Over thirty years, I operated a taxi through the neighborhoods of New York. Throughout those rides, I encountered fascinating individuals—poets, drag queens, and many more. It brought me joy, so I began shooting their portraits, often including myself in the frame. I carried several cameras and regularly attached my strobe to the visor with a rubber band.
One evening away in 1990, a acquaintance informed me about a book event nearby. I decided to check it out. Inside was packed. I noticed Allen Ginsberg and walked over to him. He appeared focused, perhaps a bit preoccupied, so I eased back from the conversation. I asked if he might write an introduction for my planned book, called In My Taxi. But, he was too busy.
Once stepping out, I got into my cab and pulled away. But then I had an idea: “Maybe circle back.” People were coming out of the building, and there he was. Perhaps he remembered me—though I was just annoying to him. Either way, he walked up and entered my taxi. It was a truly magical moment.
I took pictures of him by himself as well, but my primary idea was to feature myself as part of it. I wanted to infuse feeling into that photograph.
I pulled over on the Bowery to drop him off. He noticed the meter and the paper roll hanging from it. He said, “Hand me that tape.” I tore it off and gave it to him. He looked down—I didn’t know what he was doing, but I didn’t rush his time. Those extra seconds with Allen. It turned out he was writing a verse about me, which I still have.
I don’t call myself an artist, that’s for the audience to judge. I went to university in California, then pursued postgraduate studies at UC Berkeley, studying printmaking and photography. I arrived to New York in 1980. Housing was expensive, but nothing could deter me. I saw some unusual places—one guy was bathing in the sink—but eventually I found an listing in the paper for a low-rent place. I showed up and was greeted by a friendly, large man. The floor was bare, and the space was only 250 square feet. It was unbelievable, but it felt like destiny: my photo lab fit perfectly into the east corner, close to the pane, so I had fresh air each time I needed it.
A further act of destiny was my neighbour who drove a cabbie. Each time he noticed me coming through my entrance, he’d open his own and we’d talk. One day, he said, “Want to join me on my shift this evening?” I said, “Absolutely, let’s do it.” That experience changed everything. I applied for a hack license soon after.
My taxi portraits started with a Latino man wearing a bowler hat. He exuded a calm presence. Anxious, I requested to take his picture—the initial time carrying my gear along. He said yes. That was the start, and from there, things escalated. I was constantly surrounded—passengers, moments, ads creating ideal shots. Sometimes, if my strobe wasn’t working, I’d hand it to the passenger and instruct, “Once you hear the click, press the flash.” So we became a collaboration.
With Allen Ginsberg in my cab, I took images of him alone, but my aim was to include the photo with him. I wanted to romanticize that image, to express my emotion within it. I called it Allen Ginsberg, Offering Me a Fortune Cookie.
Regarding the Artist
Born: Oklahoma, 1941
Education: California College of Arts & Crafts
Inspirations: Two masters of photography
Proudest Moment: Receiving my debut write-up in a prominent newspaper
Challenge: Putting in extended shifts on the road, yet always finding interesting people
Advice: Visit exhibitions, enroll in workshops, explore multiple mediums such as painting or lithography
