Ben Orlansky

These are my eyes. This is my city. Welcome to New York.

Some of my photos lie. Or do they? I capture microseconds of humanity. Look at that old man laughing. It warms your heart and puts a smile on your face. Well, actually, he was just picking his teeth, but the results and effects of those little micromoments remain the same. I may lie through my photos, but those lies have effected me greatly, and I hope they do the same for you.

To understand art is to kill art. It was not made to be understood, it does not exist to be understood. Do you understand love? Do you understand the sky? To feel art - to feel it break your heart and make you unreasonably happy, to feel its hope despite its hopelessness, to feel its anger and destructiveness - this is art. Let it take you over and let it overwhelm you. Let it hurt you. Let it change you. Let it stab you in the chest and make you bleed, let it make you high and bring you down. Let it make you want to change the world, and let it tell you that you can’t. Let it make you feel, let it make you feel, let it make you feel.

You’re one of the good guys. You think. You don’t actually enjoy discussing tits with your buddies while drinking piss beer. It embarrasses you when you’re walking with a friend and he stops to check out a girl’s ass and perplexedly feels the need to announce his appreciation of it to the world. You hold the door open for women because, shocking newsflash right here, women are people and not because you think chivalry is a magical thing that tears their pants off. It took a few times to fully get it, and at first it shocked you, hurt you, and angered you. Apparently, women can think that when you look at them, you see a walking pair of breasts. Apparently, women can think that you think they’re obligated to take their pants off, after, what was it, three dates, right? Apparently, they’ve grown somewhat accustomed to interacting with men who have lengthy conversations with their chests. Tragically, they’ve come to expect it. “Men,” they say. It enrages you to learn that your own gender, in part, has caused women to expect you to view them as soulless things you stick your parts into. You’re not an animal, and you don’t wish to be seen as one. It appalls you beyond measure that you actually have to convince a human being that you see them as one. You enjoy having sex with people, not with inanimate body parts that don’t talk back. Apparently, this is a revolutionary concept. Sex is good and sex is fine, but if it’s all you see when you look in her eyes, go stick your dick in a sock.