Ivy's blog

I've been studying architecture in many different ways since I entered NYU. Gallatin has allowed me do take architectural history courses at CAS, studio courses and courses like this one at Gallatin, as well as an entire year of architectural studio, history and theory classes at Columbia's Graduate School of Architecture Planning and Preservation. Having been exposed to the more formal methods of teaching architecture - students holed up in studios for hours on end - and having been exposed  to the most conceptual of thought and teachings (at Columbia) it was so refreshing to take this class.

While it is important to think radically and to create, this class allowed me to really think deeply and ground all of the things I've been learning for the past four years. It was something like an overview, yet delved deeply into important topics. We learned things theoretical but also factual and most importantly learned to experience and think about the places that we occupy everyday. 

Reflecting on this course has me questioning why we don't learn about architecture as part of our fundamental education. We learn art and music alongside the fundamentals, but unless we choose to study it, we don't learn how to experience and think about places. Perhaps if we revamped the entire teaching process of architecture - implemented it at an early age, made sure we taught classes like this one before we started designing in studios - perhaps we would have more places in our world that evoke a great sense of place and less of the buildings and cities that do nothing but propogate social and economic problems. 


my photo of the architecture studio I took at Columbia 

I was really interested in the way Sorkin talks about the evils of gentrification. While we all scoff at gentrification for the obvious reasons - it pushes people out of their homes and creates one dimensional areas in terms of class and race, Sorkin delves a little deeper, bringing up the interesting fact that gentrification robs a place of not only its inhabitants, but of its inhabitants' rituals. Everyday life becomes spectacle, according to Sorkin, and neighborhoods become Disneylands or Colonial Williamsburgs - places that thrive on illusion and nostalgia, rather than real action. 

While Sorkin highlights SoHo as the Disneyland of New York, I am interested in the way that the Marais in Paris has been similarly gentrified and thus commodified. 

After living in the Marais for a semester, I look back and am trapped between a love for every inch of this neighborhood-  for the seductive winding cobbled streets and outdoor markets and cafes - and a real detestation for the way it has been gentrified, commodified, even americanized. 

Sorkin talks about the way that SoHo has become home to high end lifestyles and therefore it has become just "another commodity." The exquisite cast iron lofts which once housed artists now house designer boutiques at the street and multimillion dollar apartments above. 

When we realize that the cast iron buildings are part of a historic district and thus protected, we encounter a strange disconnect between building and building function. Can we appreciate the space for the buildings alone and forget that they now house exclusive tourist destinations? This is something I struggled very much with when thinking about the Marais. 

The Marais is Paris's preserved quarter. However, what intended to be a preservation of a historic neighborhood instead pushed out countless residents. When the many aristocratic palaces that line the Marais's streets were preserved (and more than half were turned into museums) the Marais forgot its history as Jewish ghetto and its history as an artists neighborhood. Gentrification ensued and ultimately preservation became about spectacle rather than true commemoration. Rather than commemorating a building for its architectural splendor or for its original purpose, countless museums were created, reducing the buildings to historical shells that housed separate historical collections and attracted tourists.

Aside from museums, which are in themselves profitable and illusory (see gift shops), the cobbled streets of the Marais bring up an interesting point. Originally dirt paths wove through the Marais. Cobbles were laid later, to affirm the old and romanticized "preservation" of the Marais, and perhaps to distract us from the Levis or Starbucks that seem to keep popping up.

I have much too much to say on this for a blog post, and I must admit that I find the cobbles charming and have visited many of the Marais's museums. But it is important to realize that the Marais, like SoHo, suffers from serious gentrification that has made it exclusive and commodity based. 

It is clear that Sorkin argues for the local, the community, for small building vs tall building, sidewalks, etc - all the things that Jane Jacob fought so hard for. However, the way he writes in this sort of flaneur type language- floating between architectural history, new york history, and personal anecdotes and opinions, it doesn't seem as much like an agenda as say, Kunstler's work did.

