Posts from the “Brooklyn” Category

Patrick D. Pagnano: Empire Roller Disco

Posted on February 5, 2018

Photography © Patrick D. Pagnano // Courtesy of Benrubi Gallery, NYC

Photography © Patrick D. Pagnano // Courtesy of Benrubi Gallery, NYC

Deep in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, back in 1941, the Empire Roller Skating Center opened its doors to the world. Located across the street from Ebbets Field, back when the Dodgers were the hometown team, the Empire brought the joys of rollerskating to countless generations in its massive 36,000 square-foot space.

By the 1970s, a new style had arrived: roller disco, which brought the uptempo dance music of the nightclubs to the rink. Sound systems were upgraded and DJ booths were installed, while skaters brought their moves, creating a new craze that took the nation by storm.

And, by 1980, the media was entranced. That February, Forbes magazine commissioned street photographer Patrick D. Pagnano to document the scene. “It was the first time I had been to Crown Heights,” he remembers. ”Once I entered the rink I was transported to another world and was in my element.”

Read the Full Story at Huck Online

Photography © Patrick D. Pagnano // Courtesy of Benrubi Gallery, NYC

Categories: 1980s, Art, Brooklyn, Exhibitions, Huck, Photography

Constance Hansen: Brooklyn c. 1969

Posted on November 15, 2017

Photo: Self-portrait, my place in Fort Greene, late 60s. Photography © Constance Hansen / Guzman.

In the wake of riots that began after the United States government ordered the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Daniel Patrick Moynihan, an urban affairs adviser to President Nixon, introduced a policy called “benign neglect” that would change the course of American history. The policy proposed systemic denial of basic government services to African-American and Latinx neighbourhoods across the nation, resulting in a massive collapse that decimated the people for well over a decade. The Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn, home to the Pratt Institute, was one such neighbourhood to fall into disrepair. Yet from the destruction, a new culture was coming to bear.

Constance Hansen, one half the husband-and-wife team of Guzman, has just unearthed photographs of this pivotal era taken while she was a student at the Pratt Institute from 1969- 1971. “There was a whole other thing going on then,” she remembers. “The 60s vibe, the music, the Vietnam War, Civil Rights – everything was exploding. It was anarchistic. You just did your thing. There were a lot of artists, writers, poets, and people creating, very free and they were all deep in their work. I would be floating through and taking pictures.”

Read the Full Story at Huck Online

Photo: Police activity, Brooklyn late 60′s. Photography © Constance Hansen / Guzman.

Photo: Crochet girl’s bedroom, late 60′s. Photography © Constance Hansen / Guzman.

Categories: 1960s, 1970s, Art, Brooklyn, Huck, Photography

Gregory Kramer: Drags

Posted on November 14, 2017

Photo: Fllyod. Copyright Gregory Kramer.

After paging through Small Trades, Irving Penn’s portrait series depicting skilled trades people in their work clothes, New York-based fashion photographer Gregory Kramer had an epiphany. “I woke up one morning and was like – that’s it! Let’s document the New York drag scene,” he recalls.

Kramer was inspired by the classic studio photography that Penn had mastered in the early 1950s: a full-length figure set before neutral background and softly lit with gentle lighting. Each subject was portrayed with elegance and dignity so that viewers could see the person who lay beneath the uniforms they wear. This approach resonated with Kramer who understood: underneath the wigs, the make-up, and the costumes are innovative and creative performers greater than the sum of their parts: they are groundbreaking figures whose commitment to the craft of drag has redefined the art.

Kramer called the person he knew best: Linda Simpson, a fixture on New York’s drag scene since the 1980s. Simpson was Kramer’s first subject and his entrée to the scene. Over the next year, Kramer went to work, creating a series of portraits of legends including Charles Busch, Lady Bunny, Duelling Bankheads, Sherry Vine, Flotilla DeBarge, and Tobell Von Cartier. He also made a foray into the Brooklyn scene, photographing the drags who continue to push the envelope, including cover girl Sasha Velour, winner of the latest season of RuPaul’s Drag Race.

The result is Drags (KMW Studio), a sumptuous monograph with 80s black and white portraits that will leave you breathless as you take in the full glamour and glory of New York’s finest. As a way to give back to the city that he loves, Kramer is donating his author royalties to the Ali Forney Center, which assists and protects homeless LGBTQ youth. Kramer speaks with us about his experiences making a book with the city’s groundbreaking drags.

