Paused statement

September 11, 2001, was my first day at a temp job in New York City. I arrived early and wondered why only two people had shown up before 9:00. The manager turned on the radio for transportation reports. We listened in confusion and moments later, chaos erupted simultaneously over the radio and outside. 

The temp job was in a building forty blocks above the World Trade Center—far enough for safety, and close enough to clearly see the towers. Those who eventually made it to their destinations stayed put for hours due to transportation having shut down, and not knowing what else to do. People gathered in the streets and peered out of building windows. I could not look in that direction. I could not take it in. Instead, I watched onlookers. By afternoon people seemed to be watching with neutralized disbelief, removed from the panic and terror of earlier hours. Stores reopened, people brought sandwiches and coffee into the streets. From this vantage point, the city appeared deceptively still. 

Some distinct image has been imprinted on everyone who experienced 9/11, whether by television, radio, or in person. Those who were within close proximity of the towers carry with them incomprehensible images. For those same people and many others, the precise hue of the crisp, blue sky is a reminder. 

For this painting, I felt it was important to not make obvious reference. I also wanted the image to somehow comprise notions of vitality, beauty, and strength that contradict and, at best, prevail over dehumanization and profound loss. The image depicts part of my experience; more broadly, it represents the perplexing, contemplative moments of transition into a different reality.