Greetings friends,

First, all the photographs here were taken without the assistance of AI. I just wanted to throw it out there from the outset.
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I recently read Joshua Rothman’s article “Is It Wrong to Write a Book with A.I.?,” in the latest issue of The New Yorker, and I found it more nuanced and useful than the usual alarmist hand-wringing or some techno-utopian crap. His basic point is that A.I. may end up in the arts the way the drum machine did in music. First, dismissed as fake, mechanical, cheating, soulless, then gradually absorbed into the creative process in inventive and personal ways. The tool, Rothman argues, is not the whole story. What matters is how it is used. I’ve heard that a lot when I was younger.

Rothman brings up the recent Shy Girl fiasco, which fascinated me. The novel was accused by some very discerning, conscientious readers of being at least partly A.I.-generated because of the telltale signs, such as too many adjectives, too many metaphors, a strangely uniform rhythm, prose that felt synthesized.

Pangram, an A.I.-detection company, reportedly judged that horror novel to be seventy-eight percent A.I.-generated. The author blamed a freelance editor, said the manuscript may have been run through A.I. without her consent, etc. Excuses, excuses. The publisher eventually pulled the book.

But that caught my attention because I’ve subscribed to Pangram myself. I pay twenty dollars a month for Pangram because I want my students to know I’m not asleep at the wheel, that I’m not just another gray-bearded, bald geezer who howls at the wind and .... What?

No, I don’t ban A.I. outright. I’m not interested in moral panic, and I’m not pretending these tools don’t exist. I allow students to use A.I. to ask questions, to brainstorm, to test structure, to push on ideas, to help them think through a problem. But... I require them to submit the prompts, questions, and comments they gave ChatGPT (or whichever platform they’re using) as part of the assignment. If you used it, show me how you used it.

That seems fair to me.

Most are not always honest, of course. But I want them to know I’m paying attention.

Then I heard about Shy Girl, about how “too many adjectives” and “too many metaphors” were supposedly red flags. That gave me pause. I happen to love adjectives and metaphors. Maybe too much. Excess has always been one of my weaknesses as a writer, but at least it’s MY weakness. So out of curiosity I uploaded a paragraph from a short story I had been writing into Pangram.

It came back: 100 percent A.I.

Not maybe. Not mixed. One hundred percent!

I wrote every single effing word of it. I swear. Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye!

That was the moment the whole thing stopped feeling merely flawed and started throbbing absurd.

Because once Pangram declared my actual human writing fully synthetic, I found myself doing something grotesque — trying to humanize it for the machine. Destroying my own writing on purpose. Making it clunkier. Less fluid. Less like my own voice. In other words, I had to make it worse so it would read as more human.

That is fucked up!

You spend years trying to write better sentences. Sharper sentences. Sentences with rhythm, texture, pressure, surprise. You develop an ear, build a style, however flawed, however excessive. And then some goddamn algorithm tells you that your prose is TOO fluid, TOO metaphorical, TOO tonally consistent to have been written by a human. So what’s the lesson? Pull back? Flatten the rhythm? Sand down the language? Aim not to write better, but to write like an average bad writer?

We are now in the position of teaching ourselves to sound worse in order to seem more authentic to a machine.

At that point, frankly, I might as well quit writing and take up badminton.

A friend of mine from New Jersey (not the kind of person who sends me things at midnight with a subject line that just says “you need to read this”) forwarded me this LinkedIn article (at midnight, with the subject line “you need to read this”) by Michael Stover, a professional freelance writer, titled “The Great AI Detector Delusion: Why Using AI to Police Human Writers Is Hypocrisy at Its Finest.”

Stover’s central point is that AI detectors are fundamentally unreliable — producing false positives at significant rates and disproportionately flagging non-native English speakers, penalizing writers for having a distinctive style rather than for any actual AI use. But his sharpest observation is this: using an AI tool to render judgment on human writing is itself a form of hypocrisy. You are outsourcing a human, contextual act the very kind of machine you claim to be guarding against. The detector doesn’t read. It pattern-matches. And pattern-matching is not reading any more than a paint-by-numbers kit is painting.

Let’s compare A.I. to a real writing workshop.

In a workshop, you bring in pages. Your classmates respond to the choices you made. They ask why a character did this, why the scene turns there, why a line of dialogue feels false, why the ending arrives too late, why the central conflict remains muddy, etc. Sometimes they’re right. Sometimes they’re wrong. Sometimes they misunderstand the scene entirely. But even that misunderstanding is useful, because it tells you something about what’s actually on the page. Then you go back and rewrite.

A.I. can be useful in the same preliminary way. It can help a student brainstorm. It can generate questions. It can point out that a scene lacks conflict, that a character’s want is vague, that the midpoint comes too late, that the stakes are generic. It can offer possibilities.

But the actual writing, the words, the images, the rhythms, the dramatic choices, has to come from the writer.

Otherwise what are we writing and what are we teaching?

Rothman gets at something similar in his article when he notes that many forms of writing are already collaborative in ways we ignore. Journalism has editors. Television has writers’ rooms. James Patterson has what is essentially a novel factory. He often works by generating the concept, the premise, the detailed outline, then hands all that to his collaborators who draft the manuscript. Rothman notes that Patterson can supervise around thirty projects at once and publish about fifteen books a year.

Context changes what we mean by authorship.

I’m not against students using A.I. to think. I’m against students using it to avoid thinking.

I’m not against tools. But I’m certainly against the fantasy that Pangram, or any other detection tool, can settle these questions for us. It can’t. Stover puts it plainly: institutions and individuals who defer to flawed technology to make critical judgments about people’s honesty, craft, or intelligence are not solving a problem. They’re creating a new one. A student may sound artificial and a machine may sound certain. But the truth is messier than either one.

So yes, I still tell my students to show me their prompts if they use A.I. I still want transparency. I still think undeclared use is a form of dishonesty.

But I no longer believe that Pangram, or any other detector, is an oracle.

Sometimes the machine is right. Sometimes the machine is effing ridiculous.

And sometimes the only trustworthy test is the oldest one. Does this sound like a person making choices on the page, or like the page making the choices for them?

What do you think?

P.s. I couldn’t help myself and plugged the entire text of this post into Pangram. Phew!

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In Other Realm of Happenings

Law & Copyright

• In March 2026, the U.S. Supreme Court declined to hear the case of Stephen Thaler, who claimed copyright for art made by his AI system “DABUS.” The ruling affirmed what lower courts had found: AI-generated work without a human creator cannot hold a copyright.

• On January 22, 2026, the Human Artistry Campaign — backed by nearly 800 creators including Billy Corgan, Bonnie Raitt, and members of R.E.M. — launched a campaign called “Stealing Isn’t Innovation,” protesting the mass unauthorized harvesting of copyrighted works to train AI models.

🎵 Music

• AI music startup Suno, after a $250 million Series C round and a $2.45 billion valuation, can reportedly generate a catalog equivalent to Spotify’s entire library every two weeks.

• AI music tools like AIVA, Suno, Udio, and Google DeepMind’s MusicLM are now used daily by professional composers in film and TV sync licensing — no longer experimental, but production-ready.

• Artist Holly Herndon has pioneered ethical AI vocal experimentation, building partnerships with machine learning systems that use consent-based data models — showing that AI and artist rights don’t have to be at odds.

🔍 AI Detection

• The most accurate AI detectors in 2026 — GPTZero, Winston AI, and YouScan — claim 99%+ detection rates on pure AI-generated text, but all struggle significantly on passages under 50 words.

• Here’s the catch: when AI text is run through “humanizing” tools before submission, detection rates collapse dramatically — Turnitin drops to 5.1% accuracy and Originality.ai to just 7.8%. The arms race is very real.

🎨 Visual Arts

• Generative AI could automate up to 26% of tasks in the arts, design, entertainment, media, and sports sectors, according to recent research.

• Artists like Stephanie Dinkins use AI to create platforms that invite viewers into dialogues about technology, race, gender, and aging — using the machine as a provocation tool rather than just a generator.

📊 Broader Trends

• MIT Sloan analysts predict that 2026 will see a deflation of the AI bubble, with the focus shifting from AI as an individual tool to AI as an organizational resource — a significant cultural and institutional shift.

