The day is Saturday and my phone alarm is screaming. It's vibrating furiously crawling away from the table, trying it's very best to drop to the floor and escape my desperate attempt to shut it. It's time to wake up and head out to shoot sunrise. I grab everything that's laid out on the table, glance at the MTA last minute changes and run outside, it will take me two hours to reach Coney Island.
I get a lot of people tagging models and photographers in my Instagram. Like a night fox, they drop someone's name in my feed and then promptly disappear, never saying a word and never hearing from them again. I've always been conflicted on how to react to this.
I've spent the last ten years of my life doing mostly nude photography. Last I checked, I have well over 2 million shutter presses and over 400 thousand photos saved on my numerous hard drives. In this time I've seen a lot of naked bodies. It's a privilege to see humans drop their pretenses along with their clothes and embrace their vulnerabilities.
Two days ago on 9/11 I read an article prophecizing the arrival of an aurora borealis near NY. As someone who lived in the caribbean for most of their life, these lights and their dance is the stuff of dreams.