In a New York Minute
This week has been a long unwanted continuation of summer’s many sleepless nights.
I like to get up early. It allows me time to start the day at my own pace. In the apartment I live in with my husband, John, we wake up when the sun hits the water of the Hudson River, bouncing glistening light into the room. We don’t have any curtains or shades to block the light or the world outside — why would we? With a “million dollar” view that stretches from the graceful Verazano Bridge reaching for lower Manhattan up to the Empire State Building, why would we ever want not to see the view? Today I feel differently.
We’ve lived here for one-and-a-half years and have never tired of the view or taken it for granted. Every morning when we woke up the very first glance was out the window to see the city, the light, and the river. When I took a break from work I would go to the window to see the city, the light, the river. Even on those days when I didn’t take the ferry into Manhattan I felt connected to the city by the view. Every single night before going to sleep I gazed out the window and silently said goodnight to the twin towers of the World Trade Center as they watched over lower Manhattan. The view changed John and me: For the first time in both of our adult lives, we liked coming home — to the view of the city, the light, the river.
In a New York minute everything changed. On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, John and I were having breakfast, watching the news and getting ready to go into the city together on the 10 a.m. ferry. I heard a huge noise, thinking it was from a nearby railway construction site, and didn’t bother looking up. John said, “Look what a beautiful cloud — Oh my god…” I looked up and saw the northern tower of the World Trade Center billowing smoke. We both jumped up, ran out to the balcony, and gasped that there must have been a terrible accident. We ran for the camera equipment: Not knowing what to do or how to cope we busied ourselves with the nervous energy of taking pictures. I hated myself for seeing beauty in the smoke tendrils that filled the sky.
As soon as we saw the second explosion we knew this was no accident. We turned up the television and watched as the world we knew so well disintegrated before our eyes. I certainly don’t mean the view, but the idea that living in New York City’s shadow protected us from random terrorism and war. As I watched the magnificent towers implode — first one and then the second — I felt that everything that was yesterday was trivial, meaningless, and empty. I tasted hatred in my soul that I despise and fear to this very moment.
For the next 48 hours I restlessly padded a tight circle around our small apartment. Starting in the living room with the repeated videos of planes slamming into the towers, into my office to listen to NPR, back to the window, retreat to read the online NY Times, then numbly back to the balcony, completing the circle. I took hundreds of pictures — from the red-drenched sunsets caused by the clouds of dust through the darkest sleepless nights until the earliest morning light that never brought a reprieve. This week there was no looking away from the city, the light, the river. Only now the city was shrouded with a long cloud of dust that waved slowly up from where the World Trade Center had stood.
Now five days after the attack I am not drawn to the window any longer. I do not sit on the balcony in the afternoon sun. I do not look out towards Manhattan, although the smoke has lessened. The repeated images in my mind will never dim. I can’t enjoy the view of the city, the light, the river — just as the five thousand people lost in the rubble of the World Trade Center cannot. Those whose grave I can see and smell smolders in the distance, contrasting the city, the light, and the river of my dimming memories of the days before Tuesday, September 11, 2001.
Images Copyright 2001 Katrin Eismann
Katrin Eismann is an artist, author, and educator who has been working with digital imaging tools since 1989.
This article was last modified on July 18, 2023
This article was first published on September 18, 2001
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