A Photo Essay by Patricia Bellucci
There are no unsacred places, as Wendell Berry famously declares in his poem “How to Be a Poet.” Berry submits that there are only sacred places and desecrated places (italics mine), which to me suggests a kind of reverence towards the everyday places that we encounter and occupy, and sometimes, violate, as we go about our daily lives. And as has often been pointed out, the poem is not just for poets; it’s really about how to be present—how to be a human being. Berry, an environmental activist and farmer as well as a poet and author, generally locates his thought in agrarian and often rural settings but his perspective is expansive and relatable to anyone who reads him attentively, wherever they may find themselves. So it should be of no surprise that I am often times reminded of this particular poem when wandering around the streets of NewYork City, and even while riding the subway.
With that in mind, it is not uncommon to encounter random strangers engaged in private prayer and other forms of contemplation and even lamentation in public while one is out and about. Many of them can seem indifferent to their surroundings when so disposed; a woman quietly walking around and around the plaza at Lincoln Center, head cast down, rosary in her hands; a man reading the Qurʾān on the subway during rush hour. These people are not trying for or avoiding attention, they are simply focused inward. But they are also fully present in sharing the same space and time with everyone around them.
And sometimes things can get a bit more cryptic. Like the ground floor apartment window displaying a crude cross made of tape, and a scrawled note stuck in the corner saying simply, “I Am In Here.” An attempt to connect with the world on the other side of that window can be assumed, but the intention behind it is anyone’s guess. Yet I still found it kind of intriguing to just happen up on as I passed by. When is a window not just…a window? When it is an affirmation of someone’s existence.
The words “RIP Keith,” along with some others etched in the dust on the windows of a taxi garage, caught my eye one day while wandering around Chelsea. As I was taking some photos, the garage manager engaged me and explained that he maintains this ritual in order to honor the drivers he knew who died, one even in the garage while resting in their cab after a long shift. The stresses and uncertainties—and sometimes violence—associated with the job, to which he attributed their untimely demises, are indeed a kind of desecration of the place they occupied while simply trying to earn a living. The humble tribute in dust is now gone, and the garage is now closed after ninety year in business. RIP Keith, and all those who were once so lovingly remembered in this place.
So if I see somebody quietly praying on the subway, or a young man prostrating himself against a wall mural in remembrance of someone who passed away, it gives me pause. In the middle of a crowded and chaotic city, someone is just quietly declaring, “I Am In Here.”
All work at The Commons is published under Creative Commons license CC BY-NC-ND 4.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/
Patricia Bellucci is a visual artist who works in mixed-media, painting, and photography.Her visual inspirations are deeply influenced by the world around her, a key component in the ongoing dialog between materials, process and content that sustains her work. She holds a BFA in painting and sculpture from the School of Visual Arts, and an MA in Religion from Fordham University. Her work has been exhibited locally and internationally, and also is included in Albertsons Library’s Special Collections and Archives at Boise State and in the permanent collection at ICP (International Center for Photography in NYC). More at: linktr.ee/artprojexpb
