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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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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The imposition of order upon the natural chaos in the world is an intoxicating power to possess.
Two adjacent frames on a roll of 35mm film.
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VIEW FROM THE PROMENADE - 6.9.2012 by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
I walked briskly along the promenade on a Saturday afternoon. It was humid, but the streaks of rain dotting my t-shirt helped keep me from melting into the pavement. The sun had been in and out all day, and later on in the evening, would turn the coast of Brooklyn into a sun-soaked idyllic paradise.
At this point in the day however, it was drizzling. I like shooting in light rain because it generally lends a particular quality to the light that I absolutely love in black and white. I was working quickly, and was sitting on the partition between the upper walk-way of the Promenade, and the highway decks about 16 feet below. I waited for maybe…three or four minutes before making an exposure, and yet another three before making this one. As it turns out, the first was absolute garbage, none of the bicycles were there, and the people were in all the wrong places.
I nailed it, in this one though, I think.
-Chris.
Ps. Notice the tiny sailboat in the upper left part of the image?
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It poured that night, but thanks to the scaffolding I escaped the torrent.
The district was finally back to normal, after the frigid Winter months, and the strange transitory period that always comes with the Spring, as well as the slow onset of Summer.
I hadn’t been waiting long, when, surely enough, I began to receive the usual barrage of questions.
“WHAT ARE YOU FILMING?”
“WHAT MOVIE IS THIS FOR?”
“IS THIS FOR A MAGAZINE?”
“ARE YOU A PAPARAZZI?”
Believe me lady, if I was a paparazzo, the last camera I would be shooting would be a Hasselblad mounted on a tripod. Don’t worry, you’re not that famous.
Anyway, I let the comments roll off my shoulders, and started scouting for subjects. I generally enjoy photographing women, and girls, more than men, because I feel like I have more of a natural rapport with them, but all the same, I find that I can talk men into standing for my camera longer than I can the women.
When it comes down to it, time is the key to a good photograph, a simple “smile and stand there” just doesn’t cut it, you’ve got to whittle away at their predisposition to simply say “cheese” and walk away.
Anyway, I usually think of a rainy night as a wash (no pun intended) as far as portraiture goes, because, simply enough, nobody wants to stand in the goddamn pouring rain and have their picture taken.
As I said, thank goodness for the scaffolding.
I framed up and photographed his lady-friend. She pulled the usual smile and cheese pose, and I burned a frame just to get her out of the way. I was much more interested in the slightly impatient expression and rain-drop ridden shirt. He was almost surprised when I told him to step in front of them camera, as if assuming that the only thing I wanted was a picture of the girl. Not the case, but it’s understandable.
I focused, locked the mirror, and told him not to smile.
*slap*
The shutter went off and I took my thumb off the cable.
It was a good one.
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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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Her legs were stretched out, imitating the lines of the floorboards.
Maybe even outdoing them.
The half empty cup of black coffee rested by her side, a plume of steam rising from the lip of the mug.
Late morning light streamed in through the window, creating soft patches on the weathered boards, while accentuating her lithe build.
I regretted having to leave on such short notice, but when I stepped towards the door, she remained seated.
Then I walked away without looking back.
cl.
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