When you're on the subway in New York, people literally could be 11-inches away from you, and you can't just stare at them.
I was raised by a single mother who made a way for me. She used to scrub floors as a domestic worker, put a cleaning rag in her pocketbook and ride the subways in Brooklyn so I would have food on the table. But she taught me as I walked her to the subway that life is about not where you start, but where you're going. That's family values.
When I went to prep school in New York City, I had to ride the subway and learned how to do homework on the train. I can work and read through anything.
I try to preserve whatever balance society has between public and personal life. I never try to eat on the subway. I never try to listen to loud music on the subway.
I like L.A., I really do, but I'm really a New Yorker. In New York, there's a feeling that you're not praised or treated too preciously. No one ever feels too important because someone on the subway will reassure you that you're not.
I'm not like most designers, who have to set sail on an exotic getaway to get inspired. Most of the time, it's on my walk to work, or sitting in the subway and seeing something random or out of context.
Everything in New York is a fight. It's a fight to get on the subway. It's a fight to go to CVS. It's a fight to get a cab. And eventually, it wears you down.
In late 2004, I left my much-maligned home state of New Jersey for the supposedly greener pastures of Astoria, Queens. I'd finally be in the mix, living off the subway line, able to go from audition to audition during the day and from late night show to late night show in the wee hours of the morning.
Any notable moments spent on a subway usually do nothing more than expose human awfulness at its most pronounced.
I am a stereotypical northeasterner. I'm always in a rush. I've attracted stares from out-of-towners when I've shoved past someone blocking the subway door.
