|
|
The Milky Way is made up of thousands of " substructures such as streams." These "streams" are really clumps of stars – moving at a shared velocity, in a shared direction – that were "ripped" from other galaxies, "most likely small galaxies that were pulled in to create the Milky Way." Streams at the center of the galaxy are thus the oldest, as "you probably build a galaxy up from the inside out." Indeed, the sky is criss-crossed with rivers that flow from the remains of structures unspooling elsewhere.
 [Image: The "underground town" beneath Leavenworth, Kansas, courtesy of KCTV].It was reported last week that an "underground city" had been discovered beneath the streets of Leavenworth, Kansas. "Some Leavenworth residents have been unknowingly walking around above an underground city," we read, "and no one seems to know who created it or why." Windows, doors and narrow paths beneath a title company at South Fourth and Delaware streets lead to storefronts stretching several city blocks and perhaps beyond.
There are also several vaults around town. Some of have them been used for breweries...
Some speculate the underground town was created in the 1800s and could have been used during slavery or for fugitives. I have to admit, though, especially after looking at the slideshow, that referring to this alternately as an "underground town" and an "underground city" seems like quite an overstatement of the case; it looks more like a few connected basements at most. But how are you going to get people's attention if all you've discovered is a few empty rooms beneath Main Street...? (Thanks, Ian!)
 [Image: From Library of Dust by David Maisel, published by Chronicle Books].There's a spectacular new book coming out at the end of this summer called Library of Dust, by photographer David Maisel, published by Chronicle Books. I had the intensely exciting – and flattering – opportunity to write one of the book's introductory essays; that essay now re-appears below. I first learned about Library of Dust when I interviewed Maisel back in 2006 for Archinect. In 1913, Maisel explained, an Oregon state psychiatric institution began to cremate the remains of its unclaimed patients. Their ashes were then stored inside individual copper canisters and moved into a small room, where they were stacked onto pine shelves. After doing some research into the story, Maisel got in touch with the hospital administrators – the same hospital, it turns out, where they once filmed One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest – and he was granted access to the room in which the canisters were stored.    [Image: Abandoned rooms of the hospital. From Library of Dust by David Maisel, published by Chronicle Books].Over time, however, the canisters have begun to react chemically with the human ashes held inside them; this has thus created mold-like mineral outgrowths on the exterior surfaces of these otherwise gleaming cylinders. There was a certain urgency to the project, then, as "the span of time that these canisters are going to be in this state is really finite," Maisel explained in the Archinect interview, "and the hospital is concerned that they're now basically corroding." So when I was there just a few weeks ago, photographing for I think the fourth time, there was a proposal being floated that each canister be put into its own individual plastic bag, and then each bag would go into its own individual black box that's made for containing human ashes. And that would be it.
To me, the arc of the project – if it ends like that, which it seems it probably will – has a certain kind of conceptual logic to it that I appreciate. I appreciate the form and the story of these canisters, that they're literally breaking down further every day, even between my visits to the hospital. My time of doing it, then, is finite as well. In order to deal with the fragility of the objects, and to respect their funerary origins, Maisel set up a temporary photography studio inside the hospital itself. There, he began photographing the canisters one by one. He soon realized that they looked almost earthlike, terrestrial: green and blue coastal forms and island landscapes outlined against a black background. But it was all mineralogy: terrains of rare elements self-reacting in the dark. Maisel's photos have now been collected into a gorgeous, and physically gigantic, book. It's expensive, but well worth checking out. The following is my own essay for the book; it appears alongside texts by Terry Toedtemeier and Michael Roth.  [Image: From Library of Dust by David Maisel, published by Chronicle Books].• • •In Haruki Murakami’s novel Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, an unnamed man finds himself walking through an unnamed town. Its depopulated spaces are framed most prominently by a Clocktower, a Gate, and an Old Bridge. The nameless man is told almost immediately to visit the town’s central Library – an unspectacular building that “might be a grain warehouse” for all its allure. “What is one meant to feel here?” the man asks himself, crossing a great, empty Plaza. “All is adrift in a vague sense of loss.” Once inside the Library, the man meets a Librarian. The two of them sit down together, and the man prepares to read dreams. They are not fairy tales written in pen and ink, however, but the psychic residues of long-dead creatures, a gossamer field of electrical energy left behind in the creatures’ bleached skulls. Weathered almost beyond recognition, one such skull is “dry and brittle, as if it had lain in the sun for years.” The skull has been transformed by time into something utterly unlike itself, marked by processes its