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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
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.
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.
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.
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