It was September 12, 2001. I needed to do something. Because of a heart condition, doctors won’t even take my blood to donate. So I released 24 hours of roller coaster emotions onto a canvas – well, it was the living room wall – to at least give myself some catharsis.
My acrylic memorial featured the burning Towers. To the left, an eye took shape from the smoke, crying tears of blood which in turn, dripped into the red stripes of a crumpled US flag. (The tile I created for the Wall of Hope would later include this element.) A burning candle, representing the indomitable American spirit, took shape from the ominous grey cloud of soot on the opposite side. Within the candle was a black pentagon that fenced in a 77, the flight number of the plane that crashed in Washington. The other flight numbers were annotated atop the respective skyscrapers they devastated – 11 on the North, 175 on the South. I superimposed a fire helmet over the lower half of the towers, and the initials FDNYPD as one word, a symbol of unity and seamlessly working toward a common goal. Above all of this, I painted a massive 93 surrounded by a golden halo. The passengers of Flight 93 epitomize the word “hero.” I can’t mention them without getting genuinely choked up, even as I type this. It’s why I prominently depicted that event as the vertical bookend of my composition, opposite the Old Glory foundation.
TANGENT: I think it was my roommate Lobo who said he’d rather cut the sheet rock out and take the painting with him after graduation rather than let that wall get repainted. I never got to call his bluff. The entire third floor burned down the following summer.