Yesterday, I had the great opportunity to trek all over the city in search for the best places to shoot great street and landscape photography with a representative of a major tech company that is launching a new location-based photo app soon in three cities including NYC, Seattle and San Francisco and they asked me to be the lead photography adviser for our great city.
Thus, all day yesterday, from 7 AM until 8 PM, we traversed as much of this magnificent metropolis as was possible before our soles ached and our memory cards were overflowing with pictures that prove that New York City is the absolute best pace for photography in the world.
If you are interested, I posted map of many of the spots we hit: Lorenzo’s List of the Top 25 Hot Spots for Photography in New York City.
Happy Photo Trekking,
Lorenzo
Check out the #1 Photo Essay on Amazon.com for 2010!
25 Lessons I’ve Learned about photography Life!
The famous psychiatrist, Dr. Karl Menninger said, “Attitudes are more important than facts.” That is worth repeating until its truth grips you. Any fact facing us, however difficult, even seemingly hopeless, is not so important as out attitude toward the fact. How you think about a fact may defeat you before you ever do anything about it. You may permit a fact to overwhelm you mentally before you start to deal with it actually. On the other hand, a confident and optimistic thought pattern can modify or overcome the fact altogether.
Norman Vincent Peale, The Power of Positive Thinking
I thought I’d put in a plug for one of my best friend’s work. He’s a producer at NBC Dateline and on Monday night one of his shows premiered on TV to rave reviews (see comments on Rayner’s blog).
It can now be seen online on MSNBC.com.
As the following article denotes, the redemption of an innocent man, imprisoned for 22 years, and the capturing of the real Bike Path Rapist, highlighted the notion that Buffalo, with a population of over 275,000, is actually a small town, that is getting smaller.
It is ever-shrinking, not only in the sense that since 1950 Buffalo’s population has diminished as its industrial base declined—in the last 7 years alone, almost 6% of its people have moved elsewhere—but also in the more dramatic light that this investigation shined on the fact that many people had everyday, seemingly quite provincial connections with the serial rapist and killer of three.
Needless to say, this gave those involved a poignant sense that—indeed, it is a small world after all.
Strangely enough, this it’s-a-small-world-in-Buffalo phenomena hit home for me this past summer as well.
For while Rayner was in the throes of his investigative journalism on the case, unbeknownst to him, it so happened that I was dating a law student from Buffalo, who was in New York City for an internship.
One evening, fresh from one of his trips to Buffalo, which is 6 hours and 400 miles north of New York City, Rayner stopped by my apartment for a visit.
It so happened that Becca was visiting too, and so when I mentioned that she was from Buffalo, his eyes popped open and he was suddenly inspired to ask her if she happened to know the woman he had just started dating—the woman who would eventually move to New York City from Buffalo and become his live-in girlfriend, the woman who I would come to consider a good friend and who would eventually end up working directly across the street from me on Park Avenue, the woman with whom I would share our television debut, the woman who was a photographer and a fire dancer….
Becca smiled and immediately said, “Yes, you mean Karen? She used to live in the apartment directly above me…”
Needless to say, I too have come to believe that indeed—it is a small world after all.
On The Trail of The Bike Path Rapist
by Rayner Ramirez
One of the safest towns in America reignites a cold case that haunted police for decades after the mysterious killing of a middle class professor's wife and mother of four. Keith Morrison travels to Buffalo, N.Y. to report on the death of Joan Diver and the possible return of the town's "bike path rapist," Dateline
Buffalo, NY: The City of Good Neighbors is "not a small town, but a big room with a large couch." Local historian Bill Zimmerman says that it’s the type of town where everyone knows everyone -- or soon will. From my experience working on this story Buffalo truly is a city of good neighbors.
Perhaps one of the strangest coincidences in this story that reflects Buffalo’s small town feel is that Anthony Capozzi’s sister Pam Guenther attended the same high school only a couple of years behind Altemio Sanchez.
