Summer of Something Special

The images, and the book, have us wishing it wasn't 40 degrees in New York. To celebrate its launch, read our interview with the photographer, below.

Tell me about growing up in Venice.

Venice was rough and dangerous, but I wouldn’t exchange it for anything. There were many hard lessons to learn there. When I was young, I really felt like Venice was the world and I couldn’t see out of it or past it. If you didn’t exist within those few square miles you just didn’t exist to us. Our role models were the neighborhood guys—people we actually knew and came in touch with day to day. To my friends and me, Venice encompassed everything we believe we ever needed, so we didn’t have aspirations to leave.

What did Venice look like back then?

Venice was timeless. It hadn’t been touched. Nobody wanted to live there unless they were escaping something. So, it was accepting. I think the connotation was that it was poor and rundown. Opening a business there didn’t seem promising, so everything was mom and pop. You didn’t see large corporations coming in and starting a shop, so therefore there weren’t really jobs. Venice operated on the black market—you could get anything you needed or wanted off the street, from groceries, to household appliances, to pets and school clothes.

What were you like as a kid?

I think I was too adventurous for my own good. I was very independent from early on. I would ride my bike further than we were allowed to go and stay out past our curfew, until the street lights came on. We would bomb the hills on our skateboards by the baseball field, spend our summers at the public swimming pool—which at the time was only 65 cents to get in—scrape together money for the ice cream man, play suicide against the neighbors garage with a tennis ball. And then I would sit and draw for hours—drawing was the one thing I could focus on.

What did your parents do? Did you have siblings?

My mom is a piano teacher. She taught voice and music reading at some of the local schools and churches to the children. She worked at Dorsey High, which was one of the worst schools in LA when I was growing up, and then she went on to work at some of the elementary schools closer to our house. Later, she came back to teaching piano to all the local kids out of our home.

My father wasn’t really in the picture. He left when I was about nine years old and we all became more and more distant over the years with him. I don’t think he was really ever fit to be a parent. He had an abusive upbringing and he never recovered from it. My mother’s father had got him a job in management, which he kept until my teens, but he was laid off when the company folded in the late ’90s. I have two blood sisters and I was the middle child. My mother remarried and had a string of relationships and I grew close with the kids of those partners who became like brothers and sisters to me, too. They lived locally and I’d often stay at theirs because we had less supervision—our parents were too busy being loved up to pay attention, so often we were on our own. We got in loads of trouble—pretty much anything you can imagine.

At what point did taking pictures become important to you?

I think when I was around 18 I was handed a few cameras and I realized that I should document my life a little because I honestly didn’t think I’d be here for that long. I had lost two really dear friends quite young. One friend was murdered when I was 16 and we were at the Emergency Room when she arrived, and then just two years after that I lost my best friend in a car accident. I think through those events I realized how important it was to leave some type of footprint, proof of a life, and I just started shooting honestly, with only that intent. I was able to recover a decent amount of those photos and included them in a show I had in Europe a few summers ago.

What did you initially photograph?

I was mentoring kids in the housing projects in South LA and was teaching them photography. I started to document them on film and let them shoot on my cameras. I would print the pictures out and then bring them the following week to show them. I found that this built up their self-esteem and brought them joy. Concurrently I recognized that Venice was quickly changing and that everybody was leaving or getting pushed out, so I started to photograph all the people, places and things that I felt made Venice, Venice.

You never went to college. Do you think it’s important for an artist or do you think it may actually hinder their creative process?

You know, I wish someone had told me to go to school, maybe for other reasons than actually learning a trade. I do think for some artists school is important, but I also think art school is forced on artists. If you think about the age kids are when they go to these schools, we don’t have a clue who we are at that time. Our identities are still developing. And meanwhile, at school, they’re trying to shape how you think or what you should say in your art. Everyone develops at a different pace. So, I think it does hinder creativity. It’s an unnecessary pressure, when school is already hard enough. Art is so arbitrary. I think school can be a waste for some, if not most.

What did you learn living in London?

How hard I needed to work in order to compete and be relevant at the level I wanted to reach. To me, London is putting out the best work visually at this time and the world adopts what London makes—whether it be in the arts or advertising or film and so on. I think initially I was intimidated being from Los Angeles. I remember going around and showing my book and being told, ‘Oh nice to meet you. We’ll just hire you in LA.’ There were two things I really like about London, and someone can correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s less prejudice in the arts. If you meet a rep or a magazine, they will say, ‘Go do x,y and z. And it would be great to see more of stuff like this in your work.’ If you do what they ask, they will most likely give you a chance. I feel like in America, it’s just the one meeting and it’s done. If you aren’t on their level at that moment, they’ve made their mind up on you and that’s it. Also, concerning gender and race, I feel like London does not care if you are a man, a woman, old, young, gay, straight, transgender, black, white, muslim or whatever—if you are good at what you do, you will be given the opportunity. In America, I don’t find that to be true.

Do you still live in LA?

