I saw it all from a bench in the park, sitting next to some gathered pigeons and a pile of peanut shells. And nearby, across the street, a statue and an American flag.

The man with the black hat and the enormous red-shirted gut was sprawled out on a bench and he appeared to be dead. Perhaps he was. A crowd of flies was assembled on his arms and his chest and in great numbers on his knees, where they could be more easily made out against the lighter background of his faded jeans. The leaves of an English Plane tree gave him shade. The woman and man were next to the man in the hat, she clutching a patchwork bag and he, curious. The woman smiled. A grey-haired man in bright red pants rode by on a purple children’s bicycle with streamers, honking loudly on a horn. The woman kept smiling, and the man was still curious.

She held a patchwork bag very close and from the faces and the bodies of the couple it seemed that she had a surprise tucked away inside. A bit of an affectionate plea floated over the noisy air. “It’s crazy! Tell me!” he said to her, and the only reply was laughter, followed by more of that irresistible smile. Yes, that was it–she had a surprise. The flag waved in the breeze as though it had been there for a hundred years and the statue stood motionless, mute.

The man with the black hat still had not moved. But the hat had slipped away and fallen to the ground, letting his hair blow free like the streamers on the old man’s bike. If he was dead, it could have been his soul escaping that had caused the disturbance, as it forced its way through his head and knocked the hat off in the struggle.

The man and the woman were still smiling and laughing, but now there was a sharper edge to both of their rounded faces. The surprise was slowly forcing its way out of the patchwork bag like the soul from the head of the now-hatless man. The woman seemed to be telling the man to be patient, to be calm, to wait. She wore a brown shirt and white pants and he, just the opposite. They both wore simple sandals.

The purple bicycle came rolling down the path again and the couple turned their attention away from each other for just a moment, to absorb the spectacle of it all. When all that could be seen was a tiny red-and-purple blot heading towards the exit to the street, they turned back to one another, and then they kissed. Until the dead man rose. He no longer had his hat, and he was quick to discover the lack, and he began to shout at all the world. Or so it seemed, his booming, growling voice sweeping over the park like a hurricane wind come back from the dead, accusing anybody and whomever.

Until he found the hat.

Meanwhile the woman appeared to have found what she was looking for, and the man next to her looked glad to be done with the wait. She had her hands inside the patchwork bag, and when she pulled them out again she looked surprised. She held a little box covered in blue velvet, and now it was herturn to look curious, and his to wear that irresistible smile.

The photographs come from the eye, camera and studio of Alex Leykin, who like Anton, is an immigrant from Russia. Alex has been in New York for 11 years and takes wonderful pictures of the city, capturing its lonesome and peaceful, black-and-white side.

“March 6th, 1997 I arrived,” Anton says. He has blue eyes that shimmer like the sky on this late-July heat-wave day. “I had no English. I could say maybe ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ and ‘Thank you.’” When he first came to New York, Anton worked in a body shop for six months before becoming involved with Alex and the photographs.

A man with one umbrella hat on his head and one in his hand suddenly appears, shouting like the hot dog and beer vendors at Yankee Stadium. He sees someone he knows and interrupts his spiel to say hello. “It’s real, it’s a real thing goin’ on!” he says and continues on his way down the street. He takes his place in the sun, out of the shadows cast by the big leafy trees, where the picture-sellers are, and once again begins to shout to the crowds. The sunnier spots are better for selling sun-blocking hats, for obvious reasons. The photograph stands are underneath the trees so people can linger and look.

Anton sells the photographs to support himself while he studies computer technology. He wants to design Internet sites. Right now he’s working on his first one, sort of a test run. “Every day I work on it a little. It is nothing of interest right now, but it is coming.” He is educating himself. “I buy books, and I read books, I teach myself. I count on myself.” He lives alone in a rented room in Bensonhurst and dreams his own dreams.

The photographs and other artwork are displayed on five-foot-high frames made of metal wire. Everything is clipped onto these frames, and the stools and chairs and tables are set up next to them. Bicycles are locked onto the frames, workspace for framing and fixing is arranged, and the marketplace is complete. Each day a driver loads his van and takes the pictures, paintings and drawings to Manhattan, where Anton and the others meet him.

These “others” are a motley group. Several men sell Alex Leykin’s work, and there is a husband and wife team who display their reproductions of 11th- and 14th- century Chinese paintings, as well as paintings of bamboo and their own Chinese-character calligraphy. Wishes of love, longevity, and strength abound. There are also stands with brightly colored drawings of the city, especially the Statue of Liberty and other iconic scenes. And at the far end of the row, down toward 80th Street, is a small hand-lettered sign that reads, YOUR NAME WRITTEN ON THE RICE WITH FUNNY TUBES – TAKE A LOOK.