Passing Words: Stephanie Chernikowski

"Hey," the soul said and Peter, normally more formal and kind of extra, replied, "Alley" and gestured to the path with his head. The soul nodded appreciatively, because said alley had some grit to it, some roughness, some atypical heavenly trashiness (because that golden sparkle crap was nuts). The soul walked in, glad to see somebody passed out in a doorway, serious eyeliner trails from lashes to chin. The soul clicked its tongue; this was all right. Somebody was blasting The Pogues and a straw-thin bit of androgyny was squatting on the sidewalk ripping fishnets so they (presumably) wouldn't look like a Rockette at the next rave. The soul reached down for the camera that had always been there in life ... and was still there, ready and waiting. Afterlife - afterpunk - was gonna be lit.

In memory of Stephanie Chernikowski, who died this past April at the age of 84. Chernikowski spent her life photographing the punk rock scene from its first sputters onward. Finding the beauty in the broke and crumbling, the shouts of rebellion, the refusal to bend, Chernikowski remained true to punk to her death, calling it "rough magic".