His photographs showed a maze of streets and ideas snaking their way down to the Hudson River, or the East River, streets filled with so many stories that I still see in black-and-white because of his pictures, which also show stretches of unaccounted-for space, like some movie version of the West. Fred’s downtown had nothing to do with chain stores and corporate raiders and their spiritually and physically embalmed wives. I’d rather write about the work he would still be doing now if he were around, covering his territory, which is to say Manhattan, specifically downtown, which, if you squint, you can still see through his eyes. McDarrah-dubious because I don’t want him to be gone. It is a dubious honor to write about Fred W.
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