The multi-agency task force was made up of more than a dozen investigators; each brought with them their own personal history of the legendary bike path rapist.
Bike Path Rapist Take Force at Niagara Square, Buffalo, NY
Chief Scott Patronik from the Erie County Sheriff’s Department grew up with Detective Lissa Redmond who happened to attend the same high school as one of Altemio Sanchez’ rape victims.
State Police Captain Captain Steven Nigrelli’s father was a Sergeant in the Buffalo Police Department and his uncle was an investigator on the bike path rapist’s second murder victim.
Amherst Police Detective Joseph LaCorte was on patrol when Linda Yalem was killed in 1990 and has continued to work on the case since.
The tragic killing of Joan Diver, mother of four, brought the four agencies together four agencies -- the Amherst Police Department, the Buffalo Police Department, Erie County Sherriff's Department and the New York State Police. With the advent of modern-day DNA technology identifying the assailant's genetic make up as possibly Hispanic and the unprecedented cooperation and information-sharing between the agencies, the 20-year-old cold case was solved quickly.
Within two months of the formation of the task force, the suspect and admitted bike path rapist and killer was apprehended.
Many of the investigators consider this the best case of their career, not simply for solving a case but also for the silver lining of the investigation: the exoneration of Anthony Capozzi, wrongly imprisoned for more than 22 years.
Detective Dennis Delano (left) with Anthony Capozzi at a party to celebrate his release
As Detective Alan Rozansky said "I told my kids, I’ve been here 36 years. You'll hardly remember who I arrested. But you remember the one person that was innocent that got out because of our police work."
A party to celebrate Anthony Capozzi’s release was thrown by the very same restaurant where Sanchez had dinner with his wife and where investigators collected the glass and napkin that yielded DNA evidence that linked Sanchez to nine rapes and three murders.
In the end, Altemio Sanchez apologized for his crimes at his sentencing. He is serving 75 years but that brings no comfort to his victims or the children who will grow up without their mother.
A few days ago my estranged wife handed me a photo of me and hizoner, the honorable David Dinkins, former mayor of New York City, which she had come across while sorting through papers.
It was taken 15 years ago when we were in grad school together at Columbia, immediately after I had interviewed him on stage as part of an event that I had organized for my colleagues. I didn’t give the picture much of a second thought, putting it aside, inside my current read, The Divorce Process: Empowerment Through Knowledge, to use as a book marker.
At least, I didn’t think twice about it until Dom started reading the book that I had left on the couch, and upon finding the photo again, asked, “Is he dead yet?” or maybe she asked, “Is he still alive?” I’m not really sure, to be honest, how she asked exactly, but I do know that she essentially insinuated either way that she thought he wasn’t around anymore.
I think he still is, I answered.
Subsequently, this prompted me to ponder my own existence. As I am turning 40 in about 10 days, on Thanksgiving. Contemplating her question, I was somewhat shocked into consciousness about my own age, something that I am not usually all-too self-conscious about.
However, as I took a look at the photo again, it suddenly occurred to me that this was me 15 years ago, the thought resounding within me, echoing and piquing me to assess how time has exacted its toll upon me.
I suppose I’ve survived its wrath fairly well—I still have all my teeth, I haven’t started using a cane, and I’m still riled by desire practically every day.
However, I have gained some weight, keeping it off is an ongoing endeavor, the application of which fluctuates with the tide of life’s demands.
I don’t run as much as I used to, but I think that is primarily because I’ve picked up a number of vices over the last 15 years.
And occasionally I have problems that I have to deal with that slow me down and get me bickering more than I care to admit—heel spurs, back aches, asthma.
Nonetheless and allthemore, I am still alive, and perhaps, a bit wiser than I was 15 years ago.
I am beginning to understand the differences between the thrashing exuberance of youth and the calmer take on life that comes with age and experience.
I am beginning to see the follies of maturity as well, in turn embracing and being inspired by the courage and curiosity of my children.
