Standing at the base of the building, looking skyward, my chin almost pressed against the steel. I remember the pattern seemed like a railroad track to infinity, but somewhat more dizzying as it became more horizontal than vertical. In my mind I imagined running my fingers between the converging grooves of the building’s skin (sort of like keys on a piano) as they converged in the distance. I turn to view a somewhat sterile and monochromatic environment, highlighted by a curious sculptured sphere, perhaps representing Earth. A space that was open, windy and kind of cold, or at least cool.
In the somewhat austere surroundings, which others had said was not exactly inviting, I found that I liked it; wind blowing, dust and small bits if trash twirling upwards, not too many people around (it was a chilly day, I think).
This is perhaps one if not a mix of memories of my visits to the Trade Centers, as I often called them, too lazy to add World. As a student, often broke, or with just enough money to buy a ticket to the top, it was an infrequent, but always satisfying getaway. Even the ground level was fine, if I had no money (I was on the meal plan).
As a middle teenager living in rural Upstate New York I was introduced to the buildings by my sister in the mid 1970’s, when she worked on the 48th floor for a Japanese financial firm. I imagined someday I might live in the city, but it was just a thought.
During senior year in high school in Upstate Waverly, New York, a guidance counselor would show me a catalogue outlining a school I’d never heard of called the Fashion Institute of Technology (how perfect; a state school in Manhattan with livable tuition and room rates, or so I miscalculated). I was accepted into the photo program and soon moved to the city. A Manhattanite; imagine that. And those buildings, especially those twin tall ones.
With little money in pocket, one finds creative ways to entertain one’s self. I walked a lot. From 27th Street sometimes all the way to the Battery, but the plaza under the towers was often a cut through, and I never seemed to tire of it.
Sometimes I felt alone in my affection; I heard many negatives about what had happened to Lower Manhattan; wind tunnel affect, an island now out of balance with the old landscape, sterile, an ode to the evils of Capitalism, waste, empty floors, major problems with the electrical system, to name a few. Some people seemed pretty mad about the whole project, so I mused to myself mostly.
I would stay in the city until 1981 or so, continuing to come and go after getting full time work in Poughkeepsie (not too far) but eventually taking a bigger job in the Midwest in the ‘90’s. Frequent visits to New York (and friends) kept me in touch with a changing place; crime rates dropping, quality of life seeming to improve, a changing city neighborhood by neighborhood (including Lower Manhattan), a 1993 bombing.
From what I was hearing, many people were starting to like Manhattan’s southern tip. It was becoming more like home versus a blustery ghost town I remember of the Financial District after 5 pm. Houses, schools, neighbors, all in the shadow of two very tall rectangular boxes, now recognized around the world perhaps as well as their uptown, more stately neighbors.
IN the past few weeks, I’ve come across some of my photos shot of or in the general direction of the towers. The photos aren’t that great and I don’t have that many; perhaps I mostly avoided shooting that skyline as it was probably photographed millions of times a year. But my affection for the shapes (of the towers), beautiful, ugly, symbol of New York, whatever people felt, seemed unavoidable.
The buildings weren’t alive. To some, they represented the best of what we are as a nation, to others the worst. No one dreamed that they would become monuments to the dead, the innocent, the heroes and a changed city and world.
My look back is more than sadness, anger, revenge, sorrow and grief. I’m struck when remembering these two simple, rising columns that looked as gray as granite one day, reflecting an almost blinding, warm glow another. They were maybe even at times, stunning.
I’m not memorializing the Twin Towers for what they looked like. Not really. Only for the inhabitants inside and those who came to their aid on those two dark days, and still do.
Yet the buildings themselves, for some, have come represent a symbol of remembrance and hope. Looking back before 2001 at these two plain but monolithic shapes rising on the skyline, I think I understand.
All photos copyright Craig Ruttle 2011
