From my fourth-floor inland Brooklyn apartment, I see the Statue of Liberty as I lie in bed without even lifting my head from the pillow — though for only six months of the year. When I first took the apartment, upon moving here from London in 2007, the statue didn’t seem an important factor; it was remote. I wondered if I should place the bed to face Lower Manhattan, a dramatic image looming large. Those skyscrapers are a cliff face; Liberty is a mere comma.

Yet I chose to face her, a heroic human figure forever holding up that torch. I am a dance critic, devoting much of my life to looking at bodies in statuesque poses. I love spending time with the Classical statues in archaeological museums; my apartment is decorated with dance imagery from different cultures and centuries.

Liberty connects. Over the years she has become an obsession.

Between late May and late November, however, I can’t see her from home. Lush leaves intervene. And so in summer and autumn, missing my view of Liberty, I take walks that bring her back into sight. I often visit the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, which is less than 10 minutes from my place. But I also love to draw a little nearer. So I walk down to Red Hook or cross over to Manhattan and stroll in Battery Park.

Closer, though not too close. Over 20 years ago, while I was still in London, I did the tourist thing, heading to Liberty Island and climbing up into the crown. More recently I’ve sailed around New York Harbor and near the statue with friends in a small yacht. For me, the statue in proximity is something else: marvelous but actually less wonderful. What I’ve come to cherish is to see it on the horizon.