From Graffiti-Covered Trains to Slow Living in Provence

Yesterday I found myself revisiting memories of growing up in the Bronx during the early 1980s, and I’m still sitting with the imagery of it all — the color, the creativity, the grit, the contradiction of beauty and devastation existing side by side.

The New York City of my childhood was loud, expressive, overstimulating, complicated, and deeply alive.

Just off the Kingsbridge Road subway station, graffiti-covered trains thundered through the city like moving galleries. At the time, many adults dismissed graffiti as vandalism, but even as a child I instinctively understood there was something deeper happening.

These weren’t simply acts of destruction.

They were declarations. “In 1984, along with Henry Chalfant, Cooper published their images in the groundbreaking book Subway Art”,  Cooper, M., & Chalfant, H. (1984)

Young people from overlooked neighborhoods — many of them Black and Latino teenagers — were demanding visibility in a city that often ignored them. Armed with spray paint and imagination, they transformed subway cars into canvases long before the art world would recognize their brilliance.

What fascinates me now is that many of these young creators were never initially chasing fame.

They were simply expressing themselves.

Creating because they had to.

Creating because the world around them did not yet have language for what they were becoming.

Graffiti emerged alongside hip-hop culture in New York during the late 1960s and 1970s as a form of identity, resistance, and self-expression. Eventually, artists like Jean-Michel Basquiat, Keith Haring, Fab 5 Freddy, Lady Pink, and Futura 2000 helped bridge graffiti from the subway tunnels into galleries, museums, fashion, and global culture. What was once criminalized became internationally celebrated urban art.

Hip-hop itself was born from that same resourcefulness.

Kids creating something from nothing.

Breakdance battles on cardboard mats.
Boom boxes echoing through parks.
DJ equipment plugged into streetlights.
Brightly colored bandannas.
Satin bomber jackets.
Gold bamboo earrings.

Style born from invention rather than excess.

The Bronx taught us how to create beauty out of limitation.

And yet, surrounding all of this innovation were burnt-out buildings that made entire neighborhoods resemble war zones.

As children, we normalized things no child should normalize.

Vacant lots.
Collapsed staircases.
Charred apartment buildings.
Entire blocks reduced to rubble.

For years, the media portrayed these fires as evidence of urban decay caused by the residents themselves. But much of the devastation in the South Bronx during the 1970s and early 1980s was tied to systemic neglect, redlining, landlord abandonment, and insurance fraud schemes. Historians later uncovered how some landlords intentionally burned buildings for insurance payouts after neighborhoods were economically abandoned and property values collapsed.

“The fires were set not by unruly tenants, Ansfield charges, but by landlords seeking insurance payouts. The late twentieth century gave rise to a horrifying dynamic, throughout the country but especially in the South Bronx, whereby owners had reason to burn their buildings and few people in power had reason to care.”

Ansfield, (2022)

The tragedy is that while the Bronx was burning, extraordinary culture was simultaneously being born there.

That contrast shaped me profoundly.

The Bronx was never just destruction.

It was invention, innovation, creation.

Even amidst the chaos, there was beauty everywhere.

Prewar apartment buildings lined the Grand Concourse with parquet floors, French doors, sturdy walls, sunken living rooms, and elegant architectural details that hinted at another era of New York grandeur.

Fordham Road buzzed with life.

Movie palaces like Lowe’s Paradise looked almost surreal against the backdrop of urban decline — red velvet curtains, elaborate staircases, gold detailing, gothic sculptures. As a child, stepping into those theaters felt like entering another world entirely.

And perhaps that contrast — glamour beside struggle — is exactly what gave New Yorkers our particular psychology.

New York teaches you proximity to possibility.

Even as a child, I became fascinated by shows like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous because they reminded me that entire worlds existed outside my immediate environment. At the same time, school trips to places like the Museum of Natural History and the United Nations exposed me to ideas, cultures, and possibilities far bigger than the Bronx blocks where I lived.

That proximity matters.

As an adult, I realized one of the greatest gifts New York gave me was proximity to greatness.

Not fantasy.

Reality.

Celebrities rode the subway.
Artists grocery shopped beside you.
Creators existed in ordinary spaces.

That accessibility made ambition feel tangible.

Your entire life could change in a single moment in New York City.

But survival there also came with consequences.

New York moves fast — so fast that time becomes more valuable than money.

There’s a reason New Yorkers say:

“If you’re on time, you’re late.”

Because arriving exactly on time in New York often means you simply got lucky. Train delays, traffic, weather, crowds — the city constantly forces you to anticipate disruption.

You learn quickly that preparation creates peace.

Oddly enough, that constant vigilance can shape your nervous system.

You learn to compartmentalize.
To stay alert.
To keep moving.

To emotionally detach from chaos simply to function.

I think that’s why New Yorkers sometimes appear callous to outsiders.

It isn’t cruelty.

It’s survival.

You cannot emotionally absorb every strange interaction, every moment of instability, every emergency unfolding around you while navigating a city of millions.

Eventually, I became deeply attached to the idea of home as refuge.

Not luxury.

Refuge.

After fighting the intensity of the city all day, simply having a peaceful room to return to felt sacred.

As I got older and managed multiple contracts simultaneously while working in the arts, my self-worth became increasingly tied to productivity.

Efficiency.
Performance.
Movement.
Output.

My nervous system rarely fully relaxed.

Looking back now, I realize survival had consumed so much of my energy that I was often too exhausted or overwhelmed to enjoy my life.

And honestly?

I didn’t fully understand how exhausted I was until I left New York.

Not only until I left — until I met my husband.

I remember being shocked by how quickly he could detect the frantic energy still living inside my body. Even during quiet dinners in France, he could sense that my mind was still operating on New York time — mentally preparing, anticipating, strategizing, making sure I had “earned” rest before allowing myself to relax.

Now, living in Provence, I understand something I never fully grasped before:

Slowing down is not laziness.
Sometimes slowing down is survival too.

Research increasingly shows that chronic stress, overstimulation, and constant productivity can negatively impact mental health, contributing to anxiety, burnout, sleep disruption, and emotional exhaustion. In contrast, slower living practices — including time in nature, mindfulness, intentional rest, and reduced overstimulation — are associated with improved emotional well-being and lower stress levels.

My life now feels radically different.

The Mediterranean Sea surrounds us.
Vineyards stretch across the landscape.
The cicadas sing.
The chickens demand attention.
The sunsets arrive in shades of apricot, gold, crimson, and violet.

The beauty here asks something different of me.

Presence.

I still create.
I still dream boldly.
I still hustle.

But now my creativity comes from inspiration rather than urgency.

The quiet allows me to hear myself again.

And perhaps that’s what New York ultimately taught me:

Survival matters.

But eventually, if you’re fortunate, survival should evolve into living.

New York taught me resilience.
Provence taught me peace.

And somehow, I needed both.