Tadao Ando, Church of the Light, 1989. Osaka, Japan.

Philadelphia is a city awash with memorable architecture, so it’s fitting that I stumbled across The Architect Says: Quotes, Quips, and Words of Wisdom at the Philadelphia Museum of Art’s store, which offers a well-curated assortment of books inside of Horace Trumbauer’s imposing Greek structure prominently situated on Fairmont Hill.

Laura Dushkes, the book’s editor, works as a librarian at NBBJ architectural firm in Seattle and began collecting quotes about architecture while purchasing, reading, and cataloging books about design for the firm. The Architect Says: Quotes, Quips, and Words of Wisdom is an elegant compendium of quotations from more than 100 of history’s most opinionated—and dissenting—minds.

The book offers a fascinating glimpse at the creative process. “It’s not a sign of creativity to have sixty-five ideas for one problem,” says Jan Kaplicky. ”It’s just a waste of energy.” Then there’s this quote by Charles Eames: “Here is one of the few effective keys to the design problem — the ability of the designer to recognize as many of the constraints as possible — his willingness and enthusiasm for working within these constraints. Constraints of price, of size, of strength, of balance, of surface, of time and so forth.”

Dushkes’ layout and sequencing of quotes also highlights sharp differences of opinion in the field of design: Mies van der Rohe’s “Less is more” versus Robert Venturi’s response, “Less is a bore” is a good example. I also like these rifts on Louis Sullivan’s observation that “form ever follows function”: “Form follows form, not function,” says Philip Johnson or “Form follows profit.” (Richard Rogers).

Also interesting is the relationship between architecture and other creative fields. “I learn more from creative people in other disciplines than I do even from other architects because I think they have a way of looking at the world that is really important,” says Seattle-based architect and MacDowell Colony fellow Tom Kundig.

But there are differences between creative fields too, as Renzo Piano points out: “You can put down a bad book; you can avoid listening to bad music; but you cannot miss the ugly tower block opposite your house.”
 

 
(Click pages to enlarge)
 

This 1,000 square-foot weekend cabin, called the Delter Shelter, designed by architect Tom Kundig is basically a steel box on stilts and can be completely shuttered when the owner is away. Situated near a river in a floodplain, the 20’ x 20’ square footprint rises three stories. Large, 10’ x 18’ steel shutters can be closed simultaneously using a hand crank. (Photo by Tim Bies courtesy Olson Kundig Architects)

It’s unfortunate that architecture receives so little attention in the mainstream press and art publications, for it’s the art form we have the closest relationship with as humans. Whether we’re shopping in a huge box store, attending a concert in an historic church, working in an office cubicle, or simply arriving home after a long day at work, we inhabit and interact with architecture on a daily basis; but how often do we think about good and bad design?

As Renzo Piano once said, architecture is “a socially dangerous art, because it is an imposed art.” We’re conditioned to accept ugliness as inevitable. The end result is a numbing apathy about architecture as a whole, or worse, a lingering impression in American culture that quality design is only for a certain elite class.

But Dushkes’s collection of quotes helps us to pause and realize that all design involves a series of philosophical choices and aesthetic judgments. The difference between a Frank Gehry, whose “blobitecture” sometimes resembles an alien form beamed down from space, and a Samuel Mockbee, whose socially-engaged Rural Studio project allows design students at Auburn University to create homes and community buildings for disadvantaged residents in Hale County Alabama, couldn’t be greater. And yet both architects must work within a given environment and with certain limitations. But The Architect Says reminds us that they are apples and oranges—both fruit, and yet entirely unique from one another.

Anderson and Ora Lee Harris in front of their “Butterfly House” designed by Samuel Mockbee and the students of at Auburn University’s Rural Studio project. The angled-roof supplies a means to collect and reuse rainwater in daily cleaning routines. Rural Studio students provided Mrs. Harris, who is handicapped and navigates with a wheelchair, complete mobility within her home by constructing subtle access ramps, wide doorways and low bathroom features. The walls of the home were formed using salvaged wood from a recently razed 105 year-old church near the site. (Photo courtesy Andrea Oppenheimer Dean, Rural Studio: Samuel Mockbee and an Architecture of Decency, 2002)

Julia Morgan was the first woman to be admitted to the architecture program at l’École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts in Paris, and the first woman architect licensed in California. The designer of over 700 buildings in California, she is best known for her work on Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California, shown here.

“Here is one of the few effective keys to the design problem — the ability of the designer to recognize as many of the constraints as possible — his willingness and enthusiasm for working within these constraints. Constraints of price, of size, of strength, of balance, of surface, of time and so forth.” –Charles Eames (Photo by Charles Eames courtesy eamesdesigns.com)

Disney Hall in Los Angeles designed by Frank Gehry (Photo by Julius Shulman and Juergen Nogai)

Alvar Aalto, Armchair.
Manufactured by Huonekalu- ja Rakennustyötehdas Oy, Turku, Finland, 1930.
Birch plywood and solid birch, painted seat,
63.5 x 61 x 89cm (Photo courtesy the Victoria & Albert Museum)

Wang Shu, Xiangshan Campus, China Academy of Art, Phase II, 2004-2007, Hangzhou, China (Photo courtesy of Amateur Architecture Studio and the Pritzker Architecture Prize)

 
The Architect Says: Quotes, Quips, and Words of Wisdom is exactly what it says it is: a book of quotes. Since there are no photographs, readers who aren’t as familiar with architects like Norman Foster, Wang Shu, Thom Mayne, or Julia Morgan may want to research their work further in order to have a better understanding of their projects and aesthetic. Luckily, the layout and design of The Architect Says is half the fun and allows these quotes to stand on their own.

Published by Princeton Architectural Press, a press that continually puts out an impressive catalog of unique, high quality publications, The Architect Says is a pleasure to read thanks to high quality paper and its handy size. The typography and color choices are also top notch. This book is a great gift for artists and students or anyone curious about the creative process and the innovative men and women who have transformed our landscape into what it is today.

You can purchase the book here or at your local bookshop. Princeton Architectural Press has also made the book available online and you can browse the book here.  
 
 

An Update on the Gwarlingo Membership Drive

Thanks to all of the readers who have participated in the Gwarlingo Membership Drive. 132+ Gwarlingo readers have contributed so far and $12,200 of the $15,000 goal has been raised. If you haven’t donated yet, you can check out my video and all of the member rewards, including some limited-edition artwork, here on the Gwarlingo site.

Stay up on the latest poetry, books, and art news by having Gwarlingo delivered to your email inbox. It’s easy and free! You can also follow Gwarlingo on Twitter and Facebook.

Also be sure to check out the handpicked selections in the Gwarlingo Store right here.
 

Barry Underwood, Archimedes. This installation was created at the construction site for the new Museum of Contemporary Art Cleveland. (Photo © Barry Underwood. Click to Enlarge)

As New York artists search for the next affordable, urban frontier in Bushwick and Queens, a renaissance of sorts is taking place in the most unlikely of cities: Cleveland, Ohio. Perhaps the city’s motto should be Cleveland: It’s Not What You Think, for that phrase was used by more than one local during my recent tour of the city’s art scene.

My visit began at the Cleveland Institute of Art, where I was giving a talk on creative process and career strategy to a Business and Professional Practice class taught by photographer Barry Underwood. The school’s facilities are housed, in part, in a refurbished Ford Model T factory building, and the classrooms are filled with space, light, and cutting-edge equipment. Thanks to the Gund Foundation a new 91,000-square-foot addition to the factory building is also under construction and will consolidate the CIA’s facilities on Euclid Avenue.

While it’s not possible to learn everything about an institution in a single day, I was impressed with CIA: the staff, the administration, the facilities, the galleries, the diversity of programming being offered. The Institute has one of the only biomedical art programs in the country, a creative field that blends science, art, and technology.

The work of CIA staff member Michael Wallace caught my eye as I toured the Institute. Wallace’s commemorative plate series, Guess Who’s Coming to Lunch (More Important People We Can’t Afford to Know), is a clever rift on the problematic connection between money, power and politics.

A commemorative plate from Michael Wallace’s series Guess Who’s Coming to Lunch (More Important People We Can’t Afford to Know)

CIA’s facilities are housed, in part, in a refurbished Ford Model-T factory building. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

A new 91,000-square-foot addition to the old Model T factory building, where the Cleveland Institute of Art is currently housed, is under construction, thanks to the Gund Foundation. The new building is designed by Stantec, a national architecture firm. (Photo courtesy of Stanec via Cleveland.com)

Local studio spaces are plentiful and cheap in Cleveland, as are restaurants and cafes serving fresh, local food. $150 a month will buy you a large, private studio in the city, a price unheard of in cities like Boston, New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, or Philadelphia. Cleveland’s Little Italy is bustling with affordable studio space, top-notch bakeries, and a diverse mix of residents. The city has a surprising small-town feel. As Underwood and artist Sarah Kabot gave me a tour of the city, we ran into students, friends, and fellow CIA professors nearly every place we visited.

The city is also home to the Cleveland Clinic, which has an extensive arts program. During my visit, Barry Underwood’s Cuyahoga, a series of photographs that explore Cleveland and its environs, were on view. The series was a special commission and is now part of the Clinic’s permanent collection. The Clinic integrates art throughout their facilities, not only in Cleveland, but around the world. Their mission is not only to offer a healing environment to patients, but also to research the relationship between the arts and medicine. The Clinic’s Arts and Medicine Institute is leading the way in this integrative field.

Barry Underwood’s dyptich Edgewater is part of Cuyahoga, a series of photographs that explore Cleveland and its environs commissioned by the Cleveland Clinic. (Photo © Barry Underwood. Click to Enlarge)

Barry Underwood’s dyptich Cornfield Sirna’s Farm is also part the Cuyahoga series, which explores Cleveland and its environs. (Photo © Barry Underwood. Click to Enlarge)

In this video from Art 21, photographer Catherine Opie talks about her permanent installation Somewhere in the Middle at Hillcrest Hospital, a branch of Cleveland Clinic, in Mayfield Heights, Ohio. The series of 22 photos was taken on the shores of Lake Erie near Opie’s hometown of Sandusky, Ohio, and was created specifically for the hospital setting. Opie hopes that the photographs provide a space for doctors, patients, vistors and hospital employees to experience an ethereal moment during what may be a difficult time in their lives.

(Can’t see the video in your email? Click here to watch on the Gwarlingo website.)

It is possible to experience the best of Cleveland culture entirely on foot. (A 2011 study by Walk Score ranked Cleveland the 17th most walkable of fifty large U.S. cities.) According to Ann Craddock Albano, the director of The Sculpture Center in Cleveland, the 550-acre area that encompasses the Cleveland Museum of Art, the Cleveland Botanical Garden, the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Cleveland Orchestra, the Cleveland Institute of Art, the Cleveland Cinematheque, Cleveland Institute of Music, and numerous university and medical facilities is the most concentrated neighborhood of world-class cultural institutions in the country. (The area is called University Circle, or “the Circle” by locals).

The latest jewel in the Circle’s crown is Farshid Moussavi’s new building for the Museum of Contemporary Art. MOCA is Moussavi’s first museum design, and also the first American project by the Iranian architect, whose firm, Farshid Moussavi Architecture, is based in London.

Farshid Moussavi’s new building for the Museum of Contemporary Art Cleveland (Photo © Dean Kaufman Courtesy MOCA Cleveland)

The zigzagging stairwell is the most eye-catching feature inside the new MOCA Cleveland (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The winding hallways of Frank Gehry’s Weatherhead School of Management building in University Circle were blamed for a bundled SWAT raid (Photo courtesy Fast Company)

A few blocks away from MOCA, at Case Western Reserve University’s Weatherhead School of Management building, silver planes slice through red brick like paper in a windstorm. While Frank Gehry opted for flamboyance, Moussavi wisely chose a simpler, less ostentatious design for MOCA—one that is unique and engages the surrounding neighborhood. Clean, modern elegance is the result, and best of all, sources tell me that the 27.2 million dollar building is paid for.

The 1,354 black, mirror-finish Rimex steel panels, which cover the six-sided building, reflect the city’s surroundings and change throughout the day, depending on light, season, and weather.

Once inside the museum, MOCA’s dynamic stairwell steals the show. The views from the upper floors are as interesting as the art on display and are worth experiencing first-hand.

And don’t overlook the yellow stairwell, a labyrinth passage glowing with luminous yellow lights that occasionally doubles as an exhibition space.

The yellow stairwell at MOCA is a glowing labyrinth bathed in bright light. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The interior stairwell at MOCA Cleveland (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Barry Underwood’s Agincourt, 2012, makes novel use of MOCA’s impressive, four-story stairwells. (Photo © Barry Underwood.)

MOCA, which was founded by by Marjorie Talalay, Agnes Gund, and Nina Castelli Sundell as The New Gallery in 1968, is a non-collecting institution. While the 34,000 square-foot-structure may strike some visitors as small and limited in exhibition space, the new building is 44% larger than their former home in an old Sears store on Carnegie Avenue. Unfortunately, the amount of exhibit space is virtually the same as the old structure (if you count the atrium and second floor lobby in the new building). Because the museum has no permanent collection to display, store, and maintain, all of their precious exhibit space can be devoted to new shows by contemporary artists. On the plus side, MOCA now has offices, classrooms, and event spaces, an important addition to the institution. Having a large museum devoted solely to contemporary art right in the heart of Cleveland’s art district is a coup, and will undoubtedly add to the city’s growing cultural reputation.

One of the highlights of my Cleveland visit was the Kate Gilmore show, Body of Work, currently on view at MOCA. In her video work, Gilmore struggles to free herself from constrained or hostile environments, but her efforts are only made worse by her attire—high heels and short skirts. Her 2011 piece Buster, in which Gilmore kicks and destroys more than 100 pots of colorful paint, is a humorous dig at the “male artist heroes” of Abstract Expressionism. Gilmore’s videos are well installed at MOCA and benefit from being seen together. The curators made a wise decision to shun headphones in favor of playing all of the videos out-loud, simultaneously. The sound of Gilmore smashing through walls, shattering pots of paint, and battering a bucket of plaster only increases the sense of physical effort, which is so essential to her work. Gilmore leaves a lasting impression, and her art is a brilliant exploration of feminine identity and labor.

