Even in the dead of winter, the undergrounds of 57th and 7th Avenue are business as usual. Rush Hour in New York, far from having an allotted time, designates just about every hour of the day, to some kind of rush.
Not this particular morning.
Seizing this rarefied moment to slow down and set down my tripod, I juggled these shots in between oncoming and outgoing trains. And literally hopped between each of their platforms. And their concomitant drafts of wind approaching like a slap to the face. And I was probably en route to Barney’s.
For most people, the N’s, Q’s and R’s they catch do not make up their most memorable experiences of the city, I’m sure.
Echoing nothing more than a hot mess of coughed-up breaths, wet parkas and shuffling feet in a mad dash to escape the chilly vortex that is the subway’s entrance, I somehow grow fonder of each station every time I’m there.
The heady combination of crowds and a cold that penetrates three socks deep will do that to you.
Truthfully speaking, you’d have to be numb – although I’d forgive you through February – to go about your day without noticing the palpable energy coursing through New York City.
And through what better vein than the concentrated hoards of people and successive movements of trains on tracks to navigate one’s way to its very pulsating heart?
There are probably as many juxtapositions one could draw between fashion photography and subway stations as there are types of people you can come across between Canal Street and 57th and 7th Avenue.
But there are trains to catch, and people to meet.
Ain’t nobody got time for that.