When he says things like "possession displaces participation" he doesn't appear to be yelling at the people buying million dollar condos. His tone appears as a kind of mourning for the loss of the New York that he clearly was so in love with.  He is hard to read at times, comes off as angry, even nasty, but I can hear a certain longing for certain things that seem to be missing, in his voice. 

He misses the "social reciprocity" that makes us feel like we belong. Rather than move in our own orbits, quickly and separately around the city, he seems to miss the days when people more slowly and interacted with each other.

The stoop, which he speaks volumes about, is very important for this "social reciprocity." He speaks of it as an in between space- not totally private or public but mixed, and capable of stimulating social interaction. I have to agree with Sorkin here. Perhaps it is because I grew up in a neighborhood with sidewalks and front porches - with spaces where barriers between people were broken. But I believe these spaces can work just as well in urban areas- should we fight to keep them.

I have to agree that New York is becoming decreasingly filled with these types of spaces which foster a sense of community, family, intimacy,  and are being replaced by either multimillion dollar high rise buildings or large housing complexes, which provoke isolation and violence, crime and fear, respectively. 

I used to live on 115th st. and 1st avenue. 116 street, from lex to 1st avenue, is an incredibly vibrant stretch. It is full of brownstones with stoops, and people sitting on stoops at all hours, talking , listening to music, sharing stories. On 115th street and 1st avenue is a gigantic housing project. As I walked from the subway to the apartment, I never felt scared or isolated until I turned the corner. 

Community can exist anywhere, even in incredibly poor and desecrated urban areas. However, when one tries to build a community by building a large scale housing project, it rarely works. Sorkin sites Oscar Newmans idea of defensible space, and I absolutely agree with Newman's ideas. Building large buildings removes the human scale and leads to feelings of loss of control over space. Stoops help us gain control over urban spaces - they are looking out points, places for social interaction, leisure spaces, and most importantly instill in us feelings of comfort and community.

It is hard to compare Haussmann and Moses, as the type of people who would generally praise the Haussmanian Boulevard or the sixth story building cap are the same as those who would be appalled by the idea of a highway running through Washington Square Park. So it was interesting to me when Flint made this connection between Moses and Haussmann and recognized Moses's love for Haussmann, quoting him saying, " Everything about him was on a grand scale."

 

It was when he continued saying, " his dictatorial talents enabled him to accomplish a vast amount in a very short time,  but they also made him many enemies, for he was in the habit of riding roughshod over all opposition," that I continued to make some connections. Despotic, rough, unconcerned with having enemies- this was Robert Moses.  And so the same sensibilities that made Paris, a city praised for its beauty and charm, made the Triborough bridge, and ruined Clinton Castle and suburbanized Long Island in such a dramatic way. 

 

In the chapter, The Master Builder, I was particularly interested in the way that Flint describes Moses's process of becoming so all powerful in terms of infrastructure in New York, not having fully realized how political this process really was. His alliance with LaGuardia, his own political involvements, his personal history of wealth and power (academically at least) allowed him to dominate the urban landscape- a scary thought - power makes places. As Flint puts it, "Moses was in a strong position to lead urban renewal in New York." And he did it, just how he wanted to.

I couldn't help but make connections here between Moses and our very own John Sexton. In the same way that Moses took over the city building big scale infrastructure and changing the urban landscape, or attempting to, John Sexton is taking over. According to the Washington Square News, he announced that he "intends to vigorously pursue expanding and upgrading facilities at NYU's Washington Square campus." But upgrading facilities seems to be a strange way to state a 6 million square foot extension. 

 

Is it fair to compare Sexton's vision to that Robert Moses' s? What are the motivations here? And how does the opposition compare to that during the time or Jane Jacob? Village residents are furious, but according to city records NYU spends 66,600 on city lobbying in the areas of land use and zoning to make their growth legal. The power, the politics… they are very similar.

