Sanctuary

On a handsome August New York City afternoon I decided to wander midtown. I had just finished a late morning workout and my plan was to walk down 7th Avenue towards 34th street, hitting some favorite spots as I headed downtown. I took my camera from my handbag as I reached 35th and 7th, one of the great Manhattan corners. It’s got everything a street photographer could ask for when shooting a random, impersonal urban image. Mercurial shifts in compositional elements, saturated light on bodies, rapid changes in position and geometry, generating the constant promise of a great picture. The vibrant red of the 99 cent pizza sign over the busy slice joint giving context to the scene, the afternoon sun warm, the smell of charred dough and industrial cleaning solution on the sidewalk mixed with marijuana and exhaust and perfume and old garbage. People streaming into the viewfinder, shooting wide on a 24mm lens, a pure joy. Timing is critical, waiting for the perfect synchrony of motion, an urban mosaic, every few seconds an entirely new cast entering into view. My eye pressed to the back of the camera, a complete immersion, a momentary universe. It’s easy for me to get lost in a viewfinder, and without realizing I drop out, almost forgetting where I am, completely inattentive, oblivious, unguarded. Until the shouting began. Moving into view to the left of the frame in camera was a man, towering over everyone on the street. His black backpack laden and heavy, he used his long arms to swing it at people as they walked, bellowing and lurching and full of sudden and unexpected menace. In New York City it’s always beneath the surface, buried in the back of one’s mind that at any time arbitrary decisions by total strangers have the potential to derail the day. It’s a possibility and a threat that I assess routinely as a female photographer on the street. But I am never adequately prepared for the immediacy of being in the presence of someone like the man thundering toward me as I stood with my camera. Enveloped in a sudden, dead panic, I jumped out of his path and into the gutter, stumbling awkwardly over a pile of garbage and nearly falling into traffic, my camera swinging wildly. He careened past me at the last moment, fixating instead on a lone middle aged woman who was immersed in her smartphone, standing a few feet from where I stood. She was entirely unaware of his presence, even with the guttural and angry speech, jarring and ugly and terrifying. He accosted the woman, who suddenly raised her head to see a heavily built male, his contorted face thrust into hers, shouting obscenities. As pedestrians scattered, she tried to dart away but he followed, and began to chase her on 7th Avenue heading uptown. He struck at her, all the time bellowing and screaming expletives. I began to search frantically for a police car, as I pulled my phone out, calling 911. The scene quickly dissipated, forgotten as the sound of his voice moved up the avenue. The street had instantaneously swallowed the tumult, normalcy returning to those of us observing, the lucky ones not being maniacally chased up 7th Avenue.

I made it downtown, making a few obligatory street pictures just for the practice. I was uncomfortable and angry and couldn’t manage a decent image. Finding myself on Elizabeth Street, I entered the sculpture garden that I had not visited in nearly two years. In every corner of the garden I saw women….young, middle aged, elderly. Sunbathing, many swapping hardcover books for iPhones, an unusual sight and a subtle signal that I was in an uncommon space.

Some were lost in conversation. I imagine what they are saying, intent on issues I can’t guess at, exchanges private and consuming, sometimes smiling, sometimes thoughtful. A sense of order and tranquility, best friends on a weekday meeting in New York City. Unwritten rules unspoken but clear. No smoking, all dogs on leash, no music or loud talking, a mutual respect without need for enforcement. A safe space for women.

Some are lone figures, most with books but some with paintbrushes or pens, able to find a position in the garden seen but not necessarily observed, solitude found in a public place.

I felt that I had lost time for having misplaced my memory of its existence. How many times had I walked down Mott or Mulberry, forgetting Elizabeth Street, hot and tired, or cold and drained, life in New York City a grind on some days, loss of heart a daily battle? How I would have liked to have found a stone bench in the garden.

