This morning I woke from a nostalgic dream. I was in New York City to photograph lovers above the ruins of lower Manhattan. Ghostly Venice as prop. Standing on the remains of the Williamsburg Bridge I photographed them tentatively holding hands with the broken city behind them. The buildings stood between and around them in the camera’s frame like ornate and decrepit pylons from some long gone pier; still rising for now from the calm waters. Here and there tiny boats plied between them.
I don’t know why they come here or how this became a religious rite. Perhaps, in a damaged world, this grandly out-of-scale view has become the visage of an age. Like a giant ship wreck, its beauty more compelling with rot. Even the couple’s ancient clothes have evolved with use and repair into Gothic wonders; nature is Rick Owen’s pattern cutter.
Or maybe, in the midst of a slow motion apocalypse, they come to see the worst. Face it. And when they have seen enough, turn their backs to it so that I can capture the gesture. We all turn our backs to it in one way or another.
In my dream I made pictures, but automatically. My mind was in the buildings with the ghosts, walking the halls. I wanted to ask them what they saw coming. Did their steps quicken with a sense of the slowly unfolding disaster? Did they expect it in their lifetimes? When did they first feel the fear? And what happened to their lives when their streets turned to rivers? But before I can ask, an exhausted bird lands on my camera, interrupts my reverie and nudges me awake.