Read the Full Story at Dazed

Photo: Peppermint. Copyright Gregory Kramer.

Photo: Wang Newton. Copyright Gregory Kramer.

Categories: Art, Books, Brooklyn, Dazed, Manhattan, Photography

Judy Chicago: The Roots of “The Dinner Party”

Posted on October 20, 2017

Artwork: The Dinner Party, 1974‒79. Ceramic, porcelain, textile, 576 x 576 in. (1463 x 1463 cm). Brooklyn Museum, Gift of the Elizabeth A. Sackler Foundation, 2002.10. © 2017 Judy Chicago / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. (Photo © Donald Woodman)

Artwork: Sojourner Truth #2 Test Plate from The Dinner Party, circa 1978. Porcelain and China paint, diameter: 14 in. (35.6 cm). Brooklyn Museum, gift of Judy Chicago, 82.165. © 2017 Judy Chicago / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. © 2017 Judy Chicago / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. (Photo: Sarah DeSantis, Brooklyn Museum)

When Judy Chicago unveiled “The Dinner Party” in San Francisco in 1979, she turned the art world upside down with the first epic work for the Feminist Art movement. Around an equilateral triangle table, she crafted elaborate place settings for 39 female figures from the history of western civilisation, beginning with the Primordial Goddess and ending with Georgia O’Keeffe. Along the way, viewers encounter Ishtar, Hatshepsut, Sappho, Theodora, Elizabeth I, Sacajawea, Soujourner Truth, Emily Dickinson, and Margaret Sanger, travelling from prehistoric times through the women’s revolution.

For each woman given a seat a the table, a place was set, her name embroidered on a table runner accompanied by symbols of her accomplishments. Then, for the piece de resistance, Chicago served up handmade plates of china, meticulously painted with the main dish: a vulva reminiscent of a flower or a butterfly. The table is situated on The Heritage Floor, composed of 2,000 white triangle-shaped tiles that bare then names of an additional 999 women who contributed to history.

When I first learned of the work in a “Women in Art History” class, the professor asked for reactions. Everyone was silent, agog or agape, lost in thought. But not me. My hand shot up and I blurted out, “The work is about going down – eating out – and I support that.”

The class tittered. My teacher blushed and quickly changed the subject, focusing on how “The Dinner Party” embraces the textile arts (weaving, embroidery, sewing) and china painting, all of which were traditionally relegated to the realm of crafts or, more plainly, women’s art. At the time of “The Dinner Party”, these modes of production had not been accorded parity with the male-dominated realm of drawing, painting, and sculpture, which were considered superior as forms of “fine art.”

In 2007, the Elizabeth A. Sackler Center for Feminist Art opened at the Brooklyn Museum with “The Dinner Party” as its foundation. Now, to mark its ten-year anniversary, the Museum introduces Roots of The Dinner Party: History in the Making (October 20-March 4, 2018). The exhibition provides insight into the making of this historic work, which took six years to complete, and involved the work of nearly 400 women and men.

Featuring more than 100 objects including rarely seen test plates, research documents, ephemera, notebooks, and preparatory drawings, we are lead inside the creation of this phenomenal project. Chicago speaks with us about “The Dinner Party”, which has become her most influential work and one that, decades on, continues to inspire and provoke a wide array of responses from people from all walks of life.

Read the Full Story at Dazed

Christina of Sweden (Great Ladies Series), 1973. Sprayed acrylic on canvas, 40 x 40 in. (101.6 x 101.6 cm). Collection of Elizabeth A. Sackler
© 2017 Judy Chicago / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. (Photo © Donald Woodman

Artwork: Study for Virginia Woolf from The Dinner Party, 1978. Ink, photo, and collage on paper, approx. 24 × 36 in. (61 × 91.4 cm). National Museum of Women in the Arts, Washington, D.C.; Gift of Mary Ross Taylor in honor of Elizabeth A. Sackler. © 2017 Judy Chicago / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. (Photo: Lee Stalsworth)

