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New York Wandering
by Rachel Quinlivan
I need coffee. This was a thought that often ran through my brain
during my time in New York City. The endless energy found on
this small urban island seemed to require it, and my obsession
was obviously shared with the countless others piling into
Starbucks or Dean & Deluca for a morning jolt. But unlike me, I
found New Yorkers have a 24-hour love affair with coffee;
whether it was 9 a.m. or 9 p.m., there was a line in the nearest
coffee shop.
Perhaps this constant caffeine high helps feed the vitality of
this place. Whatever the reason, that animation is what makes
this city, more than any other, feel like the city of creative
possibility. Manhattan has long been a mecca for countless
artists, musicians, writers, and performers who come to live and
work. Around the corner could be a job at a national magazine, a
chance to paint,
 to write, to perform, all while visiting a
restaurant that Andy Warhol frequented, strolling by a house
that Edna St. Vincent Millay lived in, or watching Vanessa
Redgrave perform on Broadway. It’s a place of opportunity and a
place of inspiration, filled with eclectic individuals just
asking to be imitated, immortalized, and fictionalized.
During one of my many walks in the city, I sat down at a café to
take a moment to observe a small sampling of this large cast of
characters. Sitting by the window I saw couples, singles,
students, dog-walkers, well-dressed businessmen and women, and
young and middle-aged mothers or nannies pushing babies in
strollers. Every emotion and an array of characteristics and
idiosyncrasies were on display—perfect fuel for creative souls.
A large part of my trip was spent touring the literary and
artistic sites that I’d read about, seen in movies, or observed
in artwork. In Greenwich Village, I had to walk down West 10th
Street so that I could see what Clarissa Vaughn in Michael
Cunningham’s The Hours had seen as she walked to get flowers for
her party. Just as I had imagined, it was a street lined with
houses and trees with bright fall leaves barely clinging to
their branches. Little shops dotted the streets, including an
exceptional independent bookstore, Three Lives & Company. It’s
small and quaint and cozy. Michael Cunningham himself described
it as “one of the greatest bookstores on the face of the Earth,”
and said, “I go there when I’m feeling depressed and
discouraged, and I always feel rejuvenated.” Perhaps that’s why
he wanted Clarissa to live near it.
I visited other bookstores during my trip, including Shakespeare
& Company on Broadway. With sections such as Drinking, Smoking,
and Screwing, this independent bookstore is both enlightening
and entertaining. A little further north at the corner of
Broadway and 12th Street is The Strand, named after the famous
publishing street in London and an old literary magazine. It is
said to be the world’s largest secondhand bookstore and claims
to house 18 miles of books. I believe it. It would be quite easy
to spend days browsing the rows and rows and rows of books found
within those walls.
 There are hundreds of bookstores in the city, and I could have
gone to them all, but I also wanted to devote some time to the
city’s art museums. The Guggenheim and the MoMA were required
stops, but one that I had long wanted to visit was the Society
of Illustrators Museum on East 63rd Street. It’s a small museum
housed in an old carriage house in the Upper East Side that
displays a relatively large collection of original
illustrations. I’m always amazed when I see an illustration in
books or magazines, but the original is far more awe-inspiring.
Up close, you can see the pencil marks, brush strokes, and
texture. The colors are more vibrant and the immense talent and
work that went into each drawing is more evident since printing
always seems to take away some of the artwork’s luster. On more
than one occasion I stood in front of a piece, mouth agape,
staring, captivated by what another had created.
There were several moments when I was struck by seeing the
original for the first time. I had to go by the Plaza Hotel that
sits at the southern tip of Central Park to see where Bette
Midler and Lily Tomlin’s characters stayed in that hilarious
comedy, Big Business. I saw the movie when I was young, and it
was one of my first memorable images of the city’s lifestyle and
character. The hotel is now being converted into apartments,
but, for me, it will always be the hotel in that movie that
revealed so much about New York City.
As I walked through a portion of the 843 acres of the park, the
noise of the city was almost inaudible. The horns were subdued,
and I was able hear my feet rustling the leaves underfoot and
the click of the lady’s heels beside me. Runners were out in
full force. The New York City Marathon was the weekend before my
visit, and I was told on several occasions that this is usually
the reason for a renewed running fervor. Musicians were dabbled
throughout. An elderly man soulfully played a saxophone on one
of the shaded sidewalks, while a 3-piece band was set up next to
Bethesda Fountain. It was warm for a fall day, and many people
sat enjoying the music with their eyes closed and turned toward
the sun. I didn’t see anyone with earphones, either—a truly rare
sight.
On my last subway ride before I left, I rather romantically felt
a part of the artistic and creative energy for a moment. I was
sitting on the express train heading back to Brooklyn and looked
up to see that we were passing another subway train in the
darkness of the tunnel. I could see into the other car. The
expressions of the passengers were clearly visible. Most were
reading or listening to their iPods. Some were talking with
friends or sleeping. Everything was dark except the interior of
these two cars, and I thought of the Edward Hopper diner
painting, Nighthawks. Hopper was an artist who lived and worked
in Greenwich Village for decades. He was also intensely private,
and solitude was often a theme of his work. Perhaps it was a
moment like this decades ago that inspired Hopper. Regardless,
it could have been. And that’s what matters in this city.
© Rachel Quinlivan 2007
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