A museum visitor at MOCA Cleveland watchs the Kate Gilmore exhibit, Body of Work (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

You can watch an excerpt from Gilmore’s Between a Hard Place below. (Can’t see the video in your email? Click here to watch on the Gwarlingo website.)

Kate Gilmore, Buster, 2011 (video still). High definition video with sound, 7:40 minutes. The piece, in which Gilmore kicks and destroys more than 100 pots of colorful paint, is a humorous dig at the “male artist heroes” of Abstract Expressionism. (Photo courtesy of the artist and David Castillo Gallery, Miami)

Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller’s The Paradise Institute currently on view at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Cleveland, Ohio (Photo courtesy of cardiffmiller.com)

Janet Cardiff and George Bures Miller’s The Paradise Institute at MOCA is also not to be missed. This multi-sensory cinematic experience was honored with the Golden Lion Award at the 49th Venice Biennale. Viewers enter a dark, enclosed plywood pavilion, which mimics a balcony space at an old movie house. Wearing headphones, visitors hear two narratives unfolding at once, the film’s dialogue (accompanied by video on the small movie screen), combined with the ambient sounds of the imaginary theater. The masterful sound editing had me peering over my shoulder on more than one occasion, convinced that someone was whispering in my ear or popping popcorn nearby.

Agnes Gund has left a positive mark on Cleveland, and an attentive visitor will find her name everywhere, including down the road at the Cleveland Museum of Art. CMA also has a new building project that is not to be missed. Its spectacular Rafael Viñoly-designed renovation began in 2005 and is only now nearing completion. The $350 million project is the largest cultural project in Ohio’s history. The expansion, which has been overseen by former directors Katharine Lee Reid and Timonthy Rub (now at the Philadelphia Museum of Art), and the current director David Franklin, brings the museum’s total floor space to 592,000 square feet (an increase of approximately 65%). 1

The interior of the new Cleveland Museum of Art designed by Rafael Viñoly (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The new 40-foot wide, wall-sized touchscreen at CMA is making waves in the museum world. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Visitors can also create their own tours on the touchscreen and transfer the tour to an iPad. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The museum recently made history by installing a 40-foot wide, wall-sized touchscreen that displays all 3,000 objects on view in the museum. Touch an image, and the screen will tell you more about the piece, suggest similar objects in the collection, and give you the location of the artwork. Visitors can also create their own tours on the touchscreen and transfer the tour to an iPad. (If you don’t have your own tablet, iPads can be rented at the museum for $5 a day). The New York Times reports that the museum is working on an android and iPhone version of the system.

The radical innovation at CMA is not the addition of technology in a museum setting, but the careful subtraction of it. Local Projects in New York  and Blue Cadet in Philadelphia are two cutting-edge businesses pushing the boundaries of interactive touchscreen technology, and both organizations clearly understand that less is more. As Josh Goldblum at Blue Cadet told me a few months ago, we can expect technology to become more and more invisible, and less obnoxious in the near future. The secret is to make technology as unobtrusive as possible, so that it doesn’t distract from the experience of encountering art one on one. As Jake Barton, president of Local Projects told the Times, “We surprised the museum, because we’re the technology firm and we proposed eliminating three-fourths of the technology.” Expect other major museums around the world to be imitating CMA’s design in the coming months.

While the touchscreen is impressive, it isn’t just the thoughtful use of technology that makes the Cleveland Museum stand out. It is also Viñoly’s spectacular glass canopy, the light and open space, the quality of the museum’s collection, its range of educational programs, and small amenities like the museum restaurant and bar that make the museum a vibrant, community space. The Cleveland Museum of Art also has the added advantage of being free, a rarity today.

Rafael Viñoly’s design for the CMA is modern in concept, but classical in spirit. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Children investigate the unique landscape design inside the CMA atrium. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Artist Fred Wilson is interested in posing critical questions about museum practices.The influence of African culture on the city of Venice finds eloquent expression in Wilson’s piece To Die Upon a Kiss. The chandelier, made of Murano glass, transitions from luminosity and transparency to opacity and obfuscation. Wilson’s 35 flags of the African and African diaspora nations are completely colorless, hinting at the blind spots in our own perceptions. Wilson’s work is on view at CMA until May 5th. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Beat Zoderer’s flying carpet at the Cleveland Institute of Art is improvised, in part, and like the best jazz it makes clever use of both variation and repetition. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Another high point of my tour was the Beat Zoderer opening at the Cleveland Institute of Art, my last art stop of the day before a late dinner. I was unfamiliar with the Swiss-born artist’s work, and was lucky to be in Cleveland for the artist’s first solo show in the U.S. The Institute commissioned Zoderer to create an installation for it’s 2300-square-foot gallery (located in the Gund building, of course).

The brightly colored aluminum strips that comprise flying carpet are both playful and compelling. flying carpet is improvised, in part, and like the best jazz it makes clever use of both variation and repetition. Zoderer allows the bright paint on the aluminum plates to flake and scratch, which gives the work a patina of sorts and eliminates any sense of preciousness.

Beat Zoderer, flying carpet, 2013. Paint on aluminum & rivets (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

 
You can watch Beat Zoderer constructing his installation flying carpet in this video:  (Can’t see the video in your email? Click here to watch on the Gwarlingo website.)

Beat Zoderer’s collage series specimen 1-49 (2013) is also on view at the Reinberger Galleries at the Cleveland Institute of Art through May 4th. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

This Zoderer collage is comprised of paint chips from flying carpet (Photo by Ivy Galligan courtesy of Reinberger Galleries at the CIA)

Zoderer’s mounted wall pieces, also made of aluminum strips, were too static and flat for my taste, but flying carpet and the collage series  specimen 1-49 (2013) show the artist at his best. Zoderer uses office supplies, paint chips, and other everyday detritus to great effect. I particularly liked the collage series shanghai labels no. 1-20 (2013) made of blue and white labels. As the series demonstrates, Zoderer is skilled at producing variations on a theme within strict limitations.

Also on view at CIA, is work by Bill Smith, plus video pieces by Jenny Perlin and Steve Roden. The video work will take some time and attention to appreciate fully, but it is worth checking out should you find yourself near the Reinberger Galleries before May 4th, 2013.

Beat Zoderer, shanghai labels no. 1-20, 2013. Labels on canvas. (Photo by Ivy Galligan courtesy of Reinberger Galleries at the CIA)

Beat Zoderer, shanghai labels no. 1-20 (detail), 2013. Labels on canvas. (Photo by Ivy Galligan courtesy of Reinberger Galleries at the CIA)

Artist and CIA instructor Sarah Kabot checks out the Beat Zoderer exhibit at Reinberger Galleries. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

There is no doubt that Cleveland is rich in cultural resources, educational opportunities, and cheap studio space. And why exactly does this matter?

It matters because former industrial boomtowns like Cleveland are at the very center of our country’s transformation from a manufacturing economy to a creative one (and by “creative,” I mean everything from innovations in technology to bio tech to design and horticulture.)

Because artists are risk-takers, politically engaged, and often urban pioneers, we frequently find ourselves at the leading edge of social transformation. (Just look at the ways artists transformed New York neighborhoods like Greenwich Village, SoHo and Williamsburg, before they were priced out of the area). It is art that helps us make sense of where we’ve been and where we’re headed.

Barry Underwood, Cleveland Electric Illuminating Co. Power Plant. From the Cuyahoga series commissioned by the Cleveland Clinic. (Photo © Barry Underwood. Click to Enlarge)

The art world should care about Cleveland not because of touchscreens, cheap rent, and contemporary architecture, though these offerings are significant. The art world should care because the evolution of  the Rust Belt is a quintessential American problem. Take a look at some of the color photographs by American artists in the late 30s and early 40s, and you will see the seed of our current economic and environmental troubles—our increasing consumption of natural resources, the ongoing conflict between conservation and development, our reliance on cheap labor and on war to jump-start a sputtering economy.

The question that faces us now is: Where do we go from here? 

It is artists in cities like Cleveland and Detroit who are in the best position to re-imagine our industrial landscapes and turn them into something new and unique, something we cannot even fathom at present. And such changes won’t occur in a vacuum. There must be community engagement, as well as dialogue and cross-pollination between disciplines, racial groups, and economic classes. This is why programs like the Cleveland Clinic’s Arts and Medicine Institute, the Cleveland Institute of Art’s biomedical art program, and Kent State’s Cleveland Urban Design Collaborative are so essential. Arts education and cultural accessibility are also critical. As one artist said to me during my visit, I don’t only want to make art, I also want to give back.

New York is not the only city that matters when it comes to culture (a fact that is obvious to almost everyone except many New Yorkers). Only 170 miles north of Cleveland in the city of Detroit, artists are also making their mark on a changing, struggling city. As most artists in these urban centers understand, fetishizing industrial ruins may be popular, but it’s not the solution. It’s time to move beyond “ruin porn” and focus on reinvention. And a city like Cleveland is just the place to do it.

The ReImagining Cleveland initiative created 69 new greening projects in 2012, including 54 side-yard expansions and 15 parks, gardens, and orchards. (Photo courtesy of ReImagining Cleveland)

An Update on the Gwarlingo Membership Drive

Thanks to all of the readers who have contributed to the Gwarlingo Membership Drive. 115+ Gwarlingo readers have contributed so far and $11,500 of the $15,000 goal has been raised. If you haven’t donated yet, you can check out my video and all of the member rewards, including some limited-edition artwork, here on the Gwarlingo site.

If you’re a fan of the work of photographer Barry Underwood, this is your opportunity to own a limited-edition Underwood print, while also helping support Gwarlingo. This limited-edition, archival print, MacDowell Theatre, will be sent to only 8 donors who make a contribution of $500 or more. Gwarlingo is ad-free and your contribution also comes with an interactive member profile. You can make your donation here.

This limited-edition, archival print of Barry Underwood’s MacDowell Theatre is available to 8 donors who contribute $500 or more to Gwarlingo.

Stay up on the latest poetry, books, and art news by having Gwarlingo delivered to your email inbox. It’s easy and free! You can also follow Gwarlingo on Twitter and Facebook.

The wreckage of Rockaway Boardwalk after Sandy (Image via CNN.com)

A few months ago I shared Eve Mosher’s piece, High Water Line, a public art project in Manhattan and Brooklyn that brought the topic of climate change directly to the city’s residents.

Mosher’s inventive project showed what might happen if an historic storm ever struck the coast of New York, but Hurricane Sandy made this nightmarish, what-if scenario a reality.

The storm was a wake-up call and raised an important question: what is the role of art in this fragile, post-Sandy ecology? When it comes to inventive solutions for environmental problems, what do artists bring to the table?

This week I was happy to see MoMA PS1 and MoMA’s Department of Architecture and Design turning their attention to this very issue. The central question: How can we create a sustainable waterfront in the Rockaways—a waterfront that will meet the needs of the community, but also resist the destructive forces of weather and a rising sea level?

A Rockaway home destroyed in Hurricane Sandy

Now that a portion of New York has been exposed as the flood plain that it is, where will we go? How will we build? As singer and Rockaway resident Patti Smith says in the below video, we need to “redefine what it means to live in conjunction with nature.”

While scientists can evaluate the state of the environment, it is the role of artists, architects, and designers to imagine potential solutions. Imagination will be just as important as scientific research in the decades ahead, as will collaborations between artists and scientists.

As Joshua David and Robert Hammond learned when they created The High Line park in Manhattan, this early, visionary stage of anything-goes is essential.

We continue to produce the same tired designs and developments not because they are best solutions, but because they are the easiest. Cheap, high-density housing, to use one example, is the “low-hanging fruit” of the real estate world, one that generates money quickly not only for the developer, but also for cities and towns in the form of tax revenue. Designs that rely on common, cheap building materials that can be easily purchased from Home Depot, Lowe’s, and other suppliers only perpetuate the soul-numbing cycle of mediocrity. To make effective use of interesting, locally-sourced materials, architects and builders need a rich knowledge of their community’s resources.

In 2010 MoMA asked five architects to come up with a redesign of lower Manhattan that would prevent damage in the event of major flooding. Architecture Research Office and dlandstudio proposed creating wetlands around the edges of Manhattan. They also suggested replacing asphalt streets with a perforated cast-concrete surface that could absorb rainwater. (Photo courtesy of MoMA and Architizer)

Hurricane Sandy is an unprecedented opportunity: a chance to re-imagine and create new “low-hanging fruit” on the waterfront. This is an opportunity to create a viable model for other oceanfront communities–one that is designed thoughtfully with quality of life and our changing ecology at its core.

What do coastal communities like the Rockaways need most as they rebuild? Public space? Quality food shopping options? Pockets of nature for relaxation and gardening? Small businesses that will fulfill local need and provide jobs? Attractive, energy efficient housing in a range of prices? A safe-haven from future storms?

All of the above, I suspect. But it is up to city planners, designers, developers, and community members to ask the right questions if we’re going to transition from cookie-cutter architecture to a more thoughtful, innovative way of living.

A home in the Rockaways after Sandy

Smart design shouldn’t be a luxury. The terms “green” and “sustainable” have been so overused that they’ve lost any real meaning. “Sustainability” is ultimately a philosophical choice about living with nature instead of continuously fighting it. It is also about thoughtful energy consumption. If we’re going to expend energy in the form of dollars, labor, and resources in coastline communities like the Rockaways, what is the best use of those resources?

There are other critical questions. Can we create innovative designs that express the local character and geography—designs that are still aesthetically pleasing in 50 years and worth preserving? Can we design for the needs of the local community, instead of allowing architects and developers to impose their own vision without input from those who will live and work there? (Heaven knows that the last thing we need is another Robert Moses running roughshod over our neighborhoods.)