• One striking paradox: generative AI is capable of producing new styles and combinations, yet critics warn it risks creating a self-referential loop — training on AI-generated data could eventually make the outputs increasingly derivative and creatively stagnant.
  
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Happy Saturday, friends, and friends of friends!

Last weekend I drove up to White Lake in upstate New York and found the surface of it dotted with the small, still shapes of people, each one stationed over a hole in the ice, waiting. From a distance they looked like chess pieces left out on a board.

They were ice fishing. Why would anyone do this? Why drive to a frozen lake in February, drill through a foot of ice, and sit there for hours for a fish you could buy at the supermarket for twelve dollars? The question nagged at me all the way home. So I went looking for an answer. I’m not going to bore you with historical and archaeological evidence I found in encyclopedias and almanacs. Suffice it to say that ice fishing goes back 2,000 years, even before I was born. For the Indigenous people of North America, it wasn’t a hobby. It was how you ate in winter.

A hole in the ice was made with a bone or a stone tool. A line made of plant fiber, weighted with a small stone and baited with a piece of some sort of flesh, preferably the backside of a maggot. And then… an exquisitely carved decoy, of bone or stone, was lowered beneath the surface of the water to attract a perch or pike.

Later, European settlers adopted those techniques (what didn’t they adopt, those Europeans?!). By the 20th century, ice fishing had fully made the transition from necessity to tradition.

But here’s what I found out by talking to those jokers: There’s a social world on a frozen lake that’s invisible from the shore to the naked eye.

If you’re brave enough to drive out to a popular ice fishing spot on a Saturday morning in January or February — White Lake, Lake Champlain, Oneida, Saranac — you’ll find something that looks less like fishing and more like a small, multi-ethnic neighborhood. Clusters of shanties (that’s a word for you, you strangers to the King’s English. I’ve always thought a “shanty” was a folk song sung by tattooed sailors to coordinate labor. But it turns out that’s a “sea shanty,” while a “shanty” is a crudely made hut or cabin), and snowmobiles parked in rows. The smell of propane, coffee, and intestinal gas. People moving between holes, comparing notes, checking each other’s tip-ups, sharing food. Children running across the ice in snowsuits. Dogs.

Ice fishing has always been communal in a way that summer fishing often isn’t. Part of this is practical. You need to know where the ice is safe, where the fish are running, which spots the grizzly old-timers favor and why. That knowledge passes from person to person, generation to generation, and in the process creates relationships. Regulars at the same lake accumulate years of shared memory. The grandfather who brought his son, who now brings his daughter. The group of friends who have been coming to the same stretch of ice for twenty winters. These are the invisible structures underlying all those still figures you see from the shore.

The shanty itself is central to this culture. I spoke to a digital forensics expert who is obsessed with ice fishing and shanty decorations. His shanty is just a plywood box on runners, big enough for two people and a heater. But his is personalized with the names of relatives, former lovers, dead dogs. It has insulation, bunk beds, television. He hauls his out to White Lake each season, and it represents decades of use and modification. The shanties are the most intimate kind of architecture: small, warm rooms built specifically against the cold, designed for waiting together.

The thing that non-fishermen find hard to understand is that for many ice fishermen, catching fish is secondary. The fish are a bonus. What people are actually there for is harder to name.

Enforced stillness? Permission to do nothing? In an era of relentless productivity and non-frigging-stop digital noise, the ice fishing hole is one of the few reasons to sit somewhere cold and quiet and simply be. You cannot check your email. You cannot optimize your fishing hole. You can only wait, and look at the ice, and look at the sky, and talk to whoever is beside you, and wait some more.

There’s definitely something meditative about it, and people who ice fish seriously will often describe it in those terms. The cold keeps you present. The silence does something to the mind.

Winter, for most of us (not me, I’m from the old, cold country), is something to be endured. Ice fishermen have found a way to inhabit the winter. Kudos to them!

You might expect ice fishing to be in decline in an age when people fish for leisure on boats with climate-controlled cabins. In fact, the opposite is true. Ice fishing has been growing steadily in popularity across the northern United States and Canada, with younger folks entering the sport (and the pastime) in numbers that have surprised even its longtime devotees.

Some of this was accelerated by the pandemic, when people who had never before considered spending a Saturday on a frozen lake discovered that being outside in winter was genuinely wonderful. Some of it is social media, which has made the aesthetics of ice fishing, the vast white landscape, the drama of a catch pulled through the ice, newly visible and appealing to audiences who’d never encountered it before.

Also, many young people are actively seeking out activities that require patience, that unfold slowly, that cannot be rushed. The fish does not care about your urgency.
iPhone is bad. Ice fishing is good.

Standing on the shore last weekend, watching those figures on the ice, I understood something I hadn’t even thought about before. Those jokers weren’t there despite the cold and the waiting. They were there because of it. The frozen lake in winter is one of the last genuinely unhurried places left. Going out onto it is a choice to slow down in a world that has largely forgotten how to do it.

The point is not the fish. The point is the ice. And the silence. And the person sitting next to you in the cold. And the fact of being somewhere on purpose with nowhere else to be.

The point is not the fish. The point is the ice. And the silence. And the person sitting next to you in the cold. And the fact of being somewhere on purpose with nowhere else to be.

The Little Prince by by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry is one of the greatest books ever written. You can read it in English for free here.

Filmmakers and actors in the Criterion Closet choosing films made by David Lynch. I wish I could join them.

A great, 12 min. live performance of It’s Good to Be King by the great Tom Petty.

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’Til next time.
ak

If you’d rather watch the video footage and hear me read the text, scroll to the bottom of the page and click on the video.
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It’s a fifteen-minute drive to Coney Island from my apartment in Brooklyn. Ten if I ignore the stops signs and traffic lights.

But instead, I take the train to Manhattan (at dawn, and I’m a night owl). I plan to rent a car there, and drive back through Brooklyn’s arteries until the Wonder Wheel appears against the sky. Does a simple trip need to turn into a full day journey?

I can’t pretend there’s logic in it. Maybe it’s ritual. Maybe it’s something softer, like an old habit of resisting the straight line. Lately, I’ve been thinking about aging, trying to recalibrate the idea of comfort. Does it cause soft edges, rust, and decay? Some smart people believe it does. When I was younger, I rushed toward destinations. Now I linger in motion, as though the act of prolonging the journey holds some small promise of continuity.

The subway rattles beneath the river, its lights cutting through half-sleeping faces. Everyone is sealed inside their own mind, scrolling, thinking, dealing with shit. I used to find the stillness unsettling. Now I find it familiar, even comforting. Movement without urgency. We’re all traveling somewhere, but not too fast.

At the car rental desk in Manhattan, I go through the same repetitive motion — licenses, signatures, keys. These small formalities anchor the day. The comfort isn’t in the escape but in the choreography of the everyday.

Driving back across the Brooklyn Bridge, I catch myself smiling. There is a peculiar serenity in doing something inefficient on purpose. The highway gives way to side streets, to rows of houses and sunlight on windshields, to the slow rhythm of life.
I’m not escaping time. I’m just seeing how it stretches when I refuse to rush it.

By the time I reach Coney Island, the afternoon has opened up. The ocean air smells faintly medicinal, the way salt smells when it’s left in an open jar for too long. I walk along the boardwalk, past the arcades and shuttered stands, and watch the light peck water. This place always feels older than it is, like a half-remembered memory.

Aging, I’m beginning to think, isn’t about loss so much as a shift in what feels real. The long way, the slow way, the deliberate inefficiency… these are comforts that don’t ask for permission. And time offers them without a fight.

I sit for a while, the sound of the waves blending with the distant screech of seagulls. Maybe prolonging the journey is just another way of making peace with time.

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ak

The neighborhood is changing, they say, the smell of rotting fruit and the weight of different languages cracking the old stoops.

First, the men in white undershirts, chewing on cigars and the thick vowels of Calabria, owned the concrete like it was an extension of their living rooms, watching the parade pass from their windows.

