Bangladesh? The new axis of evil.

By admin | Published: September 22, 2005

Debra Burlingame sure knows how to make an analogy, doesn’t she? In ceaseless effort to besmirch any public comment about the WTC that doesn’t originate from spectacularly original mind, or Karl Rove’s pocket, she popped of this one today:

Her criticisms began with the opening gallery. “So the very first experience that the visitors will get when they come from Cedar Rapids, Portland, Ore., and Tallahassee, Fla., was not how we experienced 9/11 but how the people, say, in Bangladesh experienced it?” she asked.

“Imagine erecting an edifice at the U.S.S. Arizona where before we hear their story, we get the world’s view, maybe the Axis powers’ view of World War II,” she said. “I can’t imagine how they’re thinking.”

Now I usually have to wait a long time before I can hit people over the head with my putative victimization (white, male, straight, etc. I’m of Italian descent, but I keep living in places lousy with Italians, so that usually gets me nothing), but finally, I get to trumpet my experience over hers. I am here to tell Debra Burlingame to back the fuck off, since I am a descendant of a victim of the Pearl Harbor attack.

Just like Hitchens’ finding out he is Jewish, I did come late to the impact of this victim status. Certainly I knew my whole life that my great uncle’s name was on the Arizona memorial, but I did not realize it enabled me to relentless belittle anyone who had political or social opinions that contradicted mine.

And using her fascinatingly tortured logic, her pronouncement today, which showed an amazing lack of consideration for the feelings of the Families of 12/7 (this is support group I started earlier this morning — actually, you just witnessed its genesis; I’d invite you to join, but you need to produce a death certificate. Otherwise, find your own date-based tragedy) — a fact I can’t definitely ascertain, but it doesn’t matter specifically what the other families think, as their experience is absolutely unique and others cannot pass reasonable judgment either way — so her callous and ill-considered appropriation of our experience invalidates any and all her comments to date and for the indefinite future. In other words, since she lacks the personal experience of an historical event that lives in the memory of the entire country, there is no way for her to speak meaningfully about it, or anything else now, forever.

Which is useful, since the Freedom Center up and remembered that being about Freedom is about, well, speaking one’s mind without fear of someone trying to supress your actions out of twisted ideological hatred and fear. Sure, it only took the one of the most important American historians quitting in disgust to get them to this point, but you have to break a few eggs, right?

The entire fiasco is beginning to feel like the freeway scene in Altman’s Nashville, where most of the main characters in the film mill about randomly, willfully or incidentally ignoring others with whom they are later found to have intricate connections. By the end of the scene, the camera pulls back and amibent audio reduces everyone’s individual conversation into an indecipherable mass, everyone stuck in place by an unseen logjam out of which no one can see the way. But as long as we have the spirited efforts of Burlingame, we at least have a sign post indicating who is either morally bankrupt (everyone else) or incorruptable (her, just her). We eagerly await her next dispatch.

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Crafty.

By admin | Published: September 21, 2005

Recently there was a small rash of discussion about ‘corporate’ graffiti, in response to a couple of projects. The most notable examples were a single Time Magazine billboard, and several iterations of the same ad for the launch the new Hummer. I never saw the Time billboard in person (I don’t even know if it is still up), but it was high on a building, and thus most of the commentary was indirect.

On at least two of the Hummer ads, including the one I saw personally at 2nd Street on Avenue A (on the side of the old children’s store — now becoming a Washington Mutual branch), the feeback was more immediate, in the form of defacement.

I understand this to be one of the most extreme forms of commentary, but cannot claim any greater knowledge of the idiolect of graf writing . The direct response was more about the subject matter (super-sized SUV) than the actual process (graf writers ‘sell-out’), though there was some indirect conversation about the latter as well. Call the defacement a clash of subcultures, since if there is a generalized urban culture identity, it isn’t so much about environmental sensitivity, at least when it comes to vehicle ownership.

The team who created the mural – the TATS CRU – have, after years of being one of the preeminent outlaw crews, actively pursued commissioned work (particularly advertising) for some time. The fact that they need to commidify their dissent in such a base way only really has to do with the fact that they don’t have a Yale School of Art pedigree that enables them to avoid the nastier realities of commerce. Or they haven’t talked up Jeffrey Deitch correct.

I don’t believe in the direct action school of resistance (burning Hummers, e.g.) nor do I support the ‘organized’ approach to murals. For after the Hummer mural on 2nd Street was painted over, a single line claim — Reserved for TATS CRU — replaced it. Excuse me? Reserved? What, there is now a protocol for illegal art? I-ron-ic (or is that Mor-on-ic).

