WCBA Vol I: The Beginnings

VOLUME I: THE BEGINNINGS

“We Could Be Anywhere, Volume I: The BEginnings,” is a body of work that represents us all,
no matter where we come from, what we believe in, or how we choose to define ourselves.
Centered around the themes of identity, indecision, overcoming, emotion, and truth, these works are not unique only to the characters and scenes through which these
stories were born from, but rather, to all of us.
A culmination of many years of my own growth, soul-searching, understanding, and vulnerability, these fifty pieces are but snapshots of fleeting moments that are now frozen in time.

With a written story to accompany each of the fifty pieces, the series aims to reach viewers in a meaningful and reflective way, circling the many questions, challenges, and
experiences each one of us faces on our own journeys every single day.
Thank you for being here with me as I take a step into the unknown.
This process has been deeply personal for me, and through it all,
I aim to bring myself closer to you, as I continue to overcome myself.

"We Could Be Anywhere, Volume I" launched on Nifty Gateway as a Series of fifty 1/1 NFTs on April 21st, 2022.

To view the sold-out Series in its entirety: Click HEre

To view works available on the marketplace: Click Here

To view the seven-piece physical series Accompanying this Digital volume: Click Here

Back to 'We Could Be Anywhere'

Rain or Shine

Night turned to day, and the sun began to shine down on the street, peeking through a hole in the clouds.
New York City, famous for its uniquely loud and consistent bustle, was still but fast asleep.
All that I could hear was conveniently all that I could see:
Clinks and clanks vibrated off of the surrounding buildings and echoed throughout the gridded streets, as his cart bounced along the bumpy, poorly patched-up concrete.
The sounds grew louder and louder, before an eerie silence fell again, as he had reached the corner of Prince Street and Greene Street, and set his cart down;
He was finally home. But, on this morning, much to his surprise, his regulars were nowhere to be found.
He momentarily abandoned his cart, and scanned the surrounding blocks for even a single hungry or thirsty soul.
Confused but accepting, he returned and succumbed to the cold, metal folding chair planted beside him under the umbrella.
Just as he sat, with his back to his cart, he saw me, perched up on the ledge of a storefront across the street.
We shared a brief nod and a wave, like we had exchanged many times over the years.
When I stood up to meet him, the sounds of the subway beneath us roared up through the ground.
A smile emerged and stretched widely across his face, as he nodded to me once more, this time, fulfilled.
But a few seconds passed, before one by one, they emerged, climbing the steps up from the subway underground.
In their suits, ties, and long dresses, his early-morning crowd walked over, lining up to meet him again for their shared, morning routine, just as he had hoped they would.
Every day, for years on end, he would be there waiting, no matter what, Rain Or Shine.

The Weekly Wager

Throughout the day, you could hear the shouts and the screams, as some doubled up on their wagers, while others gambled away their share.
I’ve watched them play the same games for years, yet I still haven’t come around to learning the rules.
Each day, the same familiar faces appear.
While some remain in the park for the entire day, others show up on their lunch break, or as they clock out from work.
What always attracts me most to Columbus Park is the understanding amongst the regulars.
They abide by an unspoken set of rules that each person follows loyally.
In all my visits, I was never taught the order of the park, but I’ve been learning through each transgression I make; Bring a camera by the game tables, and you’ll learn, too. Along the perimeter of the front of the park, the game tables are occupied exclusively by women, who often play in the shade, under the beach umbrellas that they bring and dig into the concrete. The women keep to a low volume verbally, but their gameplay is unmistakable— if you close your eyes, you can hear the distinct sound of their cards and tiles smacking against the cold, stone tabletops. They play gracefully, but aggressively, and if you let their quiet demeanor fool you, they’ll take you for every dollar you own. On the inside of the park, the game tables are occupied by men, often in droves. You can hear their celebrations, as well as their dismay, filling the surrounding streets of Chinatown. The competition is fierce, and at many times, personal; The men tend to play against each other, just as much as they play the game itself. On this particular Friday, all eyes were on the cook, as he wagered his week’s earnings, and attracted a crowd. I couldn’t tell if those around him were rooting for him or against him at the time, as they watched along, surrounding him in rare silence. To know the outcome of his wager, you’ll have to visit the park someday and ask the cook yourself, as I’ve divulged enough. There are many unwritten rules in Columbus Park, and I’ve already broken one by sharing this story here, of The Weekly Wager.

