Richie Siegel


Simply put, my eye is drawn to repetition. Lines are the basic element of everything in the world, but they are often disguised. A good photographer, I believe, can take photos in a way that illuminates these truly beautiful patterns. The streets of New York are one of my favorite places to photograph. The sheer size of the the city and the complexity of the vast array of design always amazes me. The last few times I have gone to shoot, I have shot solely in black and white, which really brings out the patterns. Without color as a distraction, the shape and form of the photo are placed center stage, which is the best part.


In 100 words. Not one word more, not one word less—


A woman stands in the crossed shade of a street sign, waiting.

Buildings mirror up from the pavement like steam. Like so much moisture, each glass building reflects each glass building reflects each glass building, until there are no towers, only air and shine, multiplied.

Shine is a circle.

Bright, a passerby thinks. Gray-white goes the pavement. Gray-white in the mirror in the mirror in the mirror until gray-white goes wet in the glass, goes shine.

Shine is a circle. The woman is a tilted head, a craned neck. The passerby wants a ruler, wants a map made of lines.

-Callista Buchen


I never imagined floating like this in wide-awake dreams; sinking deep between brick and steel into thoughts, even about you. The windows are dark and I cannot see you. But I remember your smile, your touch like silk clouds. I feel the wind caress, as if a soft kiss from your lips. Your breath, the grace of doves. I am flying to you, to where you are. Or will be. My eyes, closed in freefall, I dance in air. I smell the lilac of your skin even through the choking smoke, through the falling ash . . . to the white hot glow.

-John C. Mannone

Man Down

I do not recognize this cloudless sky. Fruit trees scalloped the edges of the sky of my Iowa childhood. In the backyard orchard bees too drunk to sting drank from fermented fruit on the ground. Summer sounds surrounded me, unsteady bees buzzed, red wing blackbirds hummed to a clockwork crescendo like an electric fence.

Here right-angled rooflines frame the sky. Instead of my cool, soft grass bed, scalding asphalt sears my skin through my suit. Sometimes faces appear in front of the sky. The mouths move, but the speech is soundless. Iowa calls me, but they cannot hear my answer.

-C. Wallace Walker