There is a version of New York that only exists early. Streets before the noise, lights changing for no one, the river turning from grey to silver. A few of us are out in it, sometimes together, sometimes alone, and it feels the same either way. The city hasn't decided what kind of day it is yet, and for a while it's ours.
I started Slower Lights to keep that hour. A few frames from each ride, one print a month, and a letter about what was happening just outside the picture. A slow record of the city before it wakes, and of the people who were there.
One photograph
Black and white, grain left in. Printed on heavy uncoated card.
The morning it was taken
Where, when, who was there, what happened just outside the frame. Signed by hand.
A small thing for the bike
Same frames, kiss-cut. For a top tube or a laptop.
SLOWER LIGHTS Nobody ever photographs this part, so I did. Sixty kilometers and the best moment of the morning is a wicker table that's too small, a pastry nobody admits they ordered, and someone showing someone else a phone that is definitely a Strava segment. The ride is the excuse. This is the thing. Every group I've ridden with that lasted had a place where it stopped, and the stop mattered more than the route. If you're reading this, you're part of that table now.
The first prints go out this winter.
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