1. 4.16.14

    I made a tiny friend in the park.  
    The sun was hitting everything just right.


  2. 4.14.14


  3. 4.14.14

    The temperature coming in through the window feels like summer, not here.  Grass and late sunsets and dust on feet after wiggling toes through fresh tilled garden dirt.  Nighttime fires and watermelon picnics, baseball games with a worn out ball and no bases in a field of wildflowers and weeds.

    That’s the kind of day where you go to bed truly tired — the wind still in your hair and skin still warm from the sun.


  4. outtakes for Hoot Magazine SS’14

    (Source: nrmoore)


  5. outtakes for Hoot Magazine SS’14

    (Source: nrmoore)


  6. outtake for Hoot Magazine SS’14



    It’s late January and the line outside of 239 West 52nd St. stretches all the way down the block and disappears around the corner, continuing northward up Broadway. It has been steadily growing for close to two hours, filling with everyone from middle-aged, leather-jacket-clad music appreciators to bleach-blonde high schoolers in band tees. The guards at the door under the flickering red-lettered marquee are strict—they don’t let anyone through the glass doors until 7 p.m. sharp. When the doors finally open, the small, carpeted entryway is a madhouse, with folks filing through security to make their ways to the two available bars for pre-concert beers or straight to the front for the sold-out show.

    The ballroom is composed of a large general admission floor and a VIP balcony that tonight is lined with candles and table lights built from old cassette tapes. The lights go down, and the crowd erupts for the first time in 2014—and for the millionth time in the history of the venue. 

    The place is Roseland Ballroom, the headlining act is the Black Keys, and the show is one of the last to hit the venue’s stage before it closes its doors for good this April after 95 years as a staple of New York’s music scene.  Read More




  10. 3.6.14

    You can always tell who has never been here before. They don’t understand the line — either waiting half behind you or barging in front of you to pay. When you get to the counter and the cashier says your order to you before you open your mouth you nod — but you don’t feel like Norm from Cheers, you feel like you’ve become predictable and the sensation is awful. Perhaps you won’t come back for a few days.

    There’s a driver who always takes this bus route on Mondays or Wednesdays around noon. He always asks for birthdays, tells jokes or riddles, and tries to get as many smiles as he can from perfect strangers. “Don’t forget to say bye to the person next to you,” he says “tomorrow’s not promised.” Once a man sits across from you and scowls at the newsprint in his hands, mumbling to anyone who will listen that “this guy is an asshole.” ”Just drive the bus,” he says to no one. The driver is the kind of person you remember forever, you think.  The man is not.

    Riding somewhere never takes quite long enough. When you were little you hoped each car ride would last forever and the destination would never come.

    The entire time you’re on a subway platform waiting for a train you imagine someone pushing you onto the tracks. You feel the same about cables snapping in an elevator.