Page 10 - NY Waste Fall 2014

10
New York Waste Rotober issue 2014
NITZAN continued from page 9 dead the music would't be too loud.
Guy pushed the buzzer and Nitzan came down to let us in, there were hugs and cheek kisses and I asked what had happened to the kid who had flat- lined. Nitzan told me he had come home and the kid was passed out in the doorway, I asked him if he called an ambulance and he said, "No... He looked like he wanted to die so I just stepped over him and later he died." I wasn't sure if this was dark humor or he was setting himself up for cul- pable manslaughter, so I let it pass.
When we were eating after the tango afternoon Nitzan told me his favorite cookies were McVi- ties milk chocolate digestive biscuits and that they were a sweet obsession. I asked if he had tasted the dark chocolate ones, he hadn't and I told him they were the best. So on the day of his birthday wife #3 searched the internet to find out where I could find them. Ironically there was a store right on the corner on 9th and 2nd avenue just up from the stoop where Guy and myself spend so many nights talking. Everything is con- nected I realized, even in very small ways of my ever growing new universe. She gave me the money to buy them for his present.
I gave Nitzan the gift on the ground floor and mumbled that it was from the three of us and then we were ushered onto the roof. He told us that he would meet us up there after he had changed into a different outfit, something more comfortable. There was food and drinks laid out on a trestle, there were people of all kinds and persuasions hanging in small groups chatting, a few people were kicking a blue ball around. Techno disco music was blasting out of the speakers, loud enough to wake the dead, and there was a glori- ous view of the Manhattan skyline with the sun setting behind it.
Nitzan came on to the roof, he was dressed all in white with baggy shorts and a beautiful couture looking t-shirt. He was striking, and I could tell by the hair on his legs that the hormones had kicked in. An Italian publisher I freelanced for flashed through my mind, he was obsessed by hair and aways wanted me to find photographs
for him of women with the hairiest legs, armpits and cunts. Why do most publishers of tattoo mag- azines have sidelines in pornography, is there some sort of equation? When I published them I went in the extreme opposite direction and pro- duced an art magazine, maybe that was my downfall amongst other things.
Nitzan took me by the arm and introduced me to his friends while whispering in my ear that I have to meet so and so and I would adore this and that person. He was generous in his introductions. I couldn't talk so I mumbled my hellos and I was too embarrassed to smile due to my busted mouth. My forty thousand dollar Hollywood smile gone in a moment of rashness while seek- ing oblivion.
The sun set, the fairy lights came on and people started dancing and the music became heavier. Guy was mingling so I asked Nitzan if I could help in any way. He asked me if I would like to be in charge of the BBQ. I declined explaining that he didn't need a night blind person whose only prescription glasses were dark tinted to under or over cooking the food, so I wandered off. I found a corner to be by myself to observe Nitzan and his guests, it's an old behavior pattern, something I am more comfortable doing. These are good people, supportive people and eventu- ally a few came over and started talking... one girl was well on her way of losing the reality of life, she was totally fucked up and smoked a meaner cigarette than me. She noticed the headphones that were hanging around my neck and asked what I had been listening to. "Avenue D", I said, "the band is great". She said she would Google them when and if she got home. Guy sauntered over and popped a piece of homemade chocolate into my mouth. My body is so clean that this on top of the three generic Coca-Colas I drank caused a huge sugar rush and for a short time I was gregarious and witty and bouncing off of walls. I started to crash, I crashed harder than a smashed up car full of test crash dummies. I started to think of the dead junky on the doorstep. That was me six months ago, when people on their way to work stepped over me and not giving a shit. I started to look into the abyss and slip into the black hole. It was time to split this popsicle
stand and be on my own, safe in my loft where I am a squatter and a derelict. I found Nitzan to say goodnight and he asked me if I was OK, I lied and told him that I had to get home and walk my dog. Guy asked if I wanted him to leave with me, I told him to stay and enjoy himself. He was making headway with some girl and I didn't want to drag him away or drag him down with me.
I left and walked through Bed-Sty thinking of a different era, a time where if you were white on these streets you would be dead. So much has changed in thirteen years. Gentrification and Hipsters are taking over all of NY. There is no danger these days, gone are my haunted back lanes and alleyways... I wanted to look for trou- ble, I wanted to hurt someone or hurt myself. I had to get home, I was becoming a danger to myself...
A couple of months have passed since the party, I survived my first mouth operation, I survived the Morphine and Oxies without relapsing, the razorblades in my mouth are subsiding. I am feeling human, I am free to pursue my obsession with Nitzan... It's now time to photograph him.
I had already decided that I wasn't going to shoot the erotic photo- graphs that I had first envisioned . Now I just wanted to capture his essence using available light, simple photographs of him just being and let his eyes be the windows to my soul.
He arrived on a bicycle, it was good to see him again and I walked him upstairs to my loft. I put my shark skin jacket on him then took him to my back stairwell. I love the light that comes through the windows that have years of dirt and grime smeared on them. After the shoot we sat on opposite couches and talked, the day slipped away.
We spoke about his early days on the West Bank in Israel when He was a She before running away to Tel Aviv at 15.
I was entranced as he spoke about his life. I felt the pain that made him run, the hurt, the black storm clouds and fractured feelings, I empathized with the broken person inside, the clipped wings bro- ken by isolation and condemnation while trying to find an identity. Nitzan enrolled into a boarding school and eventually left to im- merse herself into the gay lifestyle. Falling deeply in love with a beautiful Dutch girl they decided to head overseas due to the dan- ger and suicide bombings in the City. They travelled to Amster- dam, India, Tokyo and back to Amsterdam before returning to Tel Aviv to refinance themselves. Nitzan had tasted freedom and wanted more, then they was off again. They did the same rounds and this time met Anne Marie Borsboon who started filming Nitzan's transition. The Dutch girl crushed and broke Nitzan's heart and he ended up in NY for a while. He left for Milan where he gained a scholarship to a prestigious photography school but the student life wasn't for him and he came back to the States where he honed his skills by assisting other photographers.
Nitzan doesn't put tickets on himself, he is humble and not once did he brag or boast about his accomplishments and talked more about his spiritual path. I had to find all that information on the web and when I did, I was blown away. What started out as a hobby for him grew into a collection of photographs over a period of fourteen years. These self-images taken at the peak of extreme emotional states as he transgenders. These brutal and honest pho- tographs became the body of work for his book and exhibition called BOI - SONG OF A WANDERER. The Movie by Borsboon has the same title.
Love is the bottom line for Nitzan, to love and be loved and most importantly to love oneself He tells me that he is no longer a woman and neither is he a man's man, he will never lose his femi- ninity and he will never be a 'bro', he is now just a human. A human that is continually putting himself and his images on the line for the world to see. He is like a war photographer looking for humanity in turmoil and chaos. His art is his journey and his pro- gression is the essence of his soul. I am aware as to why the uni- verse and the collective consciousness have thrown us together, he is here to guide me and teach me something about living, he is a new signpost at another crossroad.
www.songofawanderer.com
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