Category: Architecture

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No-No-NO,LA

In the last few days, I’ve come across a pair of strange articles about New Orleans.

The first contends that a collection of public-housing buildings should not be knocked down, since they’re pretty nice buildings and just need “full-scale renovations”.

Oh, and the low-income residents shouldn’t be brought back in. Instead, the apartments should be sold to middle-class people, because, um, there are enough poor people in New Orleans already. Seriously:

The feds’ impulse to replace such perfectly good housing takes root in the flawed notion that the buildings are the problem with blighted public housing, not the dependent underclass people who live in it. Most residents of New Orleans’s housing projects paid less than $100 in monthly rent. Even if they weren’t on welfare, in other words, they were essentially dependent on government. Also, the complexes teemed with long-term tenants’ sons and grandsons, who terrorized the projects through violent crime. The failure of the city’s elected leaders to police and incarcerate these criminals long ago turned the projects into killing grounds with their own system of murderous street justice.

And nearly 18 months after Katrina, New Orleans certainly isn’t lacking for an underclass. In fact, the city’s murder rate is once again out of control, mainly due to unparented, impulsive young men shooting other unparented, impulsive young men.

What New Orleans is lacking is enough middle-class and working-class residents, who began leaving the city long before Katrina. Without such citizens, the Big Easy won’t have the committed voters and tax dollars it needs to become a functional, healthy city — something it hasn’t been for decades.

But, amazingly, that’s not the strangest and most insulting assessment I’ve read about the city this week. No, that honor goes to Andres Duany, who says, well, I’ve gotta just let him speak for himself:

I remember specifically when on a street in the Marigny I came upon a colorful little house framed by banana trees. I thought, “This is Cuba.” (I am Cuban.) I realized at that instant that New Orleans is not really an American city, but rather a Caribbean one. I understood that, when seen through the lens of the Caribbean, New Orleans is not among the most haphazard, poorest, or misgoverned American cities, but rather the most organized, wealthiest, cleanest, and competently governed of the Caribbean cities. This insight was fundamental because from that moment I understood New Orleans and truly began to sympathize. But the government? Like everyone, I found the city government to be a bit random; then I thought that if New Orleans were to be governed as efficiently as, say, Minneapolis, it would be a different place — and not one that I could care for. Let me work with the government the way it is. It is the human flaws that make New Orleans the most human of American cities. (New Orleans came to feel so much like Cuba that I was driven to buy a house in the Marigny as a surrogate for my inaccessible Santiago de Cuba.)

Keep reading, because his prescription for the city’s future success relies on this, um, lowering of standards.

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Leavin’ on a jet plane

There’s neat article in BusinessWeek this morning about the design of airports, accompanied by a gorgeous slideshow.

[Ron Steinert, principal at aviation architectural design specialist, Gensler, said,] “There has been a real sea-change towards this. In the old days, the airlines thought of airports as a service industry that provided space to them and their passengers. Now, airports see airlines as providing a service to their customers. It’s a total change in the way airports are looking at themselves. They’re realizing that they have to run themselves as businesses, to make money and provide a high level of service, or passengers will go elsewhere. Take the East Coast of the U.S.: There’s an airport virtually every 10 miles. If you don’t like one, you’ll go to another.”

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The City and a Man

The links are going to go dead in a few days, so if you’re interested in Robert Moses, historical revisionism and crypto-Oedipal conflicts, and the landscape of New York (and who isn’t?), you need to check out these two articles from the NYObserver and the NYTimes.

First, though, you should read the Atlantic Yards Report post on this revisionism (which led me to the articles), and how it’s being used (sorta) to justify Ratner’s plans for Brooklyn.

Oh, and read The Power Broker, which is one of the greatest books I’ve ever read.

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Mid-week Recap

(Oh, just check out the pictures instead.)

I meant to write a little recap of Wednesday-Thursday this morning, but got derailed by various circumstances, including writing that piece about Jews buying Chryslers.

Anyway, here’s the skinny: official VM buddy Paul Di Filippo was in NYC for a reading Wednesday night at the KGB Bar. I had a press event in the city Thursday morning, and the pharma company that was hosting it kindly got me a room at the Royalton so I could attend the meeting in full bright-eyes-and-bushy-tail-itude.

I got into the city pretty quickly, but that turned out to be my undoing. See, I got in so soon (around 5:30), I actually got caught up in traffic of cars leaving mid-town. So the last few blocks took almost as long as the vroom from Ramsey to 57th St.

After I checked in, I started to walk from 44th to 4th. It was cold as bejesus, so I figured I’d just meander a while until I got too chilly and then get a cab. I walked down 5th Ave. for two blocks when I noticed the glorious sight of Grand Central Terminal, with the Chrysler Building looming behind it. I couldn’t remember ever having been to Grand Central (I’m sure Mom’ll be able to remind me of at least one trip there), so I decided to walk through it.

It’s a gorgeous building, inside and out. I looked up at the painting of the (reversed) constellations, and wistfully thought about reading Little, Big last year in Paris. The commuters (it was around 6:15) were like the flow of commerce commuting into the personal, like hundreds of superheroes hurrying into MTA phone-booths to shed their costumes and restore their secret identities. I felt a little heady, and found that I was pivoting and turning liquid to avoid men in suits hurrying by, women with bluetooth earpieces talking to distant children.

Coming out the other side of the terminal, I walked another four or five blocks south, but the cold was just sapping me, so I hopped in a cab and sped the rest of the way to the village.

A year or two ago, a friend of mine asked me if I go to readings down at “that socialist bar in the village.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, before the KGB-aspect dawned on me. I never thought the KGB was equatable with socialism; I thought it was more like a state-sponsored terror apparatus, but hey. I told her that I’d never been to a reading at KGB, and that socialism gives me hives.

I admit that I reflexively bristled when I saw the hammer & sickle flag hanging above the bar. I had my usual thought-experiment about how well the place would be received if it hung a swastika in place of that Soviet banner. Then I thought about how the Hungarians made that great park of their old Soviet statues, and converted the stuff into memorabilia. I figured the Hungarians earned the right to goof on this stuff, but I still felt a little tweaked at the hipster-idea that it’s funny to have an NYC bar named after the KGB.

But guess who’s reading too much into things?

Amy was waiting for me at the bar, as was Paul & his partner Deb. There was much rejoicing, even though we’d seen each other less than three weeks earlier. Paul insisted on introducing me to numerous publishers and editors, even though I’ve been out of the publishing game. It was nice to talk shop a little, and I was happy to hear how other people were able to make it work far better than I ever did.

Eventually, Amy’s buddy and former roommate Carl showed up, and we all drank Baltica 4 beer to celebrate the occasion. It wasn’t a bad beer, even though I’m not a beer guy. My problem is, if I have even one beer or wine, I can’t transition over to my drink-of-choice, so I’m stuck.

Paul then read from his new novel, a chapter about a husband and wife in 2006 who keep timeslipping into a brother and sister from decades earlier. It had some good passages, as well as parts that were more cinematic and only transitioned into print with difficulty. For the most part, I enjoyed Paul’s performance.

The second reader was Ysabeau S. Wilce, who read an entertaining selection from her first novel Flora Segunda, Being the Magickal Mishaps of a Girl of Spirit, Her Glass-Gazing Sidekick, Two Ominous Butlers (One Blue), A House with Eleven Thousand Rooms, and a Red Dog. It was quite a trip. Carl won a complimentary copy, which bummed Amy out because now she’ll have to buy one for herself.

Following the readings, we shot the breeze for a while in the bar, until a group of us filed out for a late (9pm) dinner at a Chinese restaurant on St. Marks. Ellen Datlow, an SF editor, took it upon herself to order for our table, while I took it upon myself to make conversation by rambling with a British SF editor and game-publisher. We were treated to some fantastic dishes (“treated,” because the British editor elected to pay out bill, over our objections), including pumpkin croquettes and stir-fry lotus root. Amy was in tears over the deep fried strips of beef. “It’s like cracklin!” she cried.

Following dinner, Amy & I finally made our way back to the Royalton, where we promptly collapsed. It’d been a long day for us both.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get much sleep. Although the room looked wonderful (see the pics), the bed itself was as hard as concrete. In addition, construction in Times Square meant there was a near-constant level of noise through the night. It was like having a garbage truck outside the window, except we were on the 11th floor.

I thought this would put me at a disadvantage the next morning, when I met the pharma company and other business-press people at breakfast. But I discovered that their dinner had gone somewhat late that night, transitioning into a night out for some.

So I was able to fortify myself with a half-dozen coffees, a danish, and smoked salmon and bagels. It reminded me of that multi-month stretch last year where the only things I drank were water, black coffee and gin. I mentioned this to one of the pharma-execs, who laughed nervously.

I’ve bored you enough, so I won’t bore you with the details of the press-event, except to let you know that I pulled my “big boy scout” routine. One of the execs was mid-presentation when his laser-pointer died, so I got up, went to my bag of tricks, and produced a new one for him. The PR rep who organized the event asked, “You carry one of those with you?”

“Never know when you’ll get tapped for PowerPoint karaoke.”

(Oh, just check out the pictures instead.)

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Steal a little and they throw you in jail / Steal a lot and they make you king

Here’s a neat interview with architect Renzo Piano, who over the years has inherited a bunch of projects from other architects (for a variety of reasons).

When you visit buildings by other architects, what do you look for?

Haha! First, I enjoy them very much. Second, I steal everything. Stealing is maybe too hard a word. There’s an Italian word, you say “rubarro,” which means a nice robber, without a mask.

What did T.S. Eliot say, “Good poets borrow, great poets steal”?

It’s really about that. But art is about that. Music is about taking and giving back. In a way I spend my entire life stealing from everything — from the past, from cities I love, from where I grew up — grabbing things, taking not only from architecture but from Italy, art, writing, poetry, music. And you know what, I put all my robberies in a little piece of paper that I have with me and fill almost a whole sketch pad. Even when I don’t like a building, I still find something to take. This is probably because I was never a good school boy, so I grew up with the idea that I was not the first in class and I was a problem all the time. When you grow up with that idea, you spend your life taking from others.

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If you build it

A few years ago, I was shooting the breeze about the anicent Greeks with a buddy of mine. It turned out that he was devoted to Herodotus’ descriptions of the war against the Persians, while I preferred reading Thucydides’ accounts of What Happened After. In a sense, it encapsulated how our lives contrasted (at the time): as an alienated author, he was interested in the battles and heroism, while as a publisher, I was more interested in how everything gets administered after the heroism.

(I couldn’t come up with any parallels for the Melian dialogues, but nobody’s perfect.)

Anyway, I bring this up because of an article in this month’s issue of Wired. See, it’s one thing for architects like Frank Gehry to come up with never-before-seen organic forms for buildings, but it’s another thing to actually build them.