former inhabitant could not possibly have anticipated. Each skull is the most minimal of structures, seemingly incapable of bearing the emotions it stores hidden within. One skull in particular “is unnaturally light,” we read, “with almost no material presence. Nor does it offer any image of the species that had breathed within. It is stripped of flesh, warmth, memory.” It is at once organic and mineralogical – living and dead. The skull is also silent, but this silence “does not reside on the surface, [it] is held like smoke within. It is unfathomable, eternal” – intangible. One might also add invisible. This “smoke” is the imprint of whatever creature once thought and dreamed inside the skull; the skull is an urn, or canister, a portable tomb for the life it once gave shape to. The Librarian assists our nameless narrator by wiping off a thin layer of dust, and the man’s dream-reading soon begins.    [Images: From Library of Dust by David Maisel, published by Chronicle Books].Dust is a peculiar substance. Less a material in its own right, with its own characteristics or color, dust is a condition. It is the “result of the divisibility of matter,” Joseph Amato writes in his book Dust: A History of the Small and the Invisible. Dust is a potpourri of ingredients, varied to the point of indefinability. Dust includes “dead insect parts, flakes of human skin, shreds of fabric, and other unpleasing materials,” Amato writes. Many humans are allergic to dust and spend vast amounts of time and money attempting to rid their homes and possessions of it, yet dust’s everyday conquest of the world’s surfaces never ends. Undefended, a room can quickly be buried in it. Dust lies, of course, at the very edge of human visibility: it is as small as the unaided eye can see. And dust is not necessarily terrestrial. “Amorphous,” Amato continues, “dust is found within all things, solid, liquid, or vaporous. With the atmosphere, it forms the envelope that mediates the earth’s interaction with the universe.” But dust is found beyond that earthly sphere, in the abiotic vacuum of interstellar space, a freezing void of irradiated particles, where all dust is the ghostly residue of unspooled stars, astronomical structures reduced to mist. Strangely representational, the chemistry of this stardust can be analyzed for even the vaguest traces of unknown components; these results, in turn, are a gauge for whatever hells of radiation once glowed, when the universe burned with intensities beyond imagining. Those astral pressures left chemical marks, marks which can be found on dust. Such dust – vague, unspectacular, bleached and weathered by a billion years of drifting – can be read for its astronomical histories. Dust, in this way, is a library.  [Image: From Library of Dust by David Maisel, published by Chronicle Books].A geological history of photography remains unwritten. There are, of course, entire libraries full of books about chemistry and its relationship to the photographic process, but what the word chemistry fails to make clear is that these photographic chemicals have a geological origin: they are formed by, in, and because of the earth’s surface. Resists, stops, acids, metals, fixes – silver-coated copper plates, say, scorched by controlled exposures of light – produce imagery. This is then called photography. Importantly, such deliberate metallurgical burns do not have to represent anything. Photography in its purest, most geological sense is an abstract process, a chemical weathering that potentially never ends. All metal surfaces transformed by the world, in other words, have a literally photographic quality to them. Those transformations may not be controlled, contained, or domesticated, but the result is one and the same. Photography, in this view, is a base condition of matter.  [Image: From Library of Dust by David Maisel, published by Chronicle Books].David Maisel’s photographs of nearly 110 funereal copper canisters are a mineralogical delight. Bearded with a frost of subsidiary elements, their surfaces are now layered, phosphorescent, transformed. Unsettled archipelagos of mineral growths bloom like tumors from the sides and bottoms – but is that metal one sees, or some species of fungus? The very nature of these canisters becomes suspect. One is almost reluctantly aware that these colors and stains could be organic – mold, lichen, some yeasty discharge – with all the horror such leaking putrescence would entail. Indeed, the canisters have reacted with the human ashes held within. Each canister holds the remains of a human being, of course; each canister holds a corpse – reduced to dust, certainly, burnt to handfuls of ash, sharing that cindered condition with much of the star-bleached universe, but still cadaverous, still human. What strange chemistries we see emerging here between man and metal. Because these were people; they had identities and family histories, long before they became nameless patients, encased in metal, catalytic. In some ways, these canisters serve a double betrayal: a man or woman left alone, in a labyrinth of medication, prey to surveillance and other inhospitable indignities, only then to be wed with metal, robbed of form, fused to a lattice of unliving minerals – anonymous. Do we see in Maisel’s images then – as if staring into unlabeled graves, monolithic and metallized, stacked on shelves in a closet – the tragic howl of reduction to nothingness, people who once loved, and were loved, annihilated? After all, these ash-filled urns were photographed only because they remain unclaimed; they’ve been excluded from family plots and narratives. A viewer of these images might even be seeing the fate of an unknown relative, eclipsed, denied – treated like so much dust, eventually vanishing into the shells that held them. It is not a library at all – but a room full of souls no one wanted.  [Image: From Library of Dust by David Maisel, published by Chronicle Books].Yet perhaps there is something altogether more triumphant at work here, something glorious, even blessed. There is a profoundly emotional aspect of these objects, a physical statement that we, too, will alter, meld with the dust and metal: an efflorescence. This, then, is our family narrative, not one of loss but of reunion. There is a broader kinship being proclaimed, a more important reclamation occurring: the depths of matter will accept us back. We will be rewelcomed out of living isolation. We are part of these elements, made of the dust that forms structures in space. Maisel’s photographs therefore capture scenes of fundamental reassurance. The mineralized future of everything now living is our end. Even entombed by metal, foaming in the darkness with uncontrolled growths – there is splendor.  [Image: From Library of Dust by David Maisel, published by Chronicle Books].To disappear into this metallurgical abyss of reactions – photographic, molecular – isn’t a tragedy, or even cause for alarm. There should be no mourning. Indeed, Maisel’s work reveals an abstract gallery of the worlds we can become. Planetary, framed against the black void of Maisel’s temporary studio, the remnant energies of the long dead have become color, miracles of alteration. There are no graves, the photographs proclaim: only sites of transformation. That is our final, inhuman release.  [Image: From Library of Dust by David Maisel, published by Chronicle Books].At the end of winter 2005, David Maisel traveled to a small city in Oregon. There were bridges, plazas, and gates. He was there to locate an old psychiatric hospital – a building now housing violent criminals – because the hospital held something that interested him. Upon arrival, he met with the head of security, who already knew why Maisel had come. The two of them walked down a nearby corridor, where Maisel was shown what he’d been looking for. It was an isolated room behind a locked door – smaller, less official, than expected. Within it was the Library of Dust.
• • •David Maisel's Library of Dust is available both through Chronicle Books and through Amazon.com – though you can also buy a signed copy through photo-eye. Don't miss my earlier interview with David over at Archinect – and, at some point soon, take a long trip through David's website. (Thanks to Joseph Antonetti for his help with the images – and to editor Alan Rapp for instigating this book in the first place).
 I stumbled on Buckminster Fuller's patent drawings for geodesic domes today – so I thought I'd re-post them here.    Where structural innovation and the U.S. government intersect.
 [Image: An inflatable church on the beaches of Sardinia; via the BBC].Inflatable infrastructure for churchgoers has arrived on the sandy beaches of Sardinia, as a bouncy chapel has been installed for Christians on holiday. "Using compressed air it takes only five minutes to inflate," the Times reports, and it "comes complete with an altar, an apse and a confessional." Inflatable mosques and temples will be next. An inflatable sacred grove for druids.  [Image: Via the BBC].The size of your church is directly affected by how much money you can raise – because the only pumps strong enough to inflate the whole structure cost $50,000 or more. Once you get that far, though, you realize there are still more rooms and radiating chapels to inflate... but it takes an even larger – and far more expensive – air pump. Yet, even then, you find more – nearly impossible to inflate – rooms hidden away inside the structure.  [Image: Via the BBC]."Who made this thing?" you ask one day, quietly, not wanting to draw attention to yourself; and you learn that there is a Holy Lab of Consecrated Inflatables housed in an unmarked room in the Vatican attics – attics the size of basketball courts – where priests trained in the art of shaping warm air read apocryphal texts on the breath of God, stitching vast sheets of polyethylene together to form Gothic geometries. It's rumored that the largest inflatable ever created is being designed by the monks of Mount Athos; it will require a small nuclear power plant to fill properly. Bombproof churches will be erected throughout Syria in what becomes known as the Inflatable Crusade. In particularly expensive models, assembled by private firms in the Netherlands, inflatable priests will pop out of hidden compartments in the floor when you twist small valves, triggering a recording of Agnus Dei. Children clap, endless cupolas unfold into the sky, and the real services of the evening begin. (Thanks, Nicky!)
 [Image: A sketch by Henry Wood, from The New York Times].
Last week, The New York Times took readers to an isolated house called Clingstone, built by a Philadelphian named J.S. Lovering Wharton on a rock in the waters of Rhode Island. Working with an artist, William Trost Richards, Mr. Wharton designed a shingle-style house of picture windows, with 23 rooms on three stories radiating off a vast central hall; its plan is less a blueprint than a diagram of arrows indicating sightlines.
He built it like a mill, Mr. Wood said, with wide planking, sturdy oak beams, diagonal sheathing and an odd flourish: an interior cladding of shingles... The process of renovating the house, abandoned since the 1940s, was formidable, and the weather can be rough; we read, for instance, that "untethered doors at Clingstone are quickly smashed by the wind."
