I’m not telling the whole story. There are intentions to which I am blind, which have almost certainly dictated that certain parts of the truth have been be occluded. I can’t tell you which parts, because I am engaged in hiding them from myself. So I’ll tell a story as if it were true, and hopefully it will hold together by some mutual tensions of its component parts.
Pete and I met early in the school year at a party. It was cold for October, but the room was so warm that the windows dripped with condensation like the walls of a shower. I can remember noticing his body first, seductive with a drumming energy.
“Good evening.” His teeth were surprisingly white for a musician, and square. His hooded drunk eyes slipped open and closed around the room until they landed on me. Read More
A storyteller relies on deception, depends on the secrets of his characters and coddles their depth, their small lies and their great fears. It is easy to forget that they share your own blood.
The immigration line in the Mexico City airport was already a tangle of confused Japanese tourists, and adding the passengers from our JFK flight turned chaos to panic. Rodrigo pulled me into a much shorter line tucked off to the side. “But this is for citizens...” I turned and looked longingly at the angry New Yorkers commanding order from the Japanese tour guide. “I don’t even speak Spanish.” An official looking man with white rubber gloves raised his eyebrows at me. He had a look, like, "caught you, you mother fucker. You don’t belong here.”
“Hola,” I smile. I wanted desperately to go back in the other line.
I met Joseph Hanna in the West Village, poking around his leather store while I waited for a dinner reservation. The place was cavernous. Big messenger bags were stuffed into corners and luggage hung precariously from the ceiling. Maybe the piney smell of leather oil was making me feel dreamy, but that particular night I felt an aimlessness that was an invitation. My fingers drifted across the soft straps; searching for flaws in the grain of the wood countertop; tapping out in Morse code, “talk to me.” New York is a city full of stories after all. You just have open yourself to the unexpected.
The shopkeeper sensed I had time to kill. He grabbed my purse, opening and closing the clasp. “Nice — from Greece,” he said, not needing confirmation. We started chatting while he mindlessly oiled the infinite crannies of my vintage bag. I have trouble telling people I work in advertising, especially the sort of man who has owned a leather shop for 40 odd years. I stretched for a better truth. “Oh, you are a writer?” Joseph asks for confirmation, “I have a story for you.” Read More
Further investigating personal collections, we talk to American photojournalist Martha Cooper. Cooper, capturing pictures since the age of three, is now one of New York’s prominent street art photographers. Through her years photographing in bombed out neighborhoods of Brooklyn and New York, Cooper is celebrated for the soft eye she has for her subjects, always seeking out a serendipity of the street despite it’s dangers.
With the same whimsy she brings to her subjects of the street, it flourishes in her collection of toy cameras and photographica. An artist of organization, she explains the presence collections have in both her photography and the playful possessions she has acquired as a collector. Read More
Mal de Mar
by MAUREEN O'BRIEN
Midwest summers in my grandparents house were hot and leaden with the smell of perfumed soaps and car oil. It was summer when Mom told me of her younger brother Ben’s death and handed me a photo from the mantelpiece. It was encased in a frame, and inside was a tiny unfamiliar body with hands smaller than my eight year old mitts. “It was a farming accident. Your grandmother never recovered,” she told me. We didn’t speak of him, or my grandmother, again. Idle after university I began to resist this falling away. I hungered for a history proven elusive with a ferocity that perhaps matched my grandmother’s hunger to disappear.
I imagined my grandparents’ world mirroring the seasoned black and white photos on our mantelpiece. The light hit sternly from above, giving them a ghostly hollow cheeked conviction. My mother rarely told stories of their lives, sound bites not to be elicited like announcements made over an airport loudspeaker. Their history felt fragile to me even as a child. Read More