The sound of skateboards whizzes past as Marco Chan sits near the massive fountain, which stands as the centerpiece of the park. There he fumbles with his newest digital film camera. His other friends laugh and take candid photos of each other while he sits intently and focused on properly inserting a reel of film.
The device, though new, possesses an old charm that adds nuance and character to his photography. He winds the crank on the right side at a normal pace at first and slowly picks up speed, creating a light whirring buzz that suddenly dominates all other sounds in the park. The rest of the world slips away and the only thing that matters is just Marco and his camera.
The barrage of discrimination and violence the Asian-American community faced following the 2020 COVID-19 outbreak was worsened by the spread of misinformation and ignorance of the public surrounding the virus. Chan is a Filipino street/portrait photographer based in New York City and Westchester County who prides himself on finding ways to represent and support his community and Asian-American heritage through a complex and positive lens.
Chan, 25, started taking photography seriously about two years ago, after his aunt gave him her old film camera. A lot of his childhood photos were taken on that camera, which only deepened his connection to the device, and eventually the craft.
A strong sense of purpose and meaning dictates most of what Chan does, and the big decisions he makes. His photography reflects his own behaviors and ideologies. An intentional hand with a discerning eye and incredible attention to detail informs Chan’s behavior, not only when taking photos, but in his everyday life.
“I just found a lot of pleasure in the slower process of film photography, where you can take a photo, and you don’t immediately look back on the photo, and then get caught in this kind of perfectionist mindset,” Chan says.
Awareness is key to Chan. Of himself, of others, and of his relationship between the two. Identity is a concept he’s struggled with. “One’s identity always has some sort of relationship with their craft, with their passion, with whatever they do in life,” he says. He identifies with his culture, but also carries the weight of being a child of immigrants. Of feeling torn between the country you were born in, and the country that you’re “from.” The place your family comes from. Where your parents had their first day of school and learned their alphabet for the first time. Where they played childhood games that were vastly different from yours. Where they endured hardships you may never begin to understand, and where they learned exactly what they wanted for their future children.
“Both my parents being immigrants from the Philippines, my mom has always wanted me to pursue medicine as a career,” he says. However, Chan had no interest in medicine. His passion was for music. He remembers how he would spend too much time playing music and his mom would sternly, but lovingly, remind him that as a hobby music was fine, but it would never be his career. He says that to this day he’ll show her photos from his most recent shoot and she’ll praise them for how good they are, but again reminds him, it’s not a job.
“It doesn’t hurt me so much anymore,” he says. “I understand the reality of the situation and where her mind is, you know, she grew up in a home with seven other siblings and no running water. And so for her to see me not wholeheartedly, or at least in her eyes, pursuing a career that makes a lot of money, it concerns her.” This simple truth is reality for so many children of immigrants. One that Chan knows has molded so many of his experiences and how he views his life.
Being Asian-American has informed much of Chan’s life, personally and professionally. “I have millions of ideas about how being an Asian-American can inform my photography,” he says. Anytime he sees an Asian family walking together, or Asian children playing and smiling, he feels the need to document it. To freeze a single instant in time and crystalize the emotions that are being felt, to convey a specific feeling to someone other than himself.
Early in 2021, he took a photograph of an Asian mother who was cleaning her child’s hands with hand sanitizer. “I thought that was such a wonderful moment, because it really encapsulates the love that a mother has for a child,” he says. “One that is not only nurturing and caring, but one of responsibility.” These are the kind of moments Chan seeks out from all the people he encounters, but especially within his own community.
During a time in which Chan’s own people were being harassed and assaulted out of fear and ignorance, he wanted nothing more than to help change the way other people see Asian-Americans.
Recently, Chan sought out an Asian hair stylist where he lives in Queens and got a new haircut and color. A few days later, he and his older brother went and got their first tattoos, matching ones, by an Asian tattoo artist they’d met. They had several conversations about what to get that would be meaningful to both of them. They settled on a bowl of rice. “My mom always said growing up that ‘it’s not a meal without rice,’” he says. “This tattoo honors our upbringing, our connection to culture, family, and to one another.”
The experience was about more than getting a first tattoo. It was about a pair of brothers commemorating and honoring their mother. It was about going out of his way to support his local Asian-American businesses. It was about reclaiming the parts of his culture that were once the butt of the joke. It was about accepting himself for everything he is, and isn’t. About giving himself the permission to be fully, uniquely, boldly, and unapologetically himself. And doing so in the ways he knows best.
Through a picture.
