“…It was Saturday night and the jungle was bright
And the game was stalking its prey
The code was crime in the neon line
And the weak were doomed to pay…”
– Verse from the toast, The Fall
INTRODUCTION
Last days of THE DEUCE (1988-1994) peeks into the old capitol of American street culture. That would be 42nd Street including Times Square. It’s a collection of street scenes, mostly portraits, for the street folk who worked the glittering arteries flowing around the acknowledged heart of New York – most notably the stretch of 42nd Street between Eight and Seventh Avenues known as The Deuce.
The ones who once stood in the vice zone came to work. It’s a life. And, in the Life, the Deuce was Main Street.
The Crossroads of the World and entertainment capitol attracts the visitors, tourists and fun addicts. But locally speaking, it was the Crossroads of the five boroughs – the central square where it was possible for all New York neighborhoods to flow and connect on a street level.
Who were these fundamentally unknown people? Look at my pictures.
The regulars, grouped in levels of legitimacy but joined by a non-alignment street pact were; the legit workers who staffed the fun palaces of the strip, the slightly illegal operators, who were mostly unlicensed street vendors including the picture men (polaroids), portrait artists, street performers and street merchants selling counterfeits, religious items, mix tapes and the like. Throw in the red card people (what squares call monte) and an assortment of drunks, drug addicts, cripples and bums, and you’ve got a good picture of the misdemeanor crowd, and, finally, of course, the Deuce Hustler. Equally diverse as the misdemeanor folks but offering many high-risk products, this highly felonious class made the Deuce the leading block in America for felony arrests on a daily basis. Within this great country of ours, these classic hustlers of 42nd were unsurpassed in the Life.
Along with all this action supplied by the Deuce natives, sanctuary was granted to a large contingent of citizens who came to the entertainment zone to spread their wings in public, not for money or loot, but simple free expression. And it was often loud and in your face as with the bull horned and aggressive Black Jews who would get real personal. It was common for individual citizens to subway in with their personal microphones in order to amplify their singing, preaching and ranting. A whole range of free expression folks flexing their freedom of expression was here – everything from the good-natured and playful to the deranged whose themes could be political or religious, but also purposeless, creepy and absurd.
Free of any profit motive and guided by an uncontrollable desire to act out, these individuals were into every sort of exhibitionism – uttering, voicing, showing off and worse. And the fantastic thing about all this exposing oneself was, that it was done in a state of near absolute freedom in public. That is to say it was untamed and rowdy, leaning to weird and creepy. Done openly and on the street, the commonly ill performances could reach out and touch you for real. Yeah, it could be deranged a lot, but, like my girlfriend use to say, “It’s wild and it’s free.” In my book that can’t be beaten.
This was a place where the public theatre of the streets was the very real low-life equivalent to the exploitation films and shows inside the grind houses. Add in the professional, mentally stable street talent, and all this action was at least as interesting, albeit the antithesis, as the legit Broadway spectacles it surrounded at one time. And it was always open and always free.
Street performers, picture men and individual citizens from every borough came to the theatre district to participate in a reciprocating public hunger for fun and spectacle, and, in my case, documentation sauced by participation.
Getting back to the most reminisced and notorious bunch on the Deuce, the Hustlers stepped to a purely illicit retail model – drugs and sex, of course, but also fake ids, jewelry, stolen items and a whole lot more. Outlaw-class, fast-talking, but smooth go-getters, who struck gold in a place brimming with cash customers from over the world, they frequently practiced the art of the Beat. Their sex and drugs were often as bootleg as those designer labels in the streets of Times Square around the corner.
So, at bottom, gloriously embedded in the architecture of old Manhattan, the felonious strip between Seventh and Eighth Avenues was mostly game and hustle steamed in a thick mix of pleasure and survival. A flamboyant corps of hustlers, cultivating their Game of ultimate availability, staffed the Hard Core Capitol as a market for street dreams – sold and stole.
Visitors rummaging for unlicensed play in the vice spot, customarily, get played. Complaints? Refunds honored by beat downs. But good luck finding the perp that just stole your funds, they’re already on a train Uptown to buy some real drugs with your fun money they just took.
Sex? Check your picked pockets after your encounter with that “prostitute.” If you bought some and got it was that a complete woman? No mind it’s the same as that fake Gucci bag or fake id, it’s the illusion.
When you got down to it the Deuce had two kinds – perps and vics.
