I Could Write a Book about Christmas in New York City

A night unfolds across Manhattan with a new friend. From the glass towers of Hudson Yards at dusk, through the warm glow of the Metropolitan Opera, and into the quiet paths of Central Park—where lampposts pool light along winding trails and stone arches frame solitary figures. Shot on anamorphic for the first time, the 2:1 frame stretches holiday lights into soft ovals and turns city corners into something cinematic.

The afternoon begins somewhere near the western edge of Midtown, walking toward the glass towers that have risen over the old rail yards. The sky is doing that thing it does in late autumn—shifting from pale blue to something softer, pinker, as the sun drops behind construction cranes and highway overpasses. Food vendors have set up beneath holiday lights, their carts glowing warm against the cooling air. Then night falls, and the city changes. Uptown now, at the opera house, where the fountain catches the light and the grand windows burn gold against the dark. A friend appears, city lights softening behind her, and they walk together through the Upper West Side—past traffic signals stacked red and amber, past stone buildings with wide steps, until they reach the park. Central Park at night is a different world. Lampposts pool light along winding paths. Benches sit empty. A stone arch glows in the distance, and somewhere ahead, a lone figure walks through. The night ends among Christmas trees—evergreens stacked in rows, string lights everywhere, the smell of pine mixing with the December cold.