Art by Gürbüz Doğan Ekşioğl, (from Istanbul, Turkey). Françoise Mouly: “When coronavirus quarantines were announced, more than a year ago, artists began sending in sketches about our new, locked-in reality. One of those sketches, from Gürbüz Doğan Ekşioğlu, who is based in Istanbul, looked far ahead, imagining the thrill and poignancy of a world reopening. Today, the pandemic is far from over, but many countries are finally exhaling, and it seemed apt to publish Ekşioğlu’s image.”
How do you sum up something that’s so huge?” asks Alexei Hay. “One of the only answers is the emptiness, the thing that speaks to whatever everybody’s going through. The absence is more telling than taking a picture of anybody.” Not long after the citywide clampdown began, Hay, like a lot of photographers, realized this was a fleeting extraordinary moment, one he wanted to document in a grand way before it was gone. What’s on view here is neither a completely depopulated New York nor its usual bustling self but something eerily stuck in between. These are middle-of-the-night photos shot in broad daylight, snow-day pictures without the snow…
The very overfamiliarity of some of the sites — the Flatiron Building, St. Patrick’s Cathedral — is paradoxically what, at this one unusual time, keeps you looking. Nothing is visibly wrong, exactly, but everything is wrong. Ordinarily, if you see pictures of normally busy and now deserted streets, it’s the emptiness that gets you, as your mind goes right to Vanilla Sky or the Rapture. Here, the thing that triggers alarm is not the absence of people. It’s when you see the few souls who are out and about, and they’re less than six feet apart.
~ Christopher Bonanos, from “New York, Four Weeks In Portrait of an empty city.”
Don’t miss Alexei Hay’s photos in the New York Magazine: April 13, 2020.
NEW YORK — Ovations are on pause in the theaters and concert halls and stadiums of this city. But they haven’t ceased. They’ve just moved into the streets. Like clockwork, they happen, every evening at 7. Up and down Manhattan — and probably the Bronx and Staten Island, too — cheers ring out from apartment towers and brownstones, along with the sounds of rhythmic chants, applause and whistles. The denizens of this city of ordinarily high-decibel levels kick them up an ample notch at this hour for the doctors and nurses and technicians and administrators and custodians of the beleaguered ICUs and ERs. The new urban ritual, which is catching on in other cities, coincides with the shift break of hospital staffs, when medical workers emerge from the covid-19 war zone into the open air, to go home for a spell or smoke or eat or otherwise decompress…The tumultuous reception accorded the hospital workers, though, is no cry of despair. It is an impromptu curtain call, of multitudinous thank-yous, from a vast audience rooting for everyday heroes. It’s New Yorkers joining in a chorus, singing out in solidarity: “We are here.”
~ Peter Marks, from “The nightly ovation for hospital workers may be New York’s greatest performance” (Washington Post, April 6, 2020)
Late to bed Tuesday night, following long return flight from Phoenix.
Late jump Wednesday morning.
4th morning train to NYC.
Light misty rain.
And, Terry Tempest Williams continues to lay tracks.
“In the end, it’s rarely the large gestures that count, it’s the small ones.”
My antenna is up.
On train, a middle aged man gives up his seat for a lady. She’s not young. Not old. Not pregnant. He just does it. And stands for the entire 55 minute ride.
At Grand Central Station, Construction worker, hard hat under his arm, looks behind as he crosses the threshold of the exit, sees me coming, holds door open. I was several yards back. Let’s say 10 yards back. Rare occurrence. It was a conscious act. Everyone is exhausted with political attacks, the lack of civility. How about some decency today?
And the gestures, small, keep coming.
Flight to Phoenix. Elderly lady sits in aisle seat. Not her seat. “Would you mind taking the window seat.” She gestures asking him to lean closer: “I have a bladder problem.” He slides across and takes the window seat. “No problem.” She exhales.
Susan out for a morning walk in Phoenix. She returns to tell me “the most unbelievable story.” I roll my eyes. Can’t wait to hear this. She comes across a lady walking “Sunny”, a Golden Doodle. Lady asks where we’re from. Susan explains. “Here to visit my husband’s younger brother. He’s hospitalized and breathing with the aid of a ventilator.” Lady pauses to assess the receptiveness of her planned gesture. “I’m sorry to be so forward, but would you mind if I said a Prayer for him and for you.” And then proceeds to reach for Susan’s hands, and Prays.
I walk across Fifth Avenue. It’s 7 a.m. E.S.T. and 4 a.m. in Phoenix.
He’s sleeping now, machine pumps oxygen into his lungs.
I stand waiting for the cross walk sign to turn.
I look up, light drizzle brushes my face, three flags flap over a major hotel entrance.
I inhale deeply, and then exhale, and this Agnostic fires up his own Prayer.
Breathe Bro. Breathe.
Photo: Mine with smartphone. At Times Square yesterday morning, at the end of my cross-town walk. NYC awakening.
Tuesday morning. 5:33 a.m. Second morning train to Grand Central.
I pause in front of the empty aisle seat. The occupant, feigning sleep, awakens immediately after my “excuse me.” He looks up the train car wondering why I hadn’t found another seat. He slides over roughly signalling displeasure. Bullsh*t.
