7. Midterm

If only Cape Cod were a prescribed medication, it would cure so many ills.  It just takes one week on the Cape to come home with a completely refreshed sense of self.  Every time I venture out there, I come back with a new found ease - a softness on my face that stays with me for a while.  It’s the smell of the sun hitting the pine cones on the beach; the sound of low tide drifting out into the horizon.  It is a special place sprinkled with special places - old towns and villages that give the Cape its charm.  Every summer my family goes to the last town on the Cape, Provincetown - the cape-town with the deepest sense of place.  

The physical landscape of Provincetown lends to this sense of place I feel whenever I spend time there.  The most immediate physical attribute is its proximity to the water.  The bay is never far away from whichever area of town you find yourself in.  The bay serves as a natural barrier, instilling an intimacy in Provincetown.  For J.B Jackson, boundaries like this one “stabilize social relationships....they give a permanent human quality to what would otherwise be an amorphous stretch of land.” (Jackson, 15)  The water around Cape Cod both protects its towns from the outside world and makes visitors and residents feel closer to one another.

Provincetown’s organic layout also shapes my experience.  Its gridless design accommodates narrow, windy side streets that wrap around the old colonial houses and open up into the center from Commercial and Bradford, the two main streets in town.  You discover your own piece of Provincetown in these streets - streets that reveal tree lined views of gardens and the harbor.  It is here where I stop and be present, a real place as “place is a pause in movement.” (Tuan, 138)  Provincetown itself is a pause in movement.  No one rushes because there is nothing to rush to.  The only rushing it seems is to get there.  
 

The height of the buildings is even more visual therapy.  The tallest building is the courthouse, which is three stories high.  All the other buildings are houses, restaurants and theaters two stories high, which a lot of the time cohabit the same roof.  Only two hotels and the army and navy store are free standing, single-use structures.  The rest of the hostels, shops and restaurants are all on the ground level of multi-occupant houses.  The tallest structure, however, is the Pilgrim Monument - roughly 250 feet - a granite watchtower in the center of town that sticks out like a minaret.  It is Provincetown’s main focal point - one’s main point of reference.  The tower is an icon of Provincetown.  It peaks out in the distance whether you’re arriving by ferry or automobile.  The town center is also a main point of reference.  In the summer, there are always musicians and performers doing their acts all day and all night.  It is a public space for everyone to spend time in.  It is also right outside the courthouse - the tallest and biggest building in town.
 

Provincetown maintains its vibrance and quality by keeping true to its history.  Kunstler would consider this a mark of success as so many historical American spaces have been wiped clean for further development.  From a sleepy fishing village, to a bustling whaling port, to a rich art community, to a colorful vacation destination, Provincetown’s story is written all over town.  For one, the seafood remains some of the best I’ve ever tasted.  Three hundred years of catching fish have made the people of Provincetown experts in the art of seafood.  Of course, whaling is illegal, but whales are still a big part of the town as whale watchers flock to town over the summer.  Provincetown is also quite famous for its arts.  Artists have been living in Provincetown for a hundred and fifty years, setting up galleries and playhouses all over town.  Some liken it to the West Village in that regard.  Also, in the last forty years, P-town has become an important center for the gay community - perhaps the epitome of a safe zone.  Anything goes.  Over the summer, Commercial Street is filled with parades and carnivals as people in creative drag outfits take over the town.  This palpable continuity of community and culture give Provincetown its unique character.  It’s for families, couples, singles, students, seniors and everyone in between.  

Kunstler would especially appreciate Provincetown’s relationship with cars.  Although many visitors use automobiles to get to Provincetown, once there, the cars usually stay parked on the outskirts of town.  The small, windy streets make it virtually impossible for cars to move around town, establishing Provincetown as a town for pedestrians and cyclists.  But you don’t even need a car to get to there.  A high speed ferry service taxis between Boston and Provincetown everyday over the summer.  The ferry drops you off right on the pier, putting you in optimal range for the best lobster rolls in town.  This absence of motor traffic creates a tranquil and clean environment, where everything is in walking distance. 
 

Provincetown is interesting because its population doubles between June-September.  The summer is when it is really buzzing and exciting to be there.  But Provincetown still has a sizable yearlong community.  The town might be different in the off season from how it is over the summer, but it doesn’t suffer in the off season.  Provincetown has been a stable community for centuries.  And it is still just as beautiful in the off season - if not more.  My mother and her friends go to Provincetown in October and in April for a different experience of the same place.  We travel as family in Provincetown during the summer and do summer activities like biking, hiking, fishing, jogging and going to the beach.  So much of the summer experience in Provincetown is the people and activity.  Perhaps when the summer crowd leaves one can derive a more personal sense of place.  One forges a wholly different connection with a place when fewer people are around.  You don’t go out as much in Provincetown in the winter - although hiking through the Province Lands is still breathtaking.  Provincetown in the winter is very much like Tuan’s description of home.  He writes, “the home itself feels more intimate in the winter than in the summer.  Winter reminds us of our vulnerability and defines the home as shelter.  Summer, in contrast, turns the whole world into Eden, so that no corner is more protective than another.”  (Tuan, 137)
 

Unlike many tourist destinations, Provincetown is not ruined when the tourists overtake the town.  The genius loci remains even when the town is bursting at the seams.  The reason for this is that the tourists who visit Provincetown are not usually one-time or first-time visitors.  Most people who visit but don’t live there have been coming for quite some time.  These families, couples and singles have a long relationship with Provincetown and make it worth protecting - as Kunstler would say it.  The genius loci of Provincetown stays intact because of the the respect with which its visitors treat it.  It’s a place that is passed down from generation to generation.  Far from a secret but not really super well-known, Provincetown is special for me and my family.  I have a connection with it like the many who visit year round.  And I know that it will remain a place I continue to visit and take loved-ones to share the experience of a true place. 

Works Cited:

 

Jackson, J.B. Discovering the Vernacular Landscape.  Yale University Press.  New Haven: 1984.

Kunstler, J.H. Geography of Nowhere.  Touchstone.  New York: 1994.

Tuan, Yi-Fu.  Space and Place.  University of Minnesota Press.  Minneapolis: 1977.

      Lieutenant Island



       Pilgrim Monument


     BIke Shop


     Race Point Beach


      Provincetown Pier


     Commercial Street


     Commercial Street


    Lieutenant Island


     Commercial Street


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     Lieutenant Island


      Provincetown Beach


   Provincetown Pier
 

I swipe my card three or four times until the turnstile finally registers and allows me to go.  A mass is swarming around the doors that just opened as people squeeze to get on and off – typical for this time of day.  I get of four stops later and walk down the long corridor until I reach the end; I’m at my dorm room.
 
A Dépêche Mode trucker hat donned deer head greets me enthusiastically upon entering my dorm “suite”.  The windowless living room slash kitchen seems intimate yet functionless.  There is a camouflage portable chair sitting under the mounted deer.  A quintessential dormitory style multi-level desk surfaces a stack of meticulously layered magazines, books, and DVDs while also functioning as a display for an encased Missoni Pellegrino bottle hugs the left wall.  The refrigerator, dishwasher, sink, and stove squeeze against the right wall as a plastic table with orange and lime green chairs awkwardly squat in the center of the room.  A wood island cutting board on the far wall juxtaposes the plastic however.  Wine, knife block, and salt lamp signify its purpose.  Three doors lead off of this main room: the right the bedroom I share with my roommate the left the bedroom shared by my suitemates and the one opposite to that the bathroom.  Walking into the right door a warm glow emits from a peace sign lamp made out of aluminum and Christmas tree lights. A shag rug softens the feel of the hardwood floors.  The whiff of candles of many shapes, sizes, and scents linger in the air.  The senses live throughout the room.  The left and right side of the room represent its inhabits uniquely yet compliment one another.  An old American Flag, posters, and a checkerboard of photos hang from my side while a surfboard, world map, and wetsuit represents his.  Clothes are logistically jammed into the small closet and chest of drawers to maximize space.  Most visitors are surprised to see how much detail we have put into the place we live.  While most students view a dormitory as just that, a temporary space, I view it as a home.                    
 
How can a home be created in a place so different then where you are born and raised? What aspects go into making a place a home without family or a real sense of community? Why is a sense of home important to your emotional well-being? How can one be fulfilled without this fundamental sense? How does one achieve a sense of home in a forced space?   These questions have gradually been raised and evolved in my head since arriving in New York City two Augusts ago to attend NYU.  While the notion of a dormitory room as a home was not primarily apparent, through my almost two years of experience living in the dorms I have come to learn it is essential for healthy and successful living.  Before one is able to conceptualize and mold a dorm into a home however, the perception of home must be discussed.
 
While great authors through time have prominently declared, “home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration”(Charles Dickens) and “he is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home”(Johann Wolfgang von Goethe), a true definition of what a home is can be hard to come by.  What is a home? Can it be created or destroyed?  Is it a physical place or an abstract idea totally unique to each person?  The answers to these questions seem daunting but the authors we have so far examined in Sense of Place strive to answer them.
 
Yi-Fu Taun’s declares in his book Space and Place, “home is the focal point of a cosmic structure”(149).  While it seems “such a conception of place ought to give supreme value; to abandon it would be hard to imagine”(149), “with destruction of one ‘center of the world,’ another can be built next to it, or in another location altogether, and it in turn becomes the ‘center of the world’”(150).  Thus it is possible to recreate an authentic sense of home several times in different locations throughout life.  While it may be hard to conceive a home away from your birthplace, “cosmic views can be adjusted to suit new circumstances.”(150)
 
I struggled with this concept living in my dorm last year.  I viewed the 10 x 10 foot room as a place I slept and did homework, nothing else.  I made no effort to personalize the room in anyway except a few family photos that just made me feel an even greater lack of a sense of home.  I didn’t bother having friends over and spent most of my time outsider in public spaces.  Although this was distracting, I never felt like I was “living” in New York, I was still an outsider.  I did not have the essential balance of estate and range as mentioned by Tuan.  While he declares the range, the orbit around the home, is essential for survival, the estate, “the traditionally recognized home or dreaming place of a patrilineal descent groups and its adherents”(157)” establishes the necessary sense of emotion through its social and ceremonial ties.  Because I was not experiencing the simple traditions of home, I was not able to discover a sense of identity personally or in the surrounding community.
     
What are the attributes thus in creating a traditional sense of home?  Living with a friend was the first step.  Being able to communally pick the location, layout, and design of our dorm this year was liberating as the year before I had no control on where or who I lived with.  The next step in creating this sense of home was through the organic acquisition of products. James Howard Kunstler’s describes the necessity of charm in producing a sense of home in his book The Geography of Nowhere.  He defines charm as “that which makes our physical surroundings worth caring about”(168).  Kunstler claims, “we are presently suffering on a massive scale the social consequences of living in places that are not worth caring about”(168).  How is this caring achieved?  Through objects with meaning.  From the peace sign lamp, to the Missoni bottle, to the photos on my wall, every article in our dorm has a story and is now a part of me.  Instead of rushing to Bed, Bath, & Beyond to fully furnish my dorm like I did last year, naturally coming across the things I needed and wanted make me feel a whole lot happier today.
 
While I plan on moving out of the dorms this summer, I do not believe Kunstler’s claim that “our obsession with mobility, the urge to move on every few years, stands at odds with the wish to endure in a beloved place, and no place can be worthy of that kind of deep love if we are willing to abandon it on short notice for a few extra dollars”(173) destroys a sense a home.  I believe I have successfully achieved a sense of home and although it took me a while, I am confident I will be able to do it again wherever life takes me in the future.

Works Cited:
Kunstler, James Howard. The Geography of Nowhere: The Rise And Decline of
America’s Man-Made Landscape. New York: Touchstone, 1993.

Tuan, Yi-Fu. Space and Place. Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 1977.130-148.
Print.

I live in a small room on the tenth floor of NYU’s Lafayette Residence Hall, with my three roommates Erin, Maria and Boram. We usually refer to ourselves as the Classy Spaceship when speaking collectively. “Classy Spaceship is drinking Four Loko at the Harry Potter premiere!” “Classy Spaceship is keeping it classy today.” “Man, the Classy Spaceship should really get a reality show.”

In the world of the humanistic geographer Yi-Fu Tuan, “what begins as undifferentiated space becomes place as we get to know it better and endow it with value.” (Tuan 6) In my case, my experience of Lafayette begins in the abstract realm of NYU’s space––a building that the university leases, located two blocks south of Canal Street in Chinatown, mostly indistinguishable from the other high-rise courthouses and apartment buildings in my area of New York City. As an abstract idea, Lafayette and I share what sociologist Jennifer Cross would call a commodified relationship. This sort of relationship is dictated by what is desirable to me about the building. The defining characteristic of our relationship is choice, my ability during the housing lottery to choose to live in a single (a room with no roommate) in Chinatown, near cheap dim sum restaurants and an endless supply of soup dumplings.

Paradoxically, Lafayette and I also share what is very much a dependent relationship, one that Cross would define as having been the result of “having either no choice or severe limitations on choice.” I live in an dorm out of necessity; I chose to live in a single, while at the same time this desire took place within the constraints of "I have to choose to live in a dorm, I have to choose to live in a dorm with available singles." This paradox interests me. I wonder if the place that I live in (Lafayette as my building, the 10th floor as my floor, and 1019 as my room) out of both necessity and desire is a good place. Also, I wonder if a dorm room such as mine––a home which is transitory by nature (after all, my building will have a whole new set of 1100 residents come Fall 2011)––even has the capacity to be a good place, a place where people can come together, a place worth caring about.

The way I see Tuan’s model of the space-place relationship is that of the inverted triangle: abstract space solidifying into concrete place. After experiencing Lafayette as an building, I turn to my floor. The 10th floor is a labyrinthine maze of gray doors, walls, ceilings, and floors. Everything in grayscale, with small name tags as the only differentiating features. Tall metal doors shut loudly and automatically whenever a person leaves their room, leaving a blank sheet of wall much like the blank faces of suburban garages. Just as I feel uncomfortable walking down the street amidst the sprawl in my suburban neighborhood, I feel mildly ill at ease strolling down the 10th floor of Lafayette, or carrying on a conversation in any room besides my own. The only public space on our floor––the laundry room of 3 washers and 3 dryers––is similarly arranged in drab grays illuminated by noxious fluorescent light.

