With her lesson plan book in hand, Marie O'Hara walked through the turnstyles to take the 6:00 am train into New York City to make it to New York University in time for the first class she was teaching at 7:30. It was her first class of the new school year. Neither teaching nor art were passions of hers anymore. It was lost. Lost with something else that was extrememly important to her. She used to be an amazing photographer when she was younger. Back when she had started teaching at the University. Back before she had two children in college and one in grad school. Back before her husband died in the World Trade Center attacks. Now she was a mediocre artist. Her photographs, paintings, drawings and sculptures all had no meaning. She was living a plain life, everything in black and white, which is exactly what her art was doing. Nothing in her life was for herself or for fun. It was always for someone else.
By the time she got to campus, it was 6:45 am, and New York's streets were beginning to fill with life. The CEO getting out of his limo complete with his $4,000 suit, specially fitted Italian leather shoes, and bluetooth glued to his ear. He walked straight past the homeless man complete with his free jacket taken out of a dumpster, shoes that were 3 sizes to big, with one broken bluetooth in each ear in an effort to block out some of the streets' noise. The yellow taxi cabs eagerly waiting on the side of 6th Avenue for anyone who needs a lift for $.40 a mile. Newspaper stands opening up and brewing coffee for a New Yorker who needs their daily dose of caffine. These were the things that Marie used to love photographing with all her heart. She remember the day that everything changed for her.
On September 11, 2001, Marie had been teaching at NYU for 3 years. It was a day like any other. She woke her 2 daughters and one son - all teenagers, and brewed coffee for her husband, Bill while getting together all of her papers. She put her kids on the bus and she and her husband walked to the station to make the 7:30 train. It was like any other day. He went to the Center and she went to the University. Tonight was going to be different. Tonight was special. They had reservations at Chanterelle because tonight was going to be the night her photography exhibit opened. It had taken her 5 years to perfect everything. She had finally compiled the perfect group of photographs, found the perfect studio, and she was going to share it all with her husband and children. She didn't know much about how this whole exhibition thing was supposed to run, but she knew she wanted it to be perfect. Marie cancelled class that day so she could go straight to the exhibit. She walked to the building, stood outside the glass doors, and looked up. There it was. I Love You, New York by Marie O'Hara. It was what she had been waiting for her whole life. Out of every photograph she had taken, every exhibit she'd had, this was her masterpiece. She unlocked the doors and walked across the dark hardwood floors. She laid her bag down on the ground, grabbed the old style radio, and sat in the middle of the floor. She turned on the radio, waiting to hear the jazz music she listened to every day at this time. Marie didn't hear jazz music when she turned on the radio. She heard voices. Frantic, loud, scared voices. "At approximately 8:46 am, a hijacked airplane crashed into the North Trade Center Tower". Bill worked in the North Tower.
Photography Credit: Bill Sullivan
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