What if a park could heal a city’s wounds? For Brooklyn-born photographer Jamel Shabazz, Prospect Park isn’t just a green space—it’s a lifeline, a sanctuary, and a silent collaborator in his decades-long mission to capture the soul of New York. While many revere Central Park as the crown jewel of NYC’s urban oases, Shabazz and a quiet cadre of landscape architects argue that Prospect Park, designed by the same visionary duo (Calvert Vaux and Frederick Law Olmsted), is the true masterpiece. Smaller by 300 acres and nestled in Brooklyn, this park feels like a secret world, shielded from the city’s frenzy by ancient forests and 175 species of trees. Here, natural waterfalls whisper, glacial rock formations cradle emerald lawns, and the skyline’s steel giants fade into oblivion. It’s a place where time slows down—and where Shabazz found his artistic voice.
Shabazz’s journey began in 1980, though his lens first met the world years earlier through his mother’s Kodak Instamatic. Over four decades, he’s become a poet of the everyday, documenting Black and brown New Yorkers with a reverence that turns strangers into collaborators. From hip-hop’s nascent beats to the tender chaos of Pride parades, his work—spanning 12 books like A Time Before Crack and Back in the Days—is a love letter to resilience. But Prospect Park? That’s where his heart beats loudest. During the Covid-19 lockdown, confined to his Long Island home, Shabazz unearthed a truth: the park had been his constant muse. "It was like revisiting an old friend," he says. "A friend who never changed, even when the world did."
But here’s where it gets controversial: Can a park truly be a form of ‘visual medicine’? Shabazz insists yes. His photographs, he argues, aren’t just images—they’re antidotes. Take the 1982 black-and-white shot of four women laughing on a bench. When he posted it online, a stranger messaged him: those were his sisters, three now gone. "That’s when I realized," Shabazz reflects, "my work isn’t just about preserving moments—it’s about keeping memories alive."
Prospect Park’s magic isn’t just in its beauty but in its duality. It’s a stage for joy (a father reading to his son from a tree branch, a girl scattering dandelion seeds like confetti) and a refuge from pain. Shabazz knows this duality intimately. After serving in the military and witnessing the brutality of Rikers Island during his 20-year stint with the Corrections Department, the park became his therapy. "After seeing the worst of humanity," he says, "Prospect Park reminded me of its best."
And this is the part most people miss: Shabazz’s work isn’t just about the park—it’s about connection. At Drummer’s Grove, where drum circles pulse with rhythm, he’s reconnected with subjects he photographed decades ago. His camera, he says, is a compass, guiding him to stories that need telling. "I’m not just taking pictures," he explains. "I’m building a legacy—for myself and for everyone who’s ever stood in front of my lens."
Today, Shabazz visits less often, finding solace at Jones Beach. But when he returns to Prospect Park, it’s a reunion. He brings portfolios to share, reigniting bonds forged through film. As you turn the pages of Prospect Park: Photographs of a Brooklyn Oasis, 1980 to 2025, ask yourself: Can art heal? Can a photograph bridge the gap between past and present? Shabazz’s answer is clear—now it’s your turn. Agree or disagree? The comments section is waiting.
