Eight years after a notable foray into the challenging landscapes of Skid Row, acclaimed street photographer Suzanne Stein has once again captured public attention with her unflinching documentation of the opioid and xylazine crises in Kensington, Philadelphia. Her latest exhibition, "US: Slow Code," showcased at the Berlin-based Verena Kerfin Gallery, presents a stark and often unsettling perspective on addiction, poverty, and the societal abandonment that perpetuates them. Stein’s work, characterized by its raw honesty and refusal to offer easy answers, challenges viewers to confront realities that many prefer to ignore.
The genesis of Stein’s deep engagement with Kensington can be traced back to her earlier explorations of Skid Row, where she witnessed firsthand the human toll of destitution and addiction. This initial experience, as documented eight years prior, revealed moments of profound tenderness juxtaposed against the grim realities of life on the streets. However, it was her sustained, multi-year project in Kensington that would become her most extensive and impactful body of work. There, she meticulously documented the devastating trajectory of the opioid epidemic, which subsequently evolved to encompass the severe wounds, long-term disabilities, and fatalities directly linked to the escalating xylazine crisis.
Kensington: A Community Under Siege
Stein’s approach to photographing Kensington was deliberately holistic, extending beyond the immediate crisis of addiction. "I photographed the entire neighborhood," Stein explained in a recent conversation, emphasizing her commitment to portraying Kensington as a living, breathing community rather than merely a symbol of societal ills. Her lens captured the everyday lives of families residing there, the textures of the streets, the poignant memorials erected for victims of gun violence and overdose, the character of local storefronts, and the quiet, ordinary moments that form the fabric of any community. Crucially, she sought to capture the "broader atmosphere of a community under enormous pressure." While acknowledging the suffering of individuals on the streets as an integral part of the narrative, Stein stressed that "they are not the whole story." This comprehensive vision aims to provide a more nuanced understanding of the multifaceted challenges faced by the residents.
The Verena Kerfin Gallery, recognizing the profound significance and artistic merit of Stein’s Kensington project, selected a compelling series of her photographs for the "US: Slow Code" exhibition. The gallery’s introduction to the show succinctly articulated the impact of Stein’s work: "She does not work on images that soothe. She works on images that unsettle." This sentiment resonated deeply with Stein’s own intentions, as the gallery further elaborated on their perception of Kensington: "the form misery takes when it is organized inside a wealthy state: visible enough to serve as a deterrent, invisible enough to remain politically consequence-free." This powerful description highlights the paradox of poverty and suffering existing in plain sight within a prosperous nation, yet remaining largely unaddressed by policy and societal action. The gallery’s interpretation suggests that the visible manifestations of distress in Kensington serve as a grim spectacle, a cautionary tale that, ironically, allows the rest of society to maintain its routines and avoid confronting the systemic failures that contribute to such conditions.
A Courageous Selection: The Art of Unsettling Truths
Stein expressed her deep appreciation for the gallery’s discerning curation. "Verena made a very specific and courageous selection of images," she stated, referring to the photographs featured in the exhibition. While Stein provided a shortlist of potential images, the gallery’s final edit, guided by Verena Kerfin’s artistic vision, was particularly striking. This courageous editorial choice, according to Stein, effectively revealed a "gradual deterioration happening in plain sight – what Stein considers as a form of slow public emergency."
The gallery’s selection focused on images depicting individuals in states of incapacitation, physical exhaustion, or overwhelming vulnerability. Stein noted that this deliberate choice served to "make a larger statement about abandonment in the United States." She candidly admitted that many of these photographs would likely be "very difficult, if not impossible, to exhibit or publish in the US," underscoring a potential cultural and societal aversion to confronting such stark realities on American soil.
Although unable to attend the exhibition in person in Berlin, Stein engaged with attendees through a video installation that provided insight into her work, her creative process, and the underlying messages within her photographs. The feedback she received was overwhelmingly positive, indicating that the exhibition had a profound impact. "I was told that people were very interested, that they stayed with the images, and that they spent real time in the gallery," Stein reported. This reception was particularly meaningful to her, given the challenging nature of the work and the demands it places on the viewer’s engagement and emotional fortitude.
The Aftermath of Immersion: Personal and Professional Tolls
The three years Stein spent deeply immersed in documenting the Kensington crisis took a significant personal toll, prompting her to step back from direct documentation of addiction. Beyond the physical dangers and perilous situations she encountered, the relentless exposure to negativity proved to be an immense emotional burden, making recovery a challenging endeavor. "I met people and witnessed situations that did not reinforce positive feelings about humanity," Stein admitted, acknowledging the profound psychological impact of such an environment. "The work took a long time to recover from emotionally and physically… When you are surrounded by trauma, decay, violence, addiction, strong odors, disturbing sights, and constant emotional intensity, it seeps into you."
While she no longer wishes to replicate the same intensity of work focused solely on addiction, Stein remains committed to documenting significant social issues. However, her focus has shifted, and she aims to avoid being exclusively identified with the themes of addiction, poverty, and homelessness. "I don’t really want to keep photographing people on the street suffering from addiction in the same way," she stated. "If I do, it would have to be very different, or it would have to be part of a specific assignment with a clear purpose."
Her current interest lies in exploring the "aftermath" of the Kensington crisis. This includes documenting the experiences of parents who have lost children to overdose, families striving to rebuild their lives in the wake of such devastation, or parents whose children have survived addiction but are now living with permanent disabilities. This evolving approach allows her to remain connected to the core narrative while shifting to a focus that, while equally poignant, offers a different perspective on resilience and recovery.
Stein reflected on the broader societal resistance to confronting these difficult truths: "It is a very complicated subject to photograph, especially because photographers who look at it honestly are often vilified. There is a deep resistance to seeing what is actually happening on American streets," she observed, contrasting this with the "much more sanitized version" often presented by mainstream media.
Personal Imprints: Resilience Forged in Distress
The profound impact of Kensington on Stein’s personal life is undeniable, extending to the mental imprint of the experience. The sheer intensity of the distress she witnessed and navigated at times necessitated a certain emotional detachment to remain functional. "You have to be able to function in situations that are painful, ugly, dangerous, and overwhelming," she reflected. This ability to function in extreme circumstances, however, is partly rooted in her own lived experiences with significant personal distress. Her background includes financial instability, single parenthood of a son on the autism spectrum, navigating the competitive photography world, and a family history marked by alcoholism and addiction. This personal history, she believes, drew her to document these realities rather than turn away from them.
Stein candidly acknowledged the personal cost of her deep immersion in environments like Kensington, particularly the significant mental toll. "Even if you are there to tell a story, and even if you understand what you are doing intellectually, it still affects your nervous system and your outlook," she stated. This immersion, she admits, has at times contributed to a more negative outlook and potentially made her "more difficult to be around." She attributes this, in part, to the "frustration of seeing these crises continue while the world barely responds."
Comparing her experiences in Kensington with her earlier work in Skid Row, Stein noted a distinct difference in the nature of the human connections she formed. While Skid Row, despite its own profound challenges including instances of bondage and trafficking, was also characterized by the resilience, spirit, humor, and character of its inhabitants, leading to meaningful and lasting relationships, Kensington presented a different, more somber dynamic. "Kensington was different," Stein stated. "To be perfectly honest, I don’t feel that I came away from Kensington with many meaningful relationships." She elaborated that the pervasive influence of drugs and the specific street conditions seemed to "hollow people out in a different way." The level of "criminality, exploitation, and desperation on all sides" made it exceedingly difficult to maintain faith in humanity. This experience has fundamentally altered her outlook, and she is actively working to "regain some sense of hope, purpose, and belief in people."
Reframing "Poverty Porn": A Call for Unflinching Observation
The ongoing debates surrounding "poverty porn" in documentary and street photography often lead to prescriptive notions of what is considered acceptable or offensive. Photographing homelessness, for instance, is frequently cited as a practice to be avoided within certain street photography circles. Stein, however, expresses a strong aversion to the term "poverty porn," finding it to be a dismissive label that prematurely halts critical discourse.
Stein argues that the term, and the framing of discussions around marginalized communities, often serves to shame photographers who are attempting to raise awareness about difficult realities. She is quick to emphasize that this does not place photographers above criticism, especially in instances where the line between documentation and exploitation becomes blurred. She cites conflict photography as a prime example where such ethical quandaries frequently arise.
"When you photograph anyone in distress, whether they are in Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, Syria, Kensington, or Skid Row, you are walking a very fine line between exploitation and information," Stein explained. She acknowledges that "very few photographers walk that line perfectly every time. Many of us step over it at some point." While she believes most photographers engaged in this work possess good intentions, she also recognizes that some may be driven by a desire for notoriety, career advancement, or simply by the ingrained practices of photojournalism, which can sometimes involve a detached approach to suffering.
Stein advocates for applying the same rigorous photographic attention to the streets of the United States as is applied to conflict zones like Ukraine or Gaza. "These crises are here too, and they deserve to be seen with the same seriousness," she urged, emphasizing that societal breakdowns and human suffering are universal and require consistent, honest documentation regardless of geographic location.
An Unsettling Moment of Tenderness: The Power of Intimacy
One of the most poignant photographs featured in the "US: Slow Code" exhibition, and one that holds particular significance for Stein, is an image of a woman named Crystal injecting herself in the neck with fentanyl and xylazine, with the assistance of another individual, Mike. Stein recounted the backstory of this powerful image, highlighting the disturbing yet intimate nature of the scene.
