The Financial Crisis: Fallout in New York City

For a couple of months now, I've meant to start a series of postings on how the current financial crisis has been affecting cities, including the one where I live -- New York. The city is, geographically and metaphorically speaking, the epicenter of the crisis. The five boroughs have been hit by waves of massive layoffs as Wall Street fallout reaches other sectors. In my neighborhood of Williamsburg, in Brooklyn, the following symptoms are already visible:

• Empty storefronts: The number of "for rent" signs and empty storefronts has at least doubled along the main shopping street in my area. Last summer, when I moved to the area, there were already some empty storefronts, but the number seems to have grown quickly. Last time I walked the main avenue, I counted 8 empty storefronts along just two blocks. I also noticed the trend in the heart of Manhattan; strolling along 6th Avenue in the Chelsea area last November, I noticed two large commercial spaces were vacant. Two months later, the "For Rent" signs were still up.
  
• Nervous Developers: Last week, after seeing an Open House sign, I peeked into one of the shiny new condo developments in the neighborhood. I noticed that the listed prices for the condos hadn't changed much since earlier in the year, but the broker said -- emphatically -- that the owner was "definitely willing to negotiate, by all means." The folks who normally buy such apartments are unable or unwilling to put a downpayment on a heavy mortgage, and some of the results are seen right here in Williamsburg: condo buildings converted into rentals, empty condos, halted construction sites, and falling prices.
  
• Shopping:
• Recession Specials: On a lighter note, many stores are offering creative "recession specials." A bakery on Bedford offers "recession cookies" (comes with free coffee), and a pet shop in Fort Greene suggests the following:
• 
• Coupons and Sales galore: Stores are slashing prices way past Black Tuesday levels; the Times has been running articles on how the high-end department stores are starting to resemble discount stores like Filene's Basement. Coupon-cutting is back in vogue, and personal finance blogs extolling the virtues of a frugal lifestyle are mushrooming. The specter of deflation looms over the economy, and shoppers are too tightfisted to take advantage of the steep price cuts

Letter from Beijing: Avant-Garde in the Post-Communist City

On my last weekend in Beijing, I headed with a colleague to check out the city’s intriguing avant-garde art scene. It’s hard for me to imagine such a scene in Beijing; in the 80s and early 90s, when I lived here, the Communist Party still tightly regulated the production of art. Artists had to stick to the accepted motifs of the Revolution, and very few dared express -- even connote -- defiance, cynicism, and irony. Those who did were often imprisoned, humiliated, beaten, or killed.

Art and Communism have been on my mind lately. Not long ago, while my father was still visiting me in New York, we headed up town to the Asia Society to see the "Art and China's Revolution" exhibit. There were oil portraits of ruddy-faced proletarian heroes, their sleeves rolled up, striking patriotic poses on industrial backgrounds; wood-block posters decrying the Capitalist Road Runners (Crush those Dogs!); endless iconography of Mao Zedong – Mao the eager student, Mao the idealist youngster, Mao the wise leader, Mao the compassionate savior.

I had seen many of these images before, plastered on government buildings, restaurant walls and printed in miniature form in Little Red Books. Still, I found the exhibit spellbinding. I had never seen so many important pieces from this era gathered in one place -- and seriously curated. The exhibit treated the subject with respect (and occasionally, with a sense of humor) rather than the usual sensationalist hip-kitsch approach to communist art. What's more, many of the works showcased were by technically outstanding painters, engravers and photographers, and some of them were genuinely trying to channel their revolutionary fervor. Sure, some of the works are cloying in their idolatry, but regardless of how one may feel about China's Communist history, this torrent of emotions occasionally translates into impressive works. We also marveled at their sheer size: some of the original paintings are of epic proportions, their brushwork expert, their colors vibrant.

Near the entrance, I found a video that my friend F. had enthusiastically recommended: an extended interview with Liu Chunhua. Liu's famous portrait of young Mao setting off for Anyuan, his left fist clenched with determination, was hailed as a model portrait and reproduced en masse. Liu explains that the portrait was published only after some (very awkward) artistic editing and -- no less personally -- a serious misprint of his name. Such was the success of this portrait, Liu explains, that his fate was forever enmeshed with the portrait. He ended up simply changing his legal name to match the misprint rather than requesting a reprint.

The exhibit made me think about the city as a site of artistic production. Typically cities, by bringing together diverse groups, provide fertile ground for artistic effervescence and rebelliousness. In Communist China, and especially during the frenzy of the Cultural Revolution, Beijing lost this function. Artists were openly persecuted; thousands were "encouraged" to relocate to the countryside, and urban motifs were relegated to industrial scenery. Since the government frowned on avant-garde art, from the 1980s this community worked out of individuals' apartments, or in the northwestertern suburbs of Beijing, near the Summer Palace. In the early 90s, the community was evicted from the decrepit houses where they had set up shop.

These images were still fresh on my mind in Beijing as I hailed a cab to visit Factory 798, a 50-year old decommissioned military factory complex co-designed by German foreign experts in the Bauhaus style. Over the last decade, avant-garde artists and designers began to trickle into the complex's vast abandoned spaces, transforming it into a thriving art community. Sadly, the space is in danger of becoming one more victim of Beijing's rampant growth. The area around the factory has been fast gentrifying, different state agencies covet the space for their own mega-projects, and the financial viability of the space is now in question.

My colleague and I got off and walked along the galleries, niched within rows of factory spaces with soaring ceilings, arched roofs and enormous windows. Many of these have been beautifully restored and adapted to new artistic uses. As for the content of the galleries, I saw flashes of excitement and real talent, and lots of technical wizardry, but the abundance of kitsch made me think that this is still a transitional stage for Chinese art. Artists are still rebelling against the prior restrictions only superficially, recasting key iconography as, well, jokes. In the car back to the heart of the city, my colleague ponder this, agreeing that kitsch is simplest wit, sort of like pun is to humor. For the most part, the works we saw at 798 did not project deeper criticism, alternatives, or a vision of hope. It would be unfair to extend this umbrella statement to the entirety of contemporary Chinese art -- some of which I have seen in New York and is truly awesome -- but it seems that, at 798, kitsch is still king. Or chairman, as it were.