Then the Russians arrived, bringing the scent of hard winters and thick socks,
their voices low and heavy like the coats they wore even when the Brooklyn sun turned the asphalt soft, trading stories of a “back in the USSR” that no longer existed.

Now, the neighborhood has a new pulse—Central Asian. Uzbeks, Kazakhs, Tadjiks hold the keys to shops and eateries under the shadow of the 86th Street El, the sidewalk a river of movement, a kingdom of crates, red netting, and live tanks. The old dance clubs have surrendered to pharmacies and bakeries, where the air smells of custard and steam.

They own the speed of the day now, the efficiency of the transaction, turning the quiet grit of the old blocks into a neon-lit engine of a new century market. Bensonhurst doesn’t sleep in the afternoon anymore. It negotiates, it builds, it thrives. A new flag planted in the cracks of the old cement.

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ak

It’s snowing in New York, which means two things: the city looks absolutely magical, and my aikido dojo just sent an email canceling class due to “hazardous conditions.”

I’m looking at maybe two inches of snow.

Back in Belarussia (Belarus now, but we’re talking 1970s), this wouldn’t have even registered as weather. This was called Monday through Sunday.

When I was a kid, nothing closed for snow. Not schools, not buses, not the pubs where all the local alkies gathered. Six inches, twelve inches, two feet—it didn’t matter. You simply accepted that for at least three months you lived in a snow globe that Zeus had dropped after a drunken orgy and forgotten about.

We skied to school. Not because we were hardy outdoorsmen or because our parents were trying to build character, but because that was genuinely the most efficient way to move through waist-high snow that the city had quietly decided was not its problem. Cross-country skis were just winter shoes.

The city buses ran no matter what… or rather, slid with purpose. And yes, we pelted them with snowballs and called the bus drivers names. This was not vandalism but civic participation. The drivers expected it. Some of them even seemed disappointed if you didn’t try.

Here, in the land of milk and honey, I’ve learned that a “snowstorm” is a relative concept. Three inches triggers closures, warnings, and toilet-paper-buying panic. The Weather Channel speaks in grave tones. Schools close preemptively. My dojo, where we practice the art of being thrown repeatedly onto mats, has decided the streets covered with a light fur of snow are too dangerous.

So instead, I’m sitting by my window, watching New York transform into something quieter and softer than itself. The streets look like Saul Leiter’s photos, when snow erases all the grime and noise and chaos, and the city holds its breath for a moment.

Back in the old country, we’d still be out there, bombing through it on skis, throwing snowballs at buses.

Here, everyone stays inside. And maybe the snow looks even better that way.

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Have a Happy New Year!

ak

Every few weeks someone tells me—usually with the confidence of a man explaining Wi-Fi to a chinchilla—that print books are dead.

They say it the way people used to say Western civilization was dead, or New York, or shotgun weddings. Not as a question. As a pronouncement. A medical update delivered without an iota of bedside manner.

And then I get on the subway or a bus.

Share Framing-the-Story with Alex Kustanovich

A woman is reading a paperback swollen with Post-it notes. A college kid is hunched over a dog-eared copy of The Stranger, the cover held together with tape like a field dressing. A guy in work boots is reading a hardcover biography of William Buckley Jr. It wasn’t assigned, it was chosen.

No one is photographing these books. No one is underlining for Instagram. They are just… reading.

Print books, it turns out, have survived by becoming invisible again.

They don’t buzz. They don’t ping. They don’t interrupt you to tell you what other people are reading. They don’t congratulate you for finishing Chapter 7. They don’t gently suggest you might also enjoy a book written by a venture capitalist about “disruption.”

They sit there. Patient. Heavy. Slightly judgmental.

A print book has weight in the literal sense, yes—but also in the moral sense. You feel it in your bag. You commit to it. You make a small contract with your future self: I will carry this. I will return to it. I will not swipe away when it gets difficult.

There is something quietly comic about watching someone read a print book in public. They look trapped in the best possible way. No escape hatch. No battery percentage. Just them and the sentence they’re stuck on.

And sometimes you can see it hit them—the pause, the intake of breath, the thumb holding the page as if it might run away.

This is the part no one puts in the think pieces.

Print books aren’t competing with screens. They’re doing something else entirely. They’re not optimized. They’re not efficient. They don’t scale.

They endure.

Librarians know this. So do used bookstore owners. So do the people who still lend books knowing full well they may never see them again.

A print book can be borrowed and returned slightly damaged, carrying someone else’s fingerprints, their coffee stain, their marginal note that says this is where it gets good. It can be lost, found, forgotten, rediscovered. It can wait decades without needing an update.

Dead things don’t do that.

Dead things don’t keep showing up in the hands of strangers on trains and park benches and waiting rooms, asking for nothing but time and attention.

Print books aren’t dead.

They’re just living where the noise can’t reach them.

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’Til next time.
ak

There are names in photography that everyone knows—the Annsels, the Henri-Cartiers, the Diane Arbuses. But sometimes, the most moving work comes from artists who flew under the radar, photographers who were less concerned with fame and more with the truth of the moment.

Today, a friend and colleauge sent me an article from Ephemeral New York about one such artist - John Albok - and his images have offered me a window into a New York City I’ve only read about in books.

Albok wasn’t just taking pictures; he was capturing the very soul of the city during an era of profound change, struggle, and resilience. His photographs are honest, unpretentious, and deeply human.

Born in Hungary, John Albok emigrated to the United States in the 1920s and, like so many others, found his home in New York City. He opened a tailor shop on Madison Avenue, but his true passion was out on the streets with his camera. As an immigrant himself, Albok was uniquely positioned to see the city through a lens of empathy and curiosity. According to the New York University archives, which house his collection, Albok was fascinated by the daily lives of ordinary people, especially in the city’s vibrant immigrant communities.

His work is part social document, part love letter to his adopted home. You won’t find perfectly staged shots here. Instead, you’ll see children cooling off in the spray of a fire hydrant, families greeting loved ones at the docks, and street vendors working tirelessly to make a living. These aren’t just images; they are stories filled with the kindness, struggle, and hustle of people building a life in the concrete jungle.

While much of Albok’s work captures quiet, everyday moments, his archive also reveals a photographer keenly aware of the social and political currents of his time. A specific collection of 433 black-and-white negatives, shot between 1933 and 1968, serves as a powerful historical record.

Aside from moments of everyday life, this collection documents:

May Day parades from 1933-1938, many of which took place in Union Square, New York’s traditional gathering place for protest and demonstration.

Labor Day parades from the early 1960s, capturing the spirit of the American worker.

Demonstrations against the Vietnam War in 1968, showing a city grappling with a new era of conflict.

Through these images, Albok captured the public voice of New York—the collective hopes, fears, and demands of its citizens. He showed the city not just as a place of commerce and culture, but as a stage for history itself.

He may not be a household name like his New York contemporaries Walker Evans or Helen Levitt, or Sid Grossman, and he may not have possessed their technical polish or artistic renown, but his photographs transport you to an older New York—one that was gritty, lively, and overflowing with character.

If you’re interested in seeing a different side of New York, I highly recommend digging into Albok’s work.

1. For years, friends had been telling me about Björk’s 90s album, Homogenic. I’d diligently tried to get into it before, but it never quite clicked. This year, however, it finally did. Maybe my mind gave in to the pressure, or perhaps the timing was just right. Whatever the reason, I’m completely captivated.

2. A historical 1929 recording of Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 by the great French pianist Alfred Cortot, widely regarded as the greatest interpreter of Chopin.

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’Til next time
ak

Howdy folks,

When I was in Colorado, I missed Brooklyn; now, back home in Brooklyn, I miss being in Colorado. I’ve been working on myself to learn how to appreciate the place I’m in and enjoy the moment, but I haven’t been able to accomplish that. Oliver Burkeman, in Four Thousand Weeks, writes about how much of life is spent chasing an imagined future—how we’re always postponing satisfaction until later. Maybe that’s what I’m doing, treating contentment as something that exists elsewhere, in some other version of me, instead of right here.

You can watch the video of our trip if you have no desire to continue reading. But then you will miss my attempt at writing a poem.

