I’ve been soul-searching all day to figure what would be the best thing to do to commemorate the 12th anniversary of September 11 on my blog. On MLK day, I spoke about his profound effect on my life as a journalist. This day, for me, is no different. I could write a lengthy personal essay about where and who I was when it happened, but I’ve told that story before too many times to count and now it feels uncomfortably worn out. And so, instead, I’ll give some context to an image I tweeted out this morning and put on Tumblr of a magazine cover that changed my life.
It came from the New Yorker dated September 24. I was only 11 at the time and not at all familiar with the publication. I’m still not, not really. Those were the days of Seventeen, J-14, YM, and all those made-for-preteen-girls magazines I could get my hands on (and beg my mother to fund the subscription.) But I saw this cover at the local drugstore in the town where I went to middle school, just a quick drive from midtown—a suburb with the perfect view to watch the city burn that day. It’s one of my earliest memories of falling in love with magazines. I’d seen so many newspaper front pages depicting images from that day and the days that followed, but they were all just snapshots of the moments to have on record for someone to someday update the U.S. history book I was currently reading for school as proof it happened. But the New Yorker was something else. It felt like the memory of a feeling preserved in print forever. It just meant so much more to me than anything I’d seen the NYT or what was then called the Bergen Record, my local paper, do.
Illustrated by Art Spiegelman and his wife Françoise Mouly, it’s an indelible cover that I know for many who became used to seeing the NYC skyline the way it was depicted exactly what we feel when we see it now: darkness. I remember picking up the cover in the drugstore, analyzing it, flipping it every which way to see if there was something I’d missed. Could a magazine really publish a black cover? My creative naivety exposed because I didn’t see the real image on first glance. For the New Yorker’s 10-year remembrance of September 11, Françoise Mouly had this to say about the original cover:
“Ten years ago, my husband, the cartoonist Art Spiegelman, our daughter, and I stood four blocks away from the second tower as we watched it collapse in excruciatingly slow motion. Later, back in my office, I felt that images were suddenly powerless to help us understand what had happened. The only appropriate solution seemed to be to publish no cover image at all—an all-black cover. Then Art suggested adding the outlines of the two towers, black on black. So from no cover came a perfect image, which conveyed something about the unbearable loss of life, the sudden absence in our skyline, the abrupt tear in the fabric of reality.”