#46 wandering through NYC
bookshop encounters, seeing Vivian Maier, and an interview with RHYTHM ZERO
I don’t do well in hot, muggy, weather—feeling sweaty and sticky oftentimes leaves me cranky. But in New York’s sweltering July heat, I walked for hours through the city, unbothered by the humidity that clung to my skin.
Whenever I try to explain why I’m so fond of the city and why I would live there, I find myself falling back on familiar words: its energy, the sense that anything is possible, the people. I say that the people I’ve met reminded me of my younger self, almost as a prod to say you still have it in you, it’s there if you want it; the drive I have now is a different kind.
While there, I kept a Note of fleeting thoughts, jotting them down for an experimental piece sharing internal monologues, potential sparks for future writing. Coincidentally, I have just started on Maeve Brennan’s A Long-Winded Lady as I wrap this piece up, and it feels akin to what I initially envisioned. But this has evolved into something else—a three-parter on moments that took me back to another time in my life.
Here, I share heartwarming encounters in a bookshop, an interview with Ivana Somorai of RHYTHM ZERO (an objects-focused café in Greenpoint, now also in West Village), and my long-awaited chance of seeing Vivian Maier’s work in person.
Every neighbourhood is a bookshop to me. In LES, it’s Sweet Pickle Books; Greenwich Village is Three Lives & Company; Astoria has Astoria Bookshop; LIC, Book Culture; and in Bed-Stuy, two blocks from dear friend books, is The Word is Change.
An abundance of bookshops is something I really appreciate about the city, much like in London—something I miss when I am away. During my time there, I often found myself quickly searching on Google Maps for them as I made my way to a store or coffee shop, or in this case, with an hour to spare before a rooftop party.
In The Word is Change, there was a family, maybe friends; they were three women and two kids. “I’m going back to my room”, one kid yelled. “This can be my room, mommy!”, the other one exclaimed. They ran around and around, their room a chair in the middle of the bookshop.
Something about that moved me. Maybe that they felt at home in a bookshop. Or that the idea of making a home out of a bookshop felt so natural to them. As a child, I spent hours in Borders (a big bookshop) on the weekend, happy to be left alone there instead of rushed through the usual errands, enveloped and embraced by the smell of books. Sometimes I felt like I hardly understood what I was reading, but I read often and visited libraries and bookshops any chance I had, wanting to devour the words anyway.
At checkout, the bookseller asked, Are you 10 digit or 13 digit? It took me a moment to realise he was referring to the neon yellow cap I had bought the day before at Bungee Space, with the letters “ISBN” embroidered in red. I hadn’t given it much thought, but that afternoon, I learned a little more about how ISBN numbers work, and had a warm chat with them two behind the counter—the kind passing but indelible—all thanks to that cap.
As I stepped out, a waft of barbecue filled the air, grounding me once again in the city, hungry for more.
When I reached out to the founders of RHYTHM ZERO last August, I had no idea when I’d visit NYC next, or when I will be able to experience it in person for the first time. But even just following it online, I could tell this wasn’t your typical coffee shop. Standout coffee shops serve quality coffee and care about ambience, this was that, but also specifically a place where objects matter.
I was writing to ask for an interview, and Ivana Somorai, one of two Co-Founders, kindly agreed to be featured in a collaborative editorial project I was working on (which regrettably didn’t go to plan).
Now that I’ve finally made it there in person, I’m taking this chance to share that interview. It’s brief, as it was intended to be part of a larger series—now shortened further for relevance—but I thought it’s worth sharing nonetheless. Even if just to give a shoutout to Ivana for graciously sharing her time and thoughts, as well as to both her and her partner Alex for creating such a beautiful space for people to dwell.
Without a doubt, you’ve an eye and affinity for collecting objects. Could you share the story behind one object in particular that holds personal significance for you?
As a kid, I was always surrounded by art, and my love for objects and collecting them came very naturally. I enjoy sourcing new objects, arranging and playing with them in the space.
