Yesterday morning — or it might have been two or three mornings ago, I can no longer remember — I paused on my way to the subway, momentarily entranced by the amber tones of the morning light against the archway of an apartment building. Resigned to missing the 8:25ish C-train, I decided to take some pictures to amuse myself for a few seconds before immersing myself into the impending tedium of the work day.
As I waited for the light to change on Broadway, I admired the pre-war details of the building across the street. I think there is an argument to be made for limiting the height of structures to 6-10 stories, at least in this neighborhood, because it provides a sense of uniformity and sky that is lacking throughout much of the city.
I remembered standing at this same corner one day earlier, and noticed the small changes that the ensuing 24 hours had brought. (In truth, I wouldn’t have remembered anything, but I had photographed it, thus documenting the moment and ‘making it real.’) Before living in Washington Heights, I never had such an acute awareness of how the sun shifts a few degrees north or south each day, so that each one is in fact slightly different than the one that came before it or will follow after.
As I crossed Broadway, I took a picture of my favorite delivery truck, and wished that the modern era supported a more generic sensibility in marketing. (I fondly remembered the movie ‘Repo Man’ in which the Emilio Estevez character eats ‘Food’ out of a can.)
Not for the first time, I was struck by the truth of this message. (Some things bear repeating.)
As I turned the corner, I felt thankful for the presence of the florist — open 24 hours! — which opened just a few years ago and has immeasurably improved the quality of the micro-neighborhood in which I live. My gratitude far outweighed any regret I felt about the garish quality of the bouquets, much less the lamentable presence of ‘baby’s breath.’
As I walked up the street, I approached a couple whose presence seemed to validate my inclination to describe Washington Heights as the most ‘European’ of all New York City neighborhoods.
Ten thousand years ago, this couple used to stroll the great urban park in _____ (before they were force to flee to the United States) as the horse-drawn carriages rolled by. Now they reenact this ritual on the streets of Washington Heights, clearing a path through the drug dealers and gang members, who step respectfully aside.
In the subway station, I contemplated a work of modern art where someone had thankfully ripped down one of the advertisements.
I’ve been writing about these panels for years, of course (but some truths bear repeating): Consider the old panels on the subway platform wall, and observe the finely wrought precision with which each strip of peeling paint has by the hands of time been distressed in the subtlest shades of gold and silver, all displayed in a collage with the glue and paper of generations long deceased. We know there will be many who fail to see the beauty of these forgotten panels, and will respond to our assessment with scorn and disbelief. Yet before you judge, we again invite to you to behold the works in person. Here you have the abstract expression of the city itself, resplendent in decay and neglect, and to observe it for even these few seconds fills us with the transcendent bliss of true insignificance.
I arrived at work, where time passed. At lunch, I went out into the blazing sun, which had turned the streets azure.
A steam vent made the day appear much colder than it actually was.
Back in my office, more time passed. Around 2:30 or so, the sun began to set and I spent a few moments taking pictures of the orange and blue horizon. I thought JK Huysmans, who wrote: ‘And the orange remained pure, strengthened and fanned as it was by the insistent breath of the blues.’
Work beckoned and I turned away, but not before closing my eyes for a second, with the hope to sear the fading image into my mind, where I could contemplate it long after it had disappeared.
