Two months ago, I lived in the city of bridges (eight to be exact) and three months from now, I will live there again. That's why I thought it was odd that this weekend as I meandered through the pockets of Brooklyn, the only pictures I took were of bridges.
Not once did I pick up my camera when I walked down tree-lined Greenpoint, much like Portland's Mississippi Avenue, crowded with patios of young people nibbling on eggs florentine; or when I stared up at the rows of brownstones in Fort Greene, an east coast version of my Nob Hill neighborhood with mismatched walkups stretched out from the sidewalk; or when I perused the Dumbo flea market, housed in a stone archway between contemporary art galleries, like the Pearl. Instead, I never lost sight of the Brooklyn Bridge from the moment I got off the train in Brooklyn Heights to when I trotted downhill to the flea market toward the water. That was when I finally took out my camera, mesmerized by the sheer heft of its foundation, the gothic detail of its towers--confident, grandiose, storied--its suspension stringent yet dipped in feminine curve. As I turned away to head home, that's when I realized I hadn't stopped to capture anything else all day.
After I got back on the train and navigated my way through closed stations and repaired lines, and arrived at my sublet, where I walked past my roommates who are practically strangers, I went into my room, painted the brightest of blue days, and downloaded my pictures.
Suddenly, the bridges seemed quite fitting.
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