The Rally

I was walking along on my usual route, turning off of Mosco and onto Mulberry, making my way into the southern end of the park for what felt like the thousandth time. I’m awfully consistent in my Chinatown adventures, and I often find myself at Columbus Park, a place that has always been consistent in its offerings back to me: On any given day, the front of the park is occupied by card players and gamblers, while the back of the park is dominated by ball players and jungle-gym-kids scaling the playground. On this day, though, the basketball court was uncharacteristically deserted, and the ball players were nowhere to be seen. To fill the void, I found myself peeking through the fence that peered into the playground, on the hunt for a new adventure. Guided by the sounds of a single ping pong ball being whipped across the table between the paddles of two friendly opponents, I walked around to the other side of the fence, and found an empty bench to sit on, securing my front-row seat to the rally. They must have been friends, or perhaps they just didn’t care much about winning– The game they played was less focused on scoring points than it was about keeping the ball alive. What impressed me more than their dedication to the art of the rally, was their focus, and admittedly, I was quickly losing mine; In the thirty minutes that the two of them played, tens of children zoomed through the park in unpredictable circles and zigzags all around the table. As the kids raced around, the ping pong players never lost sight of the tiny, hollow, white ball, continuing their rally. My eyes kept on shifting with the movement in the playground, yet they repeatedly landed on the same point, no matter how hard I tried to keep my eyes on the ball, too. At the jungle gym, one boy was climbing the ladder in an endless loop: He would make his way to the platform at the top of the ladder, only to come back down on the spiraling slide, again, and again, and again. While the rest of the kids played together, he played by himself, and perhaps that’s why my heart kept forcing my eyes back on to him. Each time he made it back down to the bottom, he would look up above him to the top of the slide, as if he was waiting for a friend to follow him down— but he was all alone, and I think that he knew that, too. He would pause for a brief moment there, with his feet nearly touching the ground, and he’d let out a deep breath, before continuing on his journey yet again: He’d go back up the ladder, just to come back down the slide, again, and again, and again. When the ping pong players finally called it quits, I remained at the bench, watching him, sitting in my front-row seat to The Rally.

The Flowers That Sell Themselves

This man sells beautiful flowers, full of color and life. Yet, he doesn’t pick his head up, let alone, let it hang high. His eyes, never escape the concrete. His body, glued down to the crate. I stand behind him for a moment, waiting for a nod or a wave. As the people start coming, marching through, one by one. They begin to pick his flowers, and he has not a care in the world. I think about his story, as well as the one of him that I wove. I never see his eyes, my whole vision of him is my own blur: The flower man has some life, but I don’t think he has a dream. Maybe it’s all in my head, it can’t be as bad as it seems. The Flowers That Sell Themselves.

The Dark Would Turn To Light

She left the house a week ago, and he hadn’t left since. It wasn’t just the absence of her that kept him in their bed, but the fear and understanding that he’d have to relearn how to live. Again. Thirty three years. Twelve thousand and fifty three days. Endless memories that might not ever be experienced together again, that he knew would appear at the randomest times, as real as can be. With the shut of a door, what felt like a lifetime, vanished in a vacuum. Moments, Meals, Memories: Poof. Rambles, Rides, Rants: Poof. Life As He Knew It: Poof. Poof. Poof. A week had passed, and the newspapers were piling up against his door. The fridge was empty. His heart and his stomach, too. Blue pants, a gray shirt, and a hat that was wide enough to shield his face, not just from the sun that beamed through the clouds, but from everyone else, too. He wasn’t ready, and he knew it— but he also wondered, “Would I ever be?” He walked slowly down a few flights of stairs, one anxious step at a time, and made his way out into the world for the first time in a week: One hundred and sixty eight hours. Ten thousand and eighty minutes. All on the promise of what could be. Leaning against his cane, but a piece of wood and a rubber handle, keeping him from falling flat on the concrete. All because somewhere deep inside, he hoped: The Dark Would Turn To Light.

