Weather: Warmer in the morning than in the afternoon, with temperatures dropping into the 60s. Cloudy and a 50 percent chance of rain.
Alternate-side parking: In effect until Sept. 30 (Rosh Hashana).
It was hard to miss Harry Ortiz and his hand-painted denim jacket at ground zero yesterday morning.
“Hey, guys! Check out my jacket,” Mr. Ortiz, 65, shouted proudly to passers-by.
Mr. Ortiz’s garment — “my prized possession” — was decorated with images of the World Trade Center and of fire trucks that were destroyed when its towers collapsed in the 2001 terrorist attacks.
Yesterday, 18 years later, Mr. Ortiz and hundreds of other New Yorkers made the trip to Downtown Manhattan to honor those killed in the attacks.
He said that he had the jacket made years ago — “to give light to the fallen, and to make me feel better” — and that he wears it each year outside the Sept. 11 commemorations.
W.D. Love II, a 94-year-old Bronx man who cut a patriotic figure in his red, white and blue Fila outfit, said he had never visited ground zero before on a Sept. 11, but had vowed to show up “before I die.”
Yesterday’s official ceremony was mostly limited to relatives of the victims. It included moments of silence, the somber recitation of victims’ names, a tolling bell and an honor guard.
But outside the ceremony, people showed up to pay respects from afar.
Steve Knowles, 67, of Fairfield, Conn., took photos of the ceremony from across the street. He said he woke up early and traveled in from Connecticut because “I felt the need to be here. This is a profound moment that changed, and is still changing, all our lives in ways we couldn’t imagine then.”
Ashley Nelson, 24, a flight attendant from Queens, leaned against the exterior of the Brookfield Place shopping center and said that honoring the anniversary “helps me put things into perspective.”
“Remembering the people that lost their lives and who sacrificed — that’s important to me,” she said.
The same could be said for Mr. Ortiz, who, when he saw a line of uniformed military officers walking near the commemoration ceremony, excitedly showed off his jacket.
They smiled and gave Mr. Ortiz a thumbs-up.
“People don’t forget, but they tend to move on, and that’s a good thing,” Mr. Ortiz said. “But I can’t move on. If you forget past horrors, you stand to repeat them. And this, we can’t let this type of thing happen again.”
Enjoy the opening reception for the exhibit “Who Takes Care of New York?” at the Queens Museum. 6 p.m. [Free with R.S.V.P.]
Kick off the W.O.W. project’s fourth year and share homemade mooncakes and tea at Wing On Wo & Co. in Manhattan. 7 p.m. [Free with R.S.V.P.]
— Melissa Guerrero and Julia Carmel
Events are subject to change, so double-check before heading out. For more events, see the going-out guides from The Times’s culture pages.
And finally: A reclusive artist in the Chelsea Hotel gets a show
Since the 1960s, Bettina Grossman has lived in Room 503, a rent-regulated apartment in the Chelsea Hotel.
A talented and prolific artist in the 1960s and ’70s, Ms. Grossman lost much of her work to a fire. But even as she became increasingly enigmatic and reclusive, she remained productive, and her apartment became packed to the ceiling with her work.
Her public showings were limited to pieces displayed on her door and in her hallway at the Chelsea.
But now, for the first time since she was a young artist, Ms. Grossman, who is in her 90s, is getting an exhibition.
The show, at the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council’s Arts Center on Governors Island, will also feature the artist Yto Barrada. It will have a private opening this evening and will be open to the public from Sept. 19 through Oct. 31, Thursdays through Sundays, from noon to 5 p.m.
Although her work will be for sale, Ms. Grossman said she was happy simply to be finally getting wider exposure.
“At this point,” she said, “I’m just trying to exhibit.”
It’s Thursday — make some art.
Metropolitan Diary: Regular rider
A familiar face appears one morning on my commute to Midtown. Helmeted and decked out in an aerodynamic spandex number, he has a fancy bike with clip-in shoes. I’ve noticed that our evening commute seems to coincide as well.
I smile and tilt my head in recognition as I pedal by. He waves.
“Morning,” he says in accented English.
Months pass, warm weather turns into bone-chilling cold. Sometimes I see him sprinting up First Avenue on foot, an odd sight.
We catch each other often when we ride. One time, I try a question.
“Where are you coming from?” I ask. I assume he works at the U.N.
“Pizza,” he says. “I make pizza.”
— Alexandra Koscove
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