I had the vague knowledge that the City of New York had plans to sell the plot of land to a developer, and that the construction would include housing for over 100 senior citizens as well as some people experiencing homelessness. Recently I learned there would also be luxury retail included in the project (after all, it is SoHo). A combination of a socially important development and high end profit opportunity that has galvanized the neighborhood in a years long effort to preserve the garden in a city neighborhood without any other green spaces. By providing the city with alternative construction sites for the project, the conservancy that manages the Elizabeth Street Garden has been fortunate to postpone the potential inevitability of the loss of the garden.

During my absence, the garden has evolved from a quaint respite in Nolita into a sanctuary. A sanctuary for everyone and anyone needing time away from the amplified cadence of life in modern New York City….but most especially, a kind of critical refuge for women. Women who come to the space to exist unguarded for a short period in a city that has lately suffered through grinding repetitions of a distressing storyline: women and those identifying as female harassed, pushed down stairs and in front of oncoming subway trains, punched in the face while out on errands. As I write, in the last few days, an elderly Manhattan woman punched in the head while out walking her dog, and another 62 year old woman pushed onto Brooklyn subway tracks.

Since I picked up a camera nine years ago, I have photographed many people living in the streets. My experiences as a single parent suffering in the financial margins opened a world of perception that I hadn’t been able to perceive in my 20’s and 30’s. The dull familiarity of a word like “home” for most people—a word used countless times during the course of a day—has changed, becoming an essential issue for anyone wondering if they will be able to own a home, anyone concerned about the rent, those of us growing older who lie awake at night worrying about a future unanticipated.

There are two sanctuaries in the balance. One alive, and one imagined. A projected refuge for over 100 elderly individuals, a percentage of chronically homeless included. A permanent housing solution for a very lucky few in a city that has hundreds of thousands indexed for affordable housing, section 8, or anything at all outside of a homeless shelter. A tiny minority of beneficiaries when compared to the colossus of desperate place holders endlessly, hopelessly waitlisted. One sanctuary attracting much attention, the beneficiary of the tireless advocacy of a devoted assemblage of activists, celebrities, models and neighborhood regulars. The other sanctuary, a voiceless projection of hope for a selection of people battling homelessness and insecurity. Permanent homes, the first and most important thing, a refuge, a bedroom, a closet. Those who would benefit most from housing on this site remain invisible, justification for their cause absent, the lack of advocacy and visibility detracting from the validity of their claim on the spot. When seen in comparison to those in the garden, their cause becomes imperceptible to a public that has no window into the true nature of housing insecurity, and the devastating reality of the crisis that permanent shelter holds over the heads of hundreds of thousands of New York City residents. A burden that never seems to be lifted, unending and limitless, this spectre of homelessness and disadvantage.

How to measure the weight of importance of each sanctuary? Is it possible to compare the needs of a housed population seeking respite from the pace of life in an affluent neighborhood with the despairing situation of a relatively small set of individuals who are without the basic sanctuary of a room of their own? Green spaces are indispensable to all of us, and mandatory in many European cities. It is Orwellian and unjust to pit quality of life necessities like the Elizabeth Street Garden against the potential construction of a desperately necessary haven that will be a blessing for those fortunate enough to be chosen.

One beautiful afternoon recently I met Lepa, 84, and her husband Joe, 75. They had found a measure of seclusion, away from the more public sections of the garden. Joe graciously pulled up a chair and I sat, happy and relieved to be off my feet for a few minutes. Joe and Lepa are longtime New Yorkers, now living on Chinatown’s Park Row after raising a family on Staten Island. Regular visitors since 2014, they cannot imagine the loss of the cherished green space. Joe is fiercely protective of Lepa, and is her caretaker. They have disavowed the use of public transportation in Manhattan, eliminating the option completely four years ago due to Joe’s anxiety over Lepa’s vulnerability. Love of New York City’s cultural offerings holds them to a place they’ve spent decades in, but fear of its decline has forced other options onto the table. A return to Lepa’s hometown origins in Europe is one thought, a return forced by a steady downturn in their perception of the quality of life in the city. Beloved but changed by events, a city profoundly burdened by its inability to meet its obligation to all people, especially to those for whom support and protection are of critical importance. A commitment pledged, and one most urgent for the endangered.