Still, the mere existence of this complex attests to the growing liberties for artists. One of the galleries at 798 had a replica of one of the run-down, nondescript apartments where the small but ballsy avant-garde community in the 1970s and 1980s gathered to make non-Revolution art (and sometimes, anti-Revolution art). The Chinese government -- itself the butt of many jokes by the very artists whose work 798 houses -- now seems to tolerate, if not outright support, avant-garde art. Mainland Chinese artists now hold a far bigger palette -- the scene come a long way from the Soviet-inspired posters decrying capitalist ideology. Let's hope that the current financial crisis won't put an end to this scrappy, lively scene, and that it will develop into the forceful scene that it promises to be.

Letter from Beijing: A Chinese Slum?

Last Thursday, an Indian colleague and I accompanied two Chinese friends – a public interest lawyer and a documentary maker – to the western outskirts of Beijing. They wanted to show us a low-income neighborhood and to carry out preliminary research for a documentary about female migrant workers. I had been intrigued by their terminology of choice. In English, they used the word "slum," but in Chinese they preferred "cheng zhong cun," which translates literally into "village within a city." Inequality in China has been increasing, and huge numbers of migrants have been pouring into cities from the countryside. Nevertheless, I found it hard to imagine the idea of a slum in Beijing.

We took the subway from near the city center, past Beijing University to the westernmost stop on the line. Outside we hailed a cab, and in another five minutes we arrived at the community. The area looked a bit like a run-down hutong: a neighborhood of traditional courtyard residences (siheyuan) linked by narrow alleys. Here and there among the small, sloped-roof houses there were squat shoebox apartment buildings. The alleys were busy with people on bikes; workers pedalled tricycles loaded with goods, garbage and children. We peeked into some of the homes. What I had assumed to be small but single-family homes turned out to be subdivided into closet-like rooms lined with bunkbeds. The bunkbeds are rented out to migrant workers, and sometimes to entire families.

Most of the houses are self-built out of red brick and gray tiles. Many homes have thick padded quilts strung across the threshold instead of a door. Heating and cooking is done with coal; pipes are inserted through the wall to let the smoke out. In one alley there is a wooden table piled high with red fire extinguishers. Electricity wires hang precariously from roof to roof; there are communal bathrooms, and for the most part very little trash is scattered along the unpaved alleyways. Turning a corner, we come upon a rusty gate under an arching sign; the peeling characters read, “University Student Housing”.





Inside we see rows of run-down barracks with clotheslines strung between windows. By the rusty gate there is a grim-faced man leaning against a pool table under a plastic tarp, and behind them a large pile of coal. Plastic bottles, broken tiles, a child's bicycle are strewn about the coal. At first the man seems suspicious --- Laowai! -- but after we explain that we are doing research, he seems to warms up to us and lets us look around. The rows of run-down dorms, he explains, were long abandoned by the universities (in fact, we saw some of the fancy new dorm buildings in our visit to Beida). The area now houses migrant workers.

Still near the entrance, we strike up a conversation with a woman wearing an orange puffy coat and a Walmart employee tag. She has a smooth round face and sad eyes. We explain the documentary project, and she offers to show us the neighborhood. Over the next few hours, as we wander the alleys, her story emerges: a recent arrival from the northern province of Hebei, she came to Beijing to escape an abusive marriage. She tell us candidly about her conversion to Christianity and her hopes of finding a second husband in the capital. I ask her what kind of man she would like to marry. “A kind man,” she says.

She takes around the community. As night falls, a cold chill sets in. The coal pipes begin to unfurl their plumes of grey smoke above the neighborhood. We invite our new friend to join us at a local noodle shop. Over dinner, we wonder whether the word "slum" can be used to describe this place. Although the area is poorer than just about any part of the city we've seen so far, it looks nothing like the labyrinthine alleys of Indian "shantytowns" and Brazilian "favelas". I argue that these terms are too vague, and none of them -- including "slum" -- terribly useful.

The conversation turns to the fast changes in the city center -- hutongs being razed as if they were made of paper, skyscrapers popping up like mushrooms after a rain, neon signs everywhere. Our local friend mentions that some of the residents in this community are construction workers in those projects, others work as cleaners, nannies, and in other low-income capacities. It's well-known fact by now (and acknowledged even by the Central Planning Committee of the Communist Party) that inequality has been increasing in China even as the national economy grows at breakneck speed. Mostly we hear and read about the rural-urban divide; but in visiting this community, we see the physical manifestations of that growing disparity within the city itself. The village-within-a-city, the Chinese slum -- all these are signs that the "Chinese miracle," like any other self-proclaimed feat of economic growth, is not all about gleaming towers of steel and glass.


PS: Interesting China Daily opinion piece on the "urban villages" by Raymond Zhou.

Letter from Beijing: Beida Then and Now (Foreigner's Edition)

Earlier this week I arrived in Beijing, where I am spending a week collaborating with colleagues on a couple of research projects. Yesterday we spent the afternoon at Beijing University, also known as Beida, where the China Center for Economic Research (now part of the recently founded National School of Development) organized a panel on the 30th anniversary of China’s economic reforms.

In the mid-90s, I studied at Beijda as an exchange student. Though my experience on the campus was enriching, it was anything but comfortable. I lived with a roommate in Dorm Number 4, a gray pre-fab building built like a big cement shoebox. There were bars on the windows, and at night the door was locked from the outside. I don’t remember a fire escape. An elderly gentlemen had the luckless job of guarding the building at night; we had to ring the buzzer to be let in after midnight, which always jolted the poor old man from his sleep. Our guilt at waking him up was surpassed only by our eagerness to go out at night.

At Dorm Number 4 I split a small bedroom with another exchange student, a petite Vietnamese-American who kept her half of the room immaculate. The room was large enough for two beds and a desk; it was so narrow that we had to squeeze sideways between the beds to reach the window. Upon arrival, each exchange student was also issued two items: an enamel bowl, which we took to the cafeteria for meals, and a plastic bucket for washing our clothes (by hand, on the sink scrub-board, with an odd powder detergent that didn’t lather). The whole dorm was lit with very harsh fluorescent lights, and right outside our windows loudspeakers blared Communist Party news and calisthenics exercises starting at 6am. The common bathroom had hot water only twice a day, early in the morning and late in the afternoon.