"This house is always going to have rough edges,” says current resident Henry Wood, an architect.
   [Image: Photos by Erik Jacobs for The New York Times].
The house, an act of near-constant maintenance, is now on its way to being green: Today, solar panels heat the water, and a wind turbine on the roof generates electricity. Rainwater is collected in a 3,000-gallon cistern, then filtered, treated and pumped through the house for cleaning purposes. (Mr. Wood claims it is safe enough to drink, “but my children don’t trust me so we don’t,” he said.) After years of using an activated seawater system that draws in seawater, then treats and filters the waste before releasing it back into the ocean, Clingstone now has the latest generation of composting toilets. For the time being, Clingstone is the only structure on the island, watching through picture windows as Atlantic storms roll in.
The slideshow, with images by Erik Jacobs, is worth checking out.
 [Image: Note the wind turbine. Photo by Erik Jacobs for The New York Times].
Meanwhile, over at Deputy Dog we were introduced to the rotating architecture of the Villa Girasole, a house in Italy that rotates on massing internal roller bearings and exposed tracks paved into the landscape.
  [Images: The Villa Girasole, from Deputy Dog, thanks to a link from Marilyn Terrell].
The house, by engineer Angelo Invernizzi, "last rotated in 2002," we read in Chad Randl's new book Revolving Architecture, where many more photographs of the building appear. Randl writes: Invernizzi and his design team used the villa project as a laboratory for trying out modern materials, from reinforced concrete to fiber-cement wall boards. In keeping with the project's experimental nature, a considerable amount of adaptation and refinement accompanied construction. On the exterior walls Invernizzi substituted aluminum sheet for the original cement finish when cracks appeared after the first trial rotations. As the foundation settled and the rotating mechanism was tested, small cracks also developed along the interior plaster walls of the moving part. Invernizzi concealed the damage by finishing the walls with a canvas covering... Randl points out that the "layout and form of the moving section are well suited to rotation." Further, the house's occupants could "control rotation using a panel (with three buttons: forward, backward, and stop) in the foyer of the moving part."
You can read more about the house's "rotational machinery" in Randl's book.
I wonder, though, if an interesting children's novel couldn't someday be written about a family who goes off on holiday for the summer in the mountains of Italy, renting a dust-covered and slightly eccentric old house. The young boy or girl, who is left alone all day, for whatever reason the novelist comes up with, finds a small panel one day in the house's towering attics.
Those strange paths in the garden, you see, aren't just paths, they're tracks – and this house doesn't just rotate it travels large distances...
 [Image: An under-detailed simulated glimpse of "subterranean cyclones"].
In any case, in a bit of unrelated news, hurricanes of liquid iron have been raging at the earth's core for more than 300 million years, simulations suggest. These "subterranean cyclones" have been spinning for the most part below Asia, perhaps explaining the core's seismic asymmetry.
 [Image: A new Los Angeles park, rendered by EDAW; spotted at Inhabitat].
Earlier this summer, EDAW released images from its intern design program wherein a new park atop a buried freeway for Los Angeles was the featured subject of discussion. Park 101, as they call it, would be the resulting swatch of artificial land created by covering up the 101 Hollywood freeway. EDAW describes its own plan as "a visionary, and realistic, urban design solution to cap... a relatively small area straddling the 101 freeway, situated in an existing maze of roadways." It will be "an iconic urban park in the heart of downtown Los Angeles... re-visioning the existing infrastructure that supports and encircles the core of the city – freeways, channelized rivers, streets, and public transit."
Considering that L.A. needs very seriously to consider pedestrianization plans, at a huge variety of scales across the whole city, this seems like as good a place as any to begin.
In fact, BLDGBLOG here proposes something like a Pasadena-to-Pacific walking trail: a purpose-built pedestrian boulevard – car-free its whole length, except perhaps for access to emergency services – leading from the beaches of Santa Monica all the way to the foothills of Pasadena, via Griffith Park, encompassing de-paved sections of major cross-city thoroughfares.
A north-south axis would be soon to follow – and the whole thing could perhaps then hook up with the Pacific Crest Trail.
 [Image: From some things we made together (on the 405 south) by Sean Dockray].
Speaking of L.A., in response to the previous post, artist Sean Dockray sent in these unexplained images, apparently derived from "freeway loop detector data" on the perpetually clogged 405. We've covered Dockray's work before; in this case, Dockray also drops hints about "a radio station that would be nothing but a reading of [traffic] incidents around [Los Angeles] county (w background music)."
So what do these subtly morphing diagrams really mean?
 [Image: Gazex, via anti-avalanche technology].
