In a cluttered apartment on West 9th Street in Manhattan, a man hunches over a camera.

He's in his early 60s, and his name is Emra Gutner.

He's slight, barely over 5 feet tall, with bright blue eyes, a tough of thinning white

hair and a wispy mustache.

Many smiles, which is often, it is with a toothless grin.

It's 1938.

Times are hard for Emra Gutner, and just about everyone else.

The United States finds itself in the throes of a deep economic recession.

Industrial production has plummeted, leaving millions of Americans, the aging Gutner included,

unemployed, and increasingly desperate.

In Europe, where Gutner was born, fascism has taken hold.

And it feels like another global war is all but inevitable.

The whole world tears apart at the seams, and there's not much left holding it together.

But you would never know it if you were lucky enough to meet Emra Gutner.

He's happy and affable, kind and gregarious, a friend and companion to everyone he meets.

In this moment, though, while hunched over the camera, he's serious and focused.

After his lens is a U.S. $1 bill, he meticulously frames the note, working with an impenetrable

patience and dexterity to get it just right.

He must capture every little detail in perfect focus.

He ignores the chaotic symphony of scrap and junk, heaped around his apartment, junk

he collects on the streets of Manhattan, in hopes of selling it for whatever he can get.

Sometimes, what he spends hours gathering is barely enough for a loaf of bread.

...