Tag: Christopher Street

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.

New York City Before AIDS

Christopher Street, a Lifetime Ago…

Black-and-white photo of Bill Hendricks outside All State Art on Christopher Street, NYC (1981/82), with a friend leaning in to kiss his cheek.

Richie and Bill outside All State Art, 81/82, Christopher Street, NYC

Bill Hendricks (81/82) giving Richie a peck on the cheek…

    • Before hashtags.
    • Before hindsight.
    • Before everything changed.

Christopher Street, West Village, 1980

A Drawing, a Beginning, and Finding a Home

Hand-drawn ink illustration of Christopher Street in the West Village, New York City, made in 1980 shortly after the artist moved to NYC, capturing storefronts and street life.
IMG_1712–What a Scandal-1980,  Artist: Bill Hendricks (Shadowmason)

I made this drawing in 1980, just after I moved to New York City.

I was a kid from Minneapolis — recently out of college, a couple of years into working — and I had come to a quiet but unavoidable realization: staying where I was would mean living part of my life in a closet, or keeping parts of myself hidden. I decided to check out both Chicago and New York to see where I might land.

Chicago felt hard to me.
New York felt open.

Within two weeks of arriving, I fell in love with the West Village. I went back to the Twin Cities only long enough to pack and was back in New York by Halloween. I found a roommate, found a job, lost a job, survived on unemployment — and like so many people before and after me, I found my community on Christopher Street.

This drawing came out of that moment.

I spent a lot of time at a small coffee shop called Kiss My Cookies. It was comfortable, cozy, and ahead of its time — cookies, brownies, coffee, small tables, and long conversations. I was there so often that Cy, the owner, offered me a job. I worked alongside Scott, Ralph, and Carlos, and two beat cops who stopped in regularly. Eventually, I wound up working at All State Art, a gallery just down the street.

Between the coffee shop, the gallery, and the block itself, Christopher Street became a cast of characters: Rollerena (sometimes called the Fairy Godmother), Marsha P. Johnson — often known as the saint of Christopher Street — along with actors, porn stars, artists, eccentrics, sweet misfits, a clown-college graduate, a lesbian manager, the joyful disaster of an owner’s brother, shopkeepers, cops, neighbors, and passersby. It was dysfunctional, funny, chaotic, kind, queer, deeply human.

This drawing isn’t meant to be a perfect architectural record. It’s an act of looking. The signs, the storefronts, the fire escapes, the rhythm of the street — all of it mattered to me. I was learning how to see a city not as a backdrop, but as a living system of people, labor, chance encounters, and survival.

When I look at it now, I sometimes think that stretch of Christopher Street was a sitcom waiting to be written. Not tragedy. Not trauma as the headline. Just life — community, chosen family, humor, tenderness, and endurance — long before anyone called it representation.

The paper has yellowed over time. I’ve chosen to leave it that way. It’s part of the object’s history, part of its truth.

This was home.