I never fully left LA and I don’t think I ever fully will. But I did step away from Los Angeles to broaden the strokes of what I’m doing. Los Angeles is home, but I think it was necessary for me to leave LA from my work to expand and to remove a ceiling. I think at the time when I started in photography, Los Angeles didn’t have the respect that it does now and the opportunities weren’t there that exist now. There wasn’t as much of an international cache. Now, I think there’s a romance between the world and LA.

Do you still shoot there?

I am still working on passion projects in LA involving the youth and community. I think in the beginning, that was my location and point of reference for everything, so it was more haphazard. Now, I feel that whatever I do around LA in the anthropology space needs to be really sensitive as to what LA needs—I need to have more tact in whatever it is I do. Being from there, I feel it’s my social responsibility to not contribute to the noise.

Do you think an area can lose something special after it's been shot for too long?

I don’t want to document something over and over again that so many others have documented, unless I have a really different, unique way of seeing it. I think discovery is a huge part of photography and half of what makes someone a good photographer, regardless of your technical abilities, is your ability to find subjects and places that people haven’t seen before—introduce people to them. And it’s your ability to connect honestly with those subjects.

Where did you take the photos in the Summer of Something Special book?

These photos are from Port Royal, a small fishing town that looks at Kingston.

Tell me about Jamaica—what's it like?

EVERYTHING is done on island time.

What did you love about the people and the culture?

What I loved about the people and the culture was the honesty. It’s very obvious that they feel they only have each other. Most of these kids, they’re just on their own—they’re raising themselves. The communities are so tight-knit that, whether they are related or not, everyone treats one another like brother and sister.

Tell me about the girls that are in so many of the photos.

I loved the sense of wonder they had. They were really fascinated with me and my team. They wanted to know about all the cameras and look through them, and see how they work and look at their friends through them, and see themselves through them. There was just something really natural about our interaction. They had this amazing bond between the two of them. You could tell that they really love each other. It was hard for me not to capture it.

You have a book you've been working on for years, right?

Yes, it’s comprised of my photos that span from when I was 18 years old up until today. I feel like I’m never finished with this book—I just continue to add to it. I feel like I’ve gotten better and my work has progressed over the years in terms of aesthetics. The feeling and sentiment behind the book hasn’t changed, but I do think that I’ve been able to say more of what I want to with my more recent work. The book contains all of my personal work. It’s essentially a document of my personal life—past relationships, youth, my neighborhood, letters, writings, drawings, my family. It’s an extremely personal project. Hopefully, next year I will release it.

'Summer of Someting Special' is available now, with all proceeds benefitting the ACLU. Buy it here.

Art

Pamela Sneed’s Speaking Tongue opens at Dashwood Projects

November 15, 2024

Pamela Sneed’s latest exhibition, Speaking Tongue, will be on view at Dashwood Projects from November 20 to December 21. The show features twenty watercolor and ink paintings inspired by her recent trip to Kenya, where she was deeply moved by the elegance of giraffes, the landscapes, and the energy of Nairobi.

Blending her background as a poet and visual artist, Sneed’s work reflects on themes of identity, nature, and connection. Her paintings capture the beauty and spirit of the animals she encountered, alongside reflections on her own experiences as part of the African diaspora.

This exhibition marks Sneed’s first solo show with Dashwood Projects and will be accompanied by a new book, also titled Speaking Tongue, to be released in December.

By Enzo Holdt
Artworks by Pamela Sneed

Art

Tiebreaker - Alvin Armstrong

November 15, 2024

There is a moment of silence right before the play. Just before the racket strikes the ball as it hangs weightless in the air, breathless and charged. It’s the fleeting yet decisive instant that can alter the course of the match, determining who wins and who loses.

Alvin Armstrong depicts this crucial moment in his new exhibition Tiebreaker, symbolizing the risks and rewards of competition. It’s an implication of something else at stake, where athletes push not only their bodies, but their spirits to the absolute limit.

The dynamic figures embody the strength, grace, and agility juxtaposed by the vibrant color palette evoking not just the joy of competition but the charged energy of the court.

Tiebreaker is opening Thursday, November 16th at Anna Zorina Gallery.

By Rea Brayshaw
Artworks by Alvin Armstrong

Art

The Things People Are Ashamed To Take Photos Of: The Photography and Films of Yuhan Cheng

Yuhan’s latest exhibition of photo and video work titled 窗子外 Outside the Window, Inside the Tank 鱼缸里 takes its namesake from what could’ve been a mundane encounter. A month after moving to New York City from Chengdu, China, they stumbled across an abandoned fish tank left curbside. It reminded them of “the rotating fish in a tank that faded into the background of their mother’s home in Chengdu”, a thread connecting childhood familiarity that transformed into a symbol of greater significance in adulthood. A tank is a world within a world; a microcosm secluded from the broader chaos of the outside. Since then Yuhan has captured the other kinds of “fish tanks” closest to them in their photography and short films. Not literal ones necessarily– but intimate confined spaces in Chengdu and NYC where time stands still.

In the midst of taking snapshots of loved ones, Yuhan decided to turn their tender but examining lens on themselves. They realized shooting self-portraits unraveled a deeper understanding of their own nonbinary gender and queer sexuality. Yuhan admits in one of their short films “I hide from looking at my own body.” Yet, in the seclusion of their room which doubles as a dark room, Yuhan began to develop their first nude photos chronicling the subtle wounds; bitten cuticles, bruises, and scrapes they’ve accumulated involuntarily, once again documenting the things people choose to hide.

