After moving to the West Village in 1993, Howell found himself irresistibly drawn to life on the piers and began chronicling scenes of everyday life through the lens of an insider looking out. “That area was always a walk on the wild side,” he says. “You crossed the West Side Highway on to the piers, and you were going to have a story. The city put up signs saying you would be fined if you went on the piers, but that didn’t stop anyone, certainly not me.”
Where other artists were drawn to the illicit thrill of cruising, Howell embraced the prosaic pleasures of life at tar beach, be it sunbathing, moon gazing, skinny dipping, or just hanging out with friends. Here, in his photographs, you feel a sense of escape from it all, with nary a payphone or pager making its presence known. Instead there are jock straps, g‑strings, construction boots, fanny packs, NYPD caps, rollerblades, stilettos, and enough sizzling flesh to rival the nearby Meatpacking District when blood still ran through its cobblestone streets.
At the piers, Howell became friends with a trans woman named Alberta who knew everyone on the scene, and gave him instant credibility. He remembers, “When I started taking photos and somebody would say, ‘Don’t take my photo,’ Alberta would say, ‘Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just taking photos. It’s nothing. It’s his kink,’ and they just let it alone.” Free to photograph as he wished, Howell naturally gravitated to creating a family photo album of the community on its own terms.
