Barnard-Columbia Urban Review Fall 2024 Issue 8

Barnard Columbia Urban Review

Fall 2024 Issue

By Ishaan Barrett

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Artwork

THE IMPERIAL CITY OF HUE AND FALLINGWATER

Travis Pham

THE GHOSTS OF OLD SEOUL

Travis Pham

THE EVANESCENT CITY

Travis Pham

PERMEABLE CITY

Travis Pham

EXECUTIVE BOARD

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF

ISHAAN BARRETT CC ’26

SOPHIA CORDOBA, CC ’26

LAYOUT EDITOR

AMANDA CASSEL, BC ‘25

PUBLICITY DIRECTOR

JACQUELINE ARTIAGA, BC ’25

EVENTS COORDINATOR

MAYA FELSTEHAUSEN, BC ’25

TREASURER

VERA (V.V.) JANNEY, BC ’26

OUTREACH DIRECTOR

ABIGAIL JACK, BC '25

GENERAL BODY

SENIOR EDITORS

LILLY GASTERLAND-GUSTAFSSON, BC '25

TIFFANY KIM, BC '26

SOFIE LEDOR, BC '26

FRANCESCA EISENBERG, BC '26

ARAIYA SHAH, BC '25

PEER REVIEWERS

RYSHA SULTANIA, BC '25

KYLA SCHWARZBACH, BC '26

OLIVIA JOHNSON, BC '28

EVE MOSS, BC '28

TARA SRIDHARAN, BC '28

OLIVIA CANTERBERY, BC '25

SOFIA CHOUDHRI, CC '28

LORIELLE GEORGETOWN, BC '25

LJ FLEISCHMAN, BC '26

AUTHORS

JACQUELINE ARTIAGA, BC '25

MAYA FELSTENAUSEN, BC '25

LAILA ABED, CC '27

TRAVIS PHAM, JHU '28

REBECCA CRANDALL, CC '26

ELEANOR HUTCHINSON, BC '27

BEN ERDMANN, CC '25

BEA MCWHORTER, BC '25

LILLY GASTERLAND-GUSTAFSSON ,BC '25

ANANYA PAL BC '25

ABIGAIL CRISPIN BC '26

ISHAAN BARRETT CC '26

ART CONTRIBUTORS

TRAVIS PHAM JHU '28

MILA TABACH BC '26

COVER ARTIST

MILA TABACH,, BC '26

BACK COVER ARTIST

STAFF WRITERS

ISHAAN BARRETT, CC ‘26

FRANKIE EISENBERG, BC ’26

VERA (V.V.) JANNEY, BC ‘26

ABIGAIL JACK, BC '25

WEB MANAGER

MADELEINE MARTIN BC ‘27

LAYOUT STAFF

LAILA ABED, CC '27

EVE MOSS, BC '28

KYLA SCHWARZBACK, BC '26

Letter from Editor-in-Chief Sophia Cordoba

Arriving from the rolling cornfields of Iowa, Urban Studies was certainly not my intended major. Instead, it was something I stumbled upon by chance, serendipitously landing in Aaron Passell’s section of Introduction to Urban Studies in the fall of 2022. While the content of the class opened the door to a new path, it was this publication, the Barnard-Columbia Urban Review, that propelled me down the road of pursuing an urban studies major. Since my freshman spring, I have witnessed BCUR grow from various perspectives, from peer reviewer to staff writer to senior editor to Co-EIC. Through each role, my love for the discipline has grown; not only due to the exposure it has provided me with unique research topics, but more significantly, by allowing me to witness the passion and intelligence of those who ded icate their time to urban studies research.

As a result, I felt that I began this job with big shoes to fill. Maya and Nyah’s—along with creating visually stunning and comprehensive publications—also introduced film screenings, field trips, and zine nights. Thanks to their institutionalization of editing resources and event planning prowess, we were happy to be able to continue many of these upward trends. The edition before you is among the lengthiest to date, featuring nine articles and one visual submission. Following a successful Zine Night at the Barnard Zine Library this semester, we look forward to offering more events in the upcoming semester.

As the Urban Studies major continues to expand in popularity on our campus and beyond, it is both a duty and a privilege to be able to provide a space in which we may uplift the work of students who write about cities. BCUR extends far beyond a journal. It has become a home base for urban studies majors, a meeting of passionate minds in which we can warn one another about course workload, recommend professors, and most importantly, geek out over cities. This earnest passion translates into the work you see before you today—a collection of works which delves into topics ranging from protest art to queer erasure to domesticity, employing methodologies from archival research to architectural analysis.

A few common threads also stand out. Ethnographies, Japanese architecture, and urban heritage are particularly notable throughlines. These themes were inspired and developed in the classroom, then adapted and enhanced for the greater urban academic sphere through our editorial process. Each article is thus the product of months of learning, work, and dialogue. It is not only the authors who learn from the process; each person who has touched this work from peer reviewer to senior editors to the EICs has expanded their understanding of the discipline through their interaction with the journal.

Neither the journal, nor this organization, would be possible without the consistent dedication of the general body, the editors, and crucially, the Editorial Board. To the peer reviewers and senior editors: thank you for bearing with me despite the late-notice assignments and occasionally unclear instructions. Thank you to Maya, for always keeping us on track with your wealth of experience and always looking for new opportunities for BCUR events. To Jacqueline, for keeping our marketing snazzy and our meetings bright. To V.V, for stepping in on a short notice and persisting through all the administrative barriers that I personally never wanted to confront. To Abby, for maintaining our newsletter and thus, our connection to those interested in all things urban. To Amanda, for masterfully laying out the journal before us. Finally, I would like to thank the Director of the Urban Studies Department, Aaron Passell, for providing us with a space to meet as we wrestled with bureaucracy. Though our meetings may have occasionally been a bit too boisterous for Milstein Floor 7, this journal is proof that they were worth the disturb ance.

Sincerely,

Sophia Cordoba Co-Editor-in-Chief | Barnard College '25

Letter from Editor-in-Chief Ishaan Barrett

Dear Readers,

It gives me great pleasure to present the seventh issue of the Barnard-Columbia Urban Review this fall. In each iteration, the journal seeks to develop new voices, concepts, and ideas within the heart of interdisciplinary urban studies. I am immensely proud of the work featured here which does just that, tackling disparate topics like urban heritage and memory to histories of renewal and development. The work held within these pages represents some of the brightest undergraduate scholarship in urban studies from authors based around the East Coast; I am delighted that the work of this jou rnal has extended so far.

Indeed, I would be remised if I did not acknowledge the critical need for interdisciplinary undergraduate scholarship in a time characterized by division and unrest. Politics, it seems, has spread beyond the spaces of civil discourse and into every aspect of academia, challenging the work of scholars to deliver critical work that breaks down convention and pushes the frontiers of understanding. But students and the mentorship of their professors—whose work constitutes the central ethos of this journal—drives the critical questioning, interrogation, and exploration that changes the scope of what research can do. Throughout my roughly twoyear tenure at the Barnard-Columbia Urban Review, I affirm that this journal has always stood by the idea that research can—and must—do work. The articles in this issue are thought-provoking essays that extend the critical work of democracy, liberal thought, and public scholarship. They challenge, run up against, and expand the corpus of existing urban studies literature by providing nuanced perspectives grounded in principled investigation and judicious communication. It is in this spirit that the Barnard-Columbia Urban Review enthusiastically continues its ongoing mission to further innovative scholarship that exposes ignored ideas, peripheral subjects, and undiscovered strata across disparate academic fields. There is much work to be done, but I am humbled to present this newest issue as the next step in this journal’s longer project of critical scholarship.

This journal would not have been possible without the scrupulous work of our peer reviewers, senior editors, board members, artists, staff writers, visual contributors, advisors at the Barnard SEE office, and faculty leadership in the Urban Studies program. Their valuable contributions make the work of our authors complete, wholly unique, and at-home in the larger discourse of the journal. The work of this journal is rooted equally in the writing process and the collaboration of our general body and leadership. I am deeply grateful for their work that makes this journal a collaborative mosaic o f contributions.

The work of this journal is never done, even with the completion of this next issue. As we build on the momentum of this newest installment, the work of the Barnard-Columbia Urban Review will expand. We will continue to invite scholarly contributions from students around the world while archiving past issues of our journal in the Columbia and Barnard Libraries to be accessed by peer scholars. Our staff writer contributions will continue to expand, and our leadership will grow to adapt to the journal’s ongoing effort to produce continuous scholarship that responds to the critical issues of today. Above all, the Barnard-Columbia Urban Review will remain ambitiously committed to the rigorous, nuanced research that makes it unique among its peers. As always, I encourage feedback and participation in the future of this journal, without which the work of the Barnard-Columbia Urban Review would undoubtedly stagnate. I hope you enjoy this newest issue as much we have.

Best, Ishaan Barrett Co-Editor-in-Chief | Columbia College ’26

PUBLIC ART AND PROTEST: SUBVERTING THE MUNDANE WITHIN TOKYO’S SUBWAY STATIONS

BY JACQUELINE ARTIAGA Barnard College ‘25

INTRODUCTION

Monotony may offer comfort, but existing within the status-quo can foster a collective forgetting of the past and enable governmental power-abuse. By bringing attention to historic and political events, artists and protesters can reawaken the public to their role in sustaining awareness and accountability. An ideal location to display concerns and grievances are locations of mundanity, such as subway stations. Subways play an essential role in the facilitation of urban life. They connect suburban to urban, and city to city through the transportation of the most precious cargo–people. As a result, unpacking subway stations’ function within urban spaces helps us understand how people use these integral nodes for their own agendas, often subverting urban norms in an effort to assert a “right to the city.” During the late 20th and early 21st centuries, Tokyo's artists and protestors chose to undertake the mammoth task of transforming these spaces of efficiency into locations of creativity and dissent. Most often, these exercises offered critiques towards the government due to informality of public space. Given their high volume of activity and public facing domain, subway stations present the perfect canvas/stage for art exhibits, performances, and protests.

I. CONTEXTUAL OVERVIEW AND KEY CONCEPTS

The subway station is a highly utilized urban space within Tokyo. The most efficient way to travel in Tokyo is by train as a result of initially weak planning for road-based transportation. In the late 1990s, 86% of all travel in Tokyo was by rail, compared to 65% in London and 61% in New York City (Focas 1998, as cited in Zarachira et al. 2011, 242-243). Subway stations, therefore, are a central facet of urban life in Tokyo. Without them, the city would be unable to operate at its current scale.

As suburban and urban commuters alike rely on the rail systems for transportation to and from the city center, stations hone the unique power of mixing diverse social, economic, and demographic groups. Given the prominence of the subway within Tokyo, commutes support “behaviors and interactions not possible elsewhere” (Freedman 2011, 5). Either by supporting unique interactions or forcing people to adopt a blasé attitude (see Simmel 1950), stations undertake a unique role within the urban environment, one that goes beyond just transportation efficiency. The blasé attitude assumes that urban residents undertake an attitude of indifference as a result of their increased exposure to more people, places, and events (Simmel 1950). If everything was perceived as a spectacle, city life would be exhausting and overwhelming. The blasé attitude evoked within subway stations requires users to focus on moving from point A to point B. As a result of this diluted attitude, subway stations become monotonous.

The monotony of subway stations arises from the repetitive nature of their operations. For instance, during the morning and afternoon rush hours, stations are overcome with commuters heading to

and from work. Similarly, there are morning and afternoon periods when school children populate the stations as they travel to and from school. In the intervals between these peak times of activity, stations are frequented by tourists, parents running errands, and other individuals. This usage pattern tends to pigeonhole its users into a singular mobility purpose. In a desire to take advantage of the subway’s monotonous nature and fluctuating activity, artists and protesters gravitate to subway stations as a prime location for bringing attention to their causes and disrupting the status-quo. This is best achieved through asserting one’s “right to the city.”

Sociologist Henri Lefebvre asserted that acting through a personal agenda, within an urban environment, instills a sense of belonging (Lefebvre 1996). This theory, known as the “right to the city,” positions urban inhabitants as change makers within the public sphere. City living is more than existing within the systemic patterns of habitation, but extends into the act of appropriation; “the right to the city is like a cry and a demand... a transformed and renewed right to urban life” (Lefebvre 1996, 158). Transforming the “cry” into action, this paper assumes the right to the city as a means of utilizing subway stations outside of their intended purpose. As artists and protestors subvert the status-quo and invoke their right to the city, they challenge institutions and systemic thought.

Within this paper, the importance of public art and protest isn’t on the product itself rather, I emphasize their intentional location within a public commons. The art isn’t insignificant, but the key differentiating aspect is its abnormal location. Jordan Sand analyzes the importance of common spaces within public life and posits that these open spaces are integral tools for “citizen making” (Sand 2013, 26). This suggests that a lack of common spaces limits civic engagement. To best foster participation, the public should be spatially consolidated, leading to “unified mass action” (Sand 2013, 27). If common space is disrupted during a protest, people are required to pay attention to their surroundings, leading to a forced acknowledgement of the contestation at play. With that being said, the public nature of subway stations guarantees that not everyone will agree on a single message as people assert their right to the city; their right to transportation; and their right to complicate the mundane. Within Tokyo, artists and protestors activate subway stations, using mundanity as a blank canvas for direct communication with the public.

The majority of art and protest case studies referenced in the following sections fall within the post war period. As Japan underwent extensive reconstruction in the decades following the atomic destruction of World War II, its reshaping efforts were experienced not only at the societal and physical levels, but also at the subjective levels of the individual. Artists and protestors, recognizing the importance of individual connection, acknowledged that mere imagery and objects were insufficient so they expanded beyond conventional institutional venues and embraced public spaces for expression. Artworks, like Taro Okamoto's Asu no Shinwa (Myth of Tomorrow), reckoned with Japan’s atomic past as a means to embrace collective national memory. Activist groups like Chim↑Pom and Hi-Red Center organized their passionate demonstrations within the subway

environment to complicate the use of nuclear energy and the postwar, government-lead reconstruction. Finally, anti-war protestors fought against the government-initiated violence in Vietnam, utilizing the spatial convenience of subway stations to consolidate political activism. Both artists and protestors understood the subway as a unique space of monotony: one that could command attention when disrupted. By complicating the routine of the everyday, these actors of change ensured their message stood out amongst the patterns of daily commutes.

This paper considers two groups, artists and protestors, to understand how the nature of the subway station is beneficial to their social, political, and/or creative motives. Discussed in three sections–art, art protests, and protest–this paper revolves around their location in the subway station, the public commons. Through disrupting a monotonous, utilitarian environment, these groups assert their right to the city, addressing the past and challenging the government in the process.

II. CONTEXTUAL OVERVIEW AND KEY CONCEPTS

Artists take advantage of the unique congregation within subway stations to showcase their art to a broad audience. Combining atomic anxieties, the power of the public, and the desire to disrupt the mundane, art installations within stations effectively utilized the subway environment to further their message. Reminding fellow citizens of Japan’s history, Taro Okamoto reckoned with past atomic destruction to directly address a significant moment in Japan’s history.

While conventional in the sense of display method and medium, installations within subway stations can introduce unconventional themes such as death and resilience as seen in Okamoto's Asu no Shinwa (Myth of Tomorrow) mural. It is located in Tokyo's Shibuya station, shown in Figure 1. Originally commissioned for a hotel in Mexico City, the mural was never displayed due to financial constraints (Masters 2008). It was rediscovered in 2003, underwent five years of restoration, and was installed in Shibuya station. Its location in the station was purposeful and in “an effort to have as many people as possible bear witness to its intense message” (Rodgers 2023). The mural depicts the World War II atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki through startling colors and unsettling figures. While muted tones sustain the background, fiery reds and oranges encompass individual figures who are shown encountering deadly radiation. Often compared to Picasso’s Guernica, the Myth of Tomorrow raised eyebrows at the time of its creation—even those close to Okamoto were skeptical about his directness in representing vivid imagery of terror (Masters 2008). Death and despair shown in mural-scale can be overwhelming and brutal, but its message is offset by its bustling location in the Shibuya Station. Within the station, people have no choice in interacting with the vivid artwork: they must confront the violence of the past. Here, the mural presents an opportunity for users to step outside of their daily commute and be engulfed by visuals of terror and resilience; “Taro wanted the Japanese to surmount the misery of the past rather than to retract inwardly” (Masters 2008). Creating a narrative that highlights the terrors of World War II, Taro’s mural actively asserts a charged right to the city that forces observers to face the trauma of the past, all within the constraints of normal commuting hours.

Subway stations offer a unique space for artists to engage with a diverse audience, bridging post-atomic sorrow with national reliance. Taro Okamoto's Myth of Tomorrow mural exemplifies this,

confronting viewers with the haunting realities of war and the human capacity for resilience. By repurposing subway environments as platforms for social commentary and reflection, artists not only challenge commuters' perceptions of the past but also assert a sense of ownership over urban spaces. Ultimately, emotionally-charged art redefines the role of subway stations beyond transportation hubs, transforming them into sites of significance that provoke thought and dialogue among the Tokyo population.

III. THE MERGING OF ART AND PROTEST

When art and protest overlap, strange and compelling new realities push against the status-quo. Through the lens of free expression, protests transcend simple demonstrations and evolve into artistically-driven narratives that challenge norms and spark dialogue. Combining aesthetics with activism, art emerges not just as a form of self-expression, but as a catalyst for informing and altering collective consciousness to drive social movements.

The first example of the merging of art and protest in Tokyo’s subway is exhibited by Chim↑Pom, a 21st-century Japanese artist collective known for their provocative and politically-charged works. In 2015, the group made headlines for their Fukushima meltdown-themed addition to the Myth of Tomorrow which is displayed in Figure 2. Adding a large decorated sticker consistent with the mural’s style to the bottom right corner of the artwork, Chim↑Pom’s pointed artistry drew attention to the earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear disaster at the Fukushima nuclear power plant (“PEOPLE | CHIM↑POM,”

Figure 1: Taro Okamoto's Asu no Shinwa (Myth of Tomorrow) (Yamada 2017).

Figure 2: Chim↑Pom’s addition to the Myth of Tomorrow (“Works | Chim↑Pom: Happy Spring | Mori Art Museum”).

2015). The nonpermanent nature of the sticker is what situates this artistic act as a protest. Temporarily asserting their presence, while long enough to garner attention, allowed Chim↑Pom to draw a direct line from the atrocities of the past to the threats of the present. The group sought to direct public attention to the ongoing consequences of nuclear power and the government’s response to the Fukushima disaster. The Fukushima Nuclear disaster in 2011 was the result of a 9.0 earthquake and following tsunami that devastated the coast of Japan. The earthquake caused an automatic shutdown of the reactors at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant, but the ensuing tsunami disabled the backup generators responsible for cooling the reactors' cores (“The Fukushima-Daiichi Nuclear Power Station Accident: An overview,” n.d.). Without sufficient cooling, the reactors overheated, leading to the release of radioactive materials into the environment. Widespread evacuations, contamination of land and water, and significant health and environmental impacts resulted in it becoming one of the worst nuclear disasters in history. Chim↑Pom, recognizing the relevant dangers of government-mandated nuclear energy, sought out the Myth of Tomorrow mural to tie together themes of past and present nuclear destruction all with the privilege of public viewership. To achieve that goal, appropriating the publicly-facing mural about atomic destruction was an obvious choice. Bringing their concerns into the public sphere, the group asserted their “right to the city” and altered the mural to fit modern contexts. This group's response is not a typical protest, in the sense that people weren’t marching and chanting, but its temporary and visual subversion of hegemonic discourse lends it to the style of protest. Fighting against governmental initiatives that threaten both the environment and human lives, Chim↑Pom forcibly engaged locals in the protest against the future of nuclear energy by reminding people of the past.

The first example of the merging of art and protest in Tokyo’s subway is exhibited by Chim↑Pom, a 21st-century Japanese artist collective known for their provocative and politically-charged works. In 2015, the group made headlines for their Fukushima meltdown-themed addition to the Myth of Tomorrow which is displayed in Figure 2. Adding a large decorated sticker consistent with the mural’s style to the bottom right corner of the artwork, Chim↑Pom’s pointed artistry drew attention to the earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear disaster at the Fukushima nuclear power plant (“PEOPLE | CHIM↑POM,” 2015). The nonpermanent nature of the sticker is what situates this artistic act as a protest. Temporarily asserting their presence, while

long enough to garner attention, allowed Chim↑Pom to draw a direct line from the atrocities of the past to the threats of the present. The group sought to direct public attention to the ongoing consequences of nuclear power and the government’s response to the Fukushima disaster. The Fukushima Nuclear disaster in 2011 was the result of a 9.0 earthquake and following tsunami that devastated the coast of Japan. The earthquake caused an automatic shutdown of the reactors at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant, but the ensuing tsunami disabled the backup generators responsible for cooling the reactors' cores (“The Fukushima-Daiichi Nuclear Power Station Accident: An overview,” n.d.). Without sufficient cooling, the reactors overheated, leading to the release of radioactive materials into the environment. Widespread evacuations, contamination of land and water, and significant health and environmental impacts resulted in it becoming one of the worst nuclear disasters in history. Chim↑Pom, recognizing the relevant dangers of government-mandated nuclear energy, sought out the Myth of Tomorrow mural to tie together themes of past and present nuclear destruction all with the privilege of public viewership. To achieve that goal, appropriating the publicly-facing mural about atomic destruction was an obvious choice. Bringing their concerns into the public sphere, the group asserted their “right to the city” and altered the mural to fit modern contexts. This group's response is not a typical protest, in the sense that people weren’t marching and chanting, but its temporary and visual subversion of hegemonic discourse lends it to the style of protest. Fighting against governmental initiatives that threaten both the environment and human lives, Chim↑Pom forcibly engaged locals in the protest against the future of nuclear energy by reminding people of the past.

Another way that artists have permeated the subway environment is through performance art, with the most notable being HiRed Center’s Yamanote Line Incident. On October 18th, 1962, artists such as Nakanishi Natsuyuki, Takamatsu Jiro and Akasegawa Genpei boarded the Yamanote line and disrupted daily commuters with bizarre and nonsensical displays as seen in figure 3. Doryun Chong describes certain aspects of the protest in the following excerpt for MOMA’s “Tokyo, A New Avant-Garde” exhibit: Nakanishi stood in the train, his face painted white, apparently immersed in a book. Next to him, hanging from a chain on a strap handle, was one of his compact objects – transparent shapes, each about the size and shape of an ostrich egg, in which various objects such as wristwatches, pieces of rope, sunglasses, bottle tops and human hair are wrapped in resin. Nakanishi licked his objects, while Takamatsu stood casually nearby (Chong 2012, 27).

Such demonstrative events were responses to the large-scale spatial and social reorganization of Tokyo following World War II, as well as general disappointment towards the lack of infrastructure provided to artists (Marotti 2013). To assert their unhappiness most effectively, the artists used the Yamanote Line, which famously runs in a circle around Tokyo and is the most used line in the city. Understanding the subway as a representation of the mundane, inner-working of the everyday; “the noneverydayness of art was complemented by the suspended, unorganized character of this everyday space” (Marotti 2013, 228). By asserting their incredibly strange right to the city through art and a disruption of the everyday, the artists associated with the Yamanote Line Incident transformed the commuting environment to thrust their demands upon a city

Figure 3: Hi-Red Center’s Yamanote Line Incident featuring Nakanishi (Chong 2012).

grappling with its future.

The power of these displays within subway stations lies in the acknowledgment that “it does not have to last forever; it does not have to cast its message to some unmistakable but platitudinous theme that absolutely everyone will get; it does not have to mark or make a common ground” (Phillips 1989, 335). While some art is displayed conventionally and others through abstract performance, their locations within subway stations present an avenue to reawakening social awareness and enforcing a right to make the urban space for the people and by the people. In both cases, the public nature of the subway stations lended artists unfiltered visibility as they contested government initiatives.

IV. ANTI-WAR PROTESTS

While art activism reached an aggressive peak in postwar Japan, this era was similarly characterized by an increasing number of civil disobedience events. Protests became an effective method to exhibit displeasure with Japan’s international relations. Entering the commons, protests infused politics into everyday space (Sand 2013, 33).

In the late 1960s, anti-Vietnam War activists overtook the underground plaza of Shibuya Station for a duration of six months as the underground plaza that links the east and west exits was an ideal spatial hub. The plaza was created for commuters to transfer from their train to other lines or to their preferred exit; “By 1969, around one million people transversed through Shinjuku Station, with the plaza acting as an integral passage between rail lines and exits (Sand 2013, 36). By virtue of the plaza’s functional purpose, protestors were able to entice commuting individuals to join their cause, effectively closing the divide between the politics and the everyday (Sand 2013, 30). Appropriating the space for folk performances, teach-ins, and speeches, those participating viewed the plaza as a place for informal communal solidarity, shown in Figure 4. Subway platforms became impromptu stages for speeches, while ticket gates served as makeshift barricades against advancing authorities. Graffiti decorated the space with phrases like “Ampo revolution, dissolve Ampo, freedom and liberation in Shinjuku, to victory!” (Eckersall 2011, 333). Amidst the chaos, the subway station, typically a symbol of routine commuting, emerged as a space of collective action and civil defiance.

On October 21, 1968, authorities clashed with protestors in the Shinjuku Station Plaza. As tensions escalated, riot police were

deployed to suppress the demonstrations, leading to violence and chaotic scenes in the plaza. The clash underscored the deep divisions within Japanese society as older generations were unable to rationalize the mass dissent, and called into question the authorities' willingness to use force to maintain order. The protest gained national attention due to its visible location in the bustling Shinjuku station, and forced individuals to reckon with their passivity regarding government violence. The events in Shinjuku Station Plaza reverberated across Japan, sparking debates about the limits of state power, freedom of expression, and the role of grassroots activism in shaping national discourse.

V. CONCLUSION

Artists successfully appropriated public space to energize various critiques including the use of atomic weapons and the following national revitalization, the reliance on nuclear energy, and the nonnecessity of war. Thus, by sparking conversations that politicians, governments, and other leaders seek to distract from, public space became a facilitator for social change. From Taro Okamoto's provocative murals to Red Hi-Centers bizarre interventions, art merges with protest to confront societal issues and historical traumas. These interventions not only disrupt the routine of daily commutes but also provoke thought and dialogue among commuters, redefining the role of subway stations as sites of social engagement and reflection. Furthermore, protests within subway stations, such as the anti-Vietnam War demonstrations in Shinjuku Station Plaza, demonstrate the power of collective action to challenge authority and shape public discourse. By appropriating these spaces for communal gatherings and political expression, protestors blur the lines between the private and public spheres, transforming the mundane into sites of activism and resistance.

Overall, the intersection of art and protest within Tokyo's subway stations underscores the significance of public space in shaping urban identity and fostering civic engagement. Whether through artistic installations, performances, or political demonstrations, these interventions assert a collective right to the city and highlight the potential of everyday spaces to inspire social change. As Tokyo continues to evolve, its subway stations remain fertile ground for creative expression and political dissent, serving as essential spaces for reclaiming urban space and asserting the voices of its citizens.

jpa2154@barnard.edu

Figure 4: “Folk guerrillas” performing during the Shibuya Station protest (Andrews 2014).

REFERENCES

Andrews, William. 2014. “1969 Shinjuku Nishiguchi Chika Hiroba: Shinjuku Station West Exit Underground Plaza and the Anti-War “Folk Guerrillas.”” Throw Out Your Books. https://throwoutyourbooks.wordpress.com/2014/10/02/1969-shinjuku-nishiguchi-hiroba-shinjuku-station-west-exit-plaza-folk-guerrillas/.

Chong, Doryun, et al. Tokyo, 1955-1970: A New Avant-garde. Edited by Doryun Chong, Museum of Modern Art, 2012.

Eckersall, Peter. “The Emotional Geography of Shinjuku: The Case of Chikatetsu Hiroba (Underground Plaza, 1970),” Japanese Studies, 31:3, 333-343. 2011. DOI: 10.1080/10371397.2011.619167

Freedman, Alisa. Tokyo in Transit: Japanese Culture on the Rails and Road. Stanford University Press, 2011.

“The Fukushima-Daiichi Nuclear Power Station Accident: An overview.” The United Nations Scientific Committee on the Effects of Atomic Radiation, https://www.unscear.org/unscear/en/areas-ofwork/fukushima.html.

Lefebvre, Henri. “Writings on Cities.” Blackwell, Cambridge, MA, 1996.

Masters, Coco. “A Lost Masterpiece, Now Found in Tokyo's Metro - TIME.” Videos Index on TIME.com, 18 November 2008, https://content.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1859986,00. html. Accessed 25 March 2024.

Marotti, William. “Money, Trains, and Guillotines: Art and Revolution in 1960s Japan.” Columbia University Press, 2013.

