A dispatch from the streets before the coffee shops open — when the city still belongs to the pigeons and the night-shift workers.
There is a version of this neighbourhood that most people never see. It exists between four and six in the morning, after the bars have closed and before the dog walkers arrive. The sidewalks hold a different kind of quiet then — not peaceful exactly, but honest.
I started bringing a camera. Not to document anything in particular, but to learn how to look again. To trade the habit of glancing for the discipline of seeing.
▲ Early morning, 17th Avenue. Photograph by the Editor.
A love letter to incidental beauty and the kind of place that refuses to become a condo.
What it means to be a regular in a place that keeps reinventing itself season after season.
Results will vary. That is the entire recommendation.
A long essay about a city most people treat as a stopover — and why that misses something essential about the light here in October.
People who live here often apologize for the city before you've had a chance to form your own opinion. It's a reflex — a kind of pre-emptive embarrassment. I used to do it too, until I started walking with a camera instead of walking toward somewhere.
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An ode to the shops that still arrange things with intention.
Forty-eight frames from the places nobody photographs on purpose.
Some rolls sit in a drawer for months before you develop them. This was one of those.
Results: mostly fine. Camera: also mostly fine.
An accumulation of small observations, some of which turned into something.
Sharpness is a technical value. It is not the same thing as meaning.
There are eleven bridges I have visited after midnight. Here are the best seven.
A brief and slightly sentimental history of developing film by hand.