Creative Little Garden Part 1: The Journey
Recently, I trekked from Union Square down to the LES in an effort to satiate my not-all-that recent community garden obsession. The primary intent was to spend some quality time amongst the cozy plots of 6B. My first attraction to these mini-urban oases was about six or seven years ago, before living in Astoria, while on a face-reddening tour of "Greenwich Village" for a one-credit summer class. Our guide, who walked around with a blaring electronic megaphone (which en route, incidentally caused a frightened homeless man to scream "I HEAR YA..." plus a slew of obscenities to our dumbfounded group)had taken us into what I deemed the most amazing little sanctuary amidst the city bustle. We were told to be as quiet as possible, and while following the shrub-enveloped path, I had the sensation of being in a sacred-to-the-point-of-eerie place—maybe it was its solemn association with the church, maybe the fact that more than one New Yorker in a shared space had the ability to not only relax, but to speak softly.
But I like eerie, and a few years later as I began visiting the city more frequently, I tried to find it. Unable to recall the saintly namesake, still not really understanding east from west side, I started to wonder if time had glamorized my memory of the experience, or if this secret little garden even existed at all. Finally, I did in fact stumble upon the elegant St. Luke's in the Fields, just about as enchanting as my memory provoked me to anticipate.
Then last year, when I was introduced to 6B garden--its infamously wonderful conglomeration of treasure-junk mixed with luscious greens and homemade plots, the "Christmas Tree" in particular, it's balmy evening brought to life and light with small orange flashlights and lanterns cast upon local actors (my dear Sophia included), the series of original garden plays written by local artists, even the bombardment of mosquitos on my legs, my skirt being too short that night--I immediately became infatuated with the quirkiness and character, as well as the sense of community of a garden on the east side. When most people think of the city, or at least outsiders and newcomers such as myself, we tend to think money, and fail to notice how free time can actually be spent, well, without spending, and more importantly, how it can bring you home.
So finally last Sunday, after musing over this long enough, I decided to play tourist/self-employed journalist for the day and made my way down to Barnes & Noble, Union Square. Here I found a tiny pocket garden guide with ample description of many smaller community gardens in Manhattan and the rest of the boroughs. And so I decided to commence a new project of, if nothing else, exploration.
But I will not make it to the first actual garden in this post--which turned out not to be 6B but rather the nearby Creative Little Garden--because, per usual, the walk becomes half, if not more of the experience than the destination. But, in this case, I'll just say half. I was completely enamored with the Creative Little Garden, and it was definitely worth the hike from Union Square. Let me just point out a few familiar vistas along the way.
On Seventh Avenue, crossing over to 11th, sitting so faintly across the street from sex super-store Fantasy World, in the shadow of fluorescent pink hula hoops and the half exposed left breast of a painted Marc Jacobs' model is Tiles for America. From a distance the fence stands like a frail, decorated skeleton, or the wall of a thousand postings. A miniature garden of overgrown grass springing from the front portion of it, I felt like I was visiting a slightly untended gravesite. Seeing so may cemeteries smogged up on the side of Jersey highways, I wouldn't be shocked to see one here, but as you approach, the fence comes to life in red, white, and blue, and green, stars and stripes and smudges, infants to toddlers, to age fifty-two, memorials made on hearts, handmade angels and tarnished doves.
It's funny, I've passed by before. Not all that much, but more than a few times, and this was the first time that I really stopped to read. If I needed a reminder to never take one minute of the day for granted, there it was. I think to myself, there's still way too much empty space.
Further east, now into familiar NYU territory, I couldn't help but meander down Washington Mews, one of my favorite city “hallways.” It was the first time I happened to be passing by with a camera since moving here. As usual, it was oddly quiet down this petit taste of Provence, flowers spilling from wooden-paned windows, some adorning pastel shutters, half the path paved with what I would normally describe as cobblestone--but it's actually Belgian block stone, so worn down that it resembles cobblestone.
Some of these two-story dwellings are almost completely overtaken by ivy—it's all a very a fitting scene for NYU to have established their European cultural centers. Once an alleyway of Victorian stables, then the residence of upper-crust artists, including Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney and later Edward Hooper, the street is now reserved mostly for their faculty and institutions such as La Maison Francaise which sits premier on the Universirty side of the street.
Here also resides the Deutsche Haus, and the Glucksman Ireland House (where I attended my most recent NYU course) can be found right around the corner on Fifth Avenue.
At the end of the stretch, taking a last glance back at Fifth, I hear the echoes of a trumpet from Washington Square, the music sweeping eerily into the alley, as if it, like the stones, were a worn out survivor from the past. ( I did read that Dizzy Gillepsie was entertained by a resident of one of the brownstones…) I wish they didn’t allow parking on this street.
Back into the greater corridor, down towards Astor place, and the sensation of wading into warmer ocean water comes over me as I fully submerge myself into the east and approach the great cube.
There is a man taking a nap underneath it—hours later, on my way back, he hasn’t moved and inch. Down St. Marks, the colorful conglomeration of tattoos,spikes, sunglasses,records, vintage, sex and hummus, I see a bunch of youngish, hipsterish types all sitting on the sidewalk eating slices of pizza and gyros. I don’t even think they know each other, and I find this even more pleasant.
What I do not find pleasant is almost being mauled down by a running, CBGB t-shirt-wearing 20-year-old as I walk further, passing by Tompkins Square Park, feedback blaring and pot-smoke creeping into the air. It looks like a Misfits reunion is about to break into a full, turbulent swing. I later learn that it was the 20th anniversary of the Tomkins Square Park riots, which music aside, was celebrated by flag and dollar bill burning. Clad in a khaki shorts and a back-pack, looking like a cross between globe-trekker and misinformed safari guide, I can’t even attempt to mesh-or mosh-with this scene and find shelter in a fairly quiet, little thai restaurant on 7th and A, Mini Thai Café. I fill my belly so I can fill the rest of my senses in the Creative Little Garden down the street...
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