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“Four nights here, three nights there.” Starting at age five I grew up in a city delineated by two homes: my fathers studio on 22^nd and Broadway, and my mothers loft on 12^th and University Place. With my school in between the two, on 16^th Street and 3^rd Avenue, “my city” (at least until I left it without a parent’s hand) was no farther north than 22^nd st., south than 12^th st., east than 2^nd ave., and west than 5^th ave.

At a young age, navigating New York City was a process of following. If it was anywhere beyond the confines of my route between my father’s, mother’s and school, my parent’s hand drew me closer to their, then eyelevel, thigh. However, as I matured what had been my city became my neighborhood, and what I had discovered became my city. However, as my “neighborhood” ceaselessly expanded, its center disappeared, like a bagel whose void expands just as fast as the dough leavens. I used to neglect living anywhere farther 30^th street, but now cannot imagine living anywhere closer than Brooklyn.

Raised in a rapidly crowding area of New York City, the condominium high-rises that have gradually choked my view, feed the pedestrian traffic that fester at my doorstep. For me, the development of New York City has furthered the discrepancy of inside and outside. There are no gradual steps from solitude to multitude, more than an elevator ride; however, what I have always found intriguing of my city, is the consistency of anonymity that one has in and out of the home. I am always foreign to those around me, be them flanuers or voyeurs. In conjunction with my upbringing in two homes, maybe this anonymity, is why I feel my neighborhood encompasses the novel social and spatial stratum I encounter. That which I discover is as foreign as my home.