 

An analysis of my floor is especially grim when compared to the stark contrast of my floor last year: the fourteenth floor of Hayden Hall, a freshmen-only dorm facing the tree-lined Washington Square Park. Lafayette’s high-ceilinged narrow hallways are replaced by wide, friendly hallways colored in earthy greens, browns, and blues––much more conducive to college students hanging out and doing homework on the floor. The doors to Hayden are also typically not weighted to close automatically; if you wanted to close your door, you had to close the door. This led to many people leaving their doors wide open if they were home. In Lafayette, if we wanted to keep the door open wider than a few inches, an instrument such as a chair or several recycling bins had to be employed. Thus, our door is never open, and I would be hard pressed to walk down my ominously-lit hallway and see an open door, much less a friendly face. Such a simple difference in door design is able to either foster or hinder interpersonal relationships in this way. Decisions like these foster the creation of my dismal hallway, what social critic James Howard Kunstler would call a “scary place.” When I was talking to my roommate Erin about our floor design and layout, she laughed when I asked her if she knew anyone else on the 10th floor. “Man, there’s like fifty people on this floor. Or is is seventy? I’d have no way of knowing.”

I live in room 1019 with my three roommates Erin, Maria, and Boram––we inhabit a small human ecosystem of sorts. “Enclosed and humanized space is place,” writes Tuan in Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience. We leave what I see as space (or at least the placelessness of the abstract idea of building or the scary hallway), and return home, to our place of Classy Spaceship. "Classy Spaceship coming in for a landing," says Maria as she opens the front door carrying two bags from Trader Joe's. 

There are several aspects of Classy Spaceship that make it a place. Our apartment consists of two bedrooms and a common area, including a kitchen and two bathrooms. I live in a single room with my own bathroom, and my three roommates live in a triple and share the other bathroom. The relationship between my and their room shows the relationship between spaciousness and crowding, our conflicting needs for place and desire for place. I sometimes observe my roommates’ encounters with the phenomenon of crowding––whenever they escape with their papers and books the chaos of our room to the relative peace and space of Starbucks or Bobst. My roommates’ relationship with 1019 is almost purely dependent; preferring to live in a building closer to campus, Lafayette Hall was their last choice of hall placement.

However, when I looked at my room I also saw the potential relativity of the term “crowdedness.” There is a palpable sense of comfort present in our room. While interviewing my roommates, one of the questions I asked them was, “What’s your favorite thing about 1019?” “Classy spaceship!” they'd cry without fail. In a conversation where we were trying to figure out where we got the name Classy Spaceship, Maria kind of interjected, “Well I love the classy spaceship. I love everyone in it. It’s so comfortable.” The room would feel much more crowded if we didn’t get along, if our ideals differed drastically. Tuan touches upon this briefly while discussing the allure of crowds in settings like protests or sports games, where people flock to enjoy “the sheer pleasure of swimming in a sea of their own kind.” (Tuan 63)

Also offsetting the possible crowdedness of a room of four girls is our creation and use of a large public space. In 1019, not only is the common room the public domain, but the bedrooms as well. My roommates sometimes use my bathroom, I sometimes nap on Erin’s bed, we do our work together around the kitchen table––this fostering of shared space builds closeness. In other words, we find intimacy in one another.  Like Hannah Jelkes in Tennessee Williams’s The Night of the Iguana, we nest in each other. Especially since our room began as a negative space for my roommates (having been their last choice), it has become more a landscape of human interactions (such as my and Erin's wrestling matches on the floor of our kitchen) than a landscape of admirable monuments and marbled woodwork.



Because of the crowded intimacy of 1019, I ultimately see my room as what write J.B. Jackson would call a “vernacular” landscape. In his Discovering the Vernacular Landscape, Jackson makes a distinction between what he calls two “ideal” landscapes–the political and the vernacular, the aristocratic and the commonplace. Although my room in Lafayette Hall is political in that it is an NYU building (a “large, public building, designed by an architect” to create order and organization), because of the very ephemeral nature of dorm rooms, I ultimately see our room as vernacular. They are an easy way to transplant and extract lives for ten months of the calendar year. With occupants and decorations like parking lots done up for flea markets, dormitories are essentially placeless outside of our human imprints on them. Is that why we don’t care to really decorate or clean? Living in dorms is living temporarily, living in a moveable dwelling. “Mobility and change are the key to the vernacular landscape, but of an involuntary, reluctant sort,” writes Jackson (Jackson 151) We are mobile by fact, just as we live in dorms by fact.

Lafayette 1019 is all of these things: commodity, vernacular place of necessity, a good place amidst a whole lot of bad space. But it is also a narrative and spiritual place. Out of my intangible emotional attachment has sprung the narrative of the Classy Spaceship. In this way, in my attachment to my room, has it transcended the title of vernacular, of empty parking-lot shell to a good place worth caring about? Well, yes and no. At the risk of sounding maudlin, the way to survive in the Classy Spaceship is within each other. This is because we will necessarily leave the physical room of 1019 come May. As Tennessee Williams's character Mr. Shannon would say, birds don't build homes in falling-down trees. We don't care about the room; that is why we don't clean. Without each other, I don't think that the room, one two-bedroomed apartment in a narrow high-ceilinged hallway of gray, would become a place.


 (all photos taken by me or one of the other members of the Classy Spaceship)

The town of Red Cloud, Nebraska can be found roughly ten miles from the state's South-eastern border. Situated only eighteen miles from the center of continental USA, it is laid out amidst a sea of land. The one thing distinguishing this town from the seemingly infinite number of small towns littered along two-lane highways all across the Great Plains is the fact that author Will Cather moved there at the age of six from a town in Virginia. The town had such a profound effect on the way she viewed the world that she spent nearly all of the rest of her life writing novels inspired by her experiences there. "The great fact was the land itself," she wrote in O Pioneers!, "which seemed to overwhelm the little beginnings of human society that struggled in its somber wastes."
            When I spent two months living in this town of 800 people during the summer of 2009, I found this largely to be true. Though very little of the town has stayed the same since Cather moved there in 1883, the vastness of the surrounding land is still impressive. Despite roughly a hundred and fifty years of American attempting to make a mark on the land, the large, flat fields are still far more prominent presences than the human landmarks. Houses on the town roads stick out like sore thumbs.
            When I drove into the town for the first time, it seemed surreal to me to imagine that people could actually live in a place like this. I had just driven from Boulder, Colorado through the single most terrifying lightning storm of my life, and the town's streets were full of fog. The air was wet and thick. The sound of crickets surrounded everything. They seemed to be coming from everywhere - from fields far off in the distance and from the grass on the lawns. Stepping out of my car, I couldn't help but feel that I was experiencing something akin to what Willa Cather must have felt climbing out of a train and sensing all the land that surrounded her on all sides.
            But even more impressive than the land was the sky. Looking up for the first time as I stepped out of my car, I had never seen a more massive and expansive collection of stars. With the sky feeling farther away than it ever had before, the houses that I saw around me seemed somehow separate from the cosmos. It was like they had banded together in a unit of defiance against the awe inspiring sky that eternally rested above them.
            I lived for two months in one of those houses that summer as a part of a theater company that had gotten a residence at the Willa Cather Opera House. Over the course of those two months, we put up over twenty-five staged works. During my time there, I wrote over thirty songs inspired by paintings that I had postcard reproductions of. A large part of why that short period of time was so productive for me had to do with the house that I lived in with the twelve other company members. In the house, there was only one bathroom, a tiny kitchen, three bedrooms, a living room and a basement. Three of the company members slept in the living room - the largest room in the house. There was also an enclosed front porch, on which I wrote the majority of the songs during our stay. The house had previously been occupied by a family with two daughters. It was unclear as to why the family had left the house, but the fact that they seemed to have left in a rush left a certain spookiness hovering over the place. On the walls of one of the bedrooms were painted characters from Sesame Street. Shocking to us as New Yorkers, none of the doors in the house had locks - including the front door.
            The room that I slept in was just large enough to fit three mattresses on the ground with roughly a two by four floor space in the center. The walls of the room were painted with technicolor polka dots. On the wall of our room that faced the house's enclosed front porch was a large window. There was a window shade that could be closed, though as I recall it never was. There was a small ceiling fan in the room that was decorated with stickers of Disney princess characters. 
            Though one of the guys I shared my room with was a friend I had known for a number of years, the other I had met on the day he arrived in Nebraska. Sleeping in such close proximity to each other - it was laid out in such a way so that all of our heads were in kicking distance from one another's feet - led to a particular kind of comradeship unlike any I have ever known. When one of us set an alarm in the morning - all of us were, sometimes begrudgingly, woken up. If one of us was staggering home from a late night walk - on one of mine, I was stalked by a mountain lion - it was nearly impossible not to wake whoever had been sleeping. I distinctly recall one evening, debating with Alton, who I had only known for two weeks at that point, whether or not we should wait for the couple making out in our one bathroom to leave or just to pee outside. We eventually decided to pee in the bushes outside our front door. And, as we did, we gazed up to the sky above and both saw the first shooting star of our lives.
            Almost two years later, the memories that sit with me most from my time in Nebraska all incorporate an element of the gigantic sky, and the way it made me feel. Beneath its vastness, the lives of the people I observed and the actions in my own life appeared both miniscule and somehow felt more vital than they ever had before. In literally the middle of nowhere, with no distractions beyond the ones I could provide for myself, my life was stripped to its bare essentials. In the vast metropolis that is New York City, that sense of what was truly important has never left me. 

[photograph taken by me in red cloud, nebraska - summer of 2009]
            

[video contains song inspired by polka-dot wallpaper in my bedroom and numerous other photographs from red cloud, nebraska]

 

This past October a friend and I ventured up to the Hudson Valley to spend a day at the Dia:Beacon, a unique museum with an extensive permanent collection of innovative art from the 1960’s onward.  For months I had been encouraged by teachers and friends alike to make this short trip up and out of the city.  Finally, on a pleasant, fall Saturday, we made the trip, driving about two hours northwest of New Haven, Connecticut to Beacon, New York, a small town sixty miles north of Manhattan.  I was certainly looking forward to a break from the city to see what I’d heard was an unprecedented collection of work by a number of modern artists whom I admire.  I had not expected to find such comfort in the very good place that I found Dia:Beacon to be.  

 

Housed in an old Nabisco factory, the museum sits, surrounded by trees, right on the Hudson river.  A long driveway takes you into the parking lot where “each car is matched with a flowering fruit tree.”  How thoughtful.  The museum, hidden until this point, reveals itself.  The brick facade of the building is forerun by a beautiful garden whose geometric path–a series of intersecting panels between which grass sprouts along the edge–and deliberately placed foliage is complemented by the organic contours of the surrounding trees, a combination which makes Robert Irwin’s modern garden design seem a beautiful understatement as opposed to an unwelcome boast.  All of this, beautiful as it is, was made more so by the distinctive colors of Autumn, especially vibrant in the undisturbed landscape of the riverbank.  To enter the Riggio Galleries (the proper name for the museum’s large exhibition space) one passes through a small vestibule, evidently added after the Dia Art Foundation’s acquisition of the factory.  It too is very simple and sleek in its design, made of brick (like the factory) and constructed almost entirely of right angles save for a curved brow.  The gallery space itself is extensive.  Although refurbished so as to accommodate the collection, the gallery still retains the look and feel of a factory, interrupted only scarcely and pragmatically.  

 

The Dia:Beacon website describes the building as a “model of early twentieth century industrial architecture.” These seven words put together would undoubtedly cause Kunstler heart failure, however, I see it as a virtue.  From afar, the complex is actually quite unassuming.  It neither flaunts its presence nor shies away its attractiveness. Sure, nearly everything about it screams post-modernism, but it does so in such a gentle, welcoming way.  The geometries of the garden’s pathway, the annexed vestibule of the galleries, and the galleries themselves are rectangular without being foreboding, free of ornament without being charmless, and highly contrasting to their surrounding without seeming out of place.  The pathway, described above, was to me, the ultimate example of a successful combination of nature and architecture.  Although it was no coincidence and the nature aspect was deliberate, the unpredictable way in which the grass creeps through the path is simple without being periodic, and to me, exemplifies good, thoughtful design, making the most out of both form and function.

 

The galleries close at dusk, as the work is lit only by natural light, which seems to be ushered in effortlessly (certainly not hindered by the 26,000 square feet of skylight).  Not only does this light provide an ever changing counterpoint with the collection, but it also impresses upon the work some of its own thoughts, the best example being the shadows of windows that appear very visibly on Richard Serra’s massive steel circumscriptions during the mid-to-late afternoon.  Like it or not, it’s quite an unusual thing to see.  It is plain to see that the Dia Art Foundation is as concerned with its collection as it is with providing the visitor an experience beyond that of simply pacing back and forth amongst it.  The museum does not take its idyllic location for granted.  No, the collection is not made up of landscape paintings from the Hudson River School, but that would be redundant anyways.  The contrast between the minimal work inside and the complex world outside is surprisingly beautiful.  Dia:Beacon clearly noticed this and took full advantage of it.

 

I had never thought much of the layout within a museum before going to the Dia:Beacon.  90 degree angles, bright white walls, etc. seem to always do the trick.  And, like all other museums and galleries, Dia:Beacon has this, but it does it quite a bit differently.  The gallery space is divided in such a way so as to give special attention to each artists’ work.  Every artist has his or her own designated space, uninterrupted by any outside work, allowing the visitor to immerse him or herself within that particular artist’s thoughts, visions, and idiosyncratic world.  Not only is each artist designated a space, but it is clear that thought was put into what artist would be placed where, both in relation to the other artists and to the architecture of the building.  I imagine it is no coincidence that John Chamberlain’s drastic sculptures made of recycled metal and car parts are given a large space in one of the sides of the museum so as to provide for them the more utilitarian backdrop of exposed brick.  The same goes for what occupies the rest of the museum’s brick perimeter: Michael Heizer’s massive negative-space sculpture made of massive cuts into the gallery’s floor; Richard Serra’s imposing steel structures; Dan Flavin’s surreal fluorescent light sculptures; Fred Sandback’s delicate, empty acrylic yarn sculptures; and upstairs, Louise Bourgeois’ imposing arachnid.  The inner, white-walled spaces are reserved mostly for paintings, organized in such a way that I felt little awkwardness in moving from one artists’ world to the next.  The most pleasing transition for me was from Agnes Martin’s beautiful, deceivingly complex, and subtle paintings and drawings to Robert Ryman’s densely textured all-white paintings.  Dia’s dedication to the artists’ work was especially apparent in Ryman’s space, as his unconventional method of hanging his work was exemplified by a massive painting, supported on the floor by a mere few pieces of exposed styrofoam.  It is worth mentioning also that there is nothing on the walls of each artists’ space besides the work itself.  Information, titles, and biographies are provided by laminated sheets of paper stored near the entrance to each space.

