August 8, 2018. I see her on Lexington Avenue, standing at a shop window. I hear myself asking, ‘Excuse me, can I take your picture?’ And then, because it’s the only thing to say: ‘You look fabulous.’ Later I’ll realize—she always does.

Usually I take the photo, a few words are exchanged, and that’s the end of it. But not with Liz. With Liz there’s a spark. A pull. That rare sza sza szu. I want to know more about her, and she wants to know more about me.

We cross the street to Shakespeare & Co, the bookstore with coffee in the back. We sit down and talk for hours. Then Liz says: ‘Let’s meet again. Lunch. Tomorrow.’

I’ve been photographing New York since 2014. It’s the people who keep me hooked, on the street, in museums, at the beach. My camera and I can’t seem to get enough.

When Liz invites me to her apartment on 57th Street, I get a glimpse behind the facades. She shows me her striking collection of tableware and her colorful, self-made jewelry. She’s open to a shoot; as a plus-age model, she’s used to it.

A few days later - just before I fly back to Belgium - we don’t say goodbye. In two years I’ll return, to continue the series, and to see her again.

Corona throws off my travel plans. The world comes to a halt, but the conversation between Liz and me only grows. Our WhatsApp messages get longer, more personal. Language closes the distance between us.

I’ve been away for four years. New York is licking its wounds. Liz is cautious too. She wears a mask most of the time and keeps her distance—only literally. She shows me her favorite spots and fills me with stories. I even stay the night on her couch, under outrageously expensive sheets.

I take one photo. She poses, clearly pleased.

“Exactly ten years ago, I came to New York City for the first time with a camera. Where I once moved through the streets full of energy and urgency, there is now a weariness. The city surprises me less; I know it too well.

There’s more room for Liz. We move through it together. Liz is New York: restless, fearless, elegant, sharp. Every now and then I lift my camera - on the bus, at the market, in the park. They’re no longer posed shots. Just moments.

‘I want to make a piece of jewelry for you,’ she says one day. She bends over pearls and beads, threads needles, loses herself in concentration.

I get to photograph her.
I get to come very close.

At night, her couch becomes my bed. She shares her kitchen, her bathroom, her friends, her city, even her closet. I read her books, watch her favorite films, flip through her albums. Her walks become mine: on the promenade, under-ground, in the museum, during a modeling job. I hang on her every word, writing down what I can remember. I call them Liz-isms: anecdotes, wisdom, one-liners.

The better I get to know her, the greater my love and admiration. The closer, the more intimate the moment, the harder it gets. Am I a friend, or a photographer who is focussing on her subject?

It’s a thin line.