Jeremy Beaudry / projects and texts

World Trade Center Site Memorial

2003 / Champaign, USA & New York, USA

This project was completed in collaboration with J. Meredith Warner and was an official entry in the World Trade Center site memorial competition.

This project attempts to claim this tragic site
to establish a place in which we can be
a space in which we can confront pain and fear and loss
we can confront anger and frustration
a space in which we can be with these powerful emotions
and maybe leave some of them behind
take something of calm and peace away with us when we go
take something of community and empathy when we go

in the footprints of obliteration
the incomprehensible erasure
of two of humanity’s tallest constructions
there, frail and tentative,
the young trees dig in
they thirst and drink
they choke and breathe
they expand, they go on

in time the trees are older
maples, dogwoods, hazelnuts
complacent in their archaic possession
in their knowledge of change
leaves bud, bear fruit
fruits ripen, then fall
leaves turn, leaves fall
branches barren, souls at rest
soon, leaves bud again

one day, a tree dies
someone comes to take it away.
what’s left behind: a pitted stump,
some black dust,
a new tree planted just near by.

As I descend down the ramp my eyes brush the massive walls that once held this place together. This huge container supported the lives of so many ordinary people, people who came here to work and to live.

At street level, the city maintains the standard bustle. So many people, such a fast pace, it all whirls around me. Moving downward, the traffic and craze slowly peel away, leaving only a faint hum above. I see a fluid and translucent canopy blanketing the site, another layer of protection from the former madness of the street. The tops of two substantial groves of trees peek up from the footprints. I am astounded that in this concrete maze a tree will still grow, much less a whole grove.

Arriving at the bottom, enclosed under the site’s massive shield, I see people gathering along the length of the ramp I have just descended. A dark slate wall is inscribed with chalk daily by those who visit. They write, erase, write again, building narratives upon the words and images left by those who came before them. This palimpsest is a living tribute, a remnant of the impromptu memorials that sprung up all over the city after that day in September. It is a place for people to grieve, shout, hope, share thoughts-and, most of all, leave their own mark on this place, no matter how temporary it may be.

Past the expanse of the canopy, I see the tree trunks of the largest grove. At first only the trunks are visible but, as I approach, the translucency of the canopy discloses their lush tops. Moving closer to the threshold between the canopy and the grove, I am at once inside and out. In both instances the space feels private, secluded, safe. As I pass on to the grove, I see mature trees, saplings, stumps. In places the gravel ground is blanketed with leaves. The range of growth intimates time, maintenance, change. At the very center, the space clears slightly. I look up and see an isolated moment of sky, blue and rich, enclosed by the verdant tree tops. Where I am standing was the center of the tower. With my head tilted sharply, I see the sky that was once obstructed by that massive building. The ghost of its image remains.

Returning my gaze to the ground, my eye is teased by a subtle, winding path inscribed in the ground. I follow it. I move along the hairline path, past another entrance to the site and toward the northernmost grove of trees. Once near the center of this grove, a structure begins to impress itself upon me through the trees. Nestled back, secluded from both the street and the sky, is a heavy, narrow building. A deep porch pulls back into dimness. As I step into the space I notice other people facing me, their eyes averted upward. There is a soft flicker of light. I turn around. On the adjacent wall is the moving image of a hand, writing. Writing slowly, J-o-a-n-n-a-S-e-l-l-e-r-s. A name is revealed, then another, and another-one for each of the victims. A procession of names is slowly and meditatively drawn out. The act is human, slow, ordinary, poignant.