…. interpretations of a NYC novice
The heat, oh the heat … oh 
so sticky and oh so sweet … if only the last part were true! There’s nothing sweet about this city … and the heat! An urban, sultry miasma engulfs every outside space, with the shade offered by multi-storey concrete blocks offering no defence, no respite, only false hope. This city is dirty, unkempt, the streets have been neglected, discarded, and they are full. Full of traffic and noise and colour and noise and smells and noise. Loud yellows clash with big, black shiny grunting throttle, punched beeps, and shouts from sidewalk park basketball performers.
Human activity is everywhere, striding, stumbling, shuffling and stertorous. Languages intermingle, circle and swirl, voices rise and fall. And everywhere, the contrasting sounds of impatience and the short tempers of long-term residents, meld with the excited, overwhelmed and awestruck whispers of the New York virgin, at the same time deafening and inaudible.
This is indeed a city of contrasts. Menace and majesty, garbage and grace, purr and growl … it scares me, it draws me in, it holds me … and I think I love it!
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The location of the High Line is charged with memory and meaning. It originates in the “Meatpacking District”, moored to the East Hudson River. It evolved … slaughterhouses and mafia making way for the BDSM boom, Mineshaft, Mapplethorpe and Mercury making way for Moschino and McQueen, making way for galleries, performances, markets and much more … and from the elevated meandering iron railroad artery, originally constructed in response to the dangers of trains on “Death Avenue’ … the High Line, as we now know it, was born.
It’s easy to ponder how, what might once have been seen as a wasted space, or even a space that most New Yorkers didn’t realise existed, the High Line didn’t succumb to the clutches of developers keen to exploit the potential profits that were suspended above their own, sub-Highline properties. One of the individuals attributed as playing a part in its evolution was Joel Sternfeld, who saw something hitherto unnoticed in the neglected space. In talking about his experiences of the High Line he said it was “an Alice in Wonderland experience”, “A rural experience”, “a true ruin” and … “a secret landscape” … powerful words indeed … and what of today’s reality (or in this case, my reality, as of August 2025)?
I didn’t simply step “on to” the High Line, I stepped “into” the High Line. The steel grill, finger polished banister steps rose in front of me, drawing my eyes aloft to a sharp contrasting dull grey, graduating into a vibrant green. The steps lost their matt and began to move in the dapple, cast as sun filtered through tree. As soon as I mounted that first step I was leaving, leaving the hustling speed and thrust of gasping streets, rising, both literally and figuratively, above it all, slowly ascending into another atmosphere, where the air … the air changed! Even on that hot August day, there was a gentle, hushed whisper … “David … breathe … in … and out … in … and out … take me in”. It was as if my breathing was changing to accommodate to a slower pace, to take in what I was perceiving as cleaner, cooler air. Interesting fact: The High Line is, on average, 7.2 degrees cooler than the surrounding neighbourhoods.
The further I strolled along, the farther away the “noise” of traffic and the noise of “stuff” became. It was replaced not by silence … but by an altogether more hushed and considered breeze, of leaf in wind, of quieter conversations, of occasional child-like glee, of shush and murmur, of relief and … connections, connections across time and place.
At various points, the legacy of the now long-gone railroad insinuated itself into my awareness. The juxtaposition of varied and verdant plant life and the fixed, still, immutable New York Central, freight line cast-iron tracks forged a metaphor of nature’s gradual but inexorable triumph over blunt, dum-dum industrialisation. The softer, more forgiving, determined foliage was now cradling the wrought memories of a time long gone.
It was so tempting to continually look down to the left and right, to focus on the immediate, proximal surroundings, or at the very least, to look down and ahead. But I deliberately paused, took a little time to cast my eyes further afield, to contextualise my place in this area of NYC, to locating myself in the green amid the greys and blues.
Walking at “shuffle” pace in an attempt to take it all in, I absorbed not just the present, but a sense of the past … echoes of footsteps from yesteryear … Mark Twain ambling the riverbanks; the shouts, clanks, laughter and groans of workers; West 23rd Street and the Chelsea hotel … Dylan Thomas in the bar, two Arthurs (Miller and C Clarke), discussing their recent encounter with Cannastra (and his untimely, and bizarre demise). Joplin and Cohen stumbling from the elevator rambling on about collaborations never to bear fruit. They were all there … they are all gone … and I was here … on the High Line.
… and so to the flora
The High Line flora is deliberately understated; it is not designed to extract a jolt or evoke a gasp. Whilst a great deal of thought has gone into the planting of the Line, there are no formal displays (at least to my mind). ). This is in no way to be read as dismissive but, as I see it, the fact that the High Line exists at all, is of equal importance to the types of flora that populate this exquisite path. Yes, they provide a link to the past, yes, they are chosen for their sustainability and to provide points of interest and enjoyment across the seasons, and yes, they have an inherent beauty …but the salient point is that the grasses, perennials, trees and shrubs are there! They live, they thrive, they provide colour, they offer shade, they tease out a richer, fresher quality of air for us to breathe. They are a statement about the past, about the present, and the future.
NB: The High Line website contains a comprehensive knowledge base of all things High Line (including a downloadable plant list – http://files.thehighline.org/pdf/High_Line_Full_Plant_List.pdf
There is so much that is familiar here, bridging the gap between a stroll along this, dare I say, exotic location, and the familiar stroll down my own garden. The vibrant, canary yellow of the rudbeckia, brazen against the grey of the walkway, the brick of the buildings and the blue of the sky. The white, lace geranium, the mallow, silkworm and echinacea … recollection of the High Line and my presence back in my English garden are beginning to merge. What was then and what is now! You must remember that my experience of the High Line was a relatively fleeting one. Two hours in what was a packed 4 day novice visit to NYC. Two hours that will stay with me for many, many years.
In conclusion, if you fully embrace it, the High Line holds you, connects you, restores you … … and more.
If your time is short in NYC, don’t forget to catapult yourself to the skies, to capture the exquisite panoramas from on high, or to burrow down into the different world that is the subway … but, whatever you do, don’t miss a chance to take a walk with the High Line