But perhaps the most difficult question is should we be re-building on the waterfront at all? Of course we love the ocean, and we want to rebuild in order to show our perseverance. But is this impulse to triumph over nature wise in the long-run? Is it really the best use of resources? And if we do decide to forge ahead, how can we design homes, businesses, and public spaces to withstand future storms as powerful as Sandy?

The devastated boardwalk in Queens (Film Still by Matthew Akers)

Architects, artists, and designers have until March 15th to submit online proposals in video format for the Rockaways project.

Beyond rebuilding the boardwalk, applicants are invited to present new ideas on alternative housing models, protecting the shoreline, new social spaces and uses of public space, and engaging local communities.

Entries will be reviewed by a jury that includes distinguished curators Barry Bergdoll, Hans Ulrich Obrist, Klaus Biesenbach, Peter Eleey, Pedro Gadanho, and Niklas Maak. Twenty-five selected proposals will be displayed through social media and on-site at the VW Dome 2, MoMA’s temporary community meeting place and cultural center, in Rockaway Beach during April of this year.

For more information, visit the MoMA PS1 website. You can see a short video about the Rockaways and Hurricane Sandy here…

An Update on the Gwarlingo Membership Drive

Thanks to all of the readers who have contributed to the Gwarlingo Membership Drive. Instead of selling out to advertisers, I’m “selling out” to my readers instead! 100+ Gwarlingo readers have contributed so far and $10,000 of the $15,000 goal has been raised. If you haven’t donated yet, you can check out my video and all of the member rewards here on the Gwarlingo site.

Stay up on the latest poetry, books, and art news by having Gwarlingo delivered to your email inbox. It’s easy and free! You can also follow Gwarlingo on Twitter and Facebook.

A wall in the new Barnes Foundation museum describes Albert Barnes' educational philosophy (Photo by M. Edlow for GPTMC courtesy Visit Philly)

A New Museum Mile?

Rush hour is still two hours away, but a swarm of cars is buzzing by me on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway in Philadelphia. As I parallel park in front of the new Barnes Foundation museum and feed money into the parking kiosk, an over-sized tour bus, only a quarter full, is herding tourists down the divided highway. The overly enthusiastic guide shouts through the crackly loudspeaker like an annoying uncle belting through a cardboard, wrapping-paper tube at Christmas.

The mile-long, landscaped, auto-friendly Benjamin Franklin Parkway, which connects Philadelphia’s City Hall to Fairmount Park, is one of the earliest examples of urban renewal in the United States. Designed by French urban planner Jacques Gréber in 1917 the boulevard was modeled after the Champs-Élysées in Paris. As Ken Finkel observes, “planners envisioned the Parkway cutting across the city’s northwest quadrant to accommodate schools, hospitals, libraries, museums, cathedrals, courthouses, administrative headquarters for schools and agencies, and even a hall for conventions. If it served the public, it belonged on the Parkway.”

This month the controversial new Barnes Foundation museum opened its doors, taking its place beside the Philadelphia Free Library and Rodin Museum on this historic road.

The view of the Benjamin Franklin Parkway from the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The new Barnes was a rare opportunity to engage the city's foot traffic. Unfortunately, the architects failed to put down the welcome mat. (Photo © Michael Moran courtesy of Architectural Record)

Paul Gauguin, "Mr. Loulou (Louis Le Ray), 1890. Oil on canvas, 21 3/4 x 18 1/4 in. (55.2 x 46.4 cm). (Photo © 2012 The Barnes Foundation)

Back in 1917, while the city was busy knocking down houses and constructing a highway for the common good, Dr. Albert C. Barnes, who made his fortune by co-developing an early anti-gonorrhea drug, had his hands full assembling one of the world’s most important collections of post-impressionist and early modern paintings. In his lifetime, Barnes grew his collection to include 69 Cézannes—more than in all the museums in Paris—44 Picassos, 60 Matisses, and an astonishing 181 Renoirs. The 2,500 items in the collection include major works by Modigliani, Soutine, Gaughin, Seurat, Degas, Rousseau, and van Gogh, Asian prints, African sculpture, medieval manuscripts, decorative metalwork, as well as Old Master paintings by Peter Paul Rubens, El Greco, and Titian.

A self-made man who put himself through college by tutoring, boxing, and playing semi-professional baseball, Barnes despised the art establishment and old Philadelphia money. His hatred of the establishment was partly the result of a 1923 show at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts featuring 75 paintings from Barnes’ collection. The work was too avant-garde for prevailing tastes, and art critics ridiculed the works, calling them “trash,” “incomprehensible masses of paint, and an “infectious scourge.”

Barnes wrote a series of fiery letters in reply. He said the Philadelphia Museum of Art was a “house of artistic and intellectual prostitution” and claimed that the main function of museums “has been to serve as a pedestal upon which a clique of socialites pose as patrons of the arts.” As James Panero of Philanthropy magazine observes, “Barnes was a conflicted figure, a man of titanic intelligence, unflinching will, and self-destructive pride.”

During his lifetime, Barnes maintained tight control over access to the collection, requiring visitors to write and request appointments and giving preference to students and the working class over members of Philadelphia society. Writers James A. Michener and T.S. Eliot were among the visitors personally rejected by Barnes. (Photo courtesy The Barnes Foundation)

The original Barnes Foundation building in Merion sits seven minutes away from the new Barnes museum.

In 1925, the same year that the Insurance Company of North America opened its headquarters at 16th and the Parkway, Albert Barnes dedicated a new home for his collection designed by Philadelphia-based French architect Paul Cret in nearby Merion. It’s mission, “the promotion of the advancement of education and the appreciation of the fine arts.” Eager to avoid the city’s cultural elite, Barnes built his innovative school, called the Barnes Foundation, seven minutes from downtown on a twelve-acre arboretum insulated from the new parkway and the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Barnes’ primary passion was educating the underprivileged. As Panero details, Barnes was “deeply impressed by John Dewey’s Democracy and Education” and “believed that the development of cognitive skills, rather than the memorization of facts, was the key to education…In arranging his art on the wall, Barnes…dispensed with labels, period rooms, chronological order, and the solemnity of your typical white-walled gallery. Instead, with his art hanging floor to ceiling, Barnes let the harmony of shapes and forms sing for itself. He wanted his collection to enliven the eye, not confound it with facts. He believed his students would be able to see the visual connections between disparate works, styles, and periods, and learn from those associations without the benefit of words.”

"In arranging his art on the wall, Barnes...dispensed with labels, period rooms, chronological order, and the solemnity of your typical white-walled gallery." (Photo: Room 18, east wall © 2012 The Barnes Foundation)

When the Philadelphia art establishment ridiculed Barnes' collection, he wrote a series of fiery letters in reply. Barnes wrote that the Philadelphia Museum of Art was a “house of artistic and intellectual prostitution” and claimed that the main function of museums “has been to serve as a pedestal upon which a clique of socialites pose as patrons of the arts.” (Photo © The Barnes Foundation)

During his lifetime, Barnes maintained tight control over access to the collection, requiring visitors to write and request appointments and giving preference to students and the working class over members of Philadelphia society. Writers James A. Michener and T.S. Eliot were among the visitors personally rejected by Barnes. In 1928, The New Yorker noted, “In order to get the honest reaction of a simple mind to art…[Barnes] called in a negro truck-driver who was delivering coal, plumped him down in front of a Cézanne, and asked for an opinion.”

Barnes had witnessed the Philadelphia Museum of Art take control of the collection of his late lawyer, John Johnson, and tried to prevent the same from happening to his own collection. The Foundation’s Indenture of Trust and other documents stated that the Barnes Foundation was to remain an educational institution, open to the public only two to three days a week. His art collection was to stay on the walls of the foundation in exactly the places the works were at the time of his death and could never be loaned or sold.

Until the very end, Barnes was true to his stubborn, self-destructive reputation. Panero vividly describes Barnes’ unexpected death:

“It was sunny and hot on July 24, 1951, and Barnes seemed distracted after his Sunday dinner at Ker-Feal, his country farm. Barnes decided to return to Merion. He loaded his dog, Fidèle, into his Packard and began the 25-mile drive. There was a stop sign on Route 29, near Phoenixville—Barnes had objected to its installation and refused to observe it. He blasted through the intersection and barreled directly into a 10-ton trailer truck. The 79-year-old’s body was thrown 40 feet from the car. Fidèle, near dead herself, would not allow state troopers near her crumpled master. She had to be shot.”

According to Panero, although Andrew Carnegie and John D. Rockefeller were much wealthier than Albert Barnes during their lifetimes, today the value of the art assets of the Barnes Foundation are 10 to 20 times greater than either the Carnegie Corporation or the Rockefeller Corporation.

Now, sixty-one years after Barnes’ death, Philadelphia’s politicians are once again banking on the Parkway to revive the city’s reputation and economy. The Benjamin Franklin Parkway, originally named the Fairmount Parkway, is now being dubbed the “Museum Mile,” and the 25-billion dollar Barnes collection–the very collection Barnes insisted remain in Merion–is the latest bait.

One cannot simply plunk a new building along a parkway and expect it to turn a bland strip into a dynamic destination capable of rejuvenating Philadelphia's creative economy. (Aerial view from the Benjamin Franklin Parkway and 20th Street. Photo by Tom Crane © The Barnes Foundation)

You’ll forgive me if I remain skeptical of the hyperbolic PR spin surrounding the Barnes. Everything about this project reeks of commercial repackaging–of the unfortunate trend of “museum as theme park.” (Looking south east at the new Barnes Foundation. Photo © 2012 Tom Crane)

Art for the People

During the collection’s controversial move to the Parkway, the city and foundation’s PR machine has been quick to emphasize the egalitarianism of moving the Barnes seven minutes down the road to the “Museum Mile.” Art for the people has been the ongoing mantra. Art for the people is a cause that is easy to rally behind, though no one involved in this controversial project has been able to agree on the best way to realize this goal. Is it through educational classes like the ones taught for decades in Merion? Is it through increased access and public programming? Do you bring the people to the art or the art to the people?

If you wade through the hyperbole—the political rhetoric, the rants of angry citizens and neighbors unhappy about the collection’s relocation, the foundation’s PR spin, and the conspiracy theories proposed in the fascinating documentary The Art of the Steal—if you can ignore this hype, certain things are clear.

The foundation could have been revitalized in its original location if the right people had been so inclined. There were valuable paintings in Barnes’ personal collection (not the foundation’s) that could have raised much needed funds for building repairs, new programming, and the endowment. And there are plenty of examples of outlying architectural and cultural gems who manage to serve their missions without taking the radical step of dismantling a collection or relocating. It’s true that Barnes’ restrictions needed to be loosened in some capacity, but to move the collection in its entirely was to take the most radical step of all.

Why not partner with a nearby institution, like the Philadelphia Museum of Art, and shuttle visitors from one museum to the other? During the short ride, visitors could be educated about Barnes, his collection, the architecture, and his educational philosophy. I’m sure plenty of museum visitors would have welcomed the fresh air and gardens of Merion. One day, as we all become increasingly overwhelmed by the constant assault of noise, commercialism, and technology, I suspect that the cloistered retreat offered by the foundation’s original location in Merion will be in high demand. Unfortunately, the foundation has traded one of its most valuable resources–the refuge and uniqueness of its collection set amongst historic grounds, buildings, and gardens–for the glamor of a $150 million dollar building and the almighty cultural tourist dollar.

The Barnes Foundation has traded one of its most valuable resources--the refuge and uniqueness of its collection set amongst historic grounds, buildings, and gardens--for the glamor of a $150 million dollar building and the almighty cultural tourist dollar. (Photo: Barnes protest sign courtesy outofordermag.com)

This 1926 painting of Albert C. Barnes by Giorgio de Chirico was on display in the special exhibit area of the new museum.

I won’t recount the entire controversy here (you can watch The Art of the Steal). Long story short, certain politicians and cultural institutions saw that the Barnes Foundation was floundering and took advantage of the opportunity. The foundation’s neighbors in Merion exacerbated the situation by complaining about noise and traffic, but quickly changed their minds when their community gem was at risk of being dismantled. They didn’t want the Barnes, but then they did. By the time they changed their minds and launched a SAVE THE BARNES campaign, it was too late. By then, the cultural machine had a well-crafted narrative ready. Liberate the art and bring it to the people! It was the perfect propaganda, for even Barnes himself believed in education and access first and foremost.

Perusing the Barnes Foundation’s PR materials reveals a carefully orchestrated narrative:

“Dr. Barnes’s Last Will and Testament makes no stipulations about the installation of the Collection in Merion. Among its provisions, it simply restates Dr. Barnes’s prior gift of the Collection to the Foundation. It also addresses the gift of Dr. Barnes’s country estate Ker-Feal and other real estate to the Foundation.”

Seriously? Then what has all of the fuss been about and why did the relocation of the collection require a petition to the Montgomery County Orphans’ Court? I made careful note of the fact that the relocation controversy didn’t even merit a mention in the special exhibit gallery, which details the history of the Barnes Foundation, Barnes the man, and his educational philosophy. The foundation’s new book The Barnes Foundation: Masterworks (2012), which was selling like hotcakes in the museum gift shop, also fails to mention the relocation controversy.

I made careful note of the fact that the relocation controversy didn't even merit a mention in the special exhibit gallery, which details the history of the Barnes Foundation, Barnes the man, and his educational philosophy. The foundation's new book "The Barnes Foundation: Masterworks," which was selling like hotcakes in the museum gift shop, also fails to mention the relocation controversy. (Photo © Roger Barone)

A defaced Barnes protest sign on a lawn in Merion (Photo by William Thomas Ternay courtesy Postcards from Philly)

(Photo by William Thomas Ternay courtesy Postcards from Philly)

For the most part, it appears the PR campaign has been successful. Major critics like Peter Schjeldahl and Roberta Smith have declared the museum a success, and while I was visiting the Barnes, an old man in his 80s in an U.S. Air Force ball cap leaned against his daughter as he explored the new building. In the main room on the first floor I overheard him telling a story about attending classes at the foundation as a young man. Exhausted, he parked himself on a bench next to me and gazed up at Matisse’s The Dance on the south wall. “Well I’m glad they finally brought the art here where everyone can see it,” he said proudly. “It’s all too beautiful to be hidden away.”