While I was in Grand Lake, I tried to feel what I imagine one of my favorite poets, Gary Snyder, would have felt. I had recently watched a doc about him — O Mother Gaia: The World of Gary Snyder. 95 this year, still writing, still carrying the mountain in his pocket. If you don’t know anaything about him, here’s an intro article from the Anarchist Studies blog: https://anarchiststudies.noblogs.org/article-buddhism-and-anarchism-reflections-on-the-eco-anarchism-of-gary-snyder/

I even dared to put together a little poem in his style — relaxed casual meter, Zen mindfulness, precision and economy. Though really, it’s as much an homage to a great poet as my dancing The Nutcracker would be an homage to Nureyev. Still, here it is:

Up here in Grand Lake—
the air’s thin, hard to pull in,
like the mountains telling you to slow down.

August nights bite with cold, mosquitoes rise
in hungry clouds the moment you dare stand still
and a brown bear steps into the road
claws clicking on asphalt, stopping traffic.

Cars wait. Nobody honks.
A hawk circles overhead, calling once.
The pines and aspens smell of distant lands,
And it’s time to wind this poem down.

Snyder would’ve probably said it all in
three lines, left the rest to silence, and
gone off to split firewood.

This is one of Gary Snyder’s most known poems:

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‘Til next time.

ak

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Howdy friends,

I’m in Colorado now, on a little R & R with my fam. Big skies, thin air, the slow pace—it all makes you feel like time has stretched out just for you. The rivers, the granite, the stubborn moose standing in the road like it owns the deed to it.

And yet, when I close my eyes, I’m back at the shore of Coney Island—sand sticking to my shoes, waves chewing at the edge of the city, the sky burning down to embers. So now feels like the right time to share some photos I took there before heading west. And when I’m back in Brooklyn, missing the serenity and wide-open quiet of the Rockies, I’ll post some photos—and maybe a video—from this trip.

On the shore, women in hijab shepherd their children toward the water. The kids dart ahead, squealing when the tide rushes up, chasing it as the Atlantic tugs at their ankles.

For a moment, the city disappeared—no history, no politics, no burden of being a grown-up. Just laughter rolling louder than the waves.

Somehow, I needed to see some of the images in b&w, stripping the beach of its carnival reds and boardwalk yellows. In monochrome, the shore feels older, timeless. 1925 or 2025. In color, though, Coney is undeniably now.

The sunset that night wasn’t gentle. Fire and bruise, a sky collapsing in on itself. Deadly. Though children still shrieked in the surf and lovers hid behind the wind.

Out here in the Rockies the air smells like pine, not salt. But when the sun goes down, I still picture the Atlantic lit up in the last light. Coney Island sticks with you, like sand in your mind, until even the mountains feel a little like the beach.

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’Til next time.
ak

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The quote "If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter" is often misattributed to Mark Twain, but its origins actually trace back much further. Here's what we know about the true source and history of this famous saying:

1. The earliest known version of this sentiment is attributed to Blaise Pascal, the French mathematician and philosopher, in 1657. In his collection "Lettres Provinciales," Pascal wrote in French:"Je n'ai fait celle-ci plus longue que parce que je n'ai pas eu le loisir de la faire plus courte."This translates to: "I have made this longer than usual because I have not had time to make it shorter."

A one-page synopsis, often referred to as a "one-pager," is a crucial tool in the screenwriting industry. It is very difficult to writeIt serves as a concise summary of your screenplay, designed to capture the essence of your story and entice potential readers, such as producers, agents, and studio executives, to delve deeper into your script. Here’s why a one-page synopsis is both beautiful and important:

The Beauty of a One-Page Synopsis

Clarity and Focus

A one-page synopsis forces the writer to distill their story to its core elements. This process helps clarify the main plot, key characters, and central conflict, ensuring that the essence of the story is communicated effectively. By stripping away extraneous details, the writer can focus on what truly matters, making the story more compelling and easier to understand.

Brevity and Precision

In an industry where time is a precious commodity, brevity is highly valued. A one-page synopsis can be read in a matter of minutes, providing a quick yet comprehensive overview of the screenplay. This precision allows busy industry professionals to quickly assess the potential of a script without committing to reading the entire screenplay upfront.

Emotional Engagement

Despite its brevity, a well-crafted one-page synopsis can evoke the same emotions as the full screenplay. By highlighting the protagonist's journey, the stakes, and the emotional highs and lows, the synopsis can engage the reader on an emotional level, making them eager to read more.

The Importance of a One-Page Synopsis

Marketing Tool

A one-page synopsis is an essential marketing tool. It serves as a "sales document" that pitches your screenplay to potential buyers. Agents, producers, and executives often rely on synopses to decide whether a script is worth their time. A compelling one-pager can open doors and create opportunities that might otherwise be missed.

Development Aid

Writing a one-page synopsis can also be a valuable exercise for the writer. It acts as a "crash-test" for the story, revealing any weaknesses or areas that need further development. This process can lead to significant improvements in the screenplay itself, as the writer gains a clearer understanding of the story's structure and flow.

Versatility

A one-page synopsis is versatile and can be used in various contexts. Whether it's for pitching to producers, submitting to screenplay contests, or including in an investor package, the one-pager is a flexible document that can adapt to different needs and audiences.

Professionalism

Having a polished one-page synopsis demonstrates professionalism. It shows that the writer is serious about their craft and understands the industry's expectations. This professionalism can make a positive impression on industry professionals, increasing the chances of the screenplay being taken seriously.

Crafting an Effective One-Page Synopsis

To create an effective one-page synopsis, follow these tips:

1. Keep It Simple: Focus on the core concept, main characters, and central conflict. Avoid getting bogged down in subplots or minor details.

2. Structure: Allocate space proportionately to each act of your screenplay. Typically, the first act takes up a quarter to a third of the word count, the second act half, and the final act the remaining portion.

3. Engage Emotionally: Ensure that the synopsis conveys the emotional journey of the characters. Highlight the stakes and the protagonist's transformation.

4. Use Present Tense: Write in the present tense and third person to give a sense of immediacy and action.

5. Professional Presentation: Make sure the synopsis is well-written, free of errors, and professionally formatted.

In conclusion, a one-page synopsis is a powerful tool in the screenwriter's arsenal. It encapsulates the beauty of storytelling through clarity, brevity, and emotional engagement, while serving as an indispensable aid in marketing and development. By mastering the art of the one-pager, writers can significantly enhance their chances of success in the competitive world of screenwriting.

Here’s a sample, 320 words:
Nebraska

Written by Bob Nelson

Woody Grand, a tempestuous and aging booze-addled Montana man has recently received a sweepstakes letter stating that he has won one million dollars. Since he doesn’t trust the post office to deliver his prize, he is determined to claim it in person at the company's head office in Nebraska. His son David, a single and struggling electronics salesman, discerns right away that the letter is little more than a scam to sell magazine subscriptions and tries to talk Woody out of it. But the stubborn Woody has tunnel vision -- nothing will stop him from obtaining his jackpot, even if he has to walk 800 miles on his own two feet to do so.

Of course, this doesn't sit well with Woody's outspoken wife Kate or career-driven son Ross, but David is determined to humor his befuddled father nonetheless, eventually agreeing to drive him to the sweepstakes office personally despite having to call in sick to work to get the time off. Shortly after the two set out, however, the road trip threatens to get sidetracked when longtime alcoholic Woody winds up in the hospital following a drunken fall. Pushing their schedule back to make time for his recovery, the pair plan to take a detour to David's Aunt Peg's house in his father's hometown of Hawthorne, where Kate and Ross will soon arrive for an impromptu family reunion.

When Woody runs into his old pal Ed Pegram at a local tavern and shoots his mouth off about his recent "windfall," he becomes something of a local celebrity, and familiar faces come out of the woodwork to claim their fair share of the prize. Meanwhile, David learns more about his family during this one eventful weekend than he did during his entire childhood, prompting some deeply personal reflection that offers him a whole new perspective on the father who was always something of a mystery.

https://boords.com/blog/how-to-write-a-film-synopsis

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Greetings friends,

Normally I try not to clog your inbox. I only post when I feel like I’ve got something worth sharing—which is my subtle way of admitting I’m jealous of those of you who post regularly and still manage to be smart, funny, and creatively generous. And let’s not even talk about the people engaged in wild, brain-melting creative collaborations. I’m not that disciplined. Or that organized. Or that caffeinated.

