Sometime in July or August 2001, my parents took a quick trip to New York City. Ever since my first visit, when I was 13 years old, we loved going up there to visit. Before September 11, 2001, I must have visited at least 5 times. I swore to myself that one day I would live there. I would be a hip Manhattanite walking amidst skyscrapers with my best black power suit, pushing silly tourists out of my way. The more I visited, the more torturous it became that I did not live there. Then, the last time I was up there, I said I would never return unless it was to live there.
It never happened.
NYC and I just grew apart. I realized I was more of a West Coast person than an East Coast person. It was an unspoken breakup, like two people just slowly growing apart. There was no drama and no fights, just an abyss of time and distance. Words about 9/11, I have none to add — instead I have images of a grand love affair, the more poignant of which was taken by my father in the evening of a summer day in 2001, as his plane approached La Guardia Airport.
People and landscapes change, and they end. And all you have left are images of an evening or day, recorded in some way — in a photo or a memory. Take a second and record them, because you might want to remember them when they’re gone. And there’s a chance that sooner, rather than later, they will be.
P.S. My dad wants me to mention that the photo was taken with a Canon AV-1 film camera with a 1.4 – 50mm lens.