SOHO 1985 by Kathy Robinson

I was a mix of college tweed, 1970s mentality and dread of my impending graduation from a small school in Westchester County, just north of the Bronx.  First kid in the family to continue her education beyond high school with a dream of success labeled “Getting Out.”  As independence from 16 years of schooling neared, I realized how empty the promise of a corporate career felt.  That, in comparison to the curious stirrings I felt walking the streets of Soho, stumbling through galleries looking at art I didn’t understand.  But I grabbed onto the crackle of energy coursing through the dirty streets, camera in hand, shooting black and white photos of layers of torn flyers announcing concerts, performance art, poetry readings – remnants of unknown Rembrandts doing anything they could to create their next piece, because they had to.

I spent my college years documenting those times from the peripheral, without the connections or the balls to penetrate those walls and stake my claim to this creative feeling that lay dormant until then.  I remember taking the train back to school, processing the celluloid and developing the prints in the isolation of the darkroom.  The glow of the red light, the smell of the chemicals, alone – watching a white piece of paper awaken with the images captured hours before.  Eight by ten slices of my life that were never composed of scenic waterfronts or skylines.  Rather, I was drawn to the inner workings of the underground – a tangle of bare bulbs and wires hanging like wild sculpture; streaked windows facing crumbling brick walls; rusted wrought iron bars covering heavy locked doors.  Unknown metaphors that would one day drive the artist to finally break free.