He’s a good-looking young man, slouching on a bed in his Brooklyn apartment, taking a selfie. Oh, has he pulled out all the stops. He has mounted an old-fashioned plate camera atop a tripod. He has set up a mirror. His dark hair is tightly barbered into a stylish flip. His mustache is neatly trimmed. He is wearing a ribbed, sleeveless white undershirt.

He mugs comically for the camera but is also trying to come off cool, to get a rise out of people. He is a native of Williamsburg. He is everything we’ve come to imagine about the neighborhood since it was rebooted at the turn of this century, transmogrifying from a shabby tenement backwater to the post-hipster, faux bohemian paradise it is today.

Only this young man is not of that Williamsburg. He is of the old one. He is taking this self

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