(2019)
Forgotten storefront, Tionesta, Pa.
Waiting on a cable car, San Francisco
(2003)
Neighborhood street, New Orleans
(2005)
College D.J., Swarthmore, Pa.
(1988)
Bartender, State College, Pa.
(2019)
Girls of summer, Philadelphia
(1988)
The Shandon Star, New York
Been there. A few blocks south of Columbus Circle on Eighth Ave., the Star was one of a rapidly vanishing class of Irish steam-table bars that were a warm embrace. A diminutive and quite old man named Pat, from Queens, served up a murderer’s row of comfort foods — piping hot pastrami, roast beef, meatloaf, brisket, turkey, with mashed potatoes and gravy and some other alleged vegetables. In the back was a large room with linoleum floors, booths and sturdy tables and chairs, bad lighting and dodgy bathrooms. It had its regulars and, with a bus stop right out front, its transients. Behind the long bar along the left wall was another Patrick, young and stout, by way of Ireland’s County Wexford, who became my best friend during my years there. And on the business side of the bar were men like this one, recognizable in any city anywhere. (1995)
Since 1900 in Malvern, Pa.
Winter sun is tricky. I used to live in this little town back when I was 17. I was an apprentice at a nearby theater company, building sets, hanging stage lights, and growing up. There used to be industry here, and the fabled Main Line rumbles through on tracks not far outside the frame. It was almost entirely asleep when I lived there. It has since awoken with chic little stores for those in quilted barn jackets and Range Rovers who amble up and down King Street and return to little jewels like this. (2018)
Searching, Nantes, France
(2017)
Heron Crest Studios, Aston, Pa.
Trout to the left This blog was resurrected in part because of the yearlong project that involved scanning and cataloguing every photo I ever took. (It was supposed to be a three-month project, but, yeah.) It was all done here in Aston, Pa., down the road from where I used to live, at an artists’ studio complex. My neighbors in the converted mill were real artists. I am not.
A year in this light. So, I spent my weekends in this room, from cold to heat to cold, from football to baseball, reliving my life. This was taken on the day I left. (2017)
