Roosevelt Island Tram
If you stand long enough on the Manhattan side of the Queensboro bridge, the concept of a car horn will be rendered completely meaningless. I drew from the Roosevelt Island Tram stop today, above lanes of traffic. At some point the relentless honking became almost comforting, a symphony in multiple movements—entering, exiting, and going downtown. Every so often the tram would glide slowly down the suspended wires, and each time I stopped to appreciate its silence and grace. A family got off the tram and a man and his son stopped to talk. He said they lived in Atlanta, but he grew up in New York. ”No better place to be from,” he said. I told him I lived in Brooklyn, but I grew up in Kansas. ”Kansas? Reminds me of that Star Trek movie where he says ’I’m from Kansas. I only WORK in outer space.’”