 

But while Flint makes many points about Moses being evil and despotic, the book is not completely one-sided and he does laud the way that Moses stressed importance of housing and public space.

 

 John Sexton is also not an evil dictator. He is just incredibly dedicated to NYU. On introduction of 1.5 million square feet of dormitories being built he responded, “Did we change the age of the people? Yeah! Okay, we did. Unless you’re going to say students are venal and yuppies are not? It wasn’t the substance of the issue, it was about a general symbolic politics and a churning and a deconstructionism and making things as difficult as possible, and the demagogues got involved.” Every argument has two sides. You can see Sexton or Moses as money loving top down schemers, yes. But this is not always the whole picture. 

I'm fascinated by the way that Pollan focuses so specifically on a specific piece of the shelter he is building and then uses it as a point of departure for a discussion on a much larger and more abstract concept. I think he nicely reflects his argument of the loss of the "here" in architecture by doing this.
 

I was particularly fond of the chapter "The Roof." After a discussion on the structure of the roof, the writer in Pollan simply can't help but dive into a deep philosophical and theoretical treatise, stating, " it seems difficult if not impossible to avoid figurative language when talking about roots, they're so evocative,so much more than the sum of their timbers and shingles and nails."
 

i must agree. When thinking about architecture, as grounded in nature, roofs become the true symbol of shelter. They recall the heavens, protecting from above, and strengthen the link between real and imagined places. I read a book, Architecture, Mysticism and Myth, by W.R. Lethaby, which explores the mythical origins of many different elements of architecture. When talking about roof or ceiling he looks to Egyptian myth, were Nut, the Goddess of the sky and heavens represents the ceiling. She was painted on the interior of every tomb stone to protect the body and send the soul to heaven- the idea that ceiling acted as a protective yet permeable barrier was reflected in this.  Lethaby also refers to the poet Caedmon when exploring the origins of the roof or ceiling, quoting the following poem- "He first framed/ for the children of earth, The heaven as a roof- Holy Creator! - distorting the line between real and imagined space. 
 

So, perhaps it is because roofs offer such strong symbolism that they've become quite central to stylistic debates. Pollan discusses this in the "The Roof."  He talks about the way that modernism, in its departure from history, got rid of " a key symbol of architectural past" - the gabel- and insisted on flat roofs. He then moves onto a large discussion on post modernism and the way architecture has become a thing of literature and semiology, rather than a thing of place, using Venturi's reappropriaton of the gabel as the basis of his argument. 
 

This is an important discussion. The irony surrounding Venturi's gable, which is exaggerated and outrageous is exemplary of postmodern architecture, but more so, of this predicament which runs through Pollin's book- architecture seems to have lost its physicality. 
 

It seems ironic that architecture, which began as something so deeply connected to nature and human's need for shelter from nature, has grown into something so completely theoretical. The disconnect between architect, engineer, and builder, and the case of styles attacking other styles, are just two facets of this really complex problem…where do we go from here? Do we consult the past when building for the future? Do we continue to mock the past? Do we approach architecture from the side of art or geometry? These are important questions which become difficult and controversial to answer, especially when our natural world seems to be falling apart. 

Pollan seems to think we've come too far away from the idea of "putting a roof over our heads." Have we forgotten the point of architecture? 
 

My next-door neighbor and I spent a lot of time riding bikes. We were only allowed to go to the end of our street, whose edge met Hampton Road. Hampton Road showed off our Village Hall, a huge brick building, and our elementary school, to which my mom, sister, and I walked on school mornings.

I have a photo, given to me by the old lady down the road. It shows her kindergarten class posing in the same position and the same classroom that mine did, but 80 years ago.  Sometimes I place her class photo next to mine - I distort time that way.  

Southampton Elementary School, when considered opposing Southampton High School, a hideous 1970's structure, reminds me that southampton wasn't built in a day. The houses on my street tell a similar story. Our house, saltbox style, looks back to colonial architecture, but was built in the 1980s. On the corner stands a huge time honored brick house built sometime in the 1800s. As kids we called it the witch's house.

