I picked up my first “camera” two years ago. It was a Nikomat FT I bought off Craigslist in San Francisco. The guy who sold me the camera along with a Nikkor 50mm lens told me his mom used it as a reporter when she was with the Chronicles.
I walked into my first photography class at Columbia two years ago. It was a class where the Professor and the teaching assistants grilled you in front of the whole class with the most personal questions. They get to decide if they want you or not. The new online wait list system failed that summer, with zero competition, I got in.
Perhaps like “the shot” that a photographer searches for, the important ones seem to just present themselves as serendipitously as my discovery of making photographs.
In these two short years, making photographs has become my therapy. Just as some sing karaoke (I do that) or go kick-boxing (I don’t do that). In my photographs, you might sense my mood, my feelings, my pleasure, my want and my struggles.
Come along and meddle in my love affair with black and white.
“No, I don’t understand graffiti. I can barely make out the words. The fact that this photograph is in black and white means more now than when I took it on September 10, 2013 for it is now just smudges of white paint soon to be demolished.”
“You wonder, what the hell is this? What is she looking at? Why is there a giant screen and three cushions on the floor? New York City requires you to ask questions like these often. It’s like the first time when I walked into an empty subway car and immediately regretted it as soon as the doors closed…”
“It’s the lines. I’ve always wanted to see the lines of light shine through the windows at Grand Central Station. This view reminds me of old watch commercials I used to see as a child in Hong Kong where lovers depart and unite on platforms at a train station.”