by Sidney S. Stark
Why is there an irresistible pull towards bridges as if they’re surrounded by a magnetic field we have no power to resist if we get too close?
That rickety wooden one spanning a corner of the pond on the golf course is a perfect example. Physically, it has little to recommend it. Its simple wood planks lie next to each other in a flat, ordered progression from one side of the pond to the other. They’re covered with a canvas runner meant to smooth out the surface of the bridge and reduce both the splintering in the wood and the jarring effect of the gaps between the planks on golf cart wheels. The canvas is usually crawling with green mold and fastened down with rusty nails. The brown, opaque water of the pond is brackish and makes it impossible to see anything just below the surface. You can’t help imagining all kinds of unpleasant life forms lurking in the sludge at the bottom. Why would anyone want to pause for even a moment on that bridge? It must not be about the bridge’s structure or the water it spans because everyone stops for at least a second or two and even finds an excuse to cross it when they have no reason.
Golfers crossing the bridge try to pretend it’s not worth noticing. It’s just a means to an end. Yet they still hesitate on their march to look out over the pond and comment on the weather or the sky or both. Children are less afraid to admit sensitivity to its bridge magnetism. Kids are always running up on it even when their parents have no need or intention of crossing it while walking their dogs. The adults are half a mile away already but the kids are still perched on the bridge with anticipatory tension in their springy little bodies, draped over the wooden handrails like Slinkies. What is it about bridges?
Those huge suspension bridges that span mighty rivers and canyons are obvious draws. Even though their structures are lovely only in their engineered steel perfection, who among us can resist that sense of exhilaration as the car nears actual center and we feel the thrill that but for the bridge we’d be roaring downstream. Often it’s hard to distinguish between the sensation that we’re flying in the air or floating on the current. Neither is even close to the truth but that has no effect on the impact to our nervous system; being scared and excited, pushed and pulled at the same time is such a necessary part of healthy living. Is that trip across a massive suspension bridge with danger below part of a life giving stimulus? What is it about bridges?
New England’s covered bridges have long been singled out for stardom. Living dinosaurs from an earlier epoch they’re antique landmarks of such primitive elegance even our customary desire for progress hasn’t been allowed to destroy their surviving relatives. All of them that are part of the loving commitment to preservation so typical of the New England persona have found a place in the hearts of the people who travel on them. That first sight of the simple roof and structure covering a walk to or from somewhere else makes one stop and stare. How quickly the imagination fills with thoughts of being underneath that roof. How wistful the thoughts are of the time when winters and horse travel required these finished houses built to protect a transverse and promote connections, both social and commercial. Even people with a poorly developed imagination can’t resist the image in their mind’s eye of those other generations who relied so heavily on the covered bridge. Put your foot on one and start the magical trip through its cool dark interior and thoughts become real enough to make you feel the pedestrians from that other time at your side. It’s just a walk after all and yet it’s so much more. What is it about bridges?
So clearly hypnotic, the bridges in New York City’s Central Park render the question of purpose redundant. Designed by Calvert Vaux and Jacob Wrey Mold in the mid 1800’s they all represent the ultimate in bridge enchantment. There are about forty of them hidden away in the park all designed as low-key works of art intended to disappear into the park’s lush landscape. Most are made of native stone, but five remaining cast and wrought iron beauties are the oldest iron bridges in America. Innovative mixing of phosphorous in the iron alloy made exquisite detailing possible in the casting and added a lovely sheen to their surfaces. No two are alike thus reinforcing the inference that they were placed there by God instead of designers Vaux and Mold. Many, like Bow Bridge over the lake, are familiar as much-photographed stars in Hollywood Movies. But others like the tiny picturesque stone arch in The Ramble seem to disappear in a confusion of happy memories.
I’ll admit to feeling guilty about my lack of recall when struggling to place most of the bridges in their unique locals by memory. I’ve virtually grown up in Central Park and would have assumed the bridges to be part of my education. It’s clear the bridges are intrinsic and natural to their surroundings so apparently my confusion was cleverly calculated and promoted by the Park’s designers. Some bridges do stand out for me though. I used to study Ramble Arch from a distance and close up with a fascination bordering on fixation. I’m not an artist but I feel the pull a painter must sense to put that charisma on canvas. The intentionally tangled greenery around The Arch taunts a painter to start there, but ultimately wouldn’t it take an inhuman skill to capture the ephemeral beauty that little bridge is wrapped in?
Are the lovers who mysteriously appear in the middle of Ramble Arch an illusion of my imagination? Are they old or young, tall or short, happy or sad? Are they symbols of all lovers or are they specific to this afternoon? Shadows from the spring vines cloak them in shimmering points of Impressionist light, making it hard to determine where one begins and the other ends or if they’re there at all; or is that just because they’re pressed together as one in a ubiquitous embrace? Why did they choose that lovely old bridge to celebrate their blending? The Ramble nearby is laced by winding paths and romantic vistas with a tiny stream and furtive retreats at every turn. Would that not be a more compelling backdrop for this merger of bodies and souls? I guess not as they’re still there. Wrapped in each other’s arms they sway on the little bridge as if to say ‘we’re permanent and forever, yet also in transition from somewhere to someplace else. We’re solid yet fleeting; timeless but momentary; safe but insecure.’ Even as I celebrate their declaration I feel a stab of jealousy. It’s not just their embrace that makes me envious; it’s where they are and the magic that surrounds them. What is it about bridges?
Question@You: Is the transition more important than the simple access afforded by a bridge? Please leave a comment.
Join me in two weeks for a discourse on Passion. Thanks for coming.