Fernando Diaz arrives at Battery Park before the morning fog has lifted, amid the whirl and shriek of seagulls. He pushes a cart piled with yellow wooden boxes into the center of the plaza behind Castle Clinton, where tourists will soon gather to buy tickets to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. A series of props emerge from the boxes: a flag, a pair of sunglasses, a rubber torch. He dons a long green gown, a mask and gloves.

Behind the flowing gowns and impassive faces are individual artists, each with his or her own style. Victor Hugo Vega, an Ecuadorian, likes to strike a dramatic pose, as if he’s just completed a pirouette. Julio Diaz, Fernando’s older brother, wags his finger and scolds stingy tourists. Fernando Riano and Juan Carlo “Bonny” Arias manage to flirt despite their awkward costumes, pretending to do so behind the backs of amused boyfriends.

No one knows when the first Lady Liberty impersonator set up shop in Battery Park. The statue with the most seniority, a Honduran who would not reveal her name, has been at it for some 12 years, and she began by imitating someone else. But the current crop is the largest anyone can remember.

Fittingly for such a symbol of national welcome, all the statues are immigrants: four Colombians, an Ecuadorian, a Honduran and a woman from China. “The first thing I did when I came to this country was come to see the Statue,” says Arias, one of the Colombians, who also dances with a life-size doll. “I like that the character represents freedom to people. I like to be free, work for myself, and this is a way to do it.”

Such freedom, however, comes with a price. Like the Statue herself, the imitators brave all manner of weather to please the huddled masses.

In summer, the sun bakes the performers beneath their rubber masks and elbow-length gloves. In winter, they grow rotund, their down coats thick under their gowns. In extreme cold, some will light up the same little gel fuel stoves that nearby vendors use to warm hotdogs, and place them at their feet. 

Under such conditions, it’s not surprising that these statues find comfort in a kind of community that is all their own. Each morning, they come together for breakfast at a deli on Battery Place.

Some of the statues, especially the veterans, split their earnings on busy days. This means they can set up next to one another and pool their persuasive talents to draw crowds.

These efforts are rewarded, as many tourists give the suggested $5 donation.  On slow days, the statues usually pull in at least a hundred dollars. And on a booming day in the height of summer, they can pocket more than $1,000.

“It’s like those little animals that eat grain by tiny little grain,” says Fernando Diaz. “It seems like the box is empty and nothing’s happening, but by 6 p.m., it’s full!” Diaz supports his family in Colombia through his statue impersonations, and he’s decided to retire there this month.

Yet most of the statues maintain they’re not in it only for the cash.

“I’m an artist. I don’t do it for money,” says Riano, a former lawyer who sometimes assumes the character of a robot. “I do it to make people laugh, and if they want to pay me, good.”

“It’s in my blood to be an artist,” agrees Arias. “And this is my art.”

And then there is Julio Diaz. At 52, he is, in a way, the group’s patriarch. He is also, as he’s quick to point out, the city’s only mobile Statue of Liberty. He often cruises the park in an old electric wheelchair, painted seafoam green and draped with green leather, a boombox beneath the seat belting out cumbia music.

“There might be 50,000 mobile Statues of Liberty in the future,” he says, one proud finger aloft, “but I want the world to know mine was the first.”