a decade through the lens of Ayasha Guerin’s camera

photography and words by Ayasha Guerin


On the B26, our commute through Bed Stuy, a woman with a neat crown of cornrows sits tall and proud as the bus lurches its way through the summer heat. Precision is a virtue.


Lake Atitlan is surrounded by three volcanoes and is four hours drive from Guatemala City airport. There are no streets connecting the villages spread out around the lake, so we must travel everywhere by boat. Still, this was the year I learned that if you trust your intuition, it’s possible to manifest your wildest birthday wishes.


My spontaneous date is a french hacker. He has never seen the bottom of the Brooklyn Bridge before. When I show him, he does handstands to see it from yet another angle.


The word ecology comes from the Greek oikos, meaning “household,” “home,” or “place to live.” In Brooklyn, a series of portraiture sessions in the artist’s home explore the shape of black, queer ecologies.


The urban gardens we expected to find in Cuba were gone. Instead, cart-men roll their harvests through the streets of Havana Vieja, stopping at familiar corners every afternoon. Only fruits with hard skins survive the July heat in this city, and we gather a few in our arms each time we walk home.


From the roof of an abandoned brewery on the outskirts of Berlin, we look out onto what we imagine was a parking lot for East German employees. Between the weeds that push their way through concrete slabs, we spot an installation growing from found materials, painted geometric forms for a new age.