What You Fear

They met once again, on their bench to share a smoke. Dragging on the cigarette, that’s kept their friendship afloat. Once a week, for nearly twenty two years, two brothers, torn apart, work on a relationship that’s been shifting gears. Where one looked inside as a kid, and found himself with God, the other tried the same, but ended up thinking his brother a fraud. So as you can imagine, these days, they can’t seem to agree on very much, and when times get tough, they bear their weight on a different crutch. It took a long while, just for them to meet here. But each week, over a smoke, they try to make their broken past more clear. Their mother would tell you that her boys are two in the same, but she doesn’t see them sharing their cigarette, mending what’s left in pain. The question now is, how will they grow together, and who will they become, will they lean into their differences, or will they try to overcome? From the outside looking in, I see it all so crystal clear, it’s better to try, than to live in the reality of What You Fear.

Wash Away The Pain

When he was a kid, he was certain that he would be a chef. Now, instead, he delivers fruit to the restaurants that he thought he would one day run. As he’s grown older, he thinks about those dreams less. But he’d be lying if he said that those thoughts don’t ever creep up, one by one. At the end of each day, he stacks up empty boxes on his cart. And over the years, he’s mastered the task, balancing them into an ever-changing work of art. At first, this job was nothing more than a means to an end. It put food on the table, so what more was there to comprehend? What he never imagined was just how much this job would give to him, and if he had accomplished his dreams, perhaps being walled off in the kitchen would prove to be grim. So now, those hopes from the past simply didn’t matter as much, because he got to see with his eyes, the lives that he would touch. There wasn’t a kid in the neighborhood who didn’t know his name. It wasn’t a part of the plan, but now the fruit delivery man had his own local fame: For every Friday, the kids would line up by his truck, as they waited for a piece of fruit, which they knew he always snuck. Perhaps against his morals, but for all of the right reasons, one piece of fruit from each box, he’d take, no matter the season. Good or bad, how things went, his weeks would always end the same, he could trade some fruit for a smile, and Wash Away The Pain.

The Inner Circle

You could hear the whispers if you stood close enough, but stand too close, and you’ll be quickly shooed away. Anyone who frequents Columbus Park knows better than to try, but I still get closer in each visit, all the same. No one dares to truly interrupt, even though the tables are generally reserved for games. Some people look on in confusion, but those who know, glare over with a jealous gaze. Umbrellas lie haphazardly on the concrete, but they’re not as random as they may seem. They don’t serve just to shield from the sun, they’re there to block out curious people like me. Because inside there’s a meeting of the minds, a meeting that’s as secret as can be. I’ve spent years trying to figure it all out, but I often end up being forced into taking a seat. Each time in the past that I’ve pried, I’ve been reminded that it’s not my place to be. So I comply and sit on my bench from afar, watching The Inner Circle go on with its meet.

The Unplugged Keyboard

He tapped, and tapped, and tapped. Tapping away on the keys of a keyboard with no sound. He was putting on a show for an audience of none, and over time, I learned that he couldn’t care less about who was listening. Lost in a sea of old toys, kitchenware, clothing, and everything in between, the flea market salesman kept one hand hovering over the keyboard, while the other wrapped around the strap of a bag sitting at his feet. For a few days straight, I visited the same market, wondering if his performance was a one-off show that I was just lucky enough to witness. Each day, though, he was there. He sat in the exact same spot I left him at last, tapping away at those same keys of the keyboard with no sound. At first, I kept my distance. But each day, my curiosity grew, and I inched closer and closer, until one morning I finally found myself right in front of his table: “How much for the keyboard?” I mustered up the courage to ask, inquiring about an instrument that I was certain was broken, about an instrument which I didn’t even know how to play. He barely acknowledged my presence, let alone my question, but as I started to retreat, I heard his faint whisper and turned right back around. For the first time in days, his fingers stopped tapping on the keys, and he motioned for me to come closer. In broken English, he said, “Today, the keyboard isn’t for sale, but maybe tomorrow. I’m finishing my performance, and I still don’t know when it will end.” I smiled at him, and in his native Hebrew, I replied, “I’ll be back tomorrow,” although I knew that I’d never step foot in the market again. His concert of none, was now a concert of one. Who am I to take away the keys? The Unplugged Keyboard.

