Field Notes #002
St. Patricks Day Parade NYC (2026)
March 17th, 2026
Weather: H:55 L:32 (Bright and clear conditions)
Camera: Nikon F4 50mm/ Canon F1 28mm/ Rollieflex 3.5f/ Nikon D850 1-300mm
Film Stock: Kodak Ultramax 400, Ilford 400 Delta
I was pleasantly surprised today. It was bright and sunny with clear conditions which if you’d have looked at the forecast three days prior, you’d be expecting an 85% chance of rain and wind. Thankfully, that didn’t happen, still windy as shit though.
It’s Saint Patrick’s Day today. Good ole Saint Patrick brings a different crowd to the usual parade scenes than anything else is capable of. It’s not your typical poor (in the feeling sorry for you way) families getting to the barricades at 4:00am with a stroller and three small children that won’t remember a single thing by the time the day is over to watch a turkey and some balloon floats stroll past them as they’re squeezed next to a stranger that won’t stop chewing with his mouth open.
No. The New York City St. Patrick’s Day Parade is one of those events that feels older than the city itself, not in a literal sense obviously, but in the way it moves, in the way it repeats, and the way it insists on happening year after year regardless of whatever else the world has going on. The signs for the parade literally say rain or shine we’ll be there. The parade takes place from 11:00am- 4:30pm which is just entirely too long. It starts on 44th and 5th. If you know about 5th Avenue, you know it’s usually reserved for commerce, transactions, and people pretending they live here taking photos in front of luxury stores, a sort of Disneyland of commerce. But on Ol’ Paddy’s Day, it gets handed over entirely to something far less efficient but far more human. It becomes a corridor of tradition, pride, noise, and just enough chaos to remind you that New York, for all its polish, still belongs to the people who fill it.
I started the day off early, around 6:00 am with a fresh pot of Cafe Bustello and a cigarette outside. I did some work for the Jill Freedman Estate that I archive for and then began my preparations for the day. Really, I made all my preparations a couple days prior when I went into my lab Nice Film Club here in Brooklyn to drop off a couple rolls of film and pick up some rolls for the parade. Still shooting the same shit I shot the week prior since I kind of stocked up. Kodak Ultramax400, Cinestill 800T, and Ilford 400 Delta.
I get asked a lot why I carry so many cameras, usually by people who are either concerned for my back or quietly judging my decision-making thinking I’m some indecisive show off. But the truth is I’ve never really had a clean answer for it, just a series of instincts that I’ve followed long enough that they’ve kind of turned into habit. I remember last summer thinking to myself after a long day out while my back felt like it was going to snap in two after some 20 miles through the city, “Why the fuck am I carrying so many cameras with me, I really gotta stop this.” It’s yet to happen. I’ve always had an affinity for film, something about it that feels closer to the act of remembering than recording, and it’s not something I’ve ever been able to really shake, nor do I really want to. I like the idea of being able to look at a contact sheet and see everything laid out in front of me, what I saw, what I missed, what I misunderstood in the moment, and how I might correct that the next time. I like that my work exists as a physical thing, something I can hold and print, archive, or lose, then find again years later. A negative feels like proof in a way a digital file never quite does.
So I carry what I carry, and I’ll probably still be doing it fifty years from now, if for no other reason than to reassure whatever older version of me exists that this wasn’t a phase, this is just how I’ve always worked. Each camera serves its own purpose, even if I can’t always articulate it in a way that makes logical sense. The Canon F-1 stays loaded with a 28mm lens, usually black and white, which for whatever reason feels like the natural language of that camera. The Nikon F4 carries a 50mm and almost always gets color film, again not for any scientific reason, just because it feels right, which is often the only justification I need. The Rolleiflex floats between the two but leans toward black and white as well, something about the square format seems to invite it. And then there’s the Nikon D850 with an 18–300mm, which gives me the ability to move through focal lengths without thinking too much about it. I think of it as a kind of practical counterbalance to the slower, more deliberate nature of film.
I try not to constantly switch between them. Most of the time I’m working with one camera at a time, staying present with it, letting it dictate how I see, unless something happens that feels like it demands to be interpreted in more than one way. Then I’ll reach for another. It’s less about efficiency and more about staying honest to the moment. So to those chauvinist purists that question my seriousness to the matter at hand by insinuating that I have too many cameras on me at a time, kick rocks.
For a long time, I actually hated shooting black and white. With synesthesia, everything in my head is tied to color in some way, and stripping that away felt unnatural, like I was removing part of the experience. I couldn’t imagine a scene without color because that’s not how I perceive the world. Even now, I still shoot primarily in color, and if something lends itself to black and white, I’ll convert it later, which is also a bit more cost effective. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to appreciate black and white differently as its own way of seeing. There’s a novelty to it I think, a kind of reinterpretation of the same scene, where you’re no longer relying on color to carry the weight and I’m more so forced to pay attention to light, shape, and gesture in a more deliberate way. It’s not better or worse, just different, and lately I’ve found myself more interested in that difference than I used to be.
