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Most all of my dreams occur against a backdrop of places shadowy and labyrinthine, dark, dank corners, sewage pooling, where people and things disappear with the light. Filth is ever-present. Grime. Peeling paint. Graffiti. Like the rotting New York of The Warriors. Like the carrion of the 18th Street subway station.

I grew up in sunny South Florida, and my dreams should have been filled with giant waves, killer flamingos, and violent, pastel shoulder pads. But they weren't. One of the strangest things about moving to New York City in 2001 was how instantly at home I felt. Because I had been traveling the City's dimly lit allies, dark streets, decaying subway stations my entire life.

In my dreams these places are suffused with fear and foreboding. But in my waking life, I tend barely to notice them. I have decided, for no good reason, to make an effort to recognize these dark, dirty tableaus, document these places that look dream-time familiar in my waking world.

This project, Filth and Shadows, is dedicated to the City's beautiful decay: peeling paint, graffiti, feces, garbage, smoke rising from the sewers, exposed hints to an underworld. And it is dedicated to this somnambulist's fun-house mirror-image, and the thousands of nightshade hours I have spent wandering these filthy, shadowy places, in dream and in nightmare, in search of a bathroom.

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