The Librarian

It takes an hour to load the van, another to drive into the city, and one more hour to set up shop. Day in, day out, the table is set, rain or shine, seven days a week, hundreds of books, organized row by row. A book for every person, a story for every feeling, and the librarian is the key to it all. It doesn’t matter much what you are hoping to find, because this isn’t just any library, and he isn’t just any librarian. In but a minute of conversation, he’ll have you all figured out. Each person who stops by his table to buy something to read, is read themselves, too. He has a knack for understanding, and this effortless way of letting you know: You ask for one book, but he gives you another. He acknowledges that it‘s not the book that you want, but rather the book that he knows you may need. In the most difficult times of his life, he found solace in the books that he read: In others’ stories, he could escape, in others’ stories, his own became more clear. So he took it upon himself to share those lessons with the world, one book at a time, giving people the chance to find clarity in their own stories, too. The Librarian.

Walk The Line

It’s been a long day and an even longer trek for the Simitci, who has been walking his route along the Bosphorus Strait for his entire life. When he was a kid, he would go to work with his father, who sold simit, just like his father before him, too. His day started when the sun came up, and he’d be at the bakery picking up a batch of simit for the first time at around seven in the morning. By noon, on most days, he’d be back again, and on the best of days, he’d have to stop there one more time to replenish his stock sometime before four in the afternoon. Evidently, today was a good day, as he had a full and fresh selection for sale when we crossed paths near Bebek; The sun was starting to set, and he still had another five miles to go back towards his home, near the bakery in Yenikoy where his day began nearly twelve hours ago. The life of a Simitci is often consistent, and his was no different: He’d sell simit to the same fishermen, the same grandmothers who sat on the same benches, and if he was lucky, to a few random visitors walking the Bosphorus Strait, like me. With one hand wrapped around the leg of his small selling table, he’d walk up and down the Strait multiple times a day, balancing the simit atop his head, looking for mouths to feed. For under a dollar, a simit was yours, and I was quick to grab a few from him as I peered out into the water. When I started walking towards the Bosphorus Bridge, he crossed me in the other direction, this time, with a few less simit atop his head, as he was beginning his journey back towards Yenikoy yet again. As the distance between us grew, I could still hear him shouting, “Taze Simit!” (Fresh Simit!) as he would Walk The Line, closing out one day and heading home to prepare for another.

The High Ground

Jerusalem is split into four quarters, and I couldn’t say for certain which one he hailed from. A city populated with Jews, Muslims, Christians, and many others, too, each of these communities have been finding their own ways to coexist together within the city walls. The air in Jerusalem is often filled with tension, marked distinctly by a long line of history, struggles, different religions, and varying ideologies. But you wouldn’t know it if you had been there in that moment, too. I spotted him from a ways away, as he had been kicking a soccer ball atop the infamous Jerusalem limestone pavers. With no one else in sight, he played on his own, keeping busy as the summer sun beat down strongly on us both. In that moment, it was as if all of the differences that generally tear the people of Jerusalem apart didn’t exist. In that moment, it was just us, two people, from who knows where, occupying the same stretch of the road on our own respective journeys. When he reached me, he was quietly tip-toeing along the thin wall of a random concrete barrier in the city, searching for his soccer ball that he booted too far, too high, and out of sight. He was carefully looking down into the dumpster from his vantage point on The High Ground, hunting for the ball, when he should have been looking up ahead towards me, as his soccer ball was sitting still at my feet. When he finally realized, he jumped off the wall of the barrier, and onto the elevated steps beneath his feet. Then, he made another jump down, reaching the pavement on the ground, and I gently passed the ball back to him. With the biggest smile spread across his face, he kicked the ball down the road past me and continued to run along. As he flew by, he shouted, “Shukran,” which means, “Thank You,” in Arabic, and I shouted back, “Bevakasha,” which means, “You’re Welcome,” in Hebrew, and the day was suddenly complete.

Through The Times

He was walking through the City of Tzfat, making his way back home. A devout man listening to music, with earbuds plugged into his phone. It was Sunday afternoon, and though the week was anew, What would ensue in the days ahead, he didn’t yet have a clue. Even if for him, most days were all the same, life was always moving, and he was expecting some welcomed change. In a City marked by history, where mysticism and art hold all the fame, in Tzfat, the lineage of religion runs deep, and that’s from where he came. He was born into it all, like many others, too. His family’s history cemented there, since the Inquisition in 1492. A black hat, black clothes, and a pair of black shoes. He wanted so badly to get back, as he was awaiting some news: His wife was pregnant again, and another baby girl was on the way. So he walked, and walked, and walked, and along the road, he stopped to pray. For his wife, for his children, for his daughter, still unborn, without a name, thinking back on those who came before him, and all that they overcame. Through The Times.

