City nights.
Feb. 7th, 2011 10:10 pmSaturday night my grandmother usually takes me and my younger brother out to a fancy dinner somewhere in the city. Since my gallery internship's on Saturdays and pretty far south on Manhattan, well below where most of the restaurants are, I've taken to walking over instead of catching a subway ride. Since most of what I do involves sitting at a computer, it's nice to get on my feet and move for a half-hour or so and unwind that way, and it's a chance to see parts of the city in new ways. I've learned a little more about the local topography around the gallery, and the layout of the city's streets and how they connect with each other.
There was a false start this last Saturday: I thought I was going the wrong way, turned around and headed back for directions, and then went back on the way I'd started which was right all along. When I got on track, it was a half-hour of living a Warren Zevon song before turning to an artist stereotype, going from Soho to Greenwich Village during a light rainfall. I didn't get to take as much time as I wanted to see the sights and linger at windows, thanks to getting turned around, but I didn't really need to, not to enjoy myself.
It wasn't raining hard, and even saying it was raining is being generous. It was more of a dense low-velocity mist, the sort of low clouds that gives the air texture and light shape. Car headlights pointed the way like lances; steam coming out of vents billowed like smoke and with the same weight. Even the trees were different, the light reflecting off the water on the branches drawing their edges in sharp, bright lines. When I moved, I could feel the water around me, and if I stood still, it was hard to remember it was there, it felt so light, I was barely getting wet - but I wasn't standing still except in doorways to check the directions, and even then, there was so much of it to see. Swirling underneath streetlights, diffuse enough to see every single drop, but fast enough I couldn't see them one at a time, just all at once.
Little side alleys still with cobblestones got glances and nothing more as I went along, and I wished it was all right for someone like me to set out at night and do nothing but walk and walk and take it in, just to see - not even to observe or pass judgment. I need to find the time and space for that, since I've been so well taught it's not safe to do such things alone. If I had someone with me, it'd break the moment.
I went from busy streets to smaller ones, past tiny shops with bright dresses and clever displays. They weren't quite as interesting as looking up and seeing tiny fire escapes that weren't connected to each other, leading me to think about the idea of one-person balconies for summer nights with the residents hanging around outside to escape the heat, or just a spot for a few potted plants to get some sun. The lack of bright colors, little left besides shades of brown and black, and the depth and richness of the ones I could see that were reflected and magnified by shining through the water. Surprising parks lodged in triangles where three streets crossed each other as counterpoints to buildings stuck at other points, every square inch used for something, even if it's just a place to sit. There's no room for nothing in New York City. But there's still space to wonder.
There was a false start this last Saturday: I thought I was going the wrong way, turned around and headed back for directions, and then went back on the way I'd started which was right all along. When I got on track, it was a half-hour of living a Warren Zevon song before turning to an artist stereotype, going from Soho to Greenwich Village during a light rainfall. I didn't get to take as much time as I wanted to see the sights and linger at windows, thanks to getting turned around, but I didn't really need to, not to enjoy myself.
It wasn't raining hard, and even saying it was raining is being generous. It was more of a dense low-velocity mist, the sort of low clouds that gives the air texture and light shape. Car headlights pointed the way like lances; steam coming out of vents billowed like smoke and with the same weight. Even the trees were different, the light reflecting off the water on the branches drawing their edges in sharp, bright lines. When I moved, I could feel the water around me, and if I stood still, it was hard to remember it was there, it felt so light, I was barely getting wet - but I wasn't standing still except in doorways to check the directions, and even then, there was so much of it to see. Swirling underneath streetlights, diffuse enough to see every single drop, but fast enough I couldn't see them one at a time, just all at once.
Little side alleys still with cobblestones got glances and nothing more as I went along, and I wished it was all right for someone like me to set out at night and do nothing but walk and walk and take it in, just to see - not even to observe or pass judgment. I need to find the time and space for that, since I've been so well taught it's not safe to do such things alone. If I had someone with me, it'd break the moment.
I went from busy streets to smaller ones, past tiny shops with bright dresses and clever displays. They weren't quite as interesting as looking up and seeing tiny fire escapes that weren't connected to each other, leading me to think about the idea of one-person balconies for summer nights with the residents hanging around outside to escape the heat, or just a spot for a few potted plants to get some sun. The lack of bright colors, little left besides shades of brown and black, and the depth and richness of the ones I could see that were reflected and magnified by shining through the water. Surprising parks lodged in triangles where three streets crossed each other as counterpoints to buildings stuck at other points, every square inch used for something, even if it's just a place to sit. There's no room for nothing in New York City. But there's still space to wonder.
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