There are other explanations: a service to aspiring taggers that any attempts would be obliterated, due to superior credentials and perhaps explicit permission from the building owners (though I can’t imagine WaMu is pleased with notion that their first foray into the EV would be pimping consumer goods — or maybe it is one of those community sensitivity exercises). All it really did was tempt me to vandalize some private property for the first time in my life (well, that I can remember). But considering the effort they’ve made over time to transform some pretty bleak streetscapes, and, unlike the plague of Chico that covers the EV (that damn PJPII mural still creeps me out everytime I see it — which is, unfortunately, daily), they are good at what they do, so they get a pass on the occasion act of arrogance.

One would hope, however, that such cheek is then justified by the work. Such hopes are dashed the moment one pauses to consider that ‘interesting’ was not a quality to be seen in anything done once ‘viral’ became not a legitimate ad category, but even a concept.

The new ad was mildly insulting, only because the only culture precedent that came to mind was Spike Lee’s Bamboozled, which was a scathing attack on relationship between media/advertising and race. I won’t go into specifics, since I’d be perpetuating a viral campaign that still hasn’t turned up on the internet, but it seems to be a haircare ad.

But, again, advertising inadvertently aping satire without a shred of self-examination? Hardly new [in fact, the designers responsible for some of blatantly racist fake products in Bamboozled were hired in the traditional manner — that is, they were contracted to develop product identities, the only qualification being they must be clearly racist, but found their program challenging, since they kept find more egregious examples in the real world during the course of filming]. Again, not worth writing home about, nor spending the odd thousand worlds railing against.

No, the signal failure of this exercise was revealed when I was walking by Soho Billiards, which has one of those annoying bathroom billboards mounted in their vestibule. In it was an exact small scale replica of the TATS CRU mural. In other words, the mural was actually created by some agency flunkie and delivered to a team that was hired for no other reason than their ability to diligently transcribe what is a sad piece of ‘edgy’ advertising. Even though they are partially responsible for creating the visual language of one of the most pervasive trends in graphic design (or art, if you please) in the late 20th century, they weren’t deemed capable of interpreting some hack shampoo ad.

You know, there are people who build some pretty amazing things out of tongue depressors or toothpicks, but you don’t see OMA hiring them to make models (well, not yet). But somehow it was necessary to acquire an appliqué of ‘real’ when any hack illustrator who is good with an airbrush would do. It’s not that any great claim of art is being made, but a small amount of buzz was manufactured when this first started happening, some of it under the rubric of make the advertising both sexy (ooh! former outlaws making ads!) and more palatable, since it would be filtered through the hands of those who are already part of the visual urban fabric. But this particular result is no more interesting than someone who makes a really big tinfoil ball.

Who to blame? Everyone, surely. The TATS site pretty aggressively courts this work, so I can’t imagine them keeping it real in any resolute way. Ad agencies? They are a tin-eared as, well, me, when it comes to what every might even mildly be called hip. The hair care people? Have you seen a Fructis ad? This is the Stanley Livingstone of hair care adverts. Even language such as ‘blame’ is a touch histrionic. Tagging is one of the more visceral rituals of cosmopolitan identity. The assertion of one’s name, garish and forceful, is what we all seek. If you can’t get your name in lights on Broadway, you can always paint it on a nearby wall, provided you have the gumption and fearlessness required. And such brazen chutzpah is rewarded with… a tepid exercise in pitching mass-market product to the great American Median. TATS should do a “Devolution of Graf Man” self-portrait as their next mural. Or they could paint the controversy and attempt to explicate why an intelligent designer would have put these particular wheels in motion. Regardless, be prepared to discover everything you have be taught about shampoo is wrong.

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Today.

By admin | Published: September 11, 2005

Today is a distressing timely moment to pause briefly to reflect on both the principles and plans, as well as our actions, in response to tragedy. Though phrases like “things will never be the same” or “never forget”, “always remember” or other similar sentiments will be liberally deployed as a visceral, emotional salve, the painful and ugly logistics and still remaining challenges mandate a more precise accounting, to both hold accountable those who failed, and to help those still suffering. The early reports of poor communication and what seems like benign neglect is a horrifying failure on the part of the federal government. Years of highly constructed conservative attempts to fray the federal structure (the ideological impact of what such a stance does to our generally held notion of democracy I won’t go into) has laid the groundwork for much of the discussion stemming from the right about local responsibility, all of it geared towards shifting blame away, even though we have witnessed an unprecedented concentration of federal powers over the past four years, under the guide of terror preparedness.

Commentators on the left are grasping at the intertwined relationship between FEMA and Homeland Security — rightly so, since the former was essentially gutted in the service of the latter, and both seem packed with dense, incompetent frat boys that are the hallmark of the Bush administration — to argue that this cock-up exposes us to greater threats of terrorism, by demonstrating the inadequacies of the new mega-bureaucratic structures established by the Bush Administration.