Finally, Pruned was Alps-bound last week with this look at Gazex, an "explosively effective" anti-avalanche technology embedded in the snow-covered mountainsides.
According to the company's own website, "Gazex explodes an oxygen/propane gas mixture in specifically designed exploder tubes located at the top end of risk zones. The exploders are connected to gas storage tanks with capacities high enough to operate for the whole season without re-filling."
The company boasts that it is the "world leader in remote avalanche prevention control systems."
Clearly, though, it would not be hard to re-purpose this technology, installing hundreds – thousands – of these things in the mountains, anticipating warfare... and then hurling avalanches down upon the heads of invading armies.
BLDGBLOG got a nice shout-out today on Current TV.  [Images: From Current TV's short segment, "Building Blogs"].In addition to Current's description of BLDGBLOG in that short video, they write: "What can you say? Right now, THE blog of the contemporary architecture world." Also deservedly mentioned in their brief tour of architecture blogs are Life Without Buildings, Tropolism, City of Sound, and Archidose – all bloggers I've actually met. For members of a globally distributed blogosphere, we're not as disembodied as you'd think... While I'm tooting my own horns here, though I don't normally point out things like visitor numbers, BLDGBLOG has been seeing more than 175,000 – and as many as 205,000 – unique visitors per month this summer; so I owe everyone a huge thanks for stopping by!
 [Image: NASA's ANTS].Alex Trevi sent me a link last week – which he later posted – about the so-called ANTS program. ANTS is an "autonomous nano technology swarm" developed by NASA for possible use in the "lunar base infrastructure" of tomorrow. ANTS consist of "highly reconfigurable networks of struts, acting as 3D mesh or 2D fabric to perform a range of functions on demand." The ANTS approach harnesses the effective skeletal/muscular system of the frame itself to enable amoeboid movement, effectively ‘flowing’ between morphological forms. ANTS structures would thus be capable of forming an entire mobile modular infrastructure adapted to its environment. However, I was especially excited to see that the ANTS system has been hypothesized as "an architectural pathway to artificial life." Might the artificial biology of tomorrow be buildings that have come to life?   [Images: NASA's ANTS].I'm reminded here of Philip Beesley's Implant Matrix, or Theo Jansen's Strandbeesten, machine-architectures that cross over into animation and back, convincingly evincing signs of life. But NASA's recent research into ANTS suggests that these units could actually be used to build whole bases and instant cities under extreme – and literally lunar – living conditions, where the village itself would not be just a substrate or infrastructure but a kind of artificially intelligent labyrinth of living architecture that coils round itself in a cascade of walls and air locks. All under the constant radiative glare of the sun.  [Image: NASA's ANTS].These "autonomous remote systems," as NASA refers to them, are already coming into existence, of course; one need only look as far as the skies of the Middle East, for instance, which now buzz with unmanned aerial drones, or at the deep desert labs of the U.S. Air Force, where shape-shifting airplanes are taking (and re-taking) shape. But is there a drone architecture? Unmanned buildings – server farms, parking garages, airport terminals, and offshore cargo-processing warehouses (or RoboVault, say) – that, given mobility, could approach the condition of biology? And is this what the haunted house genre has always been about: a fear of architecture that has come to life?  [Image: Ron Herron's Walking City, first proposed in Archigram 4 (1964)].It's NASA meets Archigram meets Manuel de Landa meets Theo Jansen – a walking city gone off-world, communicating via secure satellite to earthbound observers back home. (See also Pruned's take on this).
 The British Geological Survey has teamed up with fledgling science organization OneGeology to show us what the earth would look like without soil – or water, or cities, or anything, really, but geology. View larger. I have to admit, on the other hand, that, as cool as this image is – revealing the semi-liquid mixtures of underground terrains that we walk over everyday – it's an absurd way to present the information. Badly colored and with a 1970s funk album sunrise coming round the planet? Surely, with such a signature image, they could have made a better globe?
A few years ago, the Boston Globe looked at what we might call the psychiatric impact of that city's Big Dig project. The Big Dig was a massively expensive urban engineering project that put Boston's Central Artery underground, freeing up space on the earth's surface for parks and businesses.
The project, however, was plagued with cost over-runs, engineering difficulties, and the periodic collapse of public support (even the periodic collapse of the ceiling).
From the Globe: In the short term, mental health experts say, tempers may flare as the public deals with the logistical inconvenience of detours, lingering uncertainty about the safety of the tunnels, and mounting cynicism about the project. (...) And there may be long-term effects as well – ones that could subtly reshape the city's identity. What interests me here is not the obvious fact that bad traffic might cause tempers to flare, but the idea that people might develop historically unique psychiatric conditions because of a work of public infrastructure under construction somewhere in their city.