Phillips, Patricia C. “Temporality and Public Art.” Art Journal, vol. 48, no. 4, 1989, pp. 331–35. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/777018.

“PEOPLE | CHIM↑POM.” SHIFT, 1 June 2011, https://www.shift. jp.org/en/archives/2011/06/chimpom.html/2/.

Rogers, Krista. “Famous Myth of Tomorrow mural inside Shibuya Station to undergo significant restoration work.” SoraNews24, 26 September 2023, https://soranews24.com/2023/09/26/famous-myth-of-tomorrow-mural-inside-shibuya-station-to-undergo-significant-restoration-work/.

Sand, Jordan. Tokyo Vernacular: Common Spaces, Local Histories, Found Objects. University of California Press, 2013.

“Works | Chim↑Pom: Happy Spring | Mori Art Museum.” n.d. Mori Art Museum. Accessed November 1, 2024. https://www.mori.art. museum/en/exhibitions/chimpom/04/.

Yamada, Kanji. n.d. “"Myth of Tomorrow" by Taro Okamoto at Shibuya Station (岡岡岡岡 岡岡岡岡岡).” Flickr. Accessed November 1, 2024. https://www.flickr.com/photos/60205799@N06/32824384071.

Zacharias, John, Tianxin Zhang, and Naoto Nakajima. "Tokyo Station City: The Railway Station as Urban Place." Routledge, 2013.

THE LIVING ARCHIVE OF LITTLE EGYPT:

The Translocality of the Ephemeral Built Environment on Steinway Street

BY MAYA FELSTEHAUSEN Barnard College ‘25

INTRODUCTION

Translocalism, as defined by geographers Katherine Brickell and Ayona Datta, encapsulates “a fractured collection of mundane spaces and places that produces connections (both social and material) with other spaces, places and locales within and beyond the city” (Brickell and Datta 2011, 17). Through this understanding of diasporic space and place, I observe and analyze the ethnic enclave of “Little Egypt” in Astoria, Queens. The neighborhood reinforces the understanding of translocalism through its built environment, in the intersections of language, accessibility to spaces, and users of the space and place. I extend the understanding of Brickell and Datta’s “fractured collection” to artifacts of ephemera—short-lived elements of the built environment that contrast the permanent presence of the existing structures and establishments (Brickell and Datta 2011, 17). I examine objects including paper signs, Zagat rating stickers, and political campaign posters attached on the facades of the Steinway Street establishments. I assert that the urban fabric of Steinway Street, between 25th and 28th Avenue, is a living archive of translocality through the ephemeral artifacts of communication, demarcation, and adornment of the ethnic enclave. These three foci of analysis, grounded in signage that reflect and adjudicate space, highlight how these artifacts of ephemera are inherently translocal. Through this understanding of ephemerality, I posit Little Egypt as a translocal enclave connected to New York City and the MENA region.

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND

Astoria, Queens is home to a “hyperdiverse” immigrant population since the early 1900s (Aptekar 2021). Post World War I and World War II growth spurred Queens to be the most diverse region in the world—Astoria being one of its many multiethnic neighborhoods. Among Astoria’s large Greek population, the Queens neighborhood has attracted migrants from Brazil, Colombia, Bangladesh, China, Guyana, Korea, Ecuador, Romania, Japan, India, the Philippines, Albania, and Bosnia over the 20th and 21st centuries (Keller and Seyfried 2010, 73). With a concentrated population representing nationalities, races, ethnicities, and backgrounds from all over the world, Astoria is known to be one of the most diverse neighborhoods in the world.

Within the concentration of cultures in Astoria is Little Egypt on Steinway Street, a North African ethnic enclave “between 28th Avenue and Astoria Boulevard” (Bilefsky 2011). Adding to the aforementioned list of immigrant populations that settled in Astoria, the neighborhood is home to a significant Arab and North African population, including “immigrants from Lebanon, Egypt, Tunisia, Yemen, and Morocco, all of whom settled in the Steinway Street area in the 1990s”(Keller and Seyfried 2010, 73). The area experienced an influx of Arab and North African immigrant populations into what is now known to be Little Egypt, due to sociopolitical pressures stemming from the 1960s in the MENA region, with Egyptian people, in particular, seeking to

escape the repressive regime of Gamal Abdel Nasser and pursue a life with more freedom and improvement of economic mobility (Bilefsky 2011).

Little Egypt is defined by numerous North African restaurants, cafés, hookah bars, and grocery stores, as well as related social services and travel agencies in the neighborhood (Aptekar 2021, 249-50). Little Egypt is also rich in places of worship, including two mosques, a Coptic church, and an Arabic-speaking Protestant church (Wills 2019, 45). These establishments and cultural institutions ground the Egyptian and Arab communities of Little Egypt, creating significant spaces and places for gathering and interaction in the neighborhood. Within the population of Little Egypt, restaurant owner Ali El Sayed is a notable figure in establishing Little Egypt. He was one of the first Egyptian immigrants to settle at the northern end of Steinway Street, opening the first Egyptian establishment in 1987, and is now known as “the unofficial Egyptian mayor of the neighborhood” (Bilefsky 2011). In Warren Lehrer and Judith Sloan’s field research on the immigrant voices of Queens, El Sayed, as well as fellow restaurant owner and brother Moustafa Rahman speak on the immigrant experience and the growing pressures of gentrification in the neighborhood. In the conversation between El Sayed and Rahman, the two share their heightened concern about the destructive force of gentrification increasingly pushing out the Arab population from the neighborhood. El Sayed comments that “you really killed yourself with the atmosphere that you created,” noting the duality between cherishing the immigrant community created by the growth of Little Egypt and the increasing—and sometimes unwanted—attention that this brings (El Sayed 2003, 185).

With an understanding of Little Egypt’s inextricable ties to its North African establishments in asserting its community and the fear of gentrification bringing about radical change to the neighborhood, the subsequent zoning laws of the area qualify the character of the built environment on Steinway Street. The area of Little Egypt is designated as C4-2A in New York City’s zoning and land use, a zoning district denoting “regional centers where larger stores, theaters, and office uses serve a wider region and generate more traffic than neighborhood shopping areas” (NYC Planning 2023). In this way, the local, distinctive built environment that amalgamates Arab, North African, and New York City architectures and typographies are less susceptible to cataclysmic change brought about by gentrification, despite real estate developers (oftentimes catalysts for gentrification) keeping a closer eye on ethnic enclaves like Little Egypt. With such a rich history, despite its brevity, the diverse stories and lives of Little Egypt, and the greater neighborhood of Astoria, are preserved and archived through the very evolution of the built environment. This is enacted by those who inhabit these spaces — and transforming them into meaningful places of community.

METHODOLOGY

I conducted my ethnographic fieldwork through observation of the neighborhood on foot. I visited the neighborhood of Little

Egypt three times over the month of March. I visited on three varying days of the week — Monday, Friday, and Saturday — as well as different times of the day for each visit, at noon, in the morning, and in the afternoon, respectively. It is particularly important to note that my fieldwork coincided with the period leading up to, as well as the start of Ramadan, which began on the evening of March 22, 2023. I primarily conducted my fieldwork through observations of the built environment. On my first visit to Little Egypt, I observed the neighborhood to get a general understanding of the area and find a focus for my fieldwork. On my second visit, which coincided with the second day of Ramadan, I noticed how the cityscape had changed between my first and second visit — before and after the start of Ramadan. Ramadan ornaments transformed the urban fabric of Steinway Street in a matter of days, through fabric decorations of red, purple, blue, and gold, rainbow string lights, and ornamentation of moons, stars, and lanterns. Fascinated by the short-term changes that I observed between my first and second visits, on my third and final visit, I took a closer look at these ephemeral transformations of the built environment. I paid close attention to signage, postings, and notices on establishments across Steinway Street — parts of the built environment that adapt and respond to the inhabitants of these spaces and make these places translocal. I want to note that while my ethnographic fieldwork puts a strong emphasis on what I define to be artifacts of ephemera within the built environment, I acknowledge that some of these objects and signage can be random or accidental in terms of their intentionalities. That being, some of the signs that I interpret to be temporary, or of temporary intention—such as the sign on the Al-Iman Mosque—may not have been put up with the intention for it to be taken down. It may be that these postings were put up for the sake of being put up for intentionalities beyond my understanding. Further, I note that my positionality as an ‘outsider’ with no fluency in the Arabic language and no familial ties to the MENA region limits my social and cultural understanding and analysis. However, I feel that this irregularity, this unplanned-ness that takes shape through these artifacts have an inherently ‘translocal’ quality by signifying connections with spaces and places both in the proximal localities of Astoria and the diasporic localities of North Africa. As people—including myself—are interacting with these artifacts of ephemera within these spaces, I believe there is value in ascribing these objects as a means for analysis.

ANALYSIS

1. COMMUNICATION

Articles of communication used to correspond between different inhabitants of the spaces and places of Little Egypt reflect the malleability and translocality of the built environment. Upon passing by Abuqir Seafood on March 24th, the day after the first day of Ramadan, I came across a Letter-sized, black-and-white printed sign pasted on the glass door of the establishment. The sign was posted with translucent tape, appearing to be temporary as it was not placed on the door when I visited the establishment three days prior. The message on the sign indicates that they are temporarily closed to celebrate the first day of Ramadan and will open on the following day at regular hours, as shown in figure 1.

Figure 1. Paper sign posted on the glass entrance door of Abuqir Seafood on Steinway Street. The sign indicates closure for the first day of Ramadan and reopening for regular hours on March 24th. Photograph by Maya Felstehausen, March 24, 2023. Astoria, Queens, New York.

The ephemerality — the impermanent quality — of the sign reinforces the translocal nature of this artifact captured within the built environment. Its minuscule temporality, in contrast to the ‘permanence’ of the establishment itself, supports the fragmented essence of translocality that is defined by differing temporalities, scales, and materials that ground Little Egypt in both New York City and the MENA region.

The sign is further notable because of its directed audience. As a member of Little Egypt, or the greater North African community in this area of Steinway Street, Ramadan is a predominant religious celebration that is integral to the practices of the community. In this case, however, the sign is posted for those who are not a part of the community, such as tourists that are visiting the area for the day—or those like me, who do not have a shared ethnic or religious background. For those within the community, the sign may appear as a reiterated reminder, rather than a potential surprise to the tourist who is coming across the neighborhood for the first time. Further, the sign is only indicated in English, a striking contrast to the linguistic hybridity of signage for the rest of the establishment consistently indicated in Arabic and English for labels including the name of the restaurant. Situated at the beginning of the stretch on Steinway Street towards the intersection with Astoria Boulevard, the sign additionally plays a role in signaling the lack of activity during daylight hours in the Ramadan period, which was observed as the majority of food establishments, including restaurants such as Layali Beirut and

Halal Chinese, were closed upon visiting the area during the late-morning hours.

2. DEMARCATION

Similar to paper signs as a mode of communication within the neighborhood, I observed a Letter-sized black-and-white paper sign posted on the Al-Iman Mosque located on Steinway Street between Astoria Boulevard and 25th Avenue as a marker disciplining space. Throughout my site visits at different times of the day between the periods of March 17th to 25th, I noted the Letter-sized paper sign on one of four doors of the Al-Iman Mosque visible on its facade. The handwritten sign, located on the door on the far left of the Mosque, notes that the door is for “WOMEN ONLY,” followed by the same message written in Arabic. This handwritten object of the urban fabric contrasts the previously discussed posting on the Abuqir Seafood establishment, as it showed discernable signs of weathering, denoting that the paper has been on the door for a comparatively longer period, despite its similar ephemeral nature. Furthermore, its use of Arabic and English highlights the accessibility of the mosque and its directed users of the space; as a religious presence in the neighborhood rooted in its diasporic communities, the prevalence of Arabic accompanying the English label signifies its inherent grounding in the members within the community, and the importance of these culturally ascribed values within the urban structure of the neighborhood. It further reveals that while all worshippers are Islamic, they may not all read the Arabic language, revealing the nuance of the community members in Little Egypt. Despite its appearance suggesting that the sign was intended to be temporary, its persistence on the mosque’s facade indicates the cultural significance of the sign and its necessity in the functioning of the institution. The artifact of ephemera reinforces the translocal connections to New York City and North Africa, reflecting the diverse users of the space.

3. ORNAMENT

Artifacts of ephemera make up a microcosmic archive-of-sorts

3. Facade of Mombar, displaying a political campaign poster, COVID-19 information, and restaurant and establishment ranking stickers alongside the distinct ornamentation of the restaurant. Photograph by Maya Felstehausen, March 25, 2023. Astoria, Queens, New York.

on the facades of the long-standing restaurants of Little Egypt: Mombar and Ali’s Kabab Cafe. When I passed by Mombar, which stands out within the surrounding urban fabric due to its ornamental facade, I noted the variability of signage, ranging from a sun-damaged, wrinkled-up candidate poster of political activist Rana Abdelhamid, a Zagat Survey sign from 2004, and COVID-19 signs distributed by New York City. All of these postings complement the mosaics and molded embellishments of Mombar’s facade that appear to be done by hand. I similarly observed a collection of signage and postings at Ali’s Kabab Cafe. I took particular notice of the assemblage of articles posted on the left side of the establishment’s facade, which includes a New York Times newspaper article, a New Yorker article with its corresponding cover art, as well as a yellowing, printed sign indicating that the establishment was listed as the sixth best restaurant on Anthony Bourdain’s Ultimate List of Top 10 NYC Restaurants. Both businesses, which have the longest histories in the

Figure 2. Hand-written, bilingual WOMEN ONLY sign posted on the far-left door of the Al-Iman Mosque on Steinway Street. Photograph by Maya Felstehausen, March 24, 2023. Astoria, Queens, New York.

Figure

local and diasporic communities through a collection of fleeting, yet meaningful evocations of place.

The prevalence of these artifacts of ephemera displayed on the facades of Little Egypt establishments reveals how the built environment is constantly in a state of flux. Fleeting signage like the paper posted on the door of Abuqir Seafood, as well as noticeably longer-term, yet temporary-appearing handwritten signs on the Al-Iman Mosque play a vital role in the evolving state of the built environment on Steinway Street. These artifacts of short temporalities cultivate space into place in the immediate, allowing for an evolution of the built environment which contradicts the enduring, fixed nature of the buildings and establishments themselves. The impermanent quality of ephemeral objects responds to every user of the neighborhood, cultivating a dialogue between its geographical location as a neighborhood of New York City and the community’s North African places of origin. The transformation that takes place through the emergence and disappearance of signage within the built environment defines the complexity of Little Egypt as a translocality.

While the built environment typically brings a focus to the architecture, streets, sidewalks, and greenspace, its components of detail—the ephemeral facades, postings, and ornaments—play a vital role in the translocality of Steinway Street as reminders of the continuous conversation that takes place between these geographies. The archival nature of these postings, through noticeably new and weathered conditions through differing temporalities, underscore the affective evocation of “sensual experiences” and memories that are brought about by these objects (Brickell and Datta 2011, 99). While Little Egypt may be adjacent to the spaces and places of the North African community’s origin, it will never be equivalent to the spaces themselves. The continuous synthesis of proximal geographies and diasporic localities, of near and far, reflect in the liminal artifacts of the urban form.

CONCLUSION

restaurants of Little Egypt, display their collection of artifacts in such a way that appears to reflect their credibility as an establishment — their enduring service despite economic hardships such as the COVID-19 pandemic. Further, the postings of news publications and culinary experts such as Anthony Bourdain recognizable to the New Yorker exemplify that these establishments are seeking people from within the geographic locales of New York City, outside of their diasporic communities. The intentionality of these collections of ephemera on the facades of Mombar and Ali’s Kabab Cafe epitomizes the very nature of translocalism through connecting

In this way, the area known to be Little Egypt is inherently translocal. The hybridity of North African places and spaces is translated into the architectures, both permanent and ephemeral, of the built environment of New York City. The exploration of translocality and ephemerality raises further questions on the production of place. To what extent does place-making, exhibited through these artifacts of ephemera, reflect and perpetuate existing power structures of these translocalities? The space is not only limited to migrants and people of diaspora but is also shaped by the members of the greater geographically local area, restricting the places of the enclave to grow as a true evocation of diasporic localities. Manifested through the observed casual, impermanent postings of Abuqir Seafood, Al-Iman mosque, Mombar, and Ali’s Kabab Cafe, the built environment exhibits the intersections of language, culture, and identity that speak to a greater hybridity of space in the neighborhood of Steinway Street. Translocalism expands the definition of a diasporic space to underscore the interconnectedness of the enclave in the greater Astoria neighborhood and the inextricable connections of Little Egypt to New York City. The hybridity of ephemeral artifacts as a living archive is what makes this very space translocal, through the “fragments” of the built environment that speaks to a connection to North Africa, beyond the City of New York (Brickell and Datta 2011, 17).

mef2230@barnard.edu

Figure 4. Newspaper and magazine clippings posted on the facade of Ali Kabab Cafe. Photograph by Maya Felstehausen, March 24, 2023. Astoria, Queens, New York.

REFERENCES

Aptekar, Sofya. “10: Placemaking and Public Space in Hyperdiverse Astoria.” Essay. In Immigrant Crossroads: Globalization, Incorporation, and Placemaking in Queens, New York, edited by Tarry Hum, Ron Hayduk, Francois Pierre-Louis, and Michael Alan Krasner, 243–67. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 2021.

Bilefsky, Dan. “Converging on Little Egypt, With Anger and Hope.” The New York Times, January 30, 2011. https://www.nytimes. com/2011/01/31/nyregion/31astoria.html.

Brickell, Katherine, and Ayona Datta. “Translocal Geographies: Spaces, Places, Connections.” Localities, 2011. https://doi. org/10.15299/local.2011.11.1.261.

Lehrer, Warren, and Judith Sloan. “The Brothers: Rahman/El Sayed” and “Labib’s Café.” Essay. In Crossing the Blvd: Strangers, Neighbors, Aliens in a New America, 180–95; 320–31. New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 2003.

NYC Planning. ZoLa: New York City's Zoning & Land Use Map. NYC Planning, 2023. https://zola.planning.nyc.gov/ about/#9.72/40.7125/-73.733.

T. Jackson, Kenneth, Lisa Keller, and Nancy V. Flood, eds. “A.” In The Encyclopedia of New York City: Second Edition, 1–79. Yale University Press, 2010. http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt5vm1cb.6.

U.S. Census Bureau; American Community Survey, 2015 American Community Survey 5-Year Estimates, Table B01003; generated by Maya Felstehausen; using data.census.gov; <https://data. census.gov/cedsci/> (2 March 2023).

Wills, Emily Regan. Arab New York: Politics and Community in the Everyday Lives of Arab Americans. New York, NY: New York University Press, 2019.

BRIDGING DIVIDES OR WIDENING GAPS?

The Vibrant Facade of Columbia’s Manhattanville Campus Expansion

BY LAILA ABED Columbia College ‘27

INTRODUCTION

My first visit to Columbia University’s Manhattanville campus, stretching from 125th to 133rd Street, was an encounter with contrasts—a landscape transformed yet divided. Amid the familiar sounds of Harlem—construction, honking cars—stood Columbia’s sleek glass buildings in bold primary colors, adorned with beautiful art installations and striking geometric designs. Yet beneath this impressive facade of “progress” lay a deeper tension: the university’s ambitious expansion contrasts sharply with the needs and identity of the surrounding community. While Columbia offers 100% need-based aid to support its students with housing, food, and coursework, its commitment to accessibility for students comes at a high cost to the Harlem community. The land Columbia acquired for the Manhattanville campus displaced longtime Harlem residents, many of whom feel deeply rooted in their homes and neighborhoods, creating a stark contradiction to Columbia’s stated commitment to “improving quality of life,” “preserving historical buildings,” and “strengthening ties” with the community through job creation and local programs. The Manhattanville campus’s expansion has resulted in the demolition of 150 affordable housing units and cultural degradation, contributing to a citywide housing crisis in an already high-rent area (Guide 2014). Harlem residents, like any other, desire stability, affordable housing, and the preservation of their community’s historic character—yet Columbia’s expansion threatens these fundamental needs. This raises a critical question for the project: can Columbia’s vision for growth coexist with the community’s needs for preservation and inclusivity, or does its pursuit of progress come at too high of a cost?

HISTORICAL TENSIONS AND INSTITUTIONAL EXPANSION

The Columbia Manhattanville Campus Expansion project plan, while designed to create a state-of-the-art academic center, raises pressing concerns about the gentrification of West Harlem and challenges Columbia’s stated goal of fostering community integration (see Figure 1). As I observed the campus, it became clear that the architecture—marked by modern designs, bold colors, and glass facades—reflects Columbia’s vision of progress and academic advancement. However, these aesthetic choices contrast with the neighborhood’s traditional character, revealing a deeper divide. Modern architectural choices, especially those using “big, bland spaces” like glass or unused areas in predominantly residential and historic areas, often serve as visual signals of disruption that can alienate residents and affect community cohesion (Dempsey 2008).

In the case of Manhattanville, its architectural style—while innovative—risks weakening this sense of attachment by replacing community-centered spaces with structures that

prioritize institutional needs. It is important to recognize that “the stronger the perceived character of a place, the stronger the sense of community and place attachment” (Dempsey 2008). This sense of design “placelessness” fails to reflect residents, eroding community bonds and fostering resentment towards Columbia University. The rezoning in Manhattanville was proposed to allow Columbia to create “an integrated, urban campus environment” with “publicly accessible open space and amenities for both university and neighborhood residents” who are predominantly people of color (Manhattanville 2007). However, the university’s architecture reshapes the land in ways that exclude and marginalize Harlem’s historic identity. While the plan aims to “facilitate the revitalization, improvement, and redevelopment of a portion of West Harlem,” the resulting increased density and restricted accessibility have raised several issues about feeling secure in resident homes (Manhattanville 2007). Columbia University has positioned the Manhattanville expansion as a model for sustainable development. However, critics argue that the project has exacerbated gentrification, displacing residents and altering the neighborhood’s character in ways that primarily benefit the institution (i.e. increasing Columbia’s property holdings, boosting campus footprint, and attracting affluent prospective students). These attempts to assuage feelings of anger were marked by incorporating “ground floor retail, street improvements, tree plantings, and a partially vegetated square.” Nevertheless, such modifications are often perceived as “performative” by residents (Patricia 2010). Ultimately, this disconnect highlights the limitations of Columbia’s inclusive approach.

Through these architectural elements, Columbia’s expansion subtly communicates exclusivity and institutional dominance, shaping the space in ways that prioritize the university’s ambitions over community needs. For example, Columbia’s rhetoric about urban renewal ‘improving’ the neighborhood often translated into the eviction of thousands, revealing a disregard for mutual benefits (Naron 2018). This mismatch is further demonstrated by the region’s high rent burdens, with residents spending more than 30% of their income on housing (Guide 2014). Eventually, large, imposing academic developments can create ‘urban fortresses’ that prioritize campus interests, while residents feel their mobility is restricted and their needs are overlooked (Marcuse 2010)—going against Columbia’s promise of building a shared space for both Columbia and West Harlem. The imposing structures and limited public access points seem to be constant reminders that these spaces were not exclusively designed with residents in mind. The futuristic architecture reveals an underlying intention to makeshift the area in favor of the university’s image rather than authentically integrating the traditional character of the neighborhood, defined by rustic, red-brick buildings, and brownstones today, with the community’s identity and needs.

The historical context underscores this dynamic: Columbia’s Manhattanville expansion mirrors its earlier development of the Morningside campus, which similarly reshaped the

community’s landscape and displaced residents. As a result, while Columbia claims to bridge academia and community, the Manhattanville campus’s vibrant yet imposing structures appear to further entrench social and spatial divides, continuing a legacy of institutional expansion that disrupts Harlem’s cultural fabric and sense of place as it “vanishes quickly” (Zukin 2010). This architectural dominance signifies the power of institutions but also represents a pattern of urban change in which “authentic” neighborhoods are overwritten by popular chain stories and spaces that cater to transient, high-status populations (Zukin 2010, Hyra 2008). As familiar sites are replaced, Harlem’s unique social networks and local businesses face erasure, diminishing the city’s soul.

METHODS

This study adopts a multifaceted methodological approach, combining participant observation fieldwork and an analysis of literature and student-created media to better understand Columbia University’s Manhattanville expansion and its impacts on the Harlem community. Conducted in February 2024, the fieldwork entailed direct, in-depth observation of the architectural and social landscape in and around the Manhattanville campus, focusing on understanding how Columbia’s expansion influences the existing socio-cultural and spatial dynamics of Harlem.

Participant observations included repeated visits to the area, allowing for immersion in the neighborhood’s daily rhythms and interactions. A prominent focus was on the

Figure 1: The Manhattanville Campus Project Plan (Taylor 2005)

Figure 2: IRT Subway Cuts Through the Manhattanville Campus Figure 3: The Forum’s Building Signage

elevated Interborough Rapid Transit (IRT) subway line that cuts straight through the neighborhood, creating a physical and symbolic boundary between Columbia’s modern, minimalist structures and Harlem’s architecture (see Figure 2). Columbia’s expansion plan envisioned creating a “transparent” and “porous” environment that would allow the community and university to interact harmoniously, bridging physical and social divides. The architects’ intentions were clear through ways of design, (1) Urbanity: Renzo Piano and Marilyn Taylor envisioned the Manhattanville campus as a space of “urbanity” where city life and academic life would seamlessly intersect (Taylor 2005). This goal included having ground-level spaces that housed neighborhood-serving shops, cafes, and performance spaces intended to foster community interaction. (2) Transparency and Accessibility: The architects also centered “transparency” in their approach, using glass and metal structures that they hoped would reduce the feeling of an insular campus. These design elements aimed to create a sense of shared space, allowing both locals and university affiliates to live without a sense of exclusion or hierarchy (Taylor, 2005). (3)

Functional Integration: The plan incorporated a below-ground “factory” of interconnected spaces to support university operations discreetly. This strategy was meant to keep the aboveground spaces available for communal use without dominating the area (Taylor, 2005).

In addition to fieldwork, this study engaged with a wide range of literature, including urban development and gentrification scholarship, to contextualize Columbia’s expansion within broader patterns of urban change. By comparing these scholarly perspectives with on-the-ground observations, the study seeks to contextualize Columbia’s development as part of a larger phenomenon of urban restructuring in gentrifying neighborhoods. Insights were also drawn from student-led coalitions and grassroots organizations opposing the expansion. This perspective was enhanced by examining zines and graphic art curated to provide raw, unfiltered critiques of the Manhattanville project. These zines and coalition publications revealed personal stories of residents facing displacement, criticisms of Columbia’s promises, and alternative visions for community-oriented urban development. These sources offered a perspective often absent in institutional narratives that might otherwise be unshared. Overall, I aimed to capture the visible and intangible effects of the Manhattanville expansion beyond a purely architectural analysis to understand Harlem’s community.

FIELDWORK & ANALYSIS

A City Within a City: Columbia’s

Impact on West Harlem

To begin, the outcomes observed diverged significantly from Piano and Taylor’s original hopes. The infrastructural divides serve not only as a visual difference between Columbia’s geometric, monochrome facade and Harlem’s aesthetic but also as a socio-economic barrier that reinforces the separation of the university from the surrounding community. This outcome aligns with critics’ concerns that university-led developments often unintentionally (or perhaps inevitably) prioritize institutional needs over genuine community engagement. Taylor acknowledges that while Columbia’s design intended to “add to” the existing

urban landscape, the reality has emphasized Columbia’s control over the space, where “legal ownership” of plazas and passageways effectively limits local influence and diminishes the “sense of invitation” for non-Columbia residents (Taylor 2005). Thus, rather than fostering interaction, Columbia’s Manhattanville campus has come to symbolize a deeper political and cultural divide, with the architecture itself operationalizing the displacement of Harlem residents.

ART AS BOTH A SYMBOL AND A DISTRACTION

Additionally, the Forum, which Columbia University characterizes as a gathering space, exemplifies the university’s largely symbolic effort to integrate with the West Harlem community. The campus uses bright signage and neon facades on key buildings, including the Forum on 125th Street, highlighted green (see Figure 3). While such color choices signal Columbia’s commitment to innovation, these architectural gestures, rooted in an aesthetic of modernism, serve more as symbols of “urban renewal” than as meaningful responses to the needs of Harlem’s residents (Gregory 2013). Gregory explains that Columbia’s use of modernist aesthetics, such as glass, aligns with a “symbolic economy” that projects an image of progress aligned with the city’s post-industrial vision rather than an accessible or inclusive space for the local community (Gregory 2013).

Figure 4: Icons of Activism Paintings in the Forum

Within the Forum, for instance, Columbia has curated art installations and enlisted local artists to reflect Harlem’s cultural heritage. Quotes such as Angela Davis’s “I’m no longer accepting the things I cannot change. I am changing the things I cannot accept,” emphasize art as a form of activism (see Figure 4).

