Eight years ago, street photographer Suzanne Stein offered a stark glimpse into the often-overlooked realities of Skid Row, capturing moments of tenderness amidst bleak circumstances. Her subsequent work has consistently sought to draw attention to the marginalized and the unseen, culminating in a deeply impactful, sustained body of work focused on Kensington, Philadelphia. This expansive project meticulously documented the devastating opioid epidemic and, more recently, the harrowing consequences of the xylazine crisis, which has brought severe wounds, long-term disabilities, and fatalities to the community.
Stein’s artistic vision, however, extends beyond a singular focus on addiction. She emphasizes her commitment to portraying Kensington not merely as a symbol of societal ills, but as a living, breathing community. “I photographed the entire neighborhood: the families who live there, the streets, the memorials to gunshot victims and overdose victims, the storefronts, the corners, the ordinary moments, and the broader atmosphere of a community under enormous pressure,” Stein explained. “The people suffering on the street are part of the story, but they are not the whole story.” This holistic approach, aiming to humanize a community often reduced to its struggles, has garnered significant international recognition.
Verena Kerfin Gallery Exhibition: "US: Slow Code"
The Berlin-based Verena Kerfin Gallery recognized the profound significance of Stein’s Kensington project, recently concluding an exhibition titled US: Slow Code. This exhibition showcased a curated selection of Stein’s photographs, deliberately chosen for their unsettling power. The gallery’s introduction to the show articulated this intent: "She does not work on images that soothe. She works on images that unsettle." This sentiment echoed Stein’s own observations about Kensington, which the gallery described as "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 framing highlights a critical paradox: a poverty so apparent it should demand action, yet so systematically embedded that it remains politically inconsequential to those outside its immediate sphere.
The exhibition’s curatorial choice, spearheaded by Verena Kerfin, focused on images that depicted individuals in states of incapacitation or physical vulnerability. Stein acknowledged the deliberate and courageous nature of this selection, noting that while she provided a shortlist, Kerfin’s final edit aligned with her distinct vision. "She chose photographs of people lying down, incapacitated, or otherwise physically overcome, and she used that selection to make a larger statement about abandonment in the United States," Stein stated. She further commented on the potential reception of such images in her home country, suggesting they would be "very difficult, if not impossible, to exhibit or publish in the US." This assertion points to a cultural reticence or censorship surrounding the raw depiction of societal failures within American discourse, contrasting with a perceived openness in European art contexts.
Although unable to attend the exhibition in person, Stein connected with attendees via a video installation, sharing insights into her creative process and the narratives embedded within her work. The feedback indicated a deep engagement from visitors, with many spending considerable time with the images. "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. "That meant a lot to me, especially because the work is difficult and asks something of the viewer." This response underscores the exhibition’s success in provoking contemplation and emotional resonance, fulfilling Stein’s objective of creating art that challenges its audience.
The Personal Toll of Documenting Crisis
Stein’s immersion in Kensington for three years, while yielding a substantial body of work, also exacted a significant personal toll. The intense exposure to the opioid and xylazine crises, coupled with the inherent dangers of the environment, led her to step back from direct documentation of addiction. "I met people and witnessed situations that did not reinforce positive feelings about humanity," she admitted candidly. "That is difficult to say, but it’s true. 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."
This profound experience has shifted her artistic direction. While she remains committed to documenting serious social issues, she expresses a desire to move beyond being solely identified with addiction, poverty, and homelessness. "I don’t really want to keep photographing people on the street suffering from addiction in the same way," Stein 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 focus is on documenting the aftermath of the crisis in Kensington, exploring the long-term consequences for individuals and families. This includes focusing on parents who have lost children to overdose, families striving for recovery and rebuilding, and those whose children have survived but are living with permanent disabilities. This new direction allows her to remain connected to the community’s narrative while shifting towards themes of resilience and the enduring impact of systemic failures.
Stein observes a persistent resistance to honest depictions of American urban crises. "It is a very complicated subject to photograph, especially because photographers who look at it honestly are often vilified," she reflected. She contrasts this with the "much more sanitized version" often presented by mainstream media, suggesting a societal preference for comfortable narratives over confronting difficult truths.
Personal Resonance and the Weight of Experience
Stein’s engagement with challenging realities is deeply rooted in her own life experiences. She candidly discusses her personal history, which includes financial instability, single parenthood of a son on the autism spectrum, navigating the competitive photography industry, and a family history marked by alcoholism and addiction. This personal resonance, she suggests, has drawn her to document the struggles of others. "The reason I’ve been drawn to this work in the first place is that I have also lived with serious distress myself," she shared. This shared experience, she believes, allows her to approach her subjects with a degree of empathy and understanding that transcends mere observation.
The intense nature of her work in Kensington, however, has undeniably left its mark. Stein acknowledges the necessity of developing a degree of emotional detachment to function in such environments. "You have to be able to function in situations that are painful, ugly, dangerous, and overwhelming," she noted. Yet, she also recognizes the corrosive effect of prolonged exposure to trauma. "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. "I think the work has made me more negative at times, and probably more difficult to be around. I’ve had to be honest with myself about that." This self-awareness is crucial, particularly in understanding the frustration of witnessing persistent crises with inadequate societal response.
Comparing her experiences in Kensington to her earlier work in Skid Row, Stein highlights a significant difference in the nature of human connection. While Skid Row presented its own severe challenges, including witnessing instances of bondage and trafficking, she found that many individuals possessed remarkable "spirit, soul, humor, and character," fostering genuine relationships. In contrast, her experience in Kensington was marked by a perceived hollowness in many individuals, a consequence, she believes, of the pervasive influence of drugs and the specific conditions of the streets. "The drugs there, and the particular conditions on those streets, seemed to hollow people out in a different way," she explained. "Seeing that over and over affected me deeply. The level of criminality, exploitation, and desperation on all sides made it very difficult to keep the faith. That has changed my outlook, and I am still trying to move past it – to regain some sense of hope, purpose, and belief in people."
Addressing "Poverty Porn" and the Ethics of Representation
The discourse surrounding "poverty porn" in documentary and street photography is a contentious one. Stein expresses a strong aversion to the term, viewing it as a tool that prematurely shuts down critical dialogue. She argues that this framing can serve to shame photographers who aim to raise awareness about difficult realities. However, she is quick to qualify this by stating, "That does not mean photographers are above criticism. Of course not," acknowledging the fine line between documentation and exploitation.
Stein draws a parallel between conflict photography and her own work, noting that photographing individuals in distress, whether in Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, Syria, Kensington, or Skid Row, involves navigating a delicate balance. "You are walking a very fine line between exploitation and information," she observed. She suggests that while many photographers have good intentions, the pursuit of notoriety or career advancement can sometimes lead to crossing that line. Her call for rigorous photographic attention to the streets of the United States, akin to that given to international conflict zones, underscores her belief in the equal importance of addressing domestic crises with the same seriousness and scrutiny.
The Unsettling Tenderness of a Single Image
One photograph from the US: Slow Code exhibition that holds particular significance for Stein is an image of two individuals, Mike and Crystal, as Mike injects Crystal in the neck with fentanyl and xylazine. This practice, Stein explains, became tragically common in Kensington as veins in the arms became unusable. The act itself is fraught with danger, often leading to collapse and requiring emergency intervention. Furthermore, it has spawned a grim form of economy where individuals, often those new to injecting or fearful of needles, pay others for assistance.
"In this particular situation, Crystal was dope sick because she could not find a usable vein and was not good at injecting herself," Stein recounted. "Mike stepped in and injected her in the neck. In that moment, he was preventing her from going deeper into withdrawal. It is a brutal situation, but there was also a kind of intimacy and trust between them. That contradiction is part of what makes the photograph important to me."
The photograph’s power also stems from the trust Stein had cultivated with her subjects, allowing her intimate access. "That kind of access does not come from parachuting in. It comes from being present, from spending time, from not treating people like grotesque spectacle," she emphasized. The image is further imbued with meaning by a small gesture: Crystal’s thumb in her mouth. Initially perceived as a self-soothing act, Stein later understood its practical function in making the neck vein more visible for the injection. "That small gesture changes the whole image. It looks vulnerable, almost childlike, but it is also part of the mechanics of addiction," Stein explained. "That is why the photograph stays with me. It contains tenderness, danger, dependence, trust, and horror all at once."
Art as a Lens for Unseen Realities
The Verena Kerfin Gallery exhibition underscores Stein’s belief that art finds its genesis in the spaces others deliberately avoid or are unable to perceive. However, she also acknowledges that artistic expression is deeply personal, shaped by individual experiences, advantages, wounds, and perspectives. "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.
Stein’s approach, which she describes as a fusion of art and documentary sensibility, aims to bypass inherent biases. She critiques many forms of photography, including war photography and popular street photography, for reinforcing existing viewpoints or relying on superficial tropes. "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," she declared.
While appreciative of gallery exposure, Stein expresses a desire for her work to reach a broader audience in public spaces, recognizing that not everyone actively seeks out art exhibitions. "I don’t always know where the work belongs. I just know that I keep making it," she stated. Her hope is that her photography can serve as an antidote to the "filtered version of reality" often presented by contemporary culture, which she sees as increasingly shaped by censorship, algorithms, social gatekeeping, and institutional inertia.
Stein’s creative process is largely instinctual, allowing stories to unfold organically. "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 thematic element in her work, she is also exploring lighter, more whimsical aspects of street photography. "Right now, I’m interested in street photography again because it allows me to disengage somewhat from the heaviest subjects," she said. "Street photography feels lighter to me, even though I can still tell serious stories through it. But it also allows for humor, strangeness, beauty, and everyday life." This evolution reflects a desire for balance, acknowledging the enduring power of serious storytelling while embracing the broader spectrum of human experience that street photography can capture.
