When So Much Seems Flattened

Instagram reminded me a few days ago that three years have passed since I took a climb to the top of the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine in New York City. Before that 12-story vertical journey, I had experienced the great Gothic cathedral, one of the largest in the world, only at floor level, horizontally from the front door on Amsterdam Avenue to the apse behind the high altar

Nave of the cathedral

Where I work, October is “Archtober,” an annual celebration of the city’s architecture. During “normal” years Archtober offers daily in-person tours of buildings and landmarks, new and old, some in-progress, in all of the five boroughs.

This year the tours, like so much else, are online. They’re still enjoyable and informative — I have a list of places I want to visit in person when this isolation is over. But in some sensory and dimensional aspects they’re flat. I think back to the depths, widths, and breadths I took for granted, in my world and on this Archtober tour, removed for now.

A series of climbs up narrow steps that wound around the cathedral’s pillars took me into its architectural details. I paced myself on the way up, touching the pillar, cool and solid, when I needed to hold on to something. Cathedral sounds and smells — the zzzip and pop of a few votive candles burning to the bottom of their wicks and flaming out, a hot waxy aroma combined with pungent smoke, and echoes of heels clicking on the stone floor tagged along.

Despite having so much to see, I had to make sure I planted my feet on the wide side of the triangular shaped steps to avoid taking a tumble. First stop was the triforium, the “bishop’s walk,” a narrow walkway parallel to the cathedral’s outside wall, high enough for a clear view of the interior, front to back, side to side, and top to bottom. It gave me perspective on the building’s size.

Another climb and I stood on a buttress, one of many, anchored outside and coming through the cathedral wall to support its height. I could stand in the light of a stained glass window because of that anchor giving the wall stability.

Triforium with stained glass windows above

My legs felt shaky, tired, on the next walk upwards. I left the light-bathed buttress and entered semi-dark space “backstage,” between the top of the cathedral ceiling and its roof. From a catwalk above the arched ceiling, paved with lightweight terra cotta Guastavino tiles, I saw the forest of wooden trusses and metal beams that support the roof.

Above the cathedral ceiling

One more short ascent and I emerged into bright daylight on the cathedral’s roof. What a superb view of Manhattan looking south from 112th Street! Every sense exercised. I miss those days.