Text and photographs by James Huang

New York City is a beating-heart ​'s vessel. Like any great metropolis, it carries everything one could imagine, but it is the fusion of cultures, cuisines, and people that gives it its pulse. We were fortunate to find our place in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. My wife and I live on the third floor of a brownstone, on the same street we once called home three apartments ago. Somehow, our time on this block has mirrored the length of our life ​sharing the same space together​. I have lived many versions of myself in this city. In hindsight, I regret none of them, because they shaped who I am. To find your footing in a sea of people is to discover what makes you, you.

What I mean is this: don’t abandon your dreams. This city will still be here if you ever need to step away. New York doesn’t vanish, it endures, always pressing forward. It is that constant motion that keeps us moving. There will always be room to grow in the place we call home. In the end, what we need most is human connection: the people and conversations that carry us, the lifelong work of understanding what lies ahead, the curiosities that pull us forward. To be part of the solution, to uplift those around you—that is what makes this place extraordinary.

In 2013, when the Eastern United States Taoist Association was still open to visitors, I photographed the space and the family who maintained and worshipped within it. The walls and ceilings were painted a deep, saturated crimson red. I remember speaking with the woman who ran the temple—she was initially apprehensive about being photographed, but ultimately allowed me to document the space. Looking back, I’m grateful these images still exist.

Inside was a shrine dedicated to Guandi, also known as Guan Yu. The temple’s depiction of Guandi—wearing his signature hat and robe—stood before an ornate, gilded frame. Guandi is revered as a god of war and protection, and as a symbol of loyalty and business integrity.

Although the temple no longer remains, the images endure, as do the ideas rooted in Taoism that shaped the space. If you haven’t read Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching, I highly recommend it.

When I’m not shooting interiors, I love walking around the city and exploring different neighborhoods and what they have to offer. My favorite food is Cantonese-style chicken with ginger scallion sauce. One of the best parts of my job is being able to travel to new locations and meet people I never would have otherwise, along with the connections you make along the way.

There is always a story behind the places I photograph. With interiors, you’re given a glimpse into the lives of homeowners — their belongings, their children’s belongings, the quiet details that reveal who they are. A photograph doesn’t just preserve time; it holds memory. It becomes something to return to, to remember and relive, sometimes with a deep sense of longing for those who have come and gone.

To commemorate people through representation feels like a beautiful responsibility. It’s not that my subjects or models have passed — it’s the act of preserving their presence and the perspective that gives them meaning. It’s a personal journey, and it can feel vulnerable to see yourself the way someone else sees you.