 

Another favorite space of mine was that of artist Franz Erhard Walther.  The exhibit is titled Work as Action and consists of a large number of Walthers Action Pieces and Work Pieces.  Each is made from hand sewn canvas, assembled in a particular way so as to infer a specific action or work to be performed.  The canvases are all folded neatly around the perimeter of the room and visitors are invited to “activate” any number of them.  My friend and I activated a giant loop of canvas; each of us stood at one end, supporting one another with the weight of our bodies leaning backwards.  The visitor can consider the deeper meaning of Walther’s work or enjoy the lightheartedness of the unexpected opportunity for interactivity; I know I certainly enjoyed watching a little girl be endlessly amused by her dad putting the fabric on his head, around his body, etc.

 

In addition to Dia:Beacon’s collection inside and gardens outside, there are are multiple doors at variously places along the perimeter of the gallery that lead out to terraces with stunning views of the Hudson River.  Some of these spaces are inhabited by sound pieces, namely Birdcalls by Louise Lawler on west side of the museum, facing the river, and Time Piece Beacon (which I talk about in more detail in a previous post) by Max Neuhaus in the garden near the entrance.  These terraces allow the visitor peaceful intermissions to the work inside and successfully establish the unexpected relationship between the abstract, conceptual art within and the actuality of the outside world.  Tuan’s phenomenology resonates deeply in a situation like this, as it certainly recalled for me a “lost innocence and a lost dread, an immediacy of experience that had not yet suffered (or benefited) from the distancing of reflective thought” (20).  Although I can’t claim to have experienced it with the totally immediacy of a child, the welcomed interruptions of the landscape outside was very effective in bringing the work inside back down to earth.

 

Whether or not one has an affection for the simple, minimalist work that Dia:Beacon exhibits, I think that within the context of everything in and around the museum–the picturesque views of the Hudson River, the architecture of the surrounding grounds, the careful and deliberate layout and design of the galleries–one can find a deep and meditative solace.  Of course, beauty can be found in both an uninhibited natural landscape as well as in a manmade, deliberately planned and worked landscape; Dia:Beacon brings together both possibilities in a purposeful and effective way, creating a unique sense of place made up of the experience of art, the knowledge of culture, and the repose of the natural world. 

 

Sources Cited

"About Dia:Beacon." Dia Art Foundation - Dia. Web. 08 Mar. 2011. <http:// www.diabeacon.org>.

Tuan, Yi-Fu. Space and Place: The Perspective of Experience. Minneapolis, Minn. [u.a.: Univ. of Minnesota, 2008. Print.

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The small coastal town, Carmel-by-the-Sea, is officially one square mile, its fine white sand beach at its base and the grove of local pines and cypress fill in the rest. Carmel can be found somewhere just north of the vast coastline of Big Sur and a few hours south of San Francisco. However when looking from the beach or the top of the city to the immediate south you will find Point Lobos and to the north you will see Pebble Beach, a landscape Robert Louis Stevenson once called “the greatest meeting of land and sea in the world”. The setting for the town is established, and it would be hard to argue that its natural landscape is anything but perfect—Carmel cradled between the two headlands to form the serene cove with the white sand dunes and beach to which the city gently slopes. Though Carmel's cityscape is equally impressive.

 

Though Carmel was first founded by the Spanish missionaries, and to this day its mission is one of the most beautiful in all of California, its real history began fairly recently at the turn of the century when it was settled by a group of artists. Ever since Carmel has been regarded as a manifestation of an authentic bohemian lifestyle. In a desperate search of escape the artists along with developer James Frank Devendorf founded the city calling for a haven for artists and intellectuals that would endure through the trails and tempests of time. As the town was incorporated it promised to retain its character as a village in a forest overlooking a white sand beach. The city wants to stay predominately a residential community. The effect this has on the waterfront is profound considering there is no commercial space on the beach or point. The commercial space is unique unto itself. The buildings are often original and little has changes about downtown's facade since it was first created (see slideshow). They are low multi-use buildings that give the feel of a European town. Another intrinsic characteristic one will notice about Carmel is the lack of chain stores, restaurants and hotels. According to a somewhat unusual law banning chain brands Carmel is all about boutiques although there is one block in the city developed as the Carmel Plaza which does house a few more upscale and closely regulated chain stores that are corporately owned but do not conform to the typical standardized formula. They can reside in retail spaces but can not recreate their typical “mall” facade. The result is a feeling of local charm and community.

 

The city is a grid made of blocks with two way streets without center lines painted on them, though it is often near impossible for two cars to pass with out one pulling over as the streets are narrow. The homescape takes advantage of the surrounding natural landscape. Trees are everywhere so the grid is not visible from the sky or sea. Rather the dense city, with 50 inns, 60 restaurants and 90 galleries and countless seaside cottages, appears to be a forest that extends right on to the sand dunes at the beach (see ariel photo in slideshow). The only sidewalks are in the downtown area which is more or less a fourth of the city. Even the curbs in Carmel are not traditional as they are made up of large stones cemented together. The town has a bit of the appeal of a main street, which is Ocean Avenue. The street runs down the hill towards the beach where it dead ends however a few blocks before the beach the commercial space gives way to homes. The street is the heart of the city and has two lanes going in each direction separated by a small stone wall center divider with trees. Cars park along Ocean Avenue and act as a buffer between pedestrians and the driving cars. Though the cars are always moving slow because there are stop signs every block. The city is certainly scaled to the pedestrian as Kunstler emphasizes is hugely important. You will not find any traffic lights or even lamp posts in Carmel either. The city spreads at most two blocks to either side of Ocean Avenue. Each block seems to contain small arched entryways that lead to the blocks center which are courtyards that often give the impression of being secret gardens. They have stores and restaurants too along with an abundance of public art. The space is obviously cared for. When walking along the streets one cannot help but feel as if they are in a town somewhere in Europe. Carmel has successfully recreated the charm of the riviera even though it was not intentional.

 

Venturing away from downtown one will find seaside cottages with thatched roofs, Spanish style adobes, and even a stone Frank Loyd Wright home that blends into the rocks. It is one of the only houses on the ocean side of Scenic Road which runs along the beach and around the point. The view of the surrounding Pacific and coastal access is obviously important. Preservation is the key to the success of Carmel. Even trees were not cut down as the roads were made according to the grid. There are several places in the city where you will suddenly come face to face with a tree growing straight out of the center of the road. Even though the city is a grid its lack of flat ground and these irregularities make it seem otherwise. You will also not find addresses or mailboxes as there are none in Carmel. Each house has a name like Periwinkle, Sea Urchin, and Driftwood. Their residences must go to the post office to get the mail, in a way it fosters a sense of community. Even the street signs are unconventional painted wood posts (see photo in slideshow).

 

Carmel has a park in one of its blocks (Devendorf Park in slideshow). There is no cemetery although there are several churches and there is an outdoor theater nestled away in the woods. There are two public libraries along with a police station, fire station and town hall where actor/director Clint Eastwood famously served as mayor for several years.

 

Has Carmel remained an artists colony? Carmel's charm has supplied grounds for some of the most expensive real estate in California and so the quaint village now doubles as a retreat for the wealthy though the bohemian spirit has not been forgotten. There is physically little room to expand. The town is dense and packed with set lots. Pebble Beach to one side is strictly protected forest land and Point Lobos to the south will never be developed because it is a California State Park. There are also strict building regulations in Carmel that prevent misplaced gaudy architecture and towering homes that would obstruct ocean views. Carmel does continue to be a village in a forest by the sea as it was first envisioned fostering an enduring sense of place.

 

 

Slideshow Photo Credits

http://www.carmelifornia.com/open1.html

http://www.flickr.com/photos/slddigital/4850599033/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/slddigital/4839395960/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/slddigital/4850598373/

http://postcardparadise.blogspot.com/2010/02/carmel-by-sea.html

http://www.flickr.com/photos/redlinx/4359118192/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jleighb/3312139630/

http://californiastockphoto.photoshelter.com/image/I0000SXWrOEcPykM

http://www.virtualtourist.com/travel/North_America/United_States_of_America/California/Carmel_by_the_Sea-751553/Transportation-Carmel_by_the_Sea-TG-C-1.html

http://www.carmelbythesearentals.com/house_specifications.html

http://rentalo.com/71869/woodshole1.html

http://travel.webshots.com/photo/2909653580053971194WbDCJk

http://www.carmelphotos.net/gallery.html

http://halsca.blogspot.com/2010/06/devendorf-park.html

http://www.flickr.com/photos/38037974@N00/3983460168/

http://www.montereytours.com/point_lobos.php

The Tysons Corner area of Fairfax, Virginia is a commercial district that boasts more parking spaces than jobs or residents. It is a classic example of an edge city, as it borders the Washington Metropolitan area. Tysons Corner has many of the qualities of urban sprawl including dependency on cars, low housing diversity, un-walkability, congestion, and inefficiency. A mere fifty years ago, the area was marked with two small dirt roads. Now, the country roads have been replaced by a two-tiered ten-lane interchange. The area is anchored by two large mega-malls, and the district swarms with strip malls, car-dealerships, highways, toll roads, parking lots and yes, curb cuts. In short, Tysons Corner is Kunstler’s worst nightmare.
 
As I look back on growing up in Fairfax, I am fondly reminded of all the aforementioned qualities of Tysons Corner. The way I experienced the area constructed what it meant to me. As Tuan states, “Experience is the overcoming of perils. The word ‘experience’ shares a common root (per) with ‘experiment,’ ‘expert,’ and ‘perilous.’ To experience in the active sense requires that one venture forth into the unfamiliar and experiment with the elusive and uncertain” (Tuan, 9). This is the process I went through, growing up, as I formed an intimate connection with Tysons Corner. In middle school, I often ventured across one of the perilous nine-lane mega highways by foot. I was too young to drive, and god forbid Tysons Corner has real pedestrian walking lanes. The light to cross the massive nine lanes allows you just under 40 seconds before the onslaught of perpetual traffic. If you were wearing heels or had a walking impediment, you had no chance. Once I had my driver’s license, in high school, the real experimenting began. I learned every road, side road, alley, sidewalk, curb cut and corner as I tried to make my commute as short as possible. Within months, I knew which shortcuts, at any given five minute interval, would allow me the few extra minutes before class to get a coffee. If I was at the Pike stoplight at 7:30, I would continue straight, turn left at the Booz Allen Hamilton building, cut through the parking lot and then take the side road. If I were at the Pike stoplight at 7:35, I would make a right at the mall, drive through the small Exxon road, reach the stop sign and then u-turn so I would have the right of way.
 
My fond nostalgia of Tysons Corner is rooted in a spiritual connection that is both emotional and intangible. Tuan explains, “Place can acquire deep meaning for the adult through the steady accretion of sentiment over the years” (Tuan, 33). The sense of place I feel when I’m in Tysons Corner is supported by the story each landmark, street, and store has come to stand for over the years. For a tourist or a passerby, the Route 7 7-11 may blend in with the other half dozen 7-11s in the area. To me, that particular 7-11 has become familiar over the years, and is a symbolic part of my youth. I know that the Route 7 7-11 is the only one in the area that carried Aqua Life Swedish Fish. This was particularly important, at the time, because they were an inside joke between Danny (my crush) and I. The same area that can make an outsider feel alienated, congested and unimpressed can mean something totally different for another. The mega-highways, mega-malls, McMansions and traffic, of Tysons Corner, all tell stories and fond memories of my childhood.
 
Soon after I moved to NY for college, a proposal for a radical makeover of Tysons Corner was implemented. The U.S. Department of Transportation agreed to a 23-mile extension of the Metro line from Washington DC. This decision led to a new urbanism inspired transformation of Tysons Corner. This TIME article explains, “…and to encourage the use of mass transit, the plan envisions a Tysons Corner where 95% of its land will be within half a mile of a train station or within 600 ft. of shuttle routes designed to ferry passengers to Metro stops and neighboring suburbs. […] Funds for bicycle paths, schools, police stations and storm-water management systems will likely come from the county, property owners and developers” (Davis, 1). The idea is to create a green walkable urban center for mixed usage. This includes making the area pedestrian friendly, intelligently planned, completely walkable, and incorporating parks and other community areas. The proposal pushes Tysons Corner towards the “America” Kunstler sees in Portland, Oregon. He describes Portland fondly, “A vibrant downtown, the sidewalks full of purposeful- looking citizens, clean well-cared-for buildings, electric trolleys, shop fronts with nice things on display, water fountains that work, cops on bikes, greenery everywhere […] The important thing is that they all live together in proximity, not as though their worlds were separate, dirty secrets. The texture of life is mixed, complex, and dense, as a city ought to be, the way all cities used to be before the automobile and curse of modernist planning” (Kunstler, 200).
 
Even with the step towards progress proposed by the makeover of Tysons Corner, there are still factors that Kunstler wouldn’t agree with. For one, the proposal calls for expanding upward instead of horizontally. This would create the “dehumanizing towers” that he also dislikes (Kunstler, 202). Overall, beyond it’s limitations the plan seems to be heading in the right direction towards a sustainable environmentally friendly future. Even so, the reaction to the renovation of Tysons Corner has met some hesitation from current residents. Mayor Jane Seeman of the neighboring town, Vienna, says, “I'm so used to Tysons being what it is now that it's a new idea that we've got to get our minds wrapped around" (NPR, 1). Such radical changes are hard to imagine for long-time residents, myself included. As I reflect on my experiences of Tysons Corner, I question what the change will mean for people like myself. Tysons Corner’s sense of place, for many, is rooted in the intimate knowledge and connection with the area. My sense of place in Tysons Corner is crafted from my experience of the place, which includes the traffic congestion, un-walkability etc. The disagreeable aspects of the area turned out to be symbolic and meaningful for me. The charm, that Kunstler searches for, is perhaps (for me at least) the lack of charm in Tysons Corner. Place becomes reality when you experience it, and that experience can be charming in itself. If I ever return to Tysons Corner, once the plan is completed, I doubt I will make the same connection. The landmarks, stories and memories will be replaced by new ones from a more progressive place. Future generations will grow up in the same geographical location with a completely different sense of place. Perhaps I will nostalgically long for the Tysons Corner that I experienced growing up, good and bad, as people long for what used to be. 

If you head north out of San Francisco on the 101, cross over the Golden Gate Bridge, take the Tiburon Boulevard exit towards the east, and follow Blithedale Avenue for a while, you find yourself in downtown Mill Valley. Just fifteen minutes outside of the northern Californian metropolis of San Francisco lies a charming, community driven town nestled in the eastern slopes of Mount Tamalpais.
 
Mill Valley has a population of about 15,000 people, including my aunt, uncle, and two cousins. My dad’s brother left his hometown of Los Angeles about twenty-five years ago and moved up north in the hopes of creating a life filled with more community, and less smog. Mill Valley is filled with high-income commuters, generations of families, and people who are sick of living in the city, but still want all of its’ amenities within reach.
 