The accommodations made our college dorms back in the US look like Sheraton suites, but we could hardly complain: our housing was luxurious by local standards. My Chinese friends lived four to a room, piled on bunkbeds rather than twin beds.

Most of our classes were held at a nearly identical pre-fab building, where in winter the heating was minimal. On the coldest days, we could see our breath even indoors, and I wore gloves in the classroom. At break time, most of us huddled outside for fresh air, smoking for warmth.

After class I liked to head to the Nameless Lake (Weiming hu), with its traditional landscaping and solitary pagoda. A group of Chinese students used to gather there at nightfall to practice ballroom dancing, and they warmly invited me to join. Since we foreign exchange students were otherwise segregated from the Chinese students, this was a rare opportunity to make friends with locals, and some of my happiest memories of that time were there at night, learning to tango by Nameless Lake.



Thirteen years later, I barely recognize the campus. As with Beijng in general, the campus has been radically transformed and expanded. Weiming Hu remains, but surrounding it are dozens of new buildings, and very little open space. When we enter a conference hall, I notice that the floor is marble. There is recessed lighting and fancy-looking fixtures everywhere. The dining hall is a well-lit modern cafeteria -- a far cry from the dimly lit, grim assembly line where dining hall workers ladled rice and mapo doufu into our enamel bowls. I peek into new buildings; I see smart classrooms with computers and projectors. There are air conditioning units near the windows and modern heating units at the back of the rooms. No indoors glove-wearing needed here.

The panel itself is held at the university's economic research center; before arriving, I picture a streamlined modern building of glass and concrete. To my surprise, the center is housed in a Qing era courtyard complex that was once an Imperial garden. The buildings, with their red latticed screens, have been meticulously restored in their tiniest details. It occurs to me that Beida is a metaphor of Beijing's urban development: a beautifully preserved core surrounded by a mishmash of modern buildings erected somewhat in a hurry. (Later I decide the metaphor is far from adequate: Beijing has very poor neighborhoods on the outskirts, inhabited largely by low-income families and migrant workers -- and however run-down some of the older campus buildings may be, there is no part of Beida that does not belong heart and soul to the Chinese elite).

After the panel is over and we are back in the hotel, I look up descriptions of current accommodations for foreign exchange students. I land on the following description:

The dorms are equipped with one or two single beds, desk and chairs, TV, telephone, internet access, refrigerator, private bathroom, air-conditioning and 24 hours hot water. The cost of outgoing telephone calls and internet connection where available is to be paid by students. Coin-operated washing machines in the dorm building are available for student use.

Hm. TV, internet access, AC. It's only been 13 years since I was a student at Beida, but I think I am now officially allowed to use the old-fogey expression "Back in the old days, we used to..."

Letter from Chamonix: Seasonal Towns

Last week, work took me to Geneva, and I stayed the weekend to explore the Alps. On Sunday, we headed southeast to hike the mountains around Chamonix. We crossed the border into France and drove into the valley. Below the snowcapped peaks, the treeline was a rich dark green; orange and yellow foliage covered the mountain skirts. A glacier like a heavy gray tongue snaked down between two sharp peaks -- the Mer de Glace.

We wandered briefly into town. Chamonix seemed well-equipped, quaint, and fast asleep. The ski season doesn't start until December, and the lifts were down. Most of the official 9,000 residents appeared to be either elsewhere or hybernating. Except for a few tourists milling about by the train station, the town was eerily quiet. We followed one of the ski lifts uphill until we found the hiking trail that leads to the edge of the glacier. A few hours later, just before dusk, we had this bird's eye view of the town at the bottom of the valley:


Chamonix is a highly seasonal town -- alive in summer, when outdoors activities attracts lovers of extreme sports, and then again in winter, as a premier winter sports resort. During both seasons, visitors and seasonal residents breathe new life into the the town. Stores and cafés are opened, shelves dusted, blinds rolled up. In between, however, the town seems too large for its few souls, like one of those English country estates inhabited by a single family. Only less grandiose. And somewhat cozier.

This ebb and flow is not unique to Chamonix, of course -- any town that depends heavily on seasonal activities will suffer (or enjoy) a sort of urban bipolarity, with steep inclines and declines in population and activity. Larger cities are also affected by seasonal flows, but their economies tend to be more diversified, providing alternative sources of revenue and vitality. Toulouse receives tens of thousands of visitors in summer, and the flow slows to a trickle (by comparison) starting in fall, but tourism is only one of many income-generating activities in the city. Small towns like Chamonix don't have this luxury, and they must often go to great lengths to invent between-season activities to keep financially afloat.

Other towns seem all too content to retreat into the non-summer calm; the island of Nantucket, off the coast of Massachusetts, is renowned for the proud insularity of its year-round residents (The NY Times reported in 2001 that "Nantucket's year-round population of more than 9,000 swells to more than 50,000 in July and August"). After the hike, I get a sense Chamonix natives might also be all too happy with their breaks. When we stop at a local dive for a tasty snack, friends of friends wander in -- a real local and his partner -- and I sense in them the same ambiguity towards the acute seasonality of the place, a mix of impatience for ski season and relief that it hadn't yet arrived.



Chamonix is clearly aware of its yearly economic roller coaster and has taken some steps to smoothen the curve. At the base of the mountain, the tiny Montenvers train runs up steep cog tracks to the edge of the glacier; the train's been there since 1908, but the add-ons -- a museum of local fauna, an exhibit of mountain crystals, a man-made ice grotto with ice statues -- are apparently far more recent. I wonder whether these generate enough revenue to keep the town going between seasons (however small the population). More likely the town council, well accustomed to the town's uphill-downhill lifecycle, tailors its budget to the sharp seasonal effects.

An icy afterthought: after we return to Geneva I read here that every summer workers have to carve out a new grotto because the glacier has been moving around 70m every year -- I wonder if the glacier is snaking further down the mountain or (more likely, given the rates of glacial melt due to global warming) shrinking and retreating. It seems likely that climate change will affect seasonal towns disproportionally -- at least, where the changing temperatures wreak havoc on outdoors activities such as skiing and beach-going.

