Erik Foss
byI’m back in my old neighborhood with stale memories stirring in my head. I trudge up a five-story walk-up on Houston and Suffolk on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.
I’m back in my old neighborhood with stale memories stirring in my head. I trudge up a five-story walk-up on Houston and Suffolk on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.
Maria crouches on her knees amid a tight grouping of brightly colored canvases. The walls around her explode with rainbows, pop culture references and glitter.
A hot breeze pushes across the road and dances through the cluster of ready-made works of art.
I’ve parked along a dirt road deep in the woods of northeastern Pennsylvania. I’m only about 150 miles from New York City, but I’m a world away.
I pull into Detroit’s Eastern Market after a long drive from New York. The hot summer sun bounces through the cobblestone streets that distinguish the neighborhood.
It’s 4:30 p.m. on a Thursday at a dive bar in Hamtramck, Michigan. Nobody is seeking anything.
It’s a dry winter morning in the far reaches of upper Manhattan. The pulse of the city slows as the temperature drops, and a patina of salt and frost dulls the hues of the streetscape.
Bushwick, a historically working-class neighborhood that is predominantly Hispanic, has hosted a flourishing artist population for decades.
From a production standpoint, Chip Flynn is an expert with fire. He doesn’t start the fires himself, of course, he has the robots he builds to do it for him.