Chris Kraus writes this about George Porcari, for a 2009 exhibit she curated in NYC:

Porcari’s remarkable body of work spans almost four decades. Born in Lima, Peru in the 1950s, he emigrated to Los Angeles at age 11 and began taking photographs ten years later to record his own sense of dislocation. In subsequent years, Porcari went on to document his observations of cities (New York, Chicago, Europe, Latin America) through occasional series of photographs, which have also included cinematically- inspired collages, portraits of Los Angeles/international artist friends, the US-Mexican border, and still-lives of an intensely-curated assortment of books.

Porcari attended art school in New York and Los Angeles, but rather than pursue a gallery career he became a professional librarian: a vocation that has allowed him to pursue his wide range of idiosyncratic interests. Describing himself as a ‘photo-journalist,’ Porcari’s visual vocabulary is equally informed by Bresson, Robert Frank, and Vladmir Nabokov. His images are bracingly realistic and incidentally lyrical.
Writing about Porcari’s work, the novelist Veronica Gonzalez has noted “a sense of possibility mixed in with regret … for all these images exist in the present, the present of the work, a desire for cohesion, perhaps enacted here.”

Porcari’s writes this in an essay about his friend, sculptor Jorge Pardo:

“I drove a drunken Pardo home through the dark pretty streets of a forest. We were in a wealthy suburb outside San Francisco where there were no street signs no lights and no visible homes, just trees and the broken white line barely visible with our headlights. One decent thing about money is that your life can belong to you in a way that is not possible without it. I wasn’t being morally superior to these people. Sooner or later we are all “Orlando’s” in this world. But most of us never get much in return for it. At
most a job we can tolerate. Riding home in the dark I could see myself in a nice house with a pool Penny and a couple of high maintenance bitches. What would I do to get such things? How far would I go? I’m a lazy Tupac Amaru. And as for Penny – not a chance – and high maintenance bitches? I donʼt think so. Jorge explained his idea by drawing on a napkin and speaking with total seriousness:
-Taking steel cable you could pull the front of the ready teller with you car.
-YOUR car maybe I’m not pulling anything. Anyway with this fucking car you wouldnʼt even be able to pull a trash can much less a cash machine. Anyway the idea is crazy.
-But why?
-Because we’d be shot!
Jorge’s idea of “hitting” a ready teller machine reminded me of Ronnie a drifter I met on a warehouse job in L.A. in the early seventies. His retirement plan was to hold up a liquor store and to keep doing it until he was killed or got caught and sent to prison. He reminded us that prison wasn’t so bad because you get fed regularly, and the bad stuff you just get used to, like anything else. I believed him but being a young man I figured on doing better. To his credit he didn’t hold that against me. Jorge and I laughed at Ronnie down Market St. but my laughter was considerably less certain than Jorge’s. Downtown San Francisco is over illuminated with yellow street lights and the Victorians seemed theatrical and sinister; Market looked like a street where people were supposed to motorvate but there was no one there except for us. It was so quiet you could hear the sound of electricity running along the sheltering ceiling of wires over the street. After a few blocks in front of a concrete and glass Burger King we saw three prostitutes who looked right through us as if we were invisible. They could see we were broke. When a cab drove by they would get all sexy and start to walk like they were models in some dream fashion show. We were staying in separate places so we said good-by and I go out and turned towards the Haight – I got very popular passing out quarters to all the bums. Some of these people were hippies that time had forgotten. They had become middle aged and had lost their luck.”