Often it feels as if the city is actively trying to keep you from enjoying all that it has to offer. That's certainly how it felt Sunday night, as I tried to make my way down to the Governor's Island ferry. After transferring trains four times, I finally found one and arrived in time for the boat, only to be told (along with all the gays looking to make it in time for the Saint at Large's dance event, Freemasons) that I'd have to wait for the next ferry. But I refused to give up, since I wanted to catch the final evening of the New Island Festival. Besides, I'd now trekked down here, I needed to postpone the inevitable schlep home a long as possible.
Turns out all the trouble was worth it, the Dutch-organized event was a magical evening with quirky performers, a 400-foot table packed with people gobbling up mashed potatoes, plenty of Heineken and a cow lazing about—and available for people to pet. Yep, just your typical Sunday night in the city. Except it wasn't.
I hadn't realized how
acclimatized
I had become to the constant city noise infringing on a any performance. No matter where you go, there's always the rumble of a train beneath, the honk of horns or the subtle hum of some subterranean generator. While I sat and watched a female dancer writhe on a white makeshift stage, wood smoke wafted by, all we had were the chirps of crickets and the chatter of all the amiable Euros to accompany the performance. I felt like I was experiencing dance for the first time: This was the way it was meant to be, surrounded by slightly tipsy cultured folks outdoors on a chilly late-summer evening. The entire evening was filled with a sly sense of buffoonery, but it never seemed to slip into total clownishness. Later, Dutch Prime Minister Jan Peter Balkenende spoke, and he just seemed like someone's slightly goofy uncle. No big thing. We ended the evening with the campy musical stylings of Yvonne & Helen, clapping and waving our arms together. The creative generosity of the Dutch performers and their friends seemed to know no bounds.
Much has been written about the future of Governor's Island this year, and books dedicated to its history hope to open up the mysterious little spot to a wider audience. After the New Island Festival, I know what I wish for the island to become. I hope it will remain a free and unhindered by the cynicism and pragmatism of the city. A liminal space where artists and merrymakers are allowed to create and adapt and run wild. I can envision it hosting parties and festivals and concerts and spectacles year-round. Why not allow a Burning Man-type event take over for weeks? The faeries and radicals camping and dancing next to the waves and in the empty military buildings. Now that developers have had to cool their plans, it may just be allowed to happen. We can hope.