Lacking a framework for everyday conversation about the significance of federalism, hanging on the narrow issue of terrorism ignores the fundanmental threat to our notion of democracy in the form of conservative efforts to destroy a centralized government (and worse, one that doesn’t have a shred of an idea for its replacement). It begins to look like tinfoil-hatted conspiracy to argue that the pig trough that DC has descended into as a result of the current administration has cravenly exploited the terror threat simply to further an extremist agenda of permanently debilitating the federal government, but at the same time, it’s hard to find a more rational explanation. One reason it is hard to posit this argument is accepting as normal or real the mind-boggling principles that necessarily under-gird this program.

Rather than try to overtly legislate their implicit goal, we instead are besieged by inept government, in the form of the Department of Homeland Security. The long-term effects of this are clear: there will be no tax relief for the majority of workers (in sheer numbers), nor will there be any relent in the expenditures this monolith demands, even as the expenses are siphoned off to the rich and connected (Kellogg Brown & Root, having clearly demonstrated that they are willing to commit fraud that may have causal connection to the death of American soldiers, have once again received a no-bid contract, one powered with the suspension of federally-mandated minimums for worker wages but does not similarly cap what they can bill).

Perversely, here in New York, we are insulated from this to a degree. As we watch in crippling horror (eleven days after landfall of Katrina, the NOLA weblog is still posting notices daily regarding people still desperately stranded, including an entire community in Mississippi that has yet to receive any assistance whatsoever), the success of our local support services becomes more evident. Even as we commit the largest percentage of our income to tax payments to the federal government of any locality (never receiving a similar level of services), we rail most vehemently against its continued failures to help the neediest, here, and around the country. And as the events of the past two weeks make clear, on this very particular day, we — meaning the New York City area — are far better at managing catastrophe, better than other local governments, better than the federal government.

This is not simply braggadocio, though it is a intentional acknowledgment of what the rapid and well-planned response was able to do to repair our city, even as the current state of development of the site would seem to contradict this. It also underscores the hopeless state of just about everywhere else when presented with a similar challenge. It is impossible to draw direct corollaries between the two events, and, more importantly, the scale — physically — of Katrina’s devastation and our own cultural remoteness and foolish sense of imperviousness from what large scale “natural” disasters can cause, means that a finely grained comparison is an unfair and misplaced endeavor.

But there are two crucial areas where parallels should be drawn, in hopes that the eventual recovery is markedly better than the initial response. One is the ability of local politicians and cultural figures to assert leadership and inspire confidence. Even allowing his myriad failings and flaws, former mayor Guiliani is the standard bearer for effective leadership in crisis. Likewise for former president Clinton, whom no one doubts could bring the necessary mixture of empathy and gravitas to the situation, since often the Commander in Chief serves best when his symbolic actions inspire more tangible and beneficial efforts of thousands of anonymous volunteers and workers.

The second is the role of public discourse in the both the current reportage and follow-up transparency. Bringing to bear the most sophisticated and best-funded local press in the country to the WTC redevelopment process has at best only attenuated the worst aspects of bureaucratic self-interest and short-sighted scheming. What potential fraud or worse might be perpetrated throughout the Gulf Coast during the recovery is doubly horrifying because of its base immorality.

What these two conditions will hopefully conspire to achieve is a sea change back to an accepted and celebrated notion of federalism that takes pride in its role as protector and unifier of this country and its citizenry. New York is often left to its own devices, for good and for bad. Our wealth affords us myriad privilege and protects us from what now seems distressingly routine to the less fortunate elsewhere. We can’t, and don’t, expect the same self-sufficiency of smaller cities and towns that face threats as dire, and occasionally, worse. We deserve and demand a response to Katrina that clearly establishes as a mandate our national duty to repair the lives of those left exposed as a result of years of lackadaisical disregard, and more recently and tragically, far more active neglect. Hopefully this process will leave us in a place where we can proclaim proudly that “never again” will be our standard, but now is not the time for such empty proclamations. Now is the time for “Where can we help?”

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“What is the appropriate behavior for a man or a woman in the midst of this world, where each person is clinging to his piece of debris? What’s the proper salutation between people as they pass each other in this flood?”

By admin | Published: September 4, 2005

There’s not much to be said here. Fury obviates eloquence. We are watching a city, along with literally thousands of its most needy residents, die in slow motion. There is no mystery, no confusion. We know where they are, we know what they need, we know where the materials and services are that can alleviate their suffering. Being far from the actual events and feeling hampered by poor information, I may be wrong in speculating, but it seems that in spite of all of this knowledge, along with the most advanced shipping and logistics network in human history, those people will still die. I know, this very minute, how I could get a bottle of water delivered overnight to a person in London or Tokyo, but I do not know to whom I could speak, beg, or shout at to do the same for a person stranded on a roof in New Orleans. The shame this brings upon our country is incalculable.

There seems to be little we can do directly, but the best alternate now seems to be survivor assistance. Houston is likely to be the key relief location, and what we have seen to date is that the city or regional governments may fail to provide assitance to the levels needed. Key will be some local support organizations. Money, for those in our areas, would be best, since shipping and logistics would be ineffective relative to the resources they already have in place:

Second Harvest website
Houston Food Bank, for regional folks (they are rerouting monetary donations to Second Harvest, but will accept hard goods).

It is a miniscule gesture, but I am not posting about anything else until the situation — I hesitate to say ‘improves’ since I honestly can’t imagine when such a descriptor would be justified — moves from being absolutely horrific. We live in a world of relative moral judgments recalculated every day, and this is a wall. So I’m stopping. I do not trust that the scale of the tragedy and response needed has been adequately determined, nor has an adequate response been formed. To this, I meekly submit that we not speak of anything else until it is apparent that something changes. If any of us who have even a nominal amount of relevance or impact in presenting information or opinion to the world stopped, and spoke only of our demand that more be done, or find some other means to intervene, it would then at least feel like my participation is scraping the bottom rungs of diginity. I have this place for these words, and they are angry and hopeless.

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A Tale of Two Ferry (Terminals), Part Two: St. George

By admin | Published: August 29, 2005

If the ferry terminal on the Manhattan side imposes itself awkwardly on Battery Park, the new terminal at St. George, in Staten Island, manages the diametric opposite: most of the time one is hard pressed to find it.

Like the other side, this side as a somewhat colorful history. After sticking his nose in Manhattan business and sinking the VSBA proposal, borough president Guy Molinari had a go at a little one-upmanship, tapping Peter Eisenman to develop a concept that was everything you would expect: daring, perhaps gimmicky, and expensive. And like most Eisenman schemes that fit that bill, it eventually faded, to be replaced by HOK, the SOM of the Midwest.

My general understanding that something grand was growing on the Richmond shore — along with a pretty glowing press release on the HOK site — sent me to the far side of the harbor, where I was promptly confused by the hype. The couple items I’d read indicated that the development was going to displace any notion that the new terminal was merely a traffic turnaround. Given some of the impressive riverfront development being undertaken elsewhere around Manhattan, I was reservedly hopeful. This turned out to be a misplaced hope.

Arriving at the terminal, the gap between the disparate cultures of Manhattan and Staten Island are placed in immediate and stark relief when trying to exit the building. There are several points of egress, but most lead to transfer points to other modes of transit. One leads west to the minor league stadium for the Yankees, but beyond that, it is hard to discern a route to the nearest local street, which seems a good quarter mile distant — and, worse, it doesn’t look exceptionally pedestrian friendly.

None of this indicts the efforts of HOK, since one mandate of their redesign was to retain most of the existing infrastructure, which includes several bus turnabouts, some car lanes — for both drop off and ferry access — limited parking, and the terminus of the Staten Island light rail line. Unknotting this snarl would have certainly been an expensive proposition, and I can say with no authority that it would improve circulation, never having accessed the terminal from the land side.

But this isolation, particularly for the casual visitor, makes for a listless visit, a sensation made more acute when one considers the bustle that defines Battery Park on the far shore. Perhaps this is appropriate for the borough that works hardest to extricate itself from the larger identity of New York City (even as they relentlessly campaign for subsidized access via the ferry and Verrazano Narrows), but it is disorienting and alienating, given how easy it is to get to the Manhattan side from any number of modes or approaches (granted, the last hundred yards are rather difficult, but this is a temporary condition).

And it quickly dispenses with any notion that this is the lynchpin of a waterfront redevelopment. Given the vistas of lower Manhattan, the harbor and Brooklyn immediately available, it would seem to be a sensible idea. But there is nothing there to indicate the opportunity is being pursued. The bizarre, seemingly security-induced requirement that all passengers must exit forces a little bit of visitor wandering, and for those who fail to hustle back to the departing ferry will be rewarded with a half-hour visit to a mostly empty facility.

This terminal is also seems incomplete, with some sections possibly awaiting renovation, or perhaps just tenants. It isn’t readily apparent, nor can one tell if there is a raft of food and entertainment opportunities forthcoming. Given how isolated it is, I suspect that very little is. Consequently, ‘new terminal’ seems a misnomer. The signature element, a large arch that springs toward the stadium, looks more to be part of it than the terminal, and given its placement, it serves as an awkward intermediary not seeming affixed to either portion.

The arch motif continues on the inside, as some poorly selected flooring mimics the curve the length of what I guess would be called the ‘main hall’ — in point of fact, a weakly residual space that collects the disparate entry and exit points. This area is seems to be the locus of retail opportunities, but, again, it was hard to tell if any are pending.

The waiting area is the most articulated section, and is nice, if by nice, one means well-executed, vaguely modernist engineering chic. Sort of a lightweight Morphosis or Nicholas Grimshaw, which HOK does just fine, in the same way that SOM does the upscale corporate interiors well. Prominent columns wrapped in perforated metal, clearly articulated structural members, and a gently curving roof deliver everything you expect, but not much more.

