Earlier this month—around my birthday, always the coldest time of year—I tested the new Leica with a roll black and white film that expired seven years ago, and nature gave me a subject that never fails to pique interest: a snowstorm. Going for a short walk in the snow, I took some photos steps from my building in Turtle Bay, Manhattan.
When I was a kid, these storms happened; they canceled school, buried parked cars, and spurred the digging of trenches. But these days, here in New York, the storms are infrequent, occurring maybe once or twice every few years. At least, that’s how it seems to someone who grew up near Lake Michigan.
I like that one must accept what nature wills. If a blizzard comes, there’s nothing to be done about it. The city, for a day or two, quiets down and softens its edges. The pace slows and expectations of prompt productivity lower. We North Americans hold ourselves to those expectations all the way to the end.
