About a week after 9-11-2001, I found myself on Coney Island, long after beach hours at sunset, observing a lonely kid building a large structure in the sand. The water kept rushing in, his project kept collapsing, but he kept on building as if nothing else mattered: the monotony and aimlessness were soothing and gratifying in themselves. His architecture was completely dysfunctional, with no claim to permanence or ego—the simple desire to build against and test the elements. Watching from a distance, it also gave me something to do, a natural role and reason to be there—to document this project.

A mere subway token away from NYC, the beach at Coney Island is never really an escape from urban life, but only a replicated play version of it. I have gone back in all seasons over the years since the Manhattan skyline changed so dramatically, and have closely followed the unlimited variety of architectural projects that emerge for the shortest time on the beach, taking note of the customs and games between the people that form them.