It’s not as bad a space as the above might describe. The scale is good, managing to not seem crowded or barren (though early morning rush might be another matter), and the preponderance of metal is not cold or off-putting, since it is, after all a port. Being a high traffic space, hard surfaces are logical, though it might have been nice if the space reflected what is the most dramatic element of the existing building, the stands of creosote slathered wood that line each slip.

The flooring in this space is far better, featuring a helpful map of the harbor area. Another nod to location are air vents that look vaguely like portholes. Passenger circulation is handled no better — or worse, just more of the same non-soltuion — here than the other side; the sliding glass barn doors are nicely detailed, but distinctive in no way. The pathways seem a little better defined, but that might simply be an affect of the more orthogonal layout. Circulation routes are still best understood by following the crowd.

The most interesting, though entirely incidental, result of my trip was spending an hour talking to a off-duty NYPD officer/security guard who was watching absolutely nothing. Aside from fielding repeated questions about where to find a bar, he seemed to have the afternoon set aside to watching lower Manhattan from afar. The best part was our mutual confusion about our environs, me never having left the ferry before, he never having been to Staten Island before. Standing underneath the arch from nowhere to nowhere, we talked about commute hassles, where to eat in the city, and how little native New Yorkers move about their city (born 46 years ago in the Bronx, I was there for his first trip to Staten Island. Ever.). It’s a shame he didn’t have any beer on him, and an extra chair, because that would have been a just fine way to watch the sun set. Hopefully someone will notice how nice that bit of outdoor space would be with some chairs. A boarded-up staircase that leads to what looks like an upper level hints that something is still in the works, though when was hard to discern. From what has been said, no matter what is to come, it will apparently be quite an improvement. To the unfamiliar visitor, however, such subtleties are lost. Hopefully, the final stage won’t leave one that disappointed. Regardless of the weakness of the two terminals, the ferry is still a joy at sunset. Take the trip. Even if there isn’t a beer waiting for you at the other end, there’s one on the way.

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A Tale of Two Ferry (Terminals), Part One: South Ferry.

By admin | Published: August 26, 2005

It’s been said for several months that the new Staten Island Ferry has been complete, but it hardly looks that way. When the ‘official’ announcement occurred the sign wasn’t even finished. Now, at least that much as has been done, but visiting it still leaves you with a sense of incompleteness, not the least of which is due to the massive construction site it sits atop (much of which is unrelated).

The history of the new terminal building is somewhat sordid. The original terminal was badly damaged by fire in 1991. A competition was held soliciting new designs. The winning firm, Philadelphia’s VSBA (Venturi Scott Brown Associates), suggested a massive, not entirely cartoony (by their standards) clock face, a gesture not without precedent. Push back from Staten Island Borough President Guy Molinari forced a redesign, which was also rejected, leading to VBSA’s resignation, with the work subsequently awarded to the associate on VSBA’s bid, Fred Schwartz.

After a some tribulations involving sub-contractor chicanery and whatever else befalls a public sector project, over a decade later, the building is close to done. Figuring the last touches (including the tie into the South Ferry station) would take another year or two, and hearing that the other side was as about as done, I decided to spend a recent Saturday on the Ferry, and some time wandering the terminals.

I’ve always been a fan of the Ferry. It’s free, the views are great, and like any quality public transit, alcohol is served. The ramshackle condition of the terminal wasn’t entirely frustrating, given the sorry state of so much of our various transit systems. Like I said, it’s free, and there’s beer.

And now there’s a big shiny mound of glass parked in front of it. I say in front, because it’s hard to discern if any changes were made to the slips proper, and the immediate circulation areas are nondescript enough that change wouldn’t be evident. If there is a unifying order, it is not readily apparent. There is an attempt to create a node at the entry, where the three slips funnel into a hub — the radius clearly evident at the entrance, with its concave signage. This could be read in reverse — the building radiating from that point — but I’ve always thought the slips were the focus of the building, so I relate from that point back.

Given the most travelers will pass through both sides of the node, a compression and expansion will be the effect. But it’s an effect that only occurs to someone watching for it — an actual compression would compromise circulation. So it ends up feeling like a half effort, and weakly delineated.

The other gesture is a thrusting upward of the main lobby (and attendant entry hall) as it travels towards the aforementioned hub. This creates a strange polygon that doesn’t resolve visually into a regular space, regardless of your approach. Seen from above, it is apparent that a symmetrical solution was not possible, and, given the difficulties of the site (very little site work was allowed for the foundation due to the presence of the South Ferry station beneath), simply placing the form was a considered challenge. The interior layout — a fairly straightforward entry stair flanked by two ancillary stairs that follow the building edge as it splays toward the slips, all of it ending at the entry hall — tries to hard to assert that it could be a regular and symmetrical figure, but ends only seeming to splay in too many directions at once.