Although The Harlem Public Arts Project (HPAP) producing art like this strives to involve the youth in beautifying contemporary Harlem, as seen through the informational stand next to the paintings that read: “Embrace their own power to effect change” (see Figure 4), these enhancements seem to serve the university’s image more so than the community and its legacy. As Gregory argues, this kind of “performative symbolism” often prioritizes institutional image over substantive engagement, portraying respect for heritage without genuinely addressing the community and becoming part of what he terms asymmetrical power relations (Gregory 13).

Likewise, the Jerome L. Greene Science Center, with its colorful, aesthetic performance spaces, and the Art Gallery of Science, featuring rainbow art, distract from the severe impacts of urban displacement and community fragmentation. Exhibits like ‘Taking Action to Protect Cultural Heritage in Ukraine’ draw attention to

global cultural preservation efforts but paradoxically underscore local gentrification (see Figure 5). Columbia-affiliated amenities, such as an expensive rock climbing gym, touted as addressing the area’s ‘underutilization,’ underscore the disconnect between Columbia’s projects and the actual needs of the community.

This begs the question, who is the community Columbia serves? Columbia University’s use of eminent domain, or the “power of the state to seize private property without the owner's consent” and provide compensation, was sanctioned by the Empire State Development Corporation (ESDC), which presents a profound power imbalance (Guide 2014). In addition, institutional priorities have paved the way for removing dozens of community members from participation. This approach reflects a pattern of spatial exclusion rather than integration, particularly for Black Residents. The ‘197-a plan’—a community-developed framework created by West Harlem’s Community Board 9—illustrates an alternative vision for equitable development, emphasizing job protection, affordable housing, and sustainability (Guide 2014). The plan critiques Columbia’s actions, portraying the university as a force of gentrification that undermines local welfare and contradicts its self-promotion as a model for urban development. This practice is especially apparent in Columbia’s

Figure 5: International Alliance for the Protection of Heritage in Conflict Areas (ALIPH); Ukraine

employment practices. Although the university claimed its expansion would create thousands of jobs, these positions largely failed to offer a living wage, neglecting to meet the community’s essential needs for shelter, nutrition, healthcare, and education (Guide, 2014).

Further intensifying community frustration, Columbia systematically excluded residents from critical planning discussions despite widespread appeals for involvement. Exclusion can cultivate a lack of inclusivity as the university pursues its agenda under the facade of “engaging” the community (Zukin 2010). Instead of enforcing a top-down ‘whitening’ of the neighborhood, embracing collaboration that includes existing community voices would be crucial for actual progress (Naron 2018). This gap between Columbia’s declared objectives and on-the-ground actions has led to distrust, requiring collaborative planning that honors the voices, needs, and historical identity of Harlem’s residents rather than imposing an external vision upon them.

DISPLACEMENT UNDER THE GUISE OF ENVIRONMENTAL STEWARDSHIP?

Columbia University is at the forefront of elite institutions competing for visibility, often at the expense of West Harlem’s community needs. Both Harvard and Columbia have adopted the Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design (LEED) Gold Standard, demonstrating environmental stewardship. However, the prominent display of Columbia’s Gold LEED plaque within the minimally decorated Forum seems more like a declaration to the public than a substantive environmental effort. While Columbia has achieved LEED certification and implemented green building practices, the use of eminent domain and the scale of the expansion have drawn opposition from advocates. Many have argued that these measures, while aligned with environmental standards, fail to account for the social sustainability needs of the community (Patricia 2010).

Columbia University employs superficial strategies to enrich the campus’s physical allure while neglecting substantive community concerns. While the university justifies its expansion by claiming benefits from residing in such a “creative and resilient” community, the reality for thousands of displaced residents tells another story. These residents, many seeking social and cultural connection, found themselves uprooted and marginalized by Columbia’s prioritization of campus aesthetics over community. The economic pressures that Columbia’s expansion introduced, such as rent hikes and landlord speculation, made the area increasingly unaffordable for long-time Harlem residents (Gregory 2013). This seizure of control was utilized to justify serving the “public good”—primarily facilitating a campus-centered environment that disregarded residential impacts

Moreover, the community-wide response to Columbia’s history of physical expansion changes denotes how the architectural space continues to exclude West Harlem’s residents. In the 1960s, the Morningside campus expansion, particularly in its efforts to annex parts of West Harlem for its Manhattanville project, presents historical evidence of the institution’s dedication to gentrification over community participation (Guide 2014). Although around sixty years ago, we see the university aggressively pursue expansion through behind-the-scenes funding and donations, contributing to its contentious relationship with residents—where lower-income residents are systematically

priced out and culturally marginalized. This type of displacement not only alters housing affordability but also reshapes access to essential neighborhood resources, such as schools and community centers, which are often reoriented to serve a wealthier demographic (Newman & Wyly 2006). These tensions boiled over in the protests organized by the West Harlem Community Organization, with demonstrators voicing that “the two-acre park is the only land in West Harlem for our children,” capturing the community’s grievances over losing valuable public spaces to university expansion (Naron, 2018). Such protests marked a significant breaking point, reflecting a deep-seated frustration with Columbia’s failure to prioritize community interests. Residents viewed the Morningside expansion as a direct threat to their quality of life, public resources, and cultural autonomy.

As such, Columbia’s promises of economic revitalization through job creation have consistently fallen short, as these positions often turn out to be temporary and low-wage, lacking the substantial support needed to benefit the local economy (Guide 2014). This discrepancy between the university’s promises and the lived reality for residents reinforced the perception that Columbia’s expansion projects were uncollaborative. The Manhattanville campus expansion, thus, is not merely a new development but a continuation of Columbia’s approach to land acquisition. This pattern of expansion recalls the Morningside protests and extends their grievances into the present, perpetuating resistance among Harlem residents. As Columbia increasingly reshapes the neighborhood to fit its institutional needs, the legacy of protest and frustration endures.

DISCUSSION

The theme of institutional misalignment and disruption in Columbia’s campus design is vividly evident in the built environment of the Manhattanville Campus and its surrounding areas. Columbia’s historical discussions about its expansion in Morningside, which described new developments as a ‘buffer’ between racially distinct communities in the East and West, explicitly illustrate a strategy of segregation through spatial manipulation

Figure 6: Henry R. Kravis Hall

(Naron 2018). This deliberate shaping of campus spaces reveals a preference for clear socio-spatial boundaries, setting apart university affiliates from the surrounding community and perpetuating socioeconomic disparities.

Finally, Columbia’s architecture reinforces restrictive access, using design elements that dictate who can fully engage with campus spaces and who remains barred. The frosted glass walls imply this as a metaphor for scrutinizing the university’s distinct approach to transparency and exclusion. To explore this, I looked closely at the architectural elements that disclose institutional attitudes toward space and community interaction. For example, while The Plaza and The Square offer small, inviting green spaces, the lack of attention to “decaying public green spaces”— overgrown and neglected in Morningside—mirrors an institutional pattern in the private, restricted office areas of the Manhattanville campus, which creates only an illusion of openness (Naron 2018).

The allocation of space within Henry R. Kravis Hall, where alternating access floors primarily serve Columbia’s staff and students, illustrates a social hierarchy visible in the Business School’s design (see Figure 6). This selective accessibility subtly enforces social boundaries, where only those connected to the university in some manner can enter, leaving the broader community with limited or no access. Here, “access” becomes more than a physical boundary; it represents the prioritization of institutional members over the Harlem community, conveying a concern as to who “belongs” within these spaces and who does not.

CONCLUSION

In a city as celebrated for its diversity as New York, Columbia’s Manhattanville expansion demonstrates the impact of spatial exclusion. While students on campus experience a variety of cultures and identities, the surrounding Harlem community is experiencing a different reality. Students “will find themselves in a largely homogeneous neighborhood,” as longtime Black residents are “squeezed out of their own communities” (Guide 2014). Rather than bridging divides, the expansion has created a sharp boundary between the institution and Harlem, pushing original residents to the periphery, into isolated, marginalized areas with limited access to the resources Columbia controls. The vibrant facades and sleek designs that mark this project reveal a deeper cost—the displacement of Harlem’s cultural and social fabric.

To address this divide, Columbia must implement practices that honor its commitments to community integration and inclusivity. First, the university should maintain an ongoing dialogue with Harlem community leaders to establish legally binding community benefit agreements that prioritize affordable housing development and equitable job creation, working directly with Harlem’s residents to identify specific needs. Additionally, Columbia should pursue Harlem’s vision of design, integrating the neighborhood’s architectural character into future expansions to honor its visual identity and sense of place. Columbia should invest in and transform portions of its campus into accessible, multi-use spaces for the community—offering support for local events, educational programs, and skills training that directly serve Harlem residents. Employment opportunities within the university should also prioritize local hiring, with fair wages and accessible pathways to training and advancement.

This shift is a sign of ethical responsibility but also of humanity, as

the goal must be to genuinely hear and pursue what Harlem wants and needs. Those of us outside the Harlem community, including students, have a role in this vision as well—to amplify Harlem’s voices, advocate for meaningful change, and support efforts to preserve its legacy. By moving from a model of separation to one of integration, Columbia can become a valued member of Harlem, demonstrating that institutional growth and community preservation can coexist. Embracing these steps would transform Columbia’s expansion from an economic project into a message that honors Harlem’s history and cultural resilience.

lra2140@columbia.edu

REFERENCES

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Bilefsky, Dan. “Converging on Little Egypt, With Anger and Hope.” The New York Times, January 30, 2011. https://www.nytimes. com/2011/01/31/nyregion/31astoria.html.

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NYC Planning. ZoLa: New York City's Zoning & Land Use Map. NYC Planning, 2023. https://zola.planning.nyc.gov/ about/#9.72/40.7125/-73.733.

T. Jackson, Kenneth, Lisa Keller, and Nancy V. Flood, eds. “A.” In The Encyclopedia of New York City: Second Edition, 1–79. Yale University Press, 2010. http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt5vm1cb.6.

U.S. Census Bureau; American Community Survey, 2015 American Community Survey 5-Year Estimates, Table B01003; generated by Maya Felstehausen; using data.census.gov; <https://data. census.gov/cedsci/> (2 March 2023).

Wills, Emily Regan. Arab New York: Politics and Community in the Everyday Lives of Arab Americans. New York, NY: New York University Press, 2019.

REVISITING THE 1934 REPORT OF JOINT COMMITTEE ON HOUSING IN BALTIMORE: RACIAL INEQUAL-

ITY

AND URBAN RENEWAL IN THE CHARM CITY

BY TRAVIS THAI PHAM John's Hopkins University '28

INTRODUCTION

In the thick of the 1930s, urban blight in Baltimore reached unprecedented heights, with many residential areas facing severe deterioration. Baltimoreans from all regions of the Charm City began to flee due to “bad social conditions [and] smoke and dirt nuisances” (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9). In response, the State Advisory Board of the Federal Emergency Administration of Public Works assembled “The Joint Committee on Housing in Baltimore” in 1934 to formulate a targeted rehabilitation plan.

Rejecting the widely held belief that Baltimore is free from blighted districts, the joint committee asserts that urban blight is becoming increasingly more prevalent and—when left unchecked by officials—can spread to the surrounding areas encircling the city (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 7). To shatter the illusion that the city is immune to blight, the committee identifies six areas that most need rehabilitation based on nine critical factors, including the physical condition of dwellings, loss of population, and employment access (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 6).

Unlike previous rehabilitation efforts—which neglect blighted areas inhabited by low-income communities—the committee argues that the city’s future well-being depends on the immediate revitalization of these marginalized segments. Each of these six regions exhibits distinct characteristics; some were primarily African American neighborhoods, while others were transitioning from white to black occupancy (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 7). Based on the areas’ distinguishing attributes and potential for improvement, the committee proposes that some residences and neighborhoods and residences should be redeveloped for working-class white families while others should remain for black residents. The committee’s proposals for racial segregation were rooted in prejudiced assumptions that Black residents diminished property values and represented health hazards (Pietila 2010, 20–336). By prioritizing the interests of white residents, the committee sought to uphold racial privilege while systematically marginalizing Black communities (Pietila 2010, 20–336). Thus, the committee’s vision for urban renewal was influenced by the prevailing societal biases that reinforce existing racial divides.

Further, the Joint Committee’s rehabilitation proposal was highly ambitious in its scope, aimed at restoring both the housing and health conditions of Baltimore. In championing its comprehensive interventions for the entirety of Baltimore, the committee seeks to galvanize city officials and residents

into acknowledging the pressing nature of the crisis (Pietila 2018). However, their efforts reveal an implicit racial bias and targeted focus on low-income African American communities (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9). Rather than acknowledging underlying causes like overcrowding and inadequate living conditions, the report blames the city’s growing Black population for the urban decline and subsequent decay of neighborhoods within the Charm City. Further, the Committee casts Black residents as the primary cause of urban blight and a perilous vector of disease, proposing their displacement rather than offering equitable solutions to improve housing and public health (Pietila 2018; Pietila 2010, 20–336). This racialized perspective not only neglects the true causes of decay but perpetuates systemic inequality through discriminatory urban policies in these underserved African American neighborhoods.

The Joint Committee first asserts in their assessment that the problem of urban blight is not only concerned with deteriorating housing conditions but also with healthcare and community safety issues. The Committee notes that many of the identified blighted areas in the outer ring of Baltimore ranging from Area 1 to 6 and inhabited by Black residents are marked by poor health outcomes, particularly high tuberculosis and infant mortality rates. For example in Figure 1, Area 6 “has the heaviest percentage of [tuberculosis] in the city,” while Area 4 has an alarming tuberculosis rate that is “considerably more than double the city rate” (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9-10). These examples emphasize the inextricable link between deteriorating housing conditions—due to urban blight—and the prevalence of disease (referred to Figure 1). Furthermore, the Committee highlights the grim community safety concerns—characterized by juvenile delinquency and crime activities—that pervade these blighted neighborhoods. In their data table, titled “Exhibit B: Six Blighted Areas in Baltimore, Maryland,” the committee illustrates that crime rates in these neighborhoods far exceed the citywide averages (referred to Figure 1). While the city has a juvenile delinquency rate ranging from 3 to 40 cases and a crime rate of 8.7 percent of the population, Area 2 reports a staggering 101 juvenile delinquency cases, while Area 6 experiences a major crime rate of 13.6 percent of the population (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 7). Thus, the authors characterize the problem of blight as one that encompasses inadequate housing, public health crises, and social welfare concerns, requiring comprehensive solutions. Accordingly, they argue that their proposed rehabilitation projects can solve these issues in Baltimore’s most blighted areas. However, as I will demonstrate, the Committee’s actual proposal is deeply racialized and relies on destructive

methods alienating Black communities.

The Committee erroneously attributes the root causes of Baltimore’s urban blight to the presence of Black residents, neglecting to recognize that the true drivers of deteriorating housing conditions lie in deep-seated systemic poverty and institutionalized discrimination. This is most apparent in the Committee’s remarks on Area 3—an area transitioning from White occupancy to Black occupancy—the reporter states, “There is no reason [for Area 3] to be inhabited by colored people,” implying their presence worsens the housing crisis (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 8). Their racialized

rhetorics and narratives frame Black residents as the source of decay. Similarly, the Committee describes Area 2—an area with many public housing and low-cost rowhouses for Black industrial workers—as a “repossessed” area that was once “a former good white area [now] abandoned and exploited for Negro rental,” further blaming Black occupancy for deterioration (see Figure 2; The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 8). The author’s flawed logic views the correlation between deteriorating housing and Black families as causation, implying that Black people themselves are responsible for these worsening conditions. Ultimately, this scapegoating

Figure 1. Exhibit B: Six Blighted Areas in Baltimore, Maryland, dated January 1934. The Joint Committee on Housing. 1934. “Report of the Joint Committee on Housing in Baltimore.” recorded by Baltimore City Archive & University of Baltimore | Bickford Building, 4 to 8 West Fayette Street, Baltimore, Maryland. March 19, 1934. Annotation: The figure provides a breakdown of various urban data across the six most blighted sections of Baltimore. The main information includes areas and properties, population, rent and housing, physical conditions, health data, and tax data.

of Black communities not only overlooks the true causes of decline but also serves to justify the displacement of African American families.

Further, the damage to the social fabric and physical structure of predominantly Black neighborhoods was extensive, and rooted in a legacy of systemic racism and economic disenfranchisement. Black homes were unfairly seen as the root cause of economic decline, with the committee planners directly attributing the depreciation of property values and the stagnation of economic growth to the presence of Black residents (Pietila 2018; Cummiskey 2014). This misconception was further fueled by historically racialized practices like redlining, which denied Black families access to mortgages and loans, relegating them to deteriorating housing stock (Pietila 2018; Pietila 2010, 20–336). The narrative that Black people were a barrier to economic prosperity ignored the reality of structural neglect, disinvestment, and racist housing policies (Pietila 2010, 20–336). Instead of recognizing how segregation and exclusion led to impoverished conditions, city officials and urban planners placed the blame on Black communities (see Figure 2; Housing Authority of Baltimore City, 1122 McCulloh St.). This damaging perspective not only justified further neglect but also paved the way for the State Advisory Board of the Federal Emergency Administration of Public Works (the Joint Committee’s governing agency) to eventually call for displacement in the name of progress, reinforcing the racial hierarchy that privileged white residents and systematically undermined Black economic and social stability (Boger 2009, Jacobson 2007).

Shifting focus from housing to health concerns, the report directly associates high tuberculosis rates in blighted areas with Black residents themselves, blaming them for the spread

of the disease. Tuberculosis rates in areas like 1, 4, and 6 were “considerably more than double the city rate,” a result of overcrowded living conditions with many “one-half story and four-story dwellings [...] packed with Negro families” (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9). Rather than focusing on these conditions, the Committee portrayed and pathologized tuberculosis as a “Black disease,” casting Black residents as the primary source of illness. By describing places like Area 4 as “usable only for Negro habitation” because of the “social and health conditions,” the Committee effectively relegates Black people to inferior living environments (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9). Their pathologization of tuberculosis shifts attention from the real causes and advances their proposals of unfairly evacuating Black families.

In addition to economic disenfranchisement, the social fabric and physical structure of these neighborhoods were further compromised by severe community health crises, specifically the spread of infectious diseases like tuberculosis. These health issues were exacerbated by overcrowded housing and poor sanitation—conditions that stemmed directly from the lack of access to adequate medical care due to racialized neglect. Dolphin Street, or Area 5 of Baltimore, housed a large population of African American industrial workers drawn by the area’s proximity to major industrial zones and steel manufacturing plants, as Baltimore was home to some of the largest steel mills in the nation at that time (see Figure 3; Pietila 2010, 20–336). This area experienced the highest infant mortality rates, a consequence of inadequate access to nearby hospitals and healthcare facilities, leading to a local health crisis that disproportionately affected Black families (see Figure 3). Meanwhile, Area 6, known colloquially as Druid Hill Avenue, had shifted from

Figure 2. Full Illustration drawn by Real Estate Appraisers of Etting Street (Area 2) with Pink Indicating Residential Areas, Blue Indicating Community Centers, and Yellow Indicating Spaces needing refurbishment. Housing Authority of Baltimore City (HABC), Housing Survey for 1122 McCulloh St. October 28, 1938. Record Group 48, Series 39, Box 1, Folder “1122 McCulloh St.” Baltimore City Archives. Annotation: This illustration depicts Etting Street which is a major part of Area 2, highlighting the tightly packed arrangement of housing units in the form of row houses. The dense clustering reflects the overcrowded conditions resulting from urban segregation and constrained land use faced by African American communities.

White to Black occupancy and now exhibited the highest percentage of tuberculosis cases in Baltimore. This troubling rate of infection was primarily driven by extreme overcrowding, a condition exacerbated by the lack of regulatory oversight on housing density. The absence of effective policies to control overcrowded and under-occupied units left Black residents vulnerable to preventable infectious diseases see Figure 3). Yet, rather than addressing the systemic causes of these health disparities, city reports placed the blame squarely on Black residents, associating them with the spread of illness. This pathologization, wherein tuberculosis became racialized as an exclusively “Black disease,” effectively absolved Baltimore city officials of accountability, deflecting attention from the need to address structural inequities like inadequate housing and lack of medical resources. By shifting responsibility onto Black communities, the government avoided confronting the broader societal failures that allowed these health crises to persist in the initial stage.

While the Committees may have approached the issues of urban blight and public health with good intentions, their proposals of displacing Black communities effectively undermine any well-meaning efforts they previously made. For reference, the authors claim Area 2 to be “a former good white area, abandoned and exploited for Negro rental” and propose displacing the Black families living there to replace them with “occupancy by somewhat higher income [white] group” (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 8). The reporters’ dehumanizing rhetoric resurfaces in Area 6 to justify the eviction of Black residents with high tuberculosis rates to a “more desirable location” to make room for “white families, probably largely foreign-born” (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 10). The Committee’s singular focus on removing Black residents to solve the housing and health crises reveals their unjust objective to segregate residents of color in favor of more privileged groups, particularly white

residents. In doing so, they fail to offer equitable solutions while further marginalizing Black communities and engendering discriminatory urban policies in these disenfranchised neighborhoods.

Alongside their push for displacement, the Committee exhibited a partial stance regarding the loss of white populations from urban areas, placing the blame on Black families for the former demographic’s mass departure. The “white evacuation of the neighborhood” in Area 3 significantly contributed to the housing and economic decline, resulting in “serious depreciation of improvements [and] juvenile delinquency.” (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 8). Spurred by prejudiced or discriminatory beliefs, white residents often left urban areas as Black families moved in. This mass departure created a financial vacuum in these divided neighborhoods, depriving the newly settled Black communities of the financial resources needed to sustain their neighborhoods (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 8-9). Rather than recognizing this phenomenon, the authors depict Black residency as the primary threat to the area’s stability and suggest that “[it] be reclaimed from a depopulated colored tenement district to [become] residential neighborhood for white-collar employees” (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9). In the end, the Committee’s attribution of the “white evacuation” to Black residents unfairly shifts the blame onto them, deepening the alienation of Black communities.

Rather than insisting on Black residents’s relocation or casting them as a threat, the Committee should have addressed the residential and public health challenges in these disenfranchised communities through other equitable interventions. To illustrate, in response to the “bad housing conditions” causing “21% [lost] population in the last decade,” the authors could have advocated for investments in affordable housing and improvements regarding housing standards (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 8). Additionally, they could

Figure 3. Photographs taken by Real Estate Appraisers of Dolphin Street (Area 5) and Druid Hill Avenue (Area 6). Housing Authority of Baltimore City (HABC), Housing Survey for 1122 McCulloh St. October 28, 1938. Record Group 48, Series 39, Box 1, Folder “1122 McCulloh St.” Baltimore City Archives.

have resolved the overcrowding and tuberculosis outbreak linked to “erstwhile mansions [and] alleys filled with [densely packed] Negro occupancy” by proposing measures to reduce overcrowding (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 8). Although the overall housing density across neighborhoods was not particularly high, individual homes were overcrowded, contributing to the spread of disease (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 7). By focusing on these public health and housing issues, the Committee could have changed the harmful narrative that Black residents were obstacles to progress, recognizing them instead as vital members of the community who deserved better living conditions and equal opportunities.

Rather than focusing narrowly on displacement as the solution to urban blight and public health concerns, the Engineering Clubs should have adopted a more holistic and equitable approach. Instead of viewing Black residents as obstacles to progress, they should have recognized their right to fair housing and health—fundamental rights that citizens of all backgrounds living in the Charm City deserve. Addressing inequities in housing and health would not only affirm the intrinsic value of Black communities but also strengthen the overall resilience of greater Baltimore, as healthier neighborhoods contribute to a healthier, more prosperous city as a whole (Elfenbein et al. 2011).

From a public health perspective, addressing health inequities in Baltimore’s Black neighborhoods would have been crucial not only for the well-being of those residents but also for all inhabitants of Baltimore due to the interconnected nature of tuberculosis. Disease and health conditions, such as tuberculosis, do not remain isolated within specific communities; the permeability between Black and white spaces means that infections can spread across all districts and neighborhoods within Baltimore, impacting residents

regardless of race or socioeconomic status. Investing in healthcare access, improved sanitation, and better housing conditions in historically neglected areas would have fostered a healthier, more resilient population throughout Baltimore, protecting the entire city from the spread of preventable diseases like tuberculosis. Such an approach would affirm the fundamental right of all residents to live in safe and healthy conditions, reinforcing Baltimore’s commitment to equity and ensuring that the public health infrastructure serves everyone fairly. This inclusive approach would have also centered investments in neighborhoods most affected by historical discrimination and neglect, helping these neighborhoods to ameliorate their housing conditions and infrastructure. Such measures would ultimately benefit the entire city by reducing the spread of disease across porous living boundaries and fostering long-term socioeconomic stability.

A potential counterargument to this more inclusive approach is that the Baltimore engineers were simply working within the norms and expectations of urban planning at the time, which prioritized economic growth and redevelopment over the preservation of existing communities. Displacement was a common strategy used to clear blighted areas and make way for new promising economic developments. However, even within this framework, the engineers had the opportunity to advocate for informed choices that balanced economic development with social equity (King, Drabinski, and Davis 2019). For instance, they could have advocated for the creation of affordable housing initiatives that allowed current residents to remain in their neighborhoods while benefiting from new investments (King, Drabinski, and Davis 2019). They could have also promoted policies that incentivized private developers to invest in Black communities rather than exclude them. By choosing to incorporate the needs of marginalized communities into their redevelopment plans,

Figure 4. Memorandum of Settlement Housing Authority of Baltimore City (HABC), Housing Survey for 1113 Etting St, October 27, 1938. Record Group 48, Series 39, Box 3, Folder, “1113 Etting St.” Baltimore City Archives.

the engineers could have contributed to a more inclusive model of urban growth that addressed both economic and social concerns. Such a model would have been beyond its time, offering a blueprint for equitable development that other Mid-twentieth-century American cities could have followed.

Another counter-argument might suggest that the engineers were acting in the best interest of public health by seeking to reduce overcrowding and improve living conditions in areas severely affected by disease. They might argue that removing Black residents was necessary to stem the spread of tuberculosis and other health crises plaguing the city. However, this approach failed to address the true root cause of these health issues—namely, the racialized discrimination and systemic neglect that forced neighborhoods of color into overcrowded, unsanitary conditions in the first place. This approach also reinforces the belief that Black Baltimoreans’ homes, businesses, and even their health were problems to be solved through displacement. Furthermore, even though the displacement plan was implemented in a section of Area 6 (Druid Hill Avenue), where many Black residents lived, the spread of disease continued throughout the city (Housing Authority of Baltimore City, 1122 McCulloh St.). This persistence of illness demonstrates that displacement failed as a strategy to control public health issues (Housing Authority of Baltimore City, 1122 McCulloh St.). Instead of resolving the problem, it became clear that relocating residents did little to stop the transmission of disease, proving the ineffectiveness of such measures in addressing the city’s health challenges.

In response to the committee’s displacement proposal, Black residents of Etting Street (Area 2) submitted a memorandum affirming that their properties were not only adequate but reflected significant personal investment in their upkeep and improvement (Housing Authority of Baltimore City, 1113 Etting St.). They contended that, despite economic challenges, they had fostered a resilient and vibrant community and in turn firmly opposed any plans for forced relocation (Housing Authority of Baltimore City, 1113 Etting St.). For these residents, their properties embodied years of labor and financial commitment (Housing Authority of Baltimore City, 1113 Etting St.). They rejected the narrative put forth by the committee that their neighborhoods were inherently blighted by emphasizing the developments and steady monthly income of the various businesses. The memorandum challenged the committee’s approach of viewing Black Baltimorean neighborhoods as vectors of diseases like tuberculosis, instead demanding that the value of these communities be recognized. Black residents argued that forced relocation would strip them of the stability they had cultivated and would disrupt their livelihoods.

In line with the Committee’s firm focus on relocating communities of color, they might assert that the removal of Black residents was justified in light of their high rates of tuberculosis. Thus, making their evacuation essential to curb the spread of tuberculosis. However, their rationale baselessly conflates Black communities with the tuberculosis crisis and fails to address the root causes: overcrowded and inadequate housing conditions following decades of neglect, with many residential centers “long since abandoned by whites

[and] packed with [Black] families” (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9; Roberts 2009). The authors could have tackled these issues without resorting to discriminatory displacement by investing in housing solutions within Black neighborhoods that would alleviate overcrowded and unsatisfactory living conditions.

