Silence Before Symphony

January 29th, 2025

‘A guitar gasps for fresh air, as the bass catches a similarly hearty breath. The trumpet comes forth silently’

He's adjusting a bowtie in between his weathered fingers when he delves deep into the darkness of the hall before a pair of black velvet curtains swallow his shadowy figure whole. Another moment passes and a silver haired cocktail maker hurry’s over to the trumpeter, who’s beckoning for him across the way. He rushes over, adjusting the bowtie and collar just so, making sure the pressed starch spreads just right over the black silk tie. The trumpeter’s cufflinks dazzle in the dim hall. He makes his way to the band once again, where there practicing has now drenched the space in softs sounds. The sound is inconsistent as mistakes are made and harmonies brake, but the beauty of the staccato strums isn’t lost.

A glance around the dim hallway, shrouded in ancient hardwoods and intricate mosaic tiling, inevitably concluded at the small jazz troupe erecting their equipment. A pod of three men made about the early evening in plain clothes, installing elementary music stands and intricate audio equipment simultaneously. Smiles passed from face to face like a secret, a single smile share by a few men preparing to perform. As instruments sit in cases the men mill about with surrounding staff, coming and going and coming and going with no end in sight. Sheet music switches hands and stands without concern for who’s who or whats what.

The preparation truly begins, as the intermingling between the band and the surrounding staff comes into focus. The bands roles reveal themselves as well. The bassist, the youngest of the group, is bright eyed with an afro. Far younger than the two men with which he’s planning to play. The guitarist is much older already dressed in his traditional tuxedo with onyx buttons, and a fedora to match. The vocalist and trumpeter -like all front men- seems to be the least prepared of the trio, rushing around the dark hall to put all the pieces into place for a successful performance. The two-string player’s practice, the bassist fiddling his fingers along the four frets, as the trumpeter disappears into a kitchen a few feet from the bands position. A minute later he emerges carrying a couple of garments wrapped in dry cleaning plastic. He puts the clothing down hastily, and off again into the kitchen.

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Basketball On Mulberry

Since I began photography professionally, I've tried to abide by a handful of ‘photo-philosophies’, the principal of which was to shoot the most natural portraits possible. This desire to create natural reflections of the city streets, as honestly as possible, meant I often shot portraits while moving. Of course here and there I asked for poses, or shot clients, but most often, I was always on the move (thank god for 500th of a second).

As a street photographer I rarely have the time to ask people to pose or stop what they're doing before my desired shot vanishes into thin air. Because of this I’ve skipped several opportunities to shoot people, in the streets and otherwise, all because I felt I needed to keep moving. Trying to adhere to my photo-philosophies.

I decided to change that. After finishing off a 6 hour stint of street shooting, fingers freezing and feet aching, I made my way to mulberry street for a sunset coffee at Aime. As I walked down Prince towards the cafe-

‘I spotted a group of teenagers playing basketball in the adjacent park’

There was something about the group that called out to me.Whatever it was about this group, it drew me towards the park. Despite the voice in the back of my head telling me to follow my rules, I simply couldn't, and as a result I was fortunate enough to take these photographs. The boys were beyond kind when I asked to photograph them. “How much time do you need”, “how should we pose”, and “can we make it big” were all great questions to start off with.

One of them wore an MF doom hat the entire game, no matter how many times he fell to the asphalt. They played for what felt like hours as I shifted my lens rapidly from player to player, scene to scene, shot to shot. My focus changed as often as the ball was changing hands. Shooting on f.2 for softness and exaggerated subjects, my window for accuracy was small but achievable. I traced some shots from the top of the paint into the hoop. Other moments I followed completely unrelated vignettes on the court, documenting a sense of camaraderie rarely seen from the outside of a tight knit friend group. Wrestling, reclining, rampaging; all was fair on the court between these boys. Many shots, many laughs, and many more memories pierced the evening air. An impromptu photoshoot en route to a cup of coffee. That's the magic of New York city.

A Quick Pilgrimage

My camera had hung heavy around my neck for a month and some change, a weight that was slowly crippling my posture and spirit alike. Beginning in Early October, I made a radical shift in my photography practice, abandoning the visual language with which I had cut my teeth; 28mm, black and white, documentary photography. I turned away from not only what I knew, but from what I was “known for”, in favor of what I thought was a more commercially viable style, because who doesn't want to sell a print or two every now and then (I sure do!) This change however left me even more unsure of myself and my vision, so much so I considered putting down my camera for the foreseeable future; wondering whether or not I was willing to continue to create what I wanted in spite of slow traction. Yet I still couldn’t bring myself to leave my apartment without my camera, or head home after a long day without a few shots worthy of exhuming from my memory card. So I knew quitting wasn't the right option. Something had to change because,

-I had lost my way, and I seemed only to find it 2000 miles away on a pilgrimage to the Netherlands-

My professor and mentor, Anders Goldfarb, was having a show in Amsterdam, ending in late December. He had not had a chance to go to the show’s opening in November, or to Amsterdam in general, in his life. With this in mind, I write a short five point list on my phone of my goals for the trip. Most importantly, to visit "‘Ash Avenue’ and make thirty competent photographs. So I got my tickets, packed a suitcase, and made my way to JFK. I was praying I’d sleep the entire flight. I managed about an hour . The plane landed seven hours later in the pitch black dutch morning, Before the sun rose that Sunday at the AMS, I snapped two shots on 50mm, before switching my lens for the first time in ages. After this moment, it all came back.

