I had to get out of the house today and, lucky enough to have a car, drove twenty blocks to the edge of Brooklyn.
Tom lives to photograph. I’m nothing if I can’t untangle lives that went before us. I think for us both, Dead Horse Beach is a portrait of brutal carelessness, giving up its ghosts with each low tide. That it draws so many to it–Tom and me, for instance–in wonder of its past and what it teaches us today is a reason to celebrate all the ugliness strewn across the sand.
I’d be surprise if Jerry Bianco idea hadn’t haunted him during his whole time at the Navy Yard, always mapping it out in his head, tenaciously believing he could make a submarine where there never should have been a submarine.