Room 512
The curtains swayed with the draft from the old window frame. Somewhere on the Tribeca streets below, a horn dragged itself like a tired animal. Jeremy stood near the edge of the bed, half-shadowed, watching me unpack my camera with the careful curiosity of someone deciding whether to trust a stranger.
I remember thinking how New York has a way of creating intimacy quickly. Two people can meet in a lobby and, an hour later, be speaking in whispers beside an unmade bed as if they have known each other for years. Maybe it’s the vertical closeness of the city? Millions of lives stacked on top of one another leaves no room for distance.
We talked alot. There were no awkward pauses and no performance either of us seemed interested in maintaining. He spoke openly about his life and I found myself telling him things too. It stopped feeling like a photoshoot surprisingly quickly. It felt like the beginning of a friendship.
When he undressed, it wasn’t theatrical. Just honest. He stopped posing and simply existed in front of me. He was thoughtful, open, occasionally shy, and occasionally playful. I lowered the camera more than once just because I was enjoying the conversation too much to interrupt it with another shutter click.
I remember his handsome body against the rumpled sheets of my hotel bed, and how he glowed effortlessly. I hope these pictures capture even half of that.