I knew the parade stepped off at eleven, which meant I needed to be there by ten. That’s one of the first things I tell anyone who asks how to get better at this, not some romantic answer about vision or instinct, get there early. If you can cover your bases, you give yourself room to think, to observe, to catch the moments that don’t exist once everything is already in motion. Being early isn’t about being prepared it’s about being available.
The parade started up on 44th, so I came out at 42nd, Times Square, expecting the usual chaos, but instead it felt strangely hollow, like the city had shifted a few blocks over without telling anyone. The real crowd had already begun migrating, flooding 42nd and 6th in that confused, collective way people move when they think they understand where they’re going but clearly don’t. For reasons I still can’t fully explain, a good portion of them seemed convinced they could somehow enter the parade from Fifth Avenue, which is, of course, where the parade actually takes place. So the sidewalks filled quickly, people spilling toward Sixth and Madison, trying to find an opening that didn’t exist.
It was there, that I made my first photographs of the day. High school band members gathering in clusters, uniforms slightly out of place, instruments in hand, faces lit up with that particular kind of excitement that comes from being part of something larger than yourself for the first time. They weren’t performing yet, not really, just waiting, talking, adjusting, laughing, existing in that space before expectation sets in. It’s a moment that disappears quickly once the parade begins, but for a brief window, it’s one of the most honest parts of the entire day. I don’t know, in my old age of 25, I get sentimental about kid’s excitement. No one should be able to take a kid’s innocence away, and in moments like these, I just feel like you really get to see it.
The benefit of being a photojournalist? The press pass obviously. Get's you access to anything in the city. I finally made my way to 5th, where I was greeted by cheerful NYPD officers that checked my press badge and kindly let me in. This is where the difference in the Thanksgiving Day parade and this parade really became apparent because jesus fucking christ there were people everywhere. Band kids, a bunch of older people all wearing sashes that said something about St. Patrick’s day, performers, like 18 different bagpipe players all wearing different kilts, you would have thought it was like a bag pipe riff off from that movie Pitch Perfect. There were people to the left, right, fuckin up, down, sideways. Some looked official, some looked like they just spawned there, some determined, and some clueless, obviously having no fuckin clue what was going on. The Thanksgiving Day parade does not feel like this.
The air is crisp and there’s no smell in the air. The constant buzz of yelling and percussion fills the avenue as I walk through the crowded start of the parade. There’s still about 45 minutes until the parade starts so I take the time to walk around for a bit where everyone is congregated and take some shots of the people around me. Uniformed men and women from every department can be seen walking together, laughing and joking with one another as other press photographers squeeze in and out of the crowd. I say hello to a few colleagues I’ve met at other events like protests and such. It’s quite funny, as a photojournalist and press photographer you become quite close to other photographers without truly getting to know them. You shake hands, ask what work you’ve been up to lately, discuss the last events we saw each other at, pat one another on the back, tell them to have a good day and to be safe and then go on your merry way. It becomes almost mechanical, but the care is still there.
As I slip past people to get further into the avenue a couple of uniformed young men enter into the scene and I snap a quick photo. It’s a bit out of focus but I honestly don’t mind.
Making my way past the initial hub of participants, I walk to a clearing on the Avenue where the first members of the parade are staging their horses. I never spent time around horses as a kid, I’ve seen the horses in Central Park obviously dying of dehydration in the middle of summer which I detest, but I’ve never really gotten a good look at the sheer size of police horses. I wonder if they like donuts in the same way NYPD does. I circle the scene for a bit snapping off shots both on my Nikon F4 and Canon F1. This is one of those times where I’m not in a rush, I can work a scene, so switching back and forth between film stocks isn’t that big of a stress to me. I take some wide shots of all the horses and riders, then walk around both sides to get some better frames, when the lead horse decided that the air smelled a bit too good and peed for what felt like atleast five minutes, a real steady stream of hot urine swelled through the air as it creeped toward me as I fired off a frame. I guess when you gotta go, you gotta go. Reminder to myself to always make sure you go before an event like this starts because as soon as I saw the horse start, something inside me thought I needed to do the same.
There’s a certain responsibility that comes with doing this work that people don’t always talk about, because it’s not artistic in the way people want photography to be, it’s practical, almost boring if you’re not paying attention. I get asked all the time how to actually work a scene as a photojournalist, and the answer is almost always the same, you start by paying attention. Getting there early isn’t just about being on time, it’s about giving yourself the space to understand what the hell is about to happen before it actually does.
