It is February 10, 2016 at 2pm. I set off toward the Highline with Melissa, Jannat, and Batsheva, bracing myself against the bitter wind blowing through four layers of clothing. I wonder how long it will be before I can no longer manipulate my numb fingers to form letters on the page. We walk through the Meatpacking District, heading for the 16^th street entrance, talking about the notes we will have to take and which points we should be focusing on. I huddle into the safety of my scarf, feeling weighed down by my bag and wishing I could be huddling under a blanket at home instead. The pungent smell of garbage (sewers?) wafts past; we spot the staircase leading to our destination and bolt up, all commenting on the elevator access available (I later noticed a sign pointing out similar accessibility at the 23^rd street entrance as well).

Upstairs, we sit down on benches to collect our thoughts on paper and absorb the immediate surroundings. More benches sporadically line the path, formed by approximately six wooden planks turned vertically, joined by bits of metal and finished off with a slab of gravel sloping off to one side. Some offer another set of wooden planks to support the back.  I turn in place, noting buildings rising to one side, ocean splayed out to another, and streets below hitting yet another side perpendicularly. Short wood planks below my feet are fixed together diagonally, extending to either side and forming a pathway fitting about four across in most places. The walkway, turning slightly as it goes on, is bordered on both sides by strips of bare shrubbery backed by black metal gateways. Gateways vary in design though not in size; some flaunt diamond metal netting while others offer alternating long and short thick metal slabs placed vertically within the structure. There are occasional offshoots from the path, open spaces dotted with benches and bare trees. I am taken with how clean the area is; I notice black bins labeled for ‘mixed paper,’ ‘landfill,’ and ‘bottles & cans’ (green, grey, and blue lettering respectively) placed alongside the path periodically. Few visitors take advantage of the benches due to the biting cold, though I’m grateful for the occasional rest from walking. I break away from my group, using benches as observation bases. I walk from 16^th street towards 30^th, scribbling in my notebook and snapping pictures as I go.

Winter drains colors from my surroundings; plants lie brown against grey pavement and wilt in wait of spring. Artwork dots the pathways, offering color where nature currently lacks. I see structures built by Damián Ortega: Physical Graffiti #1 and Physical Graffiti #3 are three dimensional replications of graffiti created with steel rods. The accompanying placards read:

“Physical Graffiti #2” by Ortega

Damián Ortega (b. 1967, Mexico) is best known for his suspended compositions of common objects, posed as if frozen in choreographed explosions. For the High Line, Ortega extends a recent series of sculptures in the shape of graffiti tags modeled on found tags and bent out of rebar. Installed in three locations above the railings of the park, the flowing rebar script frames different views of the streets and buildings, superimposing handmade writings onto the landscape.

I do not get to the third installation, but I presume it would have been in the inaccessible section of the park. The third section of the High Line – extending from 30^th to 34^th Streets – is currently closed off to visitors.

I do, however, come across another art work by Andro Wekua entitled Window, a simple structure consisting of three glass panels – two rectangular topped by one semicircular. The accompanying placard reads:

“Window” by Wekua

Andro Wekua (b. 1977, Georgia) constructs scale models of buildings from his childhood hometown of Tbilisi out of plaster, wood, steel, and paint – all entirely from memory. For Panorama, Wekua presents Window, a sculpture of a seven-foot-high window he remembers from his childhood bedroom. In the context of Panorama, Wekua’s work raises the question of the psychological dimension of landscape, and its imaginative and emotional power, especially in its stirring memories of home.

The most prominent display of art I notice is set up by David Everitt-Carlson, a middle-aged man dressed in dull black clothing, gloves cut off at the fingertips to allow him to manage the display arranged before him. He is the genius behind iThinkOutsideMyBox, an initiative intended to engage the public in art creation. By around 2:40 I have met back up with the girls and we notice him sitting before a rectangular mat splattered in paint, smiling at passerby and thumbing through a stack of colorful cardboard squares. A cardboard castle rises to his right, similar squares pasted to cardboard slabs, each painted uniquely. Excerpts of Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf plays softly in the background, narrated by the late David Bowie and sparking the interest of a woman that has joined us. David asks for donations while we sit down to paint, explaining that he can maintain his set-up legally (as well as his freedom of expression) as long as he refrains from selling goods. He suggests $5 for adults, $4 for teenagers, and $3 for children – and students, as we counter-suggest. Melissa, Jannat, and Batsheva sit and paint their squares while I jot notes. I chat to the woman beside me about the Beatles that now replace David Bowie.

Aside from the color provided from artwork I notice, advertisements rise high enough to force splashes of color upon visitors along the walkway. They are difficult to ignore; one implores pedestrians to “Love A Tortoise Today!”, promoting conservation, while another highlights parking lot services, slyly whispering “So you can’t parallel park. It’ll be our little secret.” The former catches the eye with a naked woman crouched before a tortoise nearly her size while the latter boasts black lettering against a bright yellow background. The Art Show advertises a little further on, relying on bright red lettering against a black background. The advertisements are simple, but they are few and bright, ensuring attention from High Line visitors.

Along the pathway, I typically feel a sense of calm descend over me. Silence relative to the city descends over this oasis, interrupted only by passing vehicles and snippets of drifting conversation. I catch discussions of rent in surrounding buildings; capitalistic themes are inescapable, even in the aforementioned conversation of art donations. One woman marvels at light poking through tufts of shrubbery lining the path like tan clouds. The yellow light streams from a series of semicircular slits cut horizontally into thin, grey metal rods. Most groups come in pairs, talking softly to one another. Hands are either shoved into pockets or quickly snapping pictures. I wonder if people primarily visit the site for posterity or momentary pleasure. I wonder whether you sacrifice enjoyment when focusing on recording observations for external purposes. I decide to move past my contemplations and close my eyes from time to time, absorbing through my ears that which my eyes see past. By 2:20 I notice a relatively unobtrusive source of noise – there is a continuous hum emanating from a building rising to my left, likely indicative of machinery within. 2:30 proves to be more distracting as I pass by a construction site near 21^st street; I am enveloped by netting hanging from scaffolding, closing the walkway off on one side while a building does the job on the other.

As I continue walking, I am continually struck by the unique architectural elements integrated into surrounding buildings. One grey edifice rises whimsically, jagged edge proclaiming eccentricity along with rounded grey triangles superimposed upon windows spaced like ladders. Another presented itself boldly, composed entirely of large, rectangular windows and thick black panes separating them. Each window is set deeply into the structure, slanted to one side dramatically. There is no rhyme or reason as to which way one window might face, and so all face the way they like, throwing the texture of the building into chaos. As I examined the building, I noticed Professor Williams gazing intensely through its windows. Upon questioning, she explained her methods for uncovering the nature of the building – whether it was primarily commercial or residential. She noted elements strongly supporting her residential hypothesis such as bowls of fruit on the tables and artwork lining the walls. Her observations reminded me of a Radiolab episode in which a woman discovers her new neighbors living across the street have neglected to close the curtains over their bedroom window. She proceeds to observe them and construct theories about their lives and personalities. The story takes a turn for the heart wrenching and may lack credibility to some, but I believe offers commentary on our natural proclivity for people watching (see http://www.radiolab.org/story/living-room/).