Posts from the “Manhattan” Category

Stephen Barker: The ACT UP Portraits – Activists & Avatars, 1991–1994

Posted on September 15, 2017

Photo: Mark Harrington, copyright Stephen Barker

Halston. Robert Mapplethorpe. Keith Haring. Freddie Mercury. Eazy E. Antonio Lopez. Martin Wong. David Wojnarowicz. Herb Ritts. The list goes on – and on. More than 675,000 people have died of Aids-related illnesses since the epidemic first hit in 1981, devastating a generation coming-of-age in the wake of the gay, civil rights, and women’s liberation movements of the 1960s and 70s.

Where it was once an all-consuming force decimating lives, survivors of the terror and trauma rarely revisit those horrific times. It is difficult to express the scale and scope of the agony of illness and the pain of death that happened day after day, year after year, for decades. Imagine a funeral for friends and family every week. Envision the fear spread by misinformation and ignorance, in the wake of a government that turned its back on the victims of the virus.

During the first four years of the crisis, President Ronald Reagan never said a word about the disease, which had infected nearly 60,000 people – 28,000 of whom had died. In 1987, Senator Jesse Helms amended a federal bill to prohibit Aids education, saying such efforts “encourage or promote homosexual activity.”

The battle lines were drawn: it was the people vs. the government.

In 1987, ACT UP (Aids Coalition to Unleash Power) was formed in response. Organised as a leaderless network of committees working with affinity groups, members of ACT UP took it upon themselves to battle the disease and the government firsthand. Their slogan, “Silence = Death,” became the rallying cry for activists, who, to paraphrase poet Dylan Thomas, refused to go gently into the night. They raged until their actions turned the tide.

ACT UP took on every aspect of the crisis, coming up with grassroots solutions to clearly defined problems. Photographer Stephen Barker worked as part of ACT UP’s Needle Exchange Program on New York’s Lower East Side. He also participated in the first “Funeral March,” one of the most powerful public protests against the regime, wherein Mark Fisher’s body was carried in an open coffin from Judson Memorial Church to the steps of the Republican National Committee on the eve of the 1992 presidential election.

Barker’s photographs made during these actions, along with a selection from the “Nightswimming” series made in places where men regularly went for trysts, will be on view in the exhibition Stephen Barker: The ACT UP Portraits – Activists & Avatars, 1991–1994, at Daniel Cooney Fine Art, New York (September 14 – October 28, 2017). Below, he speaks with us about the lessons he learned in the fight for life and the war against death.

Read the Full Story at Dazed

Photo; Funeral March, copyright Stephen Barker

Categories: 1980s, 1990s, Art, Dazed, Manhattan, 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

Portrait of Arlene Gottfried: © Kevin C. Down

“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.

Photo: © Arlene Gottfried, courtesy of powerHouse Books

Photo: © Arlene Gottfried, courtesy of Daniel Cooney Fine Art.

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

Martha Cooper at Steven Kasher Gallery, New York

Posted on May 16, 2017

Photo: Japanese girl with tattoo, Tokyo, 1970. © Martha Cooper.

Photographer Martha Cooper has always lived life on her own term. After graduating high school at 16 and Grinnell College at 19, the Baltimore-native decided to see the world so she joined the Peace Corps and traveled to Thailand, where she taught English for a spell. Then she hopped on a motorcycle and hightailed it from Bangkok to London, taking all along the way.

She received a diploma in anthropology from Oxford, which speaks to her truest sensibilities: her passion for documenting the creative fruits of the human experience. In her hands, the camera is not merely a tool to create an image for aesthetic pleasure, it does something more; it bears witness to a time and place that is inherently ephemeral: street art and culture, which is inherently urban folk art.

In 1970, Cooper found herself walking along a street in Tokyo when she spotted a man in a crowd. On his back was a Japanese tattoo, with figures drawn in the style of a woodblock print. Entranced, Cooper followed him until he disappeared, then began asking her friend about tattoos—a touchy subject. Tattooing had been outlawed in 1872, then legalized again in 1948, then quickly became a status symbol for the yakuza and the Japanese underworld. But Cooper is not one to give up when she has her sights set, and so she pursued her quest to completion: entrance to the studio of Horibun I, a tattoo master.

It is here, in his studio that Cooper made the photographs that comprise the earliest work in the exhibition Martha Cooper, currently on view at Steven Kasher Gallery, New York, through June 3, 2017.

Read the Full Story at Feature Shoot

Photo: Christopher Sawyer breaking, Upper West Side, NYC, 1983. © Martha Cooper.

Photo: Woman with white pants on 180th Street platform, Bronx, NYC, 1980. © Martha Cooper.

