Dear Reader
One of the things I appreciate most about living in New York is that the city is a living shrine to those who are no longer here. The streets have memories etched into them; some shared by many, others shared by only a few. It is a place where we can gather publicly when someone dies, whether we knew them or not, to have somewhere to put our feelings—about an untimely passing, about a celebrity it felt like we knew, about how fragile and fleeting this life truly is. Sometimes it’s with others, sometimes alone; bringing flowers, notes, or just our own presence to a site, turning it into an ad-hoc alter.
This past Saturday, I took my morning run to Basquiat’s old studio (now up for sale), where a tribute to Sinéad O’Connor had been put up on the wall, following the news of her death. In a city where she had suffered great indignity—where the SNL show in which Joe Pesci said he would’ve slapped her for ripping up a photo of Pope John Paul II took place, where she was subsequently booed at Madison Square Garden a few weeks later—someone had upheld her fearlessness all these years later with their art.
The quote, put up by two someones, artists Adrian Wilson and Erin Ko (thanks to EV Grieve for the info), is from a 2014 interview, where she spoke about experiencing music as the manifestation of the Holy Spirit, and the accompanying photo reminds us of how she openly condemned church abuse way before history proved her right. For however long it stays up, the piece is a temporary keepsake of Sinéad O’Connor’s courage and conviction. And even when it is buffed over, the layers of paint and paper, and what they stood for, will have embedded themselves into the story of the city—a story that includes the ineradicable mark Sinéad O’Connor left.
I like to think the same is true for the other makeshift tributes that have been created over the years. Maybe it’s because the city has known such absolute grief and sorrow that it makes honouring those who were once here a deeply cherished pastime. No matter how big or small the display may be, no matter how well-known the person may have been.
When I first moved here, Steve Jobs died, and around 2am, I went to the Apple Store on 5th Avenue (it’s open 24-hours) as people gathered to put little notes and lit candles in the street outside the store. One person had set up an iPad, ingeniously, to run a video of his face. I stayed for a while as I was reporting on the story back then for a South African radio network, and watched how people came from all over the city to congregate, and share stories about their first iPod (rest in peace) or latest Mac. I couldn’t really understand what drove this, but I observed with great interest the growing tribute to the Apple co-founder, which continued in the days that followed.
Over the years, as a journalist, I’ve borne witness to many makeshift tributes for public figures. In L.A., when Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson died—those were huge massive outpourings of everything from teddy bears to flowers to CD covers and charms. In South Africa, too, when Nelson Mandela died, you could hardly see the grass for the flowers that had been placed around his Houghton home in Joburg.
In New York, when someone beloved has died, it doesn’t take long for impromptu offerings to be set up. The Post-It notes that covered the exterior of Anthony Bourdain’s restaurant, Brasserie Le Halle. The “Let’s Dance” lyrics sprayed on the wall outside David Bowie’s Soho apartment. The adding of '“Aretha” to the Franklin Street subway, together with all the flowers and candles outside the Apollo Theater, where she performed in 1971 to sold-out crowds. The bouquets that gathered around the giant photograph Spike Lee put up outside 40 Acres and A Mule when his father, the composer and bassist Bill Lee, died. Even outside Philip Seymour Hoffman’s nondescript apartment, small pieces of ephemera lauding his life were placed in the wake of his passing.
Beyond the tributes to the famous are those done in solidarity, too. Like the powerful one at The Stonewall Inn, when the Pulse nightclub shooting happened in Florida, and hundreds of rainbow flags and handwritten placards covered the exterior. Or the cards and messages of support placed outside the French Consulate on the Upper East Side after the attacks in 2015. I’ve watched these sites grow in size, as others add to them. A physical gesture of caring for someone known or not.
Perhaps even more moving are the smaller tributes to everyday people, so-called ordinary citizens, who may have been lost before their time. Often, I’ve stumbled upon a group of prayer candles gathered in a corner on a quiet street or on the outskirts of a school, marking the passing of someone who is being mourned by those who love them. Sometimes a tribute becomes permanent, like the white bicycle outlines that tell of an accident that occurred there. I try to stop and take a moment to read the accompanying placard that provides details about the person who died or look at any photographs that have been placed there.
Whether temporary or not, it feels like these improvised public memorials give us the chance and the space to acknowledge the hurt and the sadness, even if it’s for a brief moment. Even if it isn’t mine. Especially if it isn’t mine. As author Valerie Kaur notes, there’s value in showing up, in bearing witness to the suffering of others; it’s part of how we build ourselves back up in the face of all that challenges and divides us. There’s something sacred and healing about that, a shared humanity, and I’m here for at least trying to do it more often than not.
Thank you for reading. If you haven’t yet seen it, the documentary about Sinéad O’Connor, Nothing Compares, is really worth a watch.
Your neighbor,
Nadia