Probably impaired by the strange brew of faded glitz and hyper-sleaze that New Yorkers use to love to hate, the proverbial victims – newcomers and new jacks, from the straight world, from out of town, would bite the bait of carnal or pharmaceutical delights, or fake IDs, red card or any other game to separate the befuddled vics and their cash – a classic consumer mistake resulting in customer as victim as cash turned to loot.
The perpetrators who stepped to the unlegal street trade were a mixed bunch of beat artists, beggars, lunatics, fiends, fugitives, slingers, whores, pickpockets, picture men, preachers, entertainers, and unlicensed street vendors. The Deuce had more spots than a Dalmatian, and, perps, well, as thick as thieves.
Of course, all this sin brought out the preachers as flamboyant and demonstrative and gamey as the best Deuce hustler.
The only real thing for sale on a consistent basis was probably the Picture Men’s pictures, the Muslims’ incense and the crack from the slingers on Eighth Ave.
It’s this midnight show of old school and hip-hop hustlers, street mutts, and alley cats that THE DEUCE gets next to. The method is not candid or serendipitously sneaky. I never tried to be invisible but in these folks’ faces. Out here, I was known.
THE DEUCE is filled with literal street portraits that let you peep close range at the characters you were warned against. But I don’t think the hustlers, ill folks and workers of 42nd Street are victims to anyone’s gaze. My full frontal honest-to-badness approach was well matched by their own point blank poses. The only thing I might ask them to do (redundantly) is present themselves in a way they want to be seen amidst all the splendid architecture. All along I knew this would be the last cast of the old Deuce Hustlers. And we all knew, the Deuce was doomed.
“Game ain’t meant to be told. Meant to be sold.” Along those lines, amongst all the given names, nicknames, fake names and aliases, only we know true identities with these fundamentally unknown characters whose everyday was Halloween.
The eventual fatal twist to the story of the old Deuce was authored far from the street action, and went by the perennial civic promise to (one day) clean the joint up. There was a time in New York, when cleaning up the neon lit entrails of Times Square, was just a joke. It seemed the longest running, most unfaithful redevelopment project in the history of the city.
Now can a joke make you cry? Those days of atonement for the Deuce have long passed. So laugh no more. After having been first promised in 1981, it took seven years to ink a contract amongst some real hustlers and players; Prudential, Park Tower and the State of New York. It’s at this time (1988) I decided to go whole hog on my rendition of the last days of the Deuce, up until then my Midtown shooting was regular but sporadic. That life on the Deuce lasted six years until 1994, when I left 42nd.
In 1990 for the price of 180 million (bargain!) the state took control, and by 1992, 230 of the 267 businesses, through condemnation and eminent domain, “agree” to close or relocate off the Deuce. For the next two years the Deuce erodes away. By 1994 only two of the eleven movie theatres still operate and the strip emptied for its first time as the stage starts to be set for the New Gilded Age version of 42nd Street.
So, for me, 1994 was the official end, so I left, but not without bringing out a complete record of the Deuce and its last cast of characters, knowing how this place and this city was going in a very different direction.
I still live five subway stops away from 42nd, but I haven’t been on the Street since 1994. Gentrification is not my cup of tea. But even with my own authentically created documentation of the Strip, I’m not getting on my high horse about what’s become of this piece of the latest old New York.
Generally uninterested in the new 42nd and Times Square, I am grateful that the originally planned box office towers, or, at best, a Phillip Johnson recreation of Sixth Ave., was nixed. It’s to the state’s credit that, in an act of hyper-preservation, the block maintained its bawdy entertainment style, thereby, at least, maintaining this one, but most important historic link to junk culture.
Many of us see that as the only bone leftover from the now gentrified New York. My camp puts the historic character of the city first. That it is to say, except for my film, I have no interest or business in the process of development, particularly redevelopment. By recording history I try not to affect it. We’re not politicians or developers, we’re citizens – guardians for a past and a city history in the hopes of imparting a cultural balance to the profit motive. Obviously we failed in any real way, but our pens and cameras will provide a balance in memory to the current state of our city.
Bring in the bluecoats, buy it, condemn it and shut it down. That’s how you rid America of its baddest block. The scorched earth method of crime control worked well, and, as we all know, The Deuce just ain’t what it was.
