In the period before and after September 11, 2001, Hans Wilschut lived in New York for a time. The planes above the city caught his attention. Coming from JFK, LaGuardia and Newark, they were constantly visible and audible, especially in Brooklyn. It was one of his first experiences of living in a metropolis. After 9/11, the meaning of those planes changed profoundly. What had once seemed an ordinary part of city life took on a menacing quality.
In the series New York Planes, Wilschut sought a way to photograph a city that had already been captured from almost every conceivable angle. His attention turned to the residual forms of its architecture: unexpected compositions of sky, buildings, rooflines and façades. The series became an inquiry into photography’s psychological position and into how perception and mood can make the intangible visible.
Through long exposures, the planes became drawings of light: temporary, unpredictable lines within a tightly defined frame. Wilschut waited through the night in New York’s neighbourhoods, often guided by the sound of an approaching aircraft. Changing light and long exposures brought chance into the image. Gradually, he became aware that photography does more than visualise; it also tests the limits of perception.