"Before I went to Kensington, I had never seen people inject into the neck before," Stein shared. While acknowledging its occurrence elsewhere, she noted its extreme prevalence in Kensington. The first time she witnessed it in 2022, she was in a state of shock, unable to comprehend the openness with which it was happening. "It was a very disturbing sight."
The act of injecting into the neck, Stein explained, is often a desperate measure taken when veins in the arms are no longer usable. She has witnessed people collapse after such injections and has had to call emergency services on multiple occasions. The practice is fraught with danger, but also with exploitation. In Kensington, a system has emerged where individuals charge for performing injections, often for those who are too squeamish or inexperienced with needles, or who are too physically compromised to self-administer. This has become a "cottage industry," where vulnerability is commodified.
"A lot of young people become addicted to opioids, but they are still squeamish about needles," Stein observed. "They don’t necessarily know how to inject themselves. Some literally cannot do it. So they end up dependent not only on the drug, but on other people to help them use it."
In the specific instance captured in the photograph, Crystal was experiencing withdrawal symptoms ("dope sick") because she couldn’t find a usable vein and lacked the skill to inject herself. Mike’s intervention provided her with relief from withdrawal. Stein described the situation as "brutal," yet simultaneously imbued with a "kind of intimacy and trust between them." It is this profound contradiction, the co-existence of extreme danger and human connection, that imbues the photograph with its significance for her.
Stein also values the image because it represents a moment where she had earned sufficient trust from her subjects to be allowed to document such a personal and vulnerable act. This level of access, she emphasized, is not gained through a detached, "parachuting in" approach, but through consistent presence, dedicated time, and a commitment to not treating individuals as mere spectacles.
The photograph also contains a subtle yet powerful gesture: Crystal’s thumb in her mouth. Initially, Stein interpreted it as a self-soothing mechanism, akin to a child’s thumb-sucking. However, she later understood its functional purpose: it helped make the neck vein more visible for Mike. This seemingly small gesture transforms the image, lending it a veneer of vulnerability, almost childlike innocence, while simultaneously serving as a stark illustration of the mechanics of addiction. "That is why the photograph stays with me," Stein concluded. "It contains tenderness, danger, dependence, trust, and horror all at once."
Taking Art Where Others Refuse to Look
The Verena Kerfin Gallery’s exhibition powerfully reinforced the central tenet of Stein’s artistic philosophy: "art begins precisely where others do not want to look, or cannot look." Stein, however, expands this idea, positing that art can emerge from any experience and is shaped by the unique advantages, wounds, and perspectives of each artist. "My life pushed me in a certain direction; someone else’s life might lead them to make something much lighter, softer, or more decorative. That is still art," she mused.
For her own practice, Stein believes she merges art with a documentary sensibility to dismantle pre-existing biases. She observes that many forms of photography, including some within the realm of war photography and popular street photography, can inadvertently reinforce existing prejudices. War photography, she suggests, may align with particular political viewpoints, while popular street photography often relies on "visual puns, gimmicks, light and shadow, and repeated tropes." While these approaches can be clever, they frequently fail to challenge viewers in a meaningful way.
"When I photograph places like Kensington, Skid Row, or people living on the margins, I’m trying to look past the attractive narrative, past the acceptable narrative, and show what is actually there," Stein declared, advocating for a more direct and unvarnished presentation of reality.
While she appreciates the opportunity to exhibit her work in galleries, Stein emphasizes the desire for her art to be more accessible to a wider audience. She recognizes that not everyone actively seeks out photography galleries. Her aspiration is for her work to be seen in more public spaces, reaching individuals who might not otherwise encounter it. "I don’t always know where the work belongs. I just know that I keep making it," she stated. She hopes her photography can reach young people and those who need to see beyond the "filtered version of reality we are usually given." However, she acknowledges the increasing difficulty of this endeavor in a culture shaped by censorship, algorithmic gatekeeping, and media institutions that often operate within narrow confines.
Stein does not typically adhere to rigid plans for her artistic future, preferring to follow her instincts. She often discovers compelling narratives by simply being present and observing the world around her. "I stumble into a person or a situation that has social intensity, emotional intensity, or personal intensity, and then I follow it," she explained.
While addiction will likely remain a recurring theme in her work in some capacity, Stein also expresses a renewed interest in exploring other, perhaps lighter, themes within street photography. These subjects, she believes, can be equally compelling and meaningful. "Right now, I’m interested in street photography again because it allows me to disengage somewhat from the heaviest subjects," she revealed. "Street photography feels lighter to me, even though I can still tell serious stories through it. I always have. But it also allows for humor, strangeness, beauty, and everyday life." This shift signifies a desire for a broader engagement with the human experience, acknowledging that profound stories can be found in the mundane, the humorous, and the aesthetically pleasing aspects of life.