In fact, the authors propose several strategies to improve housing for white residents but disparagingly refuse to extend the same solutions to Black families. Their recommendations for white neighborhoods include significant public investments aimed at improving health, such as the construction of new public housing and the replanning of roads. In particular, in Area 3, which the Committee designates as suitable for a “fairly good class white residential area,” the report underscores the need for new housing developments and residential improvements to enhance living conditions (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 8-9). The Committee even went so far as to assert that this area “could be reclaimed from a depopulated colored tenement district to a nearly ideal residential neighborhood for white-collar employees” (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9). Furthermore, in Areas 5 and 6, both of which are predominantly Black neighborhoods with dire housing conditions, no similar improvements are proposed (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9-10). Instead, the report offers no solutions other than the evacuation of Black families and converting the areas for industrial use (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9). Rather than proposing equitable reforms for underserved Black families, the reporters promote eviction and replacement. This stark contrast reveals the Committee’s blatant disregard for Black communities, prioritizing housing investments only for white residents.

So what would more equitable interventions to solve public health issues like tuberculosis in predominantly Black neighborhoods look like? One potential approach would be investing in improving housing conditions, reducing overcrowding, and enhancing access to sanitation (Gomez 2015, Halpin 2015). Comprehensive housing and health interventions could profoundly benefit the residents of Areas 5 and 6, both Black-majority neighborhoods and centers of industrial activity. These areas face severe public health crises fueled by limited access to nearby hospitals and inadequate housing regulations by officials (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9-10). According to the report, in these neighborhoods, “nearly all buildings are at least 90 years old,” and there was a significant “decline in population,” with many Black families being forcibly displaced (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 9-10). The overcrowding in alley streets and small, congested areas contributed to the spread of tuberculosis, which could have been effectively mitigated through targeted housing upgrades. Yet, instead of addressing the root causes of poor living conditions and health, the Committee chose to evict vulnerable Black families, further disrupting their livelihoods (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 10). Had they invested in these housing interventions, the long-term benefits would have been substantial for both Black residents and Baltimore City as a whole, creating healthy and resilient communities without compromising the stability of existing

neighborhoods in the process.

Although the State Advisory Board convened the Joint Committee on Housing to ameliorate the “dwelling conditions in Baltimore,” the latter has failed to align the urban planning initiatives with the public interest, particularly that of AfricanAmerican communities (The Engineers Club of Baltimore 1934, 1). From calling for the displacement of Black families to framing Black neighborhoods as epicenters for infection, the Committee has shown that their intentions are shaped by racial biases and prejudice rather than genuine concerns. Their proposed initiatives disproportionately targeted Black communities by framing their homes, businesses, and even health as hindrances exclusively resolvable through mandated relocation and eviction. This approach not only neglects the root causes of urban decay but also reinforces existing racial inequalities. Thus, to create an equitable, resilient, and united Baltimore, it is fundamental to acknowledge the Joint Committee’s failures and strive for a future where every community is endowed with the right to thrive in the city they call home.

tpham52@jh.edu

REFERENCES

Baltimore Emergency Relief Commission. “Needy African American Family, Baltimore, Mdaa152 .” Digitalmaryland.org. Maryland Department, Photograph Collection; B28a. Digital Reproduction of 1 black-andwhite photograph, 20x25 cm., 1934. https://collections. digitalmaryland.org/digital/collection/mdaa/id/195.

Baltimore’s Civil Rights Heritage. “1930-1965: The Great Depression and World War II.” Supported by the NPS Heritage Initiatives Program, the Preservation Maryland Heritage Fund, and the PNC Foundation., 2011. https://baltimoreheritage.github.io/ civil-rights-heritage/1930-1965/.

Boger, Gretchen. “The Meaning of Neighborhood in the Modern City.” Journal of Urban History 35, no. 2 (January 2009): 236–58. https://doi. org/10.1177/0096144208327915.

Cummiskey, J. R. “Drugs, Race and Tuberculosis Control in Baltimore, 1950-1978.” Social History of Medicine 27, no. 4 (July 22, 2014): 728–50. https://doi. org/10.1093/shm/hku034.

Elfenbein, Jessica I, Thomas L Hollowak, Elizabeth M Nix, and Lieb Emily. Baltimore ’68: Riots and Rebirth in an American City. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2011.

Gomez, Marisela B. Race, Class, Power, and Organizing in East Baltimore: Rebuilding Abandoned Communities in America. Lanham: Lexington Books, 2015.

Halpin, Dennis P. “‘The Struggle for Land and Liberty’: Segregation, Violence, and African American Resistance in Baltimore, 1898-1918.” Journal of Urban History 44, no. 4 (July 3, 2015): 691–712. https://doi. org/10.1177/0096144215589923.

Housing Authority of Baltimore City (HABC), Housing Survey for 1122 McCulloh St. October 28, 1938. Record

Group 48, Series 39, Box 1, Folder “1122 McCulloh St.” Baltimore City Archives, Accessed at http://mdhistory.msa. maryland.gov/bca_brg48_39/bca_brg48_39_1/html/bca_ brg48_s39_1-0343.html

Housing Authority of Baltimore City (HABC), Housing Survey for 1113 Etting St, October 27, 1938. Record Group 48, Series 39, Box 3, Folder, “1113 Etting St.” Baltimore City Archives, Accessible at http://mdhistory.msa.maryland.gov/ bca_brg48_39/bca_brg48_39_32/html/bca_brg48_s39_320134.html

Jacobson, Joan. “The Dismantling of Baltimore’s Public Housing: Housing Authority Cutting 2,400 Homes for the Poor from Its Depleted Inventory a 15-Year Trend Shows a Decrease of 42 Percent in Occupied Units.” The Abell Report. 111 S Calvert St, Baltimore, MD 21202: The Abell Foundation, September 30, 2007. https://abell.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/Housing.update.1007.pdf.

King, P. Nicole, Kate S. Drabinski, and Joshua Clark Davis. Baltimore Revisited: Stories of Inequality and Resistance in a U.S. City. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2019.

Pietila, Antero. Not in My Neighborhood: How Bigotry Shaped a Great American City. Chicago: Ivan R. Dee; Illustrated Edition, 2010.

Pietila, Antero. The Ghosts of Johns Hopkins: The Life and Legacy That Shaped an American City. Rowman & Littlefield, 2018.

Roberts, Samuel. Infectious Fear: Politics, Disease, and the Health Effects of Segregation. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009.

The Joint Committee on Housing. “Report of the Joint Committee on Housing in Baltimore.” The Baltimore Engineer is published monthly by The Engineers Club of Baltimore. recorded by Baltimore City Archive & University of Baltimore | Bickford Building, 4 to 8 West Fayette Street, Baltimore, Maryland, March 19, 1934. https://archivesspace.ubalt.edu/repositories/2/archival_objects/141841.

Williams, Rhonda Y. The Politics of Public Housing. Oxford University Press, 2004.

HOW THE FINANCIAL CAPITAL OF THE SOUTH GENERATES THE LOWEST ECONOMIC MOBILITY: AN ANALYSIS OF URBAN INEQUALITY IN CHARLOTTE, NC

BY REBECCA CRANDALL Columbia College ‘26

Charlotte is the largest and most racially diverse city in North Carolina, known for its booming finance and technology industries. Charlotte became a hub for finance in the early 2000s, with Bank of America and Wachovia moving their headquarters to the ‘Queen City’ (Dewan 2008). Since then, Charlotte’s financial district has grown to the 2nd largest in the country, surpassed only by New York City (Forbes 2019), and has become a center for economic opportunity that has attracted over thirteen thousand millennials to make the move in 2021 (United States Census Bureau 2021). However, striking economic disparities persist and are deeply shaped by the South’s racist history. To accommodate Charlotte’s capitalistic development, historically black neighborhoods were demolished through the process of “creative destruction,” a component of urban renewal practices where old structures were replaced with new ones, and justified through the government’s use of eminent domain (Harvey 2012, 9). For example, the Brooklyn Village now makes up Charlotte’s Second Ward, which hosts the Nascar Hall of Fame, the Convention Center, and Marshall Park. The Home Owners Loan Corporation created redlining of neighborhoods in the United States through their home appraisal system, which made it harder for minorities to own a home (Jackson 1984, 197). Even though redlining formally ended in 1968 with the Fair Housing Act, the patterns of race, income, and wealth distribution are lasting. Charlotte’s pattern of inequality has been described as a crescent and wedge (Newsome 2012). The South Charlotte Wedge occupies less than twenty-five percent of Charlotte’s geographic area but contains over seventy-five percent of the city’s wealth and is inhabited mostly by white people (For Charlotte 2015). The Northern Crescent describes the broad distribution of low-income minority mainly blackesidents of Charlotte (figure 1.1-1.3).

As evident in figure 1, people are distinctly separated in Charlotte according to race and income. Additional axes of inequality include wealth and age, which influence a resident’s ability to accumulate generational wealth. When all of these factors are plotted geographically, they follow the same patterns, echoing the repetitive map sentiment of Maya Dukmasova on Detroit (Dukmasova 2018). Zooming into the income disparity in Southwest Charlotte, Districts 94 and 130, separated by Interstate 485, have an average household income of $37,000 and $143,000 respectively (Mecklenburg County Open Mapping 2020). Demographically, District 94 is 4% white, 38% Black, 50% Hispanic, and 8% Other, while District 130 is 69% white, 13% Black, 5% Hispanic, and 13% Other. This boundary is considered to be a racial frontier and exemplifies District 94 as one of many Hispanic ethnic enclaves in Charlotte (Sugrue 1996, 182). When income and race become so tightly intertwined, extensive social divisions develop, which impact fundamental aspects of urban life. Homeownership and age are axes that are also deeply

Figure 1.1 HOLC Redlining Map. Source: University of Richmond, Mapping Inequality. Description: South Charlotte Wedge is given an A rating by the HOLC, indicating that they are of minimal risk for mortgage lenders. The Northern crescent is rated D, “Hazardous.” This map focuses on the inner city and does not include suburbs.

Figure 1.2 Charlotte Racial Distribution. Source: Esri Demographics, 2020 Census Race and Ethnicity in the US. Description: The same crescent and wedge pattern from figure 1.1 carries over almost 90 years later. Now, South Charlotte is primarily made up of white and Asian residents, and North Charlotte houses primarily Black residents. The population density is highest in the center of the city.

linked—the older the resident’s age, the more likely they will own their home (ACS 2020). Homeownership rates are highest in the South Charlotte Wedge and the percentage of rental homes is highest in the Northern Crescent. In Charlotte, white residents

Figure 1.3 Annual Household Income. Source: American Community Survey 2020, Median Household Income. Description: The median Annual Household Income in Charlotte varies vastly. On average, Charlotte’s median household income is on par with the rest of the United States

are 1.5 times more likely to own their homes than Black residents showing the tie between race and wealth (figure 2.1-2.2).

A major consequence of these axes of inequality is disparities in Charlotte’s educational outcomes. The geographic division of racial groups in Charlotte caused stark segregation in schools lasting until 1970. The Brown v. Board of Education case of 1954 ruled to integrate schools, but the geographic division of racial groups were so stark that integration efforts were initially unsuccessful. It was not until the landmark case, Swann v. Charlotte-Mecklenbug Schools (1970), in which the Supreme Court decided that students should be bussed across the county to create integrated schools. Some Students of Color were assigned to attend previously white schools, and white students were assigned to previously colored schools (Oyez 1971). This program was stopped in the 1990s, reversing decades of integration progress. Now, a fifth of Charlotte-Mecklenburg Schools have a ninety percent racially homogenous student population (Leading on Opportunity 2017).

Another consequence of Charlotte’s axes of inequality is access to financial institutions for Black residents. With Charlotte being the financial capital of the south, it is surprising that forty-four percent of Black Charlottians are “unbanked” or “underbanked,” meaning that either no one in the household has a bank account or that they do but also rely on nonbank credit like payday loans, remittances, or pawn shops (Thomas et al. 2019, 47). This large percentage may be due to a lack of physical access or by choice rooted in distrust of financial institutions for their exclusionary history (Williams 2017, 322). Of those Black residents who use a bank, thirty percent have a negative net worth, as compared to thirteen percent of white residents (Prosperity Now 2019). Negative net worth is accumulated through mortgages or

other lending debt and can be compounded by risk accumulation and negative trust networks (Botein 2013, 726). As People of Color continue to have difficulty purchasing and owning a home, their ability to acquire generational wealth diminishes. Charlotte ranked fiftieth in a survey of the fifty most populous cities in the US for Social Mobility (Maynard 2013). Social mobility is the process of a person advancing through society’s hierarchy in terms of education, employment, and wealth. Black children are only able to move from the nation’s lowest income quintile to the highest,

Figure 2.1 Home Ownership in Charlotte. Source. Mecklenburg County Open Mapping, Charlotte-Mecklenburg Quality of Life Explorer: Home Ownership 2020.

Figure 2.2 Rental Houses in Charlotte. Source: Mecklenburg County Open Mapping, Charlotte-Mecklenburg Quality of Life Explorer: Rental Houses 2020.

2.5% of the time, while children are able to eleven percent of the time (Chetty et al. 2018, 2).

However, there are some initiatives with their sights set on creating opportunities for marginalized communities in Charlotte, such as the Charlotte Regional Business Alliance and the Southern Communities Initiative. They aim to create long-term economic growth within the city by advising minority business enterprises, investing in community development financial institutions, and supporting Historically Black Colleges and Universities’ scholarship efforts (Smith 2022). Additionally, these organizations are providing education on financial literacy, capital, and lending which is a step with the potential to propel low and middle-class minorities to economic success. With this continued effort, the ‘Queen City’ is on track to be a place of economic opportunity and mobility for all.

rrc2143@columbia.edu

REFERENCES

Botein, Hilary. 2013. “From Redlining to Subprime Lending: How Neighborhood Narratives Mask Financial Distress in BedfordStuyvesant, Brooklyn.” Housing Policy Debate 23 4): 714–37. https://doi.org/10.1080/10511482.2013.818052.

Chetty, Raj, Nathaniel Hendren, Maggie Jones, and Sonya R.Porter. 2018. “Race and Economic Opportunity in the United States Executive Summary.” The Equality of Opportunity Project. http://www.equality-of-opportunity.org/assets/documents/race_ summary.pdf.

Dewan, Shaila. 2008. “For Two Longtime Bank Rivals in Charlotte, Competition Turns to Concern.” New York Times, October 4. https://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/05/us/05charlotte. html.

Dukmasova, Maya. 2018. “Chicago Inside Out.” Places Journal, October. https://placesjournal.org/article/chicago-inside-out/.

For Charlotte. 2015. “Income Inequality.” https://forcharlotte.org/ mapping-resources/income-wealth/.

Forbes. 2019. “Best Places for Businesses and Careers.” https://www.forbes.com/places/nc/charlotte/.

Harvey, David. 2012. Rebel Cities: From the Right to the City to the Urban Revolution. Verso Books.

Jackson, Kenneth T. 1985. Crabgrass Frontier: The Suburbanization of the United States. New York: Oxford University Press.

Leading on Opportunity. 2017. “The Charlotte-Mecklenburg Opportunity Task Force Report.” https://www.leadingonopportunity. org/wp-content/uploads/2022/10LeadingOnOpportunity_ReportCompressed-1.pdf.

Maynard, Brennan. 2020. “Charlotte Mayor Grapples With City’s History of Inequality.” Carolina Political Review, August 26. https://www.carolinapoliticalreview.org/editorial-content/2020/8/26/ charlotte-mayor-grapples-with-citys-history-of-inequality. Mecklenburg County Open Mapping. 2020. “Quality of Life Explorer.” https://mcmap.org/qol/#26/.

Newsome, Melba. 2012. “There’s Something About Ballantyne.” Charlotte Magazine, November 19. https://www.charlottemagazine.com/theres-something-about-ballantyne/. Oyez. “Swann v. Charlotte-Mecklenburg Board of Education.” Accessed November 6, 2024. https://www.oyez.org/

cases/1970/281.

Prosperity Now Scorecard. 2022. “Financial Assets & Income, Data by Location, Households with Zero Net Worth.” https://scorecard.prosperitynow.org/data-by-issue#finance/localoutcome.

Smith, Robert F. 2022. “Why Are There Stark Wealth Disparities in a City Known for Money?” https://robertsmith.com/blog/ why-are-there-stark-wealth-disparities-in-a-city-known-for-money/. Sugrue, Thomas. 1996. The Origins of the Urban Crisis. Princeton University Press.

Thomas, Lori, Sydney Idzikowski, Angelique Gaines, and Justin Lane. 2019. “The Racial Wealth Gap Charlotte-Mecklenburg.” UNC Charlotte Urban Institute. https://ui.charlotte.edu/wp-content/ uploads/sites/1003/2024/02/RWTry2.pdf.

United States Census Bureau. “State-to-State Migration Flows: 2019.” https://www.census.gov/data/tables/time-series/demo/geographic-mobility/state-to-state-migration.html.

Williams, Robert B. 2017. “Wealth Privilege and the Racial Wealth Gap: A Case Study in Economic Stratification.” The Reviewof Black Political Economy 44, 303–325. https://doi. org/10.1007/s12114-017-9259-8.

DEMOCRATIZING DOMESTIC SPACE: DECONSTRUCTING POST-WORLD WAR II HOUSING BETWEEN 1945 TO 1955 THROUGH HAMAGUCHI MIHO’S NIHON

TJŪTAKU NO HŌKENSEI (THE FEUDALISM OF JAPANESE HOUSES)

BY MAYA FELSTEHAUSEN Barnard College ‘25

INTRODUCTION

his research explores housing in Japan in the immediate aftermath of World War II. Between the years of 1945 and 1955, Japan experienced rapid redevelopment due to relief efforts following the war, with women increasingly entering the workforce. During this volatile period of social change, shifting politics, and reconstruction, Hamaguchi Miho, the first licensed woman architect in Japan, published her manifesto, Nihon Jūtaku no Hōkensei (The Feudalism of Japanese Houses). It follows a feminist agenda that theorizes Japanese housing in the postwar period of Japan. She argues how the premodern Japanese house was inherently feudal and proposes a mechanized, modern style of housing that demarcates space through function, using design to liberate women from domestic spaces (Hamaguchi 1953).

I particularly center my research on Hamaguchi’s afterword, published five years after the manifesto’s initial release in her second edition. The discrepancies and clarifications that Hamaguchi herself highlights—the permanence of the genkan (entryway space), or the intuitiveness of combining dining and kitchen spaces, for instance—serve to ground and structure my research (Hamaguchi 1953). I explore how the democratization of space within Japanese housing designs and projects have transformed in the immediate postwar period between 1945 and 1955. I note Hamaguchi’s release of the first and second editions of Nihon Jūtaku no Hōkensei, 1949 and 1953, respectively, highlighting these two moments as benchmarks within the decade-long postwar timeframe that I study to underscore the crucial nuances as the country began its reconstruction process. Through this manifesto as my guide to critical inquiry of postwar residences that were designed in the immediate postwar period, I analyze four case study examples from seminal architects during the period—Seike Kiyoshi, Shinohara Kazuo, and Shirai Seiichi—all of whom designed responsive residential architecture to underscore the shifting domestic spatializations and grapple with tradition and modernity in practice. I finally conclude my case study analyzes with a grounding examination of a public housing unit designed by the Japan Housing Corporation (JHC), partially designed by Hamaguchi Miho herself, to better understand the range of residential design during the postwar period. Through this research, I investigate what it means for domestic spaces to be democratized, and how spatial inequalities translate into social and gendered inequalities.

Hamaguchi’s Nihon Jūtaku no Hōkensei has only been published in Japanese. The quotations provided from her manifesto in the following sections are translated by my reading and understanding of Hamaguchi’s language. Terms such as “feudalism,” “modernization,” and “Japanese-ness” are directly translated

and referenced from Hamaguchi’s lexicon.

BACKGROUND: DEMOCRATIZING DOMESTIC SPACE

The extensive theorizing on domestic spaces and dwellings emerged in 1920s Germany to rethink attitudes and spatialized politics within living spaces. Architects, critics, historians, and social theorists, including Bruno Taut and Sigfried Giedion, argued for a new, alternative way of living liberated from outmoded pre-war attitudes and housing shortages (Bullock 1988, 177). Architect and urban planner Bruno Taut’s 1924 publication, Die neue Wohnung: die Frau als Schöpferin (The New Dwelling: Woman as Creator), argues for the housewife to be a part of the design process in creating the “New Dwelling” (Taut 1924). By the end of the 1920s, scientific ways of thought, including “rationalization” and “scientific management,” were popular across different disciplines. Coupled with growing architectural theory of domestic spaces and scientific rhetoric employed in the field, emerged the Frankfurt Kitchen, a “‘scientific’ arrangement of the kitchen,” by Austrian architect Grete Schütte-Lihotsky (Bullock 1988, 187). The Frankfurt kitchen rationalized and systematized the function of the kitchen, designed in a way that minimized the time and effort of the housewife when preparing food for the family. I position Hamaguchi Miho’s manifesto in the discourse of intersectional, increasingly feminist architectural practices to highlight how her work comes out of a feminist architectural discourse of several decades of knowledge production. She emerges as a scholar actively working to rationalize the spatialized politics of domestic space—particularly kitchen spaces—alongside theorists, scholars, and architects like Taut and Schütte-Lihotsky.

Hamaguchi’s Nihon Jūtaku no Hōkensei lays out the spatial politics of domestic spaces in Japanese housing in the prewar era, proposing an alternative residential design for the postwar age that liberates women from a position of repression. Hamaguchi performs an extensive comparative analysis between the modern, urban, salary-earning household, and the rural farmer’s house. The analysis highlights differences in the demarcation and uses of space—the urban house affected by the rationalization and modernization of the early 20th century; and the rural house, a reproduction of aristocratic warrior residences, known as buke-yashiki that emphasizes customs and tradition over function. Hamaguchi highlights the spatial inequalities that take place due to the “reproduction of upper-class dwellings, reflecting the rituals of the “feudal” and “patriarchal” warrior elite (samurai)” (Ueda and Gómez Lobo 2023, 56).

Through analyzing the differing uses of the kitchen between urban and rural farming households, Hamaguchi emphasizes the significance in reforming the kitchen for the liberation of women from constricting domestic spaces. She emphasizes reforming the kitchen to promote gender equality within the nuclear family, employing design to liberate women from domestic labor and

open domestic kitchen spaces to family life (Hauk 2022a, 174). By centering the kitchen in the residential design over rooms reserved for formal uses and customs, Hamaguchi argued that women could be liberated from subordinate gender roles within the family. Hamaguchi posits a direct relationship between spatial inequalities and gender inequality.

Hamaguchi also explores the “Japanese character” of the heya (room) to highlight the differences between the conceptions and functions of the Japanese room versus the Western room (Hamaguchi 1953, 72). Hamaguchi references Nishiyama Uzo’s housing research on urban housing. His findings on the demarcated rooms and distinguished uses of space in prewar urban housing, despite limited space and the inherent flexibility of tatami-mat rooms, are used to further Hamaguchi’s assertion of the feudal nature of premodern Japanese homes. She underscores, similar to her own research, the irony of designating multiple rooms within the home to visitors, special occasions, and customary use. Hamaguchi’s manifesto proposes to center those who are living in the house rather than the house itself, transforming the feudal Japanese house into one that promotes modernization and human progress. The functionalist housing that Hamaguchi theorizes almost directly opposes the idealized rural farmer house that follows premodern Japanese customs of buke-yashiki style housing. While Hamaguchi asserts a mechanized, utility-focused house that caters to one’s needs and prioritizes spaces of living, Japanese traditional customs of conforming impede the design potential of reaching a truly liberated, ‘modern’ way of living.

Hamaguchi asserts that the emphasis of formal, ornamental rooms perpetuates the feudal hierarchy of the household, upholding the power of the head of the household, the husband, and placing a disproportionate burden on the wife who must engage in domestic labor (Hamaguchi 1953, 160). However, Hamaguchi is optimistic about the “revolutionary” postwar period, comparing the reconstruction of the built environment and social construction to a renaissance, predicting a transformation from a “feudal” society to a “modern” democracy (Hamaguchi 1953, 160). She sees residential architecture as a tool to emancipate women and society from oppressive, “feudal” tradition by centering function and living spaces at the forefront (Hamaguchi 1953, 162). This, she posits, is a new, democratized way of living that fits the growing demands of a burgeoning economy and democracy of the postwar era.

While Hamaguchi advocates for the liberation of women through democratizing the domestic sphere, she also indirectly advocates for a shift towards consumerism and the middle-class nuclear family. It points to the Western influences and increasing pressures of capitalism in the growing Japanese economy. The kitchen, throughout this shifting understanding of the home, “became more than a workspace, repurposed as a place that nurtured the idealised bonds of the nuclear family” (Hauk 2022b, 24). Her argument pushes forward an ideal vision of the family in the postwar period, replacing a feudal structure of the prewar family (Hauk 2022b, 25). While this new ideal of a nuclear family may be associated with a more “modern” and democratized structure, it does not necessarily liberate the wife or child within this family structure,

Figure 1. Architectural plan of the Mori House. Published in Shinkenchiku, October 2004. Sourced from Reynolds lecture, October 25, 2023.

constraining the roles of family members to different sets of values that only aspire towards a constrained gender equality.

HAMAGUCHI’S AFTERWORD: THE GUIDING RESEARCH QUESTION

Concluding Hamaguchi’s Nihon Jūtaku no Hōkensei is her afterword, published in her second edition, in which she reflects on how her proposal for the modern Japanese household translated in the five-year period after its release. She describes the modernization and democratization of postwar Japan as being in the “reverse course” of her vision of the modernized, un-feudal household, criticizing her own naive optimism upon initially writing the piece (Hamaguchi 1953, 166). She problematizes the effectiveness of her own manifesto, underscoring its shortcomings in the complete democratization of domestic space through the simple marriage of the dining room and kitchen, as

Figure 2. Tatami rooms in the Mori House. Photographs by Ōsawa Seiichi, Shinkenchiku Photography Department, October 2004. Sourced from Reynolds lecture, October 25, 2023.

well as the abolition of the label of the genkan entryway, noting its unfaltering presence in postwar housing plans, among other corrections. I utilize this poignant self-critique of her initial manifesto of 1949 to illustrate how various residential architectures support, qualify, or contradict Hamaguchi’s assertion for democratized space in the case studies that follow.

CASE STUDY 1: MORI HOUSE (1951)

The first house in my inquiry is Seike Kiyoshi’s Mori House, built in 1951. Mori House was Seike’s first completed project, designed for medical scientist Dr. Mori. Working in a small budget during a vulnerable economy of the immediate postwar recovery, Seike worked with scarce materials and a tight budget. This, in turn, led to innovative and flexible solutions that may have only been able to take shape in such a specific context.

While being a Modern-style building designed by a Modernist architect, Mori ironically turns to traditional architectural forms

Figures 3 and 4. Perspectives of the living-dining-kitchen in the Mori House. Photographs by Ōsawa Seiichi, Shinkenchiku Photography Department, October 2004. Sourced from Reynolds lecture, October 25, 2023.

to innovate. The rooms are not separated by fixed walls; rather, fusuma and shōji panels enclose the spaces, both dividing elements which can be slid to change the configuration and partitions of the interior (Fujioka 2006, 402). Shoji panels also hide the glass windows that separate the indoors from the outdoors, weaving a hybridity of modern and traditional architectural forms. The two central rooms of the house have a multitude of functionalities: one large room, two bedrooms, a study room, a dining room, and so on. The inherent undefined-ness of the tatami room allows for far more flexibility. He ascribes a new understanding to traditional architectural elements to create a “new residential image and a spatial organization adapted to that image” (Fujioka 2006, 402).

In an April 1951 interview with architectural magazine Shinkenchiku, Seike described the Mori House as a residence designed with shitsurai and “homogeneous space” (Fujioka 2006, 402). Shitsurai refers to the seasonal, celebratory ornamentation

that typical aristocratic residences in the Heian period, known as shinden-zukuri. By shitsurai, Seike did not reproduce that of shinden-zukuri as-is; through the double-sliding fusuma and shōji panels, Seike alluded to the malleable demarcation of space to fit the varying functions of a home. Rather than straying away from traditional residential design—and particularly residential design of the upper class—that Hamaguchi seeks to take a distance from, Seike reappropriated design practices from antiquity to create a new mode of living in the postwar era. It distinctly contradicts Hamaguchi’s point to distinguish the Japanese residence from an aristocratic residential style like the buke-yashiki (although a different typology), embracing

an archetypal Japan-ness—and creating a new definition of modernity—that is often associated with premodernism.

Seike takes a relatively new approach in designing the Mori House through thinking about design in terms of space, or kūkan—something that was not a common practice as it is now. Within understanding and conceiving of the Mori House’s design through space, Seike described Mori House as "homogeneous space” (Seike 1951, as cited in Fujioka 2006, 402). He draws a consistent throughline with the ceiling and the eaves flush with one another; the floor on one smooth level highlights the perspective of the space and emphasizes the spatial depth and size of the room.

