Starting down the steps at 59th street subway station, the heat hits you like you’ve opened the door to a cavernous clay oven. There’s no turning back because attempting to fight the tide of suits flowing underground at 5pm would be futile – each briefcase and stiletto heel eddying slightly because someone, like the limb of a tree, appears caught in the turnstiles. Inconvenienced, irate, and reddening like salmon, people pack into the air-conditioned carriages as quickly and tightly as possible. Whoever put the advertisements for John West’s Sardines in subway cars understands the human condition all too well.

Read the full article in Issue Four >

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