But the witch was actually my friend's grandmother - her entire extended family lived on my block, and had for generations.  Eventually my block became my entire extended family. My backyard had a fence. Somedays we would come home to the gate ajar and the neighbors swimming in our pool. There was a line between public and private, but it was a thin one, in my neighborhood. 

As I got older, I was allowed to ride my bike past Hampton Road and 5 minutes up Little Planes Road to the Beach. Or 5 minutes west to the village. Everything about where i grew up seems small, close, easy, and safe. My parents bought my house for its location in 1995. Today, New York City residents are clawing for our land. They'd love to knock down our three bedroom and "optimize" our quarter acre. 

Their kids would ride bikes in the summer. They'd enjoy the open space and trees and fresh air, but they would never feel the way I do about my block. They'd never know their neighbors quite the way that I did. The history of this place would escape them. 

We began the semester with the Odyssey, which nicely set the precedent for the discussion of real vs imagined places. Because of the mythical creatures Odysseus encounters, I, as a reader, assume the places he visits to be fabricated and not real.  For example, the island of Ogygia, which is speculated to be part of the lost Atlantis (another tricky real v imagined debate in and of itself) is described in an exotic way that seems completely mythical with the introduction of Calypso and her promise to Odysseus of immortality. 
 

We ended the semester with the Tempest, another interesting encounter with real vs imagined space.  Both narratives take the characters away from the homeland and explore imagined lands. This separation of homeland and foreign place mimics the separation of real and imagined. While Odysseus's homeland Ithaca is known to me only through Homer's description, like are all the other places he visits, it comes across as more real because of the real actions and experiences we associate with being home vs the unknown and peculiar actions we associate with exploration.
 

In the Tempest we immediately separate Milan and the island to which Prospero and Miranda were exiled as we are all familiar with Milan as a real place (in fact, I've physically traveled there, as Im sure many of you have). The island, which is only vaguely described in terms of its location, etc. is lifted to the realm of the imaginary. Like the mythology and acts of gods and goddesses that flood the Odysessy the magic which happens on the island further separates its from reality. 
 

The more distinct travel narratives we read - Columbus's Four Voyages, Herodotus's Account of Egypt, Marco Polo's The Travels, and The adventures of Cabeza de Vaca - underlie a different discussion on real vs. imagined space. While  we know about the physical realities of the Americas or of Kublai Khan's court, these stories still represent imagined versions of such places. The issue of truth comes into play here- how can we trust the tellers of these tales? And in that vein, are the places we read about real?  Or are they imagined accounts colored by the explorer/conquerers motivations and customs? 

While there is a lot of talk about the ambiguity of the Tempest as a piece that directly addresses colonization, I read the piece as one that clearly discusses this and focuses in great detail on the relationship between colonizer and other. While we could view the piece as one that simply discusses the relationship between modern civilization and human nature, it seems more to me like a discussion of a projection of colonialism back to Europe.

 

Rather than discussing a particular time and place like the other travel narratives we've discussed, Shakepspeare uses place symbolism- representing the eden like paradise that we find in other colonial tales - " How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green! The ground is indeed tawny…" connecting the landscape with the primitive man and his primitive lifestyle, as did many past travel classics we've discussed.

 

He also clearly discuses the idea of the other through the characters of Caliban and his mother, Sycorax. Caliban speaks out to the King saying, 

 

"This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou tak'st from me. When thou cam'st first,
Thou strok'st me and made much of me, wouldst give me." 

 

He continues saying,
"You taught me language, and my profit on't
Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you,
For learning me your language! "
insisting he does not want to be colonized, changed, etc. He is described as a physical other too - strange and dehumanized. 

