Wow. This is my first exposure to the work of New York street photographer Helen Levitt (1913–2009), and I am enthralled.
Crosstown is an extensive monograph, stretching across more than half a century, but it feels tightly focused and intimate. Levitt's images tend to feature children, teenagers, or seniors—mostly from Harlem or other poor sections of New York City—and they are full of motion: fleeting moments of storytelling set against crumbling tenements, torn posters, and rude chalk graffiti.
Whether showing us unguarded emotion or unintentional humor, raucous play or quiet pathos, Levitt's pictures suggest the continuum of time. Nothing here is posed or prepared; these are ongoing scenes from which we are granted only the tiniest of glimpses. And so they raise questions: How did this happen? What happens next? Who drew the mustache on the baby? How did those children get on top of that ledge? Will they fall? An elderly black gentleman smiles over the infant is his arms, and a white friend, standing very close, smiles too—are these men related now? How many of those kids holding toy guns on the front stoop will graduate to the real thing in a few years?
I prefer Levitt's black and white photos to her color pictures, but all of it carries that same sense of precariousness, poised between gritty realism and the tiny yet unfathomable mysteries of everyday urban life. It's a marvelous body of work. And I think I'll flip through it frequently: Crosstown is a collection that demands—and deserves—a second (or third) look.