skeptical of any person who says that he reads poetry. Unless said person has a PhD in liberal arts. Or is considering one. It’s the same skepticism that I have for any person who claims that he listens to classical music. Unless said person plays the French horn or the oboe, in which case I believe him. There’s a lot of social pressure to like poetry and classical music. Nobody wants to be the only one at the cocktail party who thinks-out-loud that Mozart is boring as hell. And the same goes with poetry. Liking poetry shows a certain level of refinement: Robert Frost? Love him. Walt Whitman? Modern Prophet. But in reality, nobody is buying poetry anymore unless it was written under the influence of cocaine and is accompanied by an electric guitar.
I consider myself a charming individual. I’ve got a real big smile, which usually shows up in an aw shucks kind of way. I’m really tall, so I try to be gentle and soft spoken. I’m good at asking questions. I’ve got plenty of jokes. I like people. They make me happy. I like to make them happy. And mixed all together, I think these things generally come across as charm. But John Keegan— I didn’t know people like this actually existed.
Sometimes I like the stories on Humans of New York to be more than just light-hearted entertainment. Sometimes I like them to touch on something more– such as the universality of the human condition, or the constancy of struggle, or the inescapable nature of pain. Sid the Iguana represents all of these things. Today Sid had an adventure in Washington Square Park. A reader of any refinement will see the oppressing hands of Sid’s owner, and instantly recognize the omnipresent clutch of “Civilization.” In Sid’s escape, the astute observer will see a primal hunger for freedom, shared by all of us. In fact, I doubt the reader will ever again look in the mirror without seeing Sid the Giant Iguana, searching for the meaning of life.
It was rainy today. And cold. So I didn’t feel like working. But I forced myself out the door and started heading toward the subway station. I hadn’t walked 100 yards when I saw a fascinating subject across the street. She was colorful, like a bird of paradise. But she was walking fast. I tried to cross the street several times but was driven back by traffic. When I finally did reach her, I was afraid I would appear over-eager. People very rarely consent to being photographed by someone who has been chasing them. But she said yes.
