From the artist
I’m sitting on a bench at the Coney Island boardwalk, eating a cheap hot dog that has no right being as good as it is. I graduated a month earlier and I’m back in New York, jobless, painfully uncertain about my life’s direction, and spending my evenings wandering around and taking photos — one of the few things that makes me truly happy. I’m waiting for that illuminated twilight hour when the sun hasn’t quite given up on the day yet but building lights flicker on in an attempt to seize control. I’m considering whether to return back west for graduate school and pursue a career in what I love or to settle for the corporate New York grind when I notice that the natural and artificial light have reached that beautiful, transient compromise. I walk down the boardwalk snapping shots and being followed by that nagging and persistent voice telling me what I already know but don’t want to admit: that I’m not supposed to be here, pursuing a path that satisfies others but kills me inside. I reach the end of the boardwalk and turn around to shoot one last image of the sky, later finding that a seagull, flying west, had crossed my camera’s path.
