Last week, after lunch at a purposefully disheveled Brooklyn restaurant serving artisanal junk food (mac-and-cheese sandwiches pan-fried in butter, deep-fried chicken topped with coleslaw and hot sauce, collards stewed in maple syrup), I walked back home over the Williamsburg Bridge.  The Williamsburg Bridge is an ugly stepsister to the city’s historic interborough bridges.  A pragmatic, unadorned structure, it lacks the romantic grandeur of the Brooklyn Bridge and the surreal grace of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.  It’s a workhorse, carrying cars, subways, bikers and pedestrians between the hippest hipster precincts of the Lower East Side and Brooklyn.  Its walkways are paved in asphalt and its steelwork is painted a flat red, as if it were treated with a primer coat and then abandoned.  The bridge is a splendid walk at night.  The walkway is close to the subway tracks, so every few minutes there’s a thundering train to one side and, to the other, the serene spread of water below.  And when you arrive at the midway point a dreamy, twinkling, panorama of Manhattan takes shape.  It’s a gritty, glamorous image.

My friend, an architect-turned-photographer who lives on the Lower East Side and walks the bridge frequently, laments that the city hasn’t made more of the structure.  There could be gorgeous arcades at the long, sloping on and off pedestrian and bike ramps.  There could be lighting that flatters the structure and made the walk feel more secure at night.  And there could be uniquely crafted railings, gratings, paving and signage.  At both ends of the bridge there are communities bristling with bohemian energy, and with artists and designers.  Why doesn’t the city get some federal infrastructure improvement funds, get some community artists on board, and give the bridge a more artful appearance.