Letter from Pompeii: Mr. Synistor's Cubiculum

Source: San Diego Natural History Museum


When I was 9, my family moved to a city built on the slopes of a major active volcano in the Andes. Until then, I had lived my entire life in apartments on extremely flat terrain, so my siblings and I were excited at the prospect of living in a real house, with a yard nested amid mountains. The house had spectacular views. Maybe a bit too spectacular: the large window in my room opened out onto the volcano.

During the first few months, I had nightmares about the volcano erupting. At one point we children agreed that the national government had inserted a large concrete plug into the mouth of the crater, eliminating any chance of a major eruption. Nevertheless, those years of living at the foot of a volcano (which, incidentally, spewed a giant column of ash a few years later) left us with a life-long interest in all things volcanic. Among them: the story of Pompeii, the city buried alive under meters of ash and pumice by Mount Vesuvius' cataclysmic eruption in 79 AD and lost for 1700 years until its accidental discovery by workmen working on the foundation of a summer palace for the King of Naples.

The volcanic eruption that took so many lives preserved much of the town at the moment of its demise, not just the houses and artifacts but even its unlucky citizens -- their bodies, buried under the tonnes of ash, left behind spaces that, when injected with plaster, reproduced with poignant accuracy the very second of their deaths. As for their town, it remained remarkably intact. When I visited Pompeii as a teenager, I remember being struck by a perfectly preserved toilet -- a moment of levity in a somewhat morbid tour. Colorful frescoes and mosaic floors from the town's wealthy villas help to tell the everyday life of the city. There are, also, the vivid accounts of the city's destruction. Pliny the Younger, stationed across from the bay of Naples during the eruption of Mt Vesuvius, witnessed the event and attempted (unsuccessfully) to rescue his uncle from the disaster. Twenty years later, he recounted the tragedy in vivid language in a letter to the historian Tacitus (you can view the letter and read the transation here). All of these accounts of Pompeii's before and during the eruption help to make the site much more than an archaeological relic: a living dead city of sorts.

Some 1700 years later and a few thousand kilometers away, my father is in town here in New York, and we decide to visit the Metropolitan Museum. Last year, the museum reopened its Hellenic and Roman galleries after extensive renovations. The day is brisk and bright, so we head northwards to Central Park, where we walk along 5th avenue to the Met. The renovated gallery surrounds a soaring two-floor atrium with ornate columns supporting a skylight roof. Off to one side we find one of the exhibit highlights: a full cubiculum nocturnum, or bedroom, recovered and restored from a villa in Boscoreale, about a mile north of Pompeii, and also buried in 79 AD. At the time, the villa was owned by a (somewhat accurately named) P. Fannius Synistor, and seems to have served as a pastoral reserve of sorts. The villa was excavated along with Pompeii, and many of its treasures were auctioned off to museums abroad -- the Met bid and won the fresco walls of this room *designated Room M" on the blueprint of the villa as interpreted by archaeologists.

The walls of the cubiculum are covered with trompe l'oeil paintings done in the fresco technique. The three walls picture a different motif, with temple scenes, votive offerings, a tree-filled terrace, statuary, rotundas, and pylons, a glimpse of a townscapes -- all of this arranged to create the illution of greater spatial depth (there are nitid photos of the bedroom frescos here). At the rear of the room a vaulted ceiling creates a niche for the bed; the window has grills also excavated from the villa. (You can read more about the Boscoreale excavation -- as well as the sad dispersal of its treasures, here).



I look up the villa in Google Books and find a brief reference in Roger Ling's 1991 "Roman Painting". After stumbling on the architectural vocabulary (the first sentence of the paragraph reads: "The same ambiguity affects the caryatids supporting the modillions of the cornice in the west wall of the triclinium." Er, okay.) I find prose I can deciper: "the winged figure perched on a great disc in the fictive opening at the centre of the same wall... suggest a hazy boundary between real and surreal." From the passage and accompanying description of the cubiculum it seems that Mr. Synistor, or whomever commissioned the paintings, liked to mix realism with a healthy dose of fantasy -- and the same could be said of the Met gallery it now occupies, with its Doric columns and recessed lighting.

Letter from Toronto: Changing Chinatowns

Neither of us is much of a gambler, so after soaking in the spray at Niagara Falls, we drive two hours north to Toronto, reaching the city at dusk. We decide to follow the street signs into Chinatown for dinner before heading back to Buffalo. After parking the car, we wander the streets, stepping into a local supermarket to ogle the goods. Further down the street, lacquered duck and barbecued pork knees beckon from the restaurant windows. We finally settle on a nearby noodle shop with an oddly futuristic decor, all recessed lighting and black wall panels.

Every Chinatown I've been to seems to have a founding figure, mythical or otherwise, and Toronto's is no exception: here the honor goes to a certain Sam Ching, who opened a laundry business on Adelaide Street in 1878; he is mentioned in a wonderful little essay about the history of Chinese laundries in Toronto that once ran in Polyphony. Like Manhattan's Chinatown, this neighborhood started growing in earnest when the Chinese "coolies" who worked on the national railroads moved east in search of opportunities -- in the case of Toronto, they arrived in the 1880s from Western provinces like British Columbia.

Over time, the neighborhood moniker has become a bit of a misnomer: Chinatown is now a multiethnic enclave, a colorful mix of Chinese, Vietnamese, Laotian and other immigrant groups (and their descendants) as well as white professionals. Despite immigration controls against Chinese imposed by the Canadian government in the late 1800s, the city's Chinatown continue to grow well into the mid-1900s. Over the past decades, however, as younger Asian-Canadians move out into the suburbs and the population of Chinatown ages, businesses have been declining, with restaurants and shops closing by the dozen each year. Enthnic enclaves like this were once the bedrock of immigrant communities, providing families with a familiar surrounding and dense social networks that eased their transition into a new world and. I believe that social ties based on geographic proximity and in-person interaction will always be more useful and desirable to immigrants than electronic ones, but I wonder whether in this age of telecommunications enclaves like this Chinatown have lost some of their function.

