They just are there. Some at ground level, others perched on rooftops. 31 of them. They stand and they stay and they stare out of empty eye sockets, looking right through the crowds into a frozen parcel of eternity.
One can not avoid, when bumping into these iron men on the street or catching a glimpse of a silhouette high on a ledge, wondering what drove sculptor Antony Gormley to disseminate such anonymous statues around the Flatiron District.
Maybe they don’t mean anything more than what we carry up to them. Maybe they are us. Pondering our existence within the walls of a gigantic city, surrounded by many yet isolated in our quest for a reason to our presence in this world and a proof that the next one will be better.