The entire site is awash in construction still, so perhaps when it is completed (my best guess will be post-2006, based on the South Ferry information) it won’t seem ungainly, but for now it looks like giant, irregular barge has been beached in Battery Park. Part of this is due to the intrusion — I’m still a little surprised when I see it — and part is due what I think was an intention to make the entire form hover, with a pass through drive below, resting on the ground only at the entry hub. With the visual clutter of construction, it’s hard to tell. But, it also seems that such a plan may have been a good intention, but there will still be plenty of competing visual activity (another terminal building, some unfortunate support facilities, the park, and what looks to be a snarl of driveways) at the most finished state, and it’s questionable if this form is commanding enough to organize site, or simply an awkward participant.

The inside is even less distinguished, with a series of discrete decisions not that impressive on their own, and never cohering into a pleasing whole. Small exceptions, such as the Exit signage, don’t offset the jumble throughout. Functionally, the space works just fine, but there is nothing that cleverly addresses the queuing habits of riders, which is to mill about the gate awaiting the next ferry. Any sort of crowd control would have been intrusive and foolhardy — a big open space is certainly the most efficient way to move bodies — but given how essential the process is, with people packing in slowly but surely as the ferry docks and departing passengers flooding out exit hall, some sort of response would have been a pleasant diversion.

The one attempt at a unifying element — and mostly likely the significant remnant of VBSA involvement — is the band of signage the wraps inconsistently around the terminal. A band running around the interior partitions (clearly visible through the outer sheathing of glass) is a quote from Edna St. Vincent Millay (here’s a good chance to attack my poor note taking — I’m not quite sure on this point). In the main terminal space, this same band is repeated both as wayfinding signage, as well as electronic sign boards.

Oversize signage is fine, except the nomenclature is inconsistent (telephones are phone, a water fountain is H20 — apparently because spelling it out would leave the end of the sign in the real water just out the window), and the uneven perimeter makes it surprising user unfriendly. The electronic signs are worse, since they present information randomly, with color changes that are arbitrary (that is, the exit direction isn’t only red, and the gates only green, etc.), and they fail to do the one thing such an overt gesture should: announce where the next ferry arrives. Surely the gaggle of people that collect in front of the correct gate serves the same purpose, but given the lineage of the signs in VSBA’s out-scaled postmodernism, having a giant ‘Next Ferry Here’ declaration would have been nice. Given the work of firms such as 2×4 in developing compelling and effective signage, this is a missed opportunity.

Some details work well — the Exit signage is clever, the benches are quite nice, given the usual annoyance of interruptions to make them sleeper proof. One the water side, the short awning that juts out over each slip is edged in the same ungainly orange of the ferry boats (a color used to make them stand out in the fog). Some fail badly, such as the persistence of what appears to be temporary fencing and barriers used for crowd control in the interstitial entrance/exit areas. Though this may have nothing to so with Schwartz, seeing a weather-beaten portable wood gate is jarring and draws undue attention.

The history of this project is one of missed opportunities (one competition entry, from Aldo Rossi, was particularly elegant — one suspects VBSA was picked because they were rooting for the home team on the jury). And, at their worst, the glittering behemoths being constructed for Fulton Street and the WTC PATH Station will overwhelm what, as a matter of siting, was one of the most exciting opportunities for a freestanding structure in Manhattan in some time. It won’t make anyone cringe, but nor does it resonate with the songs of sirens, as the sea is purported to do. Of course, this particular sea is only taking one to Staten Island, s
o maybe this is proportional. And once one gets to the other side, well, it’s more disappointment. More on that later. . .

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Fuck you heroes.

By admin | Published: August 23, 2005

So last night I was privy to a bit of lore heretofore a mystery to me: how does all that graffiti — excuse me, street art — happen? When do such luminaries as Neckface find the opportunity to execute their craft? Well, if you are walking past 240 E 2nd Street at around 11:05 PM on a Monday night, you might see an rather uninteresting looking punk leaving his tag on the front of the building. I have long since given up on deciphering tags, so it looks like ‘WISPHERS’ to me. Something like that. And if you are the sort who tags a building early enough in the evening to have a middle-aged blogger catch you, you probably drive to the East Village in your parent’s black Range Rover (plate: NY BVN 5161), and then race off, your revolutionary act of resistance complete.

I used to think that my derisive comments to the effect that most of what passes for, I dunno, visual anarchy, is a bunch of people who think Mark Ecko is some sort of avatar of antithetical culture (but is really just a whiner, begging a judge to protect his lastest PR gimmick, all of it supported by the unwavering fealty of alterna-culture whores everywhere), but really are just a bunch of rich white kids, I used to think that was bitter and dismissive presumption. Turns out, every once in a while, that I am dead on. So, you punk-ass bitches who drive to the East Village to leave entirely tired tags on my neighborhood: whatever. Live the dream. Buy a Tony Hawk videogame or something. Gnarly.

