CHRISTOPHER LANGE
Photographer
ask / tell
917 • 558 • 0476
chrisplange@gmail.com
MY WEBSITE
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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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These were strange nights.
“I’m the vampire of my own heart
One of those utter derelicts
Condemned to eternal laughter,
But who can no longer smile.”
from L’Héautontimorouménos, Charles Baudelaire. -
GEORGE’S BEL AIR by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
George is another one of the Meatpacking District’s characters. Outside the dark playground of the District, he works as one of those guys that puts up billboards all over the city.
He has a classic car collection, and he brings one down to Pastis every weekend. This one in particular used to belong to his father. Sadly, his dad passed away this past summer, so I ended up making a small print of this photograph for him, and brought to him on my way in to Pastis one night in July.
A friendly sort, George is open to talk to just about anyone about just about anything, though his car is usually the subject. It isn’t unusual to see him providing an unofficial…”taxi” service at the end of the night, either.
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I had just returned to school from my Thanksgiving break. It was cold, damp, and quiet, save for the water rushing in the drains at the base of the street.
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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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A light drizzle had just begun to fall as we flew across the bridge, away from Manhattan and into the quiet darkness.
With a five hour drive ahead of us, and two large cups of bad coffee in hand, we turned the music up and bid the streets we love farewell.
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PASTIS, 4 AM, CLOSING by CHRISTOPHER LANGE
Back in the summer time I used to go into Pastis at closing time to chat with Joe and Teddy before going home. They’d lock the doors and have a bite to eat, and I’d have a glass of Côtes du Rhône on the house. We would talk for about half an hour or so in the empty restaurant, and it always felt a bit surreal because during business hours the place is constantly packed.
Sitting at the end of the bar, looking over the vacant tables which had been abuzz with conversation and inebriation only an hour earlier only made it seem that much more silent.
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There’s this mechanic’s shop down in DUMBO that has been there for as long as I can remember.
Definitely since before all the gentrification started.
There’s always a shell or two of an empty automobile sitting outside, alongside a few other cars in need of repair. This particular set of wheels, a gorgeous blood red, was next in line to get jacked up.
In the 70’s this would’ve been a wise-guy’s ride.
What a shame.
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Normally I don’t drink screwdrivers, but I was caught off guard at the bar, and ordered the first thing that came to mind.
As I stepped onto the edge of the dance floor, I watched the mass of bodies pulsing and undulating in unison in front of me as my heart thundered against my ribcage.
Flashing lights and bursts of lasers ripped through the darkness like scalpel blades, dissecting the crowd into singular beings for fractions of a second.
A face here, an arm there, perhaps a briefly shared look before the darkness surged over the room once again.
My glass was empty.
I leaned against one of the columns at the edge of the floor and took it all in before slinging my camera across my chest, disappearing into the swarm of ghosts.
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