The Man And The Mini

They’ve all seen the man and his car, but not many know his name. He barely fits inside the mini, with his broad shoulders and his big frame. A cigar perched between his lips, as old tunes roar out from the car. The stories of the man and the mini, circulate the city of Tel Aviv, both near and far. The mini could use some care, as he often learns from the honks. They think he’s moving too slow, but to him, the mini is free of faults. An urban legend of sorts, the man and the mini have garnered fame. And it’s all so funny to me, because I actually know the man’s name: His name is Uncle Ely, and he always calls me, “Kid.” Together in the mini, we’ve covered so much of the grid. We’ve jump started the tiny blue car, more times than I can count. All the times I’ve squished into the back seat, I rather not recount. Sometimes people curse us off, while others smile and wave, no matter what it is, The Man And The Mini warrant a worthy exchange.

From The Ruins

The neighborhood is often deserted, and the few who live there tend to hide in the shade. Tucked away above the town of Taormina, Castelmola is a commune where a lot of history was laid. For the thousand or so who call it home, perhaps they just want to catch a break. Because up there, lost in the hills, there isn’t much at stake. I think I’ll find my way back there, I’d love a week, just to paint. On the hilltop of Castelmola, existing with little restraint. Living how I do, it’s so easy to forget, that there’s more to life than the hustle, and Castelmola reminded me best. What’s it all worth, if at times, you can’t even catch your breath? Then you sit on the edge, overlooking the water, take a break, and reassess. When I made my way back down, I vowed to not forget, how sweet life can be, if you leave behind all the rest. From The Ruins, Castelmola lived on, so I will do the same, and keep on pushing along, no matter the time or the place.

The City's Sanctuary

Where else could you go, in New York City to find some peace? I’ve searched far and wide, but replacing Minetta Lane is no small feat. Once you turn in, from where Sixth and Bleeker meet, you’re met with the facade, of the buildings that wall off the street. I often find myself there, sitting on the same stoop, burning one down, working thoughts through. The silence is special, the silence is rare. In the City that never sleeps, Minetta Lane remains quiet and bare. The first time that I visited, I was in company of the late and great Rickster, who left us too soon, but through this, he lives on with us. I’ll never forget, the exact words that he said: “Minetta Lane is The City’s Sanctuary,” and in my visits, I try to honor that. So each time I go back, I sit on that same stoop, reflecting on life, and all there is to do. Then I quickly remind myself why I turned onto Minetta in the first place, I take a deep breath, Keep it Moving, and shift perspective with a new grace.

A Distant Past

From where he stood now, all he saw was what had passed: A life long lived, but what kind of life was that? He hadn’t been around, not nearly as much as he would have liked, but if he didn’t want this present, why didn’t he stay and fight? The questions he was circling, served him so little now, as he was diving back in time, fixating on things that were no longer about. By the time he picked up the pieces, the life he knew was so far gone. Meddling with lost time, and he didn’t know how to keep on. His kids, moved across the sea, his wife, laid in her grave, his friends, they moved on, the man had lost his whole way. So he stood there all alone, praying for a better day. But he had brought himself here, the result of the choices he had made. Looking back now, he would do it all so different. How clear it all became, as he peered out into the distance. A Distant Past.

Into The Unknown

From where he stood now, all he saw was what might be had: He had no clue where to begin, but what other choice did he have? He spent too much of his time lately, thinking about the past. But now it was time to move on, and pave his new path. For the first time in years, he was starting from scratch. But he didn’t feel as excited, by the opportunity to patch. To patch up all the holes, that weighed him down everyday. Healing from what had passed, he had to find a way. Perhaps he’d love again. Perhaps he’d see his kids. Perhaps he’d find joy. Perhaps he’d be fulfilled. Staring out into the field, it all still felt so dim. But all he had to do was walk along, and put himself out on a limb. Vulnerability isn’t easy, especially all alone. But that’s the walk of life, when you’re walking Into The Unknown.

