The High Line: Auguries of Innocence

I approached the High Line along West 30^th Street, currently its northern terminus. Unknowingly, what I came to first was the old, unrestored elevated railway. Rusted, topped with crumbling concrete, and defaced with graffiti, it rose above construction barricades and cyclone fencing. This wide end of the rail yard spur completely covered the intersection of 30^th Street and 10^th Avenue, like a crude, industrial porte-cochère for the entrance to the park beyond. When the light turned green, a blur of taxis, trucks, and busses zoomed through.

Passing underneath, I emerged from its shadows into the open air. I thought of Frank Lloyd Wright, who characteristically designed low-ceilinged foyers to increase the drama of entering his more spacious interior. Ahead I could see, though barely, the thin line of green vegetation rising from the greenish-black painted steel structure I recognized as the High Line itself. To my right, atop the rust-stained gray concrete of the old rail line a scraggly fringe of autumn brown grasses and weeds fluttered gently.

The sky above 30^th Street narrowed, wedged between the two sections of the line, the old and the new. The street felt considerably narrower still, however, due to the construction fencing along both sides. In defiance of the Great Recession Chelsea is experiencing a construction boom and it’s indisputably due to the success and popularity of the High Line.

As I approached the sleek, shiny steel staircase that would lead me upwards, I found myself suddenly amongst a small throng of people all converging on the same point. No matter. I was thrilled to be there. We ascended patiently, like passengers embarking on an airplane or patrons at an amusement park queuing for a ride. When I reached the level of the park, 30 feet above the street, an elevator door opened next to me and disgorged more “passengers.”

None of this prelude prepared me for the carnival atmosphere I encountered as I stepped into the constant river of people making their way along the narrow pathway atop the High Line. I eased into its flow, carried along on a current of humanity. At first a few spindly trees clung to the edges, rising a bit higher than the human river. These soon gave way to clumps of waist-high ornamental grasses intermixed with yellow and blue flowers. Marvelous as it all seemed, my first impression was less like a walk in a park than one along the boardwalk at Coney Island on a hot summer day.

It was October 2012. The High Line, that unique and influential park, had already been open for three years. Not only was it not new, it had become a sensation, a rock star of urban parks. It had been likened to a flying carpet, to “a suspended green valley in Manhattan’s Alps,” and to Alice’s Wonderland. Cities all over the country, including Milwaukee, were trying to figure out how to emulate its success.

However, on that warm Indian summer afternoon, I was blissfully ignorant of most of this. I had read a brief news report about the High Line when it opened in 2009 and immediately found myself enchanted by the very concept of it. But there had never been a good opportunity to go to it, living in the Midwest as I do.

When the opportunity finally did present itself, I did nothing to prepare for the experience. My mother had died and I was going to NY for the memorial service. (Once again I have her to thank – see my previous post). I tacked on four days to spend in Chelsea and to walk the High Line.

I had done no further reading about it. I didn’t go online and look at the High Line website. I saw none of the now famous pictures that Joel Sternfeld and others had taken of the High Line’s picturesque wildness. I didn’t avoid these things out of some principled belief in the purity of unmediated experience. I didn’t deliberately avoid doing what most people now do out of cultural habit and expectation. That it just never occurred to me to do these things seems in retrospect to have been providential.

I characteristically eschew guided experiences. When I travel I avoid tour groups. I rarely choose to pick up audio guides at museums. Like Ralph Waldo Emerson I want an experience that is my own, not one shaped by prior knowledge. This is merely my natural inclination, though, rather than a philosophical conclusion about the importance of unmediated experiences.

And so I came to be on the High Line with fresh eyes, unprejudiced with anyone else’s expectations – exaltations or disappointments. I came to face the paradox.

There were crowds, yes. But there was no unruliness to them. It was curiously peaceful. The more I walked amongst them, the farther behind I left my impression of Coney Island tumult, of being passengers on an amusement park ride. In its place came the feeling of participating in a pilgrimage, amongst strangers who were nevertheless companions on the road to some sacred shrine.

What were we seeking? There was a semblance of nature, neither a formal garden nor anything like a wilderness. The city surrounded us, but at a distinct remove. The High Line was unquestionably real and yet ambiguous, abstract. We were collectively engaged in imagining… something! Something each of the thousands of visitors brought within themselves, to engage with the world as they found it in this place, like the grain of sand in Blake’s famous line. And to feel the passion of what follows:

To see a world in a grain of sand

And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

I did spend four days in Chelsea and walked the High Line at least once on each of them. The longer I was there the more telling became the parallels with Blake’s epic poem, Auguries of Innocence, most of which is far less well known than that first stanza and which concludes with this:

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.

