Four Manhattans

The fifth one is free

There’s an old fable out there about three blind men and an elephant. The three blind men are, as I understand it, fondling different parts of the elephant’s body. Don’t ask me why. One of them is messing around with the elephant’s trunk, the second with one of its legs, and the third with the tail. If you were to ask each of those men “what is an elephant”, they would each give dramatically different descriptions. Here we find the moral of the exercise: we are limited by our perspectives and what they subsequently convince us is true. Part masquerades as the whole.

For a time, I naively considered myself one of those blind men, and the elephant in question was the island of Manhattan. It felt like “the” place for what I’m interested in creating. A new genre of photography, a new way of seeing, erupted in this borough and its neighbors during the 20th century, and I was excited to have my chance to paw at the pachyderm and report back what I saw.

Then, after my second, third, and fourth visits, I came to understand that an elephant was too simple of a beast to use as comparison, and too majestic. A better stand-in? Maybe a chimera riding a CitiBike or a biblically accurate angel made out of LED billboard tiles. You’re still the blind oaf, but instead of having two friends, you get to reach out and touch it alone for a few hours before a wedding in Brooklyn, and then 14 months later, while you’re walking to Broadway to see the revival of Sunset Boulevard.

It’s a misplaced sentiment, but I understand why people who only visit Midtown or lower-Manhattan say they don’t like New York City. Unless you’re a billionaire, half that island is effectively a particle accelerator designed to separate neutrons (tourists) from their protons (FDIC insured savings and Chase Rewards Points) Why wouldn’t you assume the rest of the city functions in the same way?

And yet, I’m continuously fascinated by the chaos of it all. Walking around is like white-water rafting. You’re flowing between other tourists and scaffolding like they’re rocks in a Class V river. If you tip over, you better hope that you’re near the Rockefeller Christmas tree; grabbing those branches are the only chance you have to escape getting dumped in the Hudson.

My time in Manhattan has only ever been in stints lasting three days at most, making the act of getting there, taking photos, and leaving all feel like different parts of the same obstacle course. I wanted these photos to reflect the nervousness that only comes from stuffing too much into too few days. Overclocking your brain’s creative faculties by constantly searching for train platforms, dodging pedicabs, and wolfing down sandwiches mummified in aluminum foil while standing up. This is how you turn your brain’s creative centers gangrenous.

The following photos bubbled up out of that delirium like foie gras. They range from day to night and from summer to winter. Some of them are moments from the frenetic center of it all, while others feel like pockets of tranquil air from high above the carnage. I’m still one of the blind trying to feel and understand a massive beast, but I’m no longer interested in reaching any specific answer.

I’ll settle for making it out in one piece.

I hope you enjoy.

Sodfotog

Thank you for reading.

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