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Over thirty years, I operated a cab through the streets of New York. During those rides, I met inspiring individuals—poets, drag queens, and many more. It brought me satisfaction, so I started shooting their portraits, sometimes featuring myself in the frame. I carried several cameras and frequently secured my strobe to the visor using a elastic.

This particular evening back in the year 1990, a acquaintance told me about a book event nearby. I decided to check it out. The venue was packed. I spotted Allen Ginsberg and approached him. He seemed intense, maybe a bit preoccupied, so I held back from the conversation. I requested if he could write an foreword for my planned book, called In My Taxi. Unfortunately, he had other commitments.

Once leaving, I hopped into my taxi and pulled away. Then I thought: “I should circle back.” People were exiting the building, and there he was. Perhaps he remembered me—though I was just annoying to him. Either way, he walked up and entered my cab. It was a genuinely special moment.

I took pictures of him by himself too, but my primary goal was to include myself in the image. I aimed to infuse emotion into the photograph.

I stopped on the street to let him out. He looked at the meter and the paper roll coming out from it. He asked, “Give me the tape.” I ripped it off and gave it to him. He looked down—I wasn’t sure what he had in mind, but I let him take his time. Those extra seconds with Allen. It turned out he was composing a verse for me, one I still have.

I don’t consider myself an artist, that’s for the viewer to decide. I attended college in California, then completed graduate work at UC Berkeley, studying printmaking and photo arts. I moved to New York in 1980. Rent was high, but no obstacle could deter me. I visited some unusual apartments—one guy was showering in the sink—until I found an listing in the paper for a low-rent place. I went and was greeted by a friendly, heavyset man. The ground was bare, and the room was only 250 square feet. I was shocked, but it felt like destiny: my darkroom slotted right into the east corner, close to the window, so I had ventilation each time I opened it.

Another act of fortune was my neighbor who worked as a taxi driver. Each time he noticed me coming through my door, he’d step out his own and we’d chat. Eventually, he asked, “How about you join me on my shift this evening?” I replied, “Absolutely, I’d love to.” That night changed everything. I applied for a hack license soon after.

My cab photography started with a Latino man wearing a black derby hat. He had a pleasant aura. Nervous, I requested to take his picture—my first time bringing my gear along. He agreed. It became the beginning, and then on, things escalated. Opportunities surrounded—passengers, street scenes, ads forming perfect shots. Sometimes, if my flash failed, I’d hand it to the rider and instruct, “When you hear the shutter, activate the flash.” It became a collaboration.

When Allen Ginsberg in my cab, I took shots of him solo, but my aim was to be in the frame together. I wanted to elevate that image, to embed my feelings within it. I called it Allen Ginsberg, Giving Me a Fortune Cookie.

Regarding the Photographer

Born: Oklahoma, 1941
Education: California College of Arts & Crafts
Influences: William Klein and Ansel Adams
Career Highlight: Getting my debut review in a prominent newspaper
Difficulty: Spending long hours on the road, yet always meeting interesting people
Recommendation: Visit exhibitions, take part in workshops, pursue various art forms like painting or printmaking