I am beginning to envision the end and in turn thinking about how I should begin preparing for it—Do I want to fall or roll downward? And if I choose the latter, am I willing to pull back on the reins of the frantic fears of my middle age?
I am beginning to realize what matters most to me is what has long mattered most to me: it is immaterial and will not be considered an asset when it comes time to file for divorce.
I am beginning to learn that I shouldn’t work so hard at those things that will prove irrelevant in the end and to work smarter at those endeavors that will.
I am beginning to know how to let go, especially as things and plans and people unexpectedly perish and no longer take part in our lives.
I am beginning to face adversity with a smile and a grin, more often than with a furrowed brow, tightened fists and chagrin—for life is only as hard as you want it to be.
I am beginning to feel calm among the storms, each one becoming slightly easier to weather, knowing I’ve been through it all before.
I am beginning to understand others more and more; thus, increasingly wanting to know less and less—subsequently, solitude and I are becoming best of friends.
And, I find, that truly, I am beginning to enjoy my life more than ever before.
*
Oh, and by the way, I checked: David Dinkins still lives. He turned twice my age (i.e. 80) this last July.
Thank you Triborough for sharing the photo above of Bill McCreary, David Dinkins, and John Roland taken in March of this year.
He reports that according to the Gothamist, Dinkins just had his appendix removed a few weeks ago.
Guess I’m doomed, considering I had mine removed long before him, at the age of 32, on Valentine’s Day 1999.
*
Forthcoming! 25 Lessons: The Art of Living, to be published by Cyan Books in February 2008.
Until then, I’m happy to share with you the original 25 musings.
To Live, Hope, Survive, and Breath in New York City
Although I love taking photos for many-many reasons, the one thing I lament about this medium is that there are a million sensations that we miss that are vital to the experience that is otherwise only visually-captured by each photo.
This is especially true in New York City, where you are often overwhelmed by the clamor, the putrescence, and the grit of city life. As a result, you tend to shut yourself off from all this in order to endure.
Unfortunately, as quintessential as plugging in your iPod may be to survival in the great Cosmos, many great and wonderful things are missed as a result of tuning out. Because if you can tolerate the hustle and bustle, the noise and the general chagrin of every stranger that glares at you, the experience can be quite magical.
This morning for instance, while riding the train to work, I experienced the following attack to my senses:
·The suffocating overdose of Old Spice wafting in waves from the big guy in front of me;
·The instant-reeling, that not-so-pleasant vertigo feeling, that overcame me when 2-hour old coffee breath rolled over my shoulder like the eerie fog from a horror movie.
·The trickle of sweat sliding down my back due to disparity between the MTA’s attempt at temperature control and Mother Nature’s control over the Earth—for although I was smiling while I zipped in the plush liner into my winter coat this morning and I broke out those new leather gloves because the weather-guy blurted “It’s colllld out there!,” the Metropolitan Transit Authority apparently wasn’t listening. And so I ended up going from a cozy bundled-up 40 degrees to a crowded 80 degrees and-getting-hotter on the rush-hour train;
·And most titillating, was the flutter of endorphins triggered by long lashes, light eyes and a seductively-shy smile from across the car.
This small-small sample of what we miss when we merely look at the photos is why I love writing as often as possible about what I hear, smell, touch and feel when taking photos on the streets of New York; writing allows me to fill in the important details, the sine-qua-non of the true metropolitan experience. And this is why I have tried to make it an essential element of my particular brand of photography.
Thus, I am grateful to all those who take the extra time to read these complementary little musings of mine. And I hope that from the little that I offer that you can divine a part of what it is like to live, hope, survive, and breath in New York City.
Some day I hope to return to my beloved California, so that I may document much as I have done here. For it is a wholly different experience to live, breath, shine and languor in the Sunshine State.
“Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. Travel.” ~ Mary Schmich, Columnist, Chicago Tribune