I wish we had more time to explore Toronto's Chinatown, but the drive to Buffalo is over two hours, so we decide to head back. In the car I jot down a reminder to myself to look for a copy of a book on Chinatowns that I've been meaning to read for a while: Peter Kwong's The New Chinatown. I am intrigued not just by the ties of solidarity that emerge in these ethnic enclaves -- the springboards for so much mobility among immigrant families -- but also by the darker side of Chinatown societies: their long and colorful history of gang warfare. I'll be posting more about them after re-visiting Manhattan's MOCA: The Museum of Chinese in America, which is currently closed for relocation to another building in Chinatown.

Letter from Niagara: Gambling and the City

My friend J and I have one day left upstate after the Buffalo wedding, so we decide to take the short drive from Buffalo to Niagara falls, on the border between Ontario and New York State. We're told the view is better on the Canadian side, so we cross into Ontario. It rained yesterday, and the water is ferocious. Ropes of white water drum up a thick mist around the falls. On the viewing platform, my glasses fog up, and the spray glistens on our hats.

I once read a curious bit of trivia about Niagara: until the mid-1900s, erosion caused the falls to move downriver. To prevent the brink from shifting further, in 1969 the US Army Corps of Engineers built a temporary dam to divert the river (I assume they obtained permission from the Canadians). The water was made to flow instead through the Canadian side, leaving the rock walls and boulders beneath the American falls dry and exposed. The Corps mended faults along the dry riverbed to help stave off erosion; then they dynamited the dam and restored the flow. I found a home video on Youtube showing the dried-up Niagara falls and wished I could have been there to see the water rush back over the dry rock and plummet below:


Dry Niagara Falls, 1969 (Source: Wikipedia)

The water is long back, and today a near-perfect rainbow shoots across to the American side. For a brief moment I assume it's a manmade tourist attraction, a beam of technicolor glitz projected across the roiling water from some well-hidden light cannon.



Looming over the river is a cluster of high-rise hotels and casinos -- a mini Atlantic City overlooking the falls. It turns out that the government of Ontario is part-owner of several casinos and derives substantial income from gamblers' losses. On the American side of the falls, the Seneca Indians also operate a casino. The aesthetic on both sides is Las Vegas lite, that gaudy mix of glass, steel and flashing neon (the rainbow, I discover upon chasing its end, is the real deal).

Towns like this strike me as a curious inversion of the relationship between urbanization and tourism: whereas most cities are visited by tourists and gamblers, in some cases the cities themselves are the result of those visitors, and tailored to their interests. In this, Niagara isn't alone. Bugsy Malone helped fund Las Vegas casinos with mob money, and eventually the gamble paid off (bad pun, I know): the city is now one of the fastest expanding urban areas anywhere. I've read that the gaming industry everywhere on the continent has been suffering with the financial crisis (fewer bonuses to fritter away at the roulette tables, I guess), and I wonder what will happen to these gambling enclaves.

We take a walk alongside the river -- Frederick Law Olmstead, who designed New York's Central Park and Prospect parks, was deeply committed to preserving the area around the falls and helped to design the reserve around it -- and it occurs to me that here in Niagara the casinos are perhaps not as misplaced as I first assumed. The place is no stranger to risk-taking. The falls, after all, are home to some of the most brave (hare-brained) stunts the world has ever seen, with a dozen or so people stuffing themselves into barrels and hurtling over the brink just to prove a point (not so sure what the point actually was, but apparently it was proven), or tightrope walking across the river because -- because they could, I suppose. I tend to group these quaint (if fatal) stunts with the bravado of the 20s and 30s -- so maybe the local "urbanization through gambling" model is just another reincarnation of Niagara-style risk-taking.


Source: Niagara Falls Daredevils

Letter from Buffalo: Church on Wheels

Last fall, Harvard economist Edward Glaeser wrote a piece in City Journal asking, "Can Buffalo Come Back?" The subtitle offers an ominous answer: "Probably not—and government should stop bribing people to stay there."

In the article, Glaeser describes a metropolis that didn't just decline -- it practically collapsed. Any quick history of the city waxes nostalgic about the city's golden days. Back in the early 1900s, Buffalo had the highest number of millionaires per capita among any city in the country. As the city's riches grew, industrialists and bankers hired world-renowned architects to build their homes and businesses -- Frederick Law Olmsted, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Eliel and Eero Saarinen all left their mark on the city landscape. After the decline of manufacturing in the region, once the factories were relocated to other parts of the country and abroad, Buffalo fell into steep decline. Factories shut down, law firms relocated to other parts of the country, houses were boarded up, and the population entered a long decline. The graph below shows that, from a high of around 580,000 people in the 1930s, Buffalo's population plumetted to around 250,000 by 2006.





Despite this gloomy history, during my first visit to the area, I wonder if there's been a self-selection process here; maybe the more resilient and optimistic residents tend to stay. Certainly the Buffalo residents I meet here are far from a grim crowd.

I am in Buffalo for the wedding of an old friend -- a Brazilian architect who has settled in the area and is marrying a local gent. Over brunch, a front-page story in the Buffalo News catches my eye. The Archdiocese of Atlanta is bidding to purchase one of Buffalo's oldest Catholic churches, St. Gerard (at Bailey and East Delavan avenues), and planning to dismantle it stone by stone and relocate it to Norcross, Georgia, where it would then be reassembled. The move follows a demographic shift: while Buffalo Catholics move southward, depleting local congregations, southern cities like Atlanta can't build churches fast enough.

But this model of "preservation by relocation" raises intriguing issues about the role of space in preservation: if the integrity of a building is maintained but it is moved geographically, is the intent of preservation maintained?

I am reminded of a philosophy course in college, when the professor (Robert Nozick, a brilliant teacher) prodded us freshmen with a question of indeterminate identity. (Crudely put): if you have a boat and the planks that make up the boat are all gradually replaced, is the boat the same boat that you started out with, or is it another boat altogether? Or, in the case of the church, all "planks" (more accurately, over 2,000 tons of stone, wooden pews and stained glass windows) will remain the same, but the geographic and social space that it occupies will be transformed -- so will it be the same church once reassembled in Norcross?


Photo by TManBuffalo

Aside from philosophical questions about the integrity of the preservation project, there's also the pressing issue of what will happen to the empty site. The city has promised to make the site into green space, and insists this is the only viable option, since no local buyers have appeared. I'm sure most people here would prefer to see the building intact and used rather than abandoned and empty, but I wonder if there aren’t any ways to revive this building in creative ways -- maybe converting it into a community center or library, perhaps an immigrant center.

