My favorite photos in Hollywood Boulevard are the ones that don’t fit neatly into the time, the place, or the glib narrative of Hollywood, but instead are wildly individual: pictures of waiting, wandering, loitering with friends. Two girls with ombré hair can be pegged to the ’70s by the cut of their jeans and jackets, but their postures—one looking amused, the other staring at the camera with a directness I’ve only ever seen in teens who want to be looked at—reminds me of something more timeless. They’re young, and waiting for something to happen.
The very young resist Feldman’s taxonomic gaze: they’re busy making new ways of being. A signifier or a style that will one day become a marketable trend, or a tenet that’s taken to represent a generation, often starts as teenage idiosyncrasy. A modern-looking, androgynous pair, so similar they could be twins, poses against an uncluttered black and white wall that echoes their dark hair and pale skin. The one on the left wears no shirt, an open vest, and creased slacks. The one on the right wears a button-up with lapels spread wide and jeans so frayed they no longer look like hippie clothes, but something else. He stands with one hip cocked, a fist pressed into the small of his waist. They gaze up from under flat black brows with a bold, receptive sexuality. They look like they could be models, like they could be in New York, like they could be on an album cover tomorrow.
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