Features

On one rainy day, I stumbled through the most non-neighborhood neighborhood in the middle of Manhattan. Amongst the hotdog stands, bike lanes, and commercial buildings, a funeral of a slain police officer stops me dead in my tracks; the sound of the water sizzling on the mufflers of police officers' motorcycles fills the air. A boxy, monochromatic glass museum greets me as I cut through the rows of mourning officers. Since I am an art student, admission is free — this is both a gift and a curse. The price tag of a ticket brings value, and with every empty-pocketed visit to this museum, the more I take this museum for granted. I cut through the crowds and the countless masterpieces, but what stops me dead in my tracks — like the police funeral — is this relatively small, inconsequential, and untitled photograph of an unknown street corner in 1957. 

As an ominous, crimson red light showers the unknown street, it sets the mood for the night: sin. Where was Gordon Parks this night as he photographed these unsuspecting evening patrons? Was he in New York? Was he in Chicago? Perhaps, it does not matter. Every city has a mysterious and electric corner like the one photographed here, one that emanates a dim flicker of light, a signal to the citizens of the town that the city is, in fact, still alive. This vital sign comes from the curvy, foggy signage that vibrantly displays the word "LIQUORS" and illuminates the people, along with the harsh, hazy white flash of the corner store's interior lighting, which shines through its window. Along with the signs are the stoplights looming over the people’s heads, a constant reminder of authority. Although the red glow of the stoplight glows brighter, the night that surrounds it grows darker, and the sheer power the light once commanded becomes a mere suggestion to the “patrons” of the night. 

These “patrons” or night owls stand physically close, but they are in a world of their own and soon will fade away into their own little stories, just like the vintage, rounded cars that line the side of the road, whose color fades into the black night. Perhaps that is what the man wearing a hat and the tucked-in shirt with his hands behind his back wants —to fade into obscurity. What about the other individuals beside him? Do they want to escape? Or maybe they're just getting milk from the corner store, or just maybe they want to do something dirtier, like the cigarette-stained asphalt they occupy. Perhaps they do not know what they want, and what more us, the spectators scrutinizing them from behind. I suppose Gordon Parks — like the rest of us, nigh owls and voyeurs alike — are lost in an indiscernible yet recognizable cityscape, chasing something that is now long gone, closed, like the businesses surrounding the corner store. We, the people, have nothing but our thoughts, the store’s vices, and the thick city atmosphere comprised of subway steam, sin, and sorrow — the human way, the only way. 

The photograph is a captured moment in time; it is unchanging and consistent, like Mark Doty’s favorite painting in The MET, another institution of a prominent seedy city. When he wrote about his favorite still life, he said, “These are resolutely still, immutable, poised for a forward movement that will never occur.” (Page 18) Like the food, the night owls are poised for a forward movement that will never occur, forever resolutely still and immutable. After the shutter of the camera and the development of the film, they will still occupy that same ominous, crimson red, indiscernible, yet recognizable city corner for what else can they do but to stand and wait or to go on a wild chase, for something that is already gone. Can I blame them? Perhaps not, for I am looming around my corner store, thinking thoughts, chasing vignettes, when I know full well that she is gone, just like Mark Doty’s lover. I guess what remains is us: two lowly patrons, on our own street corners, poised for a forward movement that will sadly never occur. 

Ferman's critical essay won second prize in SVA's Annual Writing Contest in the spring of 2022. Ferman is a sophomore majoring in Film at the School of Visual Arts. A writer, director, and cinematographer, he is also the co-founder of the SVA screening club, which gives access to and opens up a dialogue with students about cinema. He also volunteers at Mono No Aware, a nonprofit organization and film-positive community working to promote connectivity through the tactile cinematic experience.