Walking Backward in Central Park
October 23, 2022
Writer: Hannah Tiller
Editor: Abigail Peacock
The screech of the subway stings my just-awoken ears, seemingly snapping me out of my mental fog. It's early. I'm alone. Some might say too alone. Alone in my single-bedroom dorm at New York University, alone in a city where I don't know anyone, alone in this subway car where the metallic screeches are amplified straight to my brain. Deciding to live in Manhattan by myself to take classes at NYU was a journey I was doing on my own.
Like my position in the city, I feel oddly alone in this subway car. Yet, as I sit on the plastic chair, my face shoved into my phone, many strangers are occupying the space. I know my destination, but I am not sure I'm on the right train to get there. I decide not to ask anybody.
The train halts to a stop, and I step out into the steam of the subway station. I weave my way through the bodies of people getting on the train, maybe to see a parent, go to work, or get to the airport. I don't know. I wonder if they've thought about where I'm going.
I am an ant to the observers from the skyscrapers above, merely traversing, merely retracing a path forged by the million of ants who came before me. I briskly make my way to the ant hole: none other than Central Park. I dodge oncoming pedestrians as I pull up the series of recordings by Janet Cardiff that make up the walking experience called Her Long Black Hair on my phone.
I save the image of the map of the walk to my camera roll. It's the homework assignment for my Urban Art class, but somehow feels like a scavenger hunt for my adventure-hungry spirit.
If this is a scavenger hunt, Janet Cardiff is the mastermind behind the search. I read the assigned article about her career that discusses the magic behind her audiovisual works. The composition of Janet's soothing voice, the inclusion of scripted background noises like car honks and bustle, and the emphasis on provocative art techniques are sure to turn my mundane walk through the park into much more. My feet tingle with anticipation with each step closer.
Weaving my way through the businessmen making their way to their 9 to 5, I think about a quote from one of her walks: "Have you ever had the urge to disappear?..."
In the whooshing paths of bustling city-goers, I find myself right in front of the bronze statue of Simon Bolivar on horseback. This is the start. I pop on my noise-canceling headphones and pull up the first recording that I downloaded.
The sound of honks and bustling subways at first silences as I put on the headphones, but resumes when I hit the play button. I hear the rain, but I'm dry. I'm told to sit on the bench in front of the statue by a soothing voice- It's Janet's. I feel the warmth of the seat in the sun as if Janet herself had sat here moments ago. But it's been almost 20 years since she was in this position.
Sirens blare in my ears as if they're about a block away. "When you're in New York City, you have to think of all the sounds like they're a symphony," she says, with her voice smooth as honey. Horse carriages gallop by, an accordion whines, and a whistle blows. The many cars I see in front of me are seemingly brought to slow motion by the voice drawing me in.
Janet instructs me to pull out my first photo, a black and white image of people sitting directly in front of me in 1965. New York, New York starts to play by a live band. Then, Janet pulls me back to reality by asking me to walk with her, leaving behind the slice of 1965 I tasted.
I walk with Janet. I wonder if anyone notices she’s there with me, at least in my ears. I hear her footsteps, which I assume are the sound of heeled boots on concrete. It feels like she's to my left, and I must keep the same footsteps to keep the same pace. Do my footsteps sound the same as hers, as if I'm the embodiment of a young Janet, alone in the city?
I suddenly become very aware of all those around me. It's like I'm playing imagination, but it's real life. "There's a man on the bench reading the paper," she observes. I observe a man sitting on that exact bench. No paper, but a man is there. Maybe he read it earlier.
She tells me how walking makes her feel like she is caught between past and present. She says it is challenging to stay in the present. Then, out of nowhere, I'm told to stop walking. My feet halt, and she starts counting. What’s going on? I'm there, in the middle of the path, standing for a whole ten seconds. I turn back to see if the man on the bench is watching my bizarre behavior, but he's not.
