The inside of a New York taxicab is a place where the public realm blurs with the private, especially on the overnight shift. People fight, make love, eat takeout, throw up, fall asleep, concoct plans for world domination or a good night’s sleep. Many act as if the driver is not there. Ryan Weideman, a photographer who drove a taxi shift to make ends meet, decided to let them know that he was. It was 1980, four years after the movie “Taxi Driver” was released, and Mr. Weideman had a master’s degree in fine arts and a tenuous grasp of New York City geography. He also had a camera and the best studio he could ask for: a roomy old Checker cab that was his from 5 p.m. to 5 a.m. on weekends, when traffic thinned and tips were not always something he could count on. Turning the camera on his fares was a way to displace his rage at the inequities that come with a taxi, where the customer holds all the power and the driver does all the work. Sometimes he snapped people at the beginning of a ride, sometimes after he reached their destination. He mounted a strobe light onto the cab’s sun visor using rubber bands. He wasn’t fancy. Usually he asked permission, but at least once he said simply, “Don’t move, I’m a photographer,” and started shooting.
At first he tried to photograph everyone who got into his cab, but he soon learned who was interesting and who was not. When he took Allen Ginsberg for a ride in 1990, the poet composed a verse on the receipt: “Backseat of a New York Taxi is a human zoo. Ryan Weideman taxi-dermist has mounted these human species with humor and boldness and precision.” He signed it: “A passenger Allen Ginsberg.” The photo now belongs to the Brooklyn Museum.
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