The Bone Church
of American Fun.

Luna Park exists in the space between violence and ecstasy. Watch the teenagers feeding quarters into rigged games, their faces lit by neon that promises everything and delivers just enough to keep them coming back. This is American optimism distilled into its most honest form: beautiful, stupid, and absolutely necessary.

The boardwalk stretches empty except for a few pilgrims who understand that Coney Island in winter reveals its true self—not the summer carnival mask, but the raw cathedral of dreams deferred and occasionally fulfilled. The Cyclone sleeps under tarps like a wooden dinosaur, but even dormant it radiates the kind of danger that made America great: voluntary, gleeful, and slightly unhinged.

January 2020
Mamiya 646 AFDiii
Ektar 100