New York, consumed.

Andrea Federica Olmedillo

Copyright © Andrea Federica Olmedillo

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Editor Cynthia Davidson.

For my father, Nelson. For my grandfather, Nelson.

Preface

The book is a compilation of the short essays written for the course “Writing the City” taught by Prof. Cynthia Davidson at Cornell University in the Fall of 2022. The short writings reflect my experiences and discoveries during my semester in New York City. They focus on critical topics in today’s world and their relevance to architecture, space, and form. Each piece took inspiration from different writing styles and pushed my limits to finding a voice as a writer. I took all the images to introduce a conversation between visuals and words relevant to each title.

Out My Window, Out Your Window

As I enter my room, I see the large window that covers most of the front wall area. It exists as the only threshold to bring natural light inside my new habitat. A flimsy wooden desk sits against the large glass panels, rubbing the interior surface of the mullions. I open the window as I sit in the chair, resting behind the desk. I look out and notice a windowless gray stucco wall, tall enough to block any sight of the sky. I wait to find details beyond this empty canvas, approximately 15 feet away from me. The only surface between us is the patio, covered by wood planks laid out transversally to my position. The gray tones are incredibly monotonous, and tiny dust particles travel with the breeze, telling me which direction the wind blows. I can hear an orchestra of humming and clicking notes coming from the non-visible air conditioners of other apartments. I turn mine on, and a subtle vibration begins reverberating in the room. The accumulation of dirt in the patio comes from the construction next door. I still wonder how many workers are there and who will clean the mess up. The lack of movement leads me to find myself tormented and exhausted, so I decide to take a break.

As the sun comes down, I sit down again. It is dark, and the grey canvas reveals a rectangular window projection from the apartment next door. The neighbor’s dining table shadow projects through the yellowish light coming from their kitchen window. Silhouettes are blurry and in motion. Will they have dinner soon? The projections become a compilation of live stills that create a film about the night activities next door—a unique visual representation of a tridimensional space that projects itself into a planar surface.

20 Street Signs

1. Go vegan and nobody gets hurt

2. PERU ANA ANA PERU

3. “Be strong” I whispered to my coffee 4. RUNAWAY RUNAWAY RUNAWAY

5. CAUSE A RAQUET

6. Will Trade Racists for Refugees

7. Indecline

8. Two Kids & A Dog

9. We proudly carry Fairy Tales

10. PROUD NEW YORKER

11. Now hiring your career starts here

12. BOSS REVOLUTION

13. Covid 19 Testing 14. GYRO

15. Grown in Massachussets Pumpkins $7.99 each

16. Pigshot!

17. Homeless Please Spare Some Help Thank You God Bless You

18. extinction rebellion

19. Please no dogs or people in the garden! Bulbs will be blooming soon!

20. Please don’t feed birds here, it feeds rats they dig tunels that damage the plants.

Two Kids & A Dog

“Two kids & a dog”? I ask myself during my walk under the pouring rain. Who would name a store that way? Its dazzling blue neon light sign reflect against the spotless glass that contains it. I see myself laughing through the reflective storefront and keep walking forward. While my feet avoided the expanding puddles on the crackling pavement, one thought invades my mind: “Two Kids & a dog” as the new campaign slogan to promote the American Dream. The rain stops and I watch and contemplate my surroundings. The speed of life itself traveling the concrete and asphalts isles of the city. So, I question, do we work to live? Or do we live and work? Where did the short lively moments go? Quality or quantity? The clock is ticking, and the infinite chase for a dream feels interminable. And as I try to catch my dream, I realize time is catching me. A constant rush to acquire and retire.

Often, I wonder what happens to the people who invests a third of their lives working and getting a check to later feel unfulfilled. ”Buy a house!” they said. “Get a car,” they suggested. “Get promoted!” they insisted. “Have two kids and a dog!”. As I slowly approach a bench in the sidewalk, I think of the mother that jumps in her car and speeds through life in pursuit of something that might have passed. After paying bills and getting life insurance, she acknowledges her house is not a home, and the “dream” is not hers. As she arrives to her house, she waits for the rusted gate to open, a squeaking sound that plays in the background while she stares at the chipped paint in the façade altogether a reminiscent of her home that vanished in the threads of time.

