When this whole thing started—three weeks ago for us—I had resolved to take a two-hour long walk every day. I did that twice: from the East side to the West side of Manhattan. It was extremely satisfying, not only because of the walk’s geometric symmetry, but also because my leg muscles were aching, a confirmation that my body was still there.
As the isolation measures got more stringent, my outdoor expeditions dwindled to half-hour walks. Now I’m content with a walk around the block, if I muster the strength to venture out.
In all these walks, long or short, I set out to photograph a silently encroaching aspect of the New York City street landscape: discarded latex gloves. Some gloves are frozen in shape, almost perfect moulds of the hands that wore them. Others are shaped out of recognition by the weight of a car or truck’s tires. Like a photograph, they are traces of presence. They are the ghosts of New York City. And yes, they are also reminders of how grimy the city can get.
Here’s a small sample.
Argyro Nicolaou
Argyro Nicolaou
Argyro Nicolaou
Argyro Nicolaou