An apartment full of boxes in Carroll Gardens
An mural art space in Bushwick
A mother and daughter in Central Park
A little house with a white picket fence in the suburbs
Such different life paths
From each other, and from mine
Yet New York City is like glue
Where these intersections materialize
We talk about the dance between travel and memory
Each step to both recall and reshape
In Brooklyn, the sidewalks are familiar
Yet with each step I’ve forgotten and let go
I once had a chance to live here
The MFA program I did not…
It’s nearly three in the morning in Hanoi, and I’ve awoken not from the random calls on the street below, or the occasional strange noise coming from the toilet in my bathroom, but the thoughts in my head, vivid and ripe from jetlag. These dark hours at the beginning of my travels are inevitable, and while annoying, I’ve decided to try and take advantage of them . . . and write.
Those rare two-hour windows of magic, when I’m not quite here nor there, and when the rest of the world sleeps.
It’s my second night in…
My process of taking photographs has changed. I don’t recall the last time I developed a roll of film and examined contact sheets, nor do I remember what it’s like to gaze at negatives: to consider the outtakes and alternate moments, and to appreciate the visual residue of an experience.
I’m not a professional photographer. When I shot with film, perhaps an eighth of my images were decent, and when I say decent I mean not blurry, which in no way means they were worth sharing. …