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If I had a shovel in the mornin’, I’d… hand out some government money in the evening.

By admin | Published: August 22, 2005

The Real Estate has been pretty closely tracking what’s going on with Goldman Sachs new tower in Battery Park City, which has quickly morphed from the only commercial development in downtown that wasn’t awash in government pump-priming into yet another poorly negotiated handout that will continue to unwind in entirely unsuspenseful fits and starts until the final bits of public money are extracted from the pockets of any unsuspecting souls on Broad Street who haven’t left after getting waylaid by the Starck PR juggernaut.

The one point that I have to agree with is that the Goldman people don’t seem to be bad sorts, even though the ironclad deal they wrangled looks like they make a sport of putting the screws to anyone within arms’ reach. I had business dealings with them some years ago, and they were real smart, real difficult (in the nicest sort of way), and refreshingly free of ‘knuckle-dragging’ (an term I must credit to one of my favorite clients) personas that are rampant in financial services. They make lots of money by making shrewd deals, and this latest one is an example of why they are so damn successful. I even heard that Pataki has to caddy for Hank Paulson on weekends for the next five years. Which is more useful than anything he’s done downtown in the past ten.

So we’re on the hook for something like three bills (really big bills, ones with eight zeroes), or as GS spokesperson Peter Rose put it in a rather understated way “the standard incentives for any corporation.” I don’t know about you, but I’m forming a corporation tomorrow. Given the bad money being thrown after the good downtown these days, it would be particularly mean spirited to harsh on this deal. Word is that Goldman was playing it straight up when they pulled out in April, citing security concerns. Since Pataki couldn’t be roused from the grain alcohol stupor he looks to be operating in these days, it took the newly refreshed and perhaps slightly more humble Dan Doctoroff to kick start the process (at least he recognized the need to burnish his legacy a bit before leaving town). Now things like agreements and milestones and whatnot are in place, it looks like an announcement will be finalized in the coming weeks.

The most significant downside to this plan is that it doesn’t net any new jobs downtown. Goldman has substantial holdings downtown (including Broad Street, Maiden Lane, and, when I knew them, Liberty Plaza across the way), all of which will be discharged when the new building is done. Though they have an tentative agreement to bring more jobs downtown over the next two decades, they aren’t obliged to, and they have a brand spanking new tower across the river that is only half full. So they have some flexibility.

In the mean time, what is to become of 85 Broad Street, the current Goldman HQ? Unlike the recent activity further up towards Wall, 85 is a rather imposing, bland corporate edifice from the seventies, with very little Starck conversion glamour possible.

More broadly — heh, heh — what of the gradual decline of Broad Street and the Financial District? Most expect the trading floor at the NYSE to be a museum piece inside a decade, if not far sooner (who remembers the Grasso Garden planned back in the 90’s? The threat to move to Jersey if they didn’t get a half billion? Good times). The aftermath of 9/11 has turned the street into a pedestrian mall (replete with tourists mugging with heavily armed soldiers for photos). This isn’t an entirely unplanned effort: Rogers Marvel produced some concepts a while back, which may or may not be what is currently being completed.

Given that they area is still bereft of a viable residential or commercial streetscape (at least one that reflects the means required to be residential in the area), perhaps a more thoroughgoing solution should be pursued. Some attention is being paid to the various slips, the area is rich in historic import of all kinds, and the proximity to the water means that it isn’t nearly as oppressive as 6th Avenue. Parts of Broad can be, but the irregular street pattern creates far more interesting vistas.

If there is any future for large scale commercial development downtown, it is near the WTC site, for better or worse. Much of the declining inventory are big block, bland office towers that will appeal to almost no one. But given all the dire prognoses, downtown is still one of largest business districts in the country. For all its caginess and careful negotiation, Goldman Sachs still ranks as perhaps the best example of a quintessentially New York corporation, and has respected that reputation with consistent effort. Some other downtown stalwarts — Brown Brothers Harriman comes to mind — will persist, but even if one subscribes to the belief that a business has as much responsibility to their community as a resident, businesses are fickle, moving on, failing, changing. Downtown was already in flux before the horror of September 11. We have seen little there of inspired, thoughtful leadership. What hope do we then have for the area at large?

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Wednesday Lore: Boy, I sure do miss the Pyramid.

By admin | Published: August 17, 2005

If it weren’t for Starbucks, what would be have to complain about? Well, I’d have plenty, but I don’t know about the rest of you. The end of hipster civilization (LES, oughts edition) as we know it occurred last week, when the dreaded green awning appeared over a storefront somewhere on the frontier (I believe it was Delancy). I wouldn’t notice because that stretch of the LES is populated with such stalwarts of alternative culture as Dunkin Donuts and Payless.

