In his debut monograph, Commuter, Bill Ellis reflects on the isolation of transit. Splitting time between New York City and rural Pennsylvania during a long-distance relationship, and working as a driver on a delivery truck, his commute started to feel more familiar than any home.
Ellis’s New York City is not a fixed place, but rather a thing slipping past: a reflection caught in a passing building facade; a hand gripping metal to steady against the rush; a tattered banner fluttering like a map without borders. In Pennsylvania, nature is present, but only as something glimpsed—blurred, out of reach. And, moving through it all, there is Ellis, offering a fragile insistence of presence in a world that does not wait.

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