In the late 1990s, when Joshua David and I launched Friends of the High Line, our grassroots mission was to save an old freight railway on Manhattan’s west side from the wrecking ball. We could hardly envision that our efforts to transform this derelict 1.45-mile stretch into a park would revitalized the surrounding industrial blocks, turning them into some of the world’s glitziest real estate. Today, the High Line bustles with tourists and locals alike, and its influence has sparked global interest in redefining urban infrastructure. While its current success seems like a foregone conclusion, the path there was anything but straightforward.
Back in 2004, energized by the Bloomberg administration’s visionary backing, we set out to find a park design that matched our ambitions. At the time, our ideas were hazy. Did this rusty, flower-covered relic need a specific function? And what would that function be?
Many contributed to this vision, but perhaps the pivotal figure from the start was architect Ricardo Scofidio, who passed away on March 6 at age 89. Every time I stroll the High Line, I’m reminded of his radical, uncompromising ideas and his ability to listen and adapt to others’ notions without diluting the park’s essence.
Four design teams made it to the final round in 2004. Among them were Steven Holl, envisioning houses atop the High Line—a model now at MoMA. Then there was the futuristic vision from Zaha Hadid featuring AstroTurf, and Michael Van Valkenburgh, aiming to recreate the industrial and wild character of the defunct tracks. Each presented intriguing yet incomplete visions.
The standout proposal came from a team featuring Mr. Scofidio alongside Elizabeth Diller, his wife and fellow architect; landscape architect James Corner; and garden designer Piet Oudolf. I can’t recall their exact words from the presentation, but the spirited debate between Ms. Diller and Mr. Scofidio, later joined by Mr. Corner, struck a chord with us.
We made our choice and brought them on board.
Soon after, my primary collaborator became Mr. Scofidio as Diller, Scofidio + Renfro undertook redesigning parts of Lincoln Center, drawing Ms. Diller’s focus. Initially disappointed, having been captivated by Ms. Diller’s energy and ingenuity, I soon appreciated Mr. Scofidio’s quieter, refined presence—his sharp style and passion for Porsches. At 34, as neither architect nor planner, I felt a bit intimidated by him.
While reading “The Leopard” by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, one line resonated: “If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change.” This challenge encapsulated the High Line’s transformation. We cherished the wild landscape that thrived after the railway’s shutdown in the 1980s. Yet to open it to the public, we’d have to clear beloved wildflowers, address drainage, and remove toxic residues.
Though Paris’ Promenade Plantée was renowned, its benches and planters symbolized what we didn’t want—a simple elevated park.
Mr. Scofidio’s team delivered something fresh, deriving inspiration from the site’s deserted beauty without ostentation. His ethos was, “My job as an architect is to save the High Line from architecture.” Despite numerous propositions—architecture students had long used it as a canvas—his team chose simplicity, exposing rather than adding to the underlying structure.
Central to their design was a novel walkway system composed of concrete planks weaving through the landscape. These planks, varied in shape and dimension, integrated new wildflowers popping through, replicating nature’s reclamation.
Building the High Line came at a high cost, primarily due to complex remediation, not the elegant concrete plank system that stood out for its elegance and efficiency.
Above 18th Street, the team’s design morphed 10th Avenue into a theater for street-watching. The wheelchair-access ramp doubled as a children’s play area.
Despite huffing up my own apartment stairs, I never weary climbing the High Line’s stairways. Mr. Scofidio’s stairs and landings offer well-placed pauses to rest and savor the city—a subtle art many feel though few notice.
Mr. Scofidio’s imagination knew no bounds. I regret not championing his visionary glass-walled urinals, designed to give the illusion of watering the High Line grasses. Similarly, I wish for his see-through swimming pool above 14th Street, composed of potentially transparent, structural concrete.
In a city that perpetually shifts, devouring its history block by block, Mr. Scofidio’s imprint on the High Line seems self-evident. Inspired by it, over a hundred global projects have emerged. Yet, those merely mimicking the High Line fall short.
As Diller Scofidio flourished, the firm anchored near the High Line, actively engaging in the real estate boom it initiated. They crafted projects like the Shed arts center and the adjacent high-rise at Hudson Yards, juxtaposing inherent contradictions: hard against soft, nature against steel, park against development. He provided a stage for urban transformation, a place to witness New York’s evolution.
Although Mr. Scofidio wasn’t enamored with every evolution post-High Line, he acknowledged its wonders. I recall deliberations over a proposed bridge linking the High Line to Moynihan station. Would it overwhelm with commuters, altering its essence? We debated. (Ultimately, the bridge, completed in 2023, wasn’t one he designed.)
For Mr. Scofidio, maintaining the High Line’s spirit meant resisting mundanity. He envisioned it as a pathway challenging us from linear thoughts. Walking it, you’re both viewer and spectacle, part of New York’s vast canvas—humbled and exalted, touched by the city like nowhere else.
