Saturday, April 28, 2018
I can perfectly recall the first time someone spit in my face. It was 9th grade and the subway was so overcrowded — as per usual — that I had to climb in between cars to get a spot, otherwise I’d be late for school uptown. I did the not so graceful '80s train-jump, and ended up with a bunch of other miscreants like myself rolling towards the city. Within moments some b-boy ran along the side of the train as it left the platform, and launched a loogie at his boys next to me. It hit me full-on in the face, and the hard-rocks next to me didn’t even laugh as they knew that there were borders you just didn’t cross. The rage I felt was incalculable, and I still see red when I think of the slime running down my cheek.
Tuesday, April 17, 2018
"By trying to export myself into a place that didn't fully exist I asked works of art to bear my expectation that they could be better than life, that they could redeem life. In fact, I believe they are, and do. My life is dedicated to that belief. But still, I asked too much of them: I asked them also to be both safer than life and fuller, a better family. That they couldn't give. At the depths I'd plumb them, so many perfectly sufficient works of art would become thin, anemic. I sucked the juice out of what I loved until I found myself in a desert, sucking rocks for water."
A Pair Of Shoes by Vincent Van Gogh
Words from The Disappointment Artist, 2006
Saturday, April 14, 2018
A lesson I learned a bit too late in life living in this big fucked up and wonderful city is to always take the time to look up, stop and smell the angles; take some time to live in the moment. There are countless days this place I’ve lived all my days drives me to drink — as of late, mostly due to the new breed transplants with no respect for our traditions — but there’s many more days when it feels like a first kiss. Oh New York City, I love you so. You own my heart.
Words and photograph by Lee Greenfeld © 2018