issue no. 16: on benches
Have a seat.
parks and recreation.
The second to last time I saw him, we were outside a coffee place near my apartment. A biker pulled up to the intersection swaying to the music in his headphones as he waited for the light to turn. What do you think he’s listening to?, the man, who in two weeks time I wouldn’t know anymore, asked. We were enjoying a morning together, signaling to me, some sort of propulsion into the future. Bennie and the Jets?, I suggested. Hmm, I’m getting more alt-Euro, like t.A.T.u., do you know them? I didn’t. Icons, he said, pulling out his phone and playing All The Things She Said loudly. The biker, unknowingly, rode off to the tune of a early 2000s Russian pop-duo. Then the boy left. I stayed on the bench.
Did you know there are 10,000 benches in New York City’s Central Park, 2,000 spread throughout the MTA’s bus transit lines, and another let’s call it 5,000 in the over 1,500 parks in the city. In comparison, a recent census notes there are 742,400 single men between the ages of 20-34. For between $7,000-$10,000 you can buy one and name it, a bench not a man. Dating is somehow just as, if not more expensive. I myself have spent nearly $200 a year for over five years for a Raya membership (which I cancelled last week), not to mention split meals and cabs to and from. For every 1 bench, there are around 50 men, give or take. And despite that ratio, you can more often find me sitting on a random bench than a random man.
The first time I knew I was going to fall in love with my college boyfriend was on the west side of Prospect Park, on you guessed it, a bench. We both were visiting a friend in New York in between our freshman and sophomore year of college. We were in the city at the same time by chance, or maybe it was planned—the details are hazy and unimportant now. We sat at dusk as he told me his relationship was ending. I was giddy.
We dated the entirety of our sophomore year until a year later when we’d sit in Tompkins Square park blocks from my East Village summer sublet and he’d tell me he needed space. A year after that, we’d sit together on a bench again, this time in Italy in front of a church old enough to be our great-great-great grandmothers. We’d end things again, even though they hadn’t really restarted. It's funny, I still pass that bench by the park every now and again when I walk from the Grand Army Plaza to South Slope. Now, a fond yet distant memory, I wonder how many other stories that bench holds.
A few months after my heartbreak in Italy, in the fall of 2015, my best friend from high school and I moved in together. Under most circumstances, this wouldn’t be uncommon, except for the fact that she and I happened to go to different universities in the same town. The apartment was palatial—a sunroom, a sitting room, a fireplace. We each paid $700 a month.
We spent the entire summer collecting items—decorating nearly our apartment from the bits and pieces within our parents’ basements and things found at our local goodwill. My mother picked up a futon at a ‘curb alert’ (a craigslist ad saying come get this before the garbage man does). We lined the walls with my early college drawings and her grandmother’s print collection from travels. Our biggest investment, oddly enough, was an antique bench we found in St. Louis’ arts and vintage district, Cherokee Street. I remember this like it was yesterday. At $250 this bench was worth many hours of my part-time retail job, but it would define our entire dining room.
The first time it was really put to use, I cooked an Italian meal for all my guy friends. I remember them all squished together on this faded blue farmhouse bench eating the mussels I prepared. I had learned how to cook them while living in Florence just 5 months before, caramelizing onions and red wine and sausage before dropping dozens of closed shells into a pot. I sat at the head of the table, hoping this family meal would be emblematic of the years ahead. They had been my people, they had also witnessed my earliest stumblings through love.
The bench would come in handy throughout our time in this apartment—dinner parties, large gatherings, swapping out lightbulbs. I’d even spread out my things on the dining table and sit on it alone. My cat Milo, who I adopted at the same time as the bench, would curl up on the end alongside me as I worked.
When we moved out in the spring of 2016, the bench would come with me to New York, lining the entryways of my first two apartments in Bushwick and Crown Heights. When I finally had the right amount of space, it would return to its rightful place at the dining room table in my unicorn apartment. It would once again be filled with the butts of dinner party guests. It still defined the space this way.
When I left for South Brooklyn, I let it go, it was too big and it wasn’t an aesthetic I wanted to bring along with me. I don’t get rid of furniture all that often, I’m quite attached, which typically leads to items cluttering around each other existing in a space they have grown out of. I do the same with men—past suitors sit in my brain in a baseball dugout, benched, waiting to be called on again. But I was ready to try something different, so in the fall of 2022, I went on 10 first-dates in 20 days.
They all blend together now. But one such memorable man, not because of the content of our exchange, was a 6’6” comedian with red hair. Leave the tall ones for the rest of us, I remember my best friend saying. She was a 5’9” and a former Miss Teen Nebraska, I was 5’4” and not a former Miss Teen Nebraska. Regardless, I sat in Fort Greene Park drinking canned mezcal cocktails outside the tennis courts with this ginormous aspiring stand-up host. I remember how his tall frame almost folded over itself while sitting. I made him laugh when I talked about death, this was a good sign. One of my hands was still awkwardly in the recycling bin when he went to kiss me, this was not a good sign. I couldn’t tell you his name or what his face looked like, but like it was yesterday I remember the bench, the hair and a recycling can kiss. It was not love.
Benches and love have a remarkable tie—the trope in so many films, a place of conversation, a place of solitude. How a bench can quickly go from a place of silence to that of community and closeness. It is the perfect place for a first meeting, a break up, a catch up conversation. My own love life in New York can be defined, or at least punctuated by a handful of moments pressed hip to hip with someone on a bench. In a chair, you can only get so close—stopped by its arms, limited by seat size. Benches present the opportunity for so many configurations. They leave space for a certain potential.
