I'm drawn to Lower Manhattan. Not the night of parties and crowds. The lonely solitary reflective moody side of night in the city speaks to me.

There's a reverence to the night on a quiet street. One or two lights flicker randomly in a dark building, inspiring thought, imagining lives lived. Parked cars sleep, hushed briefly, lumps in the night. Buildings seem farther, then closer, rise up in front of me suddenly, hulking shadows. Dark figures appear and disappear anonymously, melt into buildings, suddenly reappearing under the street lights. So small against such drama, they humanize the night landscape.

What stands out is different. Buildings become backdrops. Stange objects punch out of the darkness. Garish lights illuminate signs with jumping garrish color, exagerating their importance. City symbols show off in full splendor, demanding to be seen.

The colors that hide in daylight. Eerie greens and orange yellows, neon screaming red. Yellow sky at dusk. Violet-orange clouds piercing sunset. Shapes move and dance under the city lights, playing games with my eyes. Rain streaming wet sheets of color slicing through the night-time blues Purply brown haze of snowfall against glowing apricot lights. mutes to shady violet mauve and blue grey greens. Hot street lights hit blinding snow against black sky. Subway lamps haunt the grey night. Restaurant lights beckon and compete while inside glows warmth, comfort, comraderie. holiday lights sparkle.

Sky and City Light meet, challenge the other, each transformed. The mood is set.

The night makes me feel small and full of wonder at the strange beauty that is New York with her lights on playing buildings to sky in all the changing moods.

Ellen Bradshaw, 2003