CHRISTOPHER LANGE
Photographer
ask / tell
917 • 558 • 0476
chrisplange@gmail.com
MY WEBSITE
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CLARK MEZZANINE by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
I leaned against the wall of the elevator as it crawled downward to the platform level of the Clark St. 2/3 station. Nervously thumbing the advance on my camera, I watched as the light of the mezzanine hallway slid upwards through the elevator windows as the car came to a halt. I snatched a frame as the doors opened, half hoping to catch someone unaware through the gap, half just wanting to get a picture of the doors sliding apart.
I let the camera fall to my side as I sprinted through the partially opened doorway and down to the platform just in time to see the doors of a Wall bound 2 jolt open for me. I landed in Manhattan a few minutes later, and emerged into a frigid gust of wind, and blinding early Spring light.
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Financial district employees leaving work for the evening…
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11TH & 4TH by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
This place has always seemed a lot more sinister from the outside than it actually is. Walking past it in my earlier years always reminded me of some seedy mob hangout, a la Goodfellas. I always secretly hope that when I look inside I’ll see three guys in suits standing around one of the pool tables, cigar smoke billowing from their mouths as they laugh raucously.
“Funny how?”
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WALKING HOME, 2:30 AM by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
“Yet who has not clasped a skeleton in his arms,
Who has not fed upon what belongs to the grave?
What matters the perfume, the costume or the dress?
He who shows disgust believes that he is handsome.”
from The Dance Of Death, by Charles Baudelaire
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Hard edged light on porcelain skin.
Don’t break your mother’s good china.
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Nick greeted me at the door, and waved me past the bouncers and coat check.
Friends are good to have.
He returned to the booth to keep playing his set, but handed me a few drink tickets before disappearing up the stairs. So far so good. The music was loud (the system is pretty decent at the Griffin), and I managed to maneuver through the cloud of cologne and perfume that represented the dancefloor, and make it to the bar.
“I’ll have the darkest beer you’ve got”
These places generally have an amazing selection of cocktails, but very poor beer selection. I’m told that dark beer is not a possibility. I remembered having a Blue Moon there once before, so I ordered one of those and found a place to sit back and relax.
The group was the usual sort, annoying financier types and their overdone women composed the majority, but there were a few genuinely interesting people there.
She’s one of them. I don’t know her name, or even remember her face, but she had a book in her purse, a copy of JD Salinger’s 9 Stories.
Most girls that go to out to clubs don’t keep books in their purses.
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So, if you ever want to impress someone, wear whatever you like, but keep a good book in your bag.
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The car was empty, save for myself and three or four others, silently sitting as we thundered through the subterranean spider’s web that makes up the subway system. It was getting late, and as we pulled out of a station somewhere in Brooklyn, an express train on the adjacent track matched our speed.
I slowly raised the camera to my eye, thumbing the advance into position, should I find it necessary to expose more than one frame. The shutter’s whisper was heard by no one, and, confident that the image was the one I wanted, I placed the camera back on my knee, listlessly jostling around as per the movements of the train.
Click.
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