Part of the shock of Sept. 11 was finding myself out of town so far away from the disaster with no way to help and so little understanding of what was happening It felt like a bad dream.
Although many people though it unwise to go back home right away, I deciding that although I felt confused, shocked and saddened, no terrorist could stop me from seeing friends, family and the art I love. I decided to write up a few of my experiences to collect my own thoughts and maybe to share them with a few friends.
I realized almost immediately that everyone in Manhattan, especially those who live and work far downtown, had a completely different experience from those of us who watched it all on TV either in replay or real time. Watching the events of the WTC from ones own windows severely shaken and traumatized many of my friends. It is the first thing people talk about wherever you go.
Thurs. Sept. 20, 2001
I take a Greyhound bus, and feeling tense all the way, wondering what I would find. Driving down I-95 I’m aware of all the flags everywhere on buildings, stores and cars but it did not prepare me for New York. Once the bus reached the Bronx I feel the usual excitement and joy I always feel on arrival after a long absence. It is raining and bleak. I couldn’t see the skyline because of the clouds and mist. I see American flags everywhere, on buildings, on the fronts of fancy apartments, on stores. I have never seen anything like it. It is easy to get a taxi but it takes forever to get through traffic, which is much worse than usual. My apartment, on East 21 Street, is opposite the 13th Police Precinct. All the blocks with police stations in Manhattan are now cordoned off. One must show a picture ID and something that proves you live on the block to pass through. (Many times a day I show my swim club picture ID and a copy of my electric bill.) In front of the station house is a small shrine of flowers, photos, candles and flags. It is the first of many such shrines I would see, some small, some enormous. The air smells of smoke and tastes metallic, depending on the wind shifts. Even this far away from the WTC, you know the fires are still burning. I live on allergy pills and keep my air -conditioning on full blast. I have dinner with a childhood friend. On the 11th she watched people stream up 1st Ave. to get away from downtown. We are in a restaurant that is normally quite crowded, but now only four tables are filled. They treat us like royalty - so glad to have patrons.
Friday, Sept. 21, 2001
I have two informal appointments with agents and go to Chelsea galleries. The main topic of conversation is Sept.11. One of my agents is showing a group exhibition of Iranian-American artists. She had been afraid of repercussions and cancelled her opening. In Chelsea the galleries are empty. I met a friend, she and I are alone in the 529 West 20th Street building. We take the elevator from floor to floor to save energy, something unthinkable in normal times. I can’t look at any violent art or cartoon images. But a few beautiful paintings lift my spirits.
After an early dinner on the bus coming home, I see an anti-war demonstration on 23rd St. It confuses and startles me.
Saturday, Sept. 22, 2001
Doing errands in my neighborhood, I talk to people about “the day”. Over and over I hear the same expressions- “its always in your face” , “its impossible to get away from it”. Immigrant shop keepers who often don’t communicate well in English can’t stop talking. I go back to Chelsea to finish the galleries. Many dealers have been closed for more than a week. Some had never opened because shipments of art were tied up. Others are open but with no customers. Only at Mary Boone do I see lots of red dots on $40,000 paintings by Peter Wegner, but these had all been sold before Sept. 11. Many dealers wonder if they can stay in business. But it is a tremendous lift to see a Anish Kapoor concave stone sculpture at Barbara Gladstone. I see exquisite shows of artists new to me- Bill Zima (Perimeter Gallery) and Gwen Hardie (Lindsey Brown) and I remember what is truly important.
In the evening I attend a preview of a play directed and conceived by Claudia Orenstein at Hunter College. It is the first time I go anywhere by subway. I have been hearing how everyone is nervous in closed spaces. I am aware it is my first ride since Sept.11. At the play I stand in for Claudia’s mother (Gloria Orenstein) my close friend who couldn’t make it from LA. The world feels upside down. I pick up paper flags from the nail shop near my house to put up on my front door. Flags everywhere, and posters of missing people from the WTC even on my block. It is hard to read the texts or look at the pictures. The people are so young.