The truth is that everything about the Barnes collection has been askew from the very beginning. It started with Barnes and his desire to stick it to Philadelphia’s cultural elite. He did this by collecting controversial modern art, opening his own school, limiting who could attend, and giving precedent to the working and middle classes over the wealthy and the famous. A second twist of the knife came when Barnes left his collection to Lincoln University, an historically African-American college. Though Barnes was friends with Horace Mann Bond, the university’s first black president, he also knew good and well that handing his valuable collection over to Lincoln was a way of  depriving Philadelphia’s art establishment. Intention is everything and the ripples caused by Barnes’ project were poisoned with ill-will from the start.

In the main room on the first floor I overheard an old man in an U.S. Air Force ball cap telling his daughter a story about attending classes at the foundation as a young man. Exhausted, he parked himself on a bench next to me and gazed up at Matisse's "The Dance" on the south wall. "Well I'm glad they finally brought the art here where everyone can see it," he said proudly. "It's all too beautiful to be hidden away." (Photo © Michael Moran courtesy of Architectural Record)

From the second floor galleries, visitors get a marvelous look at Matisse's "The Dance," which was tucked away and difficult to see in the old space. (Photo by Rick Echelmeyer © 2012 Barnes Foundation)

How (Not) to Reinvent a Cultural Institution

No institution, no parkway or city surrounding it, is fixed. Places, even the most historic ones, are dynamic and changing and shouldn’t be mothballed and left to fade into obscurity. Dioramas will be refurbished as style (and insect damage) dictates, plumbing will be upgraded, new pieces will be bought, and old pieces sold, text panels will morph into screens, and screens into projections, and the words on the wall will also change as new research requires revision to the official narrative. And this is just as it should be.

From 2009-2012 the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston, perhaps the Barnes’ closest equivalent in the U.S., took the radical and controversial step of building a Renzo Piano addition to the museum in an effort to revitalize attendance and programming. The addition was contentious and required a visit to the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts, but the central difference between the Gardner Museum and the Barnes Foundation is that Gardner’s original vision and legacy remained intact. It is hard to imagine city and museum officials deciding to relocate the Gardner collection elsewhere, while leaving its original home vacant. It would be unthinkable.

There are many ways for an institution to recreate itself–some better than others. To separate artwork from its context is the worst sacrilege of all, particularly for an idiosyncratic collection like Barnes’, which was meant to be seen in a specific setting. It’s true that the foundation needed to be reinvented in some capacity, as well as stabilized financially. It needed more transparency and quality leadership capable of establishing priorities and reinventing the institution. But the idea that the collection was being held hostage or needed to be rescued is hyperbolic adspeak. After all, this isn’t World War II. There were no art-rabid Nazis or destructive dictators at the Barnes’ doorstep–only powerful political figures who saw that the Barnes Foundation, in its weakened condition, was ripe for the picking.

The best art and architecture is by nature radical and unconventional in some respect---if not radical politically, then radical to the senses. Barnes' collection was the most radical art collection of its day and the building he created it for it was carefully designed to showcase this unique, original work. (Photo: Room 23, West Wall © 2012 The Barnes Foundation)

Henri Rousseau, "Woman Walking in an Exotic Forest (Femme se promenant dans un forêt exotique)," 1905. Oil on canvas, 39 3/8 x 31 3/4 in. (100 x 80.6 cm). (Photo: © 2012 The Barnes Foundation)

Barnes’ restrictions handicapped the institution from the start. As Panero details, Barnes “limited the salaries of the foundation’s employees without mechanisms that could account for inflation. He restricted any changes to the collection or to the facility’s grounds. Perhaps most importantly, he restricted the investment of the foundation’s endowment, restrictions to which the Old Guard scrupulously adhered. During Barnes’ lifetime, the indenture granted that the endowment could be invested in ‘any good securities.’ After his death, however, the corpus could only be invested in federal, state, and municipal bonds. Over time, this restriction severely eroded the endowment.” The inflationary decades after Barnes’ death dealt a further blow to the endowment. According to Panero, by the early 1970s, says former Girard banker and Barnes trustee David Rawson, the endowment “had lost money.”

Here is Panero:

“Repeatedly, Rawson made recommendations for the foundation to file a petition in the Orphans’ Court of Pennsylvania to allow the endowment to be invested in a more diversified portfolio, including securities, rather than exclusively in public bonds. While this would be contrary to Barnes’ stated wishes, such a move, he maintained, was the only way the endowment could keep up with an inflationary climate that Barnes had not anticipated while crafting his indenture.

In retrospect, it may appear unfortunate for the foundation that the other trustees voted these motions down. According to this line of thinking, the board’s decision may have honored the letter of Barnes’ indenture, but it imperiled the collection by not allowing the endowment to keep pace with the foundation’s operational needs. The early trustees appear to have preserved the rules of the bylaws at the expense of the collection and the overall health of the foundation. It seems like a reversal of priorities.”

"During Barnes’ lifetime, the indenture granted that the endowment could be invested in 'any good securities.' After his death, however, the corpus could only be invested in federal, state, and municipal bonds. Over time, this restriction severely eroded the endowment." (Photo of Albert C. Barnes courtesy The Barnes Foundation)

The cultural machine had a well-crafted narrative ready. Liberate the art and bring it to the people! It was the perfect propaganda, for even Barnes himself believed in education and access first and foremost. (Photo: Room 6, East Wall. The Barnes Foundation, Philadelphia. © 2012 Tom Crane courtesy The Barnes Foundation)

When the relocation of the Barnes collection finally reached the courts, the foundation’s future was placed in the hands of one man, Judge Stanley Ott.

The best art and architecture is by nature radical and unconventional in some respect—if not radical politically, then radical to the senses (think of Picasso’s Guernica, Matisse’s The Dance, or Frank Gehry’s museum in Bilbao.) Barnes’ collection was the most radical art collection of its day and the building he created it for it was carefully designed to showcase this unique, original work.

But with a simple court ruling, Judge Ott undermined Barnes’ singular  vision with something more pernicious than dismantling the collection or forever embalming it in Merion. Middle ground was Ott’s solution. A compromise that neither left Barnes’ legacy intact nor liberated it from its strictures. Judge Otto ruled that the collection could be moved but insisted that the layout and design of the original galleries, including Barnes’ eccentric ensembles, be recreated in Williams and Tsien’s new building. Otto’s decision has now saddled the city of Philadelphia with a recreation–a fake version of Merion’s original galleries tucked inside a modern shell. As Christopher Hawthorne writes in Architectural Record, “the galleries suggest a high-culture, painstaking version of Disneyfication.”

Architects Tsien and Williams were left with their hands tied. Their difficult challenge was to create something original and spectacular within the limitations set by the judge. Not an easy task. The architects were also publicly criticized for accepting the Barnes commission. “People made snide comments to us,” Tsien told the Inquirer. “There was a shocking amount of animosity.”

Le Bonheur de vivre Room. Tsien and Williams excel at architectural details like the flooring seen here. The Barnes Foundation, Philadelphia. (Photo © 2012 Tom Crane courtesy The Barnes Foundation)

"The loveliest feature on the outside of the new building is the wooden, white-oak windows, modeled after the original building in Merion." (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

A Museum with No Front

As I cross the Benjamin Franklin Parkway and make my way to the sidewalk, I take in the front of Tod Williams and Billie Tsien’s new building. The loveliest feature is the wooden, white-oak windows, modeled after the original building in Merion, but the “front” of the new Barnes Museum is really a facade, for no one is going to be entering or exiting the new building from the Parkway. If city planners are still hoping to revitalize foot traffic by building shops, restaurants, and other small structures there, then the museum’s design is a blow against the idea. In Albert Barnes’ day, auto-friendly, landscaped parkways were in fashion, but we have since learned that multi-lane highways built for speed, no matter how attractive the landscaping, are not very inviting to pedestrians. The new Barnes was a rare opportunity to engage the city’s foot traffic. Unfortunately, the designers failed to put down the welcome mat.

The architects conceived of the building as having four sides rather than a traditional front and a back. To the south on the Parkway, the building is surrounded by landscaped gardens, which are still under construction. To the east, along 20th Street, an entry canopy allows drop-off by taxi, car, or shuttle. To the northeast, sits an entry gate and free-standing, glass ticket booth. The unattractive west side of the site is used for a loading dock and a central utility plant. Along the north is the vast parking lot, which Barnes Foundation trustees insisted be part of the design after facing so many parking controversies at the Merion location. The 76-car parking lot has 3 electric charging stations, 4 handicapped parking spaces, 5 carpooling spaces and 5 energy-efficient-vehicle parking spaces, but discourages pedestrian access from the street, detracts from the overall design, and cuts the new museum off from the city.

Along the north is the vast parking lot, which Barnes Foundation trustees insisted be part of the design after facing so many parking controversies at the Merion location. The 76-car parking lot has 3 electric charging stations, 4 handicapped parking spaces, 5 carpooling spaces and 5 energy-efficient-vehicle parking spaces, but discourages pedestrian access from the street, detracts from the overall design, and cuts the new museum off from the city. (Photo courtesy The Barnes Foundation Philadelphia. © 2012 Tom Crane)

The architects conceived of the building as having four sides rather than a traditional front and a back. I found that the prominent metal gates surrounding the building unwelcoming. (Photo © The Barnes Foundation)

The architects chose to place the replicated galleries in the same orientation as they were in Merion, meaning the new gallery windows would face south,  just like the original windows did. The architects argue that a four-sided building allowed them to move visitors through the galleries in the order that Barnes originally intended. “The decision seemed a blatant violation of Urban Planning 101,” writes architecture critic Inga Saffron. “Williams, however, defends the solution. ‘We wanted there to be a delay in the procession,’ he explained. ‘I’ll go down in flames on the rightness of the idea.’”

But a building without a front creates new challenges for visitors. While all of the entrances eventually lead to the reflecting pool and specially commissioned sculpture The Barnes Totem by Ellsworth Kelly standing at Neubauer Plaza, I suffered several moments of confusion when I spied the glass ticket booth partially hidden behind the plaza sign, wondering if it was necessary to leave the main courtyard and then return again.

A building without a front creates new challenges for visitors. While all of the entrances eventually lead to the reflecting pool and specially commissioned sculpture The Barnes Totem by Ellsworth Kelly standing at Neubauer Plaza, I suffered several moments of confusion when I spied the glass ticket booth partially hidden behind the plaza sign, wondering if it was necessary to leave the main courtyard and then return again. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The museum's interior is stronger than the outside, which is mausoleum-like in appearance. The landscape design also left me unimpressed, though to be fair to Laurie Olin, the plants are young and the work isn't finished. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The design of the museum’s interior is stronger than the outside, which is mausoleum-like in appearance. The patchwork of squares on the building’s exterior made of fossilized, Israeli limestone is meant to mimic the patterning found in African Kuba cloths, while the deep stainless steel recesses between the stone panels are reminiscent of the ornamental metal objects that Barnes included in his ensembles. The limestone, called Ramon Gray, is also a nod to Paul Phillipe Cret’s original material selection of a French limestone for the Merion Gallery. Each stone super-panel weighs approximately 4,800 pounds. It sounds good in theory, but unfortunately, the idea is better than reality.

The building is slated to achieve LEED Platinum certification from the United States Green Building Council (though 110 shipping containers were needed to bring the limestone across the Atlantic Ocean, a fact I doubt was factored into the building’s overall carbon footprint).

The landscape design also left me unimpressed, though to be fair to Laurie Olin, the plants are young and the work isn’t finished. The 140-foot-long tabletop fountain made from solid Canadian black granite was not completed during my visit, which left visitors with no outdoor seating or gathering space. I resorted to sitting awkwardly on the lawn and jotting down notes about the metal gates nearby. Like the parking lot, I found the proliferation of utilitarian-looking gates unwelcoming.

The patchwork of squares on the building's exterior made of fossilized, Israeli limestone is meant to mimic the patterning found in African Kuba cloths, while the deep stainless steel recesses between the stone panels are reminiscent of the ornamental metal objects that Barnes included in his ensembles. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The 140-foot-long tabletop fountain made from solid Canadian black granite was not completed during my visit, which left visitors with no outdoor seating or gathering space. I resorted to sitting awkwardly on the lawn and jotting down notes about the metal gates nearby. (Fountain Rendering © 2012 The Barnes Foundation

As Inga Saffron points out in the Philadelphia Inquirer, “the hard truth is that the architects sacrificed the street for the collection. Olin’s entry garden, at 20th and the Parkway, is the Barnes’ attempt to compensate the city for the loss. The centerpiece will be an elevated water table dotted with water lilies where the public can sit. Two rows of lacy conifers already give the gentle climb up to the Callowhill entrance the feel of a mountain pilgrimage, with the old Granary looming above like a summit crag. Though lovely, it’s unlikely to become a locus of activity.” We’ll have to wait and see.

The 200-foot-long reflecting pool laid out behind Ellsworth Kelly’s bland sculpture is a lovely addition and contrasts nicely with the limestone and red maples lining the walkway. The pool is approximately 6” deep and covered in gray, polished Mexican beach pebbles that give the surface a dark luminous. This water feature is interrupted at two points, first at a “bridge” that leads visitors to the front doors and again when it tucks beneath a cantilevered concrete wall to flow into the sheltered restaurant garden. The pool fools the eye and appears to be at the same level as the sidewalk. It is a skillful touch–one that gave me the sense that I was floating as I entered the museum.

