It’s a guy standing in an alley; others are present. The subject is uncompelling.
But observe the composition: the strict adherence to the rule of thirds, the lightening color bands ascending up the frame, the Kubrickian one-point perspective.
Furthermore, observe your own observation: where does your eye start? On the brightest object, the light top left, and the glasses of the serial killer dude, and then across Keith’s baggy orbs, and finally to Macho Scungilli enjoying the shit out of a smoke and a mustache. (It’s not a perfect Fibonacci spiral–there should be a shiny necklace around Keith’s neck–but it’s close enough for rock and roll.)
It’s a guy standing in an alley; others are present. The photograph is art.
Raise a glass to the photographers. To Bob Minkin, and Herb Greene, and Baron Wolman, and Jay Bakesberg, and Jim Anderson, and Erica McDonald, and Ed Perlstein, and Robbi Cohn, and Susana Millman. Raise a glass to Rosie McGee.