Eight rolls are headed to the lab for drop off tomorrow- I'm trying to keep the vacation hangover at bay by remembering the sound of the lake lapping at the shore on this humid urban afternooon...

©jennifer loeber

©jennifer loeber

While sitting in my dentists office waiting for some early morning pain infliction I flipped through a recent New York Magazine. I am consistently impressed with the photography they use and regularly have daydreams about seeing my own work in its glossy pages.

The article Punk Like Them struck a chord with me, both in its use of photography and its subject matter. I spent a good ten minutes peering closely at Rona Yefman's images trying to figure out if all or only some were shot with a Holga and another ten quietly wondering if I could have done better.

Without swerving too far down memory lane I can only say that Punk, St. Marks Place and the Lower East Side in New York City were once a very large part of my life and huge influence on my work. To this day the only truly dependable pair of boots I own are a beat-up decade old pair of 10 hole oxblood Doc Martens- I'm definitely not getting that kind of longevity out of Marc Jacobs ballerina flats.

I freely admit to pangs of deep plaid-n-mohawked longing to have shot that particular assignment. Not only because of the above stated daydreams but because it would have offered the chance to re-visit something both totally familiar and now, a decade later in my case, so so unfamiliar. A fantastic collision of my adult world and my teenage one, on the very spot it originated.

I'm not sure whether I would have mentioned my own history and connection to the subjects I was photographing had that been my assignment. I may have just retraced the steps of my old haunts with them, photographing, remembering and watching it all unfold for a new set of kids.

Punk's not dead.