By Gus Saltonstall

You never know what you might find walking down a block on the Upper West Side.

The sidewalk on the north side of West 85th Street between Columbus and Central Park West holds a particularly unique surprise, though.

And it is one most people are likely to miss.

The sidewalk is full of little lego figures.

A blue ninja encased in plaster. A wizard surrounded by golden leaves. “Star Wars” characters submerged underneath some sort of solidified gel.

The Rag found 10 of these lego figures on the 85th Street block when we visited on Wednesday morning.

We spoke to a doorman on the block who said that residents had pointed out the lego figures before, and always in a “positive way.” He also mentioned that the sidewalk was paved around three weeks ago, which was possibly when some of the figures were embedded.

Who Installed the Lego Figures and Why?

In one of the lego figure encasements on West 85th Street between Columbus and Central Park West, there is a QR code.

That QR code brings you to an Amazon link for a 24-page paperback book by Carole Reede.

“The Guardians of West 85th Street: A Ninja Awakening”

Here is part of the description for that book.

“In the vibrant heart of New York City’s Upper West Side, a group of young friends makes a startling discovery—tiny, intricate ninja figures embedded in the sidewalk. “These are no ordinary figures; they are elemental warriors left behind by the First Master during his inter-dimensional travels.”

The Rag reached out to Reede in the hopes of getting a more down-to-earth explanation of the origins of the lego figures. She also mentioned that the first lego figure was installed in the sidewalk four years ago.

Her response includes the subjects of raising children, being a steward of your block, and finding ways to keep connected to the Upper West Side.

Here it is in full.

The Upper West Side has always been a place where stories seem to hang in the air, ready to be plucked and told. It’s got that mix—quiet, leafy streets rubbing up against the noise and hustle of the city. For years, my friend and I lived here, both raising kids in our own ways. His son was younger, still at that age where anything could be magical if you put in the effort to make it so. And boy, did he put in the effort.

It started small. One day, he repaired a crack in the sidewalk near his building, but instead of just filling it, he embedded a tiny Lego figure in the cement. It wasn’t random—it was intentional, like a secret left there just for his son to find. Soon enough, there were more: an astronaut, a knight, little bursts of creativity sprouting in the cracks of the neighborhood sidewalks. Each figure came with a story, usually something we’d come up with together—wild tales of how they ended up there, what they were up to, and what adventures they might be having when no one was looking.

When I moved to Bermuda, I thought I’d feel distant from it all, but every new figure he added kept me connected to those streets, to that shared sense of wonder we built together for his son. It became a kind of tradition—he’d send me photos of the latest piece, and we’d hash out its backstory. Over time, we started putting the stories down on paper. Just a simple book, really—something fun to share. We’ve sold maybe 20 copies, mostly to friends who probably felt sorry for us. But the joy in it wasn’t about sales. It was in capturing that mix of art, mischief, and imagination.

Now, it’s become something bigger. The figures have gotten more intricate, the storytelling sharper, the cracks in the sidewalks somehow more interesting as they’ve aged. He’s working on a dragon now—can’t wait to see how it turns out.

This little project of ours feels like a love letter to the city, to the streets we both called home, and to the messy, imperfect magic of making something for your kid—something just for them. Even if no one else notices the figures as they walk by, they’re there, and they mean something. That’s enough.

(Thanks to Michael and Jenn. for the tip.)

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