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there is always something (why I shoot film)

There are maybe ten shots left on the roll. Outside the metro, a collection of pigeons sit on minuscule ledges above two old men. They talk as all old men do, with operatic waves of their hands, sour expressions, belly laughs, eventually scratching their chins as they stare off at nothing in particular. I am pretending to take pictures of something near them, then swing across when they are not looking to shoot a few frames. At one point I surrender to the afternoon and move on.

And now, the courtyard that leads to the film lab. A great old building rests here, a school of architecture where students mill around dressed in black sucking on cigarettes with giant portfolios tucked under their arms. A young man approaches me. I am ready to tell him I have no idea what he is saying, but he wants to know where the film lab is. I jut my chin, telling him the door is just beyond a few bushes. He nods his thanks.

There are screens set up in a jagged line, sheathed in filthy white plastic to …

every pair of shoes has a story to tell

There are Soviet-Era mailboxes on the first floor of our building. A key to any of the slots will work in the next, so there is no actual privacy. Nothing tends to be in the boxes but penny saver fliers, and the occasional water bill. They stand with slack open mouths staring back at anyone waiting for the elevator to rumble open. On top of these mailboxes, you can often find a dusty book or a broken toy. The mailboxes enjoy a second life as an unofficial lost and found, and a donation shelf. Last week I saw a pair of black stilettos there. Today, a pair of white nurse shoes. Some time ago there was a cane, leaning against the wall. It is unavoidable, the game of wondering who left them and what adventures they had. There is little else to do as you wait for the elevator to arrive. 

Every pair of shoes has a story to tell. 




On my very first trip alone in Manhattan, I was on a mission to buy a 16mm film splicer for editing class. I had been in the city countless times, but always with someone else. I managed it alone, walking down Broadway all of the way to Rafik's just below Union Square. On the way back to Grand Central, I had the idea to find some cheap lunch. Somehow I passed 42nd street and kept going north, and on 47th in the middle of the diamond district I spied a little sign hanging above a doorway. "Wise men fish here" it said, in hand letters. I walked inside, to find magnificent piles of obscure books. Here was Kawabata, and Lorca, Kerouac and Micheline. I came across a slim, weathered collection of short stories by Anaïs Nin titled Under a Glass Bell. It was mine for a few dollars. I wandered out into the glaring sun of 47th street and shuffled East somehow, and had sushi for the first time.

It was only on the train back to school that I cracked the book open, fingering the yellowed pages, breathing in that scent of dead things and the soy sauce on my fingertips. Inside the back cover, there was a tiny ink stamp. "From the library of Anaïs Nin" it read. It had been her very own copy, resting on a shelf in her apartment  - maybe the one in the West Village.

I made a point of returning to the Gotham Book Mart every time I was back in the city, spending more and more time in-between the stacks. The greats had wandered the same carpeting - Joyce, Salinger, Mailer, Miller, even Jackie O.. Some even slept here I was told. I had crushes on some of the girls that worked the counter, trying to make small talk when I traded a slip of paper with a number on it for my bag as I left each time. I imagined some day that one of my books would languish on the shelves there, my name all in caps, the title something rare and sublime.

The store closed some time ago, but I still have my copy of Under a Glass Bell. I lost so many things along the way, but this little book survived it all. Now that I publish books, I decided to make them all the exact same dimensions as this one, an odd and secret tribute to that perfect afternoon.



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