As Seike’s Mori House is often heralded for its seamless

Figure 5. Southern façade of the Miyagi House by Seike Kiyoshi. Sourced from Reynolds lecture, October 25, 2023.

Figure 6. Plan of the Miyagi House. Sourced from Reynolds lecture, October 25, 2023.

Figure 7. House in Kugayama. Photographed by Shinkenchikusha; published in Spring 2014.

hybridity between tradition and modernity, it is easy to overlook the amalgamation of the living-dining-kitchen space, as photographed above in figures 3 and 4. Two views of this space are captured: figure 3, towards the front door of the house photographing the dining table, and figure 4, towards the two tatami mat rooms photographing the television and living room appliances. These photographs almost appear to present different parts of the house, illuminating the multifunctionality of the living-dining-kitchen (LDK) that is seamlessly incorporated into Seike’s design. The LDK space is unquestionably woven together to centralize the living space within the residence, with the further flexible living spaces of the two tatami rooms in a direct visual through line, effectively making the entire house a democratized space for living.

CASE STUDY 2: MIYAGI HOUSE (1953)

Miyagi House, Seike Kiyoshi’s third project as an architect, was the first of his buildings to be constructed with concrete block. Rather than employing a wood frame structure as with his first two projects, Seike used steel frames and trusses to reinforce and create a large atrium of expansive space, pushing the house’s structural and spatial potential. Despite a shift in building

materials, however, Seike comfortably mixed shoji and fusuma similar to the Mori House to incorporate an outward hybridity in the traditional and modern building design and way of life. While making references to tradition and antiquity similar to the Mori House, Seike also specifically alludes to Heian architecture, particularly Kangakuin (Reynolds 2023). Kangakuin was a school dormitory designed for aristocrats approximately one thousand years prior to the completion of the Miyagi House. As exhibited in figure 5, the wooden slotted door, which acts as a fusuma-like partition between the indoor and outdoor spaces,

Figure 8. First and second floor plans of the House in Kugayama. Published by Shinkenchikusha in Spring 2014.

Figure 9. Promotional poster for the 40th anniversary “This is Sirai Seiichi” exhibition at the Shibuya Kuritsu Shōtō Museum picturing Shirai Seiichi in front of Tekitekikyo. Created by Shibuya Kuritsu Shōtō Museum, 2021.

Figure 10. Inside view of Tekitekikyo. Photograph archived in Shirai Seiichi Laboratory, taken in 1963.

Figure 11. Floorplan of the “55-4N-2DK” apartment designed by the Japan Housing Corporation in 1955. Plan by Japan Housing Corporation, 10-Year History published in 1965.

rests on a shoulder wall on either side of the southern facade. These shoulder walls are Seike’s take on Kangakuin’s amado— storm doors—which act to demarcate one exterior to another.

Seike’s architecture continuously provokes the idea of modern architecture and modern ways of living through traditional Japanese architectural forms from Heian antiquity. His exploration begs the question: can modern manifestations of traditional architectural forms lead to newer or more egalitarian forms of living?

CASE STUDY 3: HOUSE IN KUGAYAMA (1954)

House in Kugayama is Shinohara Kazuo’s first project as a professional architect. As a representative design of Shinohara’s early career, House in Kugayama is in “overt” dialogue with premodern Japanese architectural tradition, explicitly demonstrated by the presence of fusuma and shōji from the dwelling’s facade (Kuan 2021). In particular, Shinohara explores the abstract elements of traditional Japanese architecture, reinterpreting spatialities and structures of premodern wooden structures (Gale 1993). Whilst incorporating elements of a traditional Japanese house, Shinohara experimented with symbolic values within these traditional forms to shape perception and experience within these domestic spaces.

As seen in figure 7, House in Kugayama is elevated upwards with wooden piloti on the ground floor of the residence. The second floor has a distinctly larger living space, appearing to incorporate tatami rooms that allow for a flexible spatial arrangement within the house. The permeable, movable membranes of fusuma and shōji panels enable the flexibility of the space of

the house itself, blurring the lines between outside and inside Similar to Seike—who happens to be Shinohara’s university professor—House in Kugayama responds to the attitudes toward tradition and a ‘new’ modernity being explored in the postwar age (Kuan 2021). Shinohara elevates the “center of living” on the second floor, which includes the living room, two bedrooms, and bathroom, as shown in figure 8 (Shinohara 1954, from Shinkenchiku 2014). Contrary to Hamaguchi’s push to centralize the kitchen within the house, Shinohara distinguishes it from this space of living. However, its union with the dining room and terrace space on the ground floor signify the understanding of the dining-kitchen space as a communal, family space that is not confined to the domestic kitchen duties of a housewife or maid.

CASE STUDY 4: TEKITEKIKYO (SHIRAI SEIICHI’S OWN HOUSE) (1951-67)

Shirai Seiichi began constructing his residence in 1951, six years following the end of World War II. The house went through multiple transformations over the course of its existence, thus having an atypical building period of sixteen years. In the first several years of the sixteen-year period, Shirai did not have a bathroom in his residence, utilizing a portable toilet seat instead. The name, Tekitekikyo, translated literally to “Drip Drip House,” derives its name from the frequent leaks from the ceiling as a result of limited roofing materials in the beginning stages of the dwelling’s conception (Shibuya Kuritsu Shōtō Museum 2022). Unlike the residences analyzed in the first three case studies, Tekitekikyo is a house designed for the architect, by

the architect. This particular intimacy allows for a further experimental approach to building and design—manifested partially in the house’s long construction timeline.

Tekitekikyo was originally designed to be a workspace, but later shifted to become his primary residence. The ability for the space to be transformed, through material and design, into a different function speaks to the democratic nature in its malleability of function, highlighted by the literal porosity of the dwelling itself.

CASE STUDY 5: JHC 55-4N-2DK (1955)

The four case studies analyzed so far have been largely representative of upper-middle class residential designs that emerged between the mid-1940s to mid-1950s. It is important to clarify that these dwellings—while representing ideological and spatial explorations of the postwar period—do not represent nor reflect the sentiment around changing social and spatial dynamics of the home of the greater public. Postwar public housing in Japan, called danchi, was strongly influenced by Hamaguchi. With her expertise and advocacy for democratizing domestic spaces—particularly the kitchen—to liberate women from positions of subordination, Hamaguchi was appointed to reform the kitchen designs in public housing at the JHC. She combined the dining room and kitchen, creating distinctly new dining-kitchen spaces to heighten functionality and center spaces of labor with spaces of domestic gathering (Ueda and Gómez Lobo 2023, 57).

Hamaguchi notably designed the new kitchen, which could be prefabricated, purchased, and installed as a comprehensive kitchen unit with stainless steel sinks, establishing a new norm for the housing and kitchen industry. Stainless steel sinks not only eliminated decaying odors from wooden sinks (Hauk 2022b, 25), but also underscored a priority in function in the new postwar modern era. Similar to Seike’s designs, the JHC 55-4N-2DK plan incorporates two tatami rooms adjacent to one another, with the ability for the sliding fusuma or shōji doors to adapt to changing functions of living spaces, such as bedrooms, living rooms, study rooms, and more. The two rooms are labeled with a more function-neutral term, kyoshitsu, that translate to a room in which one spends most of their time. This shift in direction for a public housing entity like JHC to demarcate the primary living spaces of a home with a vague label, rather than a discrete function to the space, points to a changing discourse surrounding democratized dwelling spaces following a decade of reconstruction and social change in the postwar period.

CONCLUSION

Through Hamaguchi Miho’s assertion for democratized domestic spaces, I investigated residences designed by architects Seike Kiyoshi, Shinohara Kazuo, and Shirai Seiichi, as well as housing plans designed by the Japan Housing Corporation. For the three architects, these residential projects are some of the earliest explorations of their careers that grapple with the rich architectural tradition of Japan while seeking to assert a new modernity—a new way of living in the postwar era. These experimental and innovative architectures raise the question of the extent to which design can catalyze social movements: to what extent can residential design be altered and pushed to democratize, and effectively eradicate power dynamics entirely from

the home? Through varying methods, designs, and strategies by both burgeoning architects and public housing authorities, a new way of living is continuously being negotiated. While Hamaguchi advocates for a residential architecture that centers essential living spaces to achieve a so-called democratization of space, I conclude from my findings that a more democratized, egalitarian living space takes shape through flexible living spaces. This flexibility, I argue, is specifically made possible by tatami rooms that can continuously respond to the needs of the inhabitants of the house. Multifunctional, multiscalar tatami room spaces have the potential to transform into spaces that are not even dwellings at all—this is a true democratized, liberated space.

mef2230@barnard.edu

REFERENCES

Bullock, Nicholas. 1988. “First the Kitchen: Then the Façade.”

Journal of Design History, Oxford University Press 1 (3/4): 177–92.

Fujioka, Hiroyasu. 2006. “The Architecture of Kiyoshi Seike: Implications of His Approach to the Making of Things.” In Architect Kiyoshi Seike: 1918 - 2005, edited by Takeshi Ishido, 400-415. 1st ed. Tokyo: Shinkenchiku-Sha.

Gómez Lobo, Noemí, and Kana Ueda. 2023. “A Dwelling Manifesto for Rebuilding Japan.” Archithese 53 (4): 56-.

Hamaguchi Miho. 1953. Nihon jūtaku no hōkensei. 2nd edition. Tokyo: Sagami Shobō.

Hauk, Michelle L. 2022a. “Ready Made, Dwelling Studies and Japan’s Women Architects.” A + U: Architecture and Urbanism, no. 616: 173-.

Hauk, Michelle L. 2022b. “From Doma to Daidokoro: Japanese Kitchens.” The Architectural Review December 2021/January 2022 (1487): 22–26.

"Kazuo Shinohara." In International Dictionary of Architects and Architecture. Detroit, MI: Gale, 1993. Gale In Context: Biography. https://link-gale-com.ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/apps/doc/ K1638000335/BIC?u=columbiau&sid=summon&xid=5c2b7246.

Kitagawa, Keiko. 2006. “A Study on Forming Process of Dining Kitchen in Japan Housing Corporation’s Apartments — Consideration about the planning models of ‘55-4N-2DK’—.”

Japan Architectural Planning, Architectural Institute of Japan no. 600 (February): 197–201.

Kuan, Seng, ed. 2021. Kazuo Shinohara: Traversing the House and the City. Zurich, Switzerland: Harvard University Graduate School of Design and Lars Müller Publishers. https://www.gsd. harvard.edu/2021/05/excerpt-from-kazuo-shinohara-traversingthe-house-and-the-city-by-seng-kuan/.

Leisure, John. 2021. “Instant Communities, Machines for Living: Danchi Apartments and the Production of Public Housing in Postwar Japan.” University of California, Los Angeles. https:// escholarship.org/uc/item/0px5c6vq.

Miyauchi, Yoshihisa. 2006. “浜浜浜浜浜浜浜浜浜 — 浜浜浜浜浜浜浜浜浜浜浜浜 浜 — (The Being of Hamaguchi Miho: Through the Perspective of Pre- and Post-World War II).” 浜浜浜浜, 2006. Muji. n.d. “浜浜浜浜浜浜浜浜浜浜 (Yō no Ie; The Sun House | Mujirushi Ryōhin no Ie).” 浜浜浜浜浜浜. Accessed April 13, 2024. https://www. muji.net/ie/younoie/. Nuijsink, Cathelijne. 2017. “What Is a House? Architects Redesigning the Domestic Sphere in Contemporary Japan, 1995-2011.” University of Pennsylvania. http://ezproxy.cul. columbia.edu/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/dissertations-theses/what-is-house-architects-redesigning-domestic/ docview/1952045992/se-2?accountid=10226.

Reynolds, Jonathan. October 25, 2023. “‘Tradition’ in Postwar Modernist Architecture.” AHIS GU4110: Modern Japanese Architecture. Class lecture at Columbia University, New York, NY.

Shibuya Kuritsu Shōtō Bijutsukan, ed. 2022. This is Sirai Seiichi: Shirai Seiichi Nyumon. Kyōtō: Seigen-sha. The Japan Architect. 2014. “‘House in Kugayama’ in Kazuo Shinohara: Complete Works in Original Publications,” Spring 2014.

MAGNIFICENT TO MUNDANE: QUEER

ERASURE AND URBAN EVOLUTION AT PIER 45

BY ELEANOR HUTCHINSON BC '27

Pier 45, once known as Christopher Street Pier, has undergone significant transformation due to government renovations that have disregarded the rich history and enduring legacy of New York City’s LGBTQ+ community. Following the withdrawal of the shipping industry from the lower Manhattan waterfront in the early twentieth century, piers such as Greenwich Village’s Christopher Street, were left to decay— unusable to the general public. In its place, a vibrant community of LGBTQ+ New Yorkers found social and physical refuge. In 1998, Governor George Pataki established the Hudson River Park Act, which worked to revitalize the “insalubrious” and “unsanitary” piers (López, 2020). Despite the municipal takeover Pier 45, is said by the New York City LGBT Historic Sites Project to remain an important space for gay youth and LGBTQ+ residents (Berube, n.d.). Pier 45’s historical significance thus lies not only in its role as a space of leisure and socialization for the LGBTQ+ community but also as a site of resistance, where individuals found solidarity and created their own sense of home in a city that often excluded them.

After conducting ethnographic research during two visits to Pier 45 on Friday, April 5, 2024, and Tuesday, April 9, 2024, I found that there were few distinctive characteristics that could identify Pier 45 as a queer space. Apart from the pride flags that adorned four lamp posts at the base of the pier, no other physical establishment or decoration were indicative of the space’s queer history. The weather was significantly different during the two days I observed Pier 45, yet its visitors appeared relatively similar; the pier’s inhabitants were completing strictly mundane activities—not interacting with the historical aspect of the space. Pataki’s Hudson River Park Act was effective in changing the socio-spatial atmosphere of Pier 45 by successfully wiping out the previous queer environment. This transformation magnifies how the vibrancy of urban life is shaped by constant flux—an interplay of individual actions and identities, but also historical erasures. Pier 45, while seemingly unremarkable in present contexts, embodies a vital cultural heritage within queer history in New York City that warrants both preservation and celebration.

With the collapse of the shipping industry and mass deindustrialization of the area, piers along Chelsea and the West Village became important spaces for LGBTQ+ individuals, offering a sanctuary for self-expression and community. Historically, these piers were known for “cruising”— a term used to describe informal and sometimes illicit sexual encounters— but they also served as a community gathering spot and a haven for those marginalized by mainstream society (López, 2020). This was particularly significant after the 1969 Stonewall Uprising, which sparked a new era of gay consciousness and rights movement (Cotter, 2019). The pier was a key part of a broader cultural shift during this period— a symbol of resistance and liberation for the queer community— offering a rare, relatively safe space for self-expression and socialization away from the prying eyes of a more conservative society. The community, however, began to face increasing pressure as the city sought to gentrify and redevelop

the waterfront. The Hudson River Park Act transformed the industrial waterfront into a recreational park space, which ultimately displaced many of the queer residents and activities that had defined the area. This redevelopment, while providing modern amenities and public spaces, marked a shift from a space of refuge to one of commercialization, erasing much of the queer history that had been forged on the piers. This process highlights the tension between urban renewal and the preservation of cultural spaces, particularly for marginalized communities.

I visited Pier 45 on two separate occasions, both of which highlighted the unremarkable, ordinary activities that define urban life. The first time I visited Pier 45 was Friday, April 5 at 12:20 p.m. The temperature was 46°F, the weather cold and windy. The pier was practically empty. When I first arrived at the base of the pier, three

Figure 1. New Yorkers engage with the space by lounging on the grass, sitting on benches, and moving around. Pride flags adorn four of the eight visible lampposts. (Hudson River Park Trust, n.d.)

Figure 2. Pier 45 hosts community music and dancing. (Hudson River Park Trust, n.d.)

people were exercising; I was the only stagnant inhabitant. Two were close to me, a man and a woman. The third person was at the other end, bundled in a large winter jacket, indistinguishable. The woman jogged up and down with Bluetooth headphones, while the man walked towards me with wires— he was leaving, either finished with his workout or relocating to get away from the water. There was construction on the south and west side of the pier, but no one was working. A large majority of the boardwalk was fenced off. The city was in the midst of replacing the last remaining wooden beams from the original pier (Hudson River Park Trust, n.d.). If you peered over the railing, you could see the decaying wood on remnant posts which have not been replaced. The posts of two sandwiching piers have not been replaced either. They protruded from the water, abandoned. The ample table-seating, both at the base and end of the pier, was composed of small circular tables, each with four chairs attached. These areas had shaded coverings for warmer weather, public water fountains, and lamp posts, each adorned with a pride flag. Three long, arched benches and a grass space assembled to configure the central area. The city included a splash pad for cooling off and playing in the summer. Trees were dispersed around the table areas, and tulips, among other flowers, had been planted at their roots. They had just begun to bloom. On the walkway perpendicular to the pier, connecting the Hudson River Park, was an oyster bar and restaurant with outdoor seating and string lights, Drift In (Hudson River Park Trust, n.d.). Beside the restaurant was a large public restroom and a small information booth. There were still very few people and none of them lingered, the weather quite unpleasant. On the other end of the pier was a large tent with speakers. This space holds dance parties and small concerts during the summer months (Hudson River Park Trust, n.d.). It smelled like water and although generally quiet, I could hear the sounds of helicopters and cars. The park is next to a freeway, but a bike lane and landscaped greenery separates the waterfront from the city. There were no homeless people nearby. There was no visible trash on the ground or outside of the public trash cans. The facilities that I interacted with (i.e. the tables, chairs, and benches) were maintained and in good condition. By the time I left, there were still only two people moving in and around the pier.

When I returned to Pier 45 on Tuesday, April 9 at 10:53 a.m., the weather was significantly nicer: 65°F and a partly cloudy sky. The pier was not crowded, but there were way more people than during my previous visit. The first thing I noticed was the number of dogs. It seemed like every person who walked by had an animal companion. There was a class of about seven young adults sitting around the tables at the base of the pier; each student carried a clipboard with an activity sheet. A tour group of 20 adults in business attire passed Pier 45. One man was working on his computer at a table. He had two drinks set out, immersed in his headphones— he planned to be there for a while. A young couple sat with coffee and pastries, both on their phones and accompanied by a dog. Apart from the seated park-goers, most people were exercising, moving through and around the pier quickly. It was still cold near the water, too chilly to lay out and tan on the grass or use the splash pad. Helicopter sounds, traffic, light chatting, and lapping waves filled the Greenwich soundscape, much stronger than Friday. The construction team worked on replacing old boards, wearing orange vests and playing music out of their van. The flowers had bloomed further since Tuesday and the air smelled like spring and water. Two large geese hung out on

the grass lawn. A little Pomeranian dog chased the geese, and two workers started to verbally cheer and root for the little dog. Friends walked together. People talked on the phone. I saw three different women pushing strollers; one of the babies was crying. A family of five walked up and down the pier with backpacks on. Very few kids utilized the designated park-space. A woman filmed a Tai Chi video under the tent by the water while another man sat nearby looking outwards at the Hudson. Three different arrangements of couples and groups sat at the tables at the top of the pier and conversed amongst each other or made phone calls. A handful of pigeons pecked around, but not enough to really notice. The information building was in use, but the other two structures near it appeared closed. A man in a security work uniform ate his lunch while a couple shared small talk over a coffee date. The people I saw were a mix of racial and ethnic identities, but mostly adults. One man was lying on a curved bench; he reminded me of the image Christopher Street #2 by Peter Hujar. Hujar’s image exemplifies the transitory state of the pier, visualizing the tension between and intersection of urban space with personal expression and the nature of queer culture amid social change (Hujar,

Figure 3. Christopher Street #2, a man lying along the edge of the pier with his legs crossed. (Hujar 1976)

Figure 4. Two people lying face down on a curved bench. (Hudson River Park Trust, n.d.)

1976). I felt very comfortable and unnoticed within the pier environment, especially on Tuesday when more people were engaging with the park ephemerally. As Pier 45 was reimagined into public green space, the environmental shift not only changed the landscape, but also shaped how individuals engaged with the site— shifting from a vibrant, community-driven space to one of routine, impersonal use.

It is apparent that the Hudson River Park Act has completely changed the socio-spatial atmosphere of Pier 45 and its formerly queer-centric space. My observations led me to note that the Hudson River Park Act’s reconstruction of Pier 45 was designed to be highly populated and for all age groups. The ample amount of seating, from tables and benches to grass and open space, as well as two public water fountains, demonstrates a clear plan for creating a populous area. Further, the large structures inside and just outside of the pier—the event tent, Drift In restaurant, information booth, and public bathroom—provide physical evidence that many people visit this area. While I observed very few children at the pier during my excursions, it is important to consider that most New York schools end no later than 3:45 p.m. and are in-session until around June, so it would be unusual for any young kid to be at the pier during the times that I visited (New York City Public Schools, n.d.). The inclusion of a splash pad indicates an interest in involving younger age demographics who could play in the water during hot summer months, however the structure is also available to adults, who may want to cool down or rinse off. Thus, visitors of all ages are attracted to the space for its convenient public infrastructure, as opposed to monumental or historical markers.

Once a sanctuary for the queer community, specifically queer homeless youth, the new occupants of Pier 45 used the space for routine activities such as exercise, minor socialization, and food consumption. There were no people visibly dealing with housing-insecurity anywhere near the pier, a far cry from its pre-Act state. On April 5, around ten people used the pier as a space for outdoor exercise and social engagement. On April 9, at least three times as many people spent time at the pier, yet they all completed the same or similar activities. Pier patrons primarily walked, jogged, or rested on one of the many seating options around the establishment. Some visitors completed these activities while talking on the phone or to one other person, while others completed work and ate lunch. In short, the majority of interactions with the space were fleeting and transitory.

I observed no physical interaction or intellectual engagement with the LGBTQ+ history of Pier 45, despite the Hudson River Park’s claim that it’s still a space for queer congregation and community. I also did not observe pier attendees interacting with any other people than the ones they came with. Not only were the pier visitors not interacting with the built environment’s historical community, but they did not interact with each other in such a transient setting. In other words, the Hudson River Park Act did not solely evict the queer community that lived and utilized Christopher Street Pier, but it expelled the atmosphere that allowed for community to be fostered at all. The reality that its regulars are no longer harnessing the environment to build community or negotiate identity suggests that The Hudson River Park Act was ultimately successful in erasing and stifling the dynamic queer life that had previously existed and flourished on Pier 45.

Pier 45 is a multifunctional urban space constructed by the Hudson River Park Act to cater to a range of activities and demographics; however, in this transformation, the New York City government diminished the queer community and chosen family that the pier supported when it was almost exclusively home to queer residents. The current pier is used by New York residents for daily tasks and typical routines, signaling that the queer environment that once teemed with life and exploration in expression no longer exists. The evolution of Christopher Street Pier to Pier 45 demonstrates how urban life at its core is simply a collection of mundane activities that individuals fluctuate through. In his work The Colossus of New York, author Colson Whitehead suggests that urban life is defined by a permanent state of change in which the members’ selves and actions are not alone significant, but necessary for urban sustenance as a collective. Urban theorist Henri Lefebvre likewise argues that urban space is socially constructed and shaped by lived experiences, highlighting the importance of preserving such spaces to honor their historical and cultural meanings (Oladapo Makinde, 2024). The preservation of LGBTQ+ histories, like that of Christopher Street Pier, is not just about memory, but about ensuring a space for future generations to find solidarity and identity. Re-establishing and maintaining Pier 45 as a site of queer significance would acknowledge and celebrate its role in New York’s urban identity and affirm the cultural contributions of queer communities to the city’s evolution.p

egh2137@barnard.edu

Figure 5. Hidden behind dilapidated infrastructure, two men utilize the space to engage in sexual activity. (Baltrop 1975-86)

Figure 6. Two men inhabit a vacant warehouse. (Baltrop 1975-86)

REFERENCES

n.d. New York City Public Schools. Accessed April 22, 2024. https://www.schools.nyc.gov/.

Andersson, Johan. 2015. “‘Wilding’ in the West Village: Queer Space, Racism and Jane Jacobs Hagiography.” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 39, no. 2 (April). https://onlinelibrary. wiley.com/doi/full/10.1111/1468-2427.12188.

Baltrop, Alvin. 1975-86.

Berube, Allan. n.d. “Greenwich Village Waterfront – NYC LGBT Historic Sites Project.” NYC LGBT Historic Sites Project. Accessed April 17, 2024. https://www.nyclgbtsites.org/site/ greenwich-village-waterfront/.

“Christopher Street Pier.” n.d. Wikipedia. Accessed April 5, 2024. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Street_Pier.

Cotter, Holland. 2019. “He Captured a Clandestine Gay Culture Amid the Derelict Piers (Published 2019).” The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/09/19/arts/design/alvin-baltrop-photographs.html.

“George Pataki.” n.d. Wikipedia. Accessed March 6, 2024. https:// en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Pataki.

“Hudson River Park Act — Hudson River Park.” n.d. Hudson River Park. Accessed March 6, 2024. https://hudsonriverpark.org/about-us/ hudson-river-park-trust/hudson-river-park-act/.

Hudson River Park Trust. n.d. Hudson River Park. Accessed April 10, 2024. https://hudsonriverpark.org/.

Hujar, Peter. 1976. Christopher Street Pier #2. Hutchinson, Eleanor. 2024. Waiting For Change. Hutchinson, Eleanor. 2024. Urban Flux: Queer Life on Lower Manhattan’s Waterfront.

Kilgannon, Corey. 2005. “A Sex Stop on the Way Home.” The New York Times, September 21, Lefebvre, Henri. n.d. “The Right to the City.” The Anarchist Library. Accessed November 18, 2024. https://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/ henri-lefebvre-right-to-the-city#toc13.

López, Iván. 2020. “Sick Architecture - Iván López MunueraLands of Contagion.” e-flux. https://www.e-flux.com/architecture/ sick-architecture/363717/lands-of-contagion/.

Oladapo Makinde, Olusola, and Funmilayo Amao. 2024. “Henri Lefebvre Theory of Space and Social Production Philosophy: A Critical Interpretation.” Global Journal of Arts Humanity and Social Sciences 4 (1). https://www.researchgate.net/publication/378461403_Henri_Lefebvre_Theory_of_Space_and_Social_ Production_Philosophy_A_Critical_Interpretation.

Shepard, Benjamin, and Gregory Smithsimon. 2011. The Beach Beneath the Streets: Contesting New York City’s Public Spaces. N.p.: State University of New York Press.

Shipp, E. R. 1980. “Disused Piers Have Become Manhattan’s ‘Beaches.’” New York Times (New York City), July 24, 1980, 21, 25. https://timesmachine.nytimes.com/timesmachine/1980/07/24/112081489.html?pageNumber=21.

Whitehead, Colson. 2004. The Colossus of New York. N.p.: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group.

SKY HOUSE: KIYONORI KIKUTAKE’S METABOLIST CHALLENGE TO STATE CAPITALISM

BY BEN ERDMANN Columbia College ‘25

INTRODUCTION

"Metabolist architecture was criticized overseas for its abandonment or rejection of context and the realities of the city—it did not look Japanese. In fact, nothing remained of the familiar realities of the Japanese city."

—Cherie Wendelken, “Putting Metabolism Back In Place”

Perhaps Japan’s most famous contribution to architectural history is the Metabolist movement. Heavily influenced by Kenzo Tange, the Metabolists would reach international visibility after the publication of their 1960 manifesto. Many of the Metabolists were shaped by their childhood experiences amid the fire-bombing of Tokyo and nuclear attacks in Hiroshima and Nagasaki; Metabolist megastructures were not utopian endorsements of modernity but an outgrowth of the post-apocalyptic discourse that responded to such devastation (Wendelken, 2000, p. 287). This post-apocalyptic imagination inspired much Metabolist work (Leomi, 2015, p. 160); architects like Kiyonori Kikutake even reaffirmed the hypothesized resiliency of megastructures in the wake of recent disasters like the 2011 earthquake and tsunami that struck Japan (Oshima, 2022, p. 128). Yet amidst every disaster, quotidian life perseveres—what did the Metabolists have to say about the nuclear sites of social life? Kiyonori Kikutake’s 1958 Sky House, designed for his family, is one such Metabolist intervention into everyday life whose principles would be taken up by future Metabolist projects (Schalk, 2014, p. 285). Taking Sky House as the occasion for analysis, I locate Metabolism in an economic history of Japan and international history of architecture, arguing that Sky House’s interventions into housing challenged the burgeoning capitalist state and its attendant family ideology that emerged during the 1960s and 1970s. Though Metabolism is occasionally critiqued for later slipping into commercialism, Sky House provides insight for how architecture can resist capitalist encroachment, with this potential emerging first from the Metabolists’ understanding of urban space.

