5 am on a Friday in February. Number 4 train. Brooklyn Bound. My head is nodding, fighting to say awake. How warm is this cocoon, this blue florescent room, compared to the icy wet streets floating above me. I crank my eyes wide. Yet another blink of a night brimming with dark rooms, grimy places and dim faces. The car shutters and delivers a jolt between my lobes. No desire to be the poor fool who wakes up at New Lots, shivering in the sunrise wind. I slide out my camera, compose my frame, click my shutter. For this will all be forgotten tomorrow.


In the summer of 2002, when I was 11 years old, my family moved from the dry deserts of Tucson, Arizona to the gum speckled pavement of Brooklyn, New York. A week before our departure I asked my mom to cut off my rat’s tail. I was going to be a city kid.

Growing up in NYC I bounced around between different groups and subcultures in search of somewhere I fit in. Camera in hand, I would walk the streets for hours in search of moments and connections. At this age I felt an constant undercurrent, that I was an outsider. More than anything I wanted to be present, to be a part of the city, to play a roll. My camera gave me a purpose, the best one I could find. Only now do I realize I didn’t need one. 

This collection of images were taken in my late teens and early twenties. The project continues to morph as I dig through my archive of dusty,  forgotten negatives.

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