The 200-foot-long reflecting pool laid out behind Ellsworth Kelly's bland sculpture is a lovely addition and contrasts nicely with the limestone and red maples lining the walkway. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The pool is approximately 6” deep and covered in gray, polished Mexican beach pebbles that give the surface a dark luminous. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The pool is interrupted at a “bridge” that leads visitors to the front doors of museum. The pool fools the eye and appears to be at the same level as the sidewalk. It is a skillful touch--one that gave me the sense that I was floating as I entered the museum. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Interior Details that Sing

Once inside, the design improves. Williams and Tsien excel at the use of textures. The floors in the Barnes are particularly striking. The nearly 200-foot-long ipe wood “rug” in the massive light court is laid in a herringbone pattern from reclaimed boards taken from the renovation of Coney Island Boardwalks in Brooklyn, New York. I also loved the glimpses of the outdoor pool through a number of well-placed windows. One of the best examples is a small, horizontal window that appears at floor-level in the corner of the special exhibition gallery. The window and water view were so compelling that I immediately walked over to it, momentarily forgetting the art and photographs on the wall.

Williams and Tsien have followed the court’s order and duplicated the Merion galleries inside the new structure. But the architects have made a brilliant addition–small, glass-lined rooms that provide glimpses of a miniature garden while passing from one gallery to the next. Albert Barnes’ ensembles are so spectacular and overwhelming that this visual break offers a much-needed respite for the eyes. The architects’ idea to create “gallery in a garden, garden in a gallery” is entirely successful from an interior perspective. Adding education classrooms between galleries is also a useful design element.

Williams and Tsien have followed the court's order and duplicated the Merion galleries inside the new structure. But the architects have made a brilliant addition--small, glass-lined rooms that provide glimpses of a miniature garden while passing from one gallery to the next. (Photo The Barnes Foundation © 2012 Tom Crane)

The floors in the Barnes are particularly striking. The nearly 200-foot-long ipe wood “rug” in the massive light court is laid in a herringbone pattern from reclaimed boards taken from the renovation of Coney Island Boardwalks in Brooklyn, New York. (Photo: The Barnes Foundation, Philadelphia. © 2012 Tom Crane)

Williams and Tsien excel at the use of textures. I also loved the glimpses of the outdoor pool through a number of well-placed windows. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The architects' idea to create “gallery in a garden, garden in a gallery” is entirely successful from an interior perspective. (Photo: Looking into the Gallery Garden and Library. The Barnes Foundation © 2012 Tom Crane)

With a few exceptions, the transitions the architects create when moving from room to room and space to space are memorable and show Williams and Tsien’s remarkable attention to detail. From the second floor galleries, visitors get a marvelous look at Matisse’s The Dance, which was tucked away and difficult to see in the old space. One notable exception…Several visitors, myself included, became disoriented on the mezzanine, which divides the first flight of stairs, leading to the second floor, from the second flight. The landing is filled with art and draws museum-goers away from the steps and to the platform. Somehow the second flight of stairs, which is dark and unassuming, becomes invisible in this process of looking at the art.

A group of us wandered back and forth trying to determine if there really was a second floor to the museum or not, and if so, how to get to it. I finally realized that the staircase had been hiding behind our backs all along. Curious if my group was alone in its confusion, I stood on the landing for a while watching new visitors arrive. One group of women climbed the first flight of steps, perused the art on the mezzanine, then turned around and headed back down the same stairwell. “Well, I guess that’s it,” one woman said as she headed back to the first floor.

Several visitors, myself included, became disoriented on the mezzanine, which divides the first flight of stairs, leading to the second floor, from the second flight. One group of women climbed the first flight of steps, perused the art on the mezzanine, then turned around and headed back down the same stairwell. "Well, I guess that's it," one woman said as she headed back to the first floor. (Photo courtesy Visit Philly)

The controlled, natural light that illuminates the upstairs rooms and massive light court makes the building's interior glow. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

"While the oversized light court offered me another needed break from the busy, cluttered galleries overflowing with breathtaking art, I felt adrift inside of it." (Photo © 2012 The Barnes Foundation)

Much has been written about the improved lighting in the new galleries, which is thoughtfully done. The controlled, natural light that illuminates the upstairs rooms and massive light court makes the building’s interior glow. While the oversized light court offered me another needed break from the busy, cluttered galleries overflowing with breathtaking art, I felt adrift inside of it. Sitting in the atrium, I imagined that this was how shipbuilders felt when working inside the empty hull of a massive luxury liner. But unlike a shipyard, the well-heeled passengers were already on-board at the Barnes. By the end of my visit, the light court had been transformed into a party scene, with a bar, live band, frilly orange table cloths and well-dressed men and women sipping wine and gin and tonics.

Now that the parties are over and the white, event tents have disappeared from the museum’s new lawn, critics like Lee Rosenbaum are beginning to question the new museum’s income-producing capabilities:

“Derek Gillman, the Barnes’ president and executive director, told me that his institution’s financial model calls for it to raise a hefty 60 percent of its estimated $14-million annual operating budget through attendance-dependent earned income—admissions, retail and restaurant sales, parking fees, etc. And while it wants to raise $100 million in endowment, it only had (as of May 16) some $30 million in hand, with another $30 million in pledges. This looks uncomfortably like a familiar but worrisome post-construction gambit: ‘If we build it, they’ll fund.’”

I sense a post-party hangover developing.

Sitting in the atrium, I imagined that this was how shipbuilders felt when working inside the empty hull of a massive luxury liner. But unlike a shipyard, the well-heeled passengers were already on-board at the Barnes. By the end of my visit, the light court had been transformed into a party scene, with a bar, live band, frilly orange table cloths and well-dressed men and women sipping wine and gin and tonics. (Photo: A cocktail reception in the Annenberg Court © 2012 The Barnes Foundation)

There is no denying that the Barnes Foundation collection is jaw-droppingly gorgeous. (Photo: Vincent van Gogh, "The Postman (Joseph-Étienne Roulin)," 1889. Oil on canvas, 25 7/8 x 21 3/4 in. (65.7 x 55.2 cm). © 2012 The Barnes Foundation)

A Multi-Million-Dollar Jewel Box

There is no denying that the Barnes Foundation collection is jaw-droppingly gorgeous. (I”ll be writing more about the collection itself in an upcoming post). In this age of massive installations and art-as-spectacle, the Barnes collection is a reminder that art can still be a personal, intimate experience. I can’t remember having such a deep and moving encounter with art in my lifetime. It’s not only the Cezannes, Modrians, and Matisses that will take your breath away, but also smaller works by lesser known artists like Horace Pippin, Kaldis, Settani, and Ortega.

It’s true that Barnes’ ensembles can be overwhelming to the eye and don’t always work as a whole, but one of the advantages to his arrangement is the lack of text panels. Their absence means that museum-goers actually take the time to look at the art itself, instead of heading straight for the explanation. I spent many enjoyable hours sitting on Stephen Lino’s walnut benches studying various paintings. The Benches double as housing for information cards for each gallery. In the first floor gallery classroom, a massive 13-foot-long walnut table, made from one sheet of wood, serves students and visitors who wish to pause and explore the collection catalogs or discuss the experience of viewing the collection. But more about the Barnes collection in my next post.

I spent many enjoyable hours sitting on Stephen Lino's walnut benches studying various paintings. The Benches double as housing for information cards for each gallery. (Photo: Room 18, north west view. The Barnes Foundation, Philadelphia. © 2012 Tom Crane)

In this age of massive installations and art-as-spectacle, the Barnes collection is a reminder that art can still be a personal, intimate experience. I can’t remember having such a deep and moving encounter with art in my lifetime. (Photo: Amedeo Modigliani, "Redheaded Girl in Evening Dress (Jeune fille rousse en robe de soir)," 1918. Oil on canvas, 45 3/4 x 28 3/4 in. © 2012 The Barnes Foundation)

While the city of Philadelphia has gained a multimillion dollar jewel-box on its Parkway, it has lost an historic art institution, one with a unique blend of art, horticulture, and architecture.

The construction of an expensive, new museum may attract tourists who are willing to spend $18 on admission, but it is unlikely to be a magnet for artists, particularly with the Parkway’s lack of smaller shops, restaurants, and affordable housing. One cannot simply plunk a new building along a parkway and expect it to turn a bland strip into a dynamic destination capable of rejuvenating Philadelphia’s creative economy.

To create a remarkable and dynamic neighborhood requires an organic mix of creative individuals from various social classes. It requires affordable living and studio space, accessible events, restaurants with varying price points, gallery space for established and emerging artists, small businesses, and a true sense of community. Consider the difference between midtown Manhattan and neighborhoods like the West Village, Lower East Side, or Bushwick and you see a striking example of what kind of organic diversity is needed to build a lively creative economy.

Just next door, the Free Library of Philadelphia is offering one of the best reading and lecture series in the country (its podcast is available for free). If the Barnes Foundation can follow suit and reach out to the community by providing free and affordable concerts, classes, outreach events, lectures, etc. it has a better chance of having a lasting impact on the cultural landscape in Philadelphia.

And let me be clear–by “community” I mean a diverse segment of Philadelphia’s population–one that encompasses both racial and income diversity. After all, this was the whole point of Barnes establishing his foundation in the first place. He would be horrified to learn that his collection had become the hip, new venue on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. The very idea of a “Museum Mile” is against everything Barnes stood for. The city, the media, and the Barnes Foundation’s PR machine will continue to tout the new museum’s accessibility. But at $18 a ticket, accessible to whom? Art for the people? Which people?

You’ll forgive me if I remain skeptical of the hyperbolic PR spin surrounding the Barnes. Everything about this project reeks of commercial repackaging–of the unfortunate trend of “museum as theme park.” In the process of relocating this stunning collection of artwork to fake period rooms, the re-branded Barnes Foundation has not only become a shell of its former self, but it has lost something valuable it’s unlikely to ever regain: its authenticity.

The very idea of a "Museum Mile" is against everything Barnes stood for. The city, the media, and the Barnes Foundation's PR machine will continue to tout the new museum's accessibility. But at $18 a ticket, accessible to whom? Art for the people? Which people? (Photo courtesy The Barnes Foundation)

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Ai Weiwei, "Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn," 1995. Middle view of a triptych of gelatin silver prints, each print 49 5/8” x 39 1/4”. (Photo courtesy dailyserving.com)

Ai Weiwei, "Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn," 1995. Last view of a triptych of gelatin silver prints, each print 49 5/8” x 39 1/4”. (Photo courtesy dailyserving.com)

Ai Weiwei’s Blog: Writings, Interviews, and Digital Rants, 2006-2009 has been good company the past few days. Between 2006 and 2009, Chinese artist Ai Weiwei used his blog as a daily notebook where he posted thousands of photos, documented his artistic practice and personal life, wrote about art and architecture, and turned out a steady stream of scathing social commentary. Over 100,000 people visited the blog on a daily basis until the Chinese government shut Ai’s site down in 2009.

Ai Weiwei is a Renaissance man of sorts, with a broad range of interests. He is a writer, architect, sculptor, curator, poet, critic, publisher, and photographer. In the West, he is probably best known for his spectacular installation Sunflower Seeds at the Tate Modern in London. The work consisted of one hundred million porcelain “seeds,” each individually hand-painted by 1,600 Chinese artisans, and scattered over a large area of Turbine Hall.

In Ai Weiwei's "first large-scale solo exhibition to be held anywhere in the ethnic Chinese world," Taipei Fine Arts Museum's 'Ai Weiwei absent' was a critical success. The highlight was the artist's "Forever Bicycles" installation, which was made specifically for this exhibition out of 1,200 bicycle units. (Photo courtesy thisiscolossol.com)

Herzog and DeMeuron’s Olympic Stadium, fondly referred to by some as the “Bird’s Nest,” is a feat of engineering, an aesthetic marvel. Ai Weiwei served as a consultant on the project. (Photo courtesy Inhabitat.com)

Chinese artist Ai Weiwei holds some porcelain sunflower seeds from his installation at The Tate Modern in London on October 11, 2010. (Photo by Peter Macdiarmid/Getty Images courtesy The Asia Society)

Ai is also a self-taught architect and proponent of authentic, simple design. He has worked on over 70 architectural projects total, including a notable collaboration with Swiss architects Herzog & de Meuron , which resulted in the memorable “Bird’s Nest” stadium for the Beijing Olympics

Recently, Ai has been making headlines for other reasons. On April 3, 2011, the artist was arrested at Peking Airport just before catching a flight to Hong Kong. Around 50 police officers searched Ai’s studio and took away laptops and hard drives. Police also detained eight staff members and Ai’s wife, Lu Qing. The arrest sparked major protests around the world. On 22 June 2011, the Chinese authorities released him on bail after close to three months’ detention on charges of tax evasion. He is prohibited from leaving Beijing without permission for one year.

Ai Weiwei with musician Zuoxiao Zuzhou in the elevator when taken in custody by the police, Sichuan, China, August 2009 (Photo courtesy Ai Weiwei and Christine König Galerie)

One thousand and one antique Chinese chairs for the 1,001 Chinese visitors Ai Weiwei brought to Kassel, Germany, for Documenta 12 (2007) as part of his project, "Fairytale." (Photo Courtesy Ai Weiwei via pbs.org)

Artist Cpak Ming took a series of photographs of flash stencils around Hong Kong after the arrest of Ai Weiwei. The photographer received a firm warning from the Chinese government after photographing this piece of flash graffiti on the side of the People’s Liberation Army barracks in Admiralty, Hong Kong. Next to Ai's Weiwei's face are the words: "Who's Afraid of Ai Weiwei?" (Photo by Cpak Ming courtesy mymodernmet.com)

In his art practice, Ai has actively embraced technology. “I think the Internet and information era is the greatest period mankind has encountered,” Ai told Hans Ulrich Obrist in the book Ai Weiwei Speaks. “Thanks to this period, humans finally have the opportunity to become independent, to acquire information and communicate independently…I think that art won’t have too grand or too much of a future if it fails to connect with today’s lifestyles and technologies.”

For Ai, virtual reality is as important as reality itself. He believes that all art is social in its way and  that technology can bolster the power and reach of art, particularly in oppressed societies. Ai’s first blog post was one sentence: “You need a purpose to express yourself, but that expression is its own purpose.”