Benches are poetic in a way chairs only dream to be. They are just as much a part of New York as the rest of us. Subtle landmarks. Shrines dedicated to some past moment. The bench in front of my coffee place will never be the same, neither will the one alongside Prospect Park West or the one by the recycling can.
As I started to reflect on how benches were so ripe for possibility, I had to ask myself why was I choosing to be on one alone? No dramatic relationship to fight over, no canned wine in the park. I had, for all intents and purposes, benched myself—pulling myself nearly entirely out of play this past season. There were flirations here and there, a handful of dates that went nowhere. And while a roster wouldn’t build itself, nothing seemed to be working. And I, like many of my single friends, was tired of the game.
How do I write about dating, when I’m not?, I asked my close friend while we were in Paris in September. Talk about how you aren’t dating, she said.
I’m both not dating and not not dating. You know? But why? Fatigue, yes. Boredom, sure. A pool of unwilling to communicate suitors across anywhere from two to five apps, absolutely. Mix that with a prescription for anxiety medication and the uphill task of writing a book proposal about my dead mother, and the time and patience just don’t exist.
Even if I agree to bench myself, it’s not like I’m not constantly thinking about it, constantly asked about it, or constantly trying to make eye contact with strangers at wine raves or in the park. So then what? Why am I on the bench? Am I the bench? A permanent fixture to myself—awaiting company.
Last week, I was sitting outside the fire station on Great Jones, killing time before a drink reservation at that new wine bar Elvis. Not this window Maury, there’s a lady here, a man yelled out. Then a series of firemen at firehouse 33 filed out and proceeded to throw things out of the other window. Do you need me to move? I asked. No miss, you are fine right there, and then he winked. Maybe love would find me sitting on a random bench, reading something from the long list of books about grief and death while All The Things She Said played softly in the background.
home goods.
If you are looking for a good bench.
The edit: An amazing vintage wire bench spotted in the south of France at Prieure Saint Nicholas. A leather and wood number from CB2. A built in from Past Lives Studio as seen in AD. Carly Cushnie x Lulu & Georgia. A literal school locker room bench that starts at $115. A split bench on sale at Blu Dot. The near replica of my cast off farmhouse bench (you can find a million on 1stdibs—this one is $400 or this at $375). And a chic metal frame from Zara Home.
sloppy secondhand: a trip to Paris
Each issue I’ll pick a favorite vintage spot & a local watering hole—maybe you’ll find a new-to-you sofa or a new-to-you man. All I can promise is perhaps some promiscuity and a little credit card debt.
Le Sentiment Des Choses—I was with my friend Sarah, wandering around the Marais and we stumbled into this remarkable gallery that specializes in vintage ceramics and Japanese relics. I fell in love with a faceless Buddha (but it was $3K) and Sarah went home with a candlestick. The owner told me the gallery’s name translates to the poignancy of objects. I'll be thinking of this place for a long time. Nearby are two of my favorite vintage clothing spots in Paris—Nice Piece and Skat Vintage.
A Paris List—It is hard to pick just one restaurant / wine bar from my time in Paris so I’m breaking my standard structure to give you the tight edit of my favorite spots in Paris. I had the best chicken of my life at L’Orillon (the same team as favorites Jones & Recoin), it is not a trip to Paris without lunch at Clamato (sister to Septime) and dinner at Le Maquis and I will think of the wine list and cutlery drawers at Clown Bar often. Also on my list are Delicatessen, Parcelles, Verre Vole, and Early June.
shop girl
I shop more than I date, here is everything I bought or saw recently:
At Zwirner gallery in Paris, I picked up Duchamp’s Last Day, a book that chronicles the artists last day on earth and the things left undone. It is a remarkable portrait of the artist (and Paris) through the lens of his collaborators like Man Ray.
The dream girls from Forsyth just collabed with Venetian glassware company Laguna B (who I wrote about in the issue on glass). It is inspired by a fave artist that Forsyth reps, John O’Hara—you may recognize his record paintings but this piece is based on his more poetic floral pieces.
In May when I popped through Paris on the way home from Salone, my friend Gillian took me to the vintage store Nice Piece. It's now at the top of my list, I came home with this perfect trench.
The WSA hosted a book fair and Lelli had these Chairs hats based on type from a book edited by George Nelson.
From the same booth was a book called The Power Look at Home: Decorating for Men written by PRINCE Egon von Furstenberg (DVF’s ex).
I’ve been dying to retile by backsplash since I moved into my apartment in 2021. In Paris, I came across the most amazing metallic tile. When I went to price out the version I found online, it was astronomically priced. Like $6200 for 10 square feet. Champagne taste I guess.
Beni Rugs and Danish brand Frama did the impossible—they made simple, undyed rugs look chic and expensive. I love this dark wool version in Soil.
I’m always looking for more seating for dinner parties, this pair of stools I saw at Renewfinds on a recent jaunt. I love their golden wood finish and the collapsible design.
I’ve been scouring high and low for a vintage dresser and came across Rabbit Hole Vintage and mid century warehouse in Bushwick filled with delish and dark wooden treasures.
I stopped in my tracks when I saw these 2-in-1 earrings from old jewlery. The pearls simply spin off the silver disks for two very different looks. Yum.
From the archive:
