projects   thank god i’m queer  |  7selves                               menu                                        city-stories   cape t-own











NYCist



To be honest, I didn't know what New York City’s nickname meant before. Big Apple. I just thought they named a big-ass city of our world after another big thing, like a big apple, cause why not.
Lately though, as my mind was once again wandering in the depths of its own goo, I just came to realize that there’s a reason why.

If you spend a decent amount of time in NYC, you'll figure that every-fuckin-body there is hungry for something. Money, power, success, love, self-realization. Especially among people who moved to the city. From anywhere. Another country, another state, a random suburb in Long Island. Pretty much everybody.
 Now, a common belief says that the resources and means of those millions individual quests shall be provided by the city itself. Food for your mind, drink for your soul. NYC calling the shots baby.

So all this leads to the mere conclusion that, of that big apple, everybody wants to take a bite.
And the bigger the bite, the harder the hustle.

Cause New Yorkers are hustlers. Their hustle, not to say struggle, is obvious, almost displayed. Just take a look at people's faces in the train. They're so blatantly tired, washed out, they'd make you feel guilty for the energy you still have. Bums, creatives, executives. There's not one of them you couldn't find passed out on a bench. Ludicrous kind of rest.

This city breeds a special kind of martyrs. Modern and paradoxically easy to satisfy martyrs. It only takes one light, one moment of glory in a year (perhaps a couple week-ends uptate too), for a New Yorker to give up on that lingering "I'm leaving this city" thought.
The more NYC mistreats you, the more likely you are to fall in love with it. Over and over again.
Now if you want a seat (i.e. anything like a friend, a job, a place), you gotta earn it. You gotta work for it. You gotta pay the price (plus taxes).

Forget about the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. The real emblem and metaphor of New York City are its delis.
Open 24/7, selling all type of shit. Symbol of that relentless and mutual need that slowly settles between you and the city.
You crave old dill pickles, candy, beer. New York craves your life force, your time, your money. Any time of the day or night.
My roommate Michael taught me two things. I don't know if those are official sayings but they're too accurate not to be shared.
1.Living in NYC is like being in an abusive relationship. You're being mistreated but you stay.
2.You're not a New Yorker until you cry in the street. (My visual experience can confirm it. I've seen people crying in the most public and outspoken fashion. As if instead of being a source of shame, crying was a matter of pride. Like "Hey I'm devastated but that's what it takes to be here, ain't it?")

Let me clear something up though. This whole crazy proactive fast-paced thing mostly describes Manhattan. And technically Manhattan is one part of New York City. 1 borough among 5. Now you'll easily meet people who are convinced that the city is only "the city", meaning Manhattan.
But don't get it twisted, it IS NOT only Manhattan. And even in Manhattan you'll find an incredible diversity of environments. Can't compare Inwood and Soho. Neither can you compare that bougie botox-filled lime-stoney Upper East Side with the fiery and musical Spanish Harlem.

Enough said, me and my camera we wandered a lot in New York City. In all its 5 boroughs. Cause Staten Island, the Bronx, Queens and Brooklyn, they all partake in that crazy giant mess NYC happens to be. I tried my best to read the streets and its people. And if anything, NYC baby made it easy. Not surprised the best street photographers of this world all cut their teeth there. Diane Arbus, Bruce Gilden, James Van der Zee, Robert Frank, Henri Cartier-Bresson, all of them delivering a personal but accurate vision of the city.


One last thing. About the title. NYCist.
Wanna know why?
Well, it is because I hate NYC. I can’t fathom most of the shit, crazy shit happening in that city. It is too much to take. Because of that, it's quite easy to become an NYCist.
But you know what ? More than I can hate it, I actually love it. And I hate to love New York since I love to hate it. And this makes me wanna cry and laugh at the same time. And … just look at the pictures.















Good morning New York City.






















Tall fairytale.











Tall dwellings.



















Tall things.




































































Tall things.







































And this one really tall.


























But let's go back to the ground.
Where the cool stuff really is.








In New York City, you can make money out of empty cans.
5 cents each.
Quite obviously, some people collect them as a full-time job.

















Like this lady.
Sweet lady.
We had a nice chat.
She explained the whole can&bottle recycling system to me.










And listen.











This job is legit.










The bargain.
For cans.










The lonesome trash can.




















The lonesome trash can man.






















The lonesome trash man.










The polygamous trash can.










The floating PBR.









Arizona drinks.
Cheaper than water.
Sure for the better.



















Keeps you healthy. Brightens you smille.









Bud'











Sprite









& God bless the great American symbols.











Cuz from the womb they fed us all.















But you know what.
Fuck Mickey D.
We could survive on ranch for decades.
No burger, no fries, no nothing.
Just ranch.











