There is a wisdom of how bodies enter nature, test it, and adjust themselves to it. The people by the Hudson carry a certain mischief, but with calmness. They take risks without urgency. They move between rest and action.
Caleb Stein began photographing in Poughkeepsie soon after arriving there from London in 2013, but, as he mentions, photographing New York City didn’t feel right for a long time. That uncertainty is familiar. When you move to a new place, your understanding of it is usually shaped by images, stories, and expectations that aren’t really yours. It takes time to move past that and actually see what is there. Stein was caught in that gap at first, until his partner, Andrea, introduced him to a small, hidden creek. A visit slowly turned into a long-term commitment. Over more than a decade, returning each summer, he became part of the place’s rhythm. The distance between being an outsider and participant gradually dissolved, and he found the direction of his work. Down by the Hudson is an intimate, attentive portrayal of a shared space and the fleeting lives unfolding within it. The repetition matters. It turns the act of photographing into something close to a ritual. The last time we spoke, Caleb mentioned that he swims there, though I did not ask whether his visits are for swimming or for making photographs. It is not clear which comes first, and perhaps it does not matter. Both acts seem to lead toward the same condition, a form of attention that feels close to a sense of spiritual fulfilment.
Down by the Hudson is an intimate, attentive portrayal of a shared space and the fleeting lives unfolding within it.
In Stein’s photographs, bodies sometimes take on the clarity of classical sculpture, figures held in balance, echoing contrapposto, their proportions briefly idealised. They are also moving, uncertain, and alive within the moment. The body leans forward, one arm pressing into the rock, the other reaching out. One leg is still in the water, the other is lifting. The weight shifts and never quite settles. For a moment, the figure almost holds, then it slips again. It hovers between finding balance and losing it. The ‘Boy in Black with Roots’ stays with the body, which is still working something out rather than arriving anywhere. Does he come out of the water with ease?
In ‘Statue in Water’, the image moves closer to painting. The figure recalls Ophelia, drifting between control and surrender as it moves with the water. The body floats, but Stein rotates the image so it never fully settles, and even if you turn the book to correct it, something still feels off. The balance does not hold, and the clothes cling to the skin, keeping the form even as it slips. Stein slows the shutter down and allows movement to remain visible, so that the image holds both the figure and its passing. It resists the stillness we sometimes expect from a photograph.
Many photographers have turned to rivers as sites of social life, documenting gatherings, colour, and an easy abundance. A photograph of Luxora, Arkansas, by Alec Soth comes to mind, and I find myself thinking again about how this sense of distance from nature can take different shapes. In Soth’s image, with its worn chairs, empty beer bottles, and the American flag placed somewhat in the frame, there is a fragile balance between people and their surroundings. It presents another way of being with nature, one where people are connected in a liminal space, as shown by traces of objects that are too opaque for us to make assumptions about their connection to a specific social class. Is Soth intentionally allowing us to sink into our own bias about who parties in the woods? Stein leaves no room for misjudgments; he shows us the trace-leavers directly.
There is no sign of picnic, excess, or crowded surfaces in the frame. The scene is a place returned to, discovered and shaped by habit rather than spectacle. People have their own spots along the water, places they know without pointing them out. The figures in Down by the Hudson could be from anywhere. There’s nothing that fixes them to one place, and you start to wonder where they are from, or if that even matters. Unlike Soth’s photograph, where the scene leans toward something recognisably American, here people are simply there, swimming, resting, passing time. A different kind of connection forms, quieter, less forced, but still layered.
The scene is a place returned to, discovered and shaped by habit rather than spectacle.
Some photographers reveal something of themselves through their work, and Stein is one of them. He builds a relationship with the people he photographs. You can feel respect for the way he works. People settle into the camera and do not push against it. What might feel intrusive becomes ordinary, even familiar, and it does not happen quickly. It takes time, patience, and persistence. Stein seems to understand how to hold that space, without forcing it, and the images leave room for the viewer to move within them. Any sense of narrative stays partial, shifting as you look. The titles, in turn, function as small clues, pointing to details that might otherwise go unnoticed. Some of them are friends, others become friends, and Stein names them for us. The titles guide our attention but never pin it down, and the photograph remains open. ‘Thomas in Water’, ‘Nate UnderWater’, ‘Boy with Roots Tattoo, with Roots’, ‘Plant’, ‘String’, ‘Light Flare’, ‘Man’s Back with Crucifix Necklace in Water’ and…
There was a story that went around our neighbourhood when I was a child. Many of my friends would say they had learned to swim because their fathers pushed them into the water. It was told as a lesson and almost a method. That never happened to me. Instead, whenever I saw water, I would push myself to jump in, as if I could force my way into that story, but I never learned to swim. Later, I came to understand that being by the water does not depend on mastering it. There are other ways of being there. Down by the Hudson returns me to those moments. Standing at the edge, watching friends in the river, close to the scene but not fully inside it.