When I arrive early, I walk the scene. I don’t rush it, I don’t panic, I take my time and start building a mental map. Where are the good vantage points? Where does the light fall right now, and more importantly, where is it going to fall in an hour when everything actually matters? Where are your entry points if I need to cross the street when things get packed? Where are the choke points where everything’s going to bottleneck, and where are the dead zones where nothing’s going to happen no matter how long I stand there?
I start asking myself these questions before the event begins because once it does, I don’t get that luxury anymore. Once the crowd fills in and the movement starts, I’m reacting, not planning. And if you’re only reacting, you’re already behind.
So much of this job is about creating a plan before anything unfolds. Not a rigid one, or something that boxes me in, but a framework. A sense of direction. Because when the chaos hits, and it always does, the difference between getting the shot and missing it is usually whether or not I already knew where I needed to be.
As I walked back to the start of the parade the sound of beating drums echoed through the Avenue as the parade was off to a start. The roaring crowds of everlasting green swelled and we were off to the races. At the start of the parade I was focused on the crowds, walking up and down the left hand side of the barriers where the sun was shining the most and the people were crammed together like a can of sardines. As I approach a scene, two FDNY service members are helping one another climb over the packed barriers, surrounded by the crowds. I fire off a shot, then back up to photograph the crowd. A multilayered scene of people at the front of the barricade, people standing on the sidewalk behind them, and others standing atop the construction site behind its fence.
I walk further north, where I see a grandmother holding her grand daughter both enjoying the parade together. The grandmother is missing some teeth which initially peaked my interest so I approached for a couple photographs. Firing off two shots on two different cameras before thanking them and continuing northbound down the avenue.
As I press onward, a group of established participants in the parade stand idly by watching the service members march onward. The sun is blaring on this side of the street so conditions are quite perfect, I couldn’t complain if I wanted to. I snap a shot of one of those distinguished gentlemen and continue my march forward toward two NYPD officers playing with their service dog and a mother and daughter pressed against one another so tightly that the hoods of the jackets and the way the daughter was clinging to her mother made the shape of a heart.
As I move up the street, I notice two small girls wearing matching puffer jackets with these bright blue eyes. The youngest, clinging to the bars of the barricade with her head pressed between the metal. I bend down to get on their level, which for my 6’3 body was quite the act of contortion, considering they were only up to my shins. I take the photograph, thank the parents who were just giddy to have their two daughters photographed for whatever reason, before continuing forward, where I was met with a young boy in the crowd standing atop his mother’s shoulders as she clutched his shins. The kid stood perfectly in the middle of the surrounding crowd allowing the eye to track him with ease.
I decide to turn back around and see what’s going on at the start of the parade again, considering I had been walking in tandem with the start of the parade for some time now and needed to get a change of subject. As I approach the start, members of the NYPD stand shoulder to shoulder behind a cavalry of men in kilts, large drums, and bagpipes. I knew from my early planning that down the block on the left hand side, near The Channel Gardens by the Rockefeller Center was a massive Irish flag being flown by members in the crowd. As the parade was in a moment of pause, I crossed the street onto the left hand side and walked ahead of the band members to get into position. They came marching down the avenue playing their instruments as loud as they could, the beating of drums reverberating off the buildings back into my hollowed out head. I crouched down to ensure I got the right shot and waited patiently for the moment to come. I took the shot of band members marching, playing their drums while the massive Irish Flag sits, center frame.
I ran into one of the more well known photojournalists in the city of New York the president of the NYPPA, we shook hands as we passed one another and then continued on with our work. The energy at this point was very high. The cheers of the crowd almost drowned out the sound of the band as they continued up the avenue. Now on the right side of the street, I notice a younger looking NYPD officer facing the crowd, obviously a bit over stimulated by the noises in front of him and directly behind him. I fire off a shot as I continue my walk with the high energy music blasting into my left ear.
On the side of the avenue are little breaks used to allow people who are trying to cross 5th, the opportunity to dart across the street while the parade is at a halt. As I’m passing one of these breaks, I notice a small girl curled up into a tightly wound ball with a small look of confusion as the parade in front of her delays her ability to cross. Her mother impatiently looking at her phone as other onlookers around her smile with joy at the band still playing their tunes.
Still following the band up the avenue on the right hand side, I notice two small girls, once again in matching puffer jackets, watching the parade. At this point, I’m so dialed into the space around me I feel like I can see the future. Sometimes when I’m in this state, I feel like I can make people do certain things, like my willpower influences people to do actions I want them to. Right behind them sits an Irish flag draped over the barricade that in about three seconds, is going to be cloaking the head of an NYPD officer as he decides to walk through the flag instead of simply going around it. Wouldn’t you know it? He does exactly that, shoving his concerned face into the flag without raising a hand to brush it out of the way, and instead takes the Irish flag to the face as the two girls in matching pink puffer jackets cling to the bars of the barricade, watching the parade pass by.