I set my bag down onto the floor, reach down to grab my iPad, and in doing so, I clip his arm which extends into my air space. Ladies, no worries. I size up opponents carefully before jostling them. He tucks his elbow in. I settle in, with territorial boundaries established, and all parties now in their rightful places.
I catch a whiff, it lingers for a minute, it’s foul, and then it disappears. I go back to reading.
The train makes its first stop at Stamford. Doors hiss, open, passengers pass by, and there it is again. B.O. Heavy, thick B.O. This time it hangs. It can’t be me. Has to be Him. It vaporizes. It can’t be Him, otherwise it would persist. I go back to reading.
Passenger passes by, and there it is again. I glance around to locate the source and then look up, and there resting (rotting?) on the overhead rack is a large, canvas backpack. Directly over top of Him. Cigarette smoke penetrates my suit jacket, does B.O.?
Train arrives at Grand Central. I get up quickly, woosy, with vertigo, looking up after 30 minutes with head in the morning papers. I exit into the underground tunnels. Head spinning, ears ringing from the roar of the train engines, the heat, the crowds spilling down the tunnels, all swallow me whole. I step to the side out of traffic, slow my pace, take a few deep breaths and inhale a trace of urine and rancid food from garbage cans marinating overnight.
I enter Grand Central terminal, look for the Lexington Avenue exit and punch my destination into the UBER app.
I step on Lexington and cross the street to catch my ride. We take FDR Drive South, and the morning sunrise pours through the window. 21 minutes to the office.
“Would you mind if I opened the window?”
“No Sir, not at all.”
I roll the window down. I can smell, and taste the East River. The water shimmers and sparkles. The Sun warms my face. The morning breeze is refreshing, and clears the head. The world is silent but for the wheels spinning on FDR Drive. Buechner’s passage from the day before comes to mind: “we hear a whisper from the wings…you’ve turned up in the right place at the right time.”
I will remember this.
Notes: Photo via poppins-me.
3:25 pm. I step out of 111 Wall Street, downtown Manhattan.
30 min to get to midtown. Tight.
Rain sprinkles.
Uber: “Car unavailable at this time.” Wow.
I walk up the block to the intersection. Look in all directions. No cabs. Please.
Walk up another block. Nothing.
Walk across the street. Nothing.
Walk across another street, and he rounds the corner, my right arm flies up. Bam.
“525 5th please…”
He doesn’t repeat it. Did he get it?
He has no smartphone. No GPS. No smart re-routing around traffic.
24 minutes.
No radio blaring. No TV screen behind front seat shouting ads.
No water bottle or coffee cup on console.
No crucifix on thin chain hanging from rearview mirror. No patron saint. No Jesus Saves.
No pics of loved one(s) on dash.
No ring on his finger. None on his ear or his nose.
No sunglasses on visor. No eyeglasses.
No NY Post on the seat.
No box of Kleenex or NY Mets baseball cap in door pocket.
12 min and 3 miles out. [Read more…]
Thursday. Metro North train pulls into Grand Central. The morning calendar is light. I’m in no rush to get across town to the office.
I sit on the train reading Ocean Vuong’s new book: On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. Justin Torres’ book review: “the book is brilliant in the way it pays attention not to what our thoughts make us feel, but to what our feelings make us think.” And he’s got it exactly right.
I sip it page by page.
The train clears, and I sit alone. Train engines shut down. Air conditioning rests. I sit in silence.
I finish the chapter, with eyes skimming Vuong: “We sidestep ourselves in order to move forward.”
I tuck the iPad into my bag. I pause for another moment to enjoy the quiet.
‘Our feelings make us think…” and I feel just below the surface of the skin, the pull, it tugs, whispering: It’s time, it’s time you get back after it. You had your moment.
‘We sidesteps ourselves…’
I resist the pull for another moment, noting its strength, bordering on a Tsunami. Please, give me another moment. Just one.
I grab my bag and walk.
Instead of 47th, I walk up one block and take 48th street. Mixin’ it up a bit.
Silver Star Spa. Small door for an entrance. Chipped paint. Sketchy. “Best Asian massage in NYC.” I bet. [Read more…]
Second train of the morning.
Arrive at Grand Central Station.
Traders, Bankers, Morning Hawks gather at the exit.
Car door slides open and the throng spills out.
I pick up the pace. Heart’s pumping. I’m passing Suits. And accelerating.
I Pass Harvard.
I Pass Yale.
I Pass MIT.
I Pass Lori’s Princeton.
I Pass Stanford.
I Pass Prep School boys from Choate, Exeter. Deerfield Academy.
I’m in front now, shoes tapping on the marble floors, Exit 500 feet ahead.
Boy from a 1 room, 3-grade public classroom in Ootischenia. Graduate of Northern Michigan University.
I step through the double doors to exit Grand Central onto Madison.
20° F wind gust roars down 47th street, eyes flood with water.
New York City! The Big Apple. You made it!
Cold bites, tears flow, and flow. And flow.
Cross walk sign turns.
I’m alone.
In front now.
Not done yet.
Not far enough ahead.
Not yet.
Photo: The city never sleeps, Atelier Olschinsky (via this isn’t happiness)