Sky House was preceded by a deterioration of the public/private distinction in Japanese housing. In the context of “post-war US international hegemony and the transfer of US technology,” “what ultimately evolved in Japan was post-Fordist production organization” (Westra, 1999, p. 433). This captures the fragmentation of the Japanese economy into units to be managed by those who owned the means of production, affecting a shift to more isolated workplaces that might have encouraged the breakdown of public and private by more closely associating the ostensibly public workplace with individualism. This capitalist development also impacted the home, where “the private domestic sphere of women and the public sphere of men” become more distinct arenas of production, each now ‘public’ in their susceptibility to ideological regulation by the state and capital (Fasenfest & Gottfried, 2021, p. 152). And as

one’s social role became more closely tethered to the ideological and actual space in which labor was performed, the home began to further mold those social identities. Postwar housing policy in Japan was largely framed as a solution to insecurity intended for a distinctly Japanese population such that the home could surveil bodies and induce change in them (Clancey, 2005, pp. 132-133). As such, Sky House emerges from a context of increased state encroachment on the home, albeit primarily ideologically, where capitalism exerted even greater influence on one’s life away from the workplace.

Kikutake’s Sky House is also preceded and informed by Marxist thought and international architectural theory. Kikutake himself was influenced by dialectical materialism (Lin, 2010, p. 20) and works by the Marxist physician Mitsuo Taketani (Holopainen, 2021, p. 43); these influences would become material for critics due to the somewhat Marxist but economically underdeveloped theories of Metabolists like Kikutake (Holopainen, 2021, p. 43). Perhaps more importantly, the built form of Metabolism was informed by the rejection of the Athens Charter, Le Corbusier’s megastructures and three fundamental elements, Buckminster Fuller’s capsule works, and the rejection of CIAM’s urbanism (Pernice, 2013, pp. 762, 766; Lin, 2010, p. 26; Wendelken, 2000, p. 294; Pernice, 2022, p. 46).

The Metabolists’ acute attention to international architectural trends resulted in their incorporation of “the concept of a cyclical nature of architecture into their philosophy and projects” (Šenk, 2023, p. 372). This reflects a departure from the polemical justification of any individual stylistic tendency in favor of understanding architecture as a sort of ecology in which ideas are recycled, submerged, and illuminated across time. As such, projects like Sky House cannot be evaluated simply by the formal analysis of built traits but must be placed within this architectural ecology, an ecology that is inseparable from the burgeoning capitalism that served as background for Metabolism.

The design of Sky House reflects Kikutake’s attention to changing societal dynamics in Japan. Built in 1958, “The house is essentially a square box elevated by four tall concrete panels […] Inside, under a paraboloid shell roof, is a single space divided only by storage units” (Lin, 2010, p. 17). That interior space harkens back to the traditional open-space characteristic of a home divided by modular shoji and even treating the external concrete structure as a “thickened” screen (Neustupny, 2017, p. 518). Yet the project’s lasting influence came from Kikutake’s use of ‘movenets,’ or modular rooms that could be attached to the house’s underbelly and moved for the sake of efficiency (Lin, 2010, p. 17). These move-nets would be elaborated by future Metabolist projects as capsules, demonstrating the importance of Kikutake’s Sky House to the enduring Metabolist style. This modularity also reflects a clear response to Japan’s changing social and economic dynamics; for example, Kikutake argued the move-nets would allow adding or subtracting children’s rooms as needed, echoing the atomization of bedrooms in the Japanese home and enabling alternative family arrangements. Additionally, Sky House reflects

Figure 1: Sky House, Kiyonori Kikutake, 1958

a departure from the focus on reconciling a home with its context. Rather than attempt to match the landscape that surrounded Sky House, “An unfettered horizontal view and independence from the ground plane defined for [Kikutake] an ideal situation for the urban dweller” (Mulligan, 2015). Similar to critiques of Metabolism’s Marxism for its lack of attention to the material conditions of class, this detachment of the home from its context reflects Metabolism’s tendency to imagine an altogether distinct context in which its projects would exist. Here, Sky House’s interventions are deeply practical while also gesturing towards the somewhat utopian imagination of another way of living, and each tendency would be taken up by future Metabolists.

Kikutake’s choice to design a home is situated in postwar developments to Japanese housing policy. The government’s prewar housing campaign was an “unprecedented attempt […] to re-design the setting of Japanese daily life, and one that continued to influence Japanese living space well into the postwar period” (Clancey, 2005, p. 123). This campaign was picked up by postwar reformers who sought to both “improve the physical environment of dwellings” for health purposes “but also to improve behavior within the home” (Waswo, 2002, p. 65). While this line of reform has some resonance with Meiji-era middle-class reformism that sought to delineate the terms of respectability for middle class citizens (Clancey, 2005, p. 130), it also reflects a response to housing issues in a period of tenuous alliance between the state

and capitalism. The democratization of the state under US occupation had the ideological effect of democratizing society via the atomization of individuals as loci of identity, dovetailing capital’s individuating tendency that fractures community for the sake of fungible labor. As such, “The family, formerly hierarchically structured under the leadership of a male househead, was to be democratized along with other institutions and its individual members” (Waswo, 2002, p. 69). What better site to actualize this reform than the assumed domain of the family: the home? Thus, Sky House emerges from a context of government encroachment on the ideology that regulated domestic life; Kikutake’s Marxist tendencies may well have encouraged him to identify the focus on individuation shared by capital and the democratization of social life.

Kikutake’s Sky House espouses a vitalist humanism in response to the democratizing tendency of state housing policy. This emerges from Metabolism’s formal techniques: “First, the use of the structural core as a fundamental tectonic and expressive element constitutes the distinct nature of Metabolism” (Pompili, 2012, p. 70). This structural core is not limited to its role as a static structure: “they are not just inert slabs but, like the finer filaments in a nervous system, contain the necessary connections, transportation systems, and services to link the units (dwellings) to the broader urban network” (Pompili, 2012, p. 77). The Metabolist understanding of built structures treats the structural core almost like a spine from which other signals, materials, and flows might

emerge; Kikutake himself argued that “‘design and technology should be a denotation of human vitality,’ and that Metabolists were ‘trying to encourage active metabolic development of our society’” (Leomi, 2015, pp. 155-158). As such, the design of buildings like Sky House arises from a humanist celebration of social life, where the building should mirror and encourage that vitality rather than contain or mold it. This is further demonstrated by the rejection of a central core in the design of danchi, or postwar public housing apartments, because of the relative complexity and instability this design feature introduced to the mass-scale public projects (Waswo, 2002, p. 77). Though both the danchi and Metabolist projects emphasized prefabricated parts and mass production, the Metabolist focus emerges from a place of humanism and social vitality whereas the danchi reflect a comparatively sterile attempt at containing familial life.

Sky House forwards a more direct critique of state housing ideology by challenging the nuclear family as the assumed inhabitant of Japanese homes. Kikutake argued that architects should “address the underlying sociological and psychological unease of contemporary citizens”—a feat that would have required engaging the apparent crumbling of the family structure, “a strong constant in Japanese culture” (Mulligan, 2015; Holopainen, 2021, p. 58). This sort of critique is essential to later Metabolist works as well, with Metabolists echoing Kenzo Tange’s critique of the “Japanese planning system for its non-transparent forms of power” (Schalk, 2014, p. 285); here, the humanist interpretation of Metabolist built form gains power, responding to the state’s impersonal regulation of space by recentering human vitality through the built environment. This critique also comes from the Metabolists’ experiences of destruction in Japan. Metabolism’s organic metaphor encouraged understanding (destroyed) Japanese architecture and urban space as a sort of regenerative ground zero, “a site of rebirth where culture would be regenerated” (Schalk, 2014, p. 285). Again, Metabolism’s relationship to tradition is a critical one; though tradition would inform this regeneration, the architectural ecology it existed in would require reckoning with new possibilities rather than simply recreating the past. Kikutake himself described Sky House’s central area—the open central core—as a “symbolic ‘space for a couple’s love’ […] an archetypal home for a young couple in the new society” (Yatsuka, 2022, p. 9). This strong intervention into the normative form of Japanese housing thus reflects an alternative vision of family life, perhaps proposing some separation from the surveillance of the state in the home’s separation from the ground. In addition, “Kikutake leaped from the prewar extended family to a minimum social unit of only one couple, bypassing postwar ideology that emphasized the importance of the nuclear family” (Yatsuka, 2022, p. 9); this is further emphasized by Sky House’s modular potential to add and remove rooms, challenging the ideologically static family that can be more easily managed by the state.

In tandem with the Metabolist critique of obscured Japanese planning power, Sky House reveals the seeds of Metabolism’s proposed urbanism. This urbanism responded to “mass-housing shortages, limited urban circulation, and poor or non-existent collective services” (Pernice, 2022, pp. 58-59); Pernice also argues that the Metabolists “made simplistic assumptions about

how people use urban spaces” in their sweeping redefinition of Tokyo and other cities that undermine that urbanism (2022, pp. 58-59). Yet, Kikutake’s Sky House cuts against this characterization of the Metabolist urbanism as simplistic and utopian to a fault. Though Sky House immediately appears “classically balanced and distilled to essential elements,” its modularity emphasizes “the incomplete nature of the city as a perpetual work in progress” (Mulligan, 2015). This echoes the characterization of Metabolism as an architectural ecology in which a given architecture is neither static nor eternal but ever-changing and intertwined with other architectures, organisms, and aesthetics. Thus, the Metabolist urbanism proposes a structure for those parts of the urban ecology that can be designed and specified while resisting any attempt to define or structure the larger architectural ecology. This idea is present in later Metabolist projects like Kikutake’s Marine City that would’ve floated in Tokyo Bay, seeking not to overcome nature but exist in tandem with it—after all, Marine City would not stop a tsunami but attempt to weather it. Here, the Metabolist critique of opaque Japanese planning policies crystallizes as a rejection of state attempts to organize the natural, where the natural is but an organism defined by flux and chaos; Sky House proposes an urbanism that responds to material conditions without attempting to define them.

Sky House is an essential Metabolist project despite the megastructures that typically characterize the architectural movement. Metabolism’s decline in the 1970s dovetailed with economic crisis and concerns about environmental sustainability, two problems that threatened the viability and reception of megastructures that sought to exert themselves over a given space (Pernice, 2013, p. 771). Nonetheless, the megastructural fantasy that was jettisoned in the face of such crises was influenced by Kikutake’s Sky House; Kikutake himself reinvigorated the modular space of Sky House in his design for Marine City by “providing a flexible arrangement of partitions and spaces” (Lin, 2010, p. 17). The traits that define Metabolist megastructures— open plans, modular design, and exchangeable parts—began with projects like Sky House, and their underlying urban logics can be excavated from Sky House’s intervention into Japanese home design. Nonetheless, Metabolism largely lost its critical edge in the 1970s as its designs “turned into eye-catching billboards forcefully driven by sponsors’ commercial interests. Metabolism almost lost its autonomy to express a distinctive era and became a slave to commercialism” (Tamari, 2014, p. 211). With the international growth of neoliberal capitalism in the late 1970s and 1980s, capital would shift to emphasize deregulation and market influence as the operative forces of social and economic change. As argued previously, Japan’s postwar democratization that caused a shift to focus on the individual and the atomization of social life to the nuclear family was challenged by Metabolism but also began to invade its internal logic, with Metabolism’s modularity echoing capital’s fungible labor and its focus on individual space clearing the way for capitalist isolation. As such, it is not surprising that Metabolism might fall victim to neoliberal co-option; its decline shortly preceded the global uptake of such economic ideas, and its radical edge faded just as these ideas began to define social and political life more definitively.

Metabolism emerges from a storied architectural, economic, and political history in Japan. The movement is inseparable from the growth of post-Fordist capital and its resonance with the democratization of the Japanese government; the respective focuses on interchangeability and individuation are driven in new directions by Metabolist projects like Kiyonori Kikutake’s Sky House. The floating house, elevated by concrete pillars and defined by its open plan and modular underbelly, challenged postwar state policy that invested ideologically in the nuclear family while also contesting state urbanism by redefining urban space as a sort of uncontrollable architectural ecology. As such, Sky House serves as a prototypical Metabolist project, its modular design and humanist urbanism being further developed by future projects like Kikutake’s Marine City. Though Metabolism would eventually falter—in no small part due to the elaboration of neoliberal capitalism—this humanist urbanism/architectural ecology is perhaps its clearest revelation that should be considered in the contemporary. Metabolists did not seek to define the future but anticipate “a future world [that] could be characterized more by the precognition of catastrophe than expectations of utopia” (Tamari, 2014, p. 214). Here, Metabolism is not a static response to material injustice but a proactive, perhaps dialectical method for dealing with the growth of state power and capitalism. Many contemporary understandings of Metabolism assert that the architects argued for “across-the-board surgery” in response to “the realities of chaotic cities” (Yatsuka, 2023, p. 158); but this relies on the elision of Metabolism’s relinquishing of control over the city form in favor of mirroring human vitality in the built forms that occupy those chaotic cities. Instead, Metabolism teaches that cities are not characterized by randomness, chaos, and disorder but a (metaphorically) natural order that cannot be managed. The critique of Metabolism today may emerge from the conflation of capitalist management with the Metabolist program. Projects like Sky House do not propose control but radical openness; this re-understanding of the city offers an opportunity to anticipate and prepare for conflict rather than attempting to completely resolve it, an orientation that is perhaps all one has in the face of capitalist precarity.

bpe2114@columbia.edu

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Fasenfest, D. & Gottfried, H. (2021). “Understanding the Trajectory of Japanese Capitalism.” Critical Sociology, 47(1), pp. 149-161. Holopainen, E. (2021). Metabolism and the Second Attempt: Balancing Between Tradition and Progress in the Continuum of Japanese Modernisation and Late Stage Modernism (Master’s thesis, Aalto University). Aaltodoc.

Leomi, E. S. (2015). Tokyo Flâneur: A Study of Urban Experience in Narrative (Master’s thesis, Aalto University). Aaltodoc. Lin, Z. (2010). Kenzo Tange and the Metabolist Movement: Urban

Utopias of Modern Japan. Routledge.

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Pernice, R. (2013). “Images of the Future from the Past: The Metabolists and the Utopian Planning of the 1960s.” Journal of Civil Engineering and Architecture, 8(6), pp. 761-771.

Pernice, R. (2022). “Engineering a Poetic Techno-Urbanism: The Metabolists’ Visionary City in Postwar Japan.” In Pernice, R. (Ed.), The Urbanism of Metabolism: Visions, Scenarios, and Models for the Mutant City of Tomorrow, Routledge, pp. 45-60.

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Yatsuka, H. (2022). “Back from Behind the Curtain of Oblivion: Metabolism and the Postwar Actuality of Japan.” In Pernice, R. (Ed.), The Urbanism of Metabolism: Visions, Scenarios, and Models for the Mutant City of Tomorrow, Routledge, pp. 8-21.

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UNEARTHING HERITAGE: AN ANALYSIS OF THE AFRICAN BURIAL GROUND AS CONTESTED HERITAGE

BY JACQUELINE ARTIAGA, LILLY GASTERLANDGUSTAFSSON, MAYA FELSTEHAUSEN, & BEATRICE MCWHORTER Barnard College ‘25

INTRODUCTION

As the nation’s largest and earliest known African American cemetery, New York City’s African Burial Ground National Monument (ABG) is a significant memorial to the enslaved Africans who laid the foundations of Manhattan. Nestled where the Civic Center and Financial District intersect, the understated, easily overlooked site is a contrast to its tumultuous history as a place of loss and limitation. Aggressively pitting the actors of the federal government—the General Services Administration—against the descendants of those interred within the burial grounds, the African Burial Ground National Monument was once a site embroiled in contestation. Contested, in this context, describes the sense that various stakeholders, from governmental officials to archeologists to the NYC public, each hold differing interpretations of the ABG, its significance to NYC, and its role in heritage-making for Black Americans and descendants of enslaved Africans. To acknowledge and critique these various stakeholders and how they are embedded within ABG, we put into question: is ABG a site of contested heritage?

The ABG's contested nature calls for an equally multifaceted analysis. Chapter 1 traces the monument's discovery, excavating its historical roots and revealing New York City's reliance on enslaved Africans. It sets the stage for subsequent chapters by exploring how historical narratives shape heritage. Chapter 2 examines the monument's architecture, form, and surrounding urban context, illustrating how these elements influence visitor experience. Chapter 3 delves into curatorial strategies and language on signage, demonstrating their role in heritage production at the ABG. Grounded in theoretical concepts like authorized heritage discourse, it highlights the impact of curatorial discourse on the monument's intent. Chapter 4, an ethnographic analysis, supplements on-site observations with visitor experiences, linking monument intention with urban spatial practice. Despite commemorative efforts, awareness and engagement with the ABG remain low compared to nearby monuments, hinting at underlying historical complexities. The ABG’s importance in signifying the origins of New York City contradicts the small, overlooked site that stands today.

CHAPTER 1: THE DISCOVERY AND MEMORIALIZATION OF THE AFRICAN BURIAL GROUND

Jacqueline Artiaga

This chapter delves into the intricate history of the burial ground, shedding light on the identities of those interred and the significance of their resting place. Understanding its historical roots serves to contextualize its discovery, excavation, and later

memorial. Tracing an emotionally charged history to its modern discovery, the ABG emerges as a site of contested urban heritage where various groups seek to direct the narrative.

The story of the African Burial Ground dates back to the 17th century, when New Amsterdam (later known as New York), a Dutch colonial settlement, began importing enslaved Africans for physical labor. The first eleven enslaved men were brought across the Atlantic in 1623 by the Dutch East India Company, and tasked with the upkeep of the colony’s infrastructure through construction and maintenance (Harris 2003, 14). As the Company tightened its hold on the New World, the influx of settlers led to a growing population of enslaved people. By 1697, Manhattan had approximately 700 enslaved Africans, necessitating a distinct, separate location for burials (Harrington 1993). Restrictive religious beliefs and colony laws required that African Americans, both enslaved and freed, be buried outside of the developed city, as shown in Figure 1. In 1697, New York instituted the practice of mortuary apartheid, or the practice of segregating burial sites based on racial or ethnic identities (Smith 2021, 227). As a result, the burial ground preserved separation in death as well as life.

The Burial Ground was situated outside the city’s fortification wall—now known as Wall Street—to maintain physical separation from the colony. The separation between buried Africans and the rest of the Manhattan population continued for decades, even as the built environment enveloped the site and continued northwards. By the time the last burial took place in 1795, the ABG was entirely surrounded by development (National Park Service n.d.). Over the following centuries, the site gradually faded from memory—a phenomenon that persists today (see Chapter 4)—and slipped into obscurity until 1991, when the federal government began constructing a government office within the footprint of the ABG.

DISCOVERY AND EARLY CONTESTATIONS

The rediscovery of the ABG stemmed from a government-mandated construction project. On September 30, 1991, during preliminary work for the Ted Weiss Federal Building, workers uncovered human remains and burial artifacts. Although this finding was not entirely unexpected, given the due diligence conducted prior to the demolition, it raised immediate concern and initiated a comprehensive archaeological investigation—the first of its kind in New York City.

Before purchasing the land from the city, the General Service Administration (GSA) construction crew hired Historic Conservation and Interpretation (HCI), an archaeological consulting firm, to analyze the site’s environmental impact report. According to HCI’s report, “the construction of deep sub-basements would have obliterated any remains with the lots that fall within the historical bounds of the cemetery” (GSA.gov, as cited in Clinton 2020, 341). Despite HCI's consultation, the GSA

1. Historical map of lower Manhattan. The African Burial Ground signified by the red box, added by the Author. Image from Library of Congress, the Maerschalck map from 1754.

proceeded with construction, seemingly intent on erecting the Ted Weiss Building regardless of the inevitable destruction to the ABG. This disregard for the site’s significance was further evidenced during a congressional hearing when a regional administrator admitted to never addressing the public’s concerns regarding burial destruction with higher authorities, contrary to prior claims made in public meetings (Blakey 2009, 8). The blatant negligence exhibited by the GSA sparked outrage, fueling anger among community and national groups which impacted the Federal government as they grappled with determining the next course of action for the site. To gain a comprehensive understanding of the site and inform future decisions, archaeologists were enlisted to examine the remains and additional burial artifacts.

UNEARTHED LIVES

An intensive archeological analysis began after the ABG’s presence was confirmed to understand the enslaved individuals who contributed to the colony's functionality. An archaeological team analyzed the remains of individuals spanning various age groups, from infants to the elderly, uncovering their lifestyles and causes of death. Alongside the skeletal remains, a diverse array of artifacts including cowrie shells, buttons, musket balls, earrings, beads, tobacco pipes, and coral fragments were unearthed (Hansen 1998, 12). The diversity of objects found points to some level of an assimilated lifestyle, signaling a connection between countries of origin and countries of imperialism. While some burials highlighted unique examples of burial practices within the colonial era, the vast majority of burials pointed to extraordinarily painful and deeply saddening causes of death, heightened by historical accounts of burial practices. The team found a mother and infant pair, a woman with a musket ball in her ribcage, skeletal remains with singe marks suggestive of death by burning, widespread signs of malnutrition and osteoarthritis, and evidence indicating that children were subjected to exceptionally heavy labor (Hansen 1998, 77; Blakey 2009, 199; Smith 2021, 227). Of the 419 excavated remains, nearly half were children under twelve (Moore 2019). Additionally, burial

Figure 2. Model of the Ancestral Libation Chamber displayed at the African Burial Ground National Monument Visitor Center. Photograph by Maya Felstehausen, March 1, 2024. 290 Broadway, New York, New York.

Figure 3. North wall of the Ancestral Chamber with engravings of a Sankofa symbol and libation text, with a reflection of the surrounding built environment. Photograph by Maya Felstehausen, March 1, 2024. 290 Broadway, New York, New York.

practices from this era were incredibly stringent as a result of slave codes. These codes dictated how enslaved people socialized, worked, and rested. For instance, funeral processions were limited to no more than twelve attendees, and burials were prohibited from occurring at night, a departure from traditional African burial customs (Smith 2021, 229). Tragically, deceased Africans were continually denied dignity and respect, as in some cases, their bodies were illegally exhumed for medical studies by local doctors and medical students (Smith 2021, 229). This systemic disregard for the sanctity of life persisted beyond the grave, perpetuating a cycle of dehumanization and exploitation.

Among these discoveries, Burial #6, stood out as a significant site of interest due to its merging of British and African traditions. Encased within a well-preserved coffin, the complete skeleton showed minimal damage and was entrusted to Harvard osteologists for further examination. Notably, the coffin contained distinct rows of buttons, indicating that the individual

Figure

was interred wearing a coat. Upon cleaning and analysis of the buttons, scientists observed an anchor and rope motif, characteristic of British Navy uniforms of the era (Hansen 1998, 9). This revelation marked a significant discovery, suggesting that Burial #6 was that of a Black man clad in a British uniform, likely dating to the American Revolution, and buried in accordance with military tradition. Adding to the interest, the orientation of the coffin facing east was noted—a burial custom observed in many African cultures during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (Hansen 1998, 36). This east-west positioning symbolized a connection to both Africa and Jerusalem, believed to ensure a favorable stance on Judgement Day (Jamieson 1995, 43). The amalgamation of materials and burial practices observed in Burial #6 serves as a poignant testament to the intersectionality of cultures and histories intertwined within the site.

The findings from the excavation of the African Burial Ground reveal a narrative of pain, resilience, and cultural blending amid colonial life. The analysis of burial practices exposes the circumstances surrounding the deaths of many enslaved individuals, particularly the prevalence of child burials and the systemic dehumanization they faced, which extended even into death. The juxtaposition of Burial #6 highlights the complex interplay between British and African traditions, reflecting the broader historical context of the time. As the extensive excavation and historical contextualization continued to uncover lost histories, the problem of memorializing such a history remained.

THE PROCESS OF MEMORIALIZATION

Following a series of congressional hearings and public meetings, a decision was reached to establish a Federal advisory committee composed of descendant Africans to generate Section 106 recommendations to GSA (Blakey 2009, 9). Section 106 mandates that federal agencies consider the impacts of proposed federal undertakings on historic properties. One suggestion that came to fruition was the construction of an architectural memorial. In 1998, GAS announced it was accepting proposals for the design and architecture of an exterior memorial for the ABG. By 2007 the memorial, designed by Rodney Leon, a New York-based architect, was completed (National Park Service). Two years later, the site was awarded recognition as a National Monument by President Clinton. The significance of the exterior memorial is further analyzed in the following chapter, where its location and design are entangled with its historical significance. Despite these advancements, it's important to note that the excavation site and ensuing memorial cover less than one city block, 0.34 acres, even though the original footprint of the burial ground spans across 5.5 acres of land (Blakey 2019, 3), a further example of the contested nature of the site. This disparity underscores the ongoing challenges and complexities in fully acknowledging and commemorating the significance of the African Burial Ground.

The narrative of the African Burial Ground is a poignant reflection of New York City's history, embodying the struggles of enslaved Africans and African Americans in colonial America. Discovered in 1991 amidst the urban sprawl, its excavation unearthed not only physical remains but also the systemic injustices endured by marginalized communities. Burial #6, with

its symbolic significance, highlights the complexity of identities within the site. Yet, the majority of burials reveal the harsh realities of slavery and exploitation. Despite challenges, advocacy efforts led to its recognition as a National Historic Landmark and National Monument. However, the disparity between the small memorial footprint and the expansive original burial ground underscores ongoing struggles for recognition and justice. Its history and reality challenge the values of urban heritage and the agency of various stakeholders, cementing its status as a site of contestation.

CHAPTER 2: THE ARCHITECTURE OF ABG: INTENTION, DESIGN, AND SCALE

Maya Felstehausen

This chapter explores the contested nature of ABG through an extensive visual and symbolic analysis of ABG. In particular, I concentrate my investigation into the Memorial on ABG, designed by Haitian-American architect Rodney Leon, to explore the intentionality of the design, spatial relationships of the site and its urban context, and the scale of the site itself. This inquiry seeks to identify how the ABG Memorial is a site of contested urban heritage in two intersectional layers: the first, through the ABG site and Memorial’s existence in and of itself, and the second, through its design that traces the plurality of African and Black Diaspora symbols, traditions, and histories.

MEMORIAL DESIGN

The architect and designer, Rodney Leon, entitled the Memorial on the ABG “the Ancestral Libation Chamber,” which is composed of two parts: the Ancestral Chamber and the Libation Court. The Ancestral Chamber is a triangular, narrow pyramidal structure made out of dark marble with a cross-sectional opening to the sky. Upon entering the ABG Memorial site, one is immediately drawn to the Ancestral Chamber facing the main approach from Duane Street. Although the Ancestral Chamber, upon my visit, was temporarily closed due to structural issues and signs of stress, the Ancestral Chamber was designed to be entered from the east side of the Memorial, leading into the Circle of Diaspora, or the Libation Court. The Spiral Processional Ramp descends from the street level in a clockwise manner into the Libation Court. The perimeter wall, named the Circle of the Diaspora, is lined with symbols, images, and signs of African Diaspora, representing the “complexity and diversity of African culture’s manifestation” and serves as a “communal place and a reminder of the Burial Ground being an international center of gathering” (Leon n.d., 2). Through imbuing these very meanings to the design of the memorial, Leon ascribes the space with a multidimensional, profound significance of dense, multilayered heritage.

HERITAGE AND SCALE

Understanding the physicality of ABG not only in its built form of the Memorial, but further, in its scale, underscores the ABG as a site of contested heritage. When zooming out to the scale of the ABG nested within the same lot as the Ted Weiss Federal Building, it is made abundantly clear that transcending its design and symbolism, the site is a locus of contested urban heritage by

the very fact that the Memorial exists. Its claim to heritage was heavily contested throughout its history of recognizing the site as a burial ground, and later, pushing for the space to be designated as a memorial for those buried in the ABG. However, despite this claim to heritage, the site is shockingly small relative to the actual size of the burial ground, and of the towering built environment. Further, the density of African and Black Diasporic heritage amidst its small site is ever apparent. ABG is given a small space — of human scale — to reconcile with its history of African slave burial, representing both African and Black Diasporic narratives and histories, despite its much larger expanse of the actual ABG site that is inscribed into the Memorial Wall on the southern side of the Memorial (Leon 2016, 1).