But every now and then, shit happens and life hands you something that demands to be shared. In this case: a book. A really, good one.

Lazarus Man, by Richard Price, one of my all-time favorite writers. He’s the mind behind The Wanderers, Clockers, Freedomland, Lush Life, The Whites—and also the screenwriter of The Color of Money, Life Lessons (Scorsese’s segment from New York Stories—if you haven’t seen it, fix that), Sea of Love, The Wire, The Night Of, The Outsider. In short: a man of crime, grit, and mind-blowingly good dialogue.

Lazarus Man centers on the aftermath of a deadly five-story tenement collapse in East Harlem that kills several people and unleashes chaos. Price isn’t too concerned with traditional plot; he’s more interested in how the disaster ripples through the lives of several interconnected neighborhood characters and their personal struggles. One of them is Felix Pearl, a young photographer who’s recently moved to Harlem.

See where I’m going with this, fellow snappers?

So there I am (yesterday), wedged into a packed subway car stuck between stations, with no AC and two sprawling homeless passengers lost in their own aromatic bliss, reading a chapter that hit me right in the photobone. It was sharp, beautiful, and deeply observant—and I thought, I have to share this. (The passage, not the photobone. That stays with me.)

Right on cue, Freddy chimes in:

“Ugh. Oversharing again. If you’re gonna post someone else’s text, at least include one of your own photos. That B&W roll you just developed—who are you saving it for? Allah?”

Freddy is an asshole. But he’s not always wrong.

So here it is: a paragraph from Lazarus Man, paired with some black-and-white shots I took with my Konica C35 (Ilford HP5 Plus 400) just a few days ago.

Enjoy—or ignore. Either way, thanks for letting me drop into your inbox every once in a while.

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ak

I’ve never belonged at the beach. Not culturally, not physically. Let’s face it—I’m fair. How fair? I make milk look tan. As a kid, going to the beach felt like forcing a vegan to eat bull testicles. Raw. My skin would start sizzling before my towel even hit the sand.

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The trauma goes way back. Every summer, we’d make the annual trip to visit relatives in Odessa, and my parents would DEMAND that I get a tan—by any means necessary. The logic? So when we returned to our hometown in Belarus, the neighbors wouldn’t say, “Geez, you just came back from the Black Sea? Why’s that kid so white?!” But they always said it anyway. There’s no hiding from pigment math.

Still, as I got older—read: old—those metaphorical bull testes started to taste… not bad. Maybe even good. Maybe it was the years, or the quiet magic of living with the same person long enough that you start to soften in the right places. Maybe I just gave up. In a good way.

I’m still the palest person on the beach, always will be. But I’ve made peace with it. I’ve even learned to flaunt it. There’s a certain power in leaning into your glow. Reflecting sunlight like it’s your job.

When I first met my wife, one of the first things I asked her was, “Do you tan well?” She still brings it up. Apparently, that’s not a typical first-date question. But she said, “Ahhh, I think so…” and two weeks later, we moved in together. In fairness, a friend was subletting my apartment in L.A. at the time and had nowhere else to go, so it was either love or logistics. Let’s call it both. To be safe.

I was once walking down the beach when a kid ran up, pointed, and said, “My dad said you were the stand-in for Death on the set of The Seventh Seal.” He was maybe five or seven. Old enough to speak in full sentences, too young to be punched. I had just started learning Transcendental Meditation and told myself not to get mad at asswipes, even if they’re technically children.

And yet, and yet… this has… somehow… become my place. The Coney Island peninsula. Brighton Beach, July 4th weekend. The water like ice. The boardwalk like chaos. The smell of coconut lotion, grilled meat, and sweat.

No, I didn’t get a tan. But I showed up. I was present. I let the sun hit my skin for almost three minutes (maybe even four) and didn’t flinch.

And that counts. Methinks.

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1. When’s the last time you saw Ruthless People (1986), the movie written by Dale Launer and directed by the Airplane team? Saw it again last night, after almost 40 years. It still holds up. And how!
   https://archive.org/details/TheColorPurple_201905

2. When’s the last time you heard Bob Dylan sing I’m a Fool to Want You?
   I’m learning how to play his version on the accordion. It ain’t easy, but it’s great.
   So much more painful than the Sinatra version, and even rawer than Billie Holiday’s.

3. When is the last time you read a good book about making a film? Well, you’re in luck. My friend Dana Lustig — producer, writer, director — just wrote one. Making a Movie: From Concept to Red Carpet. Get your copy while supplies last.

   I’d better sign off before I recommend something else.
   Thanks for reading and beaing a subscriber.

   ‘Til next time.

   ak
   
   

Urban Spirits

Two pigeons and three sparrows, like a punk rock band from the Bronx— one lead, two backups, a chaparrito on bass, and a drummer with a missing toe and a pukey attitude —

— discussing real estate:
Who owns the sky above Surf Avenue?
Who gets to shit on whose car?

One of them looks exactly like my third cousin Alyosha after
his third DUI— disappointed but not surprised, watching the world from a safe distance.

Even the birds here know about gentrification.

Exile Beach

Every Saturday, Mrs. Golubchik from 3B spreads her towel in the exact same spot, brings the same thermos of borscht, reads the same Russian newspaper from three weeks ago.

She doesn't swim. She doesn't tan. She just sits and remembers Odessa, 1987, when the Black Sea spoke her language.

I sit twenty feet away, reading Sherman Alexie and thinking about how every beach is someone's first or last glimpse of America.

The Atlantic doesn't care which accent you drown in.

Mechanical Prayers

The Wonder Wheel creaks like my knees after two back-to-back Aikido classes.

Each car holds twelve minutes of suspended disbelief— twelve minutes when gravity becomes optional, when Brooklyn looks small enough to hold in your pocket.

Below, the carnies count crumpled dollars, their accents thick, their tattoos full of stories about other summers, other boardwalks, other crowds of people desperate to buy twelve minutes of flight.

I paid half of lunch money to remember what it feels like to see my problems shrink to the size of toy cars.

Wind Lessons

Some kid loses his kite string and watches twenty dollars of rainbow nylon disappear toward Staten Island.

His mother yells in Spanish, "¡Qué pendejo!" but I see her watching too, tracking its flight path like she's calculating the ins and outs of dreams.

The kite doesn't know it's lost. It thinks it's finally free.

Maybe that's the difference between “abandoned”and “liberated”, depending on
who's holding the string, and whether they know when to let go.

The kid cries for five minutes, then asks for cotton candy. His mother buys it because sugar is cheaper than therapy, and Brooklyn teaches you to take your sweetness where you can find it.

______________________________________

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‘Til next time.
ak

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I keep coming back to a line from the excellent David Mamet film House of Games (1987):

“You can’t make someone into a whore if she weren’t a whore to begin with.”

It’s brutal. Misogynistic.

But—is there something in it worth wrestling with?

Do people turn bad, or were they always that way?

Do we become ourselves, or merely reveal ourselves?

Essentialists believe people are born a certain way—good or bad, strong or weak, prone to vice or virtue—and that circumstances simply bring those qualities to the surface. It’s an old idea. Plato touched on it. Many fundamentalist Christians lean heavily toward essentialist thinking.

Take Original Sin (from St. Augustine): the belief that all humans are born sinful because of Adam and Eve’s transgression. That’s essentialism. You’re born flawed.

But that view ignores the shaping force of environment, trauma, and opportunity.

The counterpoint is Social Constructivism: the idea that people become who they are through experience—family, culture, power structures. In this view, a person “turns bad” because they’re mistreated, cornered, or left with no other option.

A Constructivist would say Mamet’s character is ignoring context: the pressures, abuses, and systems that push people into choices they wouldn’t otherwise make.

I’m leaning toward “probably both.”

It’s an easy way out, sure—but most honest thinking lives in the gray space.

People have tendencies. But they’re also shaped.

A person may have a seed of greed, cruelty, or just raw survival instinct—but it’s the soil of their experience that allows it to grow… or wither.

Recently, I showed my students in Advanced Script Analysis class the Ingmar Bergman film Shame (1968). There’s only one film I’ve seen more times than Shame — Airplane! (1980).

In Shame, Jan—played by Max von Sydow—begins as a passive artist, a former musician living in rural exile with his wife Eva (Liv Ullmann), trying to stay uninvolved in a civil war.

He doesn’t want to take sides. He’s withdrawn. Childlike.

You could call him fragile, idealistic, or cowardly—depending on your view of the world.

No, he’s not admirable. But he’s far from a monster.

He wants safety without responsibility. You get the sense he’s been coddled by privilege and culture.

Then the war gets closer.

Soldiers arrive. Their home is raided. They’re interrogated, violated, humiliated.

Jan can no longer hide behind neutrality.

And he transforms.

First, he starts making morally questionable choices to survive. He kills. He lies. He trades favors.

Then he starts blaming Eva. Becomes controlling. Cruel.

By the end, he’s a cold, paranoid figure—unrecognizable from the man we met.

I keep thinking:

How much pressure does it take to crack a personality?

And what leaks out when it does?

If you take the Essentialist view, you could argue Jan was always weak and self-serving. The war didn’t change him—it stripped away the polite mask.

His early passivity wasn’t idealism. It was cowardice.

His art? A shield.

Underneath, he was already a narcissistic survivalist.

The war just gave that part of him permission.

But if you’re a Constructivist, then the cold, cruel world did this to him.

Trauma warped him.

Humiliation shattered his identity.

War turned a gentle man into something brutal—not because he always was that way, but because people adapt, sometimes horribly.

This view is more tragic—and arguably more in line with Bergman’s own.

He doesn’t condemn Jan. He shows how ordinary people fracture under pressure.

But with all my love and respect for Bergman, I’m not sure I agree.

Maybe the real question isn’t:

Was he bad? Or made bad?

But:

What part of him was waiting for permission to emerge?

Jean-Jacques Rousseau believed in the “noble savage”—that we’re born good, and society corrupts us.

John Locke thought we’re born neutral (tabula rasa), and shaped entirely by experience.

I think they both erred.

Yes, their arguments are elegant. Both are hopeful in their own way.

But both flatten the terrifying complexity of being human.

I’ve seen siblings raised with the same values become opposites—one generous, one exploitative.

I’ve seen people with every advantage grow bitter and cruel.

And I’ve seen people from violent, unstable beginnings grow into the gentlest, most stable souls I know.

There are temperaments, instincts, shadows, and hungers that seem baked in—fucking mysteriously so (pardon my Danish).

Ask anyone who’s worked with children—or adults in crisis—and they’ll tell you:

We’re capable of selfishness, cruelty, manipulation before any system teaches it.

Yes, society distorts us.

But it also restrains us.

It teaches empathy. Delays gratification. Channels chaos.

If we were blank slates, experience would explain everything.

It doesn’t.

Steven Pinker wrote a whole book about this: The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature.

But here’s where I land:

Maybe we’re neither blank nor good.

Maybe we’re loaded decks, full of conflicting cards.

We have instincts for cooperation and conquest.

We carry seeds of gentleness and aggression.

What we become depends on which parts get nourished, triggered, or given permission.

Walt Whitman was right.

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

And so was Zimmy. Come to think of it—Zimmy has always been right.

Pink petal-pushers, red blue jeans

All the pretty maids, and all the old queens

All the old queens from all my past lives

I carry four pistols and two large knives

I’m a man of contradictions, I’m a man of many moods

I contain multitudes.

📌 What do you think?

Are we forged by experience—or revealed by it?

What part of you might still be waiting for permission to emerge?

Thanks for reading and being a subscriber. You support makes me a better person.

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‘Til next time.

ak

Greetings, folks!

Beneath the city, stories ride beside us. I take photos to remember them—and words to imagine what they forget to say.

The Sleeper:

A man in a business suit sleeps upright on the 4 train, head gently knocking against the window at each turn. At his feet: a crumpled paper bag from a gourmet grocery store, and next to it, a shabbyviolin case. A finance guy moonlighting as a street performer — or is it the other way around?

Does he play Bach in the tunnels — not for money, but for his late wife, who loved to dance? Every night, he falls asleep on the way home from playing the same piece she loved. But… his the violin case is empty. He stopped bringing the violin years ago. He just sits on a bench, moving his fingers in silence.

The Note:

A teenage girl with blue hair and bitten fingernails watches her reflection in the dark window. She’s holding a wrinkled post-it note, written in thick Sharpie:

“You are enough. – Mom”

She presses it flat against the glass like a prayer. Did she plan to run away—or maybe just to be alone for a while—but found that note inside a tattered wallet she hadn’t opened in weeks? I too thought it was her mom’s handwriting, but she reveals she wrote it to herself, months ago, during a therapy exercise. She just forgot.

Because if not, I’m going to assume you hate stories, photography, and probably puppies too.

Because if not, I’m going to assume you hate stories, photography, and probably puppies too.

The Messenger:

A little boy rides the subway with a large man in a janitor’s uniform. The man doesn’t speak. The boy talks constantly, narrating everything: the ads, the other riders, even the rhythm of the wheels.

He says he’s teaching his dad English, word by word.

The boy isn’t his son. The man found him wandering outside a bodega a week ago. No one came for him. The man didn’t call the cops. He just started bringing him along, believing, somehow, that the city would return what it takes if you just keep moving.

“He’s not my son. But he talks to me like one. So I listen.”

Thanks for reading and being a subscriber.
’Til next time.

ak

I bought a Konica C35 on eBay. I wasn’t really looking for another camera—I swear—but something about the C35’s reputation caught my attention. It’s a 35mm rangefinder from the late ’60s, small, unassuming, and apparently beloved for its sharp little lens. It was cheap, it looked clean, and I had a roll of Kodak ColorPlus 400 burning a hole in my fridge. So: why not?

The camera arrived a few days later. That was two years ago.🤓 ✌️
Last week I finally took it for a spin. Shooting with it felt… good. There’s no fancy autofocus, no LCD, no metering feedback beyond a little needle in the viewfinder. You just focus, frame, and shoot. It makes photography feel like something you do with your hands again, not a touchscreen. The rangefinder patch is somewhat faint, but manageable. It slowed me down in a good way.

So I wandered around Brooklyn and shot the roll. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Bada bing, bada boom. Felt pretty good about it too. Some street scenes, a few portraits, light filtering through some late afternoon trees—the usual stuff, but with that little film glow in the back of my mind.

Then came the part no one talks enough about: rewinding.

I wasn’t totally sure how long it should take. I’d been rewinding for a while and it felt fine —smooth, consistent resistance—until I suddenly heard a SNAP. Not loud, just enough to make me pause. Was that the film leader coming loose like it’s supposed to… or something else? I second-guessed myself. Maybe I’d already rewound the whole thing. Maybe I was being too cautious. So I did the one thing you’re supposed to do when you’re unsure: I cracked open the back.

A flash of orange light hit the film. I slammed it shut. Too late.

Pretty sure I fogged the whole roll. I could see it: that faint, awful pink cast on the exposed side of the film. Maybe I’d get a frame or two out of it, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

First, a bit of history…

The Konica C35 came out in 1968 and was basically one of the first truly compact cameras that delivered sharp, reliable results without a ton of fuss. It had automatic exposure (pretty novel at the time), a really good fixed 38mm f/2.8 lens, and a dead-simple design. You still had to focus it yourself, but it took care of the rest. It was a kind of proto-point-and-shoot, years before those words meant anything.

Andy Warhol apparently carried one around.

There were a bunch of versions over the years—some with flash, some with faster lenses, even an autofocus model. But the original still holds up because it’s light, sharp, and satisfying. It just works (if you don’t open the back too soon).

What’s the Appeal Now? Honestly? It’s the lack of features. That sounds backward, but it’s true. There’s no menu to scroll through, no raw files to worry about, no autofocus hunting. Just a bright little window, a solid lens, and whatever film you’ve got loaded.

It’s not better than modern cameras. It’s just different. Slower. Quieter. More deliberate. You don’t fire off 20 shots—you take one and hope you nailed it. You don’t check your screen because there is no screen. It’s kind of thrilling.

Normally, I do a bit of post—white balance, some cropping, little tweaks here and there to nudge things closer to what I saw or felt. But not with these. I haven’t touched them. No edits, no corrections. They’re like the first draft that came out of my typewriter—raw and messy.

Yesterday, I told my wife, “Even with that blown roll, I’m excited to shoot again. I’ll be more careful next time. I’ll rewind fully. I’ll resist the urge to peek. And maybe…”

She didn’t miss a beat: “You should open the back every time. It’s the most artistic thing you’ve ever done. If those light leaks improved your personality the way they improved your composition, you’d be an ideal husband. Okay, maybe not “ideal”, but at least in the right neighborhood.”

And that, folks, is married life in a nutshell.

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’Til next time.
ak

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Greetings friends,

Few artists can command a stage—or a room—as completely as Nick Cave. Watching him and his band — The Bad Seeds — tear the roof off the Barclays Center in Brooklyn last night felt like witnessing a force of nature.

A side note: We weren’t allowed to bring our cameras into the arena, so I had to rely on my iPhone. Section 211, Row 6, Seat 4.

”Fucking Brok-lyyyyyn”, he yelled as he and the Seeds took the stage, and the crowd of 20,000 exploded with thunderous applause. The man knows how to make people like him.

The performance was more than a concert. It was a communal experience, equal parts sermon, séance, and catharsis. Cave’s ability to move seamlessly between the thunderous and the tender, the sacred and the profane, is a testament to his artistry.

Nick Cave’s songwriting has always been preoccupied with the big themes—death, love, faith, loss, and redemption. From the violent poetry of his early days with The Birthday Party — Release the Bats — to the haunting beauty of albums like Skeleton Tree and Ghosteen, Cave’s lyrics probe the darkest corners of human experience, yet always leave room for hope and transcendence.

His songs are not just stories; they are invitations into the uncanny and unfamiliar, places “where true meaning exists,” as Cave himself puts it. He describes his creative process as a “commitment to uncertainty,” embracing the unknown in search of something beyond comprehension. David Lynch was a fan, naturally.

The significance of Cave’s songwriting is not lost on his peers. Matt Berninger of , The National and himself a master lyricist, has gone so far as to say,

“For me, Nick Cave is the best songwriter alive. And I’m aware Bob Dylan is still with us. Nick Cave has even gone past Cohen and Tom Waits for me – and that’s my trinity”.

Nick Cave’s work—on stage, on the page (check out his newsletter The Red Hand Files, and in film (yes, he’s also a talented screenwriter —The Proposition) reminds us of the value of doubt, vengeance, the necessity of the sacred, and the transformative power of art. His willingness to grapple with life’s hardest questions, and to do so publicly, is what makes him not just one of the great songwriters of our time, but a vital cultural voice.

The Red Hand Files, has become an online phenomenon —a direct, unfiltered conversation between Cave and his fans. They (and by “they” I mean “we”) ask him (and by “him” I mean Cave) questions on everything from creativity and grief to the meaning of life, offering wisdom, vulnerability, and often sick humor. I don’t know why he ignored my question —

“Your rendition of Bob Dylan’s song “Death Is Not the End” adds a communal, almost liturgical feel with multiple voices. Was that your intention from the start, and how do you think your interpretation reframes Dylan’s original?”

— and instead chose to answer a question about depression and what he eats for breakfast. Whatever. He’s Nick Cave, after all, and I’m just Alex.

As one observer put it, “Nick Cave’s Red Hand Files stands out as a beacon of authenticity and intimacy. It is a testament to Cave’s unwavering commitment to his art, his fans, and the power of human connection”.

Nick Cave’s art has always been animated by a restless search for meaning, a deep engagement with the sacred, and a refusal to settle for easy answers. During last night’s performance, as he moved from the ferocious energy of new songs from Wild God (he opened with my favorite song on the album — “Frogs”) to the aching intimacy of “Into My Arms”— he reminded us that beneath the thunder and myth, Nick Cave always reaches for something tender, human, and true.

But Cave’s importance goes far beyond the stage. His writing, both in song and in prose, is a meditation on faith, doubt, grief, and the possibility of transformation.

Cave’s relationship with religion is complex, nuanced, and central to his creative life. In his book-length conversation with journalist Seán O’Hagan, Faith, Hope and Carnage, Cave articulates how belief and doubt are not opposites but necessary companions.

“From where I’m standing, an explicit rejection of the divine has to be bad for the business of songwriting. Atheism has to be bad for the business of making music. It has to put you at a distinct disadvantage because it’s a kind of narrowing of options and a denial of the fundamentally sacred dimension of music. It’s very limiting, in my experience.”

For Cave, religion is “spirituality with rigour.” He sees faith and God as both the search itself and the destination, arguing that “the question is itself the answer.”

Cave also recognizes the importance of doubt, not just in matters of faith but as a guiding principle in life and art:

“Doubt, or not quite knowing, is not just something that I have in regard to religious things, but to the world in general, I would say. It’s actually become more and more for me almost a political point of actually not really knowing. It works in that you remain curious about things, and you become open to things. Curious to things and you don’t become dogmatic and strident about things, which, as far as I can see, around these sorts of topics we all become. And I don’t feel I have, at the end of the day, the authority to be that way. And there’s an arrogance and a kind of godlike notion around that, that I find uncomfortable.”

Here’s what I’m getting at: To see Nick Cave live is to understand the enduring power of song to unite, heal, and provoke. To read his words is to glimpse the mind of an artist who refuses to shy away from life’s deepest questions. In a world saturated with noise, Cave’s work reminds us of the value of sincerity, risk, and the search for meaning. For those reasons and more, Nick Cave deserves every ounce of praise we can give.

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‘Til next time.

ak

Greetings, folks!

So, I’m on the 2 train, lost in thought, when I suddenly realize—I’m going the wrong way. I hop off at Wall Street, a part of town I almost never visit. But fate, as they say, has a sense of humor.

The light is fading. Shadows cast by skyscrapers dance on the cobblestones and historic facades. Drama. Opulence. Comfort. Art Deco and Gilded Age. Ornate details and grandiose design. The rich and powerful have it all. And that’s their cross to bear.

I only have my phone with me, but hey, I might as well make the most of my detour. As I wander, snapping shots of the canyon-like skyline, historic buildings, and modern developments, I pass by a mansion-like restaurant—a scene straight out of The Great Gatsby. Well-dressed rich folks, expensive cars, doormen. Tony Bennett croons out onto the street. Some kind of soirée or fundraiser.

What am I, chopped liver, I ask myself? Let’s crash this party.

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I push through a cluster of men in tailored suits, puffing cigars like they own the place (they probably do), and step inside.

“What’s shaking here, sports fan?” I ask a stocky bouncer in a tight suit, sporting a my-kinda haircut. “The Pope in town?”

“Better,” he says. “A fundraiser for a real estate mogul.”

“That so?”

“Wants to make a movie called The Hidden Truths of the Universe and get all the Hollywood stars over fifty to play a small part in it. His contribution to the “forgotten ones.”

“I’m not much into movies. Look around? I won’t break anything, I promise.”

“Minimum donation is $2,500. But for a half-C-note, I’ll let you use the bathroom on the second floor, take a photo with Jon Voight, and enjoy some hot appetizers and a drink.”

I don’t make enough money to throw around fifty bucks. But who could say no to that?

So, I weave through the crowd, keeping my head up like I’m one of them. There’s no sign of Jon Voight. Maybe he’s in the bathroom changing his diaper.

A waiter passes with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Caviar, obviously. Haven’t had that in a while. Tastes like chinchilla shit, but I pretend it’s the best thing since pizza and beer.

Nearby, a couple is arguing in hushed tones.

“I told you, Mason, you cannot sell our villa in St. Barts just because you ‘don’t like the energy’ there anymore.”

“I felt something, Blair. A presence.”

“It was our housekeeper.”