At the wedding reception (held at the Roycroft, an Arts and Crafts inn designed by Frank Lloyd Wright -- more architectural evidence from Buffalo's boomtown heyday), I catch up with one of the bride's brothers, J., who has settled in the area. J. works for an NGO that assists freshly arrived immigrants and regufees to settle in the Buffalo area -- people from as far as Sudan, Burma, and Iraq. Buffalo may lose some of its vitality, and entire buildings, as in the case of St Gerard Church, but perhaps the newcomers will inject a dynamism into the city, and help to transform the city's social landscape.

Letter from Paris: A Medieval Pied-à-Terre

In an earlier post on Paris' buried fortress I mentioned the exhibit about the Louvre’s history, in the museum’s basement. Ever a fan of dollhouses, I was mesmerized that day by the exhibit's detailed maquettes showing the evolution of the building as well as its surrounding on and around the Ile de la Cite. I also found myself intrigued by the maquettes showing early medieval Paris, back then little more than a village outside the fortress – the Louvre, the Notre Dame cathedral, and the Sainte Chapelle towering like giants over the cluster of dwellings. You can see the layout of the city in Braun and Hogenberg's 1572 map of Paris from Civitates Orbis Terrarum I -7:


One of the maquette captions tells me that in the 12th century, the swamps (les marais) around the fortress were drained to create more farmland and to allow the town to expand. No doubt the draining was also carried out to avoid a repeat of the disastrous floods of the Seine banks that led many Parisians, including the King himself, to wonder whether God had afflicted the city with the second Biblical Deluge. Clusters of dwellings developed into faubourgs -- and are labelled as such on the medieval maps of Paris, some of which you can see in the exhibit (you can see early faubourgs right outside the city walls on the Braun and Hogenberg map, above). A quick search reveals that the word comes not from faux-bourg ("false town"), as I had supposed, but rather from the Latin foris burgum ("outside the city"). The etymological dictionary specifies that "traditionally, this name was given to an agglomeration forming around a throughway leading outwards from a city gate, and usually took the name of the same thoroughfare within the city." (Hence present-day boulevards with names like Faubourg Saint-Honoré -- once a self-contained little village just outside Philippe Auguste's city wall) Eventually, as the population increased, these little Medieval suburbs were swallowed up by the growing city.

Aside from the great monuments, very little of Medieval Paris is left. When Baron Haussmann, the 19th century "civic planner" hired by Napoleon to modernize Paris, went about retrofitting the city by widening its boulevards, he destroyed all traces of the medieval town -- or rather, almost all. If you cross from the Ile de la Cite toward the Marais, you will come across a strangely quiet area of winding streets – a village at the old heart of the city. This is Village Saint Paul (it still calls itself “village” despite being surrounded by some of the most tourist-clogged streets in all of Paris).


The remnants of the medieval wall in Village St Paul

The whimsical layout of the streets (and, overlooking a playground, vestiges of the old town wall) hint at the neighborhood’s medieval origins. But in addition, at the corner of Rue François Miron and Rue Cloche Percé there are two surviving specimens from the era: a pair of 14th century buildings with wood beams and pitched roofs. A sign on each gives its name: “Maison a l’Enseigne du Mouton” (The House of the Sign of the Lamb) and its slightly shorter sister, “Maison a l’Enseigne du Faucheur" (The House of the Sign of the Harvester). The two buildings almost miraculously survived the many fires, political uprisings and world wars – as well as the wear and tear of time (later I read here that the authenticity of the architecture has been disputed, since both houses were extensively renovated in the 1960s).



Maison a l’Enseigne du Mouton and Maison a l’Enseigne du Faucheur, in Village Saint Paul (Marais, Paris)


In the afternoon I cross from Village Saint Paul north to the busy Marais neighborhood, stopping to sample the macarons that beckon devilishly from the bakery windows. Now and then I peek the displays of real state brokers. Like many New Yorkers, I have become a seasoned player of this semi-masochistic game, ogling real estate ads for places I could never afford. Like wedding announcements from the local paper, real estate ads give up invaluable insight into local society – as well as awe and/or amusement. But imagine my surprise when I notice among the one-bedrooms in Montparnasse andstudios in Saint Germain the following ad:
















I do a double-take, realizing that one of the last pieces of medieval Paris is up for sale – and can be yours for the paltry sum of, er, 350,000 euros.

Letter from Amsterdam: Needlework Forced Labor

I take an early train from Paris to Amsterdam, where I have been invited to give a talk. The topic is in part about one of my favorite subjects: city maps. Since Amsterdam was for centuries a cartographer's mecca, I am excited to be in the city again.

The Thalys fast train departs from Gare du Nord, crosses the northern suburbs and zips through rural France. Gradually the landscape changes; the low Dutch countryside, dotted with mills, seems formidably orderly. At last the train pulls into the cavernous mouth of Amsterdam Centraal. The station was built on three man-made islands at the mouth of the Amstel and IJ rivers. Later I read that these islands in turn rest on 8,687 wooden poles driven deep into the mud. The Dutch are masters at reclaiming land from water; much of their country was built this way.

Near the main hallway I find my old friend A., a professor at the University of Amsterdam who has invited me to speak, wandering through the station looking for me. The rain has dashed our plans to bike through town to the university. The campus is not far, so we make our way on foot. I would say that we walk there, but that would not be entirely accurate -- I sort of skip as A. strolls along, doing my best to keep up. (In any other country, A. would be considered tall. Yet the Dutch are statistically the tallest people in the world, so here he is merely average. Since being tall is not among my greatest strengths, I take two steps to every one of his.)

Amsterdam can be enchanting -- the rows of dollhouses along the canals, the small bridges that span them, the diverse crowd spilling out of the trains and making their way into the city to explore its bright side and its dark side (as well as their own, I suppose). As a child, I liked to draw maps of imaginary worlds – one of them, I remember, was an archipelago made up of concentric rings of land linked by bridges and navigable only by boat. During my first trip to Amsterdam, in the early 90s, I was overjoyed to discover that the old city center's layout is very much like my imagined city – or rather, like half of it, interrupted by the river. Amsterdam now sprawls far beyond its original horseshoe configuration, but you can still see the u-shaped canals, nested within one another, in the oldest part of town.

