Opinion | 50 Years Ago, the World Trade Center Was Home to the Art Crime of the Century

Fifty years ago on Wednesday, the French high-wire artist Philippe Petit carried his life a quarter of a mile through the New York City sky on a tightrope. When asked why, he said it was simply because the World Trade Center towers were there.

“If I see two towers, I have to walk,” he told The New York Times. Later he added, “Anything that is giant and man-made strikes me in an awesome way and calls me.”

The human need that Mr. Petit met with his walk is still with us today. We are living in high-wire times, with anxiety and fracture all around us, and it is the job of the artist to show that we can, in fact, get from one side to the other.

When I think of the Frenchman, he still remains high in the air, a distant flyman walking across a three-quarter-inch steel wire in an act so outrageous that it still shakes my soul out. His imaginative act catches in my throat and reveals a truth that is often obscured or degraded: that we can confront, and even triumph over, the seemingly impossible. His walk provides a pulse of relief as an antidote to despair. He didn’t defy gravity; he aligned himself with it, and in so doing he allowed us to defy our own possible falling down.

Mr. Petit’s walk was a long-planned act of subterfuge. He had seen sketches of the towers in a magazine while sitting in a dentist’s office in Paris at age 18. Six years later he did several reconnaissance missions to check out the towers as they were under construction. He honed his tightrope skills at home in a French meadow, asking friends to shake the wire to see if they could knock him off. The night before his self-described coup, he and his team smuggled the wire in and rigged it from one tower to the other, using a bow and arrow to shoot a fishing line across the distance, followed eventually by the cable, which was winched and tightened. It was an audacious act of nighttime engineering, half-jerry-rigged, half daring genius.

He began at the South Tower at about 7:20 in the morning. He stood 1,350 feet above the ground. The city had only just begun waking beneath him, a gorgeous catastrophe of sight and sound. He stepped out in his buffalo-hide shoes, carrying a 42-pound balancing bar. He lay down on the wire. He saluted the birds. At least six times, he negotiated the 131-feet distance between the two towers. The city was stunned. The early morning radio D.J.s were in awe. The cops were apoplectic and tried to coax him in from either side.