The scale of the site further contests and complicates the memorialization of African and Diaspora heritage itself. Embedded in the Civic Center and neighboring Financial District neighborhoods, the ABG and its Memorial are inextricably juxtaposed to the monumental built environment of austere, federal style Modern and neoclassical buildings. This harsh contrast of style and scale amplifies the distinct contested urban heritage of the ABG. The Transatlantic Slave Trade fueled the rise of the United States as an economic superpower in the global economy. The built environment of Lower Manhattan, particularly the neighborhoods in which the ABG Memorial is nested, is the built product of capitalism and American financial power created through the oppression of enslaved people. To grapple with being nested in a site rooted—and uprooted—by the exploitation of Black bodies, the memorial consistently references African and Diaspora symbology to make it abundantly clear that the memorial is commemorating Black lives amidst the oppressive built environment.

ABG SYMBOLISM: SANKOFA

The ABG Memorial persistently references African tradition and Diaspora symbolism that distinguishes itself from a PanAfrican identity. One of the most prominent symbols, among these 20+ symbols represented on and within the design of the Memorial, is the Sankofa symbol engraved in the North wall of the Ancestral Chamber. The West African Sankofa symbol, as seen on the left side of figure 3, draws associations to learning from the past, its direct translation meaning to “go back and get it” (Clinton and Jackson 2020, 343).

Placing the Sankofa symbol in this integral position of the Memorial sends a message to the viewer and Memorial-goer that those buried in the ABG are “go[ing] back and get[ting]” the land that they lay in (Clinton and Jackson 2020, 343). It centers a certain reclamation of heritage for Black enslaved people who were forcibly transported to Manhattan, illuminating the claim to the land that they are now buried in. In the contested heritage

of ABG due to its hyper-urban built environment, the Sankofa symbol empowers the Black community that rests underground. However, as researchers Clinton and Jackson elucidate, the complex history of West African symbols due to West African groups’ active participation in the slave trade to the Gold Coast heighten implications, contested-ness, and meaning in embedding these symbols. They propose that repurposing symbols including the Sankofa is a way in which Black Americans can reclaim their heritage and seek liberation amidst the oppressive history of slavery (Clinton and Jackson 2020, 344). Despite the concrete nature of symbols engraved into an impermeable material like marble, these intricate tensions embedded in the Memorial further underscore the ABG National Monument Memorial as a contested heritage that grapples with its symbolic meaning, constantly in a state of flux.

Despite the ABG site’s minuscule scale relative to its towering urban environment, Leon frames one’s experience of the memorial as “the process of enlightenment and education,” constructing a reflective experience across temporal and spatial scales that transcend the present (Leon n.d., 1). It deeply charges and signifies the site of the ABG with manifold definitions and narratives of diverse African and Black Diaspora heritage, memorializing not a singular culture or peoples, but a distinctly international, at times contested, heritage. By building this memorial in its material, design, and space, it authorizes and authenticates a multilayered urban heritage that exists on the ABG site, which continues to shift and transmute over time. In this sense, the heritage memorialized in the ABG National Monument and Memorial is precarious; while “all these expressions of Africanness rely on a shared symbolic repertoire, there is also potential for disruption and conflict since heterogeneous actors may stake different claims on that heritage (or disagree on what it should comprise)” (Schramm 2010, 20). The architecture of the memorial must contend with the contested, converging, and diverging heritage that is grounded on this site through those who are buried in the ABG. It reconciles its multitudinous claims to heritage, amidst a distinctly capitalist urban environment, through memorializing the African diaspora, to create an enduring heritage of the present.

Figure 5. Rules of Engagement at the ABG Memorial. Photograph by Maya Felstehausen.

Figure 4. Didactic panel entitled “Changing Landscape Obscures the Past.” Photograph by Lilly Gasterlund-Gustafsson.

Figure 6. Panel entitled “Africans in Early New York.” Photograph by Lilly Gasterlund-Gustafsson.

CHAPTER 3: EXHIBITION IN MEMORIAL SPACES: HOW DIDACTICS DE-CONTEST HISTORY AND HERITAGE AT THE AFRICAN BURIAL GROUND NATIONAL MONUMENT

Lilly Gasterlund-Gustafsson

There is an active effort onsite, beyond the architecture, to undo the act of forgetting which characterizes contemporary American history education using exhibition didactics. I define exhibitionary didactics as the explanatory signage which guides people’s interactions with the space, conceptualizing the site through textual and graphic means; at the ABG memorial and National Monument, these didactics include five informational placards lining the perimeter of the site. The placards describe the history of slavery in New York City and the circumstances of the burial ground’s development, detailing the work done by enslaved people to build the city’s foundations, the number of people buried on site, and the laws restricting the burial practices of enslaved Africans. Additionally, they draw these histories into contemporary moments of resistance and resilience regarding the site, recounting, for example, a 1992 community vigil held for those buried in the ABG. Although didactics like these—in the informational and graphical way they are designed—are to be expected in museum spaces, their placement in front of a public memorial is a less common occurrence. This chapter is interested in how contested heritage and history are portrayed through these didactics in content, placement and existence onsite.

The ABG, through its exhibitionary didactics, attempts to de-contest the site’s history by offering visual and textual evidence of the existence of slavery in the North, a part of history that is often overlooked or ignored. As stated previously, contested heritage refers to markers of heritage that are constantly being (re)interpreted and conceptualized by different parties. Extrapolating this terminology to the discourse surrounding the construction of history, the exhibitionary didactics at the ABG memorial concretize a more critical view of American history through their content, disavowing other (re)interpretations of the site’s history, and thus de-contesting it. Moreover, the didactics themselves point out that the built environment of New York City itself obscures and ignores this history. By depicting the untold, forgotten history of slavery in the North, these didactics actively reconstruct American history and solidify this reconstruction within the public consciousness.

Figure 4 depicts one of the didactics which reads “As New York City expanded northeast, the burial ground was closed in 1794 and eventually divided into lots for sale. The land was filled in and buildings were constructed on top. For almost two centuries, New York City’s growth obscured the graves, and the African Burial Ground was nearly forgotten” (National Park Service undated). By explicitly stating how the site and New York City more broadly has been written and built over, the National Park Service, which is credited on the signage, actively counters this act of forgetting. Combined with the material evidence of this history in the burial ground itself, these didactics bring in a dominant historical narrative.

That the National Park Service is credited with the narratives being presented on the exhibitionary didactics gives this writing of history greater authority or power in line with the “authorized

heritage discourse” (AHD) framework. Central to the AHD framework is the idea that heritage “is about receiving the wisdom and knowledge of historians, archaeologists and other experts,” and at the ABG site, the exhibitionary didactics being written and controlled by the National Park Service exemplify this authority in expert knowledge (Smith 2006, 34). While AHD is often painted in a negative light because of the implications it has on “obscur[ing] the sense of memory work, performativity and acts of remembrance” which occurs at heritage sites, here, the framework is not inherently negative (Smith 2006, 34). Instead, the framework provides a basis for how the site unearths and concretizes a forgotten history through the authority of the federal government. It is important to note, though, that the implications described above are significant onsite because they limit usage of the site by those outside the realm of expertise, as exhibited in Figure 5. The limited usage of the site, as defined by the National Park Service, clearly defines how one should approach the memorial and the history being presented there; there is no room to engage with the memorial outside of certain hours and behaviors. While most of the rules on the placard in Figure 5 are to be expected at memorial sites, the rules against music and loitering may be slippery. This behavioral guide echoes the enforced funerary practices of colonial New York, highlighting a continuous limitation in how one can honor the dead. People mourn and grieve in innumerable ways: it is constricting to define how one can engage with the space through the eyes of a governmental authority. Apart from the authority of the government in presenting the forgotten history of slavery in New York City, the simple fact of the exhibitionary didactics’ existence around the memorial exemplifies how the didactics actively de-contest the history onsite. The presence of the didactics onsite is a bit startling because they contain graphics reminiscent of explanatory signage similar to that found in research institutions such as the Natural History Museum or other spaces meant explicitly to be spaces of education. Conversely, around memorial spaces, didactics are often more aesthetically in line with the memorials themselves: engraved into statues or embossed on bronze plaques around the site. Here, the didactics create a museum-like air which suggests that this site is meant to teach a reframing of history. Tony Bennett, in his 1998 article, describes the role of labeling, “textual mediation,” and by extension explanatory didactics, in late nineteenth-century museums, writing “no matter how much things were said to be able to speak for themselves, however, there was, in museums, an incessant effort to provide a written supplement that would help anchor their meaning” (Bennett 1998, 361). At the ABG memorial, complementing the narrative imprinted on the structure itself with these didactics contextualizes the site in a manner similar to “efficient educational museums” by anchoring the importance of this site beyond the implied meaning of the memorial through its design, use of symbols, and position in urban space (Bennett 1998, 363). The move toward educating visitors which is implicit in the exhibitionary existence of the didactics further de-contests what is understood about the history of the site and slavery in the city, more broadly.

In the process of de-contesting the site’s history, the exhibitionary didactics onsite de-contest Black American heritage and identity. In addition to presenting the history of slavery in the city

through the panels entitled “Changing Landscape Obscures the Past” (Figure 4) and “Africans in Early New York” (Figure 6), this history is presented as a history of resistance on the panel “Sacred Traditions, Sacred Ground” (Figure 7).

This didactic explains how burial practices were constrained for enslaved Africans by law in early New York history, which limited the number of people who attended a funeral to twelve individuals, but that the ABG stands as a symbol of their resistance to these constraints. In addition to this history of resistance, the panel explains the resistance process which underlined the designation of the ABG site as a national monument. By juxtaposing these two events, the didactic creates a link between past instances of resistance and more contemporary ones. In essence, this link bonds descendants of those buried onsite and Black Americans, more broadly, to history through resistance. This contemporary linkage built on a recently recovered history echoes a form of identity production that authors Stuart Hall and Paul Gilroy entitle the “routed” sense of self, which is “subject to many influences and historical determinants” as opposed to “essentialist notions of collective unity and sameness (that is, a perception of identity as a stable and perpetual constant, as something that could be retrieved unimpaired from a remote past)” (Schramm 2010, 23). The ABG didactics counter a dominant framework of identity being fixed or concrete, “unimpaired from a remote past” as it were, and as such formulate a new basis for black heritage production “routed” through an ever-evolving past.

The exhibitionary didactics present around the African Burial Ground memorial are part of an active process on the part of designers and the federal government to de-contest United States’ history by exposing the role slavery played in building New York City. The language and narrative on the different panels, the authority of the National Park Service in their creation, and graphics and position akin to museum didactics make the memorial an educational space actively engaged in Smith’s “authorized heritage discourse” (Smith 2006). In addition to de-contesting history in this authority-oriented manner, there is a process of identity and heritage formation at work in these didactics in how they frame past and present moments of resistance emblematized in the burial ground. However, as the next chapter will make evident, the exhibitionary move to bring this history “from realms of oblivion to realms of memory,” the memorial risks falling short within the broader context of the political and social climate of

New York City, as described in a case of counter-amnesia in Spain; the “‘renegotiation of the public narratives of the dictatorship and the Civil War’ stopped short of addressing the historical political divisions, which were still in place, so that silence and forgetting were not fully overcome” (Beiner 2018, 624).

CHAPTER 4: AN ETHNOGRAPHY OF URBAN CONTESTATION

Bea McWhorter

Chapter 3 indicated how the ABG’s semantics and exhibition tactics encourage proliferating and concretizing the contested heritage the monument uplifts. Chapter 4 complements these conclusions by analyzing how urbanites interact with the ABG through ethnography. Conducted over two site visits (Wednesday, March 20th and Friday, March 22nd of 2024), each lasting two hours, this ethnographic analysis grounds itself in observations along the blocks surrounding the monument (Broadway and Federal Plaza, between Worth St. and Reade St.) and interviews with employees of surrounding enterprises. Exploring how contrasting discourses of the site as a burial ground and bustling civic center neighborhood interact in urban space, this ethnography illuminates that the ABG persists as a site of distinctively contested heritage, not due to its geographic position, but rather its connection to slavery, a period of tragedy classifiable as historical catastrophe. Evidence of the ABG as a historical catastrophe lies in limited awareness of the monument and interlocutor testimony to Thomas Paine Park as the more prominent Civic Center heritage site. Despite observing minimal public recognition of the monument, spatial practices outside the ABG indicate how resistance derives from the monument’s existence itself.

Despite relying predominantly on primary interviews and observation, this ethnography grounds itself in historical catastrophe, a theory coined by Anthony Bogues. Developed while researching the involvement of Brown University in American slavery, Bogues defines a historical catastrophe as “a repeatable state of living” that “both leaves structural residues and creates a dominant common sense about ways of life within a society” (Bogues 2022). Given the connection of the ABG to Bogues’ focus, slavery, and its historical spatial contestation, aptly elaborated in Chapter 1, engaging the monument through historical catastrophe is a lens to examine how off-shoots of slavery, namely the decentering of Black histories, persist in the small square

Figure 7. Panel entitled “Sacred Tradition, Sacred Ground.” Photograph by Lilly Gasterlund-Gustafsson.

between Worth and Reade St. that is the ABG.

Before beginning the analysis, it is essential to specify the necessity of ethnography. While textual and historical analysis ground this investigation into the ABG as a site of contested history, ethnography reveals how this contested heritage plays out in urban space. While my position as a white student at a privileged, gentrification-inducing university undoubtedly impacts the content of interviews and interaction with fellow urbanites, ethnographic research nonetheless works “to examine the relationship between what people say and what they actually do” (Duneier et al. 2014, 3). Here, ethnography enters as a complementary method to deduce the impact of the ABG’s aim to solidify the “historic role slavery played in building New York” (U.S. National Park Services n.d.), and Chapter 3’s conclusion that exhibitions attempt to do so through harmonizing a narrative of urban heritage which includes the ABG.

MONUMENTAL IGNORANCE

The first line of field notes for Wednesday, March 20th, indicates arrival time, 2 pm, and my first observation, “empty, really empty.” Quantifiably speaking, between 2:00 and 3:00 pm, from the perspective of a south-facing bench, three people were observed entering the ABG site. In contrast, my observation was accompanied by six stationary NYPD officers, four individuals with city-agency-related badges eating lunch, and between 15 to 20 individuals mid-brisk walk. The same proportion was observed on Friday, with increased lunch breakers sprinkled on benches throughout adjacent Thomas Paine Park. The seemingly minimal population of visitors to the ABG itself was the first indication that the urban engagement with the site was less robust than the ABG’s envisioned heritage engagement.

The monumental ignorance observed links to historical catastrophe, distinctively because a characteristic of historical catastrophe is how social processes maintain the initial terror and violence of slavery. Bench-bound, I observed lunch breakers in groups of two to three, engaging in conversation often laughing audibly. Similarly, passersby frequently scanned their phones or looked ahead of themselves, not visually aware of the burial

ground upon which they stepped. This level of unawareness encouraged the sentiment that I was alone in my knowledge of the contested narratives within the ABG. I wonder if this observed indifference translates to the social maintenance of the historical catastrophe. Notably, if the urban form and its inhabitants do not uplift alternative, only recently unearthed stories, do they instead maintain “dominant conceptions of history” (Bogues, 2022), which work to embed the residues of slavery in American urban structure?

Ignorance of the ABG’s contention again appeared through conversations with interlocutors, whom I found through luck and biological need combined. At 3:00 pm, I needed the bathroom but had already been denied access to ABG facilities. The six coffee shops lining ABG’s square were my last hope. I entered a sparsely populated Pret À Manger and met Jim, a barista and my first interlocutor. Jim has worked at the Pret Civic Center location since its opening in 2021. I intended to ask nonABG visitors my principal interview question: What monument is in this square? but, had been denied by two lunch groups and given excuses for rushing to work by passersby. So I prompted Jim. He had no clue. I told him about the ABG, to which he replied, shocked, “Wait, so you’re telling me there are bodies under here?”

Tim was not the only shocked coffee shop employee. Grace and Andrew at Starbucks and Jeremiah at Matto Espresso had yet to learn of the ABG. While some employees had no knowledge of commemoration, four others cited Thomas Paine Park as the Civic Center’s notable monument (see Figure 8). Here, the greater recognition of Thomas Paine, who “avoided, for the most part, the issues of slavery and abolition” and “joined other revolutionaries in the conviction that American citizens would only be white” (Lynch 1999), indicates who the urban form successfully commemorates. This more substantial recognition speaks to the prominence of other historical events, such as the American Revolution, in the sample’s urban heritage despite attempts by the ABG to include African Burial practices into NYC urban heritage.

Figure 8. Aerial view of Thomas Paine Park, the area of greenspace on pre-established Foley Square. Photograph by Radovilsky, 2017.

Historical catastrophe is characterized by slavery being “reciprocated and recapitulated in new forms and contemporary disguises” (Shepeard 2013). The prominence of the American Revolution commemoration in Civic Center’s urban heritage memory is one such recapitulation. By continuing to actively remember a man uplifted for his revolutionary work and unscathed for anti-Black racism, the urban form and its inhabitants encourage a dominant narrative of the past that embeds racial order in its monumental structures. This embedding is even more apparent given that each employee I talked to works more proximal to the ABG than Thomas Paine Park. Nevertheless, the ABG remains unseen, literally and figuratively, right under their noses.

URBAN SPATIAL PRAXIS AND THE ABG

While this ethnography has revealed that dominant knowledge of history and the busy nature of Civic Center overpower the public consciousness of the ABG, it is equally justifiable to posit the monument’s existence as resistance embodied. In discussing counter-discourses at the similarly contested Acropolis, Roxane Caftanzoglou posits that “simply by being where they were…a settlement of immigrants challenged the hegemonic hierarchizing of space and time” (Caftanzoglou 2020, 24). Here, the ABG, which may go unrecognized but must be navigated around when traversing the Civic Center, acts as a spatial disruption to hegemonic discourses proliferated by Thomas Paine Park.

In addition to physical disruption, where there is space, there can also be spatial practices, defined as space shaped by social relationships and dependent on users’ perception (Tohjiwa 2022). As the monument closed, I paced the exterior of the ABG as a means to practice the habitus of commuters. A Ghanaian couple exited the monument and embraced. While embracing may not inform Jim’s knowledge of the burial grounds or incite busy commuters to stop and commemorate, it still represents a discursive practice of space. Within museological and heritage studies, this embrace can be posited as a “remembering otherwise,” a collective memory turning point in which “reconstructions of the past involve new narratives whose authentication necessarily means the de-authentification of other existing or possible narratives” (James, 1999, 296). For James, this turning point opens the possibility of changing public and national consciousness. This proposition provides hope that the critical information housed in the ABG may become imparted on the city streets through seemingly subtle spatial practices.

Despite these observations, I encourage viewing the ABG as an opportunity. While interlocutors and business folk alike seemed unaware, even indifferent to the ABG, observed spatial practices, as simple as an embrace, are evidence of the monument as resistance. By drawing attention to the ABG and highlighting the critical and contested heritage it highlights, we have the opportunity to disrupt the ‘repeatable state of living’ (Bogues 2022) that is the historical catastrophe of slavery.

CONCLUSION

Today, the contested history at the African Burial Ground National Monument and Memorial is nearly forgotten. Programming around the site is limited; its location, nestled in the corner of a city block, discourages active engagement, and employees of nearby establishments are oblivious to the bodies they encounter daily. While Chapter 1 hints at the development-driven erasure of the site, Chapter 4 confirms the invisibility

of this history and marks a disconnect between the expert and activist disagreements and conflicts in the 1990s and the site’s existence today. However, hints of contestation and attempts at de-contestation, or the solidification of a particular narrative regarding this space, appear in the design of the memorial and exhibitionary practices onsite, as Chapters 2 and 3 observe. As Chapter 1 asserted, conflicts in memorializing bodies and balancing scientific inquiry with respect for community needs culminate in the African Burial Ground.

By examining the multifaceted claims of the African Burial Ground through an intersectional method, we observe that, while contestation no longer exists in terms of claims to space and exhumations of people, it remains through contracting spatial practices, monumental unawareness, and hegemonic architecture. As such, the African Burial Ground, though absent in the minds of New Yorkers today and distinctively acknowledged in media sources, remains an essential site of contested New York heritage.

jpa2154@barnard.edu

lg3167@barnard.edu

mef2230@barnard.edu

bm3036@barnard.edu

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SPATIALIZING GRIEF:

EXAMINING THE RHETORIC, ARCHITECTURE, AND PERSONI-

FICATION OF LOSS AT THE 9/11 MEMORIAL AND MUSEUM

BY ISHANN BARRETT, ABIGAIL CRISPIN, ANANYA PAL Columbia College ‘25, Banard College '25, Barnad College '25

RESEARCH SUMMARY

/11 was a tragedy that reverberated across the world. The destruction of a monumental site and space has had major consequences on how the New York views and commemorates its heritage identity. Exploring textual discourse, sensory experiences, and the registry of names at the 9/11 museum permits scholars to examine how memory and grief are spatialized in the space in the aftermath of 9/11. Our first chapter focuses on the Museum specifically mobilizing critical discourse analysis to understand how visitors relate to the honorifics that the Museum gives to victims of 9/11. Our second chapter dives into how the 9/11 Memorial and Museum exercise spatial and sensory design principles to position collective grief. Our final chapter explores the registry of names around the pools at the 9/11 Memorial to understand what role they play indexing trauma against larger narratives about the 9/11 tragedy. Weaving these three focuses together, this paper explores the multiple threads that ground collective memory and mourning at the 9/11 Memorial and Museum. Examining textual discourse and the surrounding environment would not be sufficient to explore the many ways that New York City has processed its grief in the aftermath of 9/11. Instead, by employing a multifocal methodology, this paper uncovers how the multithreaded presence of collective memory and grief at the 9/11 Memorial Museum is a necessary extension of society’s ongoing reconciliation and anguish in a post9/11 world today.

CHAPTER 1: THE REPOSITORY AND THE COMMERCIALIZATION OF MEMORY

INTRODUCTION

The repository is one of the parts of the museum that is hard to miss. Affixed to a vast wall and surrounded by blue squares along its perimeter, a quote is visible (figure 1.1). The importance of the quote, at first, might seem evident only from its literal meaning. But its true significance in this part of the museum is clear only when reading the plaque (figure 1.2) and researching its meaning. Behind the wall are the remains of thousands of unidentified individuals who passed away during the 9/11 attack at the World Trade Center. The wall divides the memorial containing the repository and lives lost with the 9/11 museum; when passing by the repository, one can't help but feel the tension between the memorial's grief and the museum's touristic characteristics. This begs the question, when viewing the repository memorial within the 9/11 museum, how do the language, the visuals, and the tour aim to shape the tone and memory of the visitors regarding the lives lost during the 9/11 attack? This chapter analyzes the history, pragmatics, and marketing of the museum and its repository to demonstrate how the museum aims to condense the memory of 9/11 and make it accessible to

the public. Consequently, this analysis argues these efforts result in commercialization and grim tourism. This creates a contradiction between the act of respecting those who died on 9/11, the ostensible objective of the museum, and the firsthand experiences on display at the site of the museum and memorial.

BACKGROUND KNOWLEDGE ON THE REPOSITORY

The repository is a space of the memorial where the remains of the unidentified individuals who died during the 9/11 attack are interred. The repository is separate from the public area of the 9/11 Memorial Museum and contains the bodies of around 1,200 individuals. There is also a section where family members can mourn for the lives lost, and the repository is only open to direct family members and employees. The repository is right next to the museum, with the wall connecting the museum and the memorial decorated with blue murals that will be described below. The repository was created on March 13, 2006, and was opened to the public on May 21, 2014.

FREEZING THE MEMORY IN TIME: NO DAY SHALL ERASE YOU DESCRIPTION

To start, when looking at the language written on the repository, one can see how the museum aims to shape the tone and memory of the lives lost by freezing the memory in time. Karen Wilson Baptist writes about museums freezing memory in her article, "Incompatible Identities," stating, "grief is temporally volatile, but museums and memorials are destined to freeze time. The dead of 9/11 are not erased from the earth. For the families of victims, the dead will remain here" (figure 1.2). This is emphasized when looking at the language used at the museum. Written in the center of the repository is the quote, “No Day Shall Erase You from the Memory of Time." In the description added below, the museum captures this quote by stating:

"This quote suggests the transformative potential of remembrance…Joyce was invited to harness the remnant steel– made of iron touched by fire heating and folding letters into hope and beauty. The result reminds us that Virgil's words are not just a statement; they are a promise" (figure 1.2).

This further exemplifies how the museum aims to remember the trauma and horrors of the 9/11 attack by encapsulating the memory in its place. Virgil's words came from a book that aimed to compact the Iliad and Odyssey into a single Latin epic; this quote further exemplifies the goal of the repository.

CONDENSING THE MEMORY: TRYING TO REMEMBER THE SKY SEPTEMBER MORNING

Through the repository's visual elements, one can analyze the museum's goal of not only aiming to freeze the makeshift memory created but to take this condensed memory and create a collective memory—one that is inclusive to all—which can be seen as distant

from the reality of the event. The art installation on the repository is called "Trying to Remember the Color of the Sky on that September Morning" by Spencer Finch. It was created in 2014 and included 2,983 individual watercolor drawings, "each a distinct attempt by the artist to remember the color of the sky on the morning of September 11, 2001," as described on the plaque. The meaning behind this is:

“Every square is a unique shade of blue, combining to create a panoramic mosaic of color. Finch's work centers on the idea of memory. What one person perceives as blue might not be the same as what another person sees. However, our memories, just like our perception of color, share a common reference" (figure 1.2).

This narrative builds on what Geoffrey M. White states in the article "National Subjects and Pearl Harbor,” in which he states how “flashbulb” memory—collective memory intertwined with significant historical moments—is associated with "events that occur on a national (or global) scale and somehow disturb the routine of personal lives" (White 2004, 295). White goes on to mention how, during the attack of 9/11, many do not recall the event itself but connect to it through the emotions felt, which is separate from the personal or emotional significance involved (295). We can see this in play with word choice and how the ways people perceive common events through collective memory vary across a population because of subjective perception. The written statement and the artist’s statement display two different narratives. The author claims to have created two thousand individual watercolor paintings, yet it is created by one narrator, one painter, and an individual with a specific perspective and view. This creates a narrative that forces a collective memory and builds tension; one knows that each individual story is unique. However, the museum uses this frozen memory of a story with nuance and individuality. It begins to blend these individual experiences—creating a uniform color in place of the distinct shades.

DIALOGUE DISPLAYING COMMERCIALIZATION

Through the collective memory of grief and loss, the museum creates a 9/11 narrative whose tone constructs an emotional picture that is personal to everyone. The problem lies in the way this narrative is shared; the dialogue of the tour guide and the access to this narrative commercialize the narrative that the museum creates.

The entrance fees that people pay to witness a tour that is carefully curated displays this commercialization at full force, especially through the dialogue of the tour guide. At the center of a crowd of individuals wearing personal headphones, the tour guide began her explanation of the repository. She gave brief details about the quote and the art installation, stating:

The museum's goal is to honor all the victims by those who were identified and unidentified…to honor not only the day but the individual lives themselves… The art installation was created to paint an optical illusion so you can interact with the lives… I invite you to step in close and notice the individual squares and lives (written account of the tour script by Abigail Crispin).

The tour guide stated the museum's goal is to honor the victim's lives yet encourages tourists, regardless of their proximity to the deceased, to interact with the lives. Usually, when people pass away, we allow them to "rest in peace;" we honor their lives when visitors and loved ones visit their resting places. However, the museum’s way of displaying honor is to give tours with twenty-eight-dollar tickets, encouraging tourists to step in close to the wall and interact with the dead. Dark tourism is defined as a practice that directs folks to places associated with death and suffering. It is this sense of dark tourism upon which the museum relies. This specific act displays dark tourism in effect due to the museum being at the primary site where the act occurred, as stated by Erika M. Robb in “Violence and Recreation.” He writes:

Although I treat dark tourism as a category of analysis here, such representations of violence are clearly historically and experientially unique from place to place and from visitor to visitor… Primary sites hold a special power; they are believed to be locales where the veil between a violent past and the present can be transcended (Robb 2009).

This unique power can be displayed when the tour guide invites visitors to step close and notice the individual squares and lives, and tourists walk up to the wall and place their hands upon the watercolor. This special transcendence is at the heart of dark tourism as if it were entering another dimension or portal between the violent past and the present. Dark tourism is evident directly with

Figure 1.1 Photo of the Repository taken in the 9/11 Museum. Source. Image courtesy of Abigail Crispin.

the repository. Since the wall itself stands in between the memorial where thousands of unidentified bodies lie, and the museum is made for tourist attraction, tourism, which "relies heavily on expectation and the imagination," as Robb mentions, is prevalent at the site. The commercialization and tourist spectacle of the 9/11 attack is further proved by the pricey items at the gift shop and hefty ticket prices for regular visitors who wish to visit the museum (Kandell 2014). This indistinction between individual and collective memory of grief, fueled by profit, further displays the tension and controversy of the museum.

CONCLUSION

After looking at the language, visuals, and dialogue, one can see how the museum and memorials aim to freeze the memory of the 9/11 attack, condense it, and make it accessible to all, which commercializes that memory and reflects dark tourism. This creates tension between the aim of honoring the lives lost—the purpose of the memorial and museum—and what is being displayed firsthand. Therefore, the question is: at what point is the museum "honoring the lives lost" or using them as a commercial tourist attraction? Sheila Foran once said, "there is a fine line between maintaining a memorial site and creating a tourist attraction, and the two are seen by many as incompatible" (Foran 2014). The 9/11 museum begs the question of how memory can be tampered with and condensed to fit into the lives of many, but at what point is it honoring, and at what point is it disrespecting the lives lost and displaying their death with no regard?

CHAPTER 2: DESIGNING THE STAGES OF GRIEF

INTRODUCTION

The 9/11 Museum and Memorial is an incredibly powerful space. It embodies dark tourism, defined as a space historically associated with tragedy and death, which now functions as a space of tourism. The crux of this chapter is to understand what the site memorializes and how it memorializes. Through ethnographic observation and secondary literature review, I argue that the museum and memorial’s unique design applications of light, sound, the layout of space, and the integration of natural and industrial materials have contrasting

effects on visitors. On one hand, the museum deeply immerses the viewers through the first stages of grief such as shock and extreme pain. These sentiments become a prosthetic memory, where viewers' understanding of an event in time is appendaged by individual retellings and testimonies directly of the event. The memorial, on the other hand, moves visitors past these initial stages of grief and into contemplation, reflection, and some semblance of acceptance and resilience to move forward. In sum, by having the memorial and museum in the same complex, with the memorial as the space of entry and exit into the museum, the cumulative space conveys a collective memory rooted in resilience from hate and tragedy.

THE MUSEUM

Through the gripping visual display of remnants from the original site, and immersing visitors in the personal recounts and direct reactions to the event, the museum turns visitors into witnesses of the overall event, and its palimpsest nature, where the space was originally a site of rubble and remains and has transformed into this hallowed ground of a museum. Therefore, visitors themselves feel the fear and pain of the event, which furthermore allows them to deeply contextualize the trauma. After getting through the security check, you descend seven stories underground into the actual exhibition and gallery space via escalators (figure 2.1). Visitors’ field of vision transitions from a brightly naturally lit space, into a dark, dimly lit space, immediately prompting visitors to enter quiet museum mode. Tour guides wear microphones connected to the headphones of visitors, stressing the rule of being silent in the space and attaching a sense of sacredness and hallowedness to the space altogether (Sofka 2010). This downward travel into the space foreshadows for visitors the tragedy that is to come, taking visitors down into an atmosphere of sadness and despair.

Upon reaching the bottom of the escalator, visitors are guided toward a spot-lit map installation depicting the nationwide grounding of all on-air flights, as well as the catastrophe with the four hijacked flights (figure 2.2). The spot-lit effect on this installation emphasizes the drastic nature of this tragedy, overwhelming visitors with the idea of peace being destroyed within a culturally and socially significant landscape (figure 2.2). Visitors can hear the overlapping

Figure 1.2 Description of the artwork of the Repository. Source. Image courtesy of Abigail Crispin.

cacophony of voiced reflections of men and women with different accents, aligned onto screens making a world map to demonstrate the global reverberation of this tragedy (figure 2.3). The voices alone, each representing “individual memories and testimonies,” highlight exclamatory words such as “Oh my God”, “Terrifying”, and “Panic”, et cetera which further overwhelm visitors into internalizing the cumulative voices on this tragic event (Sodaro 2018, 175).

Visitors walk through a long hallway with the voices speaking as they pass by the screens to reach an overarching viewing deck of the exhibition installations which are on the lower floors. The viewpoint pushes viewers to take in this darkened, enclosed site, with harsh lighting especially to emphasize the protrusions from the concrete slurry wall from the original World Trade Center which was preserved during the attack (figure 2.4). Visitors also naturally look down into the abyss-like space revealing the untouched rubble from the original site, also highlighted with bright lighting. The cacophony of voices mutes slightly in this space and is replaced by a light trumpet, bagpipe arrangement of Amazing Grace, a song meant to show respect and mourn the loss in the United States context. The stark display of the palimpsest architecture and jarring and symbolic audio help visitors understand the gravity of this tragedy in the context of space’s drastic and tragic change which reverberates globally (figure 2.5).

From the viewing deck, visitors move downward into the open space that overlooks the slurry wall, with spaced-out benches positioned in front of the last steel column that was erected as a symbol for those working in ground zero in the museum. The seating around the column, where viewers can see the viewing deck, the industrial slurry wall, and the cubed extrusions housing the water feature of the outdoor memorial, coupled with the selective harsh lighting on certain installations, provide a space for visitors to take in the nature of the space (figure 2.5). Under the cubed extrusion of the water feature is a smaller exhibition taking visitors through the catastrophe of 9/11 as it unfolded on the timeline. The cacophony of voices, newscasts, voicemails, phone calls, sirens, and sounds

Figure 2.2-2.3 9/11 Flight Patterns and Screens of Global Map. Source. Image courtesy of Ananya Pal.

Figure 2.1 Descending to exhibit. Source. Times Magazine (9/11 Museum & Memorial Website)

of the buildings crashing overwhelm visitors as they enter past the sliding doors and into the compact space, where photography is not allowed. The descent into the compact space and the disconnect from devices, creates a sort of entrapping feel for the visitors, perhaps attempting to mimic the experiences of victims in 9/11. More broadly, this space enhances the concentration of the chaotic sounds, strengthening the “immersiveness” of the site, where visitors’ perception of 9/11 is expanded to include extremely distressed individual reactions and retellings, they likely weren’t familiar with before.

Throughout the museum, it is abundantly clear that its soundtrack, choices in lighting, and layout have incredible power in how the space is understood. The repetition of these choices alludes to the darkness and trauma of the event and further demonstrates how the museum is performative and affective in a way that it makes visitors relive a past they may not be familiar with, confirming the phenomenon of prosthetic memory in the space. Visitors “cannot help but come away from the exhibitions deeply horrified and angry” after having played witness (Sodaro 2018, 188). Visitors’ memories and understanding of 9/11 are “infused with the portent of the terrible future” that their earlier memories and understanding did not (Poole 2018, 460). Therefore, the museum creates an increasingly immersive experience, to the extent that visitors grow a prosthetic memory of their own. The contents of this prosthetic memory hold undertones of shock, devastation, and fear, which are all elements of the initial stages of grief.

THE MEMORIAL

With the consistent application of natural elements across the space, visitors move past the fear and shock they prosthetically experienced in the museum and move into the final stages of contemplation and reflection on the resilience of space, and people around the world. The museum within the complex is in the far

corner of the site, within a smooth steel-looking structure on the street level that contrasts the nature-laden, light-grey pavement of the memorial. Visitors exit the museum the way they entered, ascending from the darkness, and the tragic and sobering nature of the museum’s installation and into the brightness of the memorial (figure 2.6). In contrast to the stark concrete walls and slurry walls of the museum, the white pavement of the memorial does not have a harsh visual impact on viewers, as it further brightens the outdoor nature of the space. The memorial is publicly accessible and has no defined entry or exit point. Michael Arad, the designer of the space, “wanted the memorial to be integrated into the life of downtown” (Poole 2018, 453). Considering its permeability, the memorial offers a more open exploration process for the visitors as opposed to the carefully planned layout of the museum (Wagoner et al. 2022, Sofka 2010). The fluidity of the memorial space, sans downward movement, provokes no devastating or traumatic connotations as the layout of the museum does.

A significant portion of the site encompasses the water feature reflecting the absence of the building footprints of the original World Trade Center (figure 2.7). The building footprint’s water feature naturally gestures visitors to look downward into the abyss to where the water flow disappears into the square center. The sound of the water flowing is calming for the visitors, emphasizing the natural quality of the environment created by the brightness and trees. Even though the downward/descent-like movement is present within this space, the calming water sounds, and natural surroundings have a hierarchy because of how they more directly interact with the visitors’ senses. The visitors do not feel overwhelmed, or extremely saddened as they did in the museum. This calming environment allows visitors to process what they felt and saw in the museum to move forward. The flow of the water over the footprint encourages visitors to see how the site has been revitalized, the same way water revitalizes a natural environment. Water is known as a powerful

Figure 2.4 Slurry Wall with Harsh Lighting. Source. Image courtesy of Ananya Pal.

Figure 2.5 Seating around the column. Source. Image courtesy of Ananya Pal.

symbol of life and transition, which prompts reflection tendencies in many visitors of the site (Wagoner et al. 2022).

The entire area surrounding the water features is completely shaded by periodically spaced oak trees, with sleek steel seating under these trees, as well as some around the water feature (figure 2.8). The trees provide visitors with a connection to the natural environment in a way the museum does not. In principle, the trees are meant to represent collective resilience and defiance in the face of evil. The greening of the outdoor memorial space is intended to emphasize the rebirth of the space, erasing the violence and depressed hallowedness of ground zero. The planting and the growth of trees over time commemorate the regeneration, and the passing and onset of life (Micieli-Voutsinas et al. 2019). In an unassuming corner of the site, “the survivor tree” is kept together with support cords bolted to the ground, encircled by a railing (figure 2.9). As a context, the survivor tree was the only tree in the World Trade Center complex that miraculously survived within the rubble. Ecologists and scientists took great effort into restoring the tree to health, and it now stands there as a reminder of the survival, and resilience of the American people thriving today (McMillen et al. 2017).

The natural elements of the space have an aura of spirituality, where visitors are prompted to contemplate and reflect because of the calming, bright environment the water flow and trees create. More specifically, the integration of natural elements provides a place for visitors to process their raw prosthetic memories. The memorial’s design does not result in viewers coming away with great fear or deep sorrow as they did from the museum. Instead, visitors come away with processing the grief they felt from the museum,

Figure 2.6 Ascending from underground. Source. Image courtesy of Ananya Pal.

Figure 2.7 Building Footprint Fountains. Source. Image courtesy of Ananya Pal.

to understand the resilience and strength that has been developed after the tragedy. This kind of reflection and conceptualization of one’s emotions is similar to the last stages of grief, which encompass reflection, acceptance, and moving forward.

CONCLUSION

The museum and memorial’s impact on visitors is a conversation with another. Through darkness, sounds of traumatic loss, and descent into space, the museum creates a collective memory that thrives on understanding the gravity of the trauma, devastation, and anger that 9/11 created for people New Yorkers, and everyone around the world. Through ascent to brightness, calming sound, and establishing connections to ecological resilience, visitors move past the negative emotions from the museums and are encouraged to reflect on their sentiments toward the tragedy, housed within the narrative of how the space is a product of perseverance and resilience from trauma and damage. In the way the site is experienced, visitors will inevitably experience the depths of grief, and the healing stages of grief because of the proximity of the two sites together. The collective memory and narrative established by the overall site is to understand the gravity and severe implications of the event especially in the grief it brought to people and to internalize and process that grief to move forward with the idea of being healed and strengthened. The site creates a “we” and “our” by placing people in their own experiences, especially in how they process and navigate grief, which is the unifying factor at play.

CHAPTER 3: THE REGISTRY OF NAMES

INTRODUCTION: PROBLEMATIZING GROUND ZERO

The city seems to both intrude and vanish around the 9/11 Memorial and Museum. From all sides, the honking of cars in traffic, towering nearby buildings, and chatting pedestrians situate the 9/11 Memorial and Museum within its urban home. But stepping across the threshold into ground zero—where sidewalk meets carefully tiled stone—the rushing of water in the Memorial’s pools only a few feet away seem to dull the signs of the city around the memorial. Like other spaces of the memorial and museum, the pools and registry invite visitors to form a unique relationship to the events of 9/11 and the victims of the tragedy. The principal way these relationships are formed is translated through the engraved names at the registry that run along the perimeter of the Memorial.

Initially, the names at the 9/11 Memorial were going to be arranged randomly, with names, ages, and positions inscribed in the bronze plates around the pools. Many argued that these detailed inclusions—like age and job position—would enforce hierarchies among victims that would ignore the “haphazard brutality” of 9/11 (DeTurk 2013, 53). Family members argued that this randomness was immoral and pushed the city to arrange names in a way that would honor everyone with a connection to the event (DeTurk 2013). In response, Michael Arad—the architect of the memorial—decided to go against conventional design choices for memorials of this kind. Instead of organizing names “in order by letter or chronology,” Arad “envisioned each name would be arranged based on where and who they were with when they died” (Sreenivasan 2011).

Families were able to submit requests to group their loved ones together or even ensure that close friend’s names were placed next to one another; the process generated almost 1,200 requests. To

tackle the large quantity of specific placement preferences, computer programmer Jer Thorp designed an algorithm to create the layout of names at the memorial organized in what Arad described as “meaningful adjacencies” (Sreenivasan 2011). The term “meaningful adjacencies” draws attention to the way engraved names in the registry are grouped intentionally and with “meaningful” purpose. Relatives, coworkers, and friends who maintained close relationships at the World Trade Center while alive are arranged together after their death. In other words, the registry translates the emotional proximity of 9/11 victims into the physical dimension by placing names near or adjacent to one another.

The story of the registry is not solely limited to the names that were added to the bronze panels during the Memorial’s construction. In fact, the registry and its names offer three different narratives: one about the names added during the registry’s construction, one about names added after the registry’s establishment, and one about names redacted from the bronze plates over time. Notably, the names and lives of undocumented immigrant workers at the World Trade Center (WTC) have been erased as investigators find no evidence to prove their existence. In contrast, the names of people who later died from toxins at ground zero have been added as their causes of deaths became clear (Lawrence 2009). The names at the 9/11 Memorial are incomplete, changing with time as the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of New York City (OME) finds out more about the lives of those who died at the WTC. The registry therefore operates under the larger umbrella of “9/11 rhetoric” that warrants deep contemplation and exploration (Lawrence 2009).

In response to this historical introduction, this chapter asks three fundamental questions. How does the Registry of Names spatialize collective memory and mourning? What narrative does it propose about 9/11? Finally, how is the public meant to feel about this narrative, and does it group people into a common consciousness, particularly by using the words “we” and “our?” By tracing how visitors use the memorial, the way offerings are placed in names, the environment of the registry, and spaces beyond the memorial, this chapter attempts to provide an answer to these pressing questions.

RESULTS

(1) VISITORS

During my visit to the memorial, the most noticeable element

Figure 2.8-2.9 Trees across site and Survivor Pear Tree. Source.

about the space was the people. The clear skies and sunny weather permitted a large visitor population to explore and roam about the memorial; many were seen in clusters, talking, and chatting with one another. While many were there simply to observe, many people were seen taking photos of the Memorial in two different ways: (1) from behind the camera as a viewer and (2) from in front as a subject (figure 3.1). These individuals taking photos stayed around the memorial for quite a while, exploring multiple angles in their photography and observing the pools in detail. Others were visiting in a much more temporary timeframe; one individual could be seen with a bike in hand, wearing sunglasses, and glancing at the names on the bronze plates around the Pool (figure 3.2). Some decided to spend considerable time at the memorial by sitting on the benches near the museum to talk and—presumably—take a break from walking (figure 3.3). The largest portion of people at the memorial were positioned around the North Pool where the water fountains around the interior perimeter were turned on, producing a rushing sound that seemed to engulf the space. To fully appreciate the quantity of people clustered around the pool, a panoramic photo captures the expanse and popularity of the North Pool (figure 3.4).

Observing the way people use and interact with the registry and the pools reveal several important conclusions. Firstly, many people arrive at the memorial to visit for different amounts of time. Those who prefer to stay longer are sitting, taking photos, and talking while more short-term visitors bring bikes to make a quick exit. At the same time, the way people engage with the registry and the pools illustrate how people perceive the work of the memorial differently. For instance, those who take photos engage in a practice of

documentation, capturing the environment of the memorial as a site of importance—or even beauty—worthy of preserving. On the other hand, the people who take selfies or are photographed alongside the memorial seem to be commodifying its importance. The memorial becomes a site of aesthetic significance, used by people to uplift a sense of social status earned by visiting ground zero.

(2) OFFERINGS

At the registry, many visitors left different offerings on the memorial. Often, a singular white rose was visible within a name in the registry and effectively distinguished the name among others around it (figure 3.5). In other places, a collection of white roses was placed on the surface of the bronze plates, touching other names on the registry (figure 3.6). Rarely, a single American flag could be seen inserted into an inscribed name in the Registry (figure 3.7). The difference between the types and quantity of offerings at the Registry generates a few important conclusions.

The memorial website offers an explanation to help understand the significance of the single white roses placed in the names of the Registry. Through the Birthday Rose Program, memorial staff cut one rose and place it in a name on the day of that person’s birthday, free of charge (9/11 Memorial Staff, n.d.). On the other hand, multiple roses imply a much more complex relationship to the registry because they are not part of the memorial’s prescribed programming. These clusters of roses touch incur a higher financial

Figure 3.1 People clustered around the South Pool watching the water; many are seen on their phones and taking picture of the falling water and other elements of the Memorial. Source. Image courtesy of Ishaan Barrett.

Figure 3.2 View of the Registry with people in the background of the South Pool. Source. Image courtesy of Ishaan Barrett.

cost for the visitor than the memorial’s free Birthday Rose Program. This highlights the intimate relationships visitors maintain to names at the registry that are honored through individualized contributions. The appearance of a small flag placed in one name suggests that the connection between that name in the registry is not just limited to one visitor, but to a larger American landscape. In other words, by placing the flag within a name in the registry, the visitor actively mediates their relationship with the deceased through an Americanized—even national—mindset.

The difference between the roses seems to highlight how individual visitors compared to the staff of the Memorial maintain relationships to the names on the registry. While visitors can receive a photo of a name and rose through the Birthday Rose Program, the cluster of roses signals a more individual relationship between viewers and the registry (9/11 Memorial Staff, n.d.). Furthermore, the use of American iconography—like a flag—connects names in the registry both to memorial visitors and a larger national consciousness. Their death is acknowledged by the individual visitor as well as a national identity represented by the flag.

(3) THE REGISTRY AND THE POOLS

Imbalances between visual and sensory elements of the registry interrogate the way the memorial functions for its visitors. For instance, while the South Pool fountains along the perimeter of the registry were on, those on the North Pool were off (figure 3.8 and figure 3.9). The sound generated by the fountains around the South Pool and the shimmering effect of the water in the sunlight drew considerably more people to that segment of the registry. At the same time, many of the bronze plates around the pools had different fixtures on them. Some were adorned with a small metal buffer that read “Work in Progress. Keep Away from Front Edge — Thank

You” in engraved lettering (figure 3.10). Others lacked this metal buffer; they also lacked any other signage to indicate that the plates might be a “work in progress” (figure 3.11). These inconsistencies illustrate the way the memorial unevenly distributes attention to the names on the registry, choosing to selectively engage the fountains to emphasize half of the registry while categorizing several plates as works “in progress.”

While the choice to turn on the fountains in the South Pool instead of the North Pool impacts the number of visitors around different parts of the registry, the plates deemed works “in progress” underscore the efforts of the memorials to curate its registry. The bronze plates around the pools bear no signs of tampering or editing; the smooth surfaces show no signs of any of the redactions that excluded undocumented WTC employees whose work on site could not be proven (Lawrence 2009). In this manner, the memorial awards special attention to its outward appearance and its efforts to maintain the “truth” of its registry that index the names of the deceased.

(4) BEYOND THE MEMORIAL

Outside the physical space, the 9/11 Memorial website maintains an online index of names in the Registry to help visitors find and locate a name. The page contains an interactive graphic that highlights where names are grouped and split among the North and South Pools. At the same time, the interface houses a search engine that can find a loved one by first or last name, birthplace, residence, employer, affiliation, first responder unit, or flight (9/11 Memorial and Museum, n.d.). This online index of the registry provides a systematized entryway to explore both the lives and resting places of 9/11 victims on the bronze plates at the registry. Each entry is accompanied by an image of the deceased and a photograph of their name’s position at the site of the memorial; it also includes the

Figure 3.3 People sitting on benches near the South Pool, watching others walking by and take in the scenery. Source. Image courtesy of Ishaan Barrett.

Figure 3.4 Panoramic view of the South Pool also depicting the Museum in the background and trees/other green space in the foreground. Source. Image courtesy of Ishaan Barrett.

3.6 Multiple roses on the surface of a different bronze plate around the North Pool. Source. Image courtesy of the Author. requested adjacencies for each name, highlighting nearby names in white with a thin line to join the names together in a web (9/11 Memorial and Museum, n.d.). At the same time, names can be highlighted in blue all together to group them by employer affiliation.

The online index does critical work to highlight the adjacencies of names and provide a physical map for loved ones to locate names within the forest of inscriptions at the 9/11 Memorial. It provides information that is noticeably omitted from the inscriptions on site: the age of the deceased when they passed away, their relation to other names nearby, where they lived, where they worked, and—most importantly—their picture (9/11 Memorial and Museum, n.d.). In this manner, the online index of the registry provides critical information to help visitors interpret and make sense of the many names inscribed around the pools. People like me who were born after 9/11 have the chance to explore the people who lost their lives during the event and to understand the scale of human loss incurred at ground zero in a more profound way.

DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION

The memorial offers many ways to dissect its importance and unveil how it grounds collective memory, its imposing narrative, and the public’s response. Visitors opted to sit on benches, stand near the pools, and even hold a bike while observing the surroundings.

Thus, the memorial is both a place for careful, prolonged contemplation and a site where people can quickly visit. Photography and selfies also highlight how the memorial is visually aestheticized and socially commodified. It is treated as aesthetically pleasing (to the eye) when it is photographed, but it is also a place where people earn social status when they pose and are photographed in front of it. The offerings at the memorial also index how visitors—and staff— interact with the site. The Birthday Roses placed by staff illustrate the way the memorial keeps the memory and significance of 9/11 victims alive through a routine, almost ritual practice. At the same time, the flags placed within the names connect 9/11 victims to the larger New York and even national landscape of the tragedy. Uneven engagement of the fountains in the pools and sporadic “work in progress” signs can be seen in many locations. This underscores a sense of perpetual change endemic to the memorial. Visitors and staff might visit and place offerings repetitiously, but the memorial categories the Registry as a corpus of names “in progress” and otherwise incomplete. Beyond the memorial, the online database of names shows more detailed information about victims and their relation to one another. This invites visitors to grapple more completely with the scale of human loss at ground zero by personifying the victims represented by the names. These findings, together, offer some answers to the questions posed at the start of the chapter.

Figure 3.5 Image of one of the bronze metal plates with names inscribed on the surface. This unit is from the South Pool and shows a white rose embedded within one of the names. Source. Image courtesy of Ishaan Barrett.

Figure

These threads of analysis show that memory and mourning are not grounded within the physical site of the memorial. Transient visitors, photography, Birthday Roses, flags, “work in progress” signs, and a detailed online database with information about the victims pull visitors away from the Memorial by deemphasizing the physicality of names and emboldening their lexical symbolism. The lexical symbolism of names on the registry allows the memorial to ground memory and mourning within the ways people—attendees, maintenance workers, and online visitors—perceive and engage with the site. This spatial thrust of the registry overwrites the physical and constructed elements of the memorial, creating a narrative rooted in the prevailing—almost spiritualized—identities and the personhood of 9/11 victims rather than the preserved location of the WTC. It is in this way that the registry conjures a narrative about 9/11 rooted in the normative conception of a “we” and “our.” Though the memorial might construct a physical place where people can grieve 9/11, it is ultimately how “we” see—or “our” perception—of the names that matters most. The names inscribed in metal propose a finality of death and a permanence through which to view the events of 9/11. But the ways people engage with the memorial—through flowers, photos, signage, and the internet—say otherwise. At the registry, 9/11 becomes an event about many people, not a single place like ground zero. The event itself exists in a public consciousness

Figure 3.7 Small American flag shown embedded within a different name on another bronze plate positioned around the North Pool. Source. Image courtesy of Ishaan Barrett.

Figure 3.8 Image of the North Pool without the fountain on. Source. Image courtesy of Ishaan Barrett.

Figure 3.9: Image of a small metal buffer telling visitors: "Work in Progress. Keep Away from Front Edge - Thank You." Part of the message is truncated in the image. Source. Image courtesy of Ishaan Barrett.

composed of online, perceived, and metaphorical spaces that overlap with the physical space of the Registry.

CONCLUSION

This paper grapples with the intersectional relationship between memory, space, and perception. Beginning with an analysis of the spatial design of the museum and memorial, we can more thoroughly understand how the ground zero of the 9/11 tragedy has been nuanced to receive and invite visitors to experience and learn about the event. Similarly, by examining the way that the 9/11 Memorial and Museum mobilizes written descriptions of the event, we can better understand the way the institution wants to interact with visitors and frame the 9/11 tragedy for families. This inevitably changes the way we engage with museological objects like the repository while influencing the production of different effects that the Museum has on each stakeholder. Finally, by exploring the reductive, editorial, and online indexing processes of assembling the Repository of Names, we can more holistically understand how grief and loss are spatialized within the Memorial itself.

Combining these foci into a single research manuscript provides a new way of problematizing the museum as a controversial space, where design choices, rhetoric, and redaction/indexing are mobilized to influence grief and memory. At the same time, the specific choices of the museum can be recontextualized to explore the harmful byproducts of dark tourism and the commodification-commercialization of 9/11 itself. This paper, in its investigative efforts, critiques the way societies spatialize trauma within urban environments at the site of disaster and grapple with the ongoing ramifications of events like 9/11.

e irb2117@columbia.edu

REFERENCES

CHAPTER 1

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CHAPTER 2

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Sodaro, Amy. "Affect, Performativity and Politics in the 9/11 Museum." Liminalities 14, no. 3 (2018): 171-192. http://ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/ scholarly-journals/affect-performativity-politics-9-11-museum/ docview/2111089631/se-2

Sofka, Carla. "History and Healing: Museums as Healing Spaces." The International Journal of the Inclusive Museum 2, no. 4 (2010): 79-90. doi https://doi.org/10.18848/1835-2014/CGP/v02i04/44291. http://ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/login?url=https://www.proquest. com/scholarly-journals/history-healing-museums-as-spaces/ docview/2793140155/se-2.

Wagoner, Brady, and Ignacio Brescó. "Memorials as Healing Places: A Matrix for Bridging Material Design and Visitor Experience." International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health 19, no. 11 (2022). https://doi.org/10.3390/ijerph19116711.

Photos: Courtesy of Author

CHAPTER 3

9/11 Memorial and Museum. n.d. “Memorial Guide.” Accessed March 4, 2024. https://names.911memorial. org/#lang=en_US&page=about&id=undefined.

9/11 Memorial Staff. n.d. “Birthday Roses.” Accessed March 28, 2024. https://www.911memorial.org/ connect/911-family-members/birthday-roses.

Dehaene, Michiel. 2019. “Heterotopia.” In The Wiley Blackwell Encyclopedia of Urban and Regional Studies, 1–4. John Wiley & Sons, Ltd. https://doi.org/10.1002/9781118568446.eurs0134.

DeTurk, Sabrina. 2013. “The Contested Space of Memory: New York’s 9/11 Memorial.” The International Journal of Social, Political and Community Agendas in the Arts 7 (3): 47–56. https:// doi.org/10.18848/2326-9960/CGP/v07i03/36373.

Dunlap, David W. 2011. “Constructing a Story, With 2,982 Names.” The New York Times, May 5, 2011, sec. New York. https://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/05/nyregion/on-911-memorial-constructing-a-story-name-by-name.html.

Lawrence, Michael Alan. 2009. “Signature Remembrance: The Names of the 9/11 Dead and the Play of Rhetoricity.” Doctor of Philosophy, University of Iowa. https://doi.org/10.17077/etd. prn78z1u.

Paliewicz, Nicholas S., and Marouf Hasian. 2017. “Popular Memory at Ground Zero: A Heterotopology of the National September 11 Memorial and Museum.” Popular Communication 15 (1): 19–36. https://doi.org/10.1080/15405702.2016.1261142.

Sreenivasan, Hari. 2011. “The Complexity of 2,982 Names on the September 11 Memorial.” PBS NewsHour. September 11, 2011. https://www.pbs.org/newshour/world/

Figure 3.11: Image of another bronze plate around the South Pool without a metal buffer telling visitors to stay away from the front edge of the bronze surface because it is a "work in progress." Source. Image courtesy of Ishaan Barrett. the-mathematical-complexity-of-2982-names.

Sturken, Marita. 2015. “The 9/11 Memorial Museum and the Remaking of Ground Zero.” American Quarterly 67 (2): 471–90. Vietnam Veterans Memorial. n.d. “The Names.” Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund. Accessed March 4, 2024. https://www. vvmf.org/About-The-Wall/the-names/.

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