By now I’ve walked a considerable amount of 5th Ave and consider walking back. I’m not sure if it was the bagpipes or the contagious energy of the crowd, but I keep pressing forward. Members of the crowd go absolutely ape shit as the band passes by them when I notice a woman clutching some sort of congratulatory paper for what I would assume is a significant other. I stop to photograph her clutching the paper, where I’m then shortly met with a very wholesome moment.
Standing at the very front of one of the barricades stood a young girl, if I had to guess maybe 7 or 8 years old, clutching an Olympus camera. I stop to take a photograph of her, her brother very confused by this action, wondering why I’m photographing his sister and not him, while the mother grins from ear to ear.
Like I said before, seeing the innocence and wonder of children makes me a bit emotional. She looked to be just older than when I started photography at the age of six, and in that brief moment, I began to have flashbacks of me carrying my first disposable camera with me, taking pictures of family members and friends. I talked to the parents for a minute or so and encouraged her to keep shooting, to have fun, and to not stop, no matter what anyone else tells you. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun teaching photography at a more serious level, but there’s a different type of responsibility I feel when I see someone of her age picking up a camera. She’s probably nearly 20 years younger than me. If she sticks with it, she will be the next generation of artists. I feel a duty to encourage that as someone who loves this medium more than anything.
After this interaction, I was tired of walking the same way, so I turned myself around and headed southbound down the same side of the Avenue. There’s something I constantly remind myself of, something I picked up from How I Make Photographs by Daido Moriyama, written by Takeshi Nakamoto. Walk the same street twice. Once up, once back. That’s it.
The scene is never the same the second time around. The light will shift, even if it’s subtle. The people will be completely different. Someone will step into a frame that didn’t exist ten minutes ago. A shadow will cut across something in a way it didn’t before. Even the way I see it will change, because the first pass is always about understanding, and the second pass is about responding.
I never catch myself wanting to dart around too much. I don’t think think the next block is going to offer something better, something more “worth it,” because more often than not, that’s bullshit. The work is usually right in front of me. Stay within the same stretch. Work it properly. Walk it once, then walk it again, because it’s not about constantly finding new scenes, it’s about letting the same scene change in front of me.
When I move like that, when I stop chasing and just stay present, something shifts. The rhythm evens out. I stop forcing it. I fall into that flow where I’m not thinking so much about what I should be shooting and instead just reacting to what’s actually there. Taking this advice allowed me to capture a young brother and sister clinging to the side of a light post, trying to get a better view of the parade over the tall, cheap leprechaun looking hats worn by full grown adults in front of them.
As the parade pressed on to my right, more NYPD officers fell into formation, all in straight lines, while officers on the outer band of the marchers kept them in line. I squatted down to frame them better, and I think I caught one of those enforcers off guard. She sort of jumped for a brief moment before giving me the side eye. I’m used to this sort of reaction, so I brandished a polite smile and a head nod, to which she returned the generosity.
I then ran into another photographer that had mentioned he recognized me from my social media platforms and through my work. We had a quick conversation about his work because in reality, whenever I’m working, I hardly like to talk about myself. I’m much more interested in people than in myself. We talked about maybe going out to shoot some day together. However, if I’m completely honest, going out to shoot with other people is one of my least favorite things to do. I never get any fuckin work done. They always wanna talk, or we’re hovering around one another. I prefer to work alone because when I’m with someone, I’m reminded of myself. I become conscious of who I am, and I can feel my skin on the outside of my body. Photography, in the sense that I do it, has always allowed me the opportunity to escape myself. Not my presence or responsibility as it pertains to proximity and ethics, but a much more surreal way. My goal is to blend into a scene and the world, and people around me, until I no longer feel myself thinking about anything besides the moments in front of me and the connections I make. Within that 1/1000 of a second, I want to feel as if I am nothing to the world but a pair of caring eyes.
I notice that the light is shifting a bit, so I take the calm moment to cross the street, where I’m met with yet another small child waving her hand at the members of the parade. I take a quick shot then head back down the avenue towards St. Patricks Cathedral where finely decorated officers all stand in formation awaiting order to continue their march up the avenue. I wasn’t so interested in them as people, as weird as that sounds, and was more interested in their uniformity. All standing in coordination with their silver time pieces.
Further down the street, I find a quieter moment as the parade comes to a standstill for a brief moment. A small little girl parked in a stroller holding the Irish flag sits patiently as mom awaits the go ahead to move forward. I bend down to her level and she notices immediately, making an inquisitive face at me as I press the shutter.
