When I first ventured to the High Line, I was pretty excited.  Although I had walked for 15 minutes from Madison Square Park, it was about to start raining soon, and it took me awhile to make sure the metal staircase was in fact the entrance, I had a wonderful time experiencing all the galleries and public artwork it had to offer.

My first excursion with the group was to the Sato Sakura Gallery, located on 501 West 20th Street.  It was a breathtaking place.  I felt so peaceful as I walked through the gallery.  All the art was beautiful, but one specifically caught my eye:

A painting by artist Junichi Hayashi, A weeping cherry tree.  The painting greatly contrasted with the environment surrounding it.  The gallery wall was monochrome – solid black.  Black gives off a very solemn, serious aura, and I certainly felt that way while studying the space.  It was like a total void that absorbed all the light, except the art – especially this one in my opinion – seemed to break from that vacuum of nothingness.  I think the reason that the wall was black was to make sure that the person’s vision was focused on nothing but that single piece of art, as if it were the only thing that existed.

This painting caught my attention because it seemed reminiscent of ancient Japanese ink wash paintings, except it utilized more color beyond the usual black on parchment.  The pastel pink and white blossoms of the cherry tree remind me of clouds in their softness of shape and their calming appeal; on the other hand, the trunk and pale brown branches of the tree are gnarled, decrepit, but they appear both powerful and fragile.  This is the image of a tree simply being within nature, bowing and bending with the wind.

When I walked south on the High Line, I had a debate with myself as to what constituted public art.  There were so many things that I could have chose, but I wanted to choose something that really spoke to me, something that I felt a connection with.  I found it in this:

I can’t read it, but I instantly recognized that the language written on the pure white background was Arabic.  Below, it reads in bold black English lettering: “This book belongs to its owner Fathallah Saad.  He bought it with his own money at the beginning of March 1892”.  I had no idea who Fathallah Saad was, and I didn’t understand the significance of the art at first.  I thought maybe it had a political message.  The environment surrounding it convinced me of that.  I don’t really know why.  It was painted on a giant blank wall of a building next to a bustling street in Chelsea, located next to another public art space depicting Mother Theresa and Gandhi.  In a space like that, it seemed like the artist wanted it to reach a large amount of people.

It turns out that I was right.  The work is “AP 3851” by Emily Jacir; Jacir is a Palestinian artist.  It came from an installation called ‘ex libris’ (2010-2012), and it was described by the Alexander and Bonin Gallery as being a project commemorating the 30,000 books from Palestinian homes, libraries, and institutions that were looted by Israeli authorities in 1948.  Six thousand of these books are kept at the Jewish National and University Library in Jerusalem under the designation “A.P.” – Abandoned Property.  Jacir took multiple trips there to photograph these books.  When I found this out, I knew why I connected with the art so deeply; it reminded me of the pictures of street art from Palestine that I always saw on social media.

I think that this trip has taught me that the environment surrounding your art can in fact make or break it.  If A weeping cherry tree had been squished next to other artworks, leaving the wall barely visible, I wouldn’t be able to study it as deeply, notice the small details, or develop an appreciation for the uniqueness of the art.  Likewise, I think the fact that there was so much going on in the environment surrounding the public art space is what made it better.  The blankness of it caught my eye in such a chaotic, constantly-moving and ever-changing area, and I was able to develop my own impression of it because its location reminded me of something else.  Art really doesn’t just exist within a frame; it’s part of the world around it, too.