窗子外 Outside the Window, Inside the Tank 鱼缸里, debuted at FAR-NEAR Studio Hours a gallery in Chinatown focused on expanding the art world's view of Asia and Asian artists curated by Lulu Yao Gioiello. The event merged Yuhan’s works from the past three years, including 70 photographs, three short documentaries, and one installation. There was something uncanny about the gallery’s atmosphere – from the dollar store teal green curtains obscuring every window to the clusters of framed photos mimicking how photos of relatives are displayed in one’s childhood home, to the darkened lighting that was both disorienting and cozy. All these details were meticulously chosen to imitate the rooms depicted in Yuhan’s films and photography. In other words, the audience was invited to Yuhan’s “fishtank”, to share the odd balance of comfort and unease of being known intimately. We talked to Yuhan at Cafe Reggio to understand how their latest body of work came into being.

Initially, I was exploring my friends’ identities through the lens, but slowly, it became a tool to confront and understand my own queerness and gender identity.

Ora Margolis— Were any memories/childhood experiences you had in Chengdu important to how you've developed as an artist?

Yuhan Cheng— Growing up in Chengdu, especially in a military household, shaped and gave me a source of contention how I understood my identity. There was always a sense of conflict when it came to my body and feeling like I didn’t quite fit the expectations around me. This tension has been a driving force in my practice, pushing me to explore identity and belonging in my work.

Tell us a bit about your latest exhibition Outside the Window, Inside the Tank at Far. What headspace were you in when taking these photos?

YC— Outside the Window, Inside the Tank is about the fluidity of self; our bodies, our environments, and our identities. The idea of water as both a symbol of confinement and freedom is central to the photos and film that comprise the exhibit. This fluidity much like how I see my experience moving between Chengdu and New York, where similar feelings follow me no matter where I am. Water mirrors the body, the frame, and the room, which are all containers of the self.

Previously, you’ve said you wanted the exhibition space to look "like your room". How did you make that happen and why is your NYC room important to you?

YC— My room in NYC is an extension of my identity. It’s where I feel vulnerable and where I explore myself most openly. It’s a manifestation of my sense of self. I recreated certain elements in the exhibition—the green sheer curtains, the dollar store shower curtain with bubbles, and the center installation depicted a self-portrait deteriorating in water, reminiscent of a fish in a tank. This room, like any other room or container, magnifies the tension of self-exploration.

Has your idea or comfort with your gender identity and /sexuality changed since you’ve delved into photography?

YC— Yes. The process of photography and filming has been a mirror to my own understanding of self. Initially, I was exploring my friends’ identities through the lens, but slowly, it became a tool to confront and understand my own queerness and gender identity. The process of photographing my queer friends and then myself allowed me to come to terms with who I am.

How did you and Lulu Yao of FAR-NEAR Studio meet, and what makes her a good collaborator?

YC— We first connected when I reached out with my series Princess of Funan River. Lulu understood the struggles and complexities in the work and she invited me to expand on those ideas with her. Our collaboration has worked because Lulu truly resonates with the themes I’m drawn to, like fluidity, transformation, and the intimacy of navigating belonging.

After completing Fish Tank and Remnants of an Amateur Film, what kind of movie do you want to make next?

YC— Right now, I’m more focused on writing. I need to understand what I want to say before making another film. Writing helps me find clarity;it’s a crucial part of my process.

What kind of camera do you use and why?

YC— I use a Canon AE-1. I started with it and I still love it. It's small, spontaneous, easy to use, and light. It allows me to capture moments naturally without overthinking.

What's your biggest fear?

YC— Being disconnected from my sense of self, from others, and from the things I love.

When do you feel most like yourself?

YC— It’s during those fleeting moments when I complete a project. That feeling fades quickly, leaving me searching for the next project to reconnect with that sense of fulfillment.

How do you want people to feel when they interact with your art?

YC— I want them to feel whatever resonates with them. I don’t want to prescribe the experience; it should feel right for each person.

Your work focuses on the close knit communities that surround you or various metaphorical “fish tanks”. What communities do you feel closest to?
YC— The queer artist community, both in Chengdu and NYC, has been a source of comfort and understanding for me. There’s something about shared struggles and shared creative language that feels like home.

What's the biggest difference between living life as a queer artist in NYC and in Chengdu?

YC— In both NYC and Chengdu, I’m learning more about myself. NYC offers a sense of freedom, while Chengdu is home, a place of comfort and history. Neither place defines me but both are significant parts of my path.

What are your next moves/goals?

YC— I want to continue exploring both film and photography, expanding my narrative style and experimenting across mediums. During my show, I found new ways of seeing my photographs such as by adding a window screen between frames or letting a self-portrait fade and grow mold in water. These approaches allowed me to see my work not just as 2D images but as 3D objects.

I want to keep pushing the boundaries of how photo and film can interact, and I’m also interested in trying photojournalism. My focus remains on collaborating across mediums and continuing to accumulate experiences that I can translate into sincere honest work.