Categories: 1970s, Art, Brooklyn, Dazed, Women

Remembering Jean-Michel Basquiat

Posted on September 21, 2017

Photo:Jean-Michel Basquiat on set of Downtown 81, written by Glenn O’Brien, Directed by Edo Bertoglio, Produced by Maripol Photo By Edo Bertoglio© New York Beat Films LLC, by permission of the estate of Jean-Michel Basquiat all rights reserved

Jean-Michel Basquiat joined the 27 Club on August 12, 1988. He died young, at the height of his success, breaking through boundaries that had marginalised countless African-American artists from establishing their rightful place in museums, galleries, and history books. With the $110.5 million sale of his painting at auction earlier this year, Basquiat once again was established at the pinnacle of American art, with his work setting records and putting him in the company of Pablo Picasso and Francis Bacon.

But who was the man behind the work, the Brooklyn native of Puerto Rican and Haitian lineage whose singular style set him apart and has influenced generations of artists worldwide since his death? As the Barbican opens Boom for Real – the first large-scale exhibition in the UK about the American artist – we speak with those who knew and worked with him over a period of ten years, to paint a portrait of the artist as a young man.

Read the Full Story at Dazed

Jean-Michel Basquiat, 1982. A frame from the ART/new york video “Young Expressionists.”Credit Paul Tschinkel.

Categories: 1970s, 1980s, Art, Brooklyn, Dazed, Exhibitions, Graffiti, Manhattan, Painting, Photography

Happy Birthday Helen Levitt

Posted on August 31, 2017

Photo: Helen Levitt, Untitled, New York City,1972

It was a coup, in every sense of the word. Helen Levitt was giving an interview. Adam Gopnik at The New Yorker was the lucky cat who received the invitation to Helen’s fifth-floor walk up apartment on 12th Street.

I had not yet met her, but we had spoken on the phone, and I could hear her Bensonhurst accent as she cut things down to size. The story was published in November 2001, and the city as still reeling from the destruction of the World Trade Center.

I, too, lived on 12th Street that year. I knew the horror of being close, but not too close, to it all, just outside the deepest circle of hell. It was visceral, on levels its impossible to articulate, particularly for any True Yorker who had lived through the government warfare under benign neglect, crack, and AIDS.

The interview was done in tandem with the release of “Crosstown,” Helen’s magnum opus that was just released from powerHouse. It was a picture of New York that insiders know: life on the street, perhaps the best thing about this town.

Gopnik sang her praises, calling her New York’s poet photographer laureate. And to be fair, he wasn’t wrong. I just fell down a Tumblr rabbit hole of her work. But, there was another Helen, the one I wish I got to know, the broad from Brooklyn, ya dig.

I can still hear her scratchy voice in my mind’s ear, as Gopnik broached the subject of 9/11. It sounded like he was looking for guidance and wisdom, something to help the readers of the magazine deal with the trauma that had devastated their daily lives. Who better than a lifelong New Yorker who had reached her nonagenarian year to offer a word of solace?

Gopnik asked Helen what she thought New Yorkers should do in the wake of the tragedy.

“I think yous should get the hell out,” Helen said, succinctly.

Happy Birthday Helen Levitt ~*~ thanks for the memories !

Categories: 1960s, 1970s, Art, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Painting

The Voice is Dead. Long Live the Voice.

Posted on August 27, 2017

Noel and son Peter Jr on an April 2000 Voice cover

Paging through Richard Boch’s new book, The Mudd Club (Feral House, September 12), I was reminded that nothing lasts forever—and more than that, the best things in life shine bright like a comet flying through the sky, then burn out and fade away—remembered for the greatness they achieved and not for what they later became.

The desire to never die reveals a deeper desire to be undead; to become a mere shell of what once was and hope no one notices that which it now is. In a world where people simply can’t let go, we hold these truths to be self-evident: the fantasy that eternal life exists on earth if we just will, insist, and pretend.

When I learned earlier this week that The Village Voice was closing it’s print edition, my first reaction was disappointment, then disgust. I, who came of age as the golden age of print was reaching its sunset years, developed a deep and abiding love for the printed page: for the intoxicating scent of fresh ink, the feel of paper between my fingertips, the sheer physicality that I would alternately preserve in its whole, complete state and stack diligently like the collector of some rare form; tear apart madly and decorate my walls in all sorts of patterns that revealed its ability to be both bound object, art object, and artifact in one; or more boldly cut, rearrange, tape or paste, constructing the story I wanted to tell from its tremulous carcass.