I don’t know that there is as much of the presumed griping going on as is being reported — it’s all very meta-commentary, likely because we’ve heard the griping so much we just assumed it was happening. Maybe I just hang out in the wrong places, and as a result of this incursion, there is a groundswell of hipsters who are decamping for… the South Bronx? Chapel Hill? Good riddance.

It is coming of age ritual, certainly, to assail the befouling of one’s narrowly constructed artifice. To stay youthful, I do it a whole bunch. I imagine that much of what is being said about the mermaid beachhead bespeaks a similar amount of self-reflexive irony. If not, I direct you to Kim’s (the St. Mark’s outpost since the original — which you can find written about in Spy circa 1991 as part of a sidebar item chronicling business that had wacky juxtapositions [the original Kim’s was a laundry that started renting videos] — has been vacated, perhaps to make room for a Starbucks) to rent a copy of Theory of Achievement (found on the Surviving Desire DVD. Better yet, buy it.).

Now that the devil’s nectar has imposed itself, we will all be drawn inexorably to it’s siren call, no? Given it’s ubiquity, I doubt anyone is making the trek to the Essex Street station to see if the frappucinos are better. So the Green Giant must be confident the neighborhood is underserved, in the parlance of pervasive marketing (though some are certainly eager to demonstrate otherwise).

I didn’t really want to spend too much time on this particular instance, since the bones are still getting picked over daily (it gives something write about other than the plague that is Scarano & Associates), aside to offer my moment of apocalypse, which was walking home from work one night and seeing the very low key opening of 71 Clinton, and thinking “A $22 hangar steak on Clinton Street? Fuck. That’s the beginning of the end.” See, we all have our own particular threshold. Rather than assert the quality of one over another, I’d rather recall some things lost to me, which with resonate a few, while for others it will seem as tired as whining about a Starbucks.

I miss the drug dealers on Avenue B. They made the street life safer, and more interesting. Eric, who sold dope — dope dealers were the most gregarious; coke dealers were iffy, and the heroin guys never spoke to anyone, because they didn’t have to — was the best salesman I ever met. He was seemed genuinely cheery and collegial, and remembered everyone’s name. I hope he’s selling real estate somewhere now.

I miss the Gas Station. There’s no good way to describe it, and Google is of no help. A former Gas Station (what else?), it became a club and local workspace of sculptors, and the output of some formed a carbuncle worthy of a Mad Max film that loomed over the intersection of B and Second Street. It was grittier (oh, that’s overused, I know) than the 6th Street Garden, and was devoid of the hippie territoriality that pervades some community gardens. It reminded me of a children’s book I had about the Watts Towers, or maybe I just like industrial ruins. When it was torn down, I was living in Hell’s Kitchen. The first apartment I was shown when I moved back was in the awful building that planted on the site. I refused to walk in the door.

I miss Ci Vediamo. I was told when I first moved here that it was staff owned (which seemed like a very cool thing at the time). I never confirmed this, but they served the best cheap pasta — in one of the basement spaces flanking the aforementioned original Kim’s — I ever had in Manhattan. This opinion could be occluded by time and the fact that it was the place I ate to celebrate my first job in New York (followed immediately by the theft of my backpack in the bar that is now where Niagara is, an event and place I am not nostalgic about). And I miss The Friends and the Two Rabbits. I can’t remember the proper French version of this, but it was the place that was supposed to be what the idea of a restaurant in the East Village should be (and sure, there’s a bunch of places in Williamsburg that fit that bill now, except I don’t live there): small, friendly, interesting and tasty.

But if there is truly a sign of a changing of the guard, happening the very same week that Seattle interposes the worst — or best, depending on your viewpoint — idea to happen coffee since the invention of Juan Valdez, is something new to miss: Eric, bartender at Joe’s on Sixth Street, has moved on. I don’t know the details enough to write intelligently on the why, but, then again, it’s his business. Joe’s was never any sort of scene that I knew of, but it has a dependable jukebox, and has been a friendly place to drink the whole of my time in the East Village. Eric was there all along. I suspect being a bartender isn’t anyone’s lifelong dream after being in it for a few years (true to form, he was in a couple bands along the way), so valorizing one is probably just an inverse of decrying the imposition of a Starbuck’s. It’s not so much that I can’t look forward to quelling my own impending sense of non-accomplishment without him to pour a stiff bourbon; it’s just that he was a truly decent guy. And, Starbucks or not, we don’t get so much of that around here.

Previous Lore:
070605: Does this bus stop at 82nd Street?
060105: Don’t Let The Sun Go Down On Your Grievances.
052505: Neither city, nor subway, but Empire.
050405: Like Usual?
042705: The best thing ever.

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Good Tidings.

By admin | Published: August 5, 2005

I’m predisposed to like the work of