September 2001. I was an artist and designer residing in a studio in Brooklyn Heights. Atop the sixth floor of a small building facing downtown Manhattan. From my windows, I had a perfect view of the city and the Twin Towers. For years, I photographed that view in Polaroids and 35mm. The sunsets changed dramatically from season to season, and they were spectacular. The view was comforting to me, a twenty-something learning my way through life and New York City. On the morning of 9/11, I was readying to leave for my job as a graphic designer at an advertising agency in Manhattan when I decided to open the shades before heading out. I didn't have a television, so I had no idea what I was about to see. Outside my windows, the first tower was engulfed in a massive plume of smoke. I instinctively grabbed my camera and zoom lens, climbed onto my fire escape, and started shooting. At the same time I called my father. His cable television was out of service so I was describing to him what I was seeing. He was almost unable to comprehend my words in the absence of the imagery. It was all too unbelievable. I photographed the second plane as it headed toward the second tower, followed by dozens of images of the buildings burning, their eventual collapse, and the endless smoke that remained. I continued photographing as I walked to the Brooklyn Heights Promenade which overlooks downtown, where people young and old had gathered, staring together in disbelief. I spoke with and photographed those watching from the promenade, along with the candles, flowers, and flags that began appearing there. Someone had even placed their painting of the towers - likely painted years before - on the iron fence overlooking Manhattan. I stayed there throughout the day and into the evening finding solace with strangers. The night ending with a smoke-filled sunset. The acrid smell that drifted across the water and settled over Brooklyn Heights stays with me to this day. The following morning, I took my camera and walked toward the Brooklyn Bridge, only to find it closed and cordoned off by police. So instead, I crossed the Manhattan Bridge, photographing the eerily empty FDR Drive and other arresting, unfamiliar images of the city. In one strange moment amid all of it, it was so quiet that I could hear a kitten mewing from somewhere in the bridge girders. It was trapped and needed help getting to safety. Some passersby and I rescued it, acknowledging the sad irony. Afterward, I continued walking downtown to Ground Zero. Somehow, I was able to make my way close enough to photograph crushed fire trucks and the many rescue workers at the site. Closer still, I captured portraits of firefighters, police officers, rescue dogs, monks, newscasters and others among the throngs of people who had come to help. Eventually I had the film developed and put the photographs away. I’ve kept the collection all these years, never formally publishing or sharing it. Until now, the 25th anniversary. These are a few of the images I captured on those days.