In 2007 Ai used his blog to create a compelling work titled Fairytale. Using the internet, he recruited 1,001 Chinese people who had never been to Europe to wander around the town of Kassel Germany during Documenta. As someone who spent 12 years in New York City, Ai understood the power of travel and hoped Fairytale would change the lives of those 1,001 individuals who made the trip to Europe.

Ai viewed his blog as an essential extension of his own art practice. “The blog is like my drawing,” he told Obrist. “Whatever I say there could be seen as part of my work. It gives the most information: it shows my complete surroundings.” As Obrist has observed, “Blogging produces reality rather than simply representing it.” Ai completed over 2,700 posts before the Chinese government shut down his site.

Lee Ambrozy has assembled and translated a marvelous selection of Ai’s writings for Ai Weiwei’s Blog.  There are a number of compelling pieces, including one piece titled “Who Are You?”

Ai begins his post by discussing style, choice, and the language of design. He says that we have two choices when it comes to how we respond to the world around us. We can attempt to find our place with the goal of finding harmony, or we can simply announce ourselves. We can either say, “‘I am you, you and I are the same,’” or “”I am myself, I am different from all of you.’” As Ai points out, these self-definitions are influenced by politics, culture, economics, etc.

“The things you create—including their limitations—are all embodied through your state of existence,” Ai writes.

“I seek to eliminate those limitations through various alterations, or to make them more obvious; this is entirely possible, and is also another form of expression. I do not have a clear style, nor would I limit myself to popular ones. Life is more exuberant, more meaningful than any style imaginable.”

Ai Weiwei, "Grapes," 2007. Tieli wood (nine Qing Dynasty stools ) 31" x 54" x 63" (Photo courtesy Mary Boone Gallery)

Ai Weiwei, Ai Qing Memorial, 2002, Jinhua Ai Qing Cultural Park, Jinhua, Zhejiang (Photo courtesy of the artist © Ai Weiwei via Art21)

The rest of Ai’s piece, which is a meditation on design and its failure to ask the right questions, is worth quoting in its entirety:

“People today expect to gain status, acceptance, or pleasure from the particular number of square meters in their homes or some set of fixed standards, a life of simply filling in the blanks. The game is so simple, and it’s not something that everyone is prepared to accept…It’s hard for an individual to state his or her mind frankly, or to smile, or to make contact with someone else, or to observe a thing plainly. These might sound easy, but that are not so easily executed.

Innocence and a lack of desire make people wise. Once you perceive a thing straightforwardly, with a clear mind and no obstacles, you will discover that your resources are inexhaustible. This is because your heart is connected to and in harmony with the order of the universe.

This issue is obvious: if you forget your basic philosophy and ethics, design becomes a foundationless activity. In truth, design is touching upon this question every second, that is, how much will I take, and how much will you give? Do I give and take in equal measure? A majority of the time, a person’s driving motivation is only to take, or to convey, but what nature of substructure is assisting this conveyance? This is ambiguous, and turns into a cry of neither joy nor pain. You may see at one glance the depth of this person’s torment. Joyful people are also easy to recognize, but what so often leaves us perplexed is the counterbalance that comes after the cry. It stand in contradiction to the system, and to logic.

When people relinquish their intentions, they possess the utmost wisdom, because in the moments when you are not articulating yourself you appear immeasurably large, you become a part of nature. When you act for yourself, you are merely presenting yourself, and in comparison with nature you are infinitely small. This logic is very plain. However, when we forget or abandon ourselves, we can become immeasurably great. Design may appear to be diversiform; however, very little of its any good. True quality, in the form of things that can affect humans on a spirit level, is very rare. Merely thinking something is a good idea may influence only our behavior, but not our minds. It may, for example, offer greater speed or convenience, but what will you do in light of such advantages? And why do we require such convenience or speed? These are important questions, but rarely do designers ask questions at this level. They think, “I need to decorate this wall,” or “This square stool should be round.”—but what are they ornamenting? Our considerations tend to stop at a certain level, on a level that provides a sense of security. How many people willingly locate themselves in a state of insecurity?

No cup can compare to drinking water from your own two hands, and it’s been a long time since we took a drink of water without having to twist off a cap—but wasn’t it wisdom that begat these circumstances? Amid our pursuit of profits and manufacturing possibilities, we’ve placed ourselves on the road to extinction. Simple lifestyle is one way of allowing to find a path to Eden, so why do you want to develop so fast? Will you gain more at such speeds? I find both ideas very attractive, and am constantly subject to their temptation.”

Ai Weiwei, Williamsburg, Brooklyn 1983 (Photo by Ai Weiwei courtesy of Three Shadows Photography Art Centre and Chambers Fine Art)

Another view of Ai Weiwei's "Forever Bicycles"

Ai is right–too often we ask the wrong questions. We are too quick to make assumptions and as a result spend a lot of time and energy solving the wrong problems. Real innovation and change only come when we step outside of familiar patterns, both our own and those of the larger culture. How can an artist expect to make her best work if she is operating on autopilot? The act of questioning the status quo is a healthy impulse. This is the aspiration to be different that Ai refers to.

But I would argue that being different and outside of the popular culture doesn’t necessarily mean we are separate and isolated from the larger world. Quite the contrary. Simplicity, silence, and even uncertainty spur meaningful change. They can allow for greater connection, and can even motivate us to work more deeply as artists.

As Ai writes, “Creativity is the power to act.” It’s the power “to reject the past, to change the status quo, and to seek new potential.”

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Ai Weiwei’s Blog: Writings, Interviews, and Digital Rants, 2006-2009 was edited and translated by Lee Ambrozy and is published by The MIT Press. Above passages from Ai Weiwei’s blog post “Who Are You?” were partly translated by Eric Abrahamsen.

Winter has finally arrived in New Hampshire. We’re expecting about a foot of snow here in the Monadnock region by the time the storm ends Thursday evening. There hasn’t been a single opportunity for snowshoeing this year, which I’ve missed.

Snowshoeing has been on my mind…This week I noticed these snow photographs popping up again and again on Facebook, Inhabitat, and other sites. Curious about their original source, I did a little digging and discovered the official Facebook page of Simon Beck, an artist who creates these incredible designs by walking in the snow with snowshoes.

The Oxford-educated, self-employed map maker creates these designs on the frozen lakes in the valley of Savoie, France, just outside of the ski slopes at Les Arcs resort. An average work is the size of three soccer fields and takes about two days to complete.

The biggest challenge for Beck (besides getting overly tired) is finding a way to reduce the visibility of his own tracks when he begins and finishes a piece. Sometimes, he might work all day only to have his design covered by fresh snow overnight. At other times, he finishes a design right at sunset and doesn’t have enough light remaining to photograph his work properly. But the inability to predict the outcome is part of the fun.

Snow Artist Simon Beck (Photo courtesy Now That's Nifty)

I love the simplicity of Beck’s method, and the impermanence of each piece. Personally, I’m partial to Beck’s simpler designs that rely more on line and texture for their effect. A number of the designs are reminiscent of crop circles and other patterns from ancient art.

All of the photographs I’ve seen flying around the web are from Beck’s official Facebook page, which is where he posts his latest work for the public to peruse. There are also a large number of beautiful pieces Beck made between 2009 and 2011 in this photo album on the artist’s personal page. You WON’T find these images anywhere else, and many of my favorite images can be found there.

Simon Beck's Snow Art (Photo courtesy Inhabitat)

The remnants of one of Beck's designs can still be see on the melting surface of Lac des Combes. A few hours after this photo was taken, the ice completely disappeared. (Photo courtesy Inhabitat)

If you enjoyed Beck’s snow art, please share this post with others.

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The end of The High Line as seen from street level (Photo Courtesy Wired NY)

If you’re fed up with partisan bickering and political dysfunction in Washington, the gratifying, lavishly-illustrated book High Line: The Inside Story of New York City’s Park in the Sky, just published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, might temper your burgeoning cynicism. The book is a lesson in what can be accomplished in the face of overwhelming skepticism and bureaucracy.

The new High Line park in New York City deserves to be celebrated not only for its innovative design, but also for the grass-roots collaboration that made the improbable idea of converting a derelict elevated railway on Manhattan’s West Side into a beautiful green space a reality.

(Photo Courtesy Urban Design Review)

The High Line is one of the most important public projects in New York City in decades, and the ultimate example of how fruitful a cross-pollination among various disciplines can be. The book’s authors, Robert Hammond and Joshua David, had no prior experience in planning and development (one journalist referred to them as “a pair of nobodies”), but this didn’t stop them from collaborating with artists, elected officials, neighbors, local business owners, horticulturists, and landscape architects to realize their vision.

This is a story about two ordinary guys taking on a behemoth bureaucracy and actually winning.”I didn’t understand the complexity of what we were getting into,” Hammond says in the book. “We would need to become versed in urban planning, architecture, and City politics, raise millions of dollars, and give years of our lives to the High Line.”

Phase 2 of the High Line in 2011 (Photo by Iwan Baan Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

This industrial structure has a fascinating history. The first street-level railroad tracks were built on Manhattan’s West Side in 1847. So many accidents occurred between freight trains and street traffic that 10th Avenue became known as Death Avenue. In an effort to improve safety, men on horses, called West Side Cowboys, rode in front of trains waving red flags.

After years of public debate about the hazard, the High Line was built in the 1930s as part of a massive public-private infrastructure project called the West Side Improvement. The elevated railway lifted freight traffic 30 feet in the air, removing dangerous trains from the streets of Manhattan’s largest industrial district.

The new High Line connected directly to warehouses and factories on its route, allowing the trains to deliver milk, meat, produce, and other goods right inside buildings. This innovative design also reduced theft for the Bell Laboratories Building (now the Westbeth Artists Community), and the Nabisco plant, (now Chelsea Market). The entire project was 13 miles long, eliminated 105 street-level railroad crossings, added 32 acres to Riverside Park, and cost over $150 million in 1930 dollars—more than $2 billion today.

Before the High Line was built, trains ran at street level. Conditions along 10th Avenue were so bad that it was nicknamed "Death Avenue." (Photo Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

For safety, the railroads hired men – the "West Side Cowboys" – to ride horses and wave flags in front of the trains. (Photo Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

The city’s solution was to build a 22-block long elevated railway, or High Line. (Photo Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

An archival photo showing construction of the original High Line (Photo Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

Construction of the Elevated Railway on Gansevoort Street Looking North (Photo Courtesy the NY Historical Society)

The elevated railroad on the West Side of Manhattan is it appeared in 1934 (Photographer unknown)

By the 1950s, the popularity of interstate trucking reduced rail traffic nationwide. The southern section of the High Line was demolished in the 60s. In 1980 the last train ran on the High Line pulling three carloads of frozen turkeys.

In the mid-1980s, a group of property owners with land under the line lobbied for the demolition of the entire structure. Peter Obletz, a Chelsea resident, activist, and railroad enthusiast, challenged the demolition efforts in court and tried to re-establish rail service on the Line.

As the line sat unused, it became known to a few urban explorers and local residents for the tough, drought-tolerant wild grasses, shrubs, and trees that had sprung up in the gravel along the abandoned railway. The photographer Joel Sternfeld shot some striking photographs of the High Line during this period. His book, Joel Sternfeld: Walking the High Line, is a transporting glimpse at this rusty, derelict structure before it was reclaimed.

Peter Obletz, a Chelsea resident, activist, and railroad enthusiast, challenged the demolition efforts in court and tried to re-establish rail service on the Line. This photo shows Obletz outside his home in 1983. (Photo by Peter Richards Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

As the line sat unused, it became known to a few urban explorers and local residents for the tough, drought-tolerant wild grasses, shrubs, and trees that had sprung up in the gravel along the abandoned railway. The photographer Joel Sternfeld shot some striking photographs of the High Line during this period. (Photo © Joel Sternfeld Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

(Photo © Joel Sternfeld Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

(Photo © Joel Sternfeld Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

(Photo © Joel Sternfeld Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

Section 2 of the High Line near 29th Street in Winter 2007. Before the park was built, a High Line neighbor would decorate this tree every winter. (Caption and Photo Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

In 1999 David and Hammond met at a community board meeting to consider the fate of the High Line. They loved the ruin and saw it as an opportunity to create a new public space in Manhattan. They formed the non-profit Friends of the High Line that same year and began the difficult job of slashing through red tape and rallying political and neighborhood support.

In 2002 the project received city funding, and the following year 720 architecture teams from 36 countries submitted design ideas for the new park. The selected team was James Corner Field Operations, a landscape architecture firm, Diller Scofidio + Renfro, an architecture firm, planting designer Piet Oudolf, plus various experts in horticulture, engineering, security, maintenance, and public art.

The southernmost section of the High Line, from Gansevoort Street to 20th Street, opened as a city park on June 8, 2009. The middle section opened in June of this year.

The High Line under construction (Photo Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

Planting the High Line (Photo Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

The High Line under construction (Photo Courtesy Friends of The High Line)

Creating a quality logo early in the planning process was essential to the success of the project. (Photo Courtesy Tanenhaus via Flickr Commons)

The new High Line Park (Photo Courtesy the American Society of Landscape Architects)

The High Line at Evening (Photo by Oliver Perrin via Flickr Commons)

In some sections of the park, the old train tracks can be glimpsed in the gardens (Photo Courtesy Tanenhaus via Flickr Commons)

Hammond and David’s candid, insider perspective on this decade-long project is a fascinating read. More than 200 photographs accompany their narrative and reveal the High Line’s history from its days as a street-level track, through it’s abandonment, and its eventual redevelopment. The compelling story of how these two “extraordinary ordinary” guys overcame bureaucracy and naysayers to make their vision a reality is the perfect book for artists, nature-lovers, designers, gardeners, photographers, and railroad buffs.

The High Line is a model reclamation project–one that incorporates green design with site-specific artwork, lively social spaces, quiet refuges, and innovative public programs such as stargazing, gardening, yoga, and snow sculpting. Today, the park is home to more than 200 species of grasses, shrubs, wildflowers, and trees, and hosts as many as 100,000 visitors in a single weekend.

