Category: Walking Reflections

From Lake Harriet to Christopher Street and Back Again

Remembering the Christopher Street That Held a Community

August 28, 2026

The distance between Lake Harriet and Christopher Street is more than a thousand miles, but memory has a way of collapsing distance without warning.

Not so much about individual people this time, but about the set. That’s what it felt like as I started putting the pieces back together.

There was Allstate Art, where I worked. Kiss My Cookies. Hercules on the corner. The loft a couple doors down. Boots and Saddles. Clyde’s. A Clean Well-Lighted Place, a lovely little gallery.

There was Richard White’s jewelry store. I remember Richard and his lover sitting behind the counters, working side by side. It was a dark little place, nothing flashy.

At Bleecker and Christopher was an Asian fruit stand. There was Paul Bolardo’s place further down Christopher. Across from Kiss My Cookies was a little photography store in a basement.

Then there was the food. Chicken from Jefferson Market for dinner. Turkey legs from the deli. Zito’s Bakery. And Rocco’s, where my favorite was the creamolata. Wonderful.

There were lots of other places, of course. These are simply the ones that stayed with me.

Together they made up this little world where we worked, ate, went out, saw friends and ran into people we knew.

It was a community, but today I was remembering the place that held the community.

And somewhere in the background was Sylvester singing “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real),” probably drifting out of Boots and Saddles—also known as Bras and Girdles.

The drawing here isn’t Christopher Street. But somehow it feels right with these thoughts—pieces connected to pieces, the way memory sometimes works.

Today, for a little while, I could see the set again.

I wonder what part of it I’ll remember next.

— Bill Hendricks

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For more photographs, stories, and memories of Christopher Street, visit this Facebook group.

Looking Back, Looking Forward: A Follow-Up to “Patterns Emerge”

Maps, patterns, and finding my way

Mixed media drawing framed like a symbolic icon, featuring a stylized central form resembling a letter B or figure, directional arrows, geometric symbols, ribbon-like lines, and soft blue shading — suggesting identity, energy, and becoming.
Metaphysical Being — mixed media on paper, 2026.

Maps, patterns, and finding my way

Metaphysical Being — mixed media on paper, 2026.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how I got here.

I was born in 1953.

In 1969, I remember hearing about Stonewall late one night on KDWB radio. They were interviewing Jack Baker.

I was sixteen years old.

For the first time, I realized there were others. I wasn’t alone.

Looking back now, I realize that moment wasn’t just about being gay. It was the beginning of a lifelong search for direction—for understanding how people find their place in the world and how we make sense of lives that don’t always fit the expected path.

I’ve spent much of my life looking for paths.

Sometimes those paths appeared as maps. Sometimes as diagrams. Sometimes as outlines, websites, or decision trees. Often they appeared simply as ways of organizing what I could see—and finding relationships among things that did not, at first, seem connected.

As a teacher, I spent years making outlines, building websites, drawing wireframes, and thinking in mind maps. I taught Gestalt theory—the idea that our minds naturally seek relationships and organize visual information into meaningful wholes.

Being dyslexic, I think I was already doing that long before I knew there was a name for it.

I’ve often described myself as someone who sees patterns. And I still believe that’s true.

But during one of my daily walks, another thought quietly surfaced.

Maybe what has fascinated me all these years hasn’t been patterns themselves.

Maybe it’s been finding my way.

Patterns are useful because they reveal possible paths. Maps matter because they help us navigate. Even a labyrinth has a pattern—but its purpose isn’t the pattern itself. Its purpose is to help us travel and find ourselves.

That realization feels surprisingly important.

When I look back over my life—from hearing Jack Baker on the radio… to teaching students how we make sense of the world… to designing websites… to creating art… to exploring identity, community, and spirit—I don’t see disconnected experiences anymore.

I see one long journey.

The maps changed.

The questions changed.

The medium changed.

But the journey remained remarkably consistent.

Lately I’ve started calling some of my drawings Decision Trees.

At first I thought they were simply abstract compositions.

Now I wonder if they’re visual journals.

They resemble the maps, outlines, webs, and structures I have used throughout my life—not because I planned them that way, but because they’ve always been part of how I think.

As an artist, I don’t begin with answers.

I begin with curiosity.

Here’s a bit of what KDWB sounded like around that time:
KDWB—Channel 63, January 3, 1970.

Related post: This reflection continues the ideas I began exploring in Looking Back, Looking Forward, where I considered how patterns can help us find our way.

Looking Back, Looking Forward

Video: Looking Back, Looking Forward. A sequence of Bill Hendricks’s line drawings explores maps, branching paths, and emerging patterns. Music accompanies the images, along with a message.

Maps, patterns, and finding my way

During one of my daily walks, I realized something had been quietly growing over the past few weeks.

Looking back over my life, I see a thread I hadn’t fully recognized before.