A new tunnel, say, is being dug between Manhattan and New Jersey, and moods in the city begin to darken. Psychiatrists notice a strange surge in patients; people come in complaining of nightmares of forced reunion, being in the same room again with an annoying relative they thought they'd left behind long ago. Homeowners wake at 3am each night, convinced someone's trying to break into the basement. The whole island is ill at ease.
And it's all because of that new tunnel getting closer and closer to completion.
Or, say, a new flood barrier is under construction outside London – a gleaming wall of metal that will rise from the tidal murk. Would it change the dreams of city residents? Would this distant piece of hydro-infrastructure affect how Londoners feel about their city – or about themselves? A new confidence. Dreams of survival. Psychoanalysts report that no one dreams of drowning anymore.
On one level here, the answers are both uninteresting and obvious: of course, these sorts of projects would affect the dreams, thoughts, and nightmares of a city's residents – after all, those new landmarks would be a part of the world these people live within.
But a less obvious, or less easily tracked, impact might be postulated here – that, say, a new bridge between San Francisco and Oakland might subtly change how San Franciscans think about their peninsular city, and that this only becomes obvious in retrospect, when someone notices that prescription rates have changed or the divorce rate has plummeted: it was the psychiatric implication of a new bridge that did it.
Put another way, if a new highway can have a measurable, and easily detected, impact on a city's economic health and administrative well-being, then could a new highway – or bridge, or tunnel, or flood wall, or, for that matter, sewage treatment plant – have a detectable impact on the city's mental health? After all, these sorts of massive public works "may carry a psychological burden," the Boston Globe wrote back in 2006.
It's the psychiatric infrastructure of the city.
(Thanks to Josh Glenn, Eric Fredericksen, and the Hermenautic Circle for the Boston Globe link).
 [Image: The cover and a spread from 15 Lombard St. by Janice Kerbel].
15 Lombard St. is a book by artist Janice Kerbel, published back in 2000. It presents itself as "a rigorously researched masterplan of how to rob a particular bank in the City of London." By observing the daily routine in and around the bank, Kerbel reveals the most detailed security measures such as: the exact route and time of money transportation; the location of CCTV cameras in and around the bank along with precise floor plans that mark the building's blind spots.
Kerbel's meticulous plans include every possible detail required to commit the perfect crime. The book was pointed out to me by Sans façon in relation to an earlier post here on BLDGBLOG about the city re-seen as a labyrinth of possible robberies and heists that have yet to be committed – a geography of tunnels yet to be dug and vaults yet to be emptied.
But is there a literary genre of the crime plan? An attack or robbery outlined in its every detail. Is this fiction, or some new form of illicit literature, detailing speculative and unrealized crimes hidden in the city around us? Is robbing a building just another type of architectural analysis? Or does one put such a thing into the category of counter-geography – a minor cartography, a rogue map? Or perhaps radical cartography, as the saying now goes? Would there be an impulse toward censorship here?
There's a fascinating series of interviews waiting to be done here with people who work in building security – how a building is deliberately built to anticipate later actions. Or, should we say: how a building is built to contain the impulse toward certain, more radical uses. When the burglars get to this door, they'll become frustrated and will try to break through the nearby window, instead – so we must reinforce this window and put a camera nearby.
The building has within it certain very specific possible crimes, the way this house contained a "puzzle." I'm reminded of the famous Bernard Tschumi line, and I'm paraphrasing: Sometimes to fully appreciate a work of architecture you have to commit a crime.
Architectural space becomes something like an anticipatory narrative – the exact size and shape of a future heist, nullified. It outlines future crimes the way a highway outlines routes.
(Thanks again to Sans façon for the tip!)
 [Image: From The Bank Job].
It occurred to me that you could make a map—a whole book of maps—detailing all possible routes of bank robbery within the underground foundations of a city. What basements to tunnel through, what walls to be hammered down: you make a labyrinth of well-placed incisions and the city is yours. Perforated from below by robbers, it rips to pieces. The city is a maze of unrealized break-ins.
A whole new literary genre could result. Booker Prizes are awarded. You describe, in extraordinary detail, down to timetables and distances, down to personnel and the equipment they would use, how all the banks in your city might someday be robbed. Every issue of The New Yorker, for instance, includes a short, 600-word essay about breaking into a different bank somewhere in Manhattan, one by one, in every neighborhood. Ideas, plans, possibilities. Scenarios. Time Out London does the same.
It soon becomes a topic of regular conversation at dinner parties; parents lull their kids to sleep describing imaginary bank robberies, tales of theft and architectural transgression. Buildings are something to be broken into, the parents whisper. It's what buildings have inside that's your goal.
