My dad has visited New York City several times. I tried to get him to bring the city to life by speaking of his times there, but he offered just one scene to represent the whole. He told me that he attended a Catholic Mass in the basement of a Brooklyn brownstone. On a mantel behind the altar, someone had left a copy of Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell, and that album stood in its full 12″ glory for the entire service. Dad said that it seemed as if he was only one there who noticed it.
Several years ago, both my mom and dad planned to make a trip to New York, and I asked to go along. I was between jobs and hoped the trip would provide ample opportunities for street photography, which was a hobby of mine at the time. Once we were there, I was hardly able to stop long enough to take many pictures.
Reams of paper and miles of film have been devoted to capturing life in this city, but there is no substitute knowing what reality is like there. What kind of reality would produce the highest concentration on earth of those who live off their imaginations? The only way to know New York is to be there.