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Mid-October in Lower Manhattan, late afternoon. The sun has dropped low enough to light only the upper floors of the tenements along Mott and Mulberry, leaving the sidewalks in that particular shade of blue that arrives forty minutes before dusk. Ludwig Favre walks south, the way he has walked south for years, looking for the same squares of light to fall differently. The neighborhood is mostly unchanged from what it was in 1995, and mostly unchanged again from 1975, which is part of the reason the photographs feel as if they could have been made any time in the last forty years. What accumulates is less a portrait of a neighborhood than a record of attention: how a particular eye returns, again and again, to the same uninhabited corners; how the same fire escape, the same painted brick, the same parked van, can become the central subject of a photograph simply by being seen one more time. New York geometry reveals itself slowly, persistently, in the receding light.




















