An unexpected bout of warm spring air presents itself to New York and offers me an opportunity to, once again, storm the rails of the MTA. Shrugging off concerns and warnings of life in the outland - the Bronx - I am determined to extend my explorations to the outer reaches of the 5 boroughs. Destination? Pelham Bay Park. Line?
6ix-train.
Armed with nothing more than my camera, curiosity and an observational obsession for all things urban I find myself in a perpetual pursuit of adventure - social, environmental, and designed. I should mention that despite my navigational abilities, I have become increasingly reliant on the iphone compass and access to google maps. This piece of technology allows me to cast aside my worries of how to find my way in, out and around on the transportation systems, but also to orient myself in the greater spatial continuum of New York. I digress.
I often wonder what lays at the end of the subway lines. Is life any different? Does one experience a greater sense of arrival as opposed to simply moving with the ebb and flow of residents at the Grand Central, 59th street, or Union Square stops? Well, as one travels further outside the city there is no question that there is a certain patina of wear that emerges outside of the train at each progressive stop. Down the steps and I find myself stranded on a decrepit concrete island, flanked by the Bruckner Boulevard on each side. I can see the park in the distance but the blurring cacophony of the Bruckner Expressway severs any direct connection, leaving me feeling so close yet so far. Strangely, only two overpasses link the surrounding community to this park.
Majestic comes to mind as I wander aimlessly toward the waters edge of
Eastchester Bay. There are few people around and I feel like 'the man' traveling Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road' in search of the coast (ironically I am carrying the book with me on this trip). The oaks and maples tower above me, and in places their presence is felt even where there is none. The Parks Department seems to have taken a selective attitude as to what remains and what is removed - SOD, DED? It seems that, ultimately, natural selection reigns.
(Man vs. Wild)
At last, as I emerge from the shrouded, unmarked, and decaying pathway, I arrive at the waters edge - an errant 'X' marks the spot. Crumbling infrastructure and chain link fences that skirt the walks edge give a sense that this is a "once upon a time" destination. Off my shoulder to the north a looming hill, nearly 150' in height, stands above the bay, strikingly out of place yet strangely fitting. Upon further investigation, my suspicions are confirmed -
landfill earthwork. Secluded and somewhat forgotten, there was a particular rustic charm to this overgrown and hidden place with a view. It was not until I began to navigate my way back out of the park that I realized there were certain activities that a place such as this attracts, besides mere exploration.
(I'm here . . . which is where?)
(A forgotten waterfront - Eastchester Bay)
Homeward bound and watching the life of city pass, I am struck by the oncoming derelict remnants of industrial machinery, standing like Grenadier Sentries guarding a seemingly new park along an otherwise run-down stretch of the Bronx River - a brownfield site named
'Concrete Plant Park'. An oasis in the middle of an area I can best describe as "rough"- it took me a while to find the entrance after taking a wrong turn - this park appears to have considerable draw. I stop for a short chat with a man from Ecuador before I sit down to eat my packed lunch. Blue fish is the catch of the day here - up to 50 pounds I'm told - and before long more fishermen are showing up to cast their lines. "Good luck with that" I say as I watch a skim of refuse float slowly toward the containment boom stretched across the river's length.
(Bronx River)
(View of Concrete Plant Park from Bruckner Expressway Bridge)
(North End Overview)
(Park Infrastructure)
As I sit and enjoy the dialectics of this space, it dawns on me that it is the power of designed landscapes, carefully sited, that have the power to provide hope for cities and their inhabitants. It was obvious to me that each and every one of us who was reading, fishing, playing, or simply watching the river roll by at this park was here to escape the confines of our daily lives - our apartments, our streets, even our day-jobs. Reminiscent of
Gas Works Park or
Duisburg Nord - albeit a much more humble, scaled down and less interactive version - the shade cast from the preserved machinery looming above reminds me of another time. That time, not necessarily one I am all that connected to personally but one that retains an air of mystique and enduring substance, has turned my ordinary day's work into a face-off with yet another of New York's hidden treasures . . . and I'm taking it hostage.
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