 [Image: The brick-arched entryway to a "mysterious Chinese tunnel" in the Pacific Northwest (via)].72 years ago, a man named William Zimmerman sat down to tell a story about "mysterious Chinese tunnels" to the U.S. government. That interview was conducted as part of the Federal Writers' Project, and it can be read online in a series of typewritten documents hosted by the Library of Congress. Zimmerman claims that "mysterious" tunnels honeycombed the ground beneath the city of Tacoma, Washington. These would soon become known as "Shanghai tunnels," because city dwellers were allegedly kidnapped via these underground routes – which always led west to the docks – only to be shipped off to Shanghai, an impossibly other world across the ocean. There, they'd be sold into slavery.  [Image: The cover page for one of many U.S. government documents called "Mysterious Chinese Tunnels"].Subterranean space here clearly exists within an interesting overlap of projections: fantasies of race, exoticism, and simply subconscious fear of the underworld. White Europeans had expanded west all the way to the Pacific Ocean – only to find themselves standing in a swamp, on earthquake-prone ground, with a "mysterious" race of Chinese dock workers tunneling toward them through the earth, looking for victims... It's like a geography purpose-built for H.P. Lovecraft, or something straight out of the work of Jeff VanderMeer: down in the foundations of your city is a mysterious network of rooms, excavated by another race, through which unidentified strangers move at night, threatening to abduct you. It's urban historical anthropology by way of Jean Cocteau – or Sigmund Freud.  [Image: Another "mysterious Chinese tunnel" in the Pacific Northwest (via)].In any case, because "construction of the Northern Pacific Railroad required large numbers of railroad laborers," Zimmerman's tale begins, "many Chinese coolies" had to be smuggled into the "rapidly growing city of Tacoma." They "arrive[d] mysteriously," he says, "smuggled in on ships, and even Indian canoes, from British Columbia." At that point: Several opium joints were known to be operating in Tacoma. And there was no question in the minds of many people that the narcotic was smuggled in through tunnels from their dens to cleverly hidden exits near the waterfront. They were also convinced that the tunnels were dug by Chinese, either as a personal enterprise or at the behest of white men of the underworld, as no white workmen would burrow the devious mole-like passageways and keep their labors secret. Zimmerman adds that the Chinese "were forcibly expelled from Tacoma in 1885, but ever [sic] so often the story of the Chinese tunnels bobs up whenever workmen come across them in excavation work." It's even rumored here in the BLDGBLOG offices that a mere 5% of the original tunnels have so far been discovered – until a graduate student in anthropology from the nearby University comes across a clue in an old government document, leading her to a small, bricked-over window near a drain in the downtown fish market... Directed by Gore Verbinski.  [Image: Entries to Tacoma's mysterious Chinese underworld? Photo by Stephen Cysewski (via)].Meanwhile, that same year – 1936 – a 39-year old man named V.W. Jenkins sat down with a representative of the Federal Writers' Project, and he had this story to tell: In the spring of 1935 when the City Light Department was placing electric power conduits under ground, workmen digging a trench in the alley between Pacific Avenue and 'A' Street at a point about 75 feet south of 7th Street, just back of the State Hotel, crosscut an old tunnel about ten feet below the surface of the ground. This tunnel was about three feet wide by five feet high, and tended in a southwesterly direction under the State Hotel, and in the opposite direction southeasterly toward Commencement Bay. I entered the tunnel and walked about 40 or 50 feet in each direction from the opening which we had encountered. There it went under the hotel the tunnel dipped sharply to pass under the concrete footings of the rear wall, proving that the tunnel was dug after the hotel had been built. In the other direction the tunnel had a sharp turn to the left, and after several feet, a gradual curve to the right, so that it was again tending in the same direction as at the opening. About 50 feet from the opening on the Bay side the tunnel began to dip and in another ten feet began to decline very sharply so that it would have been necessary to use a rope to descend safely on the met slippery floor. The brow of the bluff overlooking the waterfront is but a short distance from this point, explaining the need for the rapid downward slope, although it is probable that farther on there is a turn, either right or left, and that the tunnel was dug at an easier grade before emerging at a lower level. Jenkins then offers this bizarrely wonderful explanation for what else might have formed those tunnels: Some persons contend that these openings found in the vicinity of Tacoma were caused by trees buried in the glacial age, and after decaying, left the openings in the glacial drift. If this is the true explanation for the tunnel I have described, then the tree that made it must have been a giant that grow such in the shape of a corkscrew. Of course, there are also " Shanghai tunnels" beneath Portland, Oregon. "All along the Portland waterfront," we read, "...'Shanghai Tunnels' ran beneath the city, allowing a hidden world to exist. These 'catacombs' connected to the many saloons, brothels, gambling parlors, and opium dens, which drew great numbers of men and became ideal places for the shanghaiers to find their victims. The catacombs, which 'snaked' their way beneath the streets of what we now call Old Town, Skidmore Fountain, and Chinatown, helped to create an infamous history that became 'cloaked' in myth, superstition, and fear." That same site describes the actual process of Shanghai'ing: The victims were held captive in small brick cells or makeshift wood and tin prisons until they were sold to the sea captains. A sea captain who needed additional men to fill his crew notified the shanghaiiers that he was ready to set sail in the early-morning hours, and would purchase the men for $50 to $55 a head. 'Knock-out drops' were then slipped into the confined victim's food or water.