I continue to pull out images when instructed, holding my phone to the exact setting where Janet took the photo. She tells me about the pond frozen in the winter while a man reads poetry into my right ear. Janet shifts the narrative from nighttime to daytime, and the birds begin to chirp. People call hello to one another. Janet picks up a phone call from a friend.
I'm not sure why, but I trust her when she tells me to do things. There’s no way I could be the craziest one in New York City and there isn’t anyone I know to judge me anyway. I ultimately decide that I can do some things out of my comfort zone with the guidance of Janet. After all, the man on the bench didn't even notice when I stood still as a statue suddenly mid-path.
So when I'm told to put my finger in my mouth and put the wet saliva on my cheek, I do it. I forget about the subway filth, or the door handles entirely. The mother on the path forking off to the right continues rolling her baby carriage, not even giving me a second thought. But my cheek is wet, and I can't walk around with a damp cheek, right? I wipe it with the back of my hand because I can't stand it.
I approach each turn right on queue for my next instructions. Janet spills vague stories of the nightmare she had. She explains when a man tried to take advantage of her as a student. I'm not sure why she's telling me this. I'm a stranger!
When I finally meet the Central Park Zoo, I see young children toddling around and play groups sprawled out on picnic blankets in the green grass. The sea lions whirl in their transparent glass tank just beyond the fence. Though I've taken pride in my ability to desensitize to the city's crowding and loud noises, the zoo combines all the motion in every direction. It makes my head spin.
"Turn backward," Janet instructs. I check the map. It doesn't look like we are walking in the opposite direction. I shift to the side of the path to avoid the stroller and pedestrian traffic. "Close your eyes." My heightened senses activated by my surroundings are muffled by the auditory power Janet has over me.
Then, she tells me to walk backward. I resist. Are there people behind me I'll run into? Won't people fear for the safety of their children if they see a lunatic in a trance in front of the good-old, friendly zoo?
I maintain my darkness and relinquish myself to Janet's instructions. One foot behind the other, I succumb to the unknown. It's a journey between Janet and me. Or perhaps me and the oncoming foot traffic.
My feet step, one foot behind the other, for what feels like hours. It feels like I may have walked backward longer than anyone else had. Maybe I had left the atmosphere of the Earth and entered space. Maybe I was where humanity had not yet created buildings that are so tall that they scrape the sky. Perhaps I was where humans weren't stacked living on top of one another floor-to-floor and yet blind to the complex lives of their neighbors just next door.
The reality is when I open my eyelids to the late morning glow of Central Park, not a soul turned from their path, away from their games, or paused in their conversations. Janet has me move farther onto the course, and no mention is ever made of my walk backward in front of the zoo.
Janet's words, "Have you ever had the urge to disappear?" rang fervently in my mind. It was as if I had disappeared in those moments. Not even the pigeons right by my feet noticed.
The following hour, I am directed by Janet, my mind blank of the people around me. I hear the flow of running water below my feet, where an artificial path was. I become emotionally moved by an imaginary saxophonist playing a ballad under the bridge. It was one of the most strangely beautiful experiences, and yet I could not articulate why.
By the last recordings, the smokiness of the city has softened the harshness of the figures around me. Removing my headphones, I feel Janet has walked away from me. I think of myself, sitting criss-crossing on a wooden bench overlooking the marshy pond, like that teeny tiny ant.
I walked backward in front of the central park zoo. And life kept going. I closed my eyes, and the Earth stayed in orbit. So I sit on this bench, having had this all-encompassing existential moment in the park. This park is one that many go to every day for a casual walk or a special event. And nobody knows I just did this thing.
I maintain my position as an ant to the buildings so tall they see me as a speck. I am invisible beyond that height. I am nothing significant in space on this floating rock we call Earth. But my experience is essential to the map of life; my map of where I've gone, who I've caused to deviate from their traditional walking pattern. Maybe that's all that matters.
Image: Ava Edwards
