The Shrining

It took a little less than a week after Nicole duFresne's murder for an otherwise unremarkable section of pavement near my apartment to morph into florid spectacle. The southwest corner of Clinton and Rivington overflowed with photos of the deceased, a rainbow-colored hula-hoop, poetry, two stuffed animals, an anti-gun-violence screed, a faux sheepskin rug, a dozen Jesus candles, a fishing rod, six bouquets, a copy of Black Elk Speaks, a peacock scarf, burning incense and a tweedy Jung scholar named Robert A. Johnson accompanied by his dog, Schnitzel (more on whom, in a bit).

Death shrines aren't always such bustling little fulcrums. Consider the Herrera family shrine located under the Gowanus Expressway overpass in Sunset Park. One August evening in 2001, a drunk, off-duty cop named Joseph Gray was barreling down 2nd Ave. in his minivan when he struck and killed pregnant Maria Herrera, her sister and her four-year-old son. Four years later, a section of shelving sits on the edge of the median beneath the overpass. It's a tiered, altar-like structure painted baby blue with a large piece of cardboard attached to it. Six Jesus candles sit on the shelves.

Sharpied on to the cardboard are phrases commemorating the victims: "Young Girl full of life"; "Unite for Justice." The cardboard is covered in loose, billowy plastic. Nailed to the structure's base are four wooden crosses.

Sunset Park near the river is still an industrial wasteland. To loiter for even five minutes on the median is to be a magnet for detritus whipped up by relentless traffic. As a result, the Herrera Family death shrine, caked in soot, bestrewn with cigarette butts, is a forlorn little unit. While the family is, fortunately, interred in a beautiful plot at the crest of a small hill in Green-Wood cemetery, the sight of this shrine recalls a line from Blind Lemon Jefferson: "Well there's one kind favor I ask of you/See that my grave is kept clean."

A month later 9/11 happened, and soon every other street corner shimmered in the effulgent light of a thousand Jesus candles. Then in late August of 2003, a shrine was erected at the corner of Stanton and Rivington streets. It was here at around 4 a.m. that 21-year-old Jesse Williams had spied Jeffrey Carter, 19, consorting with his ex-girlfriend. Williams stabbed Carter in a jealous rage. Jeffrey Carter's death shrine was composed of a cardboard box surrounded by several dozen Jesus candles. For three consecutive nights following the incident, a crowd of about 30 people gathered, hung out quietly and then dispersed. A week later I watched a tall, bearded African man, presumably a fetisheur, spend several hours in the area of the stabbing. He swung an incense clapper and paced back and forth, waving his free hand wildly as though fending off a swarm of gnats.

Urban death shrines are typically erected locus mortis. But in the cases of JFK Jr. and 9/11, the masses gathered in the next logical place-Jr.'s Tribeca apartment building and parks and firehouses, respectively. A more recent in absentia death shrine was last September's humble memorial to "Indian Larry" Desmedt, legendary New York City biker and chopper builder.

Indian Larry expired at the peak of his rising sap. Having created a thriving detailing business, he was already a cult figure in the biker world, appearing frequently on Discovery's Great Biker Build-Off. In between tapings of that show in North Carolina, Desmedt was performing motorcycle stunts for fans. He fell off his bike, cracked his head and died two days later. The shrine on East 8th St. outside the garage where he parked his custom chopper consisted of one small bouquet, a New York Times obit taped to the garage's brick wall, a few handwritten notes and the side cover to a Kawasaki KZ1000 on which a fan had penned heartfelt thanks to Larry for getting him into bikes.

Some death shrines fester, while others have caretakers. The self-appointed steward of Nicole duFresne's shrine is Robert A. Johnson, 47, of midtown. A former Lower East Sider, Mr. Johnson read about duFresne in the Post and came down at once. He has now passed a fortnight on the corner, lighting incense and arranging found materials into symbolic structures, hoping passersby will "absorb their meaning osmotically or subliminally." (He claims the peacock scarf is a Jungian allegory for both the devil and Christ.) Nearby, Mr. Johnson's Pomeranian, Schnitzel, sits on the roof of his doggy crate, eyeing his master and those who approach for a word with him. "I'm creating a mandala," he tells one curious Orthodox Jew.

"I'm hoping to unite all the warring factions and bring a little peace around here."

-Andrew Baker