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.

All traumatizing images and words contained herein are from the depths of my own demented soul. Feel free to laugh, cry, repost, or hump as you see fit, but if you steal them, mark my words, me or my intimately good friend karma will find you.





I am the wind in your hair. I am the rage in your fists. I am your love. I am love. You feel my touch, my kiss, my sting. Spread your legs. Open your heart. I am inside you. I am you.

He sits, head tilted to one side, eyes shut so tightly they could be sewn together, lips drawn in a painful embrace. You trace the source of his discomfort to the headphones welded to his ears. His legs pound a rhythm so relentless on the pavement you know he feels the snare in his soul. His fingers are wound so tight you fear they might crack, but you can tell by the way they twitch that his fingers are bending steel. He’s only gone for three and a half minutes, but when he opens his eyes, blinks, and tries to collect himself, you can’t help but wonder where he’s been.

I made myself a cage with my own shaking hands. I built the bars of mirrors and cemented them with fear. I wonder why when I look at the sky, all I see is myself.