As a teacher, I wasn’t really teaching maps. I was teaching how people think. Gestalt theory, visual relationships, organizing information, recognizing connections—those ideas found their way into almost everything I taught. Site maps, mind maps, color wheels, design systems… they were never just tools. They were ways of seeing.

Now I’m beginning to notice those same patterns emerging in my artwork.

The drawings began as what I called Decision Trees. Each branch suggested another possibility, another choice, another path.

But lately I’ve started wondering if they’re about something else.

Maybe they aren’t about making decisions.

Maybe they’re about recognizing patterns.

When life becomes uncertain, my instinct is to search for a new direction. Yet I’m beginning to wonder if the path is already there, waiting to be recognized. Perhaps finding our way isn’t about inventing something new. Perhaps it’s about noticing the connections that have been quietly leading us all along.

That thought has stayed with me.

It has even changed the way I look at these drawings. They no longer feel like illustrations of an idea. They feel like evidence of a conversation I’ve been having with myself without realizing it.

I don’t know exactly where this series is going.

That’s the exciting part.

For the first time in a while, I don’t feel like I’m forcing the work toward an answer. I’m simply paying attention to where it wants to lead.

Maybe that’s what artists do.

Maybe that’s what all of us do.

We keep looking back, not to live in the past, but to recognize the patterns that help us move forward.

“Humans are pattern-seeking, storytelling animals. We look for and find patterns in our world and in our lives.”

—Michael Shermer

Source: “Chicken Soup for the Evolutionist’s Soul,” MichaelShermer.com

Returning to 51st Street

Returning to the former TR’s Gallery connected my first years in New York with my return as an exhibiting artist over forty years later.

Interior of the former TR’s Gallery space at 51st Street and Seventh Avenue in Manhattan, now converted into a brightly lit souvenir store filled with New York-themed T-shirts, mugs, gifts, and displays beneath a large “I ♥ NY” mural.
The former TR’s Gallery space today. The gallery where I managed Circle Fine Art’s TR’s Gallery in the mid-1980s is now a New York souvenir store. Walking inside, it was hard to imagine the walls once filled with original artwork instead of T-shirts, mugs, and postcards.

When I moved to New York in 1980, I knew exactly what I was looking for.

I was looking for a place where I could live openly as a gay man. I was looking for community. I was looking for a life where I didn’t have to explain or defend who I was. Like so many people before and after me, I came to New York searching for the freedom to become myself.

My first job was at Kiss My Cookies. Not long afterward, I went to work at All State Art on the corner of Christopher and Bleecker. From there I moved to TR’s Gallery, one of Circle Fine Art’s galleries, where I eventually became the manager.

This week I was back in New York because one of my drawings was included in The Ordinary, a group exhibition at Collective Z Gallery on the Lower East Side.

While walking through Midtown, I found myself standing in front of the building where TR’s Gallery used to be.

The gallery is gone. The ground floor is now a souvenir store. But the building is still there.

Standing there, I realized that I had come to New York searching then, and I had come back searching now.

The questions have changed.

At twenty-six, I was trying to figure out how to live.

At seventy-three, I’m trying to understand what that life has meant.

Maybe that’s one reason I’ve returned to making art.

The drawings aren’t simply images. They have become a way of looking back, asking questions, and seeing connections I couldn’t see while I was living them. More and more, the work feels autobiographical—not because it illustrates events from my life, but because every drawing carries something of the person who made it.

The gallery is gone.

The search isn’t.

Gratitude on the Last Day of Pride

Bill Hendricks sitting on rocks overlooking the Pacific Ocean in San Francisco, 1976, wearing puka shell necklaces and smiling into the camera. The photograph accompanies a reflection on gratitude, authenticity, and Pride.
San Francisco, 1976. Looking back at a younger version of myself—and feeling grateful for all the people who helped me become the person I am today.

Nobody, but nobody can make it out here alone.

—Maya Angelou, Alone

On this last day of Pride, I’ve been thinking about gratitude.

Looking back at this photograph from San Francisco in 1976, it’s pretty obvious I wasn’t trying to blend in.

Over the years, so many people looked beyond appearances and gave me the chance to learn, to serve, to teach, to create, and simply to become myself.

I’m grateful to my parents, my sister, and especially the Reid family, who became part of my chosen family. I’m grateful to my commanding officers in the Air Force, my professors, employers, colleagues, students, volunteers, and friends. I’m grateful to Minneapolis College, MCAD, Minneapolis Friends Meeting, and to Michael, who has walked beside me through it all.

None of us gets where we are alone. My life has been shaped by people who chose encouragement over fear, curiosity over judgment, and kindness over assumption.

As Pride Month comes to a close, thank you. You helped make my life possible.

Related post: This reflection continues many of the themes I explored in my recent post, Reflections on Collective Z.