Over and over.
Over and over.
For eleven years.
This morning, I saw the inevitable tributes. The Never Forgets. The photos. The clips.
Something inside me snapped.
Why do we do this? Why do we flagellate ourselves with these violent pictures? What are we doing? What purpose does this serve, this annual resurrection of horror and grief and pain?
I've had my fill of it.
I can mourn the dead without watching them die. I can remember the horror without witnessing the terror. I can honor the heroes without hearing their final words.
I've done those things for eleven years.
Today, I choose to remember the Towers conquered not by hatred, but by art. I choose to focus not on their collapse, but on their erection.
They were born as they died, looming large on the global stage. They captured attention and stirred the imagination. Their dizzying height inspired one of the greatest feats of performance art ever attempted.
Philippe Petit's 1974 high wire walk was a testament to the ingenuity of human engineering and creativity. Between those monoliths of modern architecture, he danced with his own mortality in a stunning exhibition of bravado and grace. He struck a perfect balance of thrilling danger and zen-like meditation.
Today, I choose to remember the soaring heights of human ingenuity. I remember the audacious. The ambitious. Art for the sake of art. I remember the artist's capacity to thrill, to enrapture, to provoke. I honor the past, but choose not to wound my heart yet again with images of destruction and death. Today, I leave you with a memory of the Towers as co-conspirators in a defiant act of art.