The sound of trumpets can be heard in the distance behind her as two different high school marching bands play their tunes as the parade marches onward. In the second pack of students, I notice a young teenage boy playing his instrument with a level of focus on his play chart that could only be described as prey like. I fire off a shot and then keep it moving down the block.
Finding my way back to the start of the parade a slue of quick events unflod before me within the crowd. A new Irish flag has arisen in one of the spots I photographed before. Yet another testament as to why working a scene is so important. As the flag sails in the wind, a little girl stands above the crowd seeking a better vantage point directly in front of the flag. I take the shot, then move down the block where I’m met with a very enthusiastic woman in all green holding a fold out sign that says “shake your shamrock”. Only a few feet away from her, directly facing the sun, I notice a woman with bright eyes already staring at me, smiling, as if she was ready for me to notice her and take the photograph. So I oblige.
Finally back at the start of the parade, I can feel the energy around me shift. The NYFD and all of its ranks are huddled into the street, ready to enter the main stage. Their band members all adorned in beautiful kilts and uniforms stand shoulder to shoulder, awaiting their turn to start playing. While they wait I take the time to photograph them in a state they won’t be in once they walk onto the avenue, firing off a few shots of individuals and other members squeezing past press photographers, the crowd around them watching with anticipation.
With a boom that rattled the window panes of the surrounding buildings, the FDNY’s Emerald Society Pipes and Drums enter 5th Ave. The surrounding energy can be felt amongst the crowd. It’s as if out of all the bands that have played before them have ceased to exist. The sheer volume of the music, I swear could have been heard from Brooklyn.
Now I may be biased, my father in law was in the fire department for 30 years and became Battalion Chief of his unit. I revere him as a great hero and aspire to be a mere half as courageous as this man. But honestly, you can tell the difference between the NYPD and the NYFD by the way the crowd reacts to their presence. As the fire fighters marched forward, with each step, a growing sense of pride in the city and its people could be felt in ways that feel almost indescribable. There was two very particular shots that I knew that I wanted because of my scouting prior to the start of the parade.
One was members of some band with the Empire State Building in the back, and the other a marching shot in front of one of those I <3 NYC stores. Both of them would be positioned on the right side of the frame so I crossed the street before they entered the avenue.
Having gotten those two shots, I then moved around the band working the scene, getting detail shots and entire shots of the members. While keeping a look out on the crowds reaction.
Then came the rest of the FDNY, and suddenly it wasn’t just a group moving through the avenue, it was the city showing up for itself. Members from every borough, every corner of New York, walking shoulder to shoulder in a way that felt less like formation and more like something earned over time. I have a hard time putting into words exactly what it felt like, even now, because it wasn’t just something you saw, it was something you felt moving through the crowd, through them, through all of us standing there watching.
This wasn’t just participation, it was a celebration. Of history, of courage, of the kind of work that doesn’t need to be explained because everyone already understands what it costs. Along the barricades, more FDNY members lined the sides, leaning in, shouting, teasing, cheering each other on like it was less a parade and more a reunion. Chiefs shaking hands, younger guys calling out to them, laughter cutting through the noise, the kind of easy familiarity that only comes from shared experience.
It was loud, a little chaotic, completely unpolished in the best way. And more than anything, it felt human. Alive. There was emotion in it, real emotion, not something performed or put on display. Love, camaraderie, pride, gratitude, all of it moving back and forth between the marchers and the people watching them. It stood in stark contrast to the colder, more uniform presence of the NYPD earlier in the day. This was something different entirely.
This felt like family.
I stayed with the FDNY for a while, walking alongside them as they made their way down Fifth, their ranks stretching so far it felt like they owned the entire avenue. It didn’t feel like it was just a march, it was felt like an entire movement with memory behind it. Along the barricades, family members leaned over, calling out names, waving, cheering, and every so often someone would break from the parade just long enough to run over and pull someone into a quick hug before slipping back into the line. Old friends from different houses crossing paths like no time had passed, stopping mid-step to catch up, to laugh, to point out their kids marching a few rows back like it was the proudest thing in the world. It felt less like a parade and more like the city folding in on itself for a moment, everyone finding each other in the middle of it.
As I continued moving with the FDNY, we slowed to a near stop around 59th Street, the pace of the parade easing just enough for people to fall into conversation. I made a few photographs there, members talking amongst themselves, drifting forward in small clusters rather than a single unit, the kind of in-between moment where the structure loosens and something more natural takes over.
By the time I realized it, I had followed them nearly the entire length of the avenue. So I turned around and started making my way back up toward the start of the parade, retracing my steps. Somewhere along that walk I made two of my favorite photographs from the entire day. One of a father, still in uniform, walking with his young daughter who was wrapped up in his coat, far too big for her, but wearing it like it belonged to her anyway. And the other, just moments later, of a lone firefighter sprinting down the avenue trying to catch back up to his group already well ahead of him.
As he ran past me we locked eyes for a split second, and right as I lifted the camera he broke into a laugh, half out of breath, and said, “Ohhhh nooo, c’mon man, you got me huh,” before continuing down the block, still chuckling to himself as he disappeared back into the formation.
As I made my way back down the avenue, I shifted my attention back to the crowd, letting the parade fall into the background again. I photographed a man in a sharply tailored suit, head buried in his phone, standing just feet in front of a homeless man behind him, the two existing in completely different realities without ever acknowledging one another. A few steps later I caught a dog walking alongside the remaining FDNY members, moving with the same sense of purpose as the rest of them, before continuing on, picking off moments from the crowd as they presented themselves. Faces, gestures, small interactions, all of it unfolding in passing, until eventually I found myself back near the start of the parade, where it had all begun hours earlier.
I eventually found myself, yet again, back at the start of the parade, just as the newest graduating class of the NYPD began stepping onto the avenue, all of them carrying that same wide-eyed energy that hasn’t yet been worn down by time. While I was working the edge of the crowd, I noticed a man holding a large binder, the sunlight hitting it just right and bouncing straight back into his face like some kind of accidental spotlight. I crouched down and made the frame, catching him mid-squint, clearly not expecting it, and without really thinking I said, “Looks like you’re getting a nice tan.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, or like I’m directing the whole parade.”
I laughed, because what else are you supposed to do in that moment, but internally I was already filing him away as exactly the kind of guy who would say something like that. There’s a certain type of man who can’t resist inflating his role in any given situation, no matter how obviously unnecessary it is, and I’ve seen enough of them over the years to know it’s not exactly a rare condition. I’ll stand by that observation until proven otherwise.
The new class of the NYPD came pouring onto the avenue in a steady wave, stepping into it alongside fellow graduates and older members of the force who lined the edges, shaking hands, patting shoulders, exchanging those quick, familiar acknowledgments that say more than words ever really could. It felt like a beginning, or at least the public version of one. I followed them down the block for a bit, staying with the movement, letting it unfold in front of me, but eventually the weight of four cameras and eight miles started to catch up, settling into my shoulders in a way that’s hard to ignore no matter how good the day feels.
There was about an hour left in the parade, and I knew exactly how it was going to play out, more high school bands, more formations, more of that same energy just recycled through different faces. By that point, my back was starting to ache in a way that felt structural, like something was being definitely being permanently rearranged back there. I hadn’t had a single drop of water or a morsel of anything to eat all day, and the thought of a cigarette… Oh my god, a cigarette had started to feel less like a want and more like a necessity.
Yah know… Real shame you can’t smoke while working one of these things. The people in the crowd seemed to have no problem with it. I mean, I passed more than a few throughout the day posted up along the barricades smoking their hoagies and slims like it was part of the experience. Dammit, after eight miles with four cameras hanging off me, I felt like I had at least earned the right to stroll down Fifth with a Parliament in my mouth and a camera in my hand.
Instead, I exited stage left off Fifth and onto Madison, which, unsurprisingly, was just as packed. This is where all those high school bands were staged, clustered together, tuning instruments, running scales, kids buzzing with that mix of nerves and excitement before they step out onto the avenue. I held off on the cigarette, partly out of respect for the kids’ lungs, partly because despite everything, I still try to be somewhat decent, but also because there was still too much happening to check out completely. I kept working, photographing kids chasing each other down the street with instruments in hand, another group standing in loose lines waiting their turn, trying to look composed while clearly not feeling it yet. It was a different kind of energy out there, less performative, more anticipatory, the moment just before they become part of something larger than themselves.
I headed down Park Avenue, moving south toward 42nd and Bryant Park, the city finally starting to thin out just enough to feel like I could breathe again. Somewhere along the way, I slipped a Parliament out of its unnecessarily beautiful blue packaging and ducked into a small cubby to get out of the wind, which had been trying to rip my hat off my head all day like it had a personal vendetta against me and my already questionable hair situation. What followed was about three solid minutes of me fighting for my life with a lighter that refused to cooperate, turning my back to the wind, cupping my hands, trying every angle imaginable like some kind of desperate street magician, until finally the flame held long enough to light the cigarette. Small victory. I kept walking, letting the nicotine do its thing as I made my way toward the train entrance near the public library.
