On an early spring morning, a jogger paces down Riverdale Avenue. Her earphones are in, her ball cap bent just over her eyes. Friends passing by in cars call out and keep going. Then she’s gone. On the side of a mailbox is a woman’s face, drawn in chalk. There are others, as well. On a wall. On the sidewalk. Hiding behind a tree. The jogger passes some of these faces without a second thought.
By RAPHAEL LASSAUZE | 5/24/20