Mr. Giuliani must be recognized for his significant role in changing 42nd Street. I remember the nights after he won his first mayoral election in 1993; large groups of cops would march around the Deuce chanting, “It’s all over!” And no one didn’t believe them, as we all knew, it was the end of the Deuce.
And without Street cleansing no corporate investment would come. With the street looking secure, the Disney Company took the leap on 42nd, spearheading the stampede to redevelopment.
Looking back, the general gentrification of New York City, the lowering of street crime, and rise of real estate transformed the character of the city to the point of bewilderment. After 9/11, the gentrification became supercharged under a realestatecentric new Mayor. Can’t help thinking how significant the 42nd Street transformation was in the broader sense for the history of the city ñ if the Deuce could be tamed, then flipped into profitability, then it could happen anywhere in the city.
Coincidentally the tech world would provide a streetless avenue for those inclined towards crime. Porn is on the internet, drugs and sex are largely handled by delivery services. Identity theft and the like is where the Game now works (computers). Today it’s possible to rip people off or schedule tricks without ever leaving home. Even the Polaroid is gone, transforming the lives of picture men all over the world.
The old Street, now accrued, is gone, and not in remission. It turned a corner (into Times Square) years ago. The Deuce is now declared officially dead. High time to bury the dead, but before laying to rest, a memorial service is customary. That was my vision ñ that a great piece of City history was to disappear and one day people would want an actual documentation of the entire 42nd Street scene, when it was the ultimate in Bad.
Now that the old Street is dead, it’s only alive in the memory of all who saw it. It’s even on the minds of the ones that were not around because they are very curious. Many ask, “Where have all those times gone?” One place is in my archive; another is my own mind and memory. By filling my senses with the Deuce over a period of years, I can testify truthfully to the whole scene. My pictures can bring it all back. But that’s not enough unless it was done clearly and accurately and over a long period of time.
Anywise, THE DEUCE reveals the old acknowledged heart of New York, which seems more, the central nervous system of the great city. A place where elemental forces – money and muscle, fear and pleasure – were animated by an energy and intensity that could be touched and was unmatched. Thank God all this was readily exposed in the visual spectrum. It seemed built for pictures, especially since it was doomed. Thanks to my will to engage, detain, capture and document, all the about-to-be ghosts of Times Square and 42nd will remain for a while longer in this view of the last 10 ears of the infamous Deuce.
The Deuce was the exposed central nerve of a city many perceived as in decline. It was the hustlers’ paradise, where America’s greatest gallery of con artists and street felons worked a central market of sleaze in the name of fun and show.
Many of the depictions in THE DEUCE materialized, not as one-time chance meetings or photo opportunities, but because, proving ourselves, we all got to know each other over time.
By filling my senses with the Deuce for six solid years, I can testify truthfully to the entire scene.
Looking back the one real thing that was no illusion from the old days is all but dead. There’s little danger left on 42nd. But there’s still fun and dreams for sale and it’s still a spectacular nerve center, just much less raw and wild. It’s a whole different crowd in a changed city.
FORESHOT
The introduction explained what was done on 42nd Street between 1988 and 1994, and this Foreshot deals with how it was done.
One of the most photographed places in the world, this Deuce, never, to my knowledge, had the full long term whole hog rendition done of itself, with maybe the exception of the work of Bill Butterworth and myself. We were the only Picture Men who put in the time. I would have seen anyone else, but I distinctly remember his presence back into the early eighties. We minded our own business, with our own people, always in the flow. I knew he was real, neither of us ever hid, we were the only ones using film, not polaroids. Curiously I only learned his name in November, 2012, as I ran across his book on the internet. His method reasonably coincided with my own, albeit, thankfully, with different results, but parallels a bit a method that I’m about to lay out.
What we shared is the core approach, being direct and getting people to want their picture done, but also with regards to our work being on ice for twenty years. It was an inside job.
Advance to the source so that experience outweighs representation the picture.
Documentary suits me by requiring a presence in a place and its moment. Method or strategy reveals the gist of the work, also the stance of the shooter. I happen to like contact, involvement. In this sense if I am an artist, it’s a reality artist. What I mean is this, the shooting, that’s my performance. The art is returning home safe and in one piece with the pictures.
Method might also give some insight to intention, of which, the only thing I know with any certainty, is that the idea of last things drives a portion of my work, as does the idea of getting last things right.
