As it so happens, I had my own experience with the High Line and her artists. During my first spring in New York, my mother visited me and we toured the city together between those pesky midterms. We strolled through Union Square one day and spotted a man selling tiny photographs of the city. It turned out that he made his own pinhole cameras (aka camera obscura) with little tins and old film canisters and then sold his work. An amateur photographer who once developed her own film, my mother eyed the photographs and, probably remembering our string of extravagancies and acting with her usual consumer's hesitation, moved on. I mentally noted the man and his wares and resolved to come back at a later date.
For the better part of a year, I made sure to glance at the artwork in Union Square on my way to dumplings or Italian pastries or the occasional performance. Then, my roommate and I hauled our weary feet up the two flights of stairs to the High Line and slowly meandered above the street.
He was there! I gushed and jabbered and told him of my search. It would seem that Union Square had become too commercial for him (unsurprising, especially after six years of vending in the same location) and the High Line is now is regular spot.
The photograph I ultimately bought for my mother is black and white and was probably taken in Brooklyn. Two adjacent apartment windows form dark frames, capturing the Brooklyn Bridge in one and the Manhattan skyline in the other.
|mom with soon-to-be cousin Andrea|