By this point, my body was completely shot. Shoulders, neck, back, crack, everything felt like it had been twisted into something unnatural. I can only imagine the people passing me in that long underground stretch toward the F train were half expecting me to just collapse mid-stride. This always happens after a long day on assignment. My brain just shuts off after running at full speed for hours, like it decides it’s done participating. My body follows shortly after, camera straps digging into my shoulders, pulling me down with every step. My feet, which are already a problem on a good day, felt like two oversized blocks of Velveeta cheese strapped to the ends of my legs, flat, useless, and stinky. I was hungry, dehydrated, exhausted. Completely spent.
But of course, you don’t really get to turn it off.
As I made my way down the stairs to the platform, I spotted a group of FDNY members waiting for the train, still riding whatever energy the parade had left in them. I was envious. They were loud, laughing, shoving each other around, the kind of energy that doesn’t just disappear because the event is over. I walked over, introduced myself, and made a few frames of them right there on the platform and again once we got on the train. And then, finally, I found an empty seat and let myself sink into it, the day catching up all at once.
I would’ve loved to call it a day right there. It was about 4:00pm, my body was cooked, my brain had already started clocking out, and the idea of going home, drinking an obscene amount of water, peeling off my sweat-soaked clothes, and eating something objectively terrible for me sounded borderline spiritual. But instead, I found myself going back and forth in my head about whether I should make the trip out to Nice Film Club to drop off the rolls from the day. Part of me knew it was the responsible thing to do, keep the momentum going, get the film in, don’t let it sit. The other part of me, the much louder part, was begging me to go home and do absolutely nothing.
I sat with it for a bit until we pulled into 14th and 6th, and that’s when I realized I had played myself. Completely. I was in the furthest possible car from the L train entrance because I had followed the firefighters onto the train like it was part of the assignment. So now I’m walking the entire length of the platform, and I mean the entire goddamn thing, dragging myself along like I had just finished a marathon I didn’t train for, only to get there and see I had eight minutes to wait for the next train.
At that point it felt like the city was just fucking with me.
I’ll admit, I was probably being a little dramatic, maybe even taking it personally, but when you’re that tired, everything feels like a deliberate inconvenience. And weirdly enough, it flipped a switch. I got a little competitive with it. Like the city was testing me and I wasn’t about to lose to a subway transfer. Some stupid internal monologue kicked in like, “Alright, watch this. I’m getting to Nice. I don’t care.”
The L finally pulls in, and instead of relief, I’m met with yet another middle finger. Packed. Completely packed. Which makes no sense. At 4pm, at 6th Ave, the L is usually manageable, that’s the whole reason I go there instead of Union Square, which I avoid like the plague because it’s a human traffic jam at all hours. But somehow, despite this train having made exactly one stop before mine, it was absolutely slammed.
I just stood there for a second and laughed. Because at that point, what else are you gonna do.
And if anything, it just made me more determined to get there.
So boom, after getting compressed between two backpacks like I was part of someone else’s carry-on situation, we finally pull into Bedford. Now listen, I love Nice Film Club. Love it. The people, the work, all of it. Williamsburg? Different story. I step off that train and it immediately feels like I’ve been teleported right back onto Fifth Avenue, just with better branding and worse intentions. If you’re from New York, you know what this place used to be, and you know what it is now, a polished, overpriced strip mall dressed up as a neighborhood. Chanel, boutique this, concept store that, every coffee chain imaginable, and a very specific type of person walking around who you just know has never been north of 59th or anywhere in Brooklyn that doesn’t have a curated wine list.
I can’t stand it. Maybe it’s because I used to work over here, maybe it’s because I prefer my quiet little pocket in Ridgewood where I know the guys at the deli by name, where the same people sit outside every day, where it still feels like a neighborhood instead of a showroom. Whatever it is, this place and I have never gotten along.
Somehow, against all odds, I make it to Nice. I walk in, immediately collapse onto the nearest bench, and start peeling cameras off my body like I’ve just finished some kind of endurance test. I’m talking to everyone there about the parade, what they’ve been shooting, what I’ve been working on, but in the back of my head there’s only one thought looping, “Do I just Uber home?” I was fully ready to drop $45 on a ride that would somehow take longer than the train just so I wouldn’t have to move anymore.
Then I’m talking to Johnny from Nice, who’s been fasting for Ramadan, which ends Friday, and he’s telling me how excited he is just to drink water again. Water. And I’m standing there complaining to myself about being tired.
That shut me up real quick.
So I got my shit together, stopped feeling sorry for myself, pulled my pants up, and dragged myself back to the train like an adult. And just like that, I was on my way home.