I came of age believing that print was the answer to every problem I faced. It offered an instant pick me up through its combination of pictures and words, a glimpse into worlds I was too young to enter but could fog up the glass from the privacy of my bedroom in the Bronx. I read stories, studied photos, and remembered names—names of people I never realized I would one day meet, but for the fact that New York isn’t always a metropolis—sometimes it’s a village in its own way.

The Village Voice was a singular voice within the cacophonous harmony of city life: the only paper I respected because it didn’t purport to be objective. It had an agenda, openly. It was about the recognition of New York’s natives, its indigenous arts, its political struggles, its populist loves and hatreds. It didn’t pretend to be a noble in the Fourth Estate; it was composed of revolutionary minds and innovative souls, of people whose greatest joy came from upending the status quo.

It was the heart of Old York, ya know?

I went to school pretty much buying time. I loved to learn and I yearned to work but I loathed the system so much. I was that weird kid who blushed in the bookstore when she saw the cover of Irvine Welsh’s book, If You Like School, You’ll Love Work. I mean, I guess…

I didn’t actually like school. I was insulted by those who stood in the front of the room and asserted their authority, agents of indoctrination who never had a critical thought in their life. But I loved being antagonistic, to put it lightly. I could openly challenge them while drawing masterpieces in my notebooks. I could stumble into class on a Xanax or slounge against the desk a couple of days after dropping an X. I could show up in Technicolor outfits, chomping on gum. I could not be bothered. My grades made me think: I guess an “A” is okay as I tossed the paper into the trash.

Then, something magical happened back in the Fall of ’96. I started grad school and the folks there introduced me to the idea of an internship. “Wait, I gotta pay you to earn credits so I can work for free for someone else?”

“Well, you could intern at The Village Voice.”

Bet. I was in. I wanted to write about art so I was assigned to open Vince Aletti’s mail. This was back when people used to send mail. It was great. I had to sort it into three piles, and was allowed to attend anything he wasn’t planning to cover. This came in handy when I met Brian Parks, who was launching the fledgling website and needed stories.

Whew. I can still remember wandering into Deitch Projects one day after class, to check out this artist who locked himself inside a cage, where he was pretending to be a dog. Surreptitiously I stepped inside. The dog-man didn’t see me but I saw him. He was straight up naked, collar around his neck. There was a padded suit hanging on the wall, inviting me to put it on and get in the cage where we could wrestle.

I think not.

Silently I pivoted and hightailed it out of there, with enough instanteously insight to pen the piece. “Maybe throw a ball and see if he will catch it in his mouth,” was the final line to the piece that Brian and I wrote together as he edited my work.

I was thrilled. $50 in my pocket and my byline in place. I was hitting up MoMA openings, making my way over to Chelsea in its earliest days when Pat Hearn was showing German fashion fetish photography and I was taking notes for Suzanne Bartsch party ideas.

I was also writing nightclub reviews. Does it get any better than this? Yes! I had an expense account. My cab fare was covered. I was living for it. I must have written 30 reviews, each one rhyming entirely too much, like Mother Goose dropping tabs because why not.

Suddenly my life made sense. It was destiny. I was already living the life—what could be better than to let people know about the scene? I can remember getting ready, alternating between bumps of coke and K, whirling around my friend’s apartment. Wait, maybe I wasn’t even covering a club that night—who really knows.

The mid-90s were a blur, but my Voice ID’s bring it back. For some reason or other, I had to have two made, not that I lost em. Meg Handler snapped my photos: the first one looked like a mugshot from the Boogie Down, all blonde curls cut short after bleaching caused breakage that required me to start again. Bold, brick red lipstick, lips pursed like “What!?” A Gaultier jacket that wasn’t mine, the patterns perfectly defining the times, and I was probably wearing tight jeans and those high-top K-Swiss that were the same color as Timberlands.

In the second ID, taken just a couple of months later, I was someone else: short, straight brown hair, soft make up, warm magenta top. All soft, smiling, peaceful. It occurs to me now, I was at home and my face reflected this.