Sunday, Sept. 23, 2001
I decide that I must see Union Square and go further downtown to see for myself what was left of the WTC. Most of my friends can’t deal with it, but a friend from the Bronx, who felt as distanced from it all as I had, wants to go. We agree to met at Union Square. I take my camera. The square has been transformed into an enormous shrine. At the beginning no one was allowed below 14th Street so people gathered here. They still do. Metal fencing has been erected around the grassy areas where the first shrines were made. Now there are new ones. Shrines over shrines. It is a sunny warm day. It could be festive with all the colors and flags but no one is talking; everyone is looking at the candles, pictures of the missing, posters and cards made by school children. It is a mass of colors mostly red, white and blue. There are flowers everywhere. At the north end of the park a fife and drum band plays American revolutionary songs; I hear the strains of Yankee Doodle Dandy. At the south end, a male chorus sings religious tunes a cappella and ends with American the Beautiful. Crowds gather round and join in. I am reminded of “be-ins” of the1960’s and anti-war rallies against the war in Vietnam. .But this is different. It is so sad yet patriotic. Was it like this during World War II? I take a whole roll of film but none of the pictures really conveys how large all the shrines are and how overwhelming. On the street corners people are selling flags in all shapes and sizes, images of the twin towers on t-shirts, cards, or pins.
Now for the really hard part, going south. We take the 3rd Ave bus as far as we can, passing through Chinatown, covered with flags. More shrines. Now it’s all on foot. We cross Chambers Street, and I have to ask where to go. I hardly ever went to the WTC and then always by subway but now the West side trains stop only at Franklin Street. There are people on foot or bicycle, no cars or buses. It is very quiet. You can hear the birds sing. We walk south on Broadway; there are thousands of people; it gets more and more crowded as we get closer to the site. I meet an artist who has a loft on Warren St., only a few blocks from the WTC; she was forced out on Sept. 11 and hasn’t been allowed back. I always envied her loft, now I’m not so sure.
The air is becoming worse and worse; a gray fog has replaced the sunshine. We must walk on the East side of the street. There is no talking from the crowd, except gasps, as we are able to see glimpses of the towers through side streets. Perhaps one could see more clearly on TV but this is real. They remind me of ghost-like cathedrals. I see the building which housed the Winter Garden, a beautiful place I have often been to for flower shows and concerts. All the windows are blown out. A huge flag hangs down from the roof. I see the skeletons of the towers in the distance. The only sounds are the police instructing people to “take your photo quickly and move on”. There are families with small children, people with large dogs, everyone seems to be wearing the flag. The sidewalks are like the subway at rush hour but the crowd is orderly. I make my friend walk as far as we are allowed. It is shocking. There are marshals and guards all around wearing face masks, and I wonder if it safe to be breathing the air.
Walking back to the Eastside subway we pass City Hall, draped in mourning colors. I stop at a friend’s open studio; it was hard to focus on the work. As I head uptown by bus I pass Bellevue Hospital and NYU Medical Center. I see the walls full of posters of the missing, hundreds and hundreds of them. I want to cry.
After dinner with my mother I take a taxi home. The driver is probably from Pakistan or somewhere else in the Middle East, I can’t quite make out his name. I tell him I was at the WTC and ask if he had been too. As I get out, the driver turns to me and says, “Please pray for me”. I am shaken as I promise.
Monday, Sept. 24
I meet with two curators and hear more stories of family members that watched everything from their office windows. In the first days there were over 100 bomb threats a day. People were forced to evacuate Penn Station, Grand Central Station, the Empire State building and all of the hospitals. I pass by a fire house and am overwhelmed by all the flowers, photos etc. Many of these units lost half their companies. Each new shrine is as shocking as the first one. I buy two t-shirts from the police supply store (known as the “gun store”) on my block. I have never been in this store. The t-shirts are being sold to benefit widows and orphans of the disaster. The owner gives me two flags lapel pins. As I start to wear them I think of my liberal activist past, I never thought I would ever wear a flag!
I attend the opening of the Bruegel drawing and print show at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It is a “must see” show. Again I am standing in for Gloria, since her daughter Nadine Orenstein is the curator. A childhood friend from LA comes with me. Friends and family seem more important than ever.
Sunday, Sept. 30, 2001
I have to leave town again, now breathing clean air where everything seems “normal“ I know it is not. I have yet to sleep through the night. Somehow I will get back to my painting maybe I should try using the colors red, white and blue?