New York City can be a study in overstimulation. The noise. The crowds. The signs. So many signs. A collage of overlapping text. Commands, directions, advertisements, information. No Parking. Uptown Only. Film Shoot. Don’t Block the Box.
Inundated with information, I find myself trying to block some of it out. I avoid eye contact and walk briskly, focused on what’s right in front of me. Inside my own force field. Sunglasses. Earbuds. Self-imposed tunnel vision.
Still, I always seem to notice other types of messages, tucked between the standard announcements. Not just from New York, but from New Yorkers.
I am sure you have seen them. They are not dispatched through official channels, like blindingly bright kinetic 40-foot advertisements in Times Square, or via admonishments like “stand clear of the closing doors” — but in incredibly specific signs and handwritten missives. Direct messages.
Some are gently philosophical. Waiting for an uptown train at Union Square a few years back, I spotted a modest suggestion, scrawled in marker on the subway platform column:
And outside an Upper East Side townhouse, there is a sign perhaps intended for those ringing the doorbell, but also maybe for anyone who needs to hear it:
Some messages are more mysterious, like the memo written on a name tag sticker, attached to a light pole in Brooklyn Heights:
There are times when it is obvious what the writer intended. On the green plywood walls around a construction site on East 79th Street, blunt feedback appears from neighbors attempting to negotiate:
Often, a few words can conjure an entire dramatic scene. On a mattress that one can only imagine was unceremoniously dumped on an uptown Manhattan curb during a breakup:
Then there are messages with a winking sense of humor. A couple of years ago, a retail establishment announced an offer that seemed limited in its appeal:
Last year, a shop on First Avenue posted a notice that doubled as a trend-spotting news flash:
Underneath it all is the visceral attempt to connect, to be heard, to cut through the clutter and make a statement.
Occasionally, these DMs teeter dangerously on the edge of smarm, like a small orange card, taped to a light pole, with a handwritten insistence:
But usually, whether ephemeral guerrilla art, stern warnings or idle musings, the messages have a similar effect. In a city that shouts and blares, these are little whispers, with voices as varied and distinctive as New Yorkers themselves.
Often the notes raise more questions than they answer: Who wrote that? Why? What are the goods that are urgently processed? And what is it about a funny or serendipitous turn of phrase spotted out of context that compels me to have an iPhone camera roll full of them, the earliest photo dating back more than a decade?
They’re not quite Easter eggs, these unexpected messages — I never actively hunt for them. In fact, one often pops up when I least expect it.
Sometimes it’s hard to comprehend what a city really is, beyond densely stacked gleaming towers and throngs of faceless, busy strangers. It’s difficult to conceive of all the millions of lives being lived, simultaneously, in the same place, each with hopes, dreams and desires.
When I see a handwritten note or a strategically placed little wisecrack, setting itself apart from the mass-produced signage, it shrinks things down to a human scale. New York is just a bunch of people, and they want to talk. They have things to say. To live here is to be in a never-ending conspiratorial conversation, with weird asides, in-jokes, unsolicited advice and unanticipated encouragement.
Recently, after a long day of navigating commuting, working, commuting again, socializing, dodging traffic and jostling crowds, I climbed into the back of a cab, bone-tired and ready for bed, and encountered a sticker with the best possible words for 9:30 p.m. on a Tuesday: