Scaling skyscrapers is a celebration of life

The frame is death.

The pigment is terror.

Yet, the picture I paint each time I embark on a high-wire walk is an image of delightful anticipation, of impatience to devour life.

We are all going to die. Should we journey toward the end timidly following the pack, or daring explorations brimming with surprises? I believe our feet should venture on a tight rope (without a net) or on a cliff of granite (without a rope). And we should be open to anything that makes us appreciate the force of life – even if that force is uncontrollable and could lead to a brutal dismount.

To be fearless is easy: just give up lurking at the task facing you. Dive into your dream. Prepare. Do.

I plan every detail of my aerial promenades in order to survive them. I have seen Alex Honnold do the same. (I admired his use of a toothbrush to dislodge a few grains of sand on the minuscule hold his life depended on.)

I am surprised that the star of El Capitan, the vertical rock in Yosemite National Park, has decided to measure himself against a massive heap of steel and glass instead of a natural rock wall. I see a skyscraper’s facade as a boring repetition of windows, a pancake of endless stories. He must see attractive challenges that are invisible to me.

So far, the image I have found most powerful is one used to promote the event: it shows the back of our hero (complete with the rosin bag on his belt), looking up, facing the 508 metres of the vertical monster. It invites imagination to climb.

I wonder if Alex likes the design of the building. After a long vertical wall, eight sections of eight floors each, leaning slightly outward remind us of a pagoda, with a dragon symbol pasted randomly here and there. Those sharp interruptions in the facade prevent my eyes from fluidly reaching the clouds, and my soul from soaring. Will Alex’s vertical opera succeed in embellishing this tower for me?

Let’s watch.

I am not surprised a trio of commentators preside from a small podium by the Plaza or that Alex has a microphone. I smile at the double grapevine knot I see when Alex adjusts his rosin bag around his waist, momentarily welcoming the viewer into his private world.

The moment when Alex’s feet left the ground should have been graced with cinematographic power. I was ready for an extreme close-up and slow motion to salute the fascinating shift from horizontal to vertical, reminding us that an epic journey begins with one single step.

As Alex steals height in total control and grace I find that I welcome the repetition I was dreading; it allows me to re-live the miracle of free solo climbing in all its exactitude and mastery.

The panel of “experts” do a great job diluting the natural majesty of the event, keeping our thoughts from accompanying Alex into the sky, constantly reminding us of the presence of the ground. Narration of the climb over each dragon emblem (dynamic moves involving a swift change of feet on the slippery metal) obscures their daring perfection. It gets worse when they start to chat with Alex: “What are you thinking?” and “How is the view up there?” and when Alex’s ever-smiling wife, Sanni, is asked, “How are we feeling?”

The climber’s replies are minimalist: “Every move matters” and “Don’t let your brain arrive before your body”. (This parallels the advice I got when starting the wire: “You’re only safe after your last step. Not before, not during.”)

As Alex gains altitude, I manage to tune down the terrestrial human chatter and become immersed in the extraordinary aerial footage.

All along the vertical journey, people inside the building gather behind the windows of their offices, not to catch a glimpse of the passing traveller but to photograph him. I understand Alex has no choice but to often wave at them, but it too dilutes the power of the event.

I am impressed by the humbleness of the man. I notice that as he reaches the head of an overhanging dragon, instead of using a pure rock-climbing hold, he pulls himself up by grabbing an eye bolt securing a maintenance safety cable. The man does not need to show off. This second of simplicity touched me deeply.

Blessedly there is a long moment without words, as he challenges the multiple overhangs that guard the base of the spire; we are allowed to revel in Alex’s elegance as he negotiates each of them with apparent effortlessness. This gift of silence highlights the extreme exposure and reveals the fascinating confidence and agility of the perpetrator. A compliment to the climber: Yes, it looks easy.

“Now comes the most difficult moment of the climb!” inaccurately screams a voice from the ground as Alex starts up a thin speleo ladder that has been hung to allow him to bypass the unclimbable smooth wall of the spire. Once above, the climb becomes more like a staircase, offering easy steps and railings.

Nothing can dim the glorious moment when the man stands at the very top of the structure, both feet balanced on the shiny globe. It is an image of indelible force and love of life. Until he triumphantly raises his arms like Rocky and pulls out a phone to take what I call a “selfish” and draws me down to the reality of a modern sport broadcast smashing the brief moment of the allegorical saga I naively expected. A sense of sacredness was missing.

All that said: Bravo, Alex. I hope you will keep venturing into the sky, sliding past death, smiling at terror, and sharing many more celebrations of life.

Philippe Petit, 76, continues to walk the high wire, to search for the perfect chocolate mousse and to cheat the impossible.

Photographs by I-Hwa Cheng / AFP via Getty; Bill Stahl Jr/NY Daily News Archive via Getty