When I look online for maps of early Amsterdam, one gem stands out: a 1538 etching by Cornelis Anthonisz. The map shows Amsterdam not quite squarely from above, but rather from a true bird’s eye view, at a slight angle. In fact, the map is a bit like a 16th century Google Earth screenshot, showing not only the general layout of the city but also the shape of individual buildings. Anthonisz helped to found a long tradition of map-making in the city, also fed by the seafaring adventures of the Dutch. By the 17th century, they were the continent’s undisputed leaders of maritime map-making. I am told that Amsterdam’s shipping museum -- across from Centraal, and like the station, built on piles driven into the riverbed -- has a copy of 'The Theater of the World," a unique atlas by the Blaeu family of cartographers. Sadly, since today I have only a few hours in Amsterdam before heading back to Brussels, I’ll have to wait until next time to see the maps.

A. and I skirt the canals and cross the red light district towards the university. A buxom brunette in a red bikini gyrates in a shop window; a man in a dark suit approaches her hesitantly as we walk past. Soon after, A. and I arrive at the university’s social sciences college. The old building complex, near the university library, has large windows but very high walls. I notice a sign by the gate: Spinhuis. “That’s there the wayward women of Amsterdam used to be brought back in the days,” A. explains. “They were put to spin cloth here. The Spin House.” For a moment I fear that I will find a spinning wheel instead of a projector in the classroom, but to my great relief the space is free of needlepoint equipment.


After the talk, on my way out, I stop to look at the main entrance of the Spinhuis. The massive door has an ornate stone frontpiece featuring a trio of women: the first one watches as the second pulls the hair of the third and swings a whip in mid-strike. There are two lines of poetry below:

Schrik niet ik wreek geen haat maar dwing tot goed
Straf is mijn hand maar lieflijk mijn gemoed

or, in English:

Cry not - I avenge no wrong but compel to the good.
Stern is my hand, but kind is my aim.

The Spinhuis, then, was a sort of correctional facility, or better yet forced labor camp, designed to rehabilitate Amsterdam's prostitutes (no doubt a thriving industry even back then, given the city's cosmopolitan port). I think of the poor wayward women of old Amsterdam, doomed to years of pulling yarn for the slightest trespass; inevitably I also think back to the bikini lady we saw earlier today, openly beckoning to passersby -- gender roles have changed quite a bit in Amsterdam. (It's also somewhat ironic that the Spinhuis now houses, of all things, an anthropology department.)

The building intrigues me. On my way back to the train station, I make a quick stop at a bookstore to look it up in the books. There is very little mention of the Spinhuis in the English-language books; Dutch indices have many more references. Since my Dutch language skills are limited to “Good morning” and “Your cow is on my pasture,” I’m unable to gather any more information about the Spinhuis. Later, the internet gives me a few more clues. I learn that Dutch society of that period, heavily influenced by Calvinist concerns for productiveness, self-discipline and cleanliness, idolized the virtuous woman “deeply engrossed in needlework.” Having spent a bit of time on needlework myself -- girls were taught embroidery and crochet at my Catholic primary school (I failed gloriously at both) -- I doubt the civilizing force of needlepoint. Of course, not everyone finds it boring. Some of my cosmopolitan friends in New York knit very seriously. They upload photos of the hats and scarves they make onto Flickr and chatter endlessly about the “knitporn”. I think they enjoy it not only because they actually have dexterity, but also because they don't have this lady peering over their shoulders with her wire-rim spectacles:

The idea of rehabilitation through needlework – domestication through domesticity, as it were – makes me think of Vermeer’s portrait of women: quiet interior scenes, most of them emanating a lucid tranquility. The women in those paintings do not seem particularly anguished -- but I wonder, despite Amsterdam’s reputation for tolerance, to what extent Amsterdam’s housebound women benefited from this tolerance.

Epilogue

I leave Amsterdam with the idea of needlepoint as gender-based oppression, but later I find a different interpretation of the Spinhuis in the 2006 book "Fractured Families and Rebel Maidservants" by Christine Petra Sellin:

The Spinhuis reportedly included a rehabilitation program aimed at teaching female inmates -- thieves, drunks, runaways, beggars, the homless, prostitutes -- domestic skills such as spinning, sewing, or knitting. Innovative policies such as these reflected the Dutch realization that economic and social turmoil was linked, to some degree, with crime, remarkable at a time when standard European law prescribed brutal punishments. (p. 142).

Point taken -- think I'd rather spin yarn than have my fingernails pulled out.

Letter from Paris: The Buried Fortress

In transit to Amsterdam, I have only one day in Paris, so I decide to revisit my favorite spot in the city: the dark underbelly of the Louvre.

Early in the morning, before the hordes begin to queue up at the Pyramid, I take the Metro to Palais du Louvre, cross the Rue de Rivoli, and enter the main courtyard, Cour Napoleon. The courtyard makes me think of a giant glass box near-buried in the ground at a tilt, one of its corners jutting out – I.M. Pei’s Pyramid. I take the winding stairwell down into the Gallerie. Apart from the museum entrance and the claustrophobic rows of stationery shops, you will notice here and there warmly lit stretches of a rustic stone wall. This is what I've come to see.

The Louvre of today is only the latest in many incarnations. Like a chamaleon sitting atop its shed skin, the present-day palace rests directly on an ancient precursor: a medieval fortress whose lower half can be seen practically intact in the museum’s basement. There is an excellent likeness of the whole fortress, only a thumb in height, among the illuminations in the famous “Book of Hours of the Duc de Berry” (Les très riches heures du Duc de Berry), comissioned in the early 15th century and now at the museum in Chantilly. One of the October calendar pages (folio 1, verso 10) shows a pastoral scene outside the fortress walls: a grumpy serf sows seeds that he carries bunched in his apron, another tills the land with the help of a horse, while two women in tunics pitch hay into a row of mounds. In the background you see a rectangular fortress with crenelated towers and duncecap rooftops, set by a river (the Seine) against a cobalt-blue sky. Behind the fortress rise towers of the Conciergerie and of the Sainte Chapelle in nearby Ile de la Cité; presumably, Notre Dame was not yet built up high enough to be visible from here.