Categories: 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, Art, Bronx, Exhibitions, Feature Shoot, Graffiti, Manhattan, Photography

Alice Neel: Uptown

Posted on May 16, 2017

Artwork: Building in Harlem, c. 1945. Oil on canvas. © The Estate of Alice Neel. Courtesy David Zwirner Books and Victoria Miro.

Artwork: The Black Boys, 1967. Oil on canvas. The Tia Collection. © The Estate of Alice Neel. Courtesy David Zwirner Books and Victoria Miro.

Alice Neel’s New York is disappearing—but it is not yet gone. It lives in the spirit and the souls of those who persevere against all odds. Like the artist herself, the New York she once loved was made up of people who triumphed over tragedy, trauma, and loss. Perhaps her personal struggles imbued her with a profound empathy to those she painted with exquisite sensitivity and feeling, capturing the depths of their humanity.

This month, Alice Neel, Uptown (David Zwirner Books/Victoria Miro), a new book authored by Pulitzer Prize winning critic Hilton Als, looks at the portraits the artist made while living in Spanish Harlem and the Upper West Side throughout the twentieth century. The book is published in conjunction with an exhibition of the work opening at Victoria Miro Gallery, London, on May 18 after debuting earlier this year to critical acclaim at David Zwirner in New York.

Read the Full Story at Crave Online

Artwork: The Spanish Family, 1943. Oil on canvas. © The Estate of Alice Neel. Courtesy David Zwirner Books and Victoria Miro.

Categories: 1960s, 1970s, 1980s, Art, Books, Crave, Exhibitions, Manhattan, Painting

Anton Perich: Max’s Kansas City

Posted on May 5, 2017

The Cockettes, Photo by Anton Perich

or a decade Max’s Kansas City ruled New York, becoming the premier spot to eat, drink, dance, party, and frolic. Proprietor Mickey Ruskin opened the nightclub and restaurant in 1965, drawing top talents like Allen Ginsberg. William S. Burroughs, and Robert Rauschenberg. But when Andy Warhol and his entourage started hanging out in the back room, Max’s quickly became the place to be. Soon David Bowie, Iggy Pop, and Lou Reed were regulars, along with Warhol’s latest superstars like Candy Darling, Jackie Curtis, and Holly Woodlawn.

In 1970, Croatian émigré, Anton Perich arrived a Max’s, by way of Paris. An activist in the Lettrism group during the 68 Revolution, Perich was an avant-garde filmmaker. He made friends with some busboys on staff, and they said it was the best job in America. In 1972, he joined the staff, which included busboy Carlos Falchi, manager Eric Emerson, and waitress Debbie Harry, whose presence eluded him.

For the next two years, Perich would fill in when someone called out. As he remembers, the best time to work was late at night, when the famous and the infamous alike could come and let down their hair. No one batted an eye when Perich pulled out his camera for a photo. As you can see from the photos here, they were more than happy to oblige – or sometimes, not even aware. He was soon contributing his candid snaps to Interview before going on to launch NIGHT in 1978, his very own publication.

Perich speaks about those heady years, when it was impossible to tell the nights from the days.

Read the Full Story at Dazed Digital

Candy Darling, Photo by Anton Perich

Robert Mapplethorpe, Photo by Anton Perich

Categories: 1970s, Art, Dazed, Manhattan, Music, Photography

Jamel Shabazz: Crossing 125th

Posted on April 26, 2017

Harlem is the heart and soul of New York, the epicenter of African-American life, culture, history, and hustle. At the turn of the twentieth-century, this vast tract of land in upper Manhattan quickly became the destination for black folks leaving the South en masse during the Great Migration. Here, folks created a town within a city entirely its own, dominating the wide boulevards and stately homes with a style and approach to life that combined the very best of the North and the South.

It was during this first wave that the Harlem Renaissance was born, giving rise to a flourishing movement of a wide array of arts from literature, poetry, and drama to music, dance, and theater. Visual artists also took root, creating images that bespoke not just the times but also the rich and textured history of African-American life as seen through the eyes of the people.

Among the great artists of the era was James Van DerZee, one of the premier photographers of the twentieth century. During the 1920 and ‘30s, he crafted a compelling pictures of Harlem’s emerging middle class that employed the elements of traditional Victorian portraiture—but took them to new heights but connecting with the spirit of his subjects and bringing out their glamorous inner light. Van DerZee’s photographs came to define Harlem in a way that few other photographers ever could, and in doing so, he influenced generations to come—including the great Jamel Shabazz.

Read the Full Story at Crave Online

Categories: 1980s, 1990s, Art, Crave, Exhibitions, Manhattan, Photography

Wall Writers: Graffiti in Its Innocence Exhibition

Posted on April 26, 2017

Photo: COCO 144, 1974. Photo by Michael Lawrence. Courtesy Roger Gastman.