 

Later, his position of the other is confirmed by his love of Stephano, King Alonso's butler. Their plotting against the king is a clear indication of Shakepeares stance against colonization. 

Furthermore, the character of Sycorax has been studied as a post colonial woman's voice that can be compared to women like Bertha in Jane Eyre, who lacked a voice but had a clear presence in speaking back to the colonizer. 

 

While some argue that the character of Ariel makes Shakespeare's stance on imperialism ambiguous, I think Caliban comes through as the stronger character and therefore Shakespeares true ideas come through him. 

Dan wrote about the parallels between Cabeza de Vaca's voyage and the TV show Survivor. I was reminded of another recent popular tv show - Lost. The basic ideas of struggling, being lost and fearing the unknown are very clear in plot. The real parallel between these two stories however lies the idea of the "the others." The others are both afraid of the castaways and feared by the castaways. They are perceived as being uncivilized and dangerous but are later found out to have their own town, jobs, way of life, etc. The idea of fearing an other and thinking them to be less civilized runs through all of our travel narratives. When Cabeza de Vaca and the natives form a bond which stems from fear, sympathy and acceptance we are surprised. This tale sets up a reverse role type of relationship that changes the way we think about the captor vs captive, native vs civilized, other vs explorer. Lost also challenges the way we think about these things. 

Knowing Cabeza de Vaca's background - a descendant of Pedro de Vera, one of the major figures in the conquest of the Canary Islands, and of a royal family that aided in spanish victory against the Moors - we expect his journey to be one of conquest and brute force. 
 

Based on the other travel classics we've read and our knowledge of typical conquerer vs conquered relationships, Cabeza de Vaca's journey surprises us greatly. 

So the question is, where does Cabeza de Vaca's unusual sympathy for the indigenous people come from? Does he believe that his Spanish Dominion will be better achieved through pacifism? Is it is his deep connection to Christianity? Or does his peaceful sensibility stem from fear?
 

Mary Doctor, in Enriched by otherness: the transformational journey of Cabeza de Vaca, talks abut the way that Cabeza de Vaca's struggle with the environment makes him vulnerable. Doctor quotes Pastor saying, "The enemy is no longer the native but the environment itself, which is always perceived as hostile and threatening, and exploration and adventurous initiative give way to wandering. In the discourse of failure, then, the heroic notion of conquest disappears and is replaced by a struggle for mere survival" (Pastor 121-28). 
 

This vulnerability, coupled with a seeming lack of interest in the indigenous people makes his gentleness towards the indians seem less good intentioned. It seems, in the beginning of the story, that his pacifistic attitude stems from feeling vulnerable in a new environment and not from a genuine interest in understanding the customs of a new place. At the start it seems, perhaps, that his exploration is motivated by general conquerer motivations - gold, power etc. 
 

We see a definite change in Cabeza, but only after much struggle. It is only when things become dire and he feels the need to flee the land, that "the heroic image of conqueror is replaced by that of struggling survivor" (Doctor).
 

His tale is called by many critics a "narrative discourse of failure." This notion that he did set out to conquer but was transformed into a peaceful and sympathetic friend to the indigenous people makes us very unclear his original motives. 

Kunstler is obsessed with hating cars. After breaking down the way in which cars essentially created and then ruined the city of Detroit he speaks briefly about Greenfield Village, a town outside of Detroit, built by Henry ford as a monument to the pastoral town of America's past. 

 

He describes the town as idyllic, with gardens, a village green, a main street with small businesses, and an generally slowed pace. Kunstler also reiterates many times the lack of cars in the village. In these respects, it has the very ingredients of American townscape that is so rarely in existence today and we for a second wonder, wait, is this a place Kuntsler actually likes? 

 

No. In typical fashion, he attacks. He points out the many flaws of this place - the fact that it costs money to enter, exists as a restoration of something that never truly existed, and is ultimately a tourist attraction - and then finishes the section with the line, "[Greenfield Village] makes me ashamed of our civilization."

 

Doing a bit more research on Greenfield Village, I couldn't agree more with Kuntsler. Not only is Greenfield village ironic in that it was created by Henry Ford and stands for everything that he destroyed with his industry, but in the fact that it has fabricated a history that never really existed in its place. It is an amalgamation of symbols of our past placed together to be celebrated in an economically viable way. The illusion of history seduces us here, but in my opinion, Greenfield village is no better an example of American townscape than Disneyland.

 

Visiting Greenfield Village is described on its website as being "like stepping into an  80 acre time machine." "You can ride in a genuine model T or ride a train with a 19th century steam engine." This place is a veritable museum. It is a hyperreality, and mostly, a tourist attraction. It is a town with hours and admission prices, which in and of itself makes it...not a town. 

 

And while Greenfield Village may look idyllic and beautiful and recall the American townscape of our past through symbols it lacks the real connections, the real local economy, the true idea of home that a town is created on the basis of and thrives on. It is a place made in order to be visited, not a place carved out by generations of social processes. 

We've been talking a lot about our current perception of Columbus as being arrogant, disrespectful, violent and overall anti-heroical. Many people scoff at the fact that we have a holiday to celebrate his crimes against humanity. See this article. But I think that we often get wrapped up in our own time and place- it is perhaps more interesting to see how the people of Latin America, the people who's ancestors were colonized, feel about and react to this man. I came across this interview on NPR, in which Timonthy Kubal, professor and author, speaks about the celebration of Columbus day in many Latin American Countries.  He speaks of the way in which (under the leadership of Chavez) the people of Latin America have use this day as one of indigenous resistance in have veritably transformed Columbus Day into celebration of the colonized rather than colonizer.

We all know Christopher Columbus's story, and we know that he killed and enslaved natives. His attitude of complete superiority and complete disregard for the culture and customs of the natives therefore should come as no surprise. However, after reading Herodtous and Marco Polo, who went to great lengths to explore all the strange and wonderful and extravagant differences of other cultures and places, I found myself hating Christopher Columbus so much when I read this.  
 

Columbus is not a traveler or historian, his goals are clear- to find India, find gold and other treasures, and to bring Christianity to the people there. He can be found saying many times throughout the book, "I believed they would be easily made Christians, for they appeared to have no religion," or "they have no religion and i think they should be very quickly christianized, for they have a very ready understanding. " This ignorant assessment of the natives (who surely were not without religion) proves Columbus's pretension but also seems, along with many of his other actions to be kind of anti-christian. 
 

He admits to not being able to understand the natives - "I do not attach much belief to their statements however, because i do not understand them very well" -  but then contradicts himself and asserts that they have a "very ready understanding [of Christianity]. Columbus's entire journey, I think, is in a way a contradiction - his whole position as a missionary is overtaken by his unchristian actions- murdering, enslaving, taking and ravaging land, and his overall greed.
 

 But as anti-christian as many of his actions ay seem, "[Columbus] felt himself to be guided by a supernatural destiny to make the discoveries he did and to add greedily to the dominions of the catholic sovereigns."  He believed he was doing great service to God during this expedition. It seems to me that he elevated himself to the status of a God. He surely felt a grand sense of entitlement. 

It is interesting to see how Columbus is celebrated as the hero who brought Christianity to America. The stained glass photo above, which is found at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Springfield, Illinois celebrates the spread of christianity. A Catholic education site that I stumbled upon highlights his courage and boldness. Just to state a few examples.

While reading this book I was really turned off by Columbus. However, I don't think he was totally evil nor totally a hero. He certainly was a hero in opening up trade between the Americas and Europe and he certainly was evil in his killing and ravaging of natives and their land. He was an explorer with set goals and he was certainly bold in his actions. What troubles me, is his position as a missionary - his spreading of Christianity, the very thing for which he is famed, seems to me unheroic and disrespectful and forced-  I'm interested in what others have to say about this...