High Line Field Notes

-Maryam Choudhary

2:00pm. The amateur ethnographer had been standing inside the Chelsea Market entrance for maybe twenty minutes. She observes her surroundings.

She reads a sign: Welcome Pfizer

Hmm. I should look that up.

The people inside Chelsea Market are bustling. The amateur ethnographer notes the people just walking in. Some are rushed. All look relieved to be out of the cold. Everyone is so bundled…except for that one man in a t-shirt. How? She notes as some of the newcomers excitedly unbutton their coats and remove their gloves. They can finally look at their phones without risking frostbite. I should invest in some texting gloves.

2:15pm. The amateur ethnographer steps outside the Chelsea Market entrance and into the cold.

Wow. I’m not even that cold. It must be the jacket.

She turns the corner and feels the wind forcefully blow on her face. Dang. It’s cold. She tries to change her mindset. This is refreshing. Really. She excitedly walks towards the High Line stairs. A classmate compliments her ribbed ear warmers. “It looks cute with your ponytail,” she says. The amateur ethnographer thanks her. She suddenly becomes aware of the swing of her ponytail. It makes her feel upbeat. I like the cold.

2:20pm. The amateur ethnographer continues to walk towards the High Line. She notes the street environment. This area is so dead. She considers this dull street to be a passageway towards something so much more…grand. I’m like Harry Potter before he enters Diagon Alley. This passageway smells like fish.

The amateur ethnographer thinks of her visit to the High Line this past September. It was poppin’. She begins to make assumptions about what she might see up there.

She passes a group of male workers conversing while enjoying a smoke. Smells good.

2:25pm. The amateur ethnographer is taken aback. This is a ghost town compared to how it usually is.

Emptiness. The absence of liveliness—of people—is evident. The amateur ethnographer is struck by the grey. There are no colors to juxtapose it. Dang. This is an empty wonderland. She tries to change her mindset. I’ll look for remnants of the enchantment. Something must be lingering.

2:45pm. The amateur ethnographer takes out her phone to record her observations. The High Line is not as desolate as she immediately thought. There are people here. Who would willingly come out to endure this cold?
Along the grey pathway, conversation can be heard. The amateur ethnographer notes multiple languages. The tone of voices leads her to believe the discussion is not serious. Casual conversation. Am I allowed to generalize like this?

2:55pm. Birds are chirping. Isn’t it winter. Why are they still here? Hmm. The amateur ethnographer is reminded of The Catcher in the Rye. Where do the ducks go when the pond freezes over? Hmm. Maybe that question is irrelevant.

3:05pm. The amateur ethnographer mourns her dead phone battery. This pencil and paper will have to do. As she walks by, groups of people —families, friend groups and co-workers— look at her inquisitively. Hmm. Do I look strange? Or do I look like a journalist. More importantly, do I look old enough to be a journalist?

3:15pm. The amateur ethnographer reviews her notes. Lonely benches. The recurring site of a Holden Caulfield hat. So many people with quality cameras. What are they capturing? Why am I too awkward to ask?

In September this graffiti sculpture was a stand out. Now it blends in with the scenery. Hmm.

3:20pm. The amateur ethnographer sees the construction mesh. Obstructing the view. Cutting the path size in half. She stands in one spot for several minutes. It occurs to her that not a single passersby has run into her as she occupies the entire path. Dang.

3:30pm. The amateur ethnographer reflects on a conversation she had with a man. An artist. He encourages people to paint whatever they wish on a small 3”x3” square canvas.

A structure is made up of these acrylic masterpieces. The amateur ethnographer is enchanted by the color exploding from this public art.

The artist stands there in the cold with an archaic version of texting gloves: the fingers are cut off. Nice.

3:35pm. The amateur ethnographer smells fresh bread from a restaurant below. I could eat. Time to go.