Because, by then, I had reached a new height. While sitting in the smoking room (flossy), I met Frank Owen. I complimented his shoes and he stuck his leg in the air, saying, “Dolce,” and I nodded with approval. We started talking, I mean he started talking and I sat, enraptured with the words he spoke, all fast-paced British pitter-patter talking about …

Michael Alig! Peter Gatien! Lord Michael! Limelight! Honey Trap—

—wait. Did you say Honey Trap? I was there and wooo, I met this boy. Wait, let me stay on topic.

Frank was working on an expose. We had mutual friends/sources. He invited me to join him for an interview with Peter Gatien at the Tunnel, where I sat in silence watching this exquisite game of cat and mouse.

I had no idea journalism could be so thrilling. I was absolutely overwhelmed. Things had taken a dark turn when the body of Angel Melendez washed ashore earlier that summer.

“Read this,” Frank said to me one day, passing along a fax that had the handwritten confession of Michael Alig. My stomach lurched.

None of this was my scene—but I was close enough to watch how history unfolds in real time when you’re standing on the frontlines. It reminded me of the moment when Vince Aletti gave me a tour through the morgue, showing my the stories he had written back in the 1970s when he started at The Voice as a music critic, covering the disco scene.

Like. Wow. Do you hear Wu Tang? Can it be that it was all so simple then?

I have no idea. Twenty years have passed since that fateful moment of my life, where I got to do things like call Bill Clinton’s drug czar to interview him for a piece on their anti-drug advertising campaign.

“’This is your brain on drugs’ was a highly successful ad,” he told me.

I laughed. “You’re kidding right? It was a joke.”

“What do you mean?” the publicist for the Drug Czar sounded hurt.

“C’mon everyone was laughing about that ad. Everyone made fun of it.”

“Well, what would you do?” the publicist asked, accusingly.

I remember thinking it was weird that the publicist was asking for my advice, but I couldn‘t resist. “I think I’m close in age to the target audience you’re trying to reach,” I said, trying to suggest that age was what we shared, rather than say, habits. “I don’t know enough about the subject to speak on it, but I would focus on rehab instead. Like, why is methadone addictive?”

Nothing like a strawman argument to end an interview.

I’m just skating along here, gliding on the surface of things, trying to remember the details that are surrounded in a succulent haze of weed smoke, strobe lights, and stiletto heels, vodka cranberries, random prose, and dancing past dawn.

I don’t think The Voice made me want to be a journalist; I think it made me realize I was one without actually having to go to school or work inside the system. It made me aware that as unlikely as I am, there is a place where I’m not the only one. That there were generations of us, from Nat Hentoff to Greg Tate, Stanley Crouch to Ellen Willis, Michael Musto to Donna Gaines—not to mention legends like James Baldwin, Lorraine Hansberry, e.e. cummings, and Ezra Pound.

The Voice was my paper of record. In 1980 alone, it put The Times Square Show and breakdancing on the cover. I wasn’t even reading it then and yet—these are the works that would come to define vast swaths of my life, not to mention the singular importance of the printed object not just as news—but as artifact.

Upon reflection, I can’t be mad that a comet has come and gone any more than I can shake my fist at the nature of the Universe. One of the things I learned from my life in the clubs is that it is to leave when the party is going then to stumble out when everyone on the train is heading to church.

Categories: Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan

~~ A Tribute to Arlene Gottfried ~~

Posted on August 9, 2017

“Only in New York, kids, only in New York.”

American columnist Cindy Adams’ famed bon mot could easily caption any number of photographs in the archive of Arlene Gottfried. Whether partying in legendary 1970s sex club Plato’s Retreat, hanging out at the Nuyorican Poet’s Café with Miguel Piñero, or singing gospel with the Eternal Light Community Singers on the Lower East Side, Arlene was there and has the pictures to prove it.

“Arlene was a real New Yorker who thrived on the energy of the city, roaming the streets and recording everything she felt through a deeply empathetic and loving lens,” Paul Moakley, Deputy Director of Photography at TIME observes.

It was in her beloved city that Arlene Gottfried drew her final breath. She died the morning of August 8, after a long illness that may have taken from her body but never from her heart. In the final years of her life, she experienced a renaissance with the publication of her fifth final book Mommie (powerHouse, 2015), sell-out exhibitions at Daniel Cooney Fine Art, New York, and the 2016 Alice Austen Award for the Advancement of Photography – all of which she attended to with a style all her own.

