Coney Island… none of that kitschy boardwalk shit
This photo is from my senior practicum series entitled “Coney Island.” Click it to see the rest.
Coming from a small, woodsy town I was raised to appreciate and treasure the place that I came from. I understood that my town was rich with history and virgin land, but beyond that I couldn’t see what the issue was or why the members of our Open Spaces Committee were the town saviors.
It wasn’t until I moved away, for college, that it was all put into perspective for me. I heard a word that I had never heard before… gentrification. Say it with me, but do it real slow and guttural like… GENTRIFICAAATION! Sounds scary, right? Now before I lose you, I was naive, I know this. Gentrification is, more or less, the way of the world (or our country at least). The Native Americans, to some degree, probably pushed some deer or a buffalo out of a grazing space. European settlers decimated the Native Americans. Manifest Destiny and so on.
The group with the power holds it’s history, culture and ideals in higher regard than those of the area that they are about to co-opt. It’s a sad thing. It really is. No one wants to see their history erased, to be forced out of town for the sake of luxury condos or frozen yogurt or dog parks. That’s what initially motivated me to pursue this project.
Seeing the images of the iconic Coney Island boardwalk, and reading the pleas of the locals, crying out for someone to save them from the developers, riled up the social documentarian in me. You never saw the neighborhood, only the boardwalk. Coney Island as a people, not just a strip of throwaway amusement. I was going to show that.
For 15 weeks, every Thursday, I rode the Fung Wah from Boston to Brooklyn and explored Coney Island. When Monday rolled around, I took the bus back to Boston and lived in the darkroom until it was Thursday again.
It happened slowly. Every day I was there my stance shifted, just a little bit. Walking those streets (all 24 sq. blocks), I saw dead animals, half sunken ships, and open garbage pits. I witnessed spousal abuse in the middle of the street and watched thieves strip stolen cars. The first few weeks, I tried explaining my project to the locals, hoping to get a portrait or statement. I got nothing. I was just another outsider invading their home.
Look up the history of Coney Island; it reads like that of a fallen empire. For nearly a century Coney Island was the premier amusement destination for the tri-state area. At the height of their supremacy they were living fat, and resting on their laurels. However, technology evolved, and people grew tired of the kitsch. Fires burned blocks to the ground, gangs moved in and it continued from there until outside parties bought up the boardwalk. All the while the residents were stuck looking back, at their glorious history, rather than planning for their future. As it stands today, the local push to restore Coney Island is a revisionist daydream at best.
On one of my final visits to Coney Island I came across this scene, “FUCK THIS WORLD,” scrawled into the sidewalk. I’d like to imagine that it was laid there by a poet. This poet ventured to Coney Island looking for the magic that it once held, only to find unhappiness and squalor. When looked upon before noon, it is just another piece of obscene sidewalk graffiti. However, as the sun sets a shadowy phallus appears, and continues to grow until it has penetrated the message. It could be a genius act of poetry. More than likely it is a coincidence.
