Giornale - Empire State Plaza

At the Empire State Plaza, there is art both above and below ground.

We arrived on time after spending the drive listening to Nicky’s playlist of Spanish music and trying to figure out who’s car was where in the lineup. The sun was at its height during the warmest day New York has seen in a while. I overdressed, my down jacket being left behind in the car as we collected our listening devices out of what would potentially appear to onlookers as a suspicious exchange behind the propped up hood of a trunk. Headphones were plugged in and the tour began.

Monuments were plentiful and varied at the plaza. We first stopped to circle around a monument of World War II. The serenity of its water and dark stone, the pride in the flags waving softly at its back, created an atmosphere of its own. Everything, even the sounds of traffic, felt muted for a moment by the walls of green bushes that surrounded us.

A statue, bronze like many of those of the ancient Romans, hurdled into our tour in the form of two firefighters dragging their injured comrade between them. Their fallen friends’ names lined the stone behind them, tilted backwards as if their letters could look towards the sky.

Nestled between these stone dedications was the plaza itself; flat and gray and open. We ascended the wide steps with Michelangelo’s in mind. These, although not leading to the Capitoline Hill, allowed us to look over the subdued but far from empty square. Skateboard wheels scraped across the stones, the sound skipping like a record when a trick-jump was attempted. Runners sprinted the length of the steps again and again. I wondered what the large fountain would sound like when filled, if the splashing water might brighten up the entire area.

I looked down the clean lines of the concrete buildings which were labeled so mysteriously it was nearly comical. It was in those labels that the presence of government manifested itself in an otherwise community space. The harsh facades gave way to lines of low, dividing walls that turned out to soften into curved benches. Picnic tables sat beneath the welcomed shade of the Egg, which curved too, interrupting the harsher lines of the closed off buildings.

The theater was not the only sudden organic shape. A shockingly bright yellow sculpture, almost like an eye if one stood in front of it correctly, drew attention away from whatever symmetry had been originally intended. On the other side of the square was a sculpture that one could call the yin to the yellow eye’s yang: A pointed wind mobile that spun lazily in the almost-spring breeze. 

There is, without a doubt, evidence of the passage of time, the changing of taste, in these two art installations. As all axial lines lead to the ornate capital building across from the wide steps, the plaza might have originally acted as a sort of frame for this building, a landscape whose purpose was to ease one’s eyes towards the powerful structure—so powerful, in fact, that it might even inspire a Professor to attempt to jump a fenced off area of it. The sculptures, when added, portray another time, a shifting of this “frame” into a space of its own right.

My first thought when we went underground was that we had entered a modern train station similar to Grand Central. I was happy, this time, to see the modern art lining the walls. It was also good to hear that in the colder months the underground space provides warmth and shelter to people without homes. Our walk was brisk through the underground level, but that perhaps mimicked the way those halls are used to being walked through. Everything about them was set up for efficiency: parking, food, and restrooms.

When I thought back to the open plaza after being down below it, I was surprised to find that the gray slate-like stones seemed much older and warmer to me. The marble tiles that surrounded the vast fountain were so different from the industrial polished floors, reflecting the fluorescent lights, of the halls underground. Even the sculptures from up above looked slightly weather-worn or well-loved compared to the pristine framed pieces down below.

The end of our trip was much the same as the beginning, at least music-wise. Much of Professor Curley and Dr. Spinner’s funny banter was discussed on the way to dinner and how, with the headphones, it was almost like listening to a podcast or radio station. I only just remembered to retrieve my coat from the trunk. The dinner was filled with great conversations about potential corn dog eating contests in the Colosseum. The direct Latin translation of ‘corn dog’ escapes me now, but when I remember, I will make sure to jot it down with this travel entry.