By Yvonne Vávra
Ever cried in public? With hundreds of eyes around you, all primed to watch? I did, on Wednesday, during an interactive art experience around the fountain at Lincoln Center.
I won’t say much about it, because I really want you to experience it for yourself (and you can). It’s impossible to explain what happened anyway. In the end, the piece was a feeling that grew out of a simple prompt: Pay attention to what’s going on around us.
I spent an hour with about a hundred strangers who, for several magical reasons, I grew increasingly close to. I got entangled in thoughts about how completely alone we each are, confined to our own unique vantage points, stumbling through the world. And yet, all the while, our nows are brushing against each other, for seconds or decades, once, twice, perhaps every seven years. We’re sharing a tiny little story, or an epic one, sometimes without ever knowing it.
I don’t remember the last time I was so completely absorbed in something, trying to categorize, to figure out who among us was part of the performance. Who was art and who was not? But what an absurd question.
At the end, we stood together around the fountain. And there was a song. And I looked into the faces of all these people who had touched my world without ever meaning to. I was there with them, and they were there with me. And I cried.
Once you start paying attention, it’s amazing how often you find yourself entering other people’s stories. A few weeks ago, I boldly joined an older couple because I loved the moment they were having.
“It’s unbelievable,” the man said in a strong British accent. “It’s proper unreal.”
They were standing at the fence of Sheep Meadow, looking out at the skyline of Central Park South. The sun played its part, bringing out the best in the colors and contrasts between the buildings, the grass, and the sky.
I walk past that fence almost every day, and I’m never one to pass up a chance to sneak a peek and appreciate my good-looking tower friends. I’m well aware that this place is stunning. And yet, this Brit’s enthusiasm brought back the feelings I’d had the very first time I stood here.
I lingered next to them, all three of us in awe. And I wasn’t ashamed to go into full creep mode and follow them for a bit as they kept talking about how beautiful my everyday commute is. Then we parted, never to see each other again. Whatever else they were up to that day, I took them with me, too. And they had no idea.
They weren’t the only ones. I once saw another couple sitting on a bench behind a vintage-style Porsche. The way the bench and car lined up made it look as though they were sitting sideways inside the car, and I thought they looked cute.
Like all of us, they were probably thinking they were the writers of their own story. Little did they know that they were actually on a pleasure trip from the future, where cars are designed to seat passengers sideways for better views.
When I walk too slowly, you spend a few seconds waiting for me. When you hold the door for me, I feel a burst of gratitude. And when my dog helps the fire department by amping up their siren with his roooorooooorooooo, everyone around us smiles.
Many of us spend so much time wondering whether we matter. Meanwhile, we’re leaving traces in each other’s days, making these little moments for one another all the time. We are rarely as separate from one another as we imagine.
When I left the performance at Lincoln Center and walked home, the song from the fountain was still playing in my mind. I couldn’t quite leave the experience behind. For a while, I kept seeing all of you out there as part of the performance. Everyone seemed to be a work of art.
Yvonne Vávra is a magazine writer and author of the German book 111 Gründe New York zu lieben (111 Reasons to Love New York). Born a Berliner but an aspiring Upper West Sider since the 1990s (thanks, Nora Ephron), she came to New York in 2010 and seven years later made her Upper West Side dreams come true. She’s been obsessively walking the neighborhood ever since.
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