There are many interesting features in the park, including this overlook onto 10th Avenue (Photo Courtesy Phil Photostream via Flickr Commons)

Innovative sidewalk designs integrate well with the surrounding plantings (Photo courtesy Tanenhaus via Flickr Commons)

The Chelsea Market passage at Night (Photo by Dsade via Flickr Commons)

A snow sculpting competition is one of 300 public programs offered in the park. (Photo Courtesy rochesterlandscape.blogspot.com)

Bricks from an old building are now a focal point for those strolling by (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

During one of my visits to the High Line, a couple was getting married in the park. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The grasses on the High Line are particularly well chosen and provide visual interest when summer flowers have long passed. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

In the newest section of the park, open views are offset with jungle-like plantings that enclose passing pedestrians. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

I’ve visited the High Line on two occasions now, and found the park a welcome refuge from the bustle of the city. The designers have employed visual contrast and variation to great effect. There are overgrown, jungle-like tunnels offset by spectacular, open views of the Statue of Liberty and the Hudson River. There are quiet, solitary spots and open-air spaces to gather with friends.

The diversity of activity in the park is a testament to the park’s success. While visiting the High Line last month, I saw joggers, an outdoor wedding, kids playing on the lawn, an elderly couple lounging on the benches, a young woman reading beneath a tree, French tourists photographing the Empire State Building, an artist drawing in his sketchbook, and a father and his two children admiring the birds at Sarah Sze’s art installation Still Life With Landscape (Model for a Habitat).

But what was most striking about my experience on the High Line was the way it altered my perspective of New York City. As I rambled through the park, I found myself gazing over rooftops and water towers, marveling at the gritty brickwork on the side of an old warehouse, peering down a canyon-like side street, catching a glimpse of life through an apartment window, and watching the yellow blur of taxis whir by on the street below. Walking through the park is a bit like a treasure hunt–there are so many hidden surprises awaiting the observant pedestrian.

This is my favorite view of the Empire State Building from the High Line. These spires and rooftops can only be appreciated from above. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The IAC building designed by Frank Gehry as seen through a vine-covered fence (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The side of an old industrial building (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The High Line provides a fascinating glimpse at water towers, roof tiles, chimneys, church steeples, and skyscrapers. The Empire State building and the Statue of Liberty are both visible from the park. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Walking the High Line gives pedestrians a peak at many hidden architectural features in the neighborhood (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Sarah Sze's "Still Life with Landscape" caught the attention of this family; the kids literally shouted with joy when they discovered the sparrows eating seed from the installation. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Sarah Sze's "Still Life with Landscape" acts as a bird, butterfly and insect observatory, with perches, feeding spots and birdbaths throughout. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Emerging from the shooting perspective lines of the landscape of the High Line, Sze's sculpture extends through space like a perspective drawing in three dimensions. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Not only are the benches and decks well-designed, but the color of the wood echoes the bark of the birch trees planted nearby. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

A close-up allows the viewer to appreciate the striking color relationships between the bench, the deck, and the bark of this birch tree. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Autumn leaves glow against this steel and glass skyscraper. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

One of the remarkable features of the High Line is the view it offers of the surrounding rooftops and water towers. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The Empire State Building rises in the distance. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

As Joshua David says in his book, it was the breathtaking view of the city that stirred High Line visitors even before the space became a park:

“We went north, to the square over Tenth Avenue. On one side, you could see the Hudson River, out to the Statue of Liberty. On the other side, you could lean on the railing and watch the cars on Tenth Avenue flowing underneath you. Then we rounded a curve and discovered, stretching out in front of us, this incredible straightaway that went all the way from Seventeenth Street up to Thirtieth Street, thirteen blocks long, with a view of the Empire State Building. It was a shock to see how beautiful it was. There was this tremendous sense of space. I’d passed it a million times and I hadn’t known it was there, hidden away in plain sight. You think of hidden things as small. That is how they stay hidden. But this hidden thing was huge. A huge space in New York City that had somehow escaped everybody’s notice.There was a powerful sense of the passing of time. You could see what the High Line was built for, and feel that its moment had slipped away.”

The High Line profoundly changed my relationship to the city’s architecture. Glassy office buildings, cornices, bricked-up windows, ceramic roof tiles, and industrial remains have never looked so good. The park’s design team has thoughtfully framed these features with plants, trees, and shrubs that complement in color and texture. There is so much to see here–layer upon layer of earth, steel, brick, light, vegetation, wood, and water.

A bricked up window in an old industrial building (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Four light bulbs shine from the windows of a nearby building (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Another view of the Empire State Building (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Plantings like these provide visual interest in autumn and winter. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The High Line in Autumn (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

In some places the old railroad tracks have been incorporated into the landscape design (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

There are many canyon-like vistas from the park. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Autumn Flowers (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Plantings have been carefully chosen for their visual impact throughout the seasons. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

An apartment situated beside the High Line (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

View from the High Line (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Spencer Finch's "The River That Flows Both Ways" in the Chelsea Market Passage (Photo Courtesy Phil Photostream via Flickr Commons)

From a tugboat drifting on Manhattan's west side and past the High Line, Finch photographed the Hudson River's surface once every minute. The color of each pane of glass was based on a single pixel point in each photograph and arranged chronologically in the tunnel’s existing steel mullions. Time is translated into a grid, reading from left to right and top to bottom, capturing the varied reflective and translucent conditions of the water's surface. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

In "River That Flows Both Ways" the work, like the river, is experienced differently depending on the light levels and atmospheric conditions of the site. The glass reveals Finch's impossible quest for the color of water. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The inclusion of site-specific art on the High Line is also an integral part of the park’s success. During my visits, artworks on view included Spencer Finch’s The River That Flows Both Ways in the Chelsea Market Passage, Sarah Sze’s Still Life With Landscape (Model for a Habitat), Kim Beck’s Space Available, and Julianne Swartz’s Digital Empathy.

“I hope the High Line will encourage people to pursue all sorts of crazy projects,” Hammond says in his book, “even if they seem, as the High Line once did, the most unlikely of dreams.”

Robert Hammond and Joshua David have given the city of New York a remarkable, rejuvenating gift. Perhaps we should send this dynamic duo to Washington?

Artist Sarah Sze is known for her intricate installations that shape space with hundreds or thousands of interconnected sculptural elements. For the High Line, Sze created an elaborate metropolis of architectural models that are bisected by the High Line path itself. The sculpture forms an open gateway that visually frames the views to the north and south, as well as allows park visitors to physically enter and pass through the space it outlines. (Photo Courtesy Special KRB via Flickr Commons)

The birdhouses and bird feeders incorporated into Sarah Sze's "Still Life with Landscape" echo the design of the buildings seen in the distance. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Sparrows eating from Sarah Sze's "Still Life with Landscape" (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Although taxis and traffic rush below the old railway, grasses, trees, and flowers provide a much-needed respite while strolling along the High Line. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Berries provide visual interest in fall and winter. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Grasses planted on The High Line (Photo Courtesy Tanenhaus via Flickr Commons)

A view of a cross street in autumn (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The same view in winter (Photo Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Faded advertisements can still be seen on the side of some old buildings. The wedding party is visible in the background. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

A close-up of the faded advertisements (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Grasses nicely offset the glass and metal building surrounding the park. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

In the right light, something as simple as cables climbing the side of a building can be eye-catching. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

A tree in late afternoon (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Another view of Frank Gehry's IAC Building (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The High Line has breathed new life into Chelsea, a neighborhood that was already bustling with art galleries and restaurants. (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

Looking up from the High Line (Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

(Photo by Michelle Aldredge)

The High Line in winter (Photo Courtesy Friends of the High Line)

 

To learn more about the High Line, including its public programs and art installations, please visit the High Line website. You can also donate to Friends of the High Line through the site or become a member.

High Line: The Inside Story of New York City’s Park in the Sky is available here or from your local bookseller. You can also learn more about the park’s history from Robert Hammond’s TED Talk.

 

 

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Rockefeller Center's hidden rooftop gardens (© James Maher via Inhabitat)

Inhabitat has just published a short piece on Rockefeller Center’s hidden rooftop gardens. The Center has been maintaining these gardens for the past 75 years, but public access to the gardens is a rare event.

According to Inhabitat, the building’s developer John R. Todd and architect Raymond Hood originally envisioned a network of rooftop gardens connected by pedestrian bridges (an homage to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon), but this design idea never came to fruition.

Inhabitat says that the gardens are primarily enjoyed by the building’s employees, though my friend’s husband has worked in the building for eleven years and has never been permitted to use the gardens. For a price, the space can be rented for weddings and private events, and according to my friend, the gardens are an occasional setting for Saturday Night Live skits. At this point, it seems that the gardens are primarily eye candy for those who live and work in the surrounding buildings. Only a lucky few get to experience the roof gardens up close.

Until the garden’s next open house, you’ll have to settle for these photographs. You can also peruse Inhabitat’s slideshow of the Rockefeller Center’s rooftop garden’s here.

The rooftop gardens overlook St. Patrick's Cathedral in Midtown Manhattan (© James Maher via Inhabitat)

(Photo by Brian Dubé via New York Daily Photo)

(Photo by Taismelillo via Flickr Commons)

(Photo © James Maher via Inhabitat)

(Photo by David Shankbone via Wiki Commons)

(Photo courtesy vipnyc via Flickr Commons)

(Photo courtesy the Gothamist)

Read Inhabitat’s full story on Rockefeller Center’s rooftop gardens here.

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Created by architectural firm Arup Associates, the Insect Hotel was one of the winners of the ‘Beyond the Hive’ competition, a unique architectural competition to design five star hotels for insects. The contest is sponsored by the British Land and the City of London Corporation. (Photo courtesy British Land via Animal Architecture)

One of the benefits of living in a rural place like New Hampshire is that interactions with wild animals occur on a daily basis. I see birds, mammals, reptiles, amphibians, and insects when I’m hiking, commuting to work, or simply strolling around the yard. Wild turkeys, bears, grouse, moose, foxes, dragonflies, deer, minks, bobcats, raccoons, toads, porcupines, beetles, bald eagles, woodchucks, fisher cats, skunks, and coyotes are all commonplace where I live, and not a day passes when I don’t have some kind of close-encounter with the natural world.

Two weeks ago, for instance, I was hiking alone on a trail when I startled a huge flock of turkeys. I’m not sure who was more alarmed–me or the birds. One minute the woods were silent and calm, and the next I found myself in the middle of a turkey squall. They squawked and fluttered in twenty different directions, wings flapping, feathers and leaves flying. (Yes. Those giant, awkward birds actually leave the ground!) The encounter changed everything about my hike that day; I was more aware, more attuned to the sound of the woods as I proceeded up the trail.

If you live in an urban area like New York City, interactions like this are atypical in daily life, and your relationship to the animal world is more removed. Pigeons and rodents are a regular feature of the urban landscape, but you may never have reason to think about the Peregrine Falcons nesting on skyscrapers and bridges, or about the muskrats, coyotes, possums, and deer lurking in the city’s parks.

Urban and suburban animal sightings recorded in the media typically focus on the most dramatic or entertaining stories–bears shot down in New Jersey, coyotes roaming the West Side of New York City, a turkey nicknamed Hedda Gobbler living on the grounds of the Riverton Houses in Harlem. But the fact of the matter is that we all share our environment with a wide variety of animals whether we notice them or not.

The façade of Arup's Insect Hotel consists of a series of compartments based on a Voronoi pattern, which can be found in the natural world (as in the rib structure of a dragonfly’s wing). The compartments created by the pattern provide the supporting armature for a variety of recycled waste materials and deadfall that are loosely inserted into the voids. The structure caters to the needs of stag beetles, solitary bees, spiders, lacewings and ladybirds. The sides of the hotel are accessible for butterflies and moths, and the top is suitable for absorbing rain water through planting. (Photo courtesy British Land via Animal Architecture)

Imagine for a moment what it might be like if we were less passive about this relationship. What if were more creative and proactive about the ways we coexist with animals?

What if architects designed shelters not only to accommodate humans, but also to accommodate the animals who inhabit the same piece of land?

What if urban planners thought about wildlife corridors as much as they thought about zoning, sidewalks, or traffic calming?

What if we were able to replace some of the natural animal habitats that have been destroyed with new habitats that would boost dwindling populations? Imagine if we could design a way for bees to live outside the hive?

What if zoo enclosures were designed from the animals’ perspective instead of from a hierarchical, human point of view? And what would happen if zoo designers reversed the concept of being “inside” an enclosure versus on the “outside”? How might this change the interaction between animals and humans in an artificial space such as a zoo or park?

These are some of the intriguing questions being explored at Animal Architecture, an online project curated by Ned Dodington and Jonathon LaRocca. Dodington and LaRoocca believe in the importance of ecological relationships and their ability to transform design, urban planning, and more. They describe Animal Architecture as “an ongoing investigation into the performative role of biology in design…illuminating alternative ways of living with nonhuman animals, discussing cross-species collaborations, and defining new frameworks through which to discuss biologic design.”

I first learned about Animal Architecture from architect Joyce Hwang, who has designed several animal habitats, such as the Bat Tower shown in the below photo. (You can learn more about this project and read an interview with Joyce on the Animal Architecture website). Joyce’s Bat Tower is a good example of “Animal Architecture” in practice, as is Fritz Haeg’s Animal Estates project, which I saw at the Whitney Biennial in 2008. Arup’s Insect Hotel, one of the winners of the 2010 Beyond the Hive competition, also shows some of the creative possibilities in this emerging field.

The Bat Tower designed by architect Joyce Hwang and her students at SUNY Buffalo. "When I first became interested in bats and their behavior," Hwang explains, "I was surprised to learn that many species are able to live in spaces that we tend to think of as uninhabitable, for example, under loose pieces of tree bark, between pieces of building material, etc." (Photo by Joyce Hwang via Animal Architecture)

Today, Animal Architecture announced the winning entries for the 2011 Animal Architecture Awards. The projects, which range from the “fantastical, plausible” to the “built,” are an excellent introduction to the concept of Animal Architecture. Of the more ambitious projects, my personal favorites are the Nottingham Apiary and BirdScraper. Of the simple, low-tech designs, I like Bird Habitats and Window Unit.