I put together a tribute to the legendary lady who has always felt like family to me for today’s Dazed.

Categories: 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, Art, Books, Brooklyn, Dazed, Manhattan, Photography

Michael Lavine: The Notorious B.I.G. – Life After Death

Posted on May 20, 2017

Photo: Michael Lavine. The Notorious B.I.G., Life After Death.

Twenty years have passed, but the shock is still fresh — and still incomprehensible. On March 9, 1997, Christopher Wallace, aka The Notorious B.I.G., was gunned down in a drive-by shooting. It remains unsolved.

At 12:30 a.m., Wallace left a Vibe magazine Soul Train Music Awards after-party at Los Angeles’ Petersen Automotive Museum. The SUV in which he was traveling stopped at a red light just 50 yards from the venue. A dark Chevrolet Impala SS pulled up along the passenger side. The driver rolled down his window, drew his weapon and fired. Four bullets struck Wallace. He was rushed to nearby Cedars-Sinai Medical Center and was pronounced dead at 1:15 a.m.

Not long afterward, The Notorious B.I.G. rose again: The double album Life After Death was released March 25. It sold 700,000 hard copies almost immediately, jumping from No. 176 to No. 1 on the Billboard 200 in the space of a week. The album’s cover art featured the man formerly known as Biggie Smalls in a long black coat and black bowler. He stared us in the face while leaning against a hearse that bore the license plate “B.I.G.” There were no sunglasses to hide his lazy eye. He wore it full and proud, looking over his shoulder as if he already knew. He wasn’t smiling. But he wasn’t mad. He was just stating the facts from the other side of the grave.

It seemed like a prophecy.

Read the Full Story at The Undefeated

Categories: 1990s, Art, Brooklyn, Music, Photography, The Undefeated

Most Influential Artists of the Last 20 Years

Posted on May 2, 2017

Photo: Kusama’s Peep Show or Endless Love Show, 1966. Hexagonal mirrored room and electric lights. Installed at Castellane Gallery, New York, 1966. No longer extant. Courtesy of the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden.

“This idea of art for art’s sake is a hoax,” no less than Pablo Picasso observed, recognizing the bourgeois mentality that drove narcissistic self-indulgence into the creative process was merely fraud.

Indeed, art does not exist for itself; the greatest works are those that transform understanding into wisdom while revealing the truth of the times as not only a matter of the moment but of the underlying human condition. The best art is always one step ahead of where we find ourselves, predicting the future by bringing it to our attention today In celebration of the most influential artists of the last 20 years, Crave has compiled a list of men and women from all walks of life who work in a wide array of mediums, speaking truth to power.

Read the Full Story at Crave Online

Categories: Art, Books, Brooklyn, Crave, Exhibitions, Graffiti, Japan, Painting, Photography

Jamel Shabazz: Sights in the City

Posted on April 18, 2017

Photo: Courtesy of Jamel Shabazz / Jamel Shabazz: Sights in the City, New York Street Photographs

When Jamel Shabazz took up photography back in the 1980s, he gave voice to a new generation of young black men who were redefining the look of street-level New York City with their colorful Kangol caps, Adidas shell-toe sneakers, and graphic Cazal glasses. A former corrections officer, Shabazz would wander neighborhoods like Harlem, Brownsville, and the Lower East Side with his camera, approaching strangers who caught his eye, engaging them in conversation, and concluding with a portrait.

For Shabazz, style is more than self-expression; it is an act of resistance, a refusal to be invisible, erased, or diminished. The strength of that vision can be traced throughout his new book, Sights in the City: New York Street Photographs (Damiani), selections of which will be on view at United Photo Industries in Brooklyn, starting May 4. Shabazz, who has worn custom-tailored clothing for 30 years, is just as sharp as his subjects. From his gold-rimmed glasses and butter-leather coats to his two-piece suits and cashmere sweaters, Shabazz has a commanding presence that is counterbalanced by a genuine and gracious smile. Here, the Brooklyn-born photographer reflects on the personal memories that shaped his idea of street style in the city.

Read the Full Story at Vogue Online

Categories: 1980s, 1990s, Brooklyn, Fashion, Photography, Vogue