I wish I could say that there was one
photo that started it all. It would be
the one photo I could point to that
people could look to understand why I
walk up to sometimes eight miles at a
time in snowstorms at night.
But there isn't.
I grew up quite poor in a borough
of New York city called Queens. I spent an
inordinate amount of time daydreaming
and wishing myself into any other life,
burying myself in books and movies.
There are a few memories from that time period
that stand out as beacons of light in an
otherwise bleak memoryscape. One such
memory was getting pulled on a
neighbor's sled through the streets late
at night during a blizzard. I remember
looking up at the streetlights through the
large fluffy flakes as they cast the
most beautiful warm glow over the
streets. We may not have had a lot in the
way of material possessions but in that
moment - in that one moment - it felt like
the entire city was ours. And there was a
gorgeous deep silence that rooted itself
deep inside of me until all of life
seemed muffled, silenced into an eerie
submission and all that was left was the
purest feeling of peace. That silence
resonated so loud that it was the moment
I would replay over and over and over
again at night as I drifted off to sleep.
It wasn't until I discovered photography
accidentally in 2010 and decided to trek
through Central Park in a blizzard with
a camera then I even thought I could
attempt to convey how deep of an
impression that memory had made on my
soul.
In a city of millions, isolation and
loneliness are some of the most visceral
states of being. Loneliness is the catch in the throat and
the throat, a welled-up tear in the
eye and isolation is the hollowed-out
voice at the end of a trailed off
sentence when trying to explain what it
feels like to feel too much while also
not feeling a sense of belonging.
At night when the snow falls and only a few
people walk the streets, isolation and
loneliness walk hand-in-hand.
But snow is also nostalgia. It's the nostalgia for
what once was but also the nostalgia for
what could be. It's longing for a place
you've never been but feel intrinsically
connected to. It's the warm cocoon that
transports us into an ethereal
in-between realm where the trees spin
their branches like webs over streets
held down by the barest hint of gravity.
It's longing and fairytales wrapped up in
a beautiful fleeting package. It's the
embodiment of a metaphorical
ephemerality. When I return back to my
apartment after walking eight miles
through the snow it's as if I've walked
through dreams all night, sleepwalking
gliding through the white remnants of
dream laden clouds, slowly with my face
drawn to street lights that hang over
streets like stars leading me back to
the place where I rest my head. And that
- that is one of the most incredible
feelings in the entire world.
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