A woman in a shimmering gold dress floats past, pausing just long enough to whisper something into the ear of a man who looks like he either owns half of Manhattan or drives for Uber Eats. Or both. He nods sagely as if she’s just revealed the secrets of the universe.

I’m considering getting another shot of James Beam when I hear someone say, “Oh my god, Bradley, I LOVE your aura tonight.”

Get me the fuck outta here. I beeline for the exist and that’s when I spot her.
A woman of a certain age, sitting alone—radiant, poised, looking like she stepped out of an old Hollywood film. Is she waiting for her husband? Her boyfriend? One of those cigar-smoking hedge-fund money-grubbing cats with an expensive haircut and a watch worth more than my yearly rent?

So I figure—I’ve got nothing to lose. If she says no, she says no. But after my encounter with that Lady in Red at the Atlantic Avenue station, something strange happened. My skin started to become resilient and develop scales.

I clear my throat. “Excuse me, ma’am. I was just passing throgh, saw you sitting here looking like Cleopatra, and I thought—if I don’t take your photo, I’ll regret it for the rest of my days. I’m happily married, by the way, and only doing it because I appreciate beauty and style.”

She smiles. “I’ve been waiting all day for someone to tell me that.”

Well… where are my younger days of miracle and wonder? And just as I think that…

…she strikes a perfect cobra pose. Regal. Hypnotic.

Stunned, I fumble for my iPhone and snap a shot… or two… or three… before she changes her mind—or before her Wall Street prince charming lunges at me from behind.

I promise to email her the photo as I thank her and walk away—only to realize, too late, that I never got her email. That’s okay. She probably wouldn’t have given it to me anyway.

Moral of the Story?

If you’re a photographer, never be afraid to crash a fundraiser or ask a stranger for a photo. You just might walk away with more than you bargained for.

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’Till next time.
ak

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Share Framing-the-Story with Alex Kustanovich

Greetings, folks,

I hope everyone’s well and enjoying the days.

Browsing in our college library for the hidden truths of the universe, I stumbled upon a book that hasn’t been checked out in 27 years — The Photographer’s Eye, by John Szarkowski. Guess I too might have a photographer’s eye after all.

John Szarkowski (1925–2020) was a highly influential photography curator, critic, and historian. He served as the Director of Photography at the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York from 1962 to 1991. When he talked, people listened.

According to Szarkowski, “paintings were made – constructed from a storehouse of traditional schemes and skills and attitudes – but photographs, as the man on the street put it, were taken.”

Szarkowski’s distinction between painting and photography highlights a fundamental difference in how these two visual arts are created.

Paintings are are built layer by layer with intentionality, using established artistic conventions, techniques, and compositions. The painter begins with a blank canvas and applies colors, shapes, and forms according to their vision. This process allows for total control over every element within the frame.

In contrast, photographs are taken, meaning they involve capturing something that already exists in the world. The photographer does not create the scene but instead selects and frames a moment from reality. The act of taking a photograph involves recognition rather than invention—an ability to see and extract meaning from what is already present.

Is “taking” on the same level of artistic expression as “making? I posed this question to Dr. Scott Weiss, a scholar of East German cinema and an amateur photographer himself. “Just as a brilliant piano performance can be as moving and artistically significant as an original composition, a masterful photograph can be as impactful and artistically valuable as a painting,” replied Weiss as if he’d thinking about it all his life. And maybe he had. I promised to buy him a beer in a plastic cup and we went our separate ways.

“In essence, photography requires an acute awareness of the world and a readiness to respond to fleeting moments, while painting allows for deeper manipulation and reworking. Yet, with digital photography and editing tools, modern photographers now have more control, blurring the lines between taking and making an image,” Angel, one of the maintenance workers at the college, said in passing. He has a point.

The line between painting and photography has undeniably blurred due to advancements in digital technology and post-processing techniques. While traditional photography was largely about capturing a moment as it was, modern photographers have access to tools that allow them to manipulate images in ways that were once exclusive to painting.

In the past, photography was seen as a means of truthfully documenting the world. Today, with software like Photoshop and Lightroom, photographers can change colors, remove objects, add elements, and even merge multiple images, making the final result more of a constructed image rather than a captured one.

Digital tools -- God bless them - allow photographers to adjust lighting, contrast, and texture in ways that mimic painting techniques. For example, a portrait photographer can digitally paint over skin, enhance shadows, and completely reshape an image to match their artistic vision, much like a painter with a brush.

And what about AI? It can generative fill features, photographers can create images that may never have existed in real life. This ability to generate, rather than just capture, further blurs the distinction between photography and traditional image-making.

In the past, painters constructed their images from scratch, while photographers relied on reality. Today, many photographers spend more time in post-production than in the act of taking the picture itself. This means they are no longer just taking photographs—they are actively creating images in ways that were once the domain of painters and digital artists.

But… despite digital manipulation, one key distinction remains: photography is still often rooted in reality. A photographer captures a moment in time that actually existed, then may choose to enhance or modify it. Unlike painting, where every detail must be built from nothing, photography starts with the world as it is and works from there.

So, while the line between painting and photography has blurred with modern technology, a core difference remains: painting allows for infinite imagination and control, whereas photography—at least in its purest form—depends on discovering moments in the real world. However, today’s photographers often find themselves combining these two artistic traditions, using digital tools to blend reality with creative vision in a way that would have been unthinkable when Cartier-Bresson coined the idea of the "decisive moment."

But I digress.

Here are the five key elements John Scarkowski explores in “The Photographer’s Eye”:

1. The Thing Itself: Photography captures reality and guarantees the existence of what is photographed. It transforms subjects into "things" within the frame, giving significance to even empty spaces.

2. The Detail: Photographers capture fragments of truth rather than complete narratives. By focusing on specific details, they can reveal deeper meanings and highlight overlooked elements.

3. The Frame: Photography is an art of selection. The edges of the picture dictate its content, and the photographer chooses what to include or exclude by adjusting camera position and angle.

4. Time: Photographs are time exposures that capture specific moments. As photographic technology improved, photographers began experimenting with capturing fast-moving objects.

5. Vantage Point: The clarity and impact of a photograph depend on the photographer's chosen perspective. Unexpected vantage points can transform ordinary subjects into dramatic and exciting images.

Szarkowski's approach breaks from traditional compositional rules, encouraging photographers to experiment and find new ways of seeing. Photography's history is not linear but a "centrifugal" growth, with its meaning continually evolving through our progressive discovery of the medium.

Thanks for reading and being a subscriber.
’Til next time.
ak

Happy Valentine’s Day, folks!

Bing-bong.
The doors slide shut, sealing us in this metal cocoon of humanity. At least, for those of us who can’t afford a car, don’t want to pay $9 to drive into Manhattan (thanks to the new congestion toll), or simply prefer to observe humans in motion.

I’ve already written four Subway Chronicles posts. What should I write about in this one? A symphony of lives plays out—offbeat, chaotic, yet strangely harmonious.

There’s the man with the boombox blasting Barry Manilow’s greatest hits like it’s his personal yoga studio. The woman in a colorful hijab, knitting furiously, her needles clicking in time with the rhythmic clatter of her teeth. And that guy—yes, that guy—eating an entire rotisserie chicken with his bare hands, leaving a trail of bones like breadcrumbs for the birds to follow.

Bing-bong.
We’re all here: the dreamers, the schemers, and the ones who just overslept.

A man in rubber shorts (it’s winter, mind you) hurls slices of Wonder Bread at me and the two postal workers sitting next to me. Across the aisle, a child stares wide-eyed at that elderly punk, laughing uncontrollably. We all shuffle to the other side of the car.

“Signal problems,” they say. Great. A collective sigh fills the air.

The heat wraps around us like a suffocating coat made of tongues. Someone mutters, “Why bother? Why the pain? All those taxes... just go home and die in your sleep.”

That’s when I notice it—the Emily Dickinson poem on hope displayed above the sliding doors:

“Hope is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.”

Bing-bong.

That’s perfect. I should’ve noticed it earlier. There would’ve been no need for me to write anything else—except this: The New York subway isn’t just transportation. It’s theater. It’s poetry. It’s life.

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Thanks for reading and being a subscriber.
’Til next time.

ak