I push open the door to my apartment and I'm met with my wonderful girl Sophie and our two boys, Milo and Augustus. We talk about the day a bit. The parade, the photos, the people, all of it before, as if my body knew that I was finally in a safe place, I completely shut down. It kind of felt like bluetoothing. Which is basically that feeling when you really gotta use the restroom and somehow the closer you get to home it's like your body knows you're gonna be able to go so you gotta go to the restroom even more until it feels like an emergency and you're sprinting to the restroom literally begging your hands to move faster to unfasten your belt that won't fucking come undone and you think for a split second "Oh god this is it, I'm gonna shit my pants at 25 years old, there's no way." before by some miracle you get it unfastened just in time for nothing to happen anywhere near as dramatic as the feeling.
Yah. That feeling, but just pain. I think it was severe dehydration, and the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything. Sophie quickly toasted me an onion bagel that I demolished in about 30 seconds tops, which, if you’re a health professional or anyone with some common sense, you know you’re not supposed to house down food on an empty stomach. While a blissful 30 seconds were had, it was quickly followed by more pain and big tummy bloating. God I wanted to take a look at my photos so bad but it was like the city was doing that thing where it’s subliminally taking care of you by hurting you? Kind of like teaching me a lesson to chill out.
I knocked out for the next two hours on the couch, stripped of my exterior clothes, having fallen asleep only in my stinky thermals and my girlfriend’s green socks with a ginger root tea that went unsipped and a heated blanket over my stomach as I laid in the fetal position.
And really, that was it. That was the day. The rest of the night was spent doing the quiet part of the job, sitting down and going through the images, culling frames, trying to make sense of what I actually got versus what I thought I got. I finally ate something, drank what felt like a bathtub’s worth of water, and just let everything catch up to me. By the time I was done, there was nothing left in the tank. I collapsed into bed still in my own filth, no shower, just straight into sleep like a truly disgusting, overworked human being.
When I think back on the day as a whole, it’s hard to separate any one moment from the rest of it. It wasn’t just the parade, it was everything surrounding it, the walk, the people, the exhaustion, the small interactions that stitched the whole thing together. There’s a feeling I get after a day like this that’s hard to replicate anywhere else. It’s not satisfaction exactly, not pride, but something a bit quieter than that. More like recognition. Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I’m meant to be doing, even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else.
I feel lucky. Genuinely lucky. (Luck of the Irish????) But really, I do, and not in the surface-level mumbo jumbo way people throw that word around. I truly feel it in the deeper sense of being aware that this isn’t something owed to me. To walk through the city with a camera, to be allowed into these moments, to witness people as they actually are, even for a fraction of a second, is a privilege I don’t take lightly. New York doesn’t give itself up easily. It doesn’t hand you anything. But if you’re patient, if you pay attention, if you respect it, every once in a while it lets you see something real.
Much like the wise words of Uncle Ben, with that comes a responsibility. I can’t exploit it, or force it into something it’s not. But to honor it, to be honest, to recognize that these aren’t just “subjects,” they’re people, living full lives that just happen to intersect with mine for a brief moment is a true privilege and gift. The camera doesn’t give you authority, it gives you access. What you do with that access matters.
Days like this remind me why I keep doing it. Why I carry the cameras, why I walk the miles, why I put up with the exhaustion and the chaos and everything in between. Because at its core, and I’ve said this before, I know I have, but, photography isn’t about making images, it’s about paying attention. It’s about being present in a world that moves too fast for most people to notice.
The city doesn’t slow down. But every once in a while, if you’re in it long enough, if you’re working in the right rhythm, it feels like it does.
In those moments, even if they only last for a split second, I remember exactly why I fell in love with this in the first place.
Thank you for reading this first edition of Field Notes.
Field Notes is an ongoing diary of my days spent photographing New York City. Each entry documents where I went, what cameras and film I used, the weather, the people I encountered, and the small moments that caught my attention along the way. It’s part record keeping, part reflection. A way of preserving not just the photographs themselves, but the circumstances, thoughts, and emotions surrounding them.
If you’re enjoying these entries, I’d love for you to explore the rest of The Creative Connection. Alongside this series, you’ll find deep dives on creative strategy, personal process, photographic history, and the tools that shape our craft. And if you feel called to subscribe, you’ll unlock the full archive and every future lesson across all segments of the publication.
For those curious about the work I make beyond the page, you can explore my portfolio and ongoing projects below. I also share visual companions and extended breakdowns on YouTube for anyone who prefers to learn through images, movement, and process in real time.
Thank you again for being here. It’s an honor to share this craft with you.
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I really like the low point of view in many of the photos. Maybe a silly question, but are you shooting from the waist, or are you crouching down to take the shot? Or is it the Rolleiflex and cropping the 1:1 format?
I really enjoyed the series, there are some very strong images.
Love the details, the consciousness of your approach! Glad I don't carry as many cameras, though!