Suddenly, my vision became clear, unobscured by expectation or external pressure. I was encumbered by nothing but the frigid dutch winds trapping my fingers in chunky gloves, making my adjustment of my camera's top plate dials challenging. Despite the biting wind I persevered, warmed by my returned fire for photography. Each shot felt stronger than the last, as I settled back into a wider field of view. Anders exhibit was cold, my feet froze to the bone, and a steady flow of a coffee an hour could barely keep the jet lag from taking hold. But none of it mattered, because I had found my place behind the lens once again.

Riding Behind Schedule

It was the morning of October 12th. A day I’d been anticipating since Gavin Murray, or @Gavin_too_much_fun, had reached out and invited me to an epic road ride through NY. He would only be in the city for a few days, so it was this ride or nothing.

The morning of the 12th came, and unlike my tires, the 7am ride out time rolled by. I’d been unable to go, as recent overtraining kept me from not just sleeping, but leaving my bed entirely. So I texted Gavin the unfortunate news, and accepted that I’d missed my opportunity to adventure Upstate with the PNS community.

Then, Gavin replied, inviting me to a more intimate recovery ride the next morning. A handful of dedicated riders looping Brooklyn’s infamous Prospect Park.

What else could I say besides ‘Hell Yes’?

It was the next morning, and wether I had fully recovered or not, I was determined to make it to Prospect Park. I got my kit on, packed my film camera in my bar bag, and headed off. The laps Started at 9 a.m. It was 8:10, and the ride read an hour and five minutes on my Wahoo. So I sprinted as much as I could, falling in with the group after 59 minutes and half a lap of searching.

And it was worth the effort. The morning’s vibe was electric and the other riders radiated good energy. The conversation flowed as fast as we were pedaling. New bikes, the best slices, recent Pas gear, and the next spot to carbo load. “Can chianti fit in my frame bag” Gavin asked as the early fall foliage turned into a blur over and over again.

A Chance Meeting

After nearly a week of all nighters; writing, shooting, and editing, Sunday presented itself as the perfect opportunity to reset. A chance to spend a lazy, late autumn day doing nothing but basking in the afternoon air.

I woke up around 1pm, had a small breakfast, and got dressed, closing the door behind me by 2pm. Out of my apartment, I walked a hand full of blocks to the 96th street station, and boarded a 2 train down to soho. I had no real plan aside from my usually coffee at Aime, and maybe checking out the artists pop up across the street. I thought about it as my train slithered into the prince street staton, and I disembarked; to make my way above ground.

I walked past Prada, then La Pecora Bianca, before sinking into the massive crowd suffocating Mulberry street.

I waded through the sea of New Yorkers and tourists alike, weaving around several inattentive pedestrians; as I made my way towards the cafe.

Once inside, the cafe was a mirror of the street, stuffed to the gills with customers. Some clung to the small shops corners, while others made themselves comfortable by the open window. A combination of jazz and rap punctuated the atmosphere, blending in with the hum of conversation. I finally made my way to the register, ordered, paid, and began waiting for my drink. I made myself at home by the newly empty window, spotting a local friend of mine from across the street; @Gothamgalleria or Pete. I waited a few more minutes and then grabbed my drink, before quickly making my way across the street to say Hello.

As I Crossed, I noticed Pete was in conversation with someone who I’d never met. With a camera that immediately caught my conversation.

Pete’s friend, Eric, was a local New Yorker and part time photographer; which explained the silver Leica m10 with matching 50mm Leica Summicron. I of course asked him about it, always interested in a Leica and its owner. Pete looked intrigued, but quite distant from the conversation, explaining his inexperience with the brand. Eric and i both explained the brands history, quality, and recent market increases; before the street suddenly lit up. A truck began to back up down the packed street, almost hitting the rare Porsche 911 parked in front of us. The woman behind the wheel had to readjust her back up, but managed to maneuver the truck in what seemed like less space than the width of a sidewalk. getting out to talk to a security guard protecting the car, another photographer arrived. A silver fox silver fox in an all black outfit, his camera matched his garb; a matte black Leica m11 monochrome with a lensI didn’t recognize. He spoke to the three of us, all while snapping photos of the 911.

He introduced himself, commenting on Eric and I’s cameras, before engaging with his own. He traced several circles around the car, shooting shot after shot, all while keeping up jovial conversation with the rest of his. We all began shooting in unison, and suddenly everyone’s shutter’s were firing in harmony. While everyone focused their lenses on the Porsche, I focussed on them, capturing their postures and poses as they sought shots worth keeping. The silver haired man eventually let his camera rest, settling into conversation-

‘Suddenly everyones shutter’s were firing in harmony’.

with the woman who was driving the truck. She revealed that she in fact would be driving the Porsche out of mulberry. I kept snapping as she got into the car, revving its air cooled flat six, before taking off. Everyone with a phone or camera turned to take photos of the unique car as it faded from view down the thin street. Once it was gone Most dispersed from the are including Pete. Eric and I chatted for a few more minutes, before I left, saying farewell to a new friend. A lazy Sunday well spent.