Extinction Rebellion

I wake up, turn the alarm off and check my phone. One missed call, five messages, and a reminder from Siri that says, “don’t forget to water your plants!”.Ironically, a machine now reminds me to keep my plants alive. Truly, I can’t complain about the device, it helps me navigate today’s world.

I have lost count of the quantity of phones I have owned. And where are they now? Did the earth swallow them as it did the dinosaurs? If so, how far apart are they under the layers of dirt? Thirty different permutations of where they could be buried are exhausting my racing thoughts. The thoughts that are now somewhere between the strata of my brain. The phones that are now somewhere between the strata below the surface. The ground is shifting, changing, sinking, moving, and shaking too fast. It is a rebellion! Or more so, an allergic reaction to the Anthropocene’s waste. One would think it could reject and repeal all the residues that keep making their way down through it. Instead, it gets sicker by the day, slowly changing its composition.

I am afraid of decay. I see it every day. I feel it every day. Heat waves, biodiversity loss, forest fires, and the shrinking supply of water that paves the road to extinction. Is it not obvious? Is it not right there in front of you and me? The earth must rebel in time, it shall survive so the future generations are conscious of the sickening layers that now compose our planet. The layers that will blindly show exploitation. I hope we survive beyond them because the earth is vibrating as it screams at me: “extinction rebellion!”.

Homme de lettres

Dear Le Corbusier,

As the sun rises, the white cathedrals do too. It is lifted by men and machines, rigidly held together by its stainless-steel skeleton and wrapped around with a skin of shiny and reflective glass. If the sun diagram must be used as a tool for urban development, the oscillating pattern of twentyfour hours indicates rhythm, order, and measurement, as you once strongly referred too.

Today, the oscillating line that intersects the horizon may represent the rhythmic process of construction in America. As the line rises, outlining a growing mound, millions of infrastructures composed of thousands of materials are built daily. And as life has gotten faster, consumption and construction have gotten greater, and if you were wondering, the accumulation of such is negatively affecting the way we live. Through these processes, we have learned that resources are not unlimited. Once the line inclines to the top of the mound, you find all of the crystal skyscrapers that continue to dazzle the multitudes of people. They constantly break through the horizon and inhabit the skies, almost creating a new city between the clouds. They coexist and pierce through the city’s foliage, competing against each other, no longer in conversation. They are inhabited by men wearing suits, looking clean and leaving their perfume behind with every step they take.

Now, the line travels down, reaching the ground’s surface. And while the sun sets, craters in the ground reflect every mound being built. The voids now lack the iron ore and other minerals that balance and harmonize

the Earth. Voids that now represent man’s exploitation of nature as a physical manifestation. Voids that gave birth to unlimited steel and promises. And now, these craters represent inverse skyscrapers below the surface, reaching deeper by the day. Lacking windows and fast elevators. They are inhabited by men that wear protective suits and reach for air. Men who do not see the light leave sweat behind with every step they take. The higher we keep building, the deeper the hole we will find ourselves trapped in.

Sincerely,

Image extracted from “When the Cathedrald were White” by Le Corbusier

Cigarrettes

The voracious desire to smoke arises. He aches for one more cigarette before taking the next step. An urge similar to the impulses of society to consume the earth every day. He proceeds to delicately pull out the last one left in the pack. A pack that holds enough information to recall the mistakes he has made. In the same way that humans continue to consume endlessly extracting and manipulating matter to gain comfort from it.

