New York 1987

Rosalind Solomon made this photographic print called New York sometime in the 20th century, and what a space it is. It's the kind of shot that almost feels like a painting—except a painting that's really, really honest. I can imagine Solomon, camera in hand, stepping into this tiny apartment. I wonder what she felt in the making of the work—did she want to capture the quiet tension, the solitude? You can almost hear the hum of the fan, the buzz of the TV. The room feels so contained, filled with patterns and textures, and there’s this guy, sort of hunched in a chair. The composition is masterful. The way all these details come together, each telling its own story. It reminds me of Nan Goldin's work in its intimacy. Artists are always borrowing, stealing, and riffing off each other's ideas, right? It’s this constant conversation across time. And ultimately, the photograph is generous. It doesn't try to solve the mystery of the image, but to embrace it. Like all good art, it offers an invitation to look closer, to feel more, and to think.