Cocolada's Photography

Cocolada is only seventeen. Her images are gorgeous. She takes blends hazy nostalgia with punches of now and projects them so powerfully it hurts. With a preferance for 'bad quality digital cameras' and polaroid film, her photography is raw and personal. I love how detached her muses seem. It's like they don't care she's there; they'll carry on doing whatever the want. Or maybe they don't even notice her presence. Her portraits are honest, unapologetic and yet they seem so fragile. If I was this prolific at seventeen I would have done more than drink too much and talk about boys. I would have taken pictures of myself drinking too much and talking about boys.

Check out her Flickr profile and prepare yourself to be impressed. http://www.flickr.com/photos/cocoladas/3223420987/

DUMBO, Brooklyn

DUMBO is an acronym for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. It encompasses two sections; one located between the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridge, which connects Brooklyn to Manhattan across the East River, and another which continues east from the Manhattan Bridge to the Vinegar Hill area. I first came to DUMBO in 2005 on a History of Art trip with my school. We had gone to visit an artist in his studio (which, in itself was an incredible experience) and went to go have lunch on the grassy areas by Brooklyn Bridge. I sat looking over towards Manhattan, listening to Kings of Convenience and remember thinking 'I am completely in love with this city'.

Coney Island, Brooklyn

Step right up folks! Step right up! Shoot the Freak! Ride the wheel! Come get your hotdogs! Let me read your fortune! Step right up... These are the cries you would probably hear walking down the boardwalk at Coney Island, Brooklyn thirty or forty years ago. Now you'll hear the empty sound of a crushed Coke tin rattling along the ground or the odd emaciated pigeon scraw. You'll here the squeek of rusty metal signs blowing back and forth in the wind and read signs like 'Going out of Business', 'Last Summer in Business' etc etc. When walking around Coney Island, you can't help but feel you're in some abandoned English sea-side town like Blackpool.


This was much more eery than Blackpool. Blackpool stills attracts drunken stags and tarty hens. It still attracts old grannies looking for afternoon tea and scones and naughty teens skipping school, smoking ciggies under the peer. Coney Island seemed to attract nobody. There was hardly anyone around; the beach was pretty much deserted. Graffiti covered every surface, everything tired and shut down. It reeked of the stench of dead memories. Of 1920's swimming costumes or Woody Allen's imaginary childhood in 'Annie Hall'. It seemed so sad to me and the melancholy of the place weighed down on me, seperating my experience from those who rode 'The Cyclone' and swam in the sea.



To get to Coney Island we got on the Q subway train. Even if we didn't have a destination, it was still a fantastic way to sight see. From under the ground we emerged and travelled over one of the bridges to Brooklyn. The whole of Manhattan passed by us. What a view! We ate Macdonald's and I must say it was the best quarter pounder I've had in my life (so, if that's not a reason to go I don't know what is!).


How surreal it was to run on a beach when a couple of hours before we were stepping over giants grids on a Manhattan sidewalk. If I lived in New York I would come here all the time. Quiet, relaxing and steeped in history, it's a wonder why more people (tourists really) don't come here. Aren't you slightly curious?

Vinegar Hill, Brooklyn

Whilst strolling away from the DUMBO we began our search for Vinegar Hill. When found it (it's about a ten minute walk from Broolyn Bridge) I was more than surpised. It's about two streets long and trapped in a complete time warp. The original settlers were the Irish back in the 19th Century and the area has completely maintained its look. Cobbled streets, quaint houses, painted wooden benches, potted plants and white picket fences. And just a stones throw away from giant, grey tower blocks, noisy cars and a drive-thru Macdonald's. Aesthetically, Vinegar Hill was the most beautiful place we saw in New York and the atmosphere was calm and settled, like a tiny villiage in suburbia.


Scattered around are a few industrial buildings, quite like Red Hook. You'd think that they'd stick out like eye-soares, so different from the 19th Century Federal style buildings that surround them. In fact, they sit perfectly among them, wise and stoic, unnused for decades. With the rusty telephone wires and the dark greys and browns of the cobbled streets, they balance what would be a very flat area, stretching into the sky with grace and elegance.

There were a lot of shop fronts, like the one below, scattered everywhere. Like in Red Hook, they seemunnused yet such important focal points of the area. I absolutely loved these shops; they were just so surreal. Were the funeral parlours? Or boutiques? i loved the symmetry of the windows,they seemed so editorial to me.

After following a long, winding cobbled path we were greeted by a giant pair of wrought iron gates. These gates were about ten feet high and what they protected came as a complete surprise. An absolutely giant mansion rested in the sun. What can only be described as a Plantation House, made from wooden slats and dark grey shutters; it was probably one of the most beautiful building I have ever seen. Who'd have thought a building like this sits hidden away in concrete covered Brooklyn? A tourist's dream. According to brownstoner.com, the house was built in the beginning of the 19th Century (1805-1806) and was given the name'The Commandants House'. If you find yourself in Brooklyn, make sure you go find this house. The hunt for it is fun (even more fun if you stumble upon it by accident) and the result is totally worth it.

As surreal an area it was, we noticed it attracted similar kinds of people to Red Hook. Perhaps slightly older and less on the art scene. Some upper-middle class men jogged passed us, Ipods plugged in, their Golden Retrievers loyally at their side. A lot of women with Buggaboo strollers, some cute kids in prep-school uniform. I'm guessing a house here would probably cost as much as an apartment in Manhattan. But when we were in a Starbucks in DUMBO and asked after the area, the guy behind the till shrugged, claiming he'd never heard of it. Either Vinegar Hill is as unimportant to New Yorker's as Croydon is to Londoner's or it's so tucked away and up-and -coming that only the trendiest of the trendies, the cultural of the cultured know about it. If that's the case then my boyfriend and I felt like some very smug tourists. If it's the former then what a shame. Such a beautiful area deserves to be a household name.

When we walked around Vinegar Hill we said to ourselves 'this is what we thought real America would be like'. If you do find yourself here, you'll know exactly what we mean. It hasn't been influenced by any mainstream businesses but it isn't primitive. The architecture could not be seen in any other country (it reminded me of San Francisco a bit as well) and walking around the tiny, quiet streets is a very unique experience. Make sure you come here!