When reading Kunstler’s description of Portland, Oregon, I couldn’t help but think of Mill Valley, California. The similarities are endless. “A vibrant downtown, the sidewalks full of purposeful-looking citizens, clean, well-cared-for buildings, electric trolleys, shopfronts with nice things on display, water fountains that work, cops on bikes, greenery everywhere” (200). Kunstler would love Mill Valley. The liveliness and spirit of the town is visible everywhere. The small town charm is an underlying factor and not at all overwhelming. This subtle characteristic makes the town feel genuine and sincere. Kunstler continues to praise Portland’s downtown vibe, which is awfully similar to that of Mill Valley. “The rugged geography has kept the downtown area necessarily compact…Museums, theaters and commercial emporiums nestle in between. High priced boutiques mix with grocery, hardware, and stationery stores. Powell’s bookshop, one of the largest independent bookstores in the nation, occupies an entire downtown block” (201).
 
His description sounds identical to the traits of Mill Valley. The landscape of hills and valleys contains the downtown area to just a few concise blocks that are filled with art galleries, open-air coffee shops, and other hallmarks of a thriving artistic community. Just like Powell’s bookshop in Portland, downtown Mill Valley is home to the Depot Bookstore. As the store’s website says, they are “located in the historic train depot in the heart of Mill Valley, we are a family-owned and operated business and have long been the favorite meeting place for people coming to Mill Valley”. This mom and pop bookshop and café is a perfect example of the small town charming business model that Kunstler is such a fan of. “The Depot Bookstore and Café is popular not only because of its convenient location but also thanks to the warm, hometown feeling and friendly atmosphere people experience here”. It is this feeling that creates the sincere and enchanting sense of place in Mill Valley. The presence of a strong history is also apparent throughout town. The most prime example of this is the Bookstore. As their website states, they are located in what was once the greatly used train station. Just like the small town feel, the historical prominence is underlying. The train station is still there, but converted into a useful and frequently visited town center. The patio of the café opens up into Lytton Square, the outdoor urban space that is commonly referred to as the center of town. 
 
Lytton Square is the ideal city square. Filled with tables and chairs, umbrellas, and trees, it is the Mill Valley hub. John Brinckerhoff Jackson quotes Paul Zucker to define the space of a town square. The outdoor center “makes a community a community and not merely an aggregate of individuals…a gathering place for the people, humanizing them by mutual contact, providing them with a shelter against the haphazard traffic, and freeing them from the tension of rushing through a web of streets” (16). Mill Valley’s Lytton Square is a perfect model of a town square. On beautiful days, the courtyard fills with artists displaying work, high school kids trying out new tricks on their skateboards, and an abundance of dogs on walks. A true sense of culture and excitement radiates through the whole town. Mill Valley has become a place for up and coming artists and filmmakers as well. Surprisingly, the town is a cinematic hotspot. The annual Mill Valley Film Festival is in its’ 33rd year, and gains more support and publicity with every year.
 
 
One striking feature of Mill Valley is the presence of the popular chain-clothing store Banana Republic in the middle of downtown. Amidst the family run boutiques, restaurants and art galleries sits the well-known retailer that currently has over 500 stores worldwide. Kunstler would be very displeased to come across this. He claims, “chain stores destroyed local economies. The chain stores’ profits were funneled to corporate headquarters far away. The chains gave back nothing to the locality except a handful of low-wage service jobs” (186). At first glance, one might be discouraged and upset to see a Banana Republic in the middle of what seemed to be a quintessential and genuine small town. If you pry a little deeper though, you will learn that the placement and presence of the store is actually extremely authentic. The Banana Republic located at 59 Throckmorton Avenue is actually the first one ever. In 1978, Patricia and Mel Ziegler, two inhabitants of Mill Valley, launched what is now one of the most internationally successful clothing stores. At first sight the recognizable storefront can be off putting, but with further investigation one will learn that it is indeed original and genuine.
 
Mill Valley truly has all the makings of a perfect town. It has a vibrant and eclectic community and is completely self sustainable. In addition, it is in close proximity to exciting places such as Muir Woods National Park, Mount Tamalpais State Park, Stinson Beach, and San Francisco City. Kunstler and Jackson would both approve of and enjoy the sense of place that Mill Valley emanates.
 
 
 
 

Neighborhoods built up all at once change little physically over the years as a rule...[Residents] regret that the neighborhood has changed. Yet the fact is, physically it has changed remarkably little. People's feelings about it, rather, have changed. The neighborhood shows a strange inability to update itself, enliven itself, repair itself, or to be sought after, out of choice, by a new generation. It is dead. Actually it was dead from birth, but nobody noticed this much until the corpse began to smell." -Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities

A truly functional city, the type of city one imagines when one says the very word, is a deeply complicated system. It is an intricate balance of people, places, and uses. Too much or too little of any one type of structure in one place, be it housing or commerce or industry or any other myriad of functions, and the system is damaged, sometimes even to the point of destruction. And even that is not enough to consider, for not all “uses” can be neatly categorized, nor do like uses necessarily have the same needs or create the same effects on their surroundings. A city is not necessarily fragile, though at times it certainly can seem so, but rather it is almost (or, if Ms. Jacobs is to be believed, almost truly) impossible to create full-fledged urbanity ex nihilo.

In one way of thinking, we are relatively lucky: rarely is it the case that one has the opportunity, or the need, to build a fully functional city from scratch. There is almost always some built environment from which to start, and much of what Jacobs is arguing against is a school of urban planning that advocates ripping cities down in order to rebuild them. But of course, there must be exceptions to this rule. Sometimes, for example, new forms of transportation or new land acquisitions mean that formerly non-urban spaces can be developed into cities. Sometimes, one may agree with the planners that Jacobs was arguing against, and much like James Kunstler, believe that an area functions so poorly that it must be demolished if one desires to create urbanity. And, although it is a bit of a truism, all cities must begin some place at some time, with certain people taking certain specific actions. It is in these scenarios that the difficulties of planning and building a functional urban neighborhood come to the fore.

A prime example of the pitfalls and successes of such an endeavour is Batter Park City. Located in lower Manhattan mere blocks from some of the most expensive commercial real estate in the world, Battery Park City literally did not exist prior to the 1970's. At that time, the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, for reasons too complex to delve into here, decided to level a number of blocks west of Wall St. and south of City Hall in order to create a massive complex of buildings, the World Trade Center. This was no simple undertaking: even forgetting the existing structures on the site (including the Singer Building, the tallest building ever to be purposefully demolished), the land on which they desired to build was fill; a (somewhat) deliberate accretion of muddy soil which had widened to coast of Manhattan Island. This type of land was far too wet and unstable to build structures on the scale desired, so a waterproof foundation extending all the way down to solid bedrock had to be constructed, displacing millions of cubic feet of land.

This posed a problem: what is one to do with millions of tons of earth? The Port Authority's solution was not only ingenious, but in many ways was a bold and hubristic as the rest of their plan: they would build a sea wall out into the Hudson River and use the fill to literally create new land. Not only did this solve the landfill disposal problem, it gave the Authority new land it could lease and/or sell to help repay the massive construction costs of the project. In terms of city planning, this was a sort of perfect storm: not only was there to be literally new land in the heart of a major city, but the owners, being a government agency and thus not driven by profit motive alone, had not only complete control of the territory but the desire, if at times misguided, to improve the city upon which they were working. A grand experiment, one that would test the combined knowledge of its planners and of the nature of urban planning in general, was at hand.

Before proceeding further, it would probably be well to stop and identify some of the factors which contribute to a successful urban environment. Though there are many differing viewpoints on what that entails, any conception, this one included, should be heavily based on the work of Jane Jacobs. First, an urban environment must have multiple uses. An area solely composed of houses, of offices, of entertainment or cultural institutions, or any other imaginable single use will be, by its very nature, limited: people will only be on the street at certain times when that particular function is in use. The rest of the day, a single use area will be empty, much like the empty ghost town of a central business district after working hours. In the same vein, a city's streetscape is of immense importance. Not only does it provide the primary public space for urban denizens, but it helps create the multitude of interactions which give city life its special, vibrant qualities. The more stores, activities, and spaces a street offers, the number of these possible interactions is quickly multiplied, and the number of possible nexuses for community formation is increased. As well, the presence of shopkeepers, pedestrians, workers, and the like increases the number of eyes on the street, increasing safety and potentially aiding community. To this end, the architecture of these public spaces must exist in significant part on a human scale, and must be inviting, pleasant, and take into account human needs. Finally, but of no less importance, the best cityscape must ensure a variety of uses and of users, for these varied interactions further multiply the vibrancy of the city. In particular, this means having different types of spaces at different price points, for individuals and businesses alike have neither the same means nor the same requirements for existence.

At a first glance, Battery Park City, at least on paper, seems like it has gotten a great deal right. While always primarily designed as a residential district, it has commerce as well, not only from the massive former World Trade Center nearby but its own office complex, the World Financial Center. Streets were not arranged in superblocks or designed for the automobile, rather they are small and continue the grid of Manhattan. Taking advantage of its newly created waterfront, Battery Park City has a massive amount of parkland; not only beautiful in its own right, but creating pedestrian passages which theoretically should put the experience of the human visitor first. In theory, this combination of residences, offices, and parkland should create all day pedestrian traffic, enough to support shops and a streetlife comparable to anywhere in the city. Finally, each building was given to a different architect, both in order to avoid visual monotony and as another attempt to recreate the complexity and nuance of a functional city from scratch. On paper, the design seems ideal.

The reality of the development is far more murky. One of the first impressions of any visitor is that, though it is ostensibly an extension of the existing city, Battery Park City is cut off from its environs by the six-lane, divided highway that is West Street. A major link connecting the West Side to the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, there is no time of day or night that this street is not laden with traffic. In the past ten or so years, engineering and design projects have tried to soften the impact of West Street by utilizing things like trees, plants, and bike paths, to separate the mass of traffic from potential pedestrians. Though a noble effort, one which may bear fruit in the near future, at the moment this is no Hausmann-style, Parisian boulevard full of people and shops, it is a highway fenced in by very tall buildings. While it is possible to cross West Street at ground level, traffic is such that it can take eternity to get a much needed walk signal, forcing pedestrians to wait next to traffic. This problem is so strong that much of the pedestrian traffic is encouraged to use bridges to get across, a kludge of a solution which, while somewhat effective, only increases the amount of effort it takes to travel to or from Battery Park City, further adding to the sense of disconnection the neighborhood has with the rest of the city.





Above: A view of West St., a pedestrian bridge over West St.  Click for larger views.

This is not to say that some level of separation is the worst thing possible for a neighborhood. On a certain level, it provides a level of exclusivity, boundary, and privacy that some people highly value. This was especially true when one considers the previous World Trade Center site which lay across the street, a development which in a multitude ways was the antithesis of all the planning ideas discussed above. However even today, with the World Trade Center site being redesigned, and through streets being restored wherever possible, a proposal to put West Street underground through Battery Park City was strongly opposed by a number of residents, effectively killing the proposal. The reason most usually given for the opposition was the amount of disruption that would be caused during the three or four years of road construction. If that reason is accurate, it seems to embody incredibly poor long-term thinking, as over decades the residential development of Battery Park City and the commercial development of the financial mecca to the West could join to create a deeply functional urban environment.

Once one has crossed West Street and is in Battery Park City proper, the parkland and waterfront seems to enact an almost intractable pull. T-shaped streets, argued so strongly for by James Kunstler, are anchored by pieces of public art, acting as a visual focal point and drawing a walker towards the water. Lovingly designed and sumptuously built, the park extends all the way from the Battery north, along the Hudson, to Chambers Street, at the end of the created land. Throughout it echoes some of the very best of park design: it widens and contracts, going through differently designed regions, not only always keeping the viewer interested but providing various types of parkland suited for different uses, all available within a short walk. A great example of this is the northern end of the park: a large, open green meadow extends almost all the way from the building line to the water, providing an undefined space for almost any vernacular activity from picnicking to frisbee. At the same time, along the inner side of this open space, a more structured environment exists, providing sequestered, quiet seating, playground areas, and spaces for other more specifically defined activities. The result of all this, combined with the spectacular setting with its views of New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty, is a park which is well trafficked all year long, from the depths of winter to the height of summer, and has probably been the greatest design success of the entire project.





Above: A view of the north end of the park, A T-Shaped Street.  Click for larger views.

At the same time, all this life and activity cannot cover for the simple fact that Battery Park City has very little streetlife to speak of. This is fundamentally attributable to one thing: the paucity of street level retail locations. As such, the main thoroughfares, though well landscaped, shaded, and decorated with street furniture, are nearly barren of pedestrian life. Why would one care to walk down a street that provides little of interest for them to see, do, or experience? Indeed, for great expanses, the only street level businesses that one comes across are underground parking garages, hardly a type of business that fosters urban interaction. The only places one comes across groups of people, outside the parkland, are in front of the widely dispersed delis and other small retail establishments. This is problematic from more than an urban design viewpoint; the lack of shops means that there is often a relatively significant walk for residents looking for basic amenities, particularly if a stop at more than one store is in order. Indeed, there is only a one block section of traditional urban stores in the entire development. In addition, the relatively high rent and paucity of shop locations means there can be no street-level economy save for the absolute necessities: walking, one finds no bookstores, no coffee shops, few restaurants, and only a handful of deli/convenience stores, a single grocery store, and a handful of pharmacies and banks. It is almost as if, confronted with a fear of empty shopfronts, the designers decided it would be better to limit commercial space and rely on the park to generate pedestrian traffic and urbanity. Battery Park City is built to a density which could support all nature of businesses large and small, and yet one is almost always nearly alone walking along its primary streets.







Above: Two views of North End Avenue, the major street of Battery Park City showing a lack of street life.  Notice the building under construction, hopefully to include more street level retail.; Bottom: the only true block of urban shops in the development.  Click for larger views.

Theoretically, the retail trades and streetlife should be helped by the presence of the World Financial Center, which provides legions of employees at the very same time of day, the working hours, that a residential area is most quiet. Designed by famous architect César Pelli, the World Financial Center is a sculptural masterpiece. The primary design of its three towers, each with a different top, was to act as a set of foothills to the massive towers behind them. The changes of texture and material on the sides of the building not only made the buildings more visually interesting, but was a strong counterpoint to the steel and glass of the former World Trade Center. Unfortunately, all this sculptural beauty was steeped in previous era of urban design where appearance from a distance was considered to an almost unhealthy degree, with little or no thought of the interactions of the buildings with the street and pedestrians.

