New York City manufactures desire, and I am drawn to the shadow that desire casts. Midtown Manhattan, like the suburban shopping malls it inspired (and then, perversely, was made to emulate with Times Square’s “revitalization”) is a wonder of built-in dysfunction. It admits as much in all of its sensory overload: It will sell you anything, because it really has nothing, save an ability to sell. I completely agree with many tourists’ breathless first impression of the place: it’s the most thoroughly American space I’ve ever seen. The tourists and I may not, however, agree on just what that implies, and for all the shadows I capture, it’s those bright spots–the illuminated bits of humanity lost in the cacophony–that interest me.

Our subconscious anxiety over our empire’s decline bubbles to the surface in the form of ever-grander spectacle, yet what could be more tedious than to be excited all the time? One need not necessarily play along with the charade, accept the desire to enjoy as a substitute for actual enjoyment, or force a smile in our 300-million-person family portrait. For some, it is just as easy to intentionally disregard this constructed reality–a protest that refuses even to acknowledge the dialectical reality that Midtown (and America) insist is truth–to read a book on the library steps.

Most of these pictures were taken during breaks when I was working in Midtown. Some are the result of having my camera out at just the right time, while others required hours on a street corner, waiting for the light and the people and the background to converge in just the right way, shooting roll after roll of almost-right pictures. They were shot with a film Rangefinder from the 1960s; its small size and quiet shutter allow for relative inconspicuousness. The images themselves are an entirely candid impression of reality, but what I’ve chosen to present here embodies an entirely personal experience.