Graffiti is a basic human impulse. From the oldest known cave paintings, going back 40,000 years in the Maros region of Indonesia to a toddler in 2017 who has discovered the magic of crayons and walls, the desire to leave a mark speaks to a fundamental tool of communication. The visual and the verbal commingle and merge in its purest form, continuing to speak for the person who may since be long gone.

Graffiti, in its contemporary form, found its footing in New York and Philadelphia during the Summer of Love as the idea of writing on the wall transformed from a primitive impulse to craft an anonymous message took shape as an increasingly stylized representation of a specific personage. As it did so, it became more than act of rebellion; it became a form of art, a flourish of a handstyle that was as unique as a signature and as bold as an autograph.

The earliest practitioners of the form have been left largely to the underground, to the myths of history or fallen into the cracks of the past. As pioneers and innovators, their work could be rudimentary, as it was more invested in discovery than perfection. It wouldn’t be until the second generation came along with its top-to-bottom whole train car masterpieces that many sat up and took notice. But the first generation certainly made waves, inspiring newspaper and magazine stories, books, and later collaborations and films. But quick as they came up, they disappeared, moving on with their lives as they aged out, from boys to men.

Read the Full Story at Crave Online

Photo: Photograph by Jon Naar, 1973. Courtesy Roger Gastman.

Categories: 1960s, 1970s, Art, Crave, Graffiti, Manhattan, Photography

Ryan McGinley: The Kids Were Alright

Posted on April 24, 2017

On a chilly night back in February 2003, Ryan McGinley: The Kids Are Alright opened at the Whitney Museum of American Art. Ryan McGinley, then just 25-years-old, was the youngest artist to have a solo show in the museum’s seven decades on Madison Avenue.

I’m not entirely sure the Whitney knew what to expect, as the denizens of downtown piled into the tiny gallery. I overheard a security guard say, “Excuse me, ma’am. Do not lean against the art,” to blonde in a faux-fur coat with slurry eyes. Moments later a security guard said, The blonde shoved on, disappearing into the throngs that jostled their way in and out of the exhibition. The lurid, glamorous and grizzled characters in McGinley’s photographs were there in the flesh, celebrating the artist’s quicksilver rise to the top. In a period of just five years, McGinley documented the luminous tail of the bohemian comet that swept New York throughout the second half of the twentieth century.

McGinley hung with a squadron of graffiti writers, artists, and personalities that made their own rules – and what remains of those days and nights are the photos. Some 1,600 pictures made between 1998 and 2003, most never-before-seen, have just been released in the new book, The Kids Were Alright, (Rizzoli) to time with an exhibition of the same name now at the Museum of Contemporary Art Denver through August 17, 2017.

The documentary-style photographs and Polaroids are raw, sexy images of intense intimacy. Whether partying, having sex, or just hanging out, McGinley’s photos present a portrait of his generation at their most uninhibited peak. McGinley spoke with Dazed about coming of age in True York.

Read the Full Story at Dazed Digital

Categories: 1990s, Art, Books, Dazed, Exhibitions, Graffiti, Manhattan, Photography

Larry Fink on Andy Warhol

Posted on April 20, 2017

In the early 1960s, the shadow of the post-war boom cast a dark shadow upon streets across the United States as the illusion of The American Dream was shattered by the truth of how it came to be.

Amid the fight for human rights, Andy Warhol emerged with a body of work that celebrated the most superficial mythologies of the time. By appropriating images of famous people and products, Warhol positioned himself as the champion of all that was American, fully embracing its anti-intellectual bent. With the establishment of The Factory, his quasi-bohemian Manhattan studio filled with self-titled Superstars, Warhol created an alternate universe to rival Hollywood while simultaneously infiltrating the posh art world.

In 1965, Warhol announced his retirement from painting in order to focus on filmmaking. With a coterie that included Edie Sedgwick, Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground, Ingrid Superstar, Susanna Campbell, and Gerard Malanga, the media could not get enough of these apolitical characters driven by a lust for fame and wealth.

At the same time, photographer Larry Fink was honing his skills, making pictures that embraced the proletariat and rebuked the haute-bourgeoisie. A self-described “revolutionary communist,” Fink worked as a journalist, creating images for the cause. In 1966, his friend Khadeja Mccall, who sold African prints on St. Mark’s Place, invited Fink to photograph a fashion shoot she was styling for a new publication titled The Eastside Review. The kicker was: the models were Warhol and his Superstars.

Fink took the assignment, adding his own twist. He brought Warhol and his coterie down to the streets of the Lower East Side, a working-class neighborhood infused with poverty – the very antithesis of Warhol’s Pop Art fantasies. The Eastside Review folded before the issue was published, and the photographs were shelved for fifty years, no further thought given to the work…until now.

Read the Full Story at Dazed Digital

Categories: 1960s, Art, Books, Dazed, Manhattan, Photography