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The Pulse of a City
It is through a chorus of trains, each traveling with a unique meter to a different end, that millions of people in New York City get to where they need to go each day. This collection of letters and numbers dispersing into the five boroughs sing in a disjointed arrangement of cacophonic sounds for what might feel like a never ending loop of time. The initial reaction is to plug your ears and grimace at the screeching of the wheels, though, after a few days or weeks, these harsh sounds become strangely comforting.
With the steady rhythm of a monstrous heartbeat pounding furiously inside a jacket of steel and concrete, the New York subway system acts as the lifeline for the city. And what would a New York City lifeline be without a little song and dance? Here, in these cathedrals of metal, rust, sweat, and heat do performers try their hand at fame and fortune.
Street performers, also called buskers, can be found on almost every platform throughout the city. Rarely planned and hardly ever professional, these are the artists who expose their talents in the hopes of making some money, attracting a bit of attention, or at the very least indulging a love for performance. It is easy to pass them by without so much as a glance, so abundant are they on the subway platforms around the city. One thing is certain–their presence in everyday NYC life is undeniable, sometimes even unforgettable.
Though New York City is widely known for its abundance of performing arts, it is through the spontaneous performances that a visitor can really absorb the flavor of a city bursting with talent. In just a few short weeks of living in the Big Apple, I have come across a beat boxer, two women singing gospel music, a group of hip hop mimes (you can’t make that up), a duo of musicians dressed as mascots (one a pig and and one a skunk), a variety singers, and a number of guitarists.
However, the performer who forced me to press the pause button on a busy NYC day is a cellist named “Django.” I found Django, a twenty-eight-year-old man from just outside of the city, playing across the platform on the 28th street Downtown N, R, Q. I was coming from a long day of work and the last thing I wanted to be doing was standing on a subway platform in the hot stickiness of another festering New York City day. But as a leaned my body against one of the green pillars lining the track, I heard the reverberations of someone’s soul being unwrapped and presented to the strangers around him. It was the lyricism of the music that was almost hypnotic.
Django is a classically trained cellist who began playing at the age of nine, and at the behest of over-zealous family members, continued his affair with the instrument through college, and now into adulthood. Though Django’s story might not be the most unexpected or surprising, his willingness to bare his soul so effortlessly is astonishing. It was in listening to this cellist’s interpretation of classical music and considering what is his stage, that I first realized how little we New Yorkers appreciate our proximity and access to art. Art is literally part of every day life, and no matter how quickly you walk across the subway platform or down the street, you cannot escape its presence.
Despite an overwhelming (and slightly suffocating) mixture of heat, sweat, stagnant air, and body odor, the subways clearly maintain an unexpected vibrancy of life. While performance art fails to elicit much astonishment from the average New Yorker (we’ve all grown too accustomed to walking past the concert pianist at Times Square or unconsciously tapping our feet to the sounds musicians who are just starting out), this genre of artistic talent permeates the streets and subways of the New York, making it one of the most accessible, as well as curious, parts of the city. And while many “audience members” might not recognize the exceptional bravery it takes to bare your heart and soul to a crowd of people who had no idea they were scheduled to attend a show, I would dare them to do the same.
It is this sense of the unknown—the unexpected and the unrehearsed—that keeps a city like New York alive and alert. The spontaneity of action and reaction in the city that rarely sleeps (except perhaps a brief and unplanned nap in the wake of Hurricane Irene), is a living breathing invitation for New Yorkers to stop their meticulously planned days and take pleasure in a moment of sincere performance.
*photos © Lindley Battle