Don’t tell me about change, Ive been recording it for too many years. Go point a camera at anything and it will change. Big deal. I don’t document change, but last things. I go in when it’s still a living history at the cusp and follow through to the bitter end. When I leave many, after having got the news, are beginning. The trick is to develop an intuition about disappearance well before demolition, ruin or abandonment, and then follows through with unhesitant action.
Shoot now and often, otherwise regret will develop over a lost chance at experiencing the notable moment. Soon the thing will be gone forever, so act now.
By 1988, when The Deuce work began, in earnest I had been photographing fading urban milieus including Times Square for years. These places were usually very close to home or were home, thus stoking the more intuitive approach. I also thought a good picture would be about all I could do as an individual to buffer a loss of something that I find historical or notable or original.
Then I can’t help to shoot something (knowing it’s going), as if it’s already gone.
Most of what I savor lies outside the link of photography. As in the Predictive Moment – which is not the moment of capture on film, but the moment in the future when the scenes demise is confirmed through its physical disappearance. When you return you fully expect to see it gone. And it is. Confirmation and a shot that could be the last, and possibly, the only, is the photographic payoff. It’s the whole presence/absence thing that photography is built to produce so well, but has become so forgotten.
Limited resources makes one shoot out the back door. So, like a novelist, I shoot what I know. My connection is there to juice the shot and to maybe make it both memorable and accurate.
And, like a writer with only pen and paper, the idea of capturing some New York history in detail, with just a camera, and inexpensive 35mm film proved cheap, everyday, regular and functional. The no-budget angle was particularly satisfying, as was the idea of applying a cinematic style to the hustling life in the Theatre District.
Just put in the time.
In 1988 the old Times Square and 42nd Street were familiar territory, close to home, and doomed. It made sense to get busy with some documentation. So, for ten years, I’d grab the subway nightly for a little Midtown hustle as a Picture Man.
A Picture Man is capable of using any means to get the shot, but my everyday style is often open and direct with minimal creep and sneak. It’s not surveillance, usually people know their picture is being shot and so they either participate or go about their business. The posed shots are most often done by their request and direction. Most everyone wanted and received their shots. It’s not so much the proverbial in your face, as this is no time to be coy. Don’t get me wrong the fly-on-the-wall approach yields great pictures, but it doesn’t permit contact, honor or reciprocity.
In other words, if I’m gonna take shots of a guy with no legs in a wheel chair who was just beaten up, then it better be for a good reason. If the disappearance of a wild place and time in New York history wasn’t reason enough than the desire to get accuracy to coincide with art by keeping myself open to the same circumstances as my aim, kept me right-minded.
Technically there was no hiding because I used the slowest speed (most resolved) negative film ever made, Ektar 25, which, particularly at night, required long exposures, flash and tripod. This would make pictures that would sometimes have movement amidst sharpness and fine grain. Using methods appropriate for landscape work, the Ektar high fidelity film kept my street photography straight.
I never saw this as technically limiting. It meant that often the shots required some degree of participation, even collaboration. The extra work of using the slowest film made, resulted in clear direct depictions.
We like to call this straight or traditional photography today. But the line isn’t straight from inside out. It’s possible to have motivations lie outside of photography that are neither traditional nor contemporary, in existence artifacts are left behind.
Upon completion the Deuce went into my archive, where it’s been for 19 years.
I, too enjoy anonymity, as well as participation. And from the inside there is also something at stake. When the scene fades there is loss. The scene is what’s vital.
For me what matters was a living history, over recreation, or just showing up for the remains. When all the life was gone then so was I.
They pose or are caught in performance ñ characters from the street theatre that was once alive in the old theatre district. And what’s history, after all, but the theatre of past events?
There is no such thing as originality.î Yet you do this sort of thing and find original characters and places. While I would generally agree, the idea of originality is debunked, but that’s outside the the living sphere. The action of a living environment on unique DNA produces some novel stuff. Look to the living moment to score some singularity. Once you turn off the screens, go out and have contact, life can’t be the same.
When it comes to truthful things, the use of a camera, should make it more unarguable but only if it’s tied to the work of deeds. Cameras don’t necessarily lie, but their operators can. Check the operator and how it’s done for appraisals concerning intentions. As the Romans said, Opere et Veritate.
A scene evaporates. Disappearance and realism were the ideas in the material itself. History is theatre. Nothing is memorable but the thing itself, still alive before passing, or even in ruin.
Actual things, last things and a view of the old 42nd Street and a memorable breed, in the last days of the Deuce.