Astonishing. On a humid rainy night on the Upper West Side, a block off Broadway. Is that too much? For your average New Yorker, it’s too much to say anything is astonishing unless you are deliberately exaggerating for effect. But how else can you describe a man walking across a wire between the Twin Towers, and how can you describe him 50 years later when he decides to commemorate that event by walking across the nave suspended on a wire above the floor of St. John the Divine before 1,500 guests?

Philippe Petit is no stranger to defying the possible. His original feat, accomplished on August 7, 1974, remains one of the most daring and poetic acts of rebellion in the city’s history. A meticulous planner, Petit, with the help of a dedicated team, including his friend Jean-Louis Blondeau, prepared long in advance. Together, they secretly rigged a steel cable between the towers, first using a bow and arrow to shoot a fishing line from one rooftop to the other—an extraordinary task in itself. The planning, the nerve, and the sheer audacity of it were later chronicled in the Oscar-winning documentary Man on Wire (2008), a testament to what one human spirit can achieve when driven by passion – and a refusal to accept limits.

As Petit took to the wire again last week on August 7 and 8 at St. John the Divine, a structure nearly as grand and imposing as you imagine, he was surrounded by the hallowed air of a place often described as the world’s largest Gothic cathedral. The nave, stretching some 600 feet in length and 124 feet in height, became a stage for this latest act of aerial artistry. Petit, now 74, crossed the wire several times, his balance pole extending nearly 30 feet across, with the audience gazing up in awe on his left and right. The cathedral, with its towering columns and vast expanses, offered the perfect setting for a performance that blurred the lines between the sacred and the profane, the possible and the impossible.

The musician and star Sting performed below the highwire with a small orchestra providing the delicate accompaniment while Petit moved determinedly above. Gently, one could observe a duet, a collaboration—a dance of sorts between the earthbound and the skyward. As Sting strummed his guitar and sang the familiar lines of “Fragile,” the lyrics seemed to resonate more deeply in this setting: “On and on the rain will fall / Like tears from a star, like tears from a star.” Undeniably, there was a haunting beauty in the way the music filled the space. It was not overwhelming, but it left room for the imagination to soar along with Petit. The interplay between the two artists—one grounded, the other aloft—spoke to the balance of human experience: our desires to rise above, yet bound to remain connected to the ground below.

The evening was not just about Petit and Sting. Other performers added layers of meaning and texture to the event. Grammy-nominated jazz clarinetist Anat Cohen welcomed guests with her music echoing through the nave, setting a tone of reverence and anticipation. A candlelit procession added a touch of the sacred, and young dancers from Ballet Tech embodied the future of performance art, their movements suggesting the beginnings of something great.

Interestingly, Petit also spoke frankly at the microphone at the end of his performance, confessing specific ill actions and inactions that he now regrets. Choosing his words carefully, he adjusted his original claim of crossing the wire at the World Trade Center from eight times to six, or perhaps four—due to his blurry memories, as if anyone in the audience had done it even once and could stand in judgment. A second confession was that he had never adequately given credit to his technical and artistic partner, Jean-Louis Blondeau, publicly in the way he should have, admitting to the possibility that his pride had prevented it. Members of creative teams across the New York audience shuddered in recognition of a senior person’s admission of stolen credit on a project. Regardless of the effect of his admission and contrition, one could certainly admire him for choosing the appropriate location.

Among the luminaries in attendance were director Darren Aronofsky, actor Forest Whitaker, and the famed singer Judy Collins—each had the chance to watch with rapt attention as history, art, and sheer human will combine in a rare display of daring, even in this city. Mayor Eric Adams, recognizing the occasion’s significance, declared August 7 “Philippe Petit Day.”

As the evening drew to a close, Sting returned with a new piece, “Let the Great World Spin,” written specifically for this occasion—a world premiere meant to capture the spirit of Petit’s journey and the legacy of his acts. It was a night that celebrated the convergence of past and present, the intertwining of legend and reality, and the unyielding pursuit of dreams, no matter how impossible they may seem.

Exiting the hallowed St. John the Devine onto wet, raining, darkened streets in Upper Manhattan, the continuation of the story was unexpected in its echoes in the public sphere. Considering the vastness of the possible again, New York’s public space lures you to surpass the possible. While not strictly an act of street art, the performance itself relies on the possibility of being witnessed from the street, the necessity of trespass, the spirit of defiance, and audacity that also overlap with the rebellion alive and kicking inside the average street artist whose work is un-permissioned, unbossed, unbought. To hear the forceful vocal delivery of this wirewalker now, 50 years after this great feat, the fire has burned ever since.

As the music faded, and the applause echoed through the vast cathedral, and the familiar cacophony of honking cars assaulted the mind outside on the wet and windy streets. One could not help but think that in this performance, in this celebration of defiance, determination, and daring, something astonishing had taken place.

Note: Banner photo credit © by Nina Wurtzel