The World Financial Center is essentially an enclosed, internalized center that seems to actively encourage office workers to stay inside and pedestrians to stay out. Each tower is connected by an above ground walkway, and one of the numerous bridges leading over West Street deposits people directly in the lobby of the complex, obviating the need for an office worker to ever set foot on the streets of Battery Park City itself. The ground level entrances continue this theme: on West Street, the buildings are set back from the street by purely decorative, pedestrian-unfriendly green space, and the side facing the residential neighborhood presents nothing but the occasional gold-plated, seemingly impervious entryway. Worse still, the interior of the World Financial Center contains what is, for all intents and purposes, a mall, full of very expensive stores which are only open during the hours that workers would be in the buildings, and residents of the neighborhood would be elsewhere. Even the famous Wintergarden, itself a wonderful interior space, is essentially a recreation of the outside park inside, meaning no one need ever actually venture out of the complex. Though a handful of stores have tried to face the park, trying to recreate a streetscape on the outside, it is clear that these entrances are disused. The Wintergarden itself appears as a glass wall with no easily visible entryway, and if one was not already aware that the interior is meant to be public space, the thought to enter would never come to mind.









Above: A view of the Wintergarden and plaza, An overhead bridge connecting the World Financial Center buildings, A street level entrance to the World Financial Center, A street level view of the World Financial Center from South End Avenue.  Click for larger views.

Even the park land around the buildings is perhaps the worst of the entire development: cold and sterile, and built out of maintenance-free stone, it is full of uncomfortable, empty benches and wide expanses of paved territory, more resembling the 'brick graveyard' of Boston's Government Center than the rest of one of New York's most intriguing parks. Though the World Financial Center should be a boon to the urban plant of Battery Park City, adding more people at different times of the day, from the street it appears as little more than another set of blank, impenetrable buildings to be ignored.



Above: The empty plaza and attempted park-side storefronts of the World Financial Center. Click for a larger view.

On the topic of architecture, one of the more under-appreciated sections of Jacobs's Death and Life of Great American Cities was the emphasis on the importance of the different ages and styles of buildings that make up a neighborhood. Without this variety, the types of business and residents that makes a city thrive cannot be accommodated, for not all businesses and residents have the same means or the same requirements. A used book store cannot pay the same rent as a luxury boutique; a light industrial firm cannot utilize the same type of space as an office; an artist might desire a high ceiling and low rent whereas a wealthy resident might want many rooms on a single floor with excellent views in a newly built building. Traditionally, cities have met this need via the accumulation of various ages of buildings. An older industrial building on a side street might suit the aforementioned artists or bookstore quite well, whereas a new high-rise apartment around the corner might suit the needs of a boutique and high-end resident. The fact that these structures exist near one another is one of the things that gives cities such a dynamic power, for by bringing many people, places, and industries into contact, new interactions and possibilities can form. In addition, not only can a variety of buildings be more visually pleasant than repetition, but it can aid in both the navigation of and improve the street experience of urban denizens.

An ex nihilo development like Battery Park City, however, doesn't have the luxury of a melange of existing buildings with which to work with. Port Authority planners, having seen the failures of similar mega-residential projects such as New York's own Roosevelt Island, decided to hand each building to a different architect in an attempt to ensure that there were differences in style and structure, to create a more diverse and visually interesting neighborhood. The main problem with this approach was simple: if all buildings were built at the same time, they would be valued significantly the same, meaning that in order to generate a return on investment, only businesses and residents who could afford like payments could be included. In practice, this meant that there would only be high-end housing, and that a small, low margin business such as a used bookstore would have to do an almost impossible volume of business to afford rent.

Visually, the effect of the selection of many architects has demonstrated its own form of unintended consequence. During the 1920's, many independent builders all over the United States created buildings with various "modern looking" touches, often seemingly inspired by a mixture of classical forms and of Art Nouveau. At the time, the style not only lacked a name, but was fundamentally not viewed as coherent style at all. Rather, it was simply the popular desires of buyers and builders, a form of vernacular architecture and construction somewhat along the lines of J.B. Jackson. It was only later that the term Art Deco arose to describe the style of buildings built in this era. To some degree, the architecture of Battery Park City (and much modern, urban housing) seems to follow this same trend. Although each building follows its own design and has its own distinctive touches (touches that, since we are contemporary with the style of the buildings, we are very much in tune with), they follow similar shapes and patterns: varying metal protrusions set against various faux-masonry sections with distinct windows, consciously playing with visual textures and putting gleaming, almost formless glass in contrast with older, more established styles. When one steps back from the buildings and takes them in as a whole, though they are clearly different, they begin to very closely resemble one another. In effect, it means the neighborhood is locked into a single architectural style, and though in the author's opinion, the buildings are currently quite attractive, future tastes might shift and leave not only a single building, but an entire neighborhood, seeming hopelessly out of date. Indeed, some of the older building in the southern part of Battery Park City itself, built in a more 1980's-style, almost brutalist fashion, already look very dated.







Above: The landscape of Battery Park City.  Notice how, though each building is different, they share much in common; A view of some of the oldest residential units, done in a style popular at the time, signs showing the single-class nature of Battery Park City.  Click for larger views.

At the same time, it is hard to say whether any of this stylistic or class-based uniformity could have been avoided. After all, this was literally newly land created; there was no history, no existing footprint with which to work. One might posit the idea of only building upon, for example, half of the building lots, leaving the balance to be developed at some point in the future, but a region of vacant lots is almost certainly worse for urbanity than almost any amount of homogeneity. One could attempt to build housing for different economic groups, but not only the cost of the land, needed to help recoup the massive construction costs, but its massive assessed value means it would be very difficult financially to build anything but for like economic classes. This does not even consider the fact that much of the base costs of construction are likely to be broadly similar at any particular time, regardless of level of ostentation or luxury. Jacobs's solution, to subsidize the rent of those who cannot afford to live in a neighborhood, is a good first effort, and has been tried with some degree of success in many an urban development, but it does nothing to alleviate other usage or business concerns. In regards to business as well, there is no reason to suspect that, had more retail space been included, it would have been leased at anything but premium rates, severely limiting the types of stores which could inhabit them.

At the end of the day, some thirty thirty years after the construction of Battery Park City began, we are left with the question: does this created space work as an urban environment? The answer is a frustrating yes and no. Battery Park City avoided the egregious sins of past developments, such as superblocks, dehumanizing buildings, automotive-minded development, and poor pedestrian spaces. Through careful planning, a neighborhood was created that is walkable and attractive, mixing private use with ample public space. Carefully sculpting a park, utilizing the beauty of the harbor, and mixing architects has created a place that is an aesthetically pleasant place to be, and, in terms of rents collected and the value of property sold, has been very successful indeed.

Conspicuously, however, Battery Park City is missing a crucial ingredient: street life. While the waterfront park pulls in many pedestrians and residents, the streets only blocks away are as barren as the street level windows of the buildings that line them. The World Financial Center's street level design plays a part in this, as does its internal mall, potentially siphoning off pedestrians from surrounding streets. Yet a large part of this deficiency is the direct result of a design deficiency: very few buildings have any place for street level activity. It is a puzzling decision, for the vast majority of urban planning literature published since Jane Jacobs's legendary treatise has spent an immense amount of time on the importance of street life. Perhaps, as previously mentioned, the developers were fearful of empty storefronts. Another strong possibility is simply the failure of planning in regards to urban complexity. Sitting down as an engineer, it is possible to imagine calculating the number of grocery stores, drug stores, libraries, and anything else that a city may need, then simply laying them out in the proper amounts. Urban planners going back to Ebeneezer Howard have worked with this mindset, the idea that a space can be neatly planned down to the smallest unit, that if one has this many people, that many jobs, this many stores, etc., a functional city must arise. The reality of urban life is that it is messy: new uses arise and old ones fall, businesses are founded and become defunct, land owners are slow to adjust their prices, and a whole host of other factors that can never be fully enumerated or fully planned for may and will occur. Cities need what planners once to referred to as “waste,” space for different activities to rise and fall with time, for it is impossible to predict the future of a complex system with anything approaching certainty. Much like a biological organism, cities need both time and space to evolve.

And that is exactly what Battery Park City is doing: evolving and changing to meet the needs of its current, and its potential future, residents. If there is any sign of successful urban planning, it is a neighborhood taking root over time. Slowly and steadily, Battery Park City seems to be fulfilling that role. The park draws many pedestrians, in effect providing a jump start of traffic and street life that otherwise may not exist. New buildings are still being built on the few remaining large parcels of land. Smaller, previously empty green plots are slowly being repurposed for more productive uses, such as business and restaurants. Some larger buildings are undergoing renovations to bring shops to street level, a development which could dramatically improve the area. There is no doubt that some larger structural changes to many buildings, in particular the World Financial Center, will be necessary to fully urbanize the area, but these are projects that can be ongoing. Though the plan to lower West Street has been nixed, if the landscaping of the street can be even remotely successful, it could help tie the development to the rest of Manhattan, and hopefully act as a conduit of vitality both to and from Battery Park City and the new World Trade Center development. There are no guarantees for the future of the neighborhood; its reliance on a single architectural idiom, the similar age of its buildings, and the financially circumscribed nature of its residents could come back to haunt it. But at the same time, if a vibrant community can continue to develop, the process of reuse and constant rebuilding could ensure a vibrant neighborhood in perpetuity.



Above: Repurposing of former empty space to a restaurant.  Click for a larger view.

Battery Park City demonstrates the successes and failures of planning and creating a city from scratch. Put simply, there is no way to build a fully functional city quickly on such a large scale and density. It simply takes time for the variety of urban functions to develop, for pathways to be formed, for community to arise, and for a city to be built. Perhaps, on a smaller scale, using the more plastic and less capital intensive materials of wood and brick, neighborhoods might develop more quickly, however that is only conjecture. The reality is that, in some times, at some places, the market demands density quickly, and planners and designers must be able to meet the demand while still attempting to create a functioning city. It is easy to point at certain design elements, such as the lack of enough retail space, and imagine a perfectly formed settlement dropping from the sky. While the mistakes themselves are real enough, no development can ever be perfect. The realities of making various builders, government agencies, and planners happy means compromises must be made. Even in a world of absolute control, one cannot plan for every possible occurrence; not only do businesses, institutions, and residents need time to rise and fall, but there is no telling what parts of the complexity of urban life any theoretical conception may be missing. Battery Park City is not perfect, but it is a good start, and with continual change, development, and the occasional guiding hand of planner and designers, it can continue it's path towards being a truly successful urban neighborhood.

All pictures (C) 2011 Blair Lorenzo and released under a Creative Commons license, see http://subwayfox.net/ for details.

Many different people have described Scottsdale in many different ways. One might infer from such an inconsistent barrage of positive and negative diatribes that Scottsdale is a place without true identity. I would argue based on my own brief residence there that in many senses of the word, this is in fact true. Much of the Scottsdale landscape, as one sees it today, has developed in the past 10 years alone. It sits as an upscale suburb just east of Phoenix, but what defines Scottsdale the most is that much of its land was once a series of large ranches that have today been overcome and developed into series upon series of suburban “neighborhoods” and “communities” separated along endless roads scattered with malls. It has evolved from the downtown (which still exists to an extent) of local shops with artisan crafts and authentic southwest cuisine into a sprawl of strip malls, mega-malls, golf-course resorts and gated cookie-cutter-adobe-and-stucco-home communities.
 
Scottsdale has been described as “a desert version of Miami's South Beach,” “Most Livable City,” “hippest and most happening,” and "The West's most western town". Does it’s design and the language it evokes really live up to these accolades?
 
The layout of the city is divided into four main sections, each with its own distinct contribution to the cityscape. While each part has its own name, Scottsdale is ultimately distinguished, by its residents, by the major roadways and/or shopping malls scattered about the terrain. As a former resident, I can honestly affirm that when developing a sense of direction in this suburb, one always refers to meeting places, houses, schools, etc. by their proximity to major shopping enclaves or roadway intersections (sometimes mall names and intersections become one conglomerate point on a map, important because of the shops that exist there and the mergence of such important roadways). JB Jackson’s vernacular landscape starts to take form when dissecting how much of the landscape shapes the culture and mentality of the people who live there and continue to change it.
 
When directing someone to a new or unknown restaurant, one immediately terms a restaurant as “near Kierland” (the upscale shopping mall in North Scottsdale) or “in Fashion Square”(the upscale fashion mega-center on the outskirts of Downtown Scottsdale) or “by Tatum and Shea” (the intersection of two major streets). While there are those eclectic, South-Beach-esc hotspots, “cowboy” shops and “native American” craft emporiums, and resort hotels with “happening” nightlife, for most of the residents of Scottsdale, life is defined, not by the tourist-packaged commodities that bring outsiders to Scottsdale, but rather the endless array of commoditized shops and restaurants that appear like mirages at random intervals on the endless desert tarmacs that make up the Scottsdale landscape.
 
Jackson touches upon the sense of chaos, variety of activities and purposes that make up the vernacular landscape. In Scottsdale we see this in the various malls that line the six-lane highways that plow through the ranch-farm residential communities. The malls always seem to have a bit of everything – you can pick up a new dog bed for rover, rent a video, grab a smoothie, book a tanning session, and, of course, fill up your tank all in the same complex. Ironically, you will undoubtedly move your car around the same massive parking lot from point A to B to C in order to get all the things you need. This sense of chaos and variety certainly lends itself to the vernacular landscape.
 
Jackson’s points on Vernacular Architecture also come into play with reference to the mall culture. In this same mall, the Pets-Mart, the Safeway, the “Tammy’s Tanning” and the Blockbuster all share the same, visually distinct yet “locale-appropriate” architecture. There’s an element of “desert” life and color: turquoise, yellow, deep red, purple, and of course tan all blend together in a way unique from the mall down the road to give this mall a sense of identity yet ultimate conformity to the overall vernacular landscape. It has its own sense of place in the activities that take place there, yet it ultimately adheres to the local customs and styles that define the desert landscape.
 
What ultimately defines Scottsdale more than mall, is the icon the makes it all possible (and I can feel Kunstler begin to cringe): the automobile. Aside from the fact that there is literally a town-sized strip of about 2 miles full of car dealerships, or “showrooms” as people like to glorify them, the entire town has evolved in design to focus solely around conducting one’s day in one’s car. As a New Yorker, I felt extremely uncomfortable with the way in which the car had come to define not only the landscape of Scottsdale, but also the cultural values of its citizens. Kunstler’s distaste for what cars have done to the American landscape and suburban sprawl is painstakingly clear in Scottsdale. 
 
I remember in my first week of “living” there, passing by several rows of homes that I, in my east-coast mindset, would consider to be typical American domiciles, and seeing such obscure ornaments decorating the front driveways and pavements. The idea that one would own a car that costs, to be fair, maybe one tenth or even in extreme cases, one fifth of the price of one’s home seems a bit overindulgent and stupid; however, all over Scottsdale, I recall endless lines of driveways to homes valued (based on my knowledge of the Scottsdale real estate market) anywhere from $350k to $650k with $45k to $95k cars (that means more than one) parked out front. It seemed like such a bizarre phenomenon at first, until I began to see this plague run rampant everywhere I went – no matter what the neighborhood. It was no wonder the “luxury” automobile emporiums were labeled as successful “showrooms” – it appeared nearly everyone in town was frequenting them in droves. Furthermore, as I began to get acclimated to the “sun valley” lifestyle, I realized why so much investment was placed in such a traditionally solvent form of capital. It was because people spent so much of their time in their cars!


