Holly Northrop Blog

I just love the general oddness's and flukes that can happen within roughly a one-block radius in Manhattan. Sometimes it is as though a whole day is contained with in an hour.

Last Wednesday I stumbled upon the tired old bones of the Cheyenne Diner on 9th and W.33rd street located across the street from B&H. I was just up there in the spring when it was open, and at that time, it looked just like any other railroad type diner in Manhattan. So as I was walking across 33rd not only did I notice that the door was oddly propped open, it appeared that the building was in the midst of demolition.

I asked if I could come in and photograph it. They didn't care one bit. I wasn't able to poke around as much as I would have liked but I think I might have a few shots that are pretty interesting. At least right now in my head they are interesting, we'll see what happens when I develop the film. One guy mentioned to me that the Diner was moving over to Brooklyn. Probably Williamsburg in some bastardization of hipsterness.

Right after shooting ½ a roll at the Cheyenne I walk further down 33rd to Saint Michael's Academy where I shot a super weird photo of an all white Jesus. While walking near AP I was almost hit by Lincoln Tunnel traffic because I was too busy gawking at all the folks standing around outside smoking. At first I thought they were having a fire drill or something. We used to have them all the Voice. Stupid things. I'd usually walk out and go to lunch although many folks would just stand in the street, stare up at the building and wait to go back in. After studying the Associate Press folks for a few minutes I realized they were all on a break. Further along the road, (technically ½ a block down on 34th street) as I was shooting the New Yorker sign I looked down and saw someone I used to work with at the Voice.

We both looked at each other and smiled that big happy-to-see-you smile. "I was just standing there when out of the corner of my eye I saw this fuzzy red-headed chick with a camera pointed up at the sky and I thought to myself, NO WAY!"

Good to see good people and I do miss working with good people.

"I'm moving back to Greece. I'm keeping my apartment though, sublet it out I tell ya. That landlord can kiss my ass I tell ya, fuck him." —Greek diner on 23rd

The Horizon 202 Camera is officially back in the hands of the owner. He was to use it over the weekend and report to me how it's working. I'm just glad it's no longer around me. I didn't even want to hand it back to him, instead I displayed it on the center of the kitchen table. If I would have had a cake plate I would have put it on that. The technical report of what all was wrong with it: (Said in heavy Russian accent with a slight shaking of the head ending with a small puckering of the lips.)

"It was all screwed up. Berry, berry bad."

Every now and then, I remember that instead of wandering aimlessly around New York, there is stuff I want to do instead. I managed to see the When Color was New Show at the Julie Saul Gallery. As side from the rudeness of a Chelsea Gallery, the show was motivating in so many ways. Photography is luck, lighting and timing. I stood in front of one the most inspiring photos that I've ever seen. There are three things that work together perfectly with this shot.

The man is staring out into infinity with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. The woman is looking at her wedding ring. There is a plate of white bread with a few pads of butter around the edges.

Man. Woman. Butter. Perfect.

The whole show was encouraging and many of the prints I've seen before in publications here and there. A few of them are in postcard form hanging in my studio. Just a subliminal reminder to myself that I need to look around more when I'm out shooting. Every shot is there, I just have to see it.

I got into an argument with a neighbor about noise. Now to be fair, his timing sucked for I wasn't really furious at him, (that's a whole OTHER story) but he took the brunt of my anger.

He and his fat fuck of a buddy were working on a car across the street. They had a volume control issue with their voices, deciding to shout normal conversation at each other while standing only two feet apart. After about 15 minutes of that horseshit I walked out of the house and across the street where I, in a rather calm tone, asked them if they could stop shouting at each other. No big thing right? Well while walking back to the house, the fatter one, started trash talking me the minute I was behind the hedge line, only he's an ass see, and he trash talked me loudly.

I turned right around, marched across the street, and got all up in their faces. I stood there sandwiched between too rather large and bulbous bellies with a combined weight of well over 400 lbs, bitching at both of them for saying shit behind my back. According to Martha, who by now was standing on our front stoop, I called one guy a jackass. I do remember being in his face and pointing a finger at him so it is of no real surprise that the words, "Listen here Jackass," came out of my mouth. But really isn't that just my way of making friends?