Countless cigarettes burnt in a lifetime, simultaneously taking time away from it. As his hand brings the cigarette closer to his mouth, he wonders where the lighter went. Now the cylindrical object is pressed between his lips, ready to be lit. The auto destructive tendency to consume and dispose of happens so quickly. His thumb rushes to the lighter wheel, and as the flame ignites, the tip of the demise itself does too. The sound of tobacco sizzling as the smoke travels inside his body. Concealed in the lungs, the burning feeling, exhaled smoke that vanishes in the air. During those five minutes of release, comfort, and fulfilled desire, the tobacco leaves grow an inch by day in the fields of innocent lands oppressed by men. Now the blended leaves and improved stems are mixed with flavored preservatives. Rolled into perfectly cut paper and packaged to carry easily everywhere.

A product created with a constant industrialized cycle designed by the machine. An unstoppable mass-produced object that satisfies the addiction of millions. An object that is made in two months and is burned out in minutes. An object so small yet holds power over men. An object that originated from the times of the gods and now plays God itself.

Duplicate Towers

It contains a wide monolithic base, a narrow neck, and a crystalized head. Once inside, a climb awaits. Endless stairs wrap around the windowless concrete walls. An excruciating journey that has no use other than to escalate. In this container of humid stale air and darkness, drops of sweat fall on the dusty stairs from a man rising towards the light. Historically, the light stream came from powerful fire flames, now replaced with a 100 watts incandescent bulb equaling to a million-candle power. The tower is tall enough to reach the sky and be mistaken for the stars at night with its turning shining head. It offers a climb for men to reach great heights and to see the world from the eyes of the flying birds. And it means nothing and everything at the same time because its function gets lost in translation when someone recalls its presence as a symbol or place where memories remain. Countless of them repeated to inhabit the infinite shore. A brutalist silhouette with no physical beauty unless subjectively given to it. Like a candy cane, the stripes of colored paint wrap around its facade. Expect they don’t shine and taste sweet; instead, they are salty and opaque. They sit along the thin line that divides the unpredictable waters and the steady land. They hang in the keychains of a captain. They are flattened into magnets to rust on the refrigerator of the beach house. They lie in the bulging pages of family albums. They are imprinted in ink on a sailor’s skin. And all together they become a symbol of a memory rather than its function. They compress and diminish in size, the lighthouse travels the world in multiple forms that no longer illuminate.

Helicopters

October 12th

Time: 2:04 PM

Location: Battery Park

Sunny, warm enough under the sunlight, windy at times. Colder in the shadows. No sign of clouds.

I am sitting on a bench along the edge of the dirt path.

A tall man wearing an unzipped red vest walks by holding a cup of sliced mangos. He stops every time he takes a new bite, and he chews as he walks again.

A black metal trashcan is overflowing with trash, the wind takes some trash with it.

A helicopter flies by.

A girl with orange hair and a yellow dress makes eye contact. She is in a rush, shoes untied.

Elderly woman tells elderly man, “I want to find a restroom for you, I don’t care if we miss the booking”.

A louder helicopter flies by, with a very prominent “toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo” sound.

Three kids climbing a fence-like railing. They look like spiders on a web from the distance.

A black helicopter.

A bee just landed on my knee.

Older brother, approximately nine years old, pushes a stroller in circles until dizzy. I hear the baby cry. Unattended.

A blue helicopter.

It is 2:27 and more bees are flying around the flowers next to me.

Older brother still spinning stroller, this time baby does not cry. Their mother is on the phone.

“toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo”

Three expressive teenagers walk by and discuss why they dislike a girl named “Crystal”.

Two young people sit in the bench next to me. He takes his shoes off and she opens a pizza box. They proceed to eat and debate about religion.

Three helicopters, one after the other.

A bird spotted in the sky, I mistake it for a helicopter.

“toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo”

Pizza kids stand up, leaving the crusts behind.

Seven pigeons approach leftovers.

Two helicopters.

Pigeons attack the crust.

The bees are back, this time on a Coca-Cola can left behind.

Helicopter flies by: “toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo”

A pug rushes and pulls its owner. She appears to be on the leash instead.

The bees are gone.

Younger kids try to breakdance, they might break their pants instead.