The illumination from the Book of Hours shows that the fortress walls were thick, with tiny windows dotting the top half, and a pair of long-necked gargoyles jutting out in each direction. The Louvre commissioned a two-meter tall model based on this Duc de Berry illumination and set it by the excavated remains. But the real treat in the Louvre basement is the fortress itself, or rather the bottom half that is still there. In the 1980s, the city decided to excavate the Cour Carree – the smaller, square courtyard to the east of Cour Napoleon. For two years, the area was off-limits to visitors while archaeologists tore up the flagstones to unearth the Louvre’s past. In this 1984 New York Times piece, Richard Bernstein describes the findings of the dig, which included not only the fortress but also tons of everyday objects that had been cast into the moat (a mix between defensive feature and urban landfill) and preserved there after François I had the moat filled in. I follow the wooden platform in the basement; it takes me along the old moat, past the pillars that once held up the drawbridge, and on through the main gate of the fortress. Inside I circumvent the old donjon, or central tower. These structures have lost their heads -- they are interrupted halfway by the high ceiling, with rows of track lighting -- yet the colossal stone walls are still awe-inspiring.

This was the main find of the archaeological dig -- the giant square fortress, surrounded by massive towers. The fortress had been established at the end of the 12th century, when King Philippe Auguste (the medieval king of France, who later joined the crusades) set up a defensive stronghold at the eastern edge of Paris to guard the region against English invaders. At that time, the king was itinerant, and the Louvre was only one among his many kingly depots. Only during the Renaissance did the enclosure gain prominence as a royal residence. Over the course of the next few hundred years, different rulers of France tried (mostly unsuccessfully) to carry out Henri IV’s “grande dessein”— a grand plan to link the fortress (transformed into a palace in the 1600s) to the large palace that Catherine de Medici built on the Tuileries site. Napoleon Bonaparte finally carried out the plan. You can trace this entire history in the "Histoire du Louvre" exhibit, also in the basement and organized around a series of delightful maquettes showing the ever-changing Louvre and its environs.

The exhibit also shows the origins of the building's function as a museum. In 1800, the French rulers filled the palace with booty looted by the armies in what is now Belgium, Italy and Germany, establishing the Museum. Part of this original collection was used as restitution granted to allies in 1815, but the holdings continued to grow. The building's main symbolism thus once again shifted, from defensive stronghold to seat of political power to cultural hub. And in the meantime, Paris grew. In the Book of Hours painting, the fortress is Paris, and everything outside the walls turns abruptly pastoral, a sort of medieval suburb. By the 1700s, the busy city extended far from the Seine in all directions, and the Louvre was only one among many palaces, the power of an increasingly complex kingdom dissipated among several buildings.

I stop for coffee at the Carousel's sad little food court, and from my table overlooking the shops I can still see the sturdy stone wall of the old fortress, lit from below for drama. As I wait for my espresso to cool, it occurs to me that my little table can't be far from the spot where the surly serf was tossing seeds from his apron back in fourteen-something. I wonder what he was thinking of as he went about his business.

Letter from Brussels: Keeping up with the (Medieval) Joneses

This week, Red Wool Cap writes from Brussels. I am here briefly in transit to Amsterdam, where I am scheduled to give a talk later this week. A childhood friend, A., lives in the neighborhood of Ixelles in an old Dutch townhouse, complete with a pitched roof and pointed gable. The parapet on the steep roof is topped by a muisetanden, or mouse-tooth – a medieval-style detail, though the house itself was built in the early 1900s. A’s place is flanked by townhouses that would not out look out of place in Paris. When I look down the street I see that the houses alternate in style, and wish this were a more accurate analogy for multi-cultural Belgium. Yet, judging from the news -- not long ago a Flemish politician called for a Czechoslovak-style “velvet divorce” from French-speaking parts of the country -- the social cleavages here still run deep, and Belgians seem far less integrated than the houses in which they live. Brussels, a predominantly French language enclave within Flemish region, can be pleasantly misguiding.


townhouses in Ixelles, with muisetanden













In the afternoon, A. and I head to the Grand Place to gawk at the guilds and eat the waffles (les gauffres). The waffles are piled high on the windows of sweet shops and slightly caramelized on the outside. The guilds are huddled together shoulder-to-shoulder around the square as if gawking at the street magician below. I have been to the square before, but am once again bewitched by the ring of guild houses, each façade more ornate and lavish than its neighbor. Some of the buildings have been cleaned up since I was last here, and the gold leaf glints in the sun (it’s an abnormally clear day in Brussels). The buildings are a curious combination of Gothic, Baroque, and Louis XIC architecture, but the result is far from garish. These are 17th-century buildings, meant to replace the medieval guild houses lost in a cataclysmic bombardment. In 1695, French troops, commanded by the Duke of Villeroy, launched a massive offensive of the city, all but flattening the main square. When the guilds proposed to rebuild, they had to submit proposals to the city council and the governor. I am no fan of red tape, but the council must have been somewhat competent, because the mix of buildings ended up harmonious rather than jarring.

















les gauffres

The town hall and the king’s house are especially ornate, but the guilds don’t fall far behind (there is also a handful of houses originally built by private families, the Rockefellers and Carnegies of their time). The luxury of the buildings resulted not only from the amassed wealth of the guilds, but also from an architectural “keeping up with the Joneses” that dates back to the Medieval period. I am reminded of other instances of competitive architecture – the fourteen stone towers of medieval San Giminiano, in Italy, erected by rival families that seemed to put great faith in the ability of phallic architecture to express their power; or the skyscrapers of Manhattan, with its vertical cathedrals of money-power (phallism taken to new heights). Here in Brussels the Grand Place is solid evidence that economic competition always dovetails with social status, and that both pre-date capitalism.

The Grand Place (Grote Markt)
At the end of the day, having engaged in conspicuous consumption myself (as in, a conspicuous amount of les gauffres) I am content to retreat into the colorful townhouses of Ixelles, where I sleep under the mouse-toothed gabled roof.