my favorite walk in Manhattan starts in midtown when i step out of grand central station onto 42nd street. the rush of the city is loud and immediate. i head down park avenue to 37th street stopping to glance back at the beautiful beaux arts train station. her solid mass of indiana limestone heaves mightily against all the shiny towers of modernity. i head west to madison avenue where the morgan library claims the corner. only the gilded age wealth of a banker could lovingly sustain the rare illuminated manuscripts hidden inside. out onto fifth avenue, i smack against the commuter crowd until I hit the high-octane new york stride. straight ahead, the spire of the empire state building calls me south.
grand central station
illuminated manuscript
flatiron building
i am hunting for broadway, a warp in the time-space logic of Manhattan’s grid. the flat iron building cleaves fifth and broadway, a clean tear in the urban fabric. free from the constraints of the fashionable storefronts, broadway is gritty and layered. i slow my pace to the people who pause at sidewalk stalls. the sky begins to open overhead. trees reach out their canopy to frame union square, a park that hums with the feel of a world market. art vendors and nomadic merchants ply their wares from lands far and near. i pick my way around the square lingering in banter with the vendors who are seasoned pros at capturing attention. from the park, the path shoots west toward greenwich village. the tame brick facades and gas lamps belie the metropolis left behind. the descent from midtown to soho is three miles, a sensorial slice through a century of iconic architecture and millions of intertwined lives.
greenwich village
arriving at houston street, I slow way down. the generous roadway marks the northern border of soho, a neighborhood of industrial warehouses loved by artists and glitterati but now disposed to the franchised labels blanketing history. I hopscotch onto Greene Street, where worn, uneven cobblestones force fancy footwear to comply. Dusk edges across the cast-iron facades. Lost in the drift of memories, I recall the iconic artists who made these raw lofts spark. I have arrived.
cast iron soho
Lauretta Vinciarelli, an Italian-born architect, was my history of architecture professor at Pratt and the long-time life partner of the sculptor Donald Judd. She'd often invite her students to 101 Spring Street, a 5-story cast-iron beauty cradling the corner of spring and mercer. You'd know the building only if you recognized the essence of Judd in the three large plywood cubes that inhabited the storefront. Once inside, we'd head straight to the worn freight elevator shutting the rusty accordion gate with a slam. against the groan of intersecting gears and cables, we slowly ascended to Judd-landia.
The second floor held the kitchen; the upper floors were the couple's studios and living quarters. Each space was subdued and without fuss. City-dusted windows gently diffused the crisp right angles of Judd's steel and wood assemblies. Everywhere we looked, there was art. Within Judd's restrained quarters, the broad bright bands of Frank Stella jumped to life. The vaporous linearity of dan falvin’s lighting fused city and sky. Still, I fell for the colored planes of Rietveld's Red and Blue Chair, an essential primer for a design student. And then there was Judd, standing spare and shirtless at the kitchen sink in his jean overalls, washing the night's vegetables.
The journeys to the still-life moments at 101 Spring Street are tender and forever stowed away.