I hear two helicopters, I see one.

It’s 3:06 and bees are not back.

“toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo toocoo”

Coney Island

A restless mind calculates the number of days before he can get away from the metropolitan distress. He arrived in the city not many moons ago, but enough moons to seek a short escape. A seemingly ordinary craving invades his thoughts, an obsessive one that leads him to Coney Island, as the perfect destination to fulfill his compulsion. Only a true hedonist like himself can fully enjoy overindulgence in what the place has to offer.

As he steps out the train the smells call his name. Now he stands in line, amused by the scents of the American legacy that will soon collide with his tastebuds. As he places his order he salivates, and the exquisite desire to bite into the most wanted product grows. As his name is called, a perfect bun looking soft like a sponge, wraps around a luscious sausage. The smell arouses the beast in him. The captivating Nathan’s hot dog is finally in his hands. The cheap plastic plate bends at the weight of the boiled, slightly grilled commodity that was served by nonchalant workers accustomed to limitless access to this product every day. The dog is soon dressed with menacing red and yellow sugary sauce, processed enough to give him later regret.

He approaches an empty seat among multiple jaws move simultaneously to savior the unknown grinded remains of an animal that once had a name. And there he finds himself taking the so desired bite that invaded his dreams the past couple of days. With every mouthful a new fingerprint contours the bun. The remnants of his indulgence join the previous stains on the floor. The backdrop of red, white and blue proudly celebrates the unstoppable act of consumption every day. And as he stands up, dusting off the crumbs, he begins to plan when he will return.

Heartbreak

I am born from a variety of threads that come together to give me a lifespan that is hard to estimate. One will never know if I originated from dinosaurs, or if I was engineered in a lab a few weeks ago. And here I am, traveling through machines and excruciating noises that never stop. I know I am no different, just another sweater among an infinite row of stacked versions of myself in cerulean blue, mahogany brown, and sunset yellow. Regardless, I am living up to the dream of belonging to someone for the rest of my life. As we are packed into boxes I am at the bottom of the stack, and I can feel the weight on me, barely breathing out of excitement. Not long after the truck engine starts, my journey in the dark box does too. My threats vibrate at the thought of someone’s embrace. To caress someone’s skin while my tags flickers in the air. To receive compliments for my vibrant colors and sensational fit. While the fantasies distract me in the dark.

I finally make it to my destination. Now I hear a lady salute my potential owner and say, “welcome to Saks Fifth Avenue, let me know if you need assistance!”. My perfectly ironed sleeves hang on a wooden hanger. And as fellow sweaters come and go, I remain in the same position. I am picked up and judged continually, a repeating cycle of shame in a span of twelve hours. I am sneezed on, tossed around, laughed at and sometimes simply unaffordable. Then, a woman passes by, the glare in her eyes refracting the hundred LED white lights in the store. She desires me, I have never captivated someone’s gaze this way. She feels my neckband and I find myself fitting around her upper body. She smiles, and we become one. She brings me home. As she celebrates me and welcomes me in her life, I cannot wait to see the world from her eyes.

Today I reminisce about when I made her happy in the winter we spent together, our surfaces in constant friction. Now I sit at the bottom of a stack again, and this time I remain stationary, accumulating dust, and my threads losing their vitality, I am decaying. She broke my heart and ripped my sleeves. Soon I will belong in a pile of waste, and I wonder, did I waste your time?

Dancing Shoes

As she arrives at the nightscape, she waits for the bouncer to catch her gaze and let her through. Once inside, a powerful wave containing tenacious vibrations bursts through every inch of her bones. Her eardrums tremble at the speed of sound. In her sight, a hundred heads move synchronously to the rhythm of the fast-paced base. Amid the dancefloor, the strobe lights bounce off the surface of the kinetic bodies.

