Giving an enthusiastic wave to my friends, I let the back door of Autumn Leaves fall shut behind me, the small bells affirming my exit.
It’s blue, and gray, and quiet. I’m in no rush. So, met with the new parking garage in front of me, I toy with the focus of my eyes until it splits in two. A large empty pit lost to time, the sound of a metal staircase in the open air; one that is now.
Like a lot of you, I’ve lived in Ithaca my whole life. I remember this building’s parent, the late Alice-in-Wonderland-horse-bird cage mural, like an old friend. I remember it with all the impatient, absentminded curiosity of a seven year old waiting for her mother outside of Trader K’s. I’m sure if it was still there I would see it in just the same way: brand new, because of the way we’ve both changed over time. Now, I’m only feeling some new type of indistinguishable way I’ll be sure to miss again in ten years.
Ithaca murals. Those two words just go together nicely, I think. They pull me right back to this place; in a way I almost want to avoid so I can go out and travel. Some new, some half graffitied over, hidden up on abandoned factory walls, some demolished with parking garage renovations, and some nearly immune to the passing of time.
More and more lately I find myself caught in this feeling like I’m seeing things through the eyes of a stranger. Dipping into a state of disconnect with this place. Somehow things just seem more literal, dull. Candy canes and collectable stuffed animals have long since lost their magical appeal, and the waffle havens of a past life, doesn’t intrigue me in the least. The murals save me a bit though. Not because I’m able to scrounge up enough motivation in nostalgia to write an article, but because I always know there’s so much more there to see and feel.
As much as this town encourages murals, some of my favorites are the ones that are definitely not supposed to be there: graffiti under the bridges, Lost Cat…you know. Art feels like an honest medium of self expression, whether it’s intended or accidental. I just relate to the ones that weren’t paid to be put up or drafted by a committee more. I get a sense of sonder from not knowing how they came about—the stories woven there, in the layers of tags up at the smokestack, the inside jokes between friends sneaking and climbing around. Ithaca is all of that. The murals even give me a bit of jealousy for some imagined retro edgy time: LACS in its peak, before they tried to fix the octopus, when people like the X Ambassadors were itching to get out of Ithaca, hanging around the Sunoco across from the library that’s a 7-Eleven now.
So yeah. When I’m struggling to relate back, when I’m feeling lost in my own head, murals help. May they stand for as long as they’re meant to, and keep the history of this place alive.
Be First to Comment