Eight years ago, Suzanne Stein’s unflinching gaze turned towards the raw realities of Skid Row, capturing moments of profound tenderness amidst the pervasive bleakness. Her early work, documented in a 2016 feature, offered a glimpse into a world often overlooked, setting a precedent for her subsequent, extensive body of work. In a recent conversation, Stein revealed that her most significant and sustained project has been an in-depth documentation of Kensington, Philadelphia, a community grappling with the devastating opioid epidemic and, more recently, the escalating crisis of xylazine.
Stein, however, is emphatic that her photography transcends mere depiction of addiction. Her objective has always been to present Kensington as a living, breathing community, not solely as a symbol of societal ills. “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 capture the multifaceted reality of a community under duress, has resonated globally, drawing the attention of the Berlin-based Verena Kerfin Gallery.
Verena Kerfin Gallery Exhibition: "US: Slow Code"
The Verena Kerfin Gallery recently concluded its exhibition, "US: Slow Code," showcasing a selection of Stein’s powerful images from Kensington. The gallery’s introduction to the exhibition highlighted Stein’s unique artistic stance: "She does not work on images that soothe. She works on images that unsettle." This sentiment directly mirrors Stein’s own description of Kensington, which the gallery characterized 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." The exhibition aimed to illustrate how poverty, in this context, is not an absence of wealth but a deliberate arrangement that allows its inhabitants to live and die within its confines while the outside world continues its routines.
The exhibition’s curator, Verena Kerfin, made a "specific and courageous selection" of Stein’s photographs. Stein initially provided a shortlist, but Kerfin’s final edit aligned with her own vision, revealing a gradual deterioration occurring in plain sight—what Stein terms a "slow public emergency." The chosen photographs predominantly featured individuals in states of incapacitation or physical vulnerability, a selection Kerfin used to craft a broader statement on abandonment within the United States. Stein noted the profound impact of this curation, observing that such images would likely face significant challenges, if not outright impossibility, in being exhibited or published within the U.S.
Though unable to attend the exhibition in person, Stein engaged with attendees through a video installation, sharing insights into her work, process, and artistic intent. The feedback indicated a deeply engaged audience, with visitors spending considerable time with the images, a testament to the work’s challenging yet compelling nature. “I was told that people were very interested, that they stayed with the images, and that they spent real time in the gallery. That meant a lot to me, especially because the work is difficult and asks something of the viewer,” Stein remarked.
The Personal and Professional Toll of Documenting Crisis
Stein’s immersion in Kensington for three years, while a cornerstone of her documentary and street photography, has also taken a significant personal toll. The sheer exposure to the physical aggression, dangerous situations, and pervasive negativity proved difficult to absorb and even more challenging to recover from. "I met people and witnessed situations that did not reinforce positive feelings about humanity," Stein admitted. "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."
While she has stepped back from documenting addiction in the same direct manner, Stein remains committed to addressing critical social issues. However, her ambition is to move beyond being solely identified with the photography of addiction, poverty, and homelessness. "I don’t really want to keep photographing people on the street suffering from addiction in the same way. 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," she stated.
Her current focus has shifted to documenting the aftermath of the Kensington crisis: the profound grief of parents who have lost children to overdose, families striving to rebuild their lives, and parents whose children have survived but are left with permanent disabilities. This evolving approach allows her to remain connected to the narrative while exploring its enduring human impact.
Stein reflects on the inherent challenges of her chosen field, noting, "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 contrasts this with the "much more sanitized version" often presented by mainstream media, highlighting a societal tendency to avoid confronting uncomfortable truths.
Tracing Personal Imprints: Resilience and Reflection
The profound impact of Kensington extends beyond Stein’s professional output to her personal life. The intense emotional and psychological strain of her work sometimes necessitated a degree of callousness to maintain functionality. "You have to be able to function in situations that are painful, ugly, dangerous, and overwhelming," she observed. However, she also acknowledged a personal resonance with these realities, stemming from her own experiences with significant distress, including financial instability, single parenthood of a child 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 deeper into documentary and street photography, compelling her to confront rather than ignore the difficult circumstances many face.
Stein candidly discussed the personal cost of her immersion in environments like Kensington, particularly the 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. 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. Part of that comes from the frustration of seeing these crises continue while the world barely responds."
A significant realization stemming from her Kensington work was the stark contrast with her earlier experiences in Skid Row. While Skid Row presented its own set of severe challenges, including witnessing exploitation and trafficking, Stein found a sense of shared humanity and resilience among its inhabitants. "Skid Row was also full of terrible things… But many of the people I photographed there had tremendous spirit, soul, humor, and character. I formed real relationships with some of them, and I am still very attached to them."
Kensington, however, presented a different dynamic. "Kensington was different. To be perfectly honest, I don’t feel that I came away from Kensington with many meaningful relationships," Stein confessed. "The drugs there, and the particular conditions on those streets, seemed to hollow people out in a different way. 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."
Re-framing Discussions on "Poverty Porn" in Street Photography
The ongoing debates surrounding "poverty porn" in documentary and street photography have generated a set of widely accepted, and sometimes contentious, notions about what constitutes acceptable visual representation. The act of photographing homelessness, for instance, is often categorized as a problematic practice within certain street photography circles. Stein, however, expresses a strong aversion to the term "poverty porn," finding it frequently employed to prematurely shut down nuanced conversations.
Stein argues that the framing of discussions around marginalized communities, often through such labels, serves to shame photographers who are endeavoring to raise awareness about difficult realities. "That does not mean photographers are above criticism. Of course not," she emphasized, acknowledging the fine line that can exist between documenting hardship and exploitation. She identifies conflict photography as an area where this boundary can become particularly blurred.
"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. "Very few photographers walk that line perfectly every time. Many of us step over it at some point. Most of us doing this work have good intentions, but some photographers are doing it for notoriety, career advancement, or because that is simply what photojournalists do: they pack their bags, go to a war zone, and photograph suffering."
She advocates for applying the same rigorous attention and ethical consideration to the documented realities within the United States as is given to international crises. "We need to apply the same rigorous photographic attention to the streets of the United States that we apply to places like Ukraine or Gaza. These crises are here too, and they deserve to be seen with the same seriousness."
An Unsettling Moment of Tenderness: The Case of Mike and Crystal
One of Stein’s most compelling photographs, featured in the Verena Kerfin Gallery exhibition, captures a moment of stark intimacy between two individuals, Mike and Crystal, as Mike injects Crystal in the neck with fentanyl and xylazine. This image holds particular significance for Stein, encapsulating the complex contradictions inherent in her work.
"Before I went to Kensington, I had never seen people inject into the neck before," Stein recounted. "When I first saw it in 2022, I was in a state of shock. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, and I couldn’t believe how openly it was happening. It was a very disturbing sight." She elaborated on the medical and social implications of this practice: "The neck injection is a very specific situation. Often, by the time people are doing that, the veins in their arms are no longer usable. I have seen people collapse after neck injections… In Kensington, there are people who make money giving other people injections. They may charge a few dollars, or sometimes much more. People come in from the suburbs, they don’t know how to inject, or they are afraid of needles, and they find someone on the street to do it for them. So it becomes almost a cottage industry."
Stein explained that this phenomenon is often misunderstood, particularly by those unfamiliar with the realities of severe addiction. "A lot of young people become addicted to opioids, but they are still squeamish about needles. 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 depicted, Crystal was experiencing withdrawal symptoms due to her inability to find a usable vein and her own difficulty with self-injection. Mike’s intervention, while a symptom of a dire situation, was an act of preventing her from descending further into sickness. "It is a brutal situation, but there was also a kind of intimacy and trust between them," Stein observed. "That contradiction is part of what makes the photograph important to me."
The trust required for Stein to gain access and photograph such a private and vulnerable moment is paramount. "I also value the picture because I had gained enough trust that they allowed me to photograph what was happening. 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."
Further analysis of the image reveals a subtle yet significant detail: Crystal’s thumb in her mouth. Initially perceived as a self-soothing gesture, Stein later understood its functional role 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. That is why the photograph stays with me. It contains tenderness, danger, dependence, trust, and horror all at once."
Taking Art Where Others Refuse to Look
The Verena Kerfin Gallery’s exhibition underscored the principle that art often emerges from the spaces society chooses to ignore or is unwilling to confront. Stein, however, posits that art can originate anywhere, shaped by an individual’s unique life 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.
For her own practice, Stein believes she fuses art with a documentary sensibility to dismantle existing biases. She notes that many photographic forms inadvertently reinforce preconceived notions. "War photography often reinforces a particular political position. Popular street photography often relies on visual puns, gimmicks, light and shadow, and repeated tropes. It can be clever, but it often doesn’t challenge the viewer very much."
Her intent in photographing communities like Kensington, Skid Row, or individuals on the margins is to "look past the attractive narrative, past the acceptable narrative, and show what is actually there." While appreciative of gallery exposure, Stein expresses a desire for her work to reach a broader audience in more public spaces, recognizing that not everyone seeks out art galleries. "I don’t always know where the work belongs. I just know that I keep making it. I still hope it can reach young people, and people who need to see beyond the filtered version of reality we are usually given. But that is becoming harder in a culture shaped by censorship, algorithms, social gatekeeping, and media institutions that often refuse to think outside their own box."
Stein’s creative process is largely intuitive, driven by her instinct and the stories that unfold organically during her daily life. "I stumble into a person or a situation that has social intensity, emotional intensity, or personal intensity, and then I follow it."
While addiction will likely remain a recurring theme in her work, Stein is increasingly drawn to exploring other, perhaps lighter, yet equally compelling 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 stated. "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."
Suzanne Stein’s website can be found at suzannesteinphoto.com. More information on the "US: Slow Code" exhibition can be found at the Verena Kerfin Gallery: verenakerfingallery.com/exhibitions/detail/212_usslowcode. Stein can be followed on Instagram at @suzanne_stein.