No more food talking.
I'm hungry now.
Wanna see all the cool stuff I've seen ?






























Like Patriarchy.









Yes.
Patriarchy.











Easy parking.










Jamaican cruisin'.









A.B.S.
A rapper.
From the Bronx.
A rapper from the Bronx.










Huh?











Driver wanted.











Driver found.


















A racer









for a race.



















A stroller







for a stroll.

Wait.
Ew.
What's that?
Thirst is real.









Dog in a leash.


















Dog in Momma's arms.


















Cat lurking at the leash.
The sweet taste of freedom.










Yes. Freedom.

















Talkin' bout freedom.
Lady Liberty at her realest.









Sun at its brightest.











Minnie Mouse's corpse.
















Minnie Mouse's girls.



















Washington Square's sorcerer.









His broken wand.











Drama.











So much drama.











No strings attached.



















CVS.
Heaven in hell.
(low-key supporting queerness)


















Target.
Hell in heaven.
(low-key supporting diabetes)










This.
Hell in hell.
Sprinkles on my guts.









Kylie Jenner tryna steal the show.
But no one gives a damn.










Nobody.



















"Here's my phone number boys. Feel free to call me anytime of the day. Or night..."









WORD

















A real harlemite.



















A real strawberry Starburst.


















No but forreal'. Age is the new cool.


















New fresh.


















New lit.



















New sassy.

















New hype.








New trendy.
(that Burberry hat)

















New hip. Hipster youngsters can't compete.


















Double-face.

















Broadway's hunchback.










Matching patterns.










Marching sisters.












Ice creep.










Hot chicks.










Desk chair swaggin.



















Real OGs.










Squad goals.

















The bald connection.











Squad goaaaaaaals.










Nancy's drama.


















Stacy's cool.










Phones bringing people together.









Close together.










Best communication.



















Human warmth.










Like father, like son.




















Like Roger, like Tom.


















Good parents










support queer kids.


















The talk.


















The package.











Working out.


















Out in the sun.



















Out on the streets.











How I see exercising.










Active behavior?
Active nappin'.










Just a little nap.










A comfy kind of seat.




















A shady kind of spot.










But. What kind of rest?


















WHAT KIND OF REST?!!!!





























































































































































































Upper East Side shit.










Them riches can't keep it simple.
Always gold.









Summer rain in the UES
=
A.C. water drippings










Perks of living in the UES.
Fuck that.















Ok I'll quit hating the UES.
It's actually kinda nice over there.
Dominique agrees.
Dominique is homeless.
In his opinion, there are benefits in being homeless.
You can choose the neighborhood you want to live in.
So Dominique lives in the Upper East Side.








But in the Upper East Side.









Or anywhere else in NYC.










TVs occupy the streets


















that cool kids own.



















Yes.
Cool kids own the street.
Like these twins. Identical twins.
Matching outfit everyday.


























They're actually rappers.
Their stage name is "Twin Towers".
Check them out.


















Dominicano stream.











Bronx hydrants.










Central Park's hippos.










Hose hoes.


















And God.











Holy Mary Queen of the front yards.


















Proud Mary frontin' in the yard.










Allah's dogs.


















Alone?
Damn, I thought there were 3 of them up there.


















Waiting for the bus.











Sitting here like rust.










Wishing slow.


















Hitting fast.



















Chasing dreams.
Broken window.










Concrete monsters.


















Complete taming.









Sand castles.
Made by Calvin.
Check Calvin Seibert's page.
Always building against the tide.











Baby boy.


















Boy baby.



















Someone who believes in France more than I do.


















Someone I believe was French.
Just smoking the French way.









If you still feel the Bern,
you might feel the burn.



















Two halves of a man.











Keepin' it real.










The day Mr.Ali lost his fight.











The chair you couldn't see.










The elephant you'd better be seeing.



















The cute police booth.











The people they should really hire.











The people they should really pull over.










American basics.




















Hottest basketball game.
Guys VS Geese.









In case you need Nitrogen.




















The real chess player.



















The painted painter.










The pen pinned better.



















Taylor Swift.










Flamboyantly hiding.










The bored parrot.



















The bear pilot.










Fats & Dogs.



















The palest paleness.




















The grayest grayness.








Distrust.











Knees crust.




















Crooked logs.










Street desk.










Trini builder.



















Gutter sweeper.



















Love.



















Real love.


















Power of love.



















Tricycle philosophy.










Manhattan.




















Clockaways.











The dark lining.











The light blessing.


















The last ray of light. Head west.



















Catch it.





















By any means.










Try desperately.










Run after it.









Catch the last train.










Dive into it.




















Hurry up !



















One last chance.





















Before Jersey forever keeps it.










Good night New York City.









See you.















































































Get the fuck outta here !


back to menu