Ah, Nature. As much as we architects love the natural world and find it a constant source of revelation, we prefer to view it from a human-made perch or platform. Call it a professional bias toward the constructed landscape. When rambling through the unfettered woodland depths, our feet inevitably find the pathways, the Appalachian trails of the world, where we stop to surmise: How could this walkway be improved? Pathetic? Comedic? Ironic? We cannot escape our fate, so inescapable is the design impulse.
In New York, the admixture of human will and nature collides with power along the Hudson, where Manhattan’s sky-blown canvas stretches as broadly as any painting by J.M.W. Turner. Seated on a bench near the tip of the Battery, the eye sweeps 180-degrees, up north toward the Palisades, past the intermittent islands (Ellis, Governor’s), and down to the Narrows. Cloud forms like lightly spun lanterns catch the morning light; in the evening, the sunsets blaze, then burn into New Jersey’s heart, while the constant vector of the Hudson pushes down and out. The coda and changeable opening chorus of the Empire state.
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