 
As I began to really become “rooted” in Scottsdale, I found myself falling into the auto-trap. The suburban auto wonderland of Scottsdale forces you into a state of dependency on your car. No single community has a local anything, except maybe a gas station. As Kunstler would point out, these real-estate towns don’t have a sense of town at all. There was no sense of public space, local grocery or market in any of the hundreds of communities that made up the valley; they were all separated from main strips, lined with all the major malls and resorts where people colonized to grab everything they needed before ultimately driving onto the next one. Even the houses whose property lines touched upon the main drag where one could conceivably be within a stone’s throw of a drug store or pizzeria were sectioned off like prisons, precluding any resident who may have been curious about walking to grab some milk or a slice from even attempting such a ridiculous journey. Kunstler has pointed out how these constructs make people who do walk the streets look like fools, yet they are actually engaging in more real-community behavior by joining with the landscape and not separating oneself in an automobile. In fact, when driving up any main roadway (because they are almost always a minimum of four to six lanes), one is always practically boxed in by stucco or adobe walls that break only to expose one to an approaching mall or gas station. People sometimes spend hours driving around from stop to stop (in some cases never having to leave their cars) on these roller coasters of modern “convenience”.
 
With the focus of the infrastructure on either keeping you in a car or keeping you in a mall, there is a constant sense of encasement in Scottsdale.  Despite the fact that one is in an open “desert,” one never really feels like it until driving the endless baron freeways that make up the Scottsdale highway system. At every social gathering place (the malls) there is sense of constructed community that awaits you. There are several main malls that cater to the Scottsdale residents; each mall has its own name, socio-economically based store and restaurant offerings, and some form entertainment attraction (usually a movie theater) that gives it its own sense of identity, yet ultimately attaching it to the basic definition of place in Scottsdale.


 
In a sense, each mall is like its own isolated town; however, it assumes only the more commercial sense if the word. Kunstler points to this as one of the main consequences of the automobile problem. Even though we do gather at the occasional mall, we ultimately remain isolated not only in being in our cars between malls, but also in being in malls that are so far removed from other areas like homes or public parks. Where someone in the North East might spend a day in Southampton or an afternoon in Greenwich, people in Scottsdale often spend large blocks of time at a specific mall. Now this is of course indicative of problematic activities that many Americans partake of, but in Scottsdale it has come to define the very existence of the people. Teens, Families, retired couples will literally spend hours at a mall; after all, they are designed and operate like small cities. Many of them in Scottsdale have multiple levels, numerous “anchor” stores with countless departments, food courts and well-known (franchised) restaurants, mega-plex, multi-cinema movie theaters, a selection of either high-end and low-end boutiques, and of course the freedom to enjoy these things in a controlled, air-conditioned environment. It’s so easy and so convenient, it’s all in one place, if there’s no parking one can always “valet it” – of course everyone hangs out there. However “mixed-use” the mall has become in terms of the plethora of products one can find there, it is ultimately “used” for one same purpose: shopping. The restaurants and theaters are designed mainly to keep you at the mall spending money, without feeling the need to leave. Images of Kunstler’s Disney World criticisms come to mind. In this sense they are ultimately designed for one, single use. And this Kunstler explains is a major downfall in American urban sprawl.


 
The idea of an economic drain from the community is also inherent in the mall community. When every mall houses predominantly corporate institutions and subsidiaries, most of the economy leaves the community. It becomes a desert of economic prosperity (which ironically is starting to happen in Scottsdale).
 
Yi Fu Tuan’s ideas on place in relation to space speak to one of the reasons why, at least for me, the experience of living in Scottsdale renders such a distinct and emotional reaction. Tuan defines “space” as an empty horizon with a sense of freedom, and he defines “place” as a defined, limited “pause” within the larger space that evokes a sense of feeling and familiarity once you get to know it. This idea resonates in Scottsdale and is part of what makes my experience there so potent. The endless rows of adobe and ranch style homes of one “section” and the incessant row-houses of cream and tan stucco and Spanish-roof houses of another section create an indefinite sense of emptiness and open space. Most of the homes look the same in particular “communities” and therefore shed the community of any individual senses of identity, rendering the group as a whole part of a collective glob of space that seems lost in the desert of Arizona. Within that empty space are these “pauses” that developers have constructed into malls. Following Tuan’s argument about space, one becomes familiar with the specific places that occur on the map of the overall space.
 
Because everything in-between one’s home becomes just another blur of desert architecture, the malls offer the only sense of specific rigidity and therefore come to in large part define the experience of living there. What it feels like to live in Scottsdale is to ask what it feels like to hang out in its malls. Some malls are indoors and some are completely outdoors: they have perfectly manicured and precisely laid-out plots of palm trees and cactuses that seem to lead the way between the distinct, branded architecture of the southwest cityscape as it intersects the individual branding of the clothing boutiques, home décor megastores, media emporiums, and franchise king restaurants. Tuan’s ideas about perception being intentional are evident in these designs. Weather indoor or outdoor, the branding that goes on at every mall is designed to leave an impression of unique consumer delight – having everything one needs to satisfy the commercial urges of the moment while leaving no element of comfort, convenience, or commerce out of the picture. You see yourself as part of the constructed world that you have supplanted yourself into. Whatever the mall you decided to stop at, you are going to be part of that world for the time being. As many of the malls have similar elements, they also have distinct ones. Certain malls have exclusive stores and they become synonymous with the place. One feels more at home in Fashion Square than at Gainey Village – one develops a sense of place for each mall, and by aggregation Scottsdale as a whole. One associates a sense of place with the known, as Tuan points out, so one finds his place in Scottsdale at those malls where the most identifiable and pleasing shops, restaurants, etc. can be found. In further Tuan respect, one becomes essentially unconscious of the relationship with the place and a sense of unconscious necessity forms. One stops at certain malls all the time, that “place” has the ability to feed an unconscious hunger within.


 
Perhaps Tuan’s notion of Alienation plays into why the malls in Scottsdale tend to be so stagnated and far apart from each other. He informs us that sometimes a sense of place requires a sense of alienation from place to establish a sense of rootedness and experience. It certainly does make one feel a part of a distinct place, knowing that the next mall is a good 20 minute drive away. You feel cut off from other places that don’t serve the same needs for you and therefore develop a greater attachment to the place you are at that moment.
 
Scottsdale as a place sets its identity due mainly to its obsession with the car and all the suburban luxuries that affords urban developers. With all the beauty of the Southwest landscape that Scottsdale could and once did offer, and the sense of a western town that gave it its position on the map in the first place, Scottsdale’s sense of place has evolved towards an auto-mall society. There are many ways one can look at its design and the culture that has sprung from it; however, one cannot dispute that if not for the endless roadways and the ability to traverse them so easily and quickly, as a city it would hardly survive. Its sense of place therefore develops a vernacular of endless pauses of isolation and superficial experiences.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned as an aspiring journalist, it’s to be observant. I have been training for the last three years, and even before then, to look at the world with a critical eye, to ask questions, to study what’s right in front of me and figure out how to step back and see the larger picture. This semester, I am being challenged more than ever to keep my eyes peeled and my ears open to the world around me. It just so happens that my assigned “world” or beat for this semester is the unique and historic West Village.

This section of New Yok City – traditionally bounded on the north by 14th Street, on the south by Houston Street, and stretching from 6th Avenue west towards the Hudson River – is different from the rest of Manhattan in a variety of ways. One of the most obvious is the fact that its winding streets don’t follow the rest of the city’s well-known grid layout. If you walk up West 4th Street, you’ll eventually end at 13th Street, which definitely doesn’t make traditional sense, but such is the West Village and its European-like, wandering roads.

Even though traveling through the West Village can get confusing for those who haven’t been there before and even occasionally for those who have, it has always been a place to which people of all types have flocked. There’s just something about the West Village and the atmosphere that it has that makes it different from the rest of Manhattan’s many neighborhoods.

But before I even begin to explain what the West Village is now, it is important to touch on the neighborhood’s past. The West Village’s history, reflected not only in the neighborhood’s unique spatial layout but also in the many buildings preserved in the West Village’s historic district, has had a large influence on this area’s singular sense of place.

According to the Greenwich Village Society for Historic Preservation's website, the West Village was originally a pastoral suburb during the American Revolution. After the war, the edge of the Hudson River flourished commercially through fresh produce markets. The neighborhood’s secluded location on the far west side of Manhattan made it an ideal place to which people fleeing from the explosion of yellow fever and cholera could escape. As a result, temporary housing and some banking offices were constructed. In the end, many of those who had traveled to this area planning to stay temporarily ended up living there permanently, drastically increasing the area’s population in a short period of time and resulting in even more residential and commercial development. Many of the low-rise buildings still standing in the West Village today were built at this time.

For most of the 1800s, people of different ethnic backgrounds and social standings moved in and out of the area. In the late 1800s, when immigration began to increase dramatically, wealthier residents moved uptown leaving in their wake the commercialization of the neighborhood. It was also around this time that the West Village experienced a rise in Bohemianism. Art, radicalism, and nonconformity became the focus of the area in the early to mid-1900s. Remnants of this movement are still attached to most people's perceptions of the West Village.

In addition to the Bohemian movement, the West Village and its neighbor, Greenwich Village, birthed the Beat Movement and the start of a revolution for gay and lesbian rights. In fact, the movement is said to have begun right on Christopher Street at the Stonewall Inn. These influential events sprung up between the 1950s and 1970s, setting the neighborhood apart from the rest of the city as a haven not only for a number of artists and musicians but also for much of Manhattan’s gay population. In the 1980s, homelessness hit the West Village as well as an influx in immigrants from other areas of the world, mostly from the Middle East and Asia. Much of the artistic, laid-back vibe the West Village used to have has shifted to the near-by East Village, but the neighborhood still contains a lot of its character and history in its architecture, its businesses, and its people.

With such a rich, fluctuating history, it’s no wonder that the West Village was and still is often seen as an area unique from the rest of Manhattan, sometimes even as a haven from the rest of the city’s imposing high-rises and many busy, fast-moving residents. But what is maybe more important when examining the current atmosphere of the West Village is not necessarily the history itself, but the effect that this history has had on the architecture of the area and its inhabitants.
           
Because much of the West Village was established before the city decided to lay out its streets in a grid pattern, the region is spatially different from the rest of Manhattan, creating almost a natural separation between the West Village and the areas resting outside of it. Within the border, this unusual layout has enabled a certain kind of atmosphere, a sense of place that is not so easily found in other parts of the city. Instead of streets crossing at pointy right angles, the West Village’s narrow cobbled roads cut across each other in ways that naturally create such spaces as Abingdon Square Park or Jackson Square, public sitting areas that offer to passers-by a place to relax, to slow down and interact with those around them. This spatial structure helps to foster that strong sense of community that the West Village has.

The neighborhood’s Federal-style low-rise row houses, many of them built for the working-class population of the West Village in the mid-1800s, offer just the right amount of openness while still maintaining a sense of intimacy, especially on the quiet tree-lined streets hidden in the heart of the neighborhood. Besides creating this calm atmosphere, these structures inevitably call to mind and emit the very history that created them, a history strongly connected to the West Village’s local community. This last point is perhaps most important; the kinds of people that have come to inhabit this neighborhood have helped to shape it into what it has become and have also influenced others’ perceptions of it.

Unfortunately it seems it has been difficult recently for the West Village to maintain the characteristics that have given it its unique sense of place for so long, and, as a result, the neighborhood’s atmosphere is slowly beginning to change. The very things that created its singular sense of place – its winding European-like streets, its low-rise historic architecture, and its diverse community – are no longer meshing as well they used to. This is largely due to the affluent outsiders and big-name corporations that are entering and messing up the mix.

One of the biggest problems affecting the West Village – and really all other historic neighborhoods in Manhattan – is development. Development throughout the West Village of both residential and commercial spaces, especially on the edge of the Hudson River, has not only changed the architectural landscape of the area but has also drawn in large numbers of those wealthy enough to stake their claim on a piece of prize West Village real estate. This influx of affluent residents inevitably affected the long-established community of the West Village. Changes in the architectural landscape and changes in the community result in changes in the atmosphere – and not necessarily good ones.

Ironically, what has often drawn and still draws people to the West Village from far and wide – the spunky, yet historic atmosphere, the unique sense of place that the area has within the greater context of Manhattan – is being degraded as development and gentrification continue throughout the neighborhood. One of the largest effects this trend has had on the West Village is the replacement of locally-owned establishments with higher-end restaurants and brand name shops, such as Marc Jacobs – which now has six stores in the area, four of them on Bleecker Street alone – and Ralph Lauren.

I have discovered that this is what most saddens many of the local residents I have talked to so far -- the slow disappearance of the local shops, restaurants, and other establishments that have helped to define what the West Village is. These establishments demonstrate the relationship between people of the community – many of these businesses were individually owned by local residents – the architectural layout of the area, and the history that lies in both of these things.

Residents who have lived in the West Village for many years connect to the area through the people and places with which they share a history. All of these things t hreaded together is what eventually wove the West Village into the diverse fabric it has always been and hopefully will continue to be. But pulling on any one of these threads too hard, changing any one of these things too drastically, could make the whole thing unravel, and it seems that this is just what's starting to happen. Lately, I have been hearing from local residents the same lamentation: “It’s just not what it used to be.”

The Whitney Museum of American Art is one of the defining landmarks of New York City as I know it.  Midway through a course on ‘A Sense of Place” I feel bound to ask: How might I interpret the “sense of place” I feel at the Whitney through Tuan, Jackson, and Kunstler?

What is the Whitney? Succinctly, it is one if not the most prominent museum of ‘American Art’ (‘American’ meaning mostly ‘United States’ here; there is a separate museum for Native Americans, etc). Where is the Whitney? The building where the art is kept is located at the intersection of Madison Avenue and 75th street, but we could easily think of the Whitney as a vast institutional network of storehouses, offices, and mini-galleries where the up and comings of American art battles for a space at the Biennial; with links to other museums where classics being loaned out in courtesy of the Whitney. And who is the Whitney? There must have been a ‘Whitney,’ although the main building doesn’t mention them with any architecture inscription. There are the students or post-grads who look down upon me for only giving a few dollars on give-as-you-please-Fridays; the ethnic janitors (as far as I’ve seen) who might have a different view of the building altogether; the security guards who silently stand guard over the works, then change shifts ever thirty minutes or so; the visitors from all over the world; and the management (where are they? Who are they?) And the acquisition teams constantly searching.

