Candles in the Window
Fort Greene, Brooklyn, New York 2023
By Gail Albert Halaban
I made this photograph in early October, which portrays a friend’s family and her downstairs neighbors celebrating the third night of Hanukkah. Sometimes, part of the job of a photographer is staging holiday photos way ahead of time, so they are ready for the season. In January, my models smile as they freeze in bikinis on a beach. I mop sweat off the faces of my subjects in snowsuits when it’s 90 degrees and humid in September.
I photographed this picture particularly far ahead of time because the family was moving soon, and we wanted to capture the memories of their gorgeous street and home before their departure.
I’ve spent almost twenty years photographing apartments from across the street. I’ve loved staring into my neighbors’ windows my entire life. Sometimes, being privy to a private moment made me feel guilty, but you can learn so much about someone this way.
Window watching became the primary focus of my professional career one spring day in New York. My daughter, now a college student, was blowing out the candles on her Hello Kitty cake on her first birthday when our neighbors from across the street rang our bell. They were bringing us balloons and flowers along with a note that read, “It’s been fun watching your daughter grow up.”
The gesture was meant to be kind, but despite my own furtive window watching, I was a little unsettled. I’d never met these people, let alone known they’d been watching us. The intrusion annoyed me more than I cared to admit. After the party, I went over to formally introduce myself. I considered expressing my irritation at their voyeurism, but the more we talked, the more I understood their good intentions. A sweetness underlied their excitement at seeing us celebrate a milestone, and their gift was their small way of letting us know they were watching over us.
This interaction set off a chain reaction—connecting with strangers became a deeply-rooted thread of my art work. I now travel the world, photographing from one neighbor’s window to the other, with the full consent of both neighbors. Creating these pictures takes quite a bit of work, both emotionally and tactically, since both neighbors must grant me permission to come into their homes. (Given that my husband is a true crime writer, I should probably know better than to knock on random people’s doors, but it has rarely been a problem.)
Strangers invite me to experience the world from their windows. As I stand in their metaphorical shoes in their literal homes, seeing the unique view of their neighbors, I’m constantly reminded of my privilege.
There’s a certain magic to breaking the fourth wall and getting to know strangers in this unconventional way. My work often draws in the most kindred of spirits. Who else would be willing to share intimate moments like tucking their kids into bed, reading on the couch, and sweating through their Peloton workouts?
The Out My Window series has sparked meaningful connections—lasting friendships and relationships. My friend Fillipo even met his fiance Paulina after seeing her through the window when we staged a photo. They locked eyes, fell in love and haven’t been apart since.
I’ve taken photographs for this series all over the world: Buenos Aires, Istanbul, Zanzibar, Paris, Rome, and New York City. In each place, I’ve met friendly people eager to participate. Of course, there have been times when their reactions were guarded or suspicious. People have expressed concern that my project must be illegal, or that their government might even increase their taxes if officials saw how much they had in their homes. But as my body of work grew, my art started speaking for itself. As a result, my fears—of being rude, intrusive, or crossing cultural lines—have dissipated.
Strangers invite me to experience the world from their windows. As I stand in their metaphorical shoes in their literal homes, seeing the unique view of their neighbors, I’m constantly reminded of my privilege.
I love to imagine what’s going on with the people I’ve photographed. In the photo, Candles in the Window: Fort Greene, Brooklyn, we see two families celebrating Hanukkah: a family of four on the third floor gathered around a menorah, and on the first floor, a little boy in blue illuminated by candles. Though the holiday candles are traditionally lit after nightfall, I imagined these families gathering around their menorahs early so they could FaceTime with family in Paris and Morocco, where it was already dark. As the kids clamored to see their cousins on screen, I wondered if they realized the specialness of these moments. Although I try to keep the news of the war in Israel out of my imagination, troubling thoughts crept into my head.
As the holiday approaches, that fear feels present once again.
I wondered if these families would continue to feel safe lighting their menorahs in their Brooklyn windows. And when the holiday circles back around next week, will I feel safe putting Hanukkah decorations in my Manhattan window?
A few days after the shoot, the friend in the picture, who is originally from France, texted me: “It’s an interesting assessment to think about how we share our Jewish identity in a time of rising antisemitism. And I wonder if we would have the audacity to do so in France right now… and if we will always feel free to do it in New York. I love that we’ve encapsulated this time of our life where lighting Hanukkah candles in Brooklyn is safe and normal and shared with the neighbors who also have diverse identities. Makes me love New York City so much.”
We never know what tomorrow will bring, but I do know that it’s not wise to borrow grief from the future, as the saying goes. I know we can't ration our joy. We have to take full advantage of those small, unexpected windows of beauty or celebration—wherever we can find them. That’s why I hope that the families I photographed keep lighting the Hanukkah menorah.
In this season of heightened uncertainty, any opportunity for connection is precious. While I used to think it rude to stare at the neighbors, I’ve realized that, more than anything, bearing witness to joy is an opportunity to truly see a stranger in their own light.
Gail Albert Halaban is an internationally exhibited artist with an BA from Brown, and an MFA from Yale. She is most known for the series Out My Window where she photographs from one window to a neighboring window with the consent and collaboration of all the residents. She is working on a new book about New York City with an accompanying public art project where she collects and shares the stories New Yorkers imagine of their neighbors. In January 2024, she will have an exhibition at the Jackson Fine Art Gallery in Atlanta.