Shooting strangers. For photography sake.
Photographing strangers. That's a no for me.
Trying to explain a subject I barely understood was like navigating the Colorado river without a map—what could go wrong?
When it came to street photography, my understanding was pieced together from YouTube videos and doom-scrolling Instagram.
I brought it up to a friend—Mill Ave came into the conversation. She suggested it might be a good place to dip my toes in.
Fuck it—what could I lose?
The S-10 was packed and ready to go.
Weaving in and out of traffic like Speed Racer, I made it there faster than expected.
Surprisingly—because, usually I take notes from that one Kanye West song—“And just drive slow, homie.”
Navigating my way through a maze of drunken college kids—the air thick with Natty Ice and cotton-candy scented clouds.
My first thought: What the hell am I doing here?
My second thought: I can’t recollect.
Like a moth to the zapper, I made my way down to the neon lights.
The sidewalks were empty—that’s where I needed to be.
Once I saw it, I started to lip-sync:
“I just want to break you down so badly... in the worst way.”
