behind the lines

On a recent trip to New York City, I found myself straddling the line between tourist and local. I was staying in a rented apartment on leafy 8th Avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I made my own coffee in the morning and ate bagels for breakfast. I went for a jog around Prospect Park. I took out the trash. I was a visitor to the city, circumnavigating its periphery via the many obvious tourist sites – the Rockefeller Centre, Central Park, MoMa and the Guggenheim – and yet at times I felt I had been let into its centre, that I was connected to the city. I remember striding confidently up the 2nd-Ave subway steps from the F train one morning to recognise a feeling of being at home. This came partly from the style of my accommodation, and from having friends in the city, who did an expert job of showing me around, and taking me into the city’s interior: that is, behind the lines of the tourist eye. We took in a movie at BAM on a Wednesday night. We ate Venezuelan in the East Village and rolled on to an unmarked bar accessible only through phone bookings. We went to a gig in our neighbourhood where a man sat with a lampshade on his lap and offered advice to the band. The band was dressed as sea life from Moby Dick. The pianist was a whale. I developed a good tipping relationship with my local café, built up a friendly banter, and drank soy lattes as if I were in Melbourne. Of course, when we went out and caught up with other Australian expats, the talk of visas and escaping the winter for a summer Xmas downunder was a reminder of the line between expat and local in the city that never sleeps.

Here are two shots, from the Brooklyn Bridge, and from the Museum of Art & Design through its vertical striped windows looking out on West 58th Street at the yellow taxis streaming beneath us. In these moments I was viewing the city from the outside, or perhaps from the inside out, positioned behind the lines, and peering keenly to see what I could find.