In New York: closing the day on the Gates

Is it all that I can write about? Today, yes. The park burst at the Gates. Pleats and skirts and billowing sheaths of fabric, still at times, flouncing and puffing up, only to settle again.

I did otherwise occupy myself. At the Metropolitan, I watched the two visitors doing stretching exercises in the empty modern art section (most were strolling among gates, the rest were at MoMA). I would catch my breath among a different set of colors, but only for a minute.

I also spend a few hours at the National Arts Club on Gramercy Square, where someone near and dear to me was singing this afternoon.

But I kept going back to Central Park. In the afternoon, and then again in the evening, I was as much focused on the people as on the gates themselves. And the light, of course, as it moved from morning pale to afternoon bold and eventually to the dark, helped only by the lamps and the tall buildings on the perimeter, and still the gates danced and played with the strollers. Thousands and thousands of strollers. And me.

and when two lovers meet... 

a dizzying look toward the sky 

staid pleats mildly tickled by the sun 

wacky and out of control! 

keeping order, grinning broadly 

no more sun? no moon tonight? no problem, the lamps will help... 

one more stroll... 

A dark lake path made brighter by saffron banners. 

In New York: a surreal walk

The gates spill out their skirts today. Christo, the artist, has repeatedly said that there is no “opening show,” no beginning, that it is a process, continuing throughout the day, until all 7500 gates have released their saffron splendor. But yesterday, a Gates worker told me that they are to start unfurling the fabric just about at 8:30 in the morning.

The blogosphere is represented in the press box, along with the major news networks

I am in the Park at 8. I’ve never seen it so crowded on a week-end morning! Palpable restlessness, people looking around at the still tightly closed gates. I spot a film camera. I follow its owner. He seems to be heading somewhere. Maybe he knows something I don’t know.

He does! Suddenly I am in a place where a large crowd has gathered. Police are keeping the public away, but there is a press box, right next to the gates. Press? The guard shouts to the man I am following. Yes! -- the cameraman shouts back. He has an ID around his neck and an assistant at his elbow. This way! -- he is told. I follow close behind. I wonder if I can get away with this. I can! I am in on the press stand, with the cameras and people with fancy equipment. I tell myself: if I am questioned, I’ll say I, too am writing for the public!

No one questions me. I feel somewhat foolish with my nice little Sony digital. Everyone’s equipment is monstrously complicated. They are exchanging comments on the light and camera settings. I join in when the discussion turns to yesterday’s brilliant sky. Still, no one asks what the hell I am doing there. It must be my black coat – it gets me places.

There is a flurry of activity toward the front. The TV cameras and mikes surge forward, I go with them. I shout with the rest: get down, get down! Move that elbow! Moreover, I have the audacity to push toward the front. I’m short! -- I plead. I am right at the front.

The first gate releases its saffron skirt.

Christo and Jeanne-Claude are here. So is the mayor. So am I. The first skirt comes down. Perfect! Watch out, you have to step back or the cardboard roll will beam you on the head! Mayor Bloomberg is doing the honors (see photo below). I had no idea that the fabric would be pleated!

I say to the cameraman next to me – Jeanne-Claude’s hair matches the gates! He answers - That’s the idea. So, does life imitate art, or did Christo design it to correspond to her preferred hair color?

You should have heard the oohs and aahs

I move on. Groups of Gates workers are making their way through segments of the gates, releasing each, one at a time. Small crowds gather around them, watching, clapping and laughing, as each release brings down the clatter of a cardboard roll that held the fabric tightly together. The workers are equally delighted. They take turns and they photograph each other as we photograph them.

Pockets of community, right in the center of the city. Helicopters buzzing overhead. Joy in the faces of those who are performing for us and those who are watching, participating. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.

In the press box: New York chutzpah, Midwestern temerity, Polish spunk. 

The Mayor does the honors; Christo and Jeanne-Claude watch. 

Jeanne-Claude's hair against the orange of the gate; flanked by Christo and Mayor Bloomberg. 

The Gates crew: enjoying a group pull to release yet another panel of fabric. 

A gust raises the skirts. 

Now that the "frames" have the added fabric, they have become curvy and flirtatious.  

From the top of a rock, watching the wave of orange unfold.