The last time I played my flute for money was on a New York City subway platform a little over a year ago. It was in the middle of the summer on a particularly hot day. I wore a short blue sleeveless dress that hugged my thighs almost inappropriately considering where I was. Almost, but not quite.
I was playing directly below Carnegie Hall, on the downtown platform of the yellow line’s 57th Street stop. Had I been magically elevated just a few stories above ground onto the hall’s grand stage, I would surely have stood out amid its tuxedo-and-gowned elite, a hot and sweaty spot of blue in an assembly of black and white.