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This Is The View From Starve Hollow Road

Jesse Pesta
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  • Storytelling

Five Dollars

Why the Knitted Brow?

April 20, 2016

A few weeks ago, walking through one of New York City’s more antiseptic gentrifying neighborhoods, I was spotted on the street by a pal. He saw me -- I didn’t see him -- most likely because I was stupefied by some or other example of outré street art. Maybe it was a chain-link fence covered in large-scale knitting. You know, something you’d never expect to see knitted, except for all the previous things you’ve seen knitted.

Heartbeat

We exchanged hellos and then he asked: “Where’s your camera?”

Busted.

I’ve slipped into the habit of not carrying a camera everywhere. The reason for that is bad -- the onset of a drowsy, I’ve-seen-a-few-things attitude, combined with the mindset that New York is overplayed, maybe just a little.

That’s pretty apathetic! I think you’ll agree.

Umbrrella Woman

By the way, here’s an idea for a little project for someone: Walk the city with your camera, photographing graffiti. But don’t just photograph graffiti because everybody’s already doing that, obviously. Instead, photograph the people photographing the graffiti. A diligent shooter can have a formidable body of work by brunchtime.

That’s what I mean by overplayed, and by my own bad attitude.

1945

So I’d like to thank a friend, the writer Laura Holson, for suggesting something over the weekend that I wouldn’t normally do. Once in a while she gathers a few people to spend an hour walking around with their cameras. Then, they get a beer to look at what they got. 

Her idea is simple, to attack the day from a different angle. Off we went.

We chose the most stereotypical place in NYC for such an activity, namely Chinatown. In fact, I suggested Chinatown because I had an idea: I’d keep an eye out for tourists taking Chinatown photos, and maybe catch them in the act. It would make a silly commentary on something, right? 

The three of us split up, agreeing to meet in an hour in front of Excellent Dumpling House. 

You know where this is going. Fifteen minutes later and a half-dozen blocks away, I turned and spotted one of my let’s-shoot-Chinatown friends in the distance. Guess what she was doing? Yes, she was photographing Chinatown. 

Checker Coat

And with that, what I should’ve known from the outset became brutally clear -- this idea of mine was rather disagreeable. I was trying to have a little fun at the expense of supposed out-of-towners. Aren't they cute, taking their snaps? But I wouldn’t want to have fun at the expense of my friend. So why at the expense of these other people?

I mean, what if someone happened to be photographing me like that? Which, of course, would make that person a photographer photographing people, photographing people, photographing people in Chinatown. The mind boggles. 

Thinking

But the point is, snickering is easy, and that would be snickering, and who wants to be a snickerer or a snickeree? Here’s a noble idea: Let’s try not laughing at people. One of my favorite bits of advice for reporters trying to write WSJ A-heds (the funny stories) is, write it to feel like we’re laughing along with the people in your story, not laughing at them.  Life’s better when you’re in on the joke. 

So this is some of what I shot on Saturday during an hour of wandering around Chinatown, looking forward to a beer. An hour isn’t quite enough time, so some of these images fall back on familiar ideas. Eyes in a taxi mirror will have been seen before, to name one. 

Not everything needs to be new, is my excuse. It’s okay to knit a chain link fence today if you enjoyed knitting a stripped car yesterday.

Heena under the bridge.

Message In a Bottle

February 17, 2016

This piece about the men who live under a bridge, next to a holy river, and dive for coins is one of my favorites. It published about a year ago, which is why it comes to mind today. 

After it published, something nice happened. A reader wrote to ask me how to contact the little girl in the story -- Heena, the daughter of one of the coin divers. “My daughter is six as well,” he explained, and he wanted to help her write a letter to the girl under the bridge. 

One diver’s morning take from the river.

It was tricky to work out a mailing address for the coin divers. They don’t, strictly speaking, have an address, seeing as they live under a bridge. The rains come, the water rises, the coin divers move. Might just as well try sending a message in a bottle. We managed to find a place near the bridge that would accept parcels on their behalf.  

Months later, I wrote back to the reader to ask if his daughter had penned that letter. Unfortunately, no, he said. Life had intervened.

But he still hoped to do so. The story of the divers had made an impression on him, he said, although he confessed: “I don’t know why.” 

I have my suspicions why. To say that the coin divers lead lives unlike our own is an understatement. But the differences only amplify the delight at seeing what we share -- the sense of humor, the hopes for the next generation, a certain unflappability. So maybe the reader saw a reflection of his own daughter in this unexpected place. Maybe he saw himself. 

Welcome! The project you’re visiting, “This Is the View From Starve Hollow Road,” is about photography and storytelling. It’s named for the place where I grew up.

My day job is at The New York Times, where I’m an editor with an emphasis on storytelling and special projects. Before that, I wrote about South Asia and did other things too. If you’d like more details, please visit JessePesta.com.

Everything here is copyright Jesse Pesta, all rights reserved. 

I’m reachable at jesse (at) jessepesta.com. Thank you.

  • 2016
    • Apr 20, 2016 Why the Knitted Brow? Apr 20, 2016
    • Feb 17, 2016 Message In a Bottle Feb 17, 2016
  • 2015
    • Sep 18, 2015 The Toaster Iron Sep 18, 2015
    • Aug 4, 2015 Fresh Adventure! Aug 4, 2015
    • Apr 29, 2015 ‘Waiting For That Cut’ Apr 29, 2015
  • 2014
    • Nov 16, 2014 Those Times You Need a Key Nov 16, 2014
    • Mar 2, 2014 Gunshot Mailbox Mar 2, 2014
    • Jan 1, 2014 Looking Up the Road Jan 1, 2014