Odd Man Out

He made his way down the road, and brought his scooter to a screeching halt. He set his helmet down on the bench, and sat alone in the park. With his hands on his lap, feet dangling in the air. He tilted his head down, looked forward and stared. I know what it’s like, to be the odd man out. But he had to learn for himself, what it’s all about. We all go through those moments, of confusion and despair. Where nothing feels right, and unanswered goes every prayer. Those times are never easy, and as permanent as they may seem, being the Odd Man Out is but temporary, fading fast like a bad dream.

His Own World

He knew what it was like, to be all alone, but since then, he’s grown up, and found himself on the throne. It might not look like much, but to him it’s quite great. No neighbors, no favors, he chalked it all up to fate. So he rules this small land, running it all on his own, a beat down truck on the grass, but a place to call home. Just behind him in the distance, all the waves of the deep blue sea, but he never glances back, looking forward at all that could be. The past is the past, and what hurt, should never again be. He promised himself that, from his throne, in his new seat. His Own World.

Amongst Friends

They’ve been friends since before they could walk, and together they’ve walked through life. These two have always been inseparable, except for that one big fight. The fight was a whole lot of nothing, but back then it set off waves. As a result, their mother’s stopped talking, and the two boys weren’t allowed to play. For the first time in their lives, they had to figure it all out alone, and for all the wrong reasons, they had to endure it on their own. But amongst friends, there’s always hope, and amongst friends, there’s a time and a place. But amongst friends, it hurts the most, and amongst friends, the greater the pain. Perhaps it doesn’t matter now, but looking back, it’s still such a shame. They let their differences tear them apart, and for that, they’re both to blame. Amongst Friends.

The Road Less Traveled

For the first time in their lives, they both left home. So who with, but with each other, to travel the globe? Their friendship began, before they could walk. Along the way there have been challenges, but not enough to tear them apart. Not in permanence anyways, even if there was once a scare. On The Road Less Traveled, they’d be forced to prevail. Together they explored, venturing into the unknown. Out there, they found themselves, out there, they had grown. The two kids walked on, towards a fork in the road, and they decided to go left, against what their map showed. Both roads were undefined, but to them, they were one and the same. And no matter the route they took, they’d only have themselves to blame. What happened next, I can’t be trusted to tell, because trailing behind them, I went right, journeying into the unknown, as well.

Audience of None

Nearly fifty years ago, he was the star of the school band. Ever since he could remember, he held the first chair. The highest honor bestowed, for the musician who played best. The seat was always his, reserved for the man and his clarinet. As he grew older, he played his tunes all the same, but the crowds became smaller, and he failed to find his place. He practiced and practiced, he played and played, but one day he started to feel, that it was all just a big waste. He often found himself wondering, how much more could he try, to share his music with the world, while they paid him no mind. Then one day he remembered, all the reasons for which he did play, and when he sat again in his chair, out the music came, For An Audience of None.

Audience of Some

Nearly fifty years had passed, since he held first chair. When he was young, he was a star, and the leader of the band. In between, it all faded, his dreams, they fell apart. He grew tired of playing alone, for but an audience of none. Then one day he took the leap, went to the yard, and grabbed a chair. He packed his bag, his clarinet, and set up along the stairs. Deep in the streets of Jerusalem, he thought he’d give it all another try, playing for the many people, who might just happen to walk by. Here out in the world, thousands passed by him as they explored. Once in a while a person would stop, and that’s when the man felt at home. Perhaps it wasn’t much, but to him, it was a dream. With an Audience of Some, the man once again felt free.

Judgment Day

At the gates of heaven, the angels know no face, and from the comfort of his seat, the man was set to be judged. With one hand on his lap, he leans to the side while he waits, while the other hand wraps around the handle of his umbrella, through which his weight firmly presses into the cloudy ground. Judgment Day was here, and with the grace of God, he’d find his way home. And if his own judgments of those that he lost were correct, through the gates, he’d be reunited with those that he loved. A life long lived was to be assessed at once, in a vacuum, and the longer he sat there, the more he found himself wondering if he had done enough. It was of little use now, as it was all out of his hands. So he sat at the gates of heaven waiting, seated firmly in his chair.