The winning entries featured below are taken directly from Animal Architecture–all photographs and text are courtesy of the Animal Architecture blog. If the subject interests you, do take some time to explore Dodington and LaRoocca’s site further. Each of these award-winning projects featured below will be published in more detail on Animal Architecture within the coming weeks, and an exhibition is also in the works. You can check the Animal Architecture website for regular updates.

The 2011 Animal Architecture Awards

First Place: Theriomorphous Cyborg

Simone Ferracina

Inspired by Uexküll’s animal Umwelt, the “Theriomorphous Cyborg” is an immersive Augmented Reality game aimed at endowing participants with a non- and extra-human gaze. It is software designed to uncover alternative fields of experience and to activate novel relations between human cyborgs and their “sentient” surroundings.

Each level establishes a new and unfamiliar environment-world; LEVEL 1 endows players with the ability to perceive the Earth’s magnetic field. LEVEL 2 allows them to manipulate their own awareness of time by mixing synchronous and asynchronous signals. LEVEL 3 substitutes the participant’s eyesight with broadcasts from CCTV cameras activated by proximity.

First Runner Up:The Nottingham Apiary

Amelia Eiriksson, Fraser Godfrey, Ana Moldavsky, Esko Willman from the University of Nottingham

The Nottingham Apiary project addresses the problem of collapsing bee populations, upon which humans depend to pollinate food crops. This phenomenon, Colony Collapse Disorder, is attributed to many causes, however there is no conclusive evidence for any specific one. The project aims to restore bee populations locally, with the potential to be replicated in other locations around the world.

An existing derelict structure is used as framework for bee habitation, with hives gradually expanding and taking over. New elements, attached to the old, allow the process to happen. The folly creates a dialogue between the process, the surrounding area and the public, introducing the bees in a nonthreatening context. It acts as the entrance to the building. The visitor route follows The Plight of the Honey Bee installation, creating a gradual crescendo through the spaces.

Second Runner Up: Farmland World

Stewart Hicks and Allison Newmeyer of Design With Company, with Katharine Bayer and Hugh Swiatek

Farmland World is a chain of agro-tourist resorts sprinkled across the American Midwestern countryside. Part theme park and part working farm, guests arrive to the resort via train and stay as part of 1-day, 3-day or 5-day experience packages. Capitalizing on both recent investments in high-speed rail infrastructure and the plentiful subsidies for farming, the network of resorts combines crowd-sourced farm labor with eco-tainment. Guests perform daily chores as self-imposed distractions from the toil of their daily lives. Among the countless activities offered, guests can choose to ride the Animal Farmatures, the dual natured farm implements that complete traditional farm tasks while performing grand rural-techno spectacles. When its time to leave for home, guests climb back into the train, weary and satisfied from their labors as they marvel at the passing landscape they helped transform.

Third Runner Up: BirdScraper

Zhong Huang

1. Birds Die From Crashing Into Skyscrapers Windows – Over 90,000 birds die every year by crashing into skyscrapers because lights inside the buildings attract birds flying right onto their windows.

2. NYC Is The Only Major US City Without A Wildlife Rehabilitation Center – 4,000 calls from people seeking help for distressed wildlife each year and emergency care and rehabilitation to over thousands of birds; most of them were injured from crashing into the dense “concrete jungle,” New York City.

The skyscraper contains a unique ecological system that produces oxygen and sustains itself. Since the building is located in the middle of the lake, all birds feces will drop down into the lake, thus feces will turn into algae. All algae have photosynthetic machinery ultimately derived from the Cyanobacteria, and so produce oxygen as a by-product of photosynthesis. This is the idea; more birds, they will drop more feces, and there are more algae. If there are more algae, they produce more oxygen.

Honorable Mentions to:

Pigeon Racing Headquarters

Carla Novak

The Pigeon Racing Headquarters is a design for the conversion of a Victorian Terrace in Dover into a Racing Pigeon Clubhouse. The hope is for the building to stimulate awareness and interest in pigeon racing as well as undoing the ever-increasingly negative reputation of the pigeon amongst the British public.

The British Pigeon has a much-forgotten heroic association with Dover as they acted on behalf of the British Army during World War I and II, defending Britain’s front line along the White Cliffs of Dover. Buckland Pigeon Racing Club in Dover is in need of new facilities for a clubhouse and is a prime opportunity to start a pigeon revolution for the rest of the country to follow.

Casino

Sarah Custance

The Casino is a gambling warren for humans and an inhabitable environment for animals sited in London, U.K. It explores an extreme design strategy of human’s co habiting with mammals.

The Casino focuses on London’s five protected mammals (bats, common dormice, water voles, otters and badgers), each of which is given legal protection by UK laws.

The major reason for the decreasing population of each of these mammals is habitat loss from human development. This project engages with the ‘animal’ actively through its design. The Casino investigates how the environments of these mammals can firstly be considered in an urban scheme and secondly influence it. The living mammals impact on the composition and structure of the project, infesting it. The building’s design is heavily influenced by ecological relations of the mammals and their habitat requirements.

Bat Station

Friend and Company Architects

Bat habitats are protected in the UK and solutions are needed to mitigate the obstructions roosting bats commonly cause to housing development. Modern, sealed, energy efficient housing design no longer provides bat roosting opportunities and has increased concentrations of bat habitats in remaining forests and agricultural buildings. Each Bat Station will concentrate biodiversity by adopting a concept similar to Le Corbusier’s Radiant City in which mass housing freed surrounding areas for nature. Instead a UK network of high-rise Bat Stations will enable species densification that will free surrounding areas for greater development and enable closer cohabitation.

Bird Habitats

P. Thomas

2010 saw us tip the balance of the global urban habitation — More than 50% of the human population now lives in an Urban Environment. Clearly, we need to reconcile our attitudes and opinions about the natural world – the forest as a territory of unspeakable dangers and dark secrets – and encourage cryptoforests to break through the cracks in the paving, bringing with them wildlife, insects and a certain degree of disorder that would otherwise be swept away.

The results were a series of individual ‘assisted readymades’ – immanently implementable ‘Nestworks’ whose ambition was to tip the balance of possibilities available to the urban bird population: providing both shelter and habitat.

Prosthetic Lizard Homes

Renee Davies, Cris de Groot and Martin Boult

Extensive living roofs are potentially ideal sites to establish native New Zealand (NZ) lizard (in particular skink Oligosoma sp. (Image 1) populations), as they are infrequently accessed by people, can be made free of non native mammalian predators (major contributors to skink decline in urban environments in NZ) and a non native skink which may compete with native species. Further impetus comes from the requirement for local regulatory authorities to ensure rescue, relocation and habitat restoration of urban NZ indigenous lizards (skinks and geckos) where they are impacted by small developments such as buildings and roads.

Living roof research to date has focused on enhancing natural, ad-hoc plant, insect and bird colonization rather than specific opportunities for species introductions. This project proposes that living roofs can be manipulated to provide habitat and climatic conditions suitable for NZ indigenous skinks leading to deliberate managed relocation of skinks threatened from development.

Urban Ecopoesis

Koh Hau Yeow

The shift in world view from an anthropocentric perspective to an ecological one calls for the need to improve biodiversity. In Singapore the traditional built environment focuses on displacing the natural environment to make way for architecture that serves solely man’s need. What if architecture and the built environment can regenerate the natural environment while maintaining its human functions?

Urban Ecopoesis investigates and proposes possible hypothetical scenarios whereby holistic co-species development can manifest through urban development that synergies with nature and ecology. It looks at marrying bio-remediation infrastructure of a food waste treatment facility with a model of the outdoor education curriculum of a Green School Bali to regenerate the natural environment among existing dense urban housing landscape. The natural systems such as forests, gardens, and wetlands used to treat food waste becomes the living educational infrastructure of the Green school and as a result as a collective whole, help to create a biodiversity overpass between two isolated forest patches.

Window Unit

Crooked Works

In 1943, more than 80 percent of American households harvested food from their own Victory Gardens.” Today, the food consumed in most American households follows a much more circuitous path, resulting in increased preservatives, transportation costs and cultural uniformity. This disconnect particularly penalizes the poor, who are both more likely to live in “food deserts” and can’t afford to pay the high price of imported perishables.

Animal-populated Window Units enable the resurrection of household-based urban food production. This bottom-up agricultural strategy enlists urban dwellers who elect to stock their window space with chickens, bees, or fish in creating a new urban food system. Working at a very small scale, with eminently replicable technologies, these wall projections have the potential to link on-site agricultural production to vast numbers of independent households.

(Photos and text of the Animal Architecture Awards courtesy the Animal Architecture website).

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One of my favorite book discoveries this summer is Drainspotting by Remo Camerota. The book celebrates an array of fascinating manhole cover designs from Japan. According to Camerota, nearly 95% of the 1,780 municipalities in Japan have their very own customized manhole covers. The country has elevated this humble, practical object to its own art form. The designs depict everything from local landmarks and folk tales to flora and fauna and images created by school children.

Camerota explains the evolution of these custom covers in Drainspotting:

“In the 1980s as communities outside of Japan’s major cities were slated to receive new sewer systems these public works projects were met with resistance, until one dedicated bureaucrat solved the problem by devising a way to make these mostly invisible systems aesthetically appreciated aboveground: customized manhole covers.”

A manhole cover in Hiroshima decorated with a paper crane design (Photo source unknown)

(Photo courtesy Tokyo Five)

(Photo courtesy wired.com)

(Photo by Carlos Blanco via Flickr Commons)

(Photo by Toby Oxborrow via Flickr Commons)

(Photo by jpellgen via Flickr Commons)

As the book explains, design ideas for the specialized covers originate with the local city or council and are then presented to in-house designers at a municipal foundry. Once local officials and the designers agree upon an image, a prototype is created before the final manhole covers are cast in metal. Hirotaka Nagashima, the president of the Nagashima Foundry, explains the process in Drainspotting:

“We carve the design on a piece of wood. Next we put sand on the wood pattern and make a negative sand pattern; then we pour melted iron into the pattern, clear up the iron,…blast and paint the cover black. When we have colored ones they are done by hand and painted with a thick tree resin, colored from pigment. The tree resin sets rock hard and lasts much longer than paint.”

The Nagashima Foundry, which is the second largest in the country, makes about 400 manhole covers a day. The foundry has made over 6,000 different patterns in all. Not every design finds it way to the streets and sidewalks, however. In Camerota’s interview, Nagashima explains how one design of a shrine gate was abandoned when local priests objected. The priests did not believe it was appropriate for a sacred image of a shrine to be driven over and walked on.

A design for a new drain cover (Photo by Remo Camerota)

A Japanese foundry making manhole covers (Photo by Remo Camerota)

(Photo by Remo Camerota)

Pages from "Drainspotting" by Remo Camerota (Image courtesy Mark Batty Publisher)

Pages from "Drainspotting" by Remo Camerota (Image courtesy Mark Batty Publisher)

As the above images show, Drainspotting is a beautifully designed book. Camerota also writes a blog called Drainspotting, which serves as an online companion to the book.

I’ve also assembled this fascinating collection of Japanese manhole covers for you to peruse. Most of these images were taken by various photographers who are sharing their work through the Creative Commons on Flickr. The unattributed images are from Japanese websites. There is also a Japanese Manhole Cover Flickr Group with over 2,500 images, which is enough to keep an avid drainspotter busy for hours.

Perhaps it’s time for cities outside Japan to rethink their own drain-cover designs? This could be a great public art project in New York, Detroit, Los Angeles, or any other American city, and it would be fascinating to see the designs various artists created.

(Photo by Magalie L'Abbé via Flickr Commons)

(Photo by Carlos Blanco via Flickr Commons)

(Photo courtesy 1000 Things About Japan)

A drain in Kushiro, Hokkaido, which is near crane reserve (Photo by Janne Moran via Flickr Commons)

(Photo source unknown)

(Photo by Ville Misaki via Flickr Commons)

A Hachiko valve cover located near the famous Hachiko statue in Tokyo (Photo by jpellgen via Flickr Commons)

(Photo source unknown)

(Photo by Magalie L'Abbé via Flickr Commons)

(Photo by Carlos Blanco via Flickr Commons)

(Photo by Janne Moren via Flickr Commons)

(Photo by jpellgan via Flickr Commons)

Manhole Cover Near Keihan Rokujizo Station (Photo by jpellgen via Flickr Commons)

(Photo by Magalie L'Abbé via Flickr Commons)

(Photo by Toby Oxborrow via Flickr Commons)

A manhole cover at Disneyland in Tokyo (Photo by Xiaming via Flickr Commons)

(Photo by Akibubblet via Flickr Commons)

(Photo by Janne Moren via Flickr Commons)

(Photo by Peter Lynch via Flickr Commons)

Plain manhole covers are typically used in the street. Brightly colored versions cost more and are reserved for sidewalk use. (Photo by jpellgen via Flickr Commons)

The same manhole covered as pictured above, but in color (Photo by jpellgen via Flickr Commons)

(Photo source unknown)

A manhole cover in Osaka (Photo by Daiju Azuma via Flickr Commons)

(Photo source unknown)

To see more Japanese manhole covers, check out Remo Camerota’s book Drainspotting, now available as an eBook for iPad, iPod, and iPhone (or you can explore a print copy.)

If you enjoyed this post, please help spread the word about Gwarlingo by sharing this article on Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus, etc. You can visit the homepage to see work by Chinese artist Sui Jianguo and explore other great stories from the Gwarlingo archives. You might also like these remarkable photographs by Barry Underwood, “This Revolution Is For Display Purposes Only: A Street Art Primer,” or my feature on movie barcodes, a new technique that compresses an entire film into one photograph.

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(Japanese manhole covers collected by Michelle Aldredge for Gwarlingo)