New York (1966) by André Kertész

Andre Kertesz
New York
1966

© The Estate of André Kertész
Scan courtesy of Masters of Photography


It's the bars that tempt me, to know this world, to be, sadistically, a fragment of the suffering in these drab walls. I ask myself, most of all, about the boy who's almost completely hidden by one of the bars. What kind of a boy he is? Arms flailed, legs akimbo - why? In defiance of the boy opposite to him? Face aglow with hatred, that comes of being relentlessly persecuted, and cruelty, that makes the man one day same as his prosecutor, brings him down to the same level. Or, is he the tormentor? There's a dance of glee on his face? And it's the other boy who's only trying to run from him, but with no outlet to his back? Interestingly, and here the photo provides me with a glimpse into my own soul, I do want to imagine one of them at least in such a role - I can't think of both being devil of a street children, a forsaken, goddamed breed the whole world over. Even if they are homeless, I want one of them to be the silent, hapless sufferer, finally one day ready to turn tables on his most ferocious but most cowardly opponent. Is it today?
The punctum is that dangling thing on the hidden boy's left hand - shirt cuff torn in the fight? Something upwells within me just to see that.