| Gustav Klimt - Farm Garden with Crucifix 1912 |
From Rob Walker's TAoN No. 102
I don’t remember which year it was that, during a clear-my-head walk around that neighborhood, I came upon this little park.
Probably I had walked past it before without even seeing it. It’s the kind of place I would hardly have noticed back when I actually lived in the city — a run-of-the-mill parklet, sandwiched mid-block among multi-story buildings, with some playground equipment, basketball goals, handball courts, a number of benches, a few trees and flowers, etc. Nothing special.
But in that moment, it was exactly what I was seeking. I had recently made my first visit to the celebrated High Line, and found it annoying.¹ To me it felt more like a tourist attraction than a real public space: I remember having the sense that it was something to be moved through and completed, more akin to a ride than a place to be. It made me feel alienated.
This modest workaday little park was the antidote. It certainly wasn’t crowded, but it was being used: individuals eating lunch or reading, groups playing games, etc. I sat and people-watched (and people-listened), eyed the pigeons, looked up at the sky. I have returned to this spot year after year, and once even took some snapshots, for no reason other than it had become a meaningful place, to me.
I was going to say it felt like a “third place” — a site of coming together that is neither home nor office, like a coffee shop or a church — but that concept centers on conversation and connection. And while a park can be a third place, that’s not really what I’m up to in this instance.
Yes, the park is public, but I go there to be alone and anonymous. I’m there for me. And in fact, because I’ve been back multiple times, I think of it as a place that is somehow mine. Perhaps it is a “fourth place.”
I have several similar spots around New Orleans now, a side effect of extensive pandemic-era bike-riding — places where I repeatedly pause and reflect (and sometimes take a picture).
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