As she approaches the tumult, she begins to feel the moist air against her skin, the heat waves raising their temperature for every breath she takes. Her stiff body begins to loosen as she collides with other bodies, exchanging sweat and pheromones. She slowly infiltrates into the multitude. Time passes, and her senses are profoundly activated, becoming highly interconnected. Her eyes can hear the music through the light’s sequences. Now her heart palpitations fluctuate with the smooth change in tempo. Moving back and forth in friction with anonymous shoulders, she becomes one with the dancing bodies.

Notes and chords projected through strings now have complete control over her like a marionette. She feels her body dissipating in space with her senses, becoming one with the crowd and leaving her individuality behind. Now her dancing shoes are in symphony with the others, keeping proximity to the floor to easily lift one foot in the air with the beat, as the other awaits on the floor to continue the cycle.

Hudson Yards, the garden of Eden, worshiped land, exalted playground. Carefully fabricated by the hands of the players in the game of insatiable profit. A twenty five billion dollar dreamland that celebrates piercing structures. They constantly dialogue with one another to empower their existence or justify it. In a way, it is a museum of intricate architecture that results in more damage than solutions. Hudson Yards is a fake forest with fake plastic trees. It is shading the wealthiest residents and sucking the money out of the wealthy visitors. There is nothing natural about this proposed and built environment, nothing that celebrates the neighborhood’s history nor the communities that were displaced because of its existence. How can one find it amusing to climb endless stairs that wrap around the Vessel with no destination? How can one find amusing walking between high residential buildings that contour the Highline and remain unattainable for 99 % of the world’s population? How can we find amusing walking on the Highline, which is essentially another paved sidewalk lacking green spaces and conscious community outreach? Hudson yards is like window shopping at a store you could never buy anything from. It remains a superficial ground that visitors go to once, and after acquiring the perfect picture, they do not return. Hudson Yards is an open wound in the city, constantly needing attention and care.Moreover, it will eventually become a massive scar that will be hard to erase. As it keeps expanding and rising, the more attraction it will get. It is a spreading disease of glass and steel with no motive to progress except for the ones who profit from it. Hudson Yards is like a fashion show, a runway of fast fashion and meaningless architecture where the people will show up once and never return because there is always a new runway coming up the following season.

Hudson Yard

Band-Aids

Part one.

I pour myself on the topsoil, contaminating it. I keep spreading, while feeling footprints and objects against my skin. I am a barrier between nature and human touch. I am the greatest invention, a foundational and lifting force to elevate humanity to the strata of the sky. I am here to stay forever.

Part two.

I am made of plastic and silicone particles. I will give you power. I am a keeper. I keep you warm and never rest for to ensure your comfort. I sit all day long to absorb the limitless energy from the sun. I contemplate the landscape of endless roofs and limitless photovoltaic sparks, waiting for the moon to rise, waiting for you to embrace me.

I am concrete and a reason for climate change.

I am solar panels. A band aid for a bullet hole in climate change.

Part three.

I am a growing flame. Slowly consuming the earth, slowly forgetting it. I am melting ice, I continue to flood the surface of humankind. I am catastrophe, I am here.

I am climate change.

The O’s

Overwhelmed officers organize opinions on offensive occasions. Oppressive odors often operate openly. Ordinary objects occupy the ozone and oceans. Occupied observer offends ornamentation. Obtrusive oil offers outdated opportunities. Overworked outcast obeys obligations. Objectified ogres overwhelmed on oppression.

The P’s

Practical platforms persevere in the paved province. Piercing prose platonically praises politicians People pour plates of plantains and prejudice for preoccupied partakers. Prude pigeons pursue pizza particles on the pavement. Polyamorous principles preach possibilities for the population. Picturesque playgrounds and parks provide peace for the powerless proletarian. Parking permits privatize and protect premises. Poor patients persuade practitioners to postpone payment penalties. Promenades of painted parapets promote persuasive propaganda. A penniless person plays the piano for possibilities. Packages and postcards penetrate pockets in the properties. Pointless plastic pollutes the planet. Precious pendants promise payback. Passionate palettes of pleasure postpone problems. A pleasant pause to post the pretty pixels of paradise.