The chilling, nails-on-a-chalkboard-like sound of strings open “The Ninth Floor,” an intensely emotional look at some of the 20 to 30 drug addicts who shared a ninth-floor apartment overlooking the ritzy 5th Avenue in Manhattan.
Any discomfort caused by the initial screeches does anything but disappear as eye-popping images of bloody arms, submerged needles, punctured tongues, and several somewhat frightening cats.
Joe Smith with cat.
Joe Smith, pictured above, was the lessee of the apartment. Jessica Dimmock, a student at the International Center of Photography at the time of the project, identified the de facto landlord a man who was “once a part of the fabled New York art scene of the 1970s and ’80s.” During the course of the three-year endeavor, the apartment spiraled into something of a madhouse as Smith’s guests began replacing rent with deposits of drugs and drinks. Amid the descent, Dimmock achieved unfettered access to the debauchery of the apartment on the ninth floor, although according to her it was less of an achievement of skill than it was a waiting game. “The most important lesson I learned — and a lesson I’m trying to teach myself again — is that this takes a lot of time,” she said. “You say, ‘Why don’t I just go out and do it again?’” The answer to that question, she said, can be found by watching the slide again. “It is a lot of work.”
Intimate access.
Before long, Smith landed himself in the hospital, and the visitors found themselves evicted. Although what happened to the artist-turned-addict godfather of the group is unknown, Dimmock did make the effort to keep up with some of the former dwellers of the apartment on the ninth floor. She invites viewers to share in the raw, sometimes painful experiences of the group with slight dramatic music; overpowering photos; and bare, honest voiceover. The interviews are no more dramatic than when Dimmock allows their voices the full attention of the stage, sans photos for up to eight seconds at a time. “A lot of the multimedia stuff was actually an afterthought,” Dimmock said. “It all started when I began studying photography in New York. As I was walking one night with my camera, some guy approached me. He was gregarious, craving attention, suggested I photograph him, and let me know he was a cocaine dealer.”
After meeting the inhabitants of the ninth floor through her drug-dealing subject, Dimmock decided to pursue the project, which culminated in a book published by Contrasto. It was her supportive publisher, Dimmock said, that encouraged the accompanying audio slideshow.
Once gone from the apartment, the former roommates paths diverge for the most part, and Dimmock catches the most intriguing moments on film, from a mother smiling at her recovering daughter to the daughter, smiling at her relapsed veins.
Jessie's mother, smiling.
Jessie, smiling
Using images such as those above, Dimmock was able to illustrate the wildly contrasting, sometimes complementary sensations felt by addicts and their families.
Evocative, though not necessarily a cautionary tale; brave, though certainly not praiseworthy, the show avoids the common stereotypes associated with the drug story. Nonetheless, whether it was a conscious decision of Dimmock’s or a natural tendency of the drug story, a bit of redemption manages to round out the end.
“There was a time when I was watching it a lot, and it kind of made me squirm,” Dimmock said. Now, when she looks it over again, she said the images of Jessie in the hospital are what give her pause. “She was creeping toward death,” Dimmock said. “She was just in a miserable place.” The results weren’t so dreary for all the subjects involved, however.
“It lets you really see that human beings are inherently good,” said Dionn, a main subject of the story and the father of a healthy infant girl. “We learn bad. I mean, there’s nothing bad in this little girl. She’s just nothing but good. Right?” Dionn asks as shots of his young daughter’s smile light the screen. Dommick allows little Matilda’s laugh to respond. “huh huh.”
Matilda.