Recently, I sourced one very, very old jug. I just felt so connected with this piece and I immediately knew it needs to be in our apartment. It reminds me of my grandma and the things we had in the backyard a long time ago. I think I will transfer the jug to RHYTHM ZERO this fall and thus give it a new life! People need to see this beautiful piece.
Looking at RHYTHM ZERO, one can’t help but wonder what your apartment must be like! Could you give us a glimpse?
We joke with our friends that our apartment is actually a forerunner of RHYTHM ZERO! All ideas and experiments, hosting and cooking for friends, started from our apartment.
Home is of great importance to me and Alex. There is no better feeling than the smell of coffee in the morning and being in a space where everything is just right.
Talking about objects, some of my favorites are Simone Bodmer x Athena Calderone’s Vence Sconce, a Dogon Ladder from Mali, Africa, and an old painting I bought at a flea market, which in the end, turned out to be a painting from 1890.
The café feels like a place people can dwell in—a space for everyone whether they want to hang out at the central table, or enjoy some quiet in the corner. And when they come together, they look like part of a cohesive landscape, one with the art.
What is it about creating a space like this that’s compelling to you?
I have to admit that at the beginning I didn't have a clear picture of how it all would work in real terms.
I am someone who loves to go to galleries and museums, absorbing every bit of the interior setting, exhibition, and collection itself, and every time I leave the space, I want another round.
That is why my vision of RHYTHM ZERO was a gallery-like space, where people are able to come with their friends or alone, order a coffee and enjoy the art, draw, write their journals, or just daydream.
So by having a lot of different sitting options, I give people the opportunity to find their own place depending on their needs and moods. It's all a part of the RHYTHM ZERO philosophy, and people love it.
Bonus pictures of my favourite corners:
I once wrote a 4000-word essay on Vivian Maier, an American street photographer. When alive, she was known as a nanny; her photography only came to light nearing her death, and at her time of death, she’d left 18,000 images undeveloped.
At the aforementioned rooftop party, someone reminded me that they have a Fotografiska in New York. I’d first visited Fotografiska in Stockholm, and it’s remained one of my favourite museums ever since—partly for its focus on photography, and partly because of the charming sight of snowfall through their floor-to-ceiling restaurant windows. While I knew that experience would be hard to match, I looked the New York one up anyway, and couldn’t believe when I saw that Vivian Maier was one of the two photographers showing. I knew I had to go.
My paper examined Maier’s life and work from the 1950s’s to 1970’s, questioning whether she saw street photography as art or documentation. Truthfully, I lacked any formal understanding of art theory—having not studied art at any point—and was less concerned about the theoretical implications of that question. But as an 18-year old who spent my adolescence shooting exclusively street photos, I was captivated by her story. I tried to get into her head as much as I possibly could, spending hours on end researching up on her, and interviewing Richard Cahan, Co-Author of Vivian Maier: Out of the Shadows, as well as one of her primary collectors, Jeffrey Goldstein.
Maier was a woman of few words, a “true mystery woman”. It’s said that some close to her didn’t know her name. A line from my paper, Maier had always been a reserved person, and the camera was like a bridge between her and the world. Now I see I was trying to find myself through her, photography a bridge between me and the world, a bridge to myself.
I think Maier's mission was to document herself for herself. Not to relive but to capture and hold on to. Somehow, someway, just by hitting the shutter she had all that she needed. It was there for her.
— Jeffrey Goldstein
I like knowing that we’ll never really solve the riddle that is Maier. Even Cahan, Goldstein, and all those who came close. All of us trying to listen. I wondered if she was happy leading what seemed like a mostly solitary life, despite her obvious connection to humanity. Why did she take all these photos without getting them developed, really? Did she want to be found?
Photography exhibits have a way of bringing me back to what truly matters. This one made more special—seeing Maier’s works in person, a decade after writing about her, felt like coming full circle. It reminded me of just how fervently I wanted to understand her inner world, what that makes of me. So much of her will remain unknowable, yet I think her photographs give us enough. Her wanders, a wonder.
Walking the floors of the museum, I couldn’t shake the feeling that with every click of the shutter, Vivian Maier knew. She knew someone would find her photos and make good of them.