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‘It’ is intangible but can be captured in a moment. ‘It’ is often caught by surprise and noticed by the heart. This beauty may linger in the soul, and may only be expressed through time.

For Bill Cunningham, the New York Times style photographer since 1978, ‘it’ has been recorded on innumerable rolls of film whose negatives, compulsively collected, are filed in the dull cabinets which once lined his small, artist’s apartment in Carnegie Hall Towers in New York City.

Setting out each morning on his bike, Cunningham found routine in the “institution” of the New York Times; filling their pages with the colours of the season, the trends of the age, and the descriptions of the era, only to spend his nights – long as they were – assembling beauty on a page for Details magazine. This was work the way he wanted it. Cunningham became a pseudo-historian as his photos came to describe generations, movements and fads, or by documenting change while searching for the common and present. It was history told through the captured images of the everyday and the everybody.

Interestingly, hidden behind muted answers, a resistance to talk about his personal life, the caught breathes and hesitation when faced with a question about his weekly attendance at Catholic Sunday service (and anything else personal) Cunningham, the a man who seeks to capture honest moments in their rawness, hesitates to share with the viewer the same candidness.

Wrapped in his work, Cunningham’s story may represent a reality of New York City itself – and certainly one familiar to the many that clog the sidewalks of Manhattan. It was E.B. White who famously said that there are, in fact, three New York’s. The New York of the native, that of the commuter, and that of the seeker – the final destination for those “in quest of something.”

As a native Bostonian, Cunningham came from a working-class family apparently disengaged from the world their son and brother worked so tirelessly in. Perhaps, in the words of White, New York was the “supplementary vitamin” for Cunningham, offering a “sense of belonging to something unique, cosmopolitan, mighty and unparalleled.”

A View from Lower Broadway

After all, White claimed  it was this group of newcomers that imbibed the city with its passion. Maybe, like the many that flock to the mosaic-filled subway systems, claustrophobically erected apartments, and the sepulchers of finance and influence that haunt this emperor’s city, Cunningham has stayed because New York – in its creative destruction – collects the lifeblood from which his work is drawn. From chaos comes beauty. His method – the walk-by camera click on busy Fifth Avenue – merely serves as further evidence.

In illustrating the complexity of a man so devoted to his craft that relationships, regular meals and the appeal of financial security have been relegated to the realm beyond the afterthought, Bill Cunningham New York depicts a life spent chasing moments with camera clicks. It is the story of life intertwined with the growth of a city; captured through the lens of a solitary man. The story is his to tell, even if it is he hesitates to claim it as his own.

Author’s note: One of the most moving posts on this blog is Chivers’ account of the Tim Hetherington and Chris Hondros tragedy (both were killed in war-torn Misrata). For those who are interested, find it here. For the many moved by the work of Tim Hetherington, this website (and the 21 pages of comments) stands as a living memorial from fans, friends, family and the uncountable impressed. For Chris Hondros, his biography, list of accolades and incredible photos can be seen here.

To say this is a motley crew would be an understatement.

Indeed, at times there seems enough drama – through marriage and re-marriage, drug and alcohol abuse, poor health or a refusal to take care of oneself – and more an enough children for three or four different families.

Growing up and into British Columbia this engorged family is as eclectic as it is amusing and as diverse as the cities that each part calls home (Kamloops, Nanaimo, Vancouver, Vanderhoof, Victoria, Black Creek, Oliver and the list goes on).

However, the Springer-esque undercurrent that flavours some parts of this familial arrangement means that gatherings like this bring into relief a startling conclusion: as much as we might wish otherwise, you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family.

Not that I really want to anyway…

Importantly, this short book contains a critical lesson for aspiring journalists or writers alike. While discussing satisfaction in life with a nubile and naïve lover (companion to his ‘man of the times’ newspaper colleague), Kemp mutters that, “Most people who deal in words don’t have much faith in them and I am no exception – especially the big ones like Happy and Love and Honest and Strong.” For Kemp, and by extension Thompson, a journalist should foremost be concerned with the clarity of their message. For Kemp, these billowy words are not deft enough.

While authenticity and accuracy are surely comparable pillars of any journalistic code, the ability to convey facts, stories and events in a manner clear to all readers, should not be overlooked. For Kemp, the issue with Happy or Love is not that they are vacant of meaning, but merely that they are imprecise (in fact they mean too many things). These words are the layperson’s vernacular of the everyday which, while intentioned enough for random conversation, fails to impart the specifics needed when written. The critique hinges on this relativity (that happy must have an antithesis, yes (sadness) but that it is also a function of degree (happier today than yesterday etc…). According to Kemp, it is the “priest or the fool [who] use them (these words) with any confidence.”

In the end, if these relative descriptors are not made viciously clear, the value of theses words is diminished and the accuracy of the story is reduced. If we consider that the journalist–reader relationship is one of trust, earned through the cagey application of razor sharp nouns and verbs, then any sacrifice relating to the language used will leave the reader with doubt – potentially one that will linger.

For aspiring writers the world over (and I count myself within this group) our lives will always be an expedition to find the perfect collection of letters, lest our own language take away from the power of our thought.

Towards the end of these trips, the backpacking life simply starts to drag – the bag a little heavier, the desire to explore slightly diminished – and the life of routine one eschewed for the magic of discovery becomes sought after once again.

Traveling with a sibling (my sister) has also made this a priceless experience; having seen one another sporadically for almost 10 years (and only for short periods), six weeks together has been both refreshing and challenging. We are cut from the same stone, but we’ve been buffed and polished in very different ways.

However, the pilgrimage from Turkey to the United Kingdom, from the caloric-extremes of Italy to France, and the climatic variations from Greece to Scotland have given us a chance to learn more about each other – for better or worse.

So, as a parting shot: Cheers, Europe for the nights you’ve given us, the memories your well-stocked pubs and clubs have stolen, and the hospitality so graciously displayed. It’s been a slice.

Vatican grounds seen from the cupola of St. Peter's Basilica.

Trevi Fountain. Rome, Italy

View of Firenze from Piazzale Michelangiolo