Unconscious, they were then taken through a network of tunnels that 'snaked' their way under the city all the way to the waterfront. They were placed aboard ships and didn't awake until many hours later, after they had 'crossed the bar' into the Pacific Ocean. It took many of these men as long as two full voyages – that's six years – to get back to Portland. It all sounds like some prehistoric narrative of the afterlife – a shaman's tale: you're blacked out and led through mysterious tunnels inside the earth's surface, only to wake up surrounded by the oceanic, on your way to another world. This site offers quite a lot of history of the Tacoma tunnels, and ten minutes of Googling will reveal at least a dozen blog posts and assorted minor newspaper articles about the phenomenon; but there's something particularly intriguing about an official oral history, conducted by the U.S. government itself, in which tales of subterranean geography are revealed. It's like a form of national psychoanalysis, where each session takes the form of geographic speculation. More practically, such interviews are a fantastic premise for a short novel or film.  [Image: Photo by Michael Cook. "Looking into the bottom of the William B. Rankine G.S. wheelpit from the Rankine tailrace"].Briefly, though, I'm also reminded of BLDGBLOG's interview with Michael Cook, posted last summer. Cook is an urban explorer based in Toronto. Toward the end of that interview, I asked Cook "if there's some huge, mythic system out there that you've heard about but haven't visited yet" – some long-rumored underworld that might only be speculation. Cook replies: I guess the most fabled tunnel system in North America is the one that supposedly runs beneath old Victoria, British Columbia. It’s supposedly connected with Satanic activity or Masonic activity in the city, and there’s been a lot of strange stuff written about that. But no one’s found the great big Satanic system where they make all the sacrifices.
You know, these legends are really... there’s always some sort of fact behind them. How they come about and what sort of meaning they have for the community is what’s really interesting. So while I can poke fun at them, I actually appreciate their value – and, certainly, these sort of things are rumored in a lot of cities, not just Victoria. They’re in the back consciousness of a lot of cities in North America. (With huge thanks to Alexis Madrigal, who sent me a link to the Tacoma tunnels last summer).
 [Image: Sketches by Smout Allen].I've uploaded an edited MP3 from BLDGBLOG's interview with Mark Smout and Laura Allen, recorded two weeks ago in London at the Storefront for Art and Architecture. We discuss everything from active vs. passive landscapes to mudflats, river deltas, and the architectural form of managed retreat on the British coast; from the design implications of climate change to artificially refrigerated Chinese tundra in Tibet; from Smout Allen's educational work with Unit 11 at the Bartlett School of Architecture to their work as documented in the excellent and highly recommended Pamphlet Architecture book Augmented Landscapes.   [Images: Sketches by Smout Allen; these images are also briefly explored in the forthcoming BLDGBLOG Book].The MP3 comes in at about 37 minutes. If you have any thoughts, let me know! I'd love to discuss this further. Special thanks go out to Mark Smout and Laura Allen themselves, and to Joseph Grima and the Storefront for Art and Architecture for hosting the event.
 [Image: Tom McCarthy and Remainder].I've uploaded an MP3 from BLDGBLOG's interview with novelist Tom McCarthy, recorded on the 4th of July at the Storefront for Art and Architecture in London. We cover a range of topics, from memory and architecture to trauma and the spatial nature of repetition, via Italo Calvino, Marcel Proust, Friedrich Nietzsche, and William Burroughs – plus a bit of James Joyce – during a long talk about McCarthy's novel Remainder (previously described here). The file is available for download at this link; if you've never used Megaupload before, just enter the letters that you see, wait 30-40 seconds as per the instructions, and then knock yourself out. Of course, I'd love to discuss this discussion further, so if you have any thoughts, please feel free to chime in. Thanks again to Tom McCarthy for coming out for the conversation, and to Joseph Grima and the Storefront for Art and Architecture for hosting it.
|
|
