Pasadena, 1963. The museum has not yet opened to the public. In a room, a seventy-six-year-old man in a dark suit studies the chessboard with his fingers intertwined in front of his face. Opposite him sits a twenty-year-old woman, naked, her bob hair hiding her face. Neither seems to pay attention to the camera. The image taken by Julian Wasser will become one of the most reproduced of the twentieth century. Yet at the center of the scene is the game.

Young faces with shaved heads and unequivocal tattoos: words, symbols, and names, written in a shaky block lettering. Photographs from the late 1970s that remained unpublished for over forty years—taken by John Ingledew, a British photographer and academic.

A battered deck is passed from hand to hand. On the sidewalk in front of a Los Angeles skate shop, a group of teenagers hangs out for hours without a clear destination: trying tricks, filming tapes, mocking each other, coining nicknames. Nothing seems to be happening. Yet, within that suspended time, a whole world is taking shape.

In the photographs of Chardchakaj Waikawee, Bangkok never serves as a passive backdrop: it is a constant, palpable pressure exerted upon bodies, clothing, and ways of coming together.

An English field: tall grass bent by the wind, smoke rising from somewhere mid-hill. In the background, an anonymous crowd gathers around haphazardly parked trucks and cars. In the foreground, a girl in a bomber jacket and baggy jeans walks toward the lens without looking at it. She isn't posing. She doesn't know she's being photographed—or she doesn't care. It’s the nineteen-ninety-somethings, and that field isn't content yet.

In the summer of 2026, a single phrase swept through social media feeds like a sigh of relief: science says we remain adolescents until age 32. Accompanying the viral posts were images of twenty-somethings listening to music in their bedrooms, skaters on city streets, CDs, Game Boys, oversized headphones, joysticks, Converse sneakers, and vintage Nikes—a visual collage blurring yesterday's youth with today's. The core message felt like a warm embrace: if you feel overwhe

Between the late 1970s and the 1990s, while fashion and mainstream media demanded composure and perfection, a handful of photographers moved in the opposite direction: toward raw vulnerability, unmediated observation, and unvarnished truth. No polished surfaces, no emotional distance, no protective filters. They captured real skin, real circumstances, and real people without sweetening the frame or constructing narrative safety nets to dictate how viewers should feel. The vis

*Touching Ground* stems from the meeting between Canadian-British photographer and filmmaker Lauren Luxenberg and skater and creative director Ronal Sanmartin, known across the scene as WTF Ronnie. The setting is Medellín, the Colombian city that, decades after the violence that once bloodied its streets, has transformed into a vibrant hub of youth culture. At its core lies a community: skateboarding used as a lens through which to read an entire city. *Touching Ground* unfol

Founded in Oakland in 1966, the Black Panther Party developed against a backdrop of police violence and economic inequality in Black neighborhoods across the United States. But its activities were never limited to denunciations or protests.

A disposable camera holds twenty-seven exposures and no screen on the back. You press the shutter, advance the wheel with your thumb, and move on. What has been photographed remains locked inside the plastic casing for days, sometimes weeks, until a lab hands it back as negatives and prints. For a generation accustomed to seeing every image the moment it comes into being, that very delay has acquired value.

A billboard at night. At its center, Earth photographed from space, underneath the tagline "Le monde est à vous"—The world is yours. Someone has corrected a single letter by hand, turning it into "à nous." Ours, not yours. It is one of the most widely shared frames from La Haine (Hate), Mathieu Kassovitz’s 1995 film. Thirty years later, it circulates through social media feeds like a poster, often detached from the story that birthed it.

"The Ballad of Eternal Youth" brings two black-and-white archives into conversation, both shot on 35mm film. Spanning 45 years and what was once the Iron Curtain, the project unfolds as a silent dialogue between a father and his daughter.

In Kids, 1995 New York City doesn't look like a film set. It simply seems to exist. More than the plot itself, it is this feeling that explains why the movie directed by Larry Clark and written by Harmony Korine continues to hold such a unique place in youth culture's collective memory. Kids doesn't observe adolescence from afar. It sticks to it. It follows it through Washington Square Park, suffocating apartments, streets, parties, and aimless afternoons, building a world th

There was tease-backed, gravity-defying hair, hot pink and leopard-print streaks, heavy black eyeliner, skin-tight skinny jeans, and high-angle photos shot with a blinding flash right into the face. But above all, there was a personal profile page to bu In mid-twentieth-century America, dominant beauty standards were still deeply molded by Eurocentric traits. For many Black people, and particularly Black women, straightening their hair had long been tied to respectability an

When Natural Becomes Political In mid-twentieth-century America, dominant beauty standards were still deeply molded by Eurocentric traits. For many Black people, and particularly Black women, straightening their hair had long been tied to respectability and social acceptance.

Inside Studio 54, dressing up wasn't just about looking elegant. It meant becoming part of the show. A woman crosses the dance floor wrapped in sequins, the fabric catching the light and seemingly dissolving into movement. Just a few feet away, someone is wearing running shorts, knee-high socks, and barely anything else. There is no shared dress code—only the unspoken rule of bringing your body to the peak of its presence.

The core of Joseph Rodriguez’s work resides in the imperceptible distance between the photographer and his subjects. Born and raised in Brooklyn, and trained at the School of Visual Arts and the International Center of Photography's photojournalism program, Rodriguez dedicated a crucial portion of his practice to Spanish Harlem—also known as East Harlem or El Barrio.

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