To be continued.

This is the second of a series from the High Line. To read my first, click here.

The High Line: Good and Bad

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It was a glorious fall day, warm with buttery sunlight, as I made my way slowly along the narrow, tree-lined pathway. I was moving slowly for multiple reasons. First, I was enjoying the sunshine as well as my first experience of the High Line. Second, I frequently paused to inspect intriguing details of the park, which include wildflowers and public art, as well as marvelous panoramic views of mid-town Manhattan. Third, I was in a crush of like-minded revelers, an enormous, snaking parade of humanity out to visit one of New York’s newest, most innovative parks.

And fourth, of course, I was stopping periodically to take pictures. Like just about everyone around me. Spirits were high and the mood festive. A polyglot cacophony of human voices surrounded me, ebbing and swirling as people passed in both directions.

Amidst the many languages and inflected exclamations as I was, I might have passed by without noticing the one installation of public art that had no physical presence. But when I stopped to frame a photograph atop the steel grated “flyover” section of the park I heard a calm, measured voice speaking slowly and deliberately. It was oddly out of sync with the clamor. When I started to pay closer attention I heard the names of animals.

“Cheetah, …goose, …elephant, …hen, …lion, …mongoose,” intoned an invisible voice. The narrator paused and pronounced, “Bad animals: …spider, …bat, …shark, …head lice, …cockroaches….” The speaker must have been hidden under the walkway. Upon nearing it an expression of curiosity would appear on people’s faces and they would slow to figure it out, as I did.

I waited for it to cycle to the beginning: “Good animals: …penguin, …turtle, …swan, …house cat….”

A distinctive circular sign on the railing informed us that it was one of the many public art projects along the High Line, a sound installation by Uri Aran called Untitled (Good and Bad). I wondered how Aran decided which animals were to be considered good or bad. In my own opinion, a couple of the “bad” ones—bats and sharks—have gotten bad reputations for various reasons, but prove beneficial upon objective observation. And at least a couple of the “good” animals—geese and raccoons, for example—often are considered pests.

Then there’s the ambiguity of “goodness” itself. Listed among the “good” animals, the qualities of a rhinoceros look very different to a safari hunter, a naturalist, and a poacher intent on cashing in on the horn.

On another level, every kind of animal has its appropriate niche in the interconnected web of life—even head lice, I guess! The artist, according to the description on the High Line website, is trying to “spark dialogue about the arbitrary nature of classification in language.” It certainly spurred an internal dialogue for me, one that continued beyond classifications and even linguistics. 

The context of the piece, situated as it is at the center of the High Line, led to a larger question in my mind: Can nature be considered “good” and “bad?” Or, more fundamentally, what is nature? The High Line is one of the most unnatural places ever to have been conceived as parkland. Yet one of the amazing things about it, I think, is that it was inspired by nature; by what was perceived by some as wilderness taking over an abandoned elevated railroad.

Are there “good” and “bad” parks? The masses voting with their feet have clearly proclaimed the High Line “good.” I concur. By contrast, some parks, considered unsafe, are shunned by the general public. However, those parks are more likely to be refuges for wildlife. This also seems like a good thing to me. Good animals? Bad animals?

During the past week I spent four days walking and photographing the High Line. Time well spent, I believe. The park is a remarkable accomplishment. But, although it was inspired by the kind of urban wilderness to which I am usually attracted, it can no longer be called one. The website says that the landscape design is “reminiscent of the quiet contemplative nature of the self-seeded landscape and wild plantings that once grew on the unused High Line.” Emphasis mine.

What role should an urban park have in bringing the experience of nature to the citizens of any city? Followers of Urban Wilderness know that I am fully committed to urban parks that enable connections with nature. There has to be room for a variety of experiences and a spectrum of natural features, from formal gardens to outright unmanaged “wildernesses.” New York happens to be large enough to accommodate both. The High Line is a hybrid, exquisitely designed and carefully controlled.

Public art is a significant feature of the High Line’s program, but I submit that the High Line itself is a work of art that will always transcend the installations on and around it. The High Line elevates questions about the intermingled roles of art and nature to a unique level. Pun intended.

This is the first of what I expect will be at least a few meditations on my experiences this week on the High Line. And a lot more pictures. I hope you’ll stay tuned. (Episode 2: Auguries of Innocence.)