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He has two daughters and a son, grown now, but he has never married.
“This is my wife right here,” Mendes said, gesturing to his camera.
The flashbulbs that Mendes uses haven’t been made since the sixties, but he has so far been able to find enough of them at flea markets, auctions, and through old photography connections.
Mendes has cultivated friendships with many of the city’s other roving photographers.
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She searched through her phone and pulled up the image to show him: a younger Mendes in handsome profile.
They talked shop for ten minutes, lamenting the discontinuation of the Fuji peel-apart film they both love.
Years later, he photographed the same young man, who had become a construction worker.
“I’ve been doing this so long, I’ve seen some people whose grandparents I photographed,” Mendes said.
His tiny studio is stuffed with books and magazines on photography and black history, and with cameras—a Rolleiflex, a Hasselblad, various Polaroids, and a handful of original Kodak Brownies, the camera his sister used during their childhood, in Jamaica, Queens.
The apartment walls are covered with photographs of family, friends, and a number of gauzily lit nudes.