I can’t imagine what Jackson would say about the Whitney, though I feel he would find neither the setting nor the architecture appropriate for a museum of American art, and we might reasonably ask: can we really feel classic American art outside that. He also might disagree with the definition of ‘American’ art as it is represented in The Whitney. What’s more American (or artistic) than a Winnebago?

Kunstler might give the Whitney more of a chance, and not just because it is conveniently located by a subway or currently exhibiting Edward Hopper and the American Moderns. Kunstler narrates America’s crises as a “crises of place,” so understandably he might laud the Whitney’s mission to raise the American Arts; and to use art as a means of cultivating (and problemitizing our definitions/limits of) citizenship, urban life, and the public realm (though the Whitney is a private institution).
Kunstler the Jacobsonian would appreciate the Whitney as an economic stimulus. He would admire how the museum brings customers to neighborhood commercial entities and safety and diversity to neighborhood residents;  he might laud how it works with the park and other local attractions to make the space feel alive. I also think he might appreciate the front of the Whitney—the moat-like entrance is an object of interests for groups often lined up outside (which draws people-watchers, street vendors, as well as artists). But I wonder if he would have thought it wasteful to group The Whitney with so many other world-class museums onto one ‘museum mile,’ whether they could have gone to other parts of the city and performed a similar economc and social functions. And I Wonder if he would resent all that American art being in one place—if he would see that as part of the death of the local.

Kunstler frequently criticizes the blandness, scale, self--aggrandizing disregard for tradition and the public realm that characterizes much of modernist aesthetic and modernist planning. The Whitney was designed by Marcel Breuer in the international and, true to form, the Whitney sticks out even in the fairly eclectic NYC architectural vocabulary. The Whitney’s Modernism remains the anti-vernacular (Though personally I think that much depends much on the time-space envelope (an idea taken from Doreen Massey) that an author uses when speaking of a place and its authentic manifestations. But as previously written, it works well with the other buildings; it is built to a human scale; and I think even Kunstler would say that it is beautiful.

As a side, I think there is a museum in Brooklyn that Kunstler might like more called the City Reliquary.

Regarding the building itself: The Whitney is six stories tall with one level below ground. The front of the building is staggered like an inverted stairway from the third floor onwards the skin is made of rectangular tiles of a lustrous slate-gray color.

Supposing the Whitney had no Master Builder (and thus Breuer does not deserve all the credit), I can think of one other party who might have had a hand in its construction: the curator, or someone standing in herm place or looking out for herm’s interests. The pair (if not one) was necessarily brought together when it became necessary to enclose a museum-space within a building. As exciting as that collaboration must have been, I would imagine that every dedicated curator, if they could, would dream up a different museum for every exhibit, always wanting to build up the experience from scratch and to personalize it as much as one could. In that sense, architecture is an extension of the curator’s vocation, which, besides being a prominent historian of some kind, is a profession of constructing a person’s experience in relation to the work of art, filling in gaps where the artist has left no direction. It is an anthropocentric spatial science of positioning, lighting, accommodation, and juxtaposition. This necessitates that the museum itself—as the collaborative product—be as versatile as a stage, or many stages each room hides or reveals its stage-like character in relation to the demands of the art, the audience, and the vision of the curator. The tone of an exhibition is a bricolage of these different factors on these different sets. Walls, lights, benches are the movable building blocks—the machine-like parts—of the museum experience.

What is the experience of the Whitney museum? As with any built space (particularly the modern ones) there is a tension between the architect-curator’ design for that experience and how people will use the physical space.

Of all the “sensory organs and expediencies [which] enable human beings to have their strong feeling for space and for spatial,” (principally kinesthesia, sight and touch see Tuan, page twelve) sight and kinesthesia are privileged; touch (for the most part) as well sound and smell (when not called for specifically by the exhibit) are not made use of. Anything disturbing the smell or noise-neutral environment might be asked to leave. And while many museums (including the Whitney) make art a ‘standing affair’—presenting the objects of art as upright. Could have easily been done any other way.

One can enter any floor of The Whitney by taking the stairway or an elevator. At the end of both you’re presented with an opening room with an introductory showpiece. There are two, three four ways of leaving the atrium-the curator has left it open to you to choose which way to traverse the space. The space you travel through is defined most obviously by the art—through art space becomes a network of places constructed with care to preserve spaciousness and circulation for the crowd. The individual is meant to feel as alone with the art as possible. This requires solitude. Tuan writes: “solitude is a condition for acquiring a sense of immensity. Alone one’s thoughts wander freely over space. In the presence of others they are pulled back by an awareness of other personalities who project their own worlds onto the same area (Tuan, 59).”

A poor experience resulting from the actions of others is not always the curators fault: one could easily do a Gans-like study about how people behave in museums.
What does the Whitney’s architecture say about art viewing in America? Housing fine art (and having that tradition) is a hallmark of our ‘civilization,’ and we are asked to act appropriately; that art is a semi-public affair, and not something that would be possible without wealth, the good taste, and the patriotism of our upper classes. Their presence is felt through the guards, who add another element to the spatial relationships already present in museums.

Tuan writes, “finally architecture teaches—a planned city, a monument, or even a simple dwelling can be a symbol of the cosmos.” (102) In the first draft of this essay, I tried to relate Tuan’s spatial typology to my subject and treat museum-space as mythic space. This task was difficult for reasons that Tuan has already laid out: “what distinguishes the western environment minimal cosmic or transcendental significance.” Perhaps Tuan would argue that everything has become pragmatic space-even formally religious spaces have, through gradual or explosive reification, become pragmatic space. I still maintain that museum spaces, always tied to some imagined community with some ontology, might be particularly ‘mythic’ when that community is the nation. 

I have an intimate relationship with Troy, NY. I am not only a former resident, but I spent a year working for the city's brand new business improvement district. Working for the BID gave me an in-depth understanding of both the physical characteristics and economic characteristics of Troy. It also made me fall in love with the place. The 19th century architecture, the creative community, and how easy it was not to have a car made Troy a really wonderful place to live. In reading all about the nature of place, I could not help but think about much of the theory in terms of Troy.

Each of the authors we've read so far have something to say about what gives a place value, whether their comments are explicit or implicit. So I thought I'd use this post to speculate about what Yi-Fu Tuan, John Brinkerhoff Jackson, and James Howard Kunstler might have to say about this place. At best the three thinkers can offer me a little more insight into the city and if nothing else the city can help me to illustrate some of the theories we've encountered. Ultimately, I will be measuring Troy using the rubrics provided by each author to determine if they would see the city as a “good” place.

Yi-Fu Tuan might rephrase the question entirely. Tuan might ask what makes Troy a “place” rather than just space; here place implies identity and space potential. Place is destination while space is location. This crucial distinction is an implicit statement of value. The desirability of the former makes the latter somewhat lack-luster. Truthfully, Tuan might not like to be included in this conversation at all. As stated on the cover of Space and Place, Tuan adopts “the perspective of experience.” To that end, he tries to avoid even positive or negative connotation in his writings. And for the most part he succeeds. His hand tips most, however, in Chapter 5: Spaciousness and Crowding. This is not to say that he gives up the perspective of experience, but rather that he shifts focus to examine what might be universally pleasant for human beings. For example, where previously he described the difference between space and place neutrally, here he says that “enclosed and humanized space is place” (Tuan 54). Enclosed is fairly neutral, but the word “humanized” means to make human; or in this case to make human-friendly. So, even though “humans require both space and place” (Tuan 54), place is the space that humans have made their own. Place has parameters significant to experience.

It is perhaps most worthwhile to discuss Troy's “walkability” here. As I mentioned in my last post, I could walk to any number of things from my apartment in the downtown area. All of the business district is readily experience-able because it is all at most 15 minutes away on foot. Tuan says that “when transportation is a passive experience, however, conquest of space can mean its diminishment” (Tuan 53). Troy makes it possible to live in a small community without a car, and without a car one has almost no choice but to actively engage their surroundings, even during a commute. Transportation is not a matter of conquest but of outing, because the space between points A and B is small enough that one need not travel at high speeds to reach one from the other in a timely manner. We experience our surroundings at human speed; at a speed which our senses can keep up with.

If we measure a good place by Tuan's two values outlined above —ownership by humanity and experience-ability— I believe that Troy is a very good place.

J.B. Jackson, too, for the most part reflects neutrally on “landscape” in his work, though less deliberately than Tuan. Like the case of Tuan, however, we can extrapolate value by examining his definition and a few specific comments.

There is much talk of definitions in Discovering the Vernacular Landscape, but Jackson's new definition of landscape seems to be “a composition of man-made or man-modified spaces to serve as infrastructure or background for our collective existence” (Jackson 8). There are a few striking aspects of this definition which make its values more clear. With phrases like “man-made” Jackson emphasizes landscape as being defined by human interaction. This shows a preference for urban spaces in that they are highly man-made and man-modified. Troy, though small, is an urban area. Single-family houses are outnumbered by high density, mixed-use buildings. Nature is visible only in the trees which line the streets and a few pockets of flora in the form of public parks. Man's creations dominate. The city is also full of repurposed spaces. Churches and residential units become retail shops and single-family dwellings are split into apartments of varying sizes. These revisions reflect the man-modified aspect of Jackson's definition, implying active use and re-use of the spaces by people.

Jackson requires of landscape that it serve as infrastructure; he claims that the physical and social realms are inextricably bound up. In Troy, the overwhelmingly mixed-use building style demonstrates just that. Having apartments above retail spaces and office spaces as well as other apartments means that the community lives quite literally on top of one another. There is a closeness created by this format that facilitates a collective existence not present in, for example, the suburban development. When one's neighbors share amenities and a given local eatery is frequented by many because it is next door to many, it is near impossible to isolate oneself. In this phenomenon, Jackson's assertion that the landscape is a “the by-product of people working and living, sometimes coming together, sometimes staying apart, but always recognizing their interdependence” (Jackson 12).

Jackson believes that “we have the need for sustained discourse, for the exchange of ideas and, what is no less essential, for disagreement, since both kinds of communication lead to a sharpened sense of our identity” (Jackson 11). Troy certainly satisfies this need. As already discussed, the city's size facilitates outings. Consequently, on a given weekday when going out to get lunch or to run some other errand, running into someone that one knows is inevitable. Even these small connections make it difficult to reach the “moment when we begin to suffer, psychologically and even physically, for the companionship and presence of others” (Jackson 11). Once again it is easy to see that this format facilitates community. Looking at Troy as an example, we can also see the sharpened sense of identity that Jackson says comes from this sustained discourse. Downtown residents, as well as those who visit the downtown area very frequently, identify strongly with the city. For example, Troy does not have typical tourist t-shirts. Instead, we have shirts deigned by local people for local people; they read “troy boy” or “troy girl” or “enjoy troy.” Moreover, as with many places Troy has a large contingent of people who have lived in the city their whole lives, some for many generations. Even as it has changed a great deal, they stay not necessarily because they like it but because the place is part of who they are.

Of all three authors, James Howard Kunstler talks the most explicitly about what makes a good place, though one wishes for the sake of summary that he'd provide some sort of checklist or formula to accompany his ranting, rambling style. Instead we are left with impressions about what he views as important to worthwhile places. I have identified three primary qualifications gleaned from The Geography of Nowhere.

First, Kunstler requires of good places that they be built to “human scale.” In the most generalized way, this means that neighborhoods should be appealing to humans. To illustrate the practicalities of this idea, there is no better place than Troy. Storefronts in Troy's BID are in large part inviting, with large windows across the facade framed by terracotta moldings and other such architectural embellishments. Almost nothing is built higher than 4 stories, making elevation no more insurmountable than distance (as discussed previously). Further, streets in Troy are more inviting for pedestrians than for cars simply because they're small. Almost all streets are single lane, one-way. In short, the neighborhood is sized to fit the single human being rather than the car or corporation.

Second, Kunstler echoes Jackson's statement about interdependence by emphasizing attention to the public realm. He says that good places have well designed, well maintained public spaces. Again, this facilitates community through collective use and collective investment. Troy has a number of parks and one large indoor public space, most of which get used as casual social space and as more format social space for festivals and farmers' markets. In the park or at the market as on the street, it's hard not to run into acquaintances and friends. It's also hard to ignore the beauty of the waterfront when you're at the market in the spring. These places foster community and the pleasurable feelings associated with beauty.

Third, Kunstler talks about the importance of sustainable local economy. Here is where Troy is tricky. It has the potential for a vibrant local economy. People like the town, and are eager to set up shop in such a lovely place. It is, again, mixed-use and small, making it easy to live and work within walking distance and to live without a car. It has a variety of residential spaces for a variety of income brackets, making it potentially diverse. It boasts historic landmarks and architecture, several colleges, and a riverside location, all of which help in getting people to spend time near and/or in its local businesses.

Troy has been “on the verge” of destination status on and off for decades. It seems that every two years or so there is an article in a local paper discussing the city's upswing into revitalization. It has positive attributes by the standards of three men whose lives have been devoted to studying places, it has a contingent of very invested citizens, new small businesses open on its streets every month. But businesses close every month, too. People still buy their furniture at Walmart instead of in antique shops and don't move into the downtown area because there isn't guaranteed indoor parking. People still buy groceries at the Price Chopper (10 minutes away by car, sandwiched between gas stations) because it has a larger selection than the walking-distance food coop.

I think what all of this comes down to is that all of the building for humanity's positive experience doesn't overpower the appeal of corporations or cars. Bureaucracy is no less ideologically enticing and driving no less enjoyable just because we like the feel of places like Troy. If, as in Kunstler's apocolyptic view of the future, distance travel is impossible these things won't matter and Troy will have the framework of a local economy in place. Until that time, however, as long as people are unwilling to give up their cars and their Walmart, these places will struggle no matter their inherent quality.


P.S. The photo is taken from Kunstler's site! It was posted in conjunction with a podcast which discusses the small city (and perhaps Troy especially) as the safest bet for valuable places of the future. This particular podcast is worth a listen.

Check out the rest of my photos at http://anatomyofablock.tumblr.com/


Walking east on Houston Street can feel a bit disconcerting at times. The wide, auto-dominated street is lined in some places with nothing but chain stores like Dunkin Donuts and Blockbuster with no sense of a local identity. However, turning just off of Houston can immediately dispel the alienating feeling and foster a completely different environmental relationship. Clinton Street between Houston and Stanton, a small block on the Lower East Side, is the place I call home. 

“Man, out of his intimate experience with his body and with other people, organizes space so that it conforms with and caters to his biological needs and social relations.” Tuan, 34

This quote from Tuan describes the type of design that Kunstler is looking for in an environment that he can deem to be a good place, where the built landscape is reflective of man’s relationship with his environment, and structures are built to the scale of a human. In many of Manhattan’s tall, modern buildings or large commercialized squares these notions have been lost, but Clinton Street exemplifies the idea put forward by Tuan and provides a refreshing sense of community in a sometimes faceless city.

Clinton Street possesses many of the qualities that Kunstler looks for in a successful living arrangement. The street itself is built with parallel parking on one side, and a bike lane on the other. These provide the pedestrian barrier Kunstler discusses in his text, and lessen the need for parking lots. The block is also lined with trees (albeit sort of wimpy looking ones) to give the neighborhood a touch of green as a break from all the concrete surrounding it.

The buildings on Clinton Street subscribe to the human scale and satisfy the needs and social relations of its residents. No building is above seven stories, and most are about five or six stories. The brick buildings foster a sense of sameness and equality among residents of the block, but each has its own character. Some have blue trim, others are fitted with large glass doorways, and the many different shades of brick provide an aesthetically pleasing scene. The buildings are a mix of old architecture with one or two thoughtfully constructed newer establishments. The trees on the sidewalk create a sort of forested ceiling, and in the summer they provide shade for residents walking down the street. If Kunstler is to be believed, these elements are what created the resulting formation of a community on Clinton Street.

The street boasts such quirks as a mural of gnomes and a restaurant playfully named One More Thai, but is also the site of more upscale establishments such as a high end wine seller, a gallery, and a men’s dress shirt shop. A mix of cultural and spiritual establishments refutes the notion of hierarchies of space introduced in Tuan. The Hispanic barbershop next to the synagogue is typical of the melee of establishments and general diversity on the block. The long established Hispanic community is still very much a part of the up and coming Lower East Side, as evidenced on Clinton by the barbershops, restaurants, murals, and public spaces. This relationship between the old and the new, continuing to develop together, creates the oddly cohesive community feel.

If any of this seems a bit contrived or a bit lost, it may very well be the case that in some ways it is. I have had such a difficult time writing about places because there has never been a place I felt a strong connection with, or even one that I really strongly disliked, at least not because of its physical features. Whether or not I can stand to be in a place has always been defined almost solely on the human interactions I have had within it, on it, or surrounding it. I may be more comfortable standing in the middle of a crowded intersection than sitting in a public park, depending on who is by my side. Maybe this is why I have felt at home on Clinton Street. The crowds of tourists that swarm midtown, Canal Street, and even SoHo now, are absent on Clinton. There are school children here who walk safely home in small groups, young parents push their babies in strollers, elderly people carrying small bags of groceries, and students and young professionals who have started to give the neighborhood its edge. This is where Jackson’s writing comes in.

Though my block does meet many of Kunstler’s criteria for a good place, I am certain he would have no trouble finding some fault with the lack of local foods at the corner deli, or the graffiti tags on the storefront gates. However, the familiarity of these things and the people behind them would interest Jackson, just as the trailer park culture sprouting around him did. It is not so much the perks of the built environment I find myself consciously appreciating in my neighborhood as the people I find in and around the various establishments.

Cocoa Bar, a coffee shop, wine bar, and chocolate shop (sounds like heaven, right?) became my standard study spot soon after I moved into my apartment, as Bobst is a bit of a trek for me. The same three people have been working there since I started going, and they always play personalized music, keeping their spirits up at work and allowing them to engage patrons in discussions about it. The barista is always pleasant, but not in the manufactured way that Starbucks employees are so they seem like humans instead of machines. When we lost internet connection in my apartment for a few weeks, the owner would give me their wireless password past normal hours to let me finish my work and send out emails, a small gesture, but a much appreciated one.

The corner deli, Angelica’s was another place I got to know quickly. The operation is family run, and the man behind the counter on weekdays always asks how you are doing when you walk in. He knows the faces of the neighborhood, and is eager to talk to us and to share knowing glances about the inebriated fools who are finally leaving after minutes of incoherent remarks. The weekend cashier, Bubbles as we like to call him, has the same eager smile and is ready with witty comments made all the more humorous by his thick accent.

These places I have described are in buildings close to the street, in an area filled with culinary, clothing, and recreational storefronts and apartments above them. The stores and homes themselves occupy spaces Tuan, Jackson, and Kunstler may very well all agree are good, but I have come to feel at home in them because of the people they are populated with. Maybe these people have come here because of the line of trees and the localized built environment? This may be a question of the chicken or the egg…

View slideshow of High Line in winter  (taken by me)
View slideshow of High Line in summer (High Line.com)


Urban environments are typically characterized by an ambitious drive towards productivity and success. Often parks and centers of recreation are developed to offer refuge from the highly stimulating, bustle of metropolitan life. One such place of escape in New York City is the High Line Park, a public amenity that allows city dwellers a place of psychological and physical retreat from the chaos of the New York street life below.

The New York City High Line Parkserves the  community through a variety of different manners. Due to the elevated nature of the park, High Line visitors are offered an interesting change in visual perspective. Looking out to the east, one is presented with the midlevel views of various buildings and the rooftops of others (exposure to roof tops was the inspiration for artist Kim Beck, whose exhibition, “Space Available” is currently on display on many roofs visible from the High Line). Hanging above 10th avenue is a large square enclave where stadium seating allows visitors to view oncoming traffic while suspended in the middle of the street. Because the High Line is on the far west side of the city, it provides park visitors with a view of the Hudson River and New Jersey skyline. The High Line permits one to stroll instead of race through Manhattan, and sauntering in this space is rather practical as one can walk from 20th street to 14th without the interruption of intersections. Even on a chilly winter day, people find solace in the park while lying in the sun on wide wooden lounge furniture. It serves as a site of inspiration as people are often found with cameras in hand, capturing the scenery, views, and various moments with others.
 
The High Line is a one and a half mile long structure that runs through Manhattan’s west side Meatpacking District, Chelsea, and Hell’s Kitchen areas. Under the instruction of urban planner Robert Moses, the High Line was constructed in the 1930’s as an elevated railroad track in order to keep pedestrians removed from the dangers of trains. When trains stopped running on the tracks in 1980, the High Line became another decrepit space in the once industrial districts. As the west side of downtown Manhattan became gentrified, people began to view the High Line as a type of park because it was filled with overgrown vegetation. Labeled “outdated and invalid” by the Surface Transportation Board, demolition of the High Line was planned in 2002. The preservation of the industrial ruin was advocated for and secured shortly thereafter. The New York City Department of Parks and Recreation purchased the space and allowed its non-profit partner organization, Friends of the High Line, to being transforming the railroad track into a public park. After renovation and reconstruction The High Line Park opened in 2008 (HighLine.com).
 
The High Line Park is what writer and philosopher Walter Benjamin would refer to as a “dialectical image” (Benjamin 13). Still embedded on the eighty-year-old steel industrial structure are the original rusted railroad tracks. They lay amidst newly planted gardens and light wooden planks that carve a path through the park. A train stoplight is mounted on a building that provides a shaded tunnel for park-goers to sit around colorful metal tables.
 
The creative repurposing of the High Line structure was a result of psychological, physical and social needs of the community. According to John Brinkerhoff Jackson, the “vernacular landscape” is one that is dependent on social organization within time and space. The relationships between individual people, groups and communities shape the landscape in which they inhabit (Jackson 156). Spaces, like humans, find identity in the relationships they maintain with people. The High Line is a structure that previously supported a railroad that became an urban ruin when other means of transportation for foods and goods began to be utilized in the West Village area. Now, this High Line functions in the community as a park.Because the West Village community saw potential use for the preservation and renovation of the previously industrial ruin known as the High Line, the space was adapted and transformed by the community (members of Friends of the High Line organization).The High Line is not unlike the examples of casual uses of space in other places in America where football stadiums are used for Easter church services and churches are used as discotheques (154). According to Jacksonian thought, the beauty of this vernacular landscape lies not solely in the space’s essence but also in the presence of humanity within the place (xii).
 
In the essay “Intimate Experiences of Place” in Yi-Fu Tuan’s book, Sense and Place, he suggests, “space is transformed into place as it acquires definition and meaning” (Tuan 136). After trains stopped operating on the High Line tracks, the area became obsolete. The inaccessible tracks were inundated with weed growth as the steel structure became rusty and hazardous due to neglect. This space became the High Line Park as it was renovated and recycled. What was once viewed as useless space became a place where many people now find refuge. The trees, flowers, grasses, and bushes contribute to the creation of the High Line’s a sense of place. Not only are they visually appealing in almost every season (in February there was still much color bordering the walkway; a winter garden) but they work to foster, as Tuan would say, “poignant, unplanned human encounters” (143). For example, as I was snapping shots of a flower bush that had bright green bulbs at the end of its stems, I was stopped by a stranger who told me details about the plant. We discussed what we each enjoyed about the plant: I the color, and he, the Witch-hazel’s many uses. The shrubbery and trees in the park were planted for aesthetic purposes, but also serve to promote human encounters. In the summer time, the trees provide solace and shade during the day while the abundance of flowers create a romantic atmosphere as the sun goes down.

In The Geography of Nowhere Kunstler discusses “Better Places” in America and how to continually create them. He references a group of artists, academics, architects and planners led by Christopher Alexander at the University of California Berkley who developed a philosophical theory that emphasized understanding our manufactured landscape in terms of “connecting relationships” between objects and space (Kunstler 249).  Alexander’s remedy for our modern landscape was called “A Pattern Language,” and was a description of how to create places that will enhance human living conditions. All of the ‘patterns’ were originated with regard to “deep human emotional and psychological needs: the need for greenery, sunlight, places to be with other people, spaces to be alone, spaces for the young and old to mix, for excitement, [and] tranquility” (251). In today’s environment, Alexander’s regard for connecting relationships can be applied to the High Line’s design. The space is fully exposed to open sunlight and has a sprawling landscape of trees, grass, brushes, and flowers. The park has public walking space as well as enclaves for people to lounge. The atmosphere of the park feels Zen-like,” due to the contrast of the busy streets and bustling sidewalk below. The relationship between the ground and the park is unique in that entrance is limited to five designated areas. However, while climbing the stairs one is exposed to a place bursting with “aliveness” (250). The elements of the space: the benches, lighting, plants, and tables, have cohesive relationships that support other unique patterns within the park.  It is evident that a high level of attention was given to the details of design in the space. To provide visual substance and interest, there is a viewing box that overlooks the street, a cutout that exposes the framework of the structure, stone seating in the grass lawn, and a calming running water feature. Architect teams James Corner Field and Diller Scofidio + Renfro’s emphasis on the connecting relationships in their High Line design created a place worthy of human affection.

Kunstler sees “disregard for the public realm - for public life in general” (246) as a major element in America’s demise. The park is a small step in rectifying this problem as the High Line was built to serve solely as a public amenity. Public life occurs along the High Line in a way that is non-commercialized and genuine. Casual public assembly occurs in this space as diverse assortments of people linger on the promenade. Park visitors are exposed to permanent public art-exhibitions as well as temporary commissioned art shows. The Friends of the High Line organization offer public programs focused on design, art, history and family entertainment. The High Line functions as a place of play, a place of meeting, a place of serenity, a place to eat, a place to read, and a place to exercise.  Most of all though, it is a place where strangers can be together in an enjoyable environment. The park’s functioning in this way enhances the quality of life for the people of New York City.

In his blog post entitled “Eye Sore,” Kunstler posits his critic of the High Line:
 
“[The Standard hotel is] intended as an accessory to the city’s new High Line ‘park’ — a weed-filled 1.5 mile-long stretch of abandoned elevated railroad right-of-way… In this project, mistakes are artfully multiplied and layered — for instance the assumption that New York City doesn’t need railroad tracks anymore. Or the notion that buildings [The Standard Hotel] don’t have to relate to the street-and-block grid. Instead of repairing the discontinuities of recent decades we just celebrate them and make them worse. That’s decadence at its purest.” (clusterfucknation.com)
 
In fact though, Kunstler’s critiques demonstrate a misunderstanding of the High Line’s function in the New York landscape and experience. The space he is critiquing is in actuality serving the very purposes he promotes in his literature. Planting designer Piet Oudolf arranged for the park to contain over two hundred species of perennials, grasses, shrubs, and trees, that were each selected both for their sustainability and variation in color. The species were also tailored to the microclimates already in existence on the steel structure (Highline.com). Overall, the vegetation contributes greatly to the High Line’s smoothing atmosphere, whether in stimulating interaction between two strangers or in visually beautifying the parks’ edges. The cultivated ‘vintage wine’ cone flowers, Virginia roses, and pincushion plants that bloom on the High Line in the spring season are not what any landscape designer would refer to as ‘weeds.’ The consideration and planning for the park’s landscape design shows visitors that the park is a place cared for and about, fostering a sense of community whose members can view themselves as belonging to a ‘good place.’ In his chapter entitled “Life on the Gridiron” Kunstler cites the worst weakness of the gridded block system is the “straight line repeated over and over” (Kunstler 33). The Standard hotel’s modern raised structure breaks the straight-line pattern and contributes to the architectural character of the meatpacking area. While I see the demand for a future alternative source of fuel being fulfilled by engineers and scientists (Farret, and Simões), if the High Line were to ever again need to be used as a railroad track, the structure has been preserved due to its reuse, instead of demolished, as was scheduled in 2002. Instead existing as abandoned space, it now functions as a place where New Yorkers can escape to find tranquility amidst the hectic commotion of the city. The High Line is a decoration in the public realm.
 
Perhaps it was best put by Walter Benjamin’s fellow surrealist writer, Louis Aragon who said, “We enter a park feeling like conquerors and quite drunk with open-mindedness” (Aragon 137). The park within the city allows one to remove themselves from the overstimulation of the metropolis, relax, and become aware of the world around them in a way that is not overwhelming, but invigorating. Kunstler’s high regard for the public realm and understanding of places with value, Jackson’s concept of the vernacular landscape as a space dependent on social organization, and Tuan’s comprehension of how spaces become intimate places, each can be applied to the understanding of the role of the High Line park an intoxicatingly tranquil element of the urban environment.
 
 
Works Cited:
Aragon, Louis. Paris Peasant. Boston, MA: Exact Change, 1926. 131-137. Print.
Benjamin, Walter. The Arcades Project. 1st. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press,
2002. 1-15. Print.
Farret, Felix, and Godoy Simões. Integration of Alternative Sources of Energy. Hoboken
New Jersey: John Wiley and Sons, 2006. Print.
Jackson, John Brinckerhoff. Discovering the Vernacular Landscape. New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1975.
Kunstler, James Howard. The Geography of Nowhere: The Rise And Decline of
America’s Man-Made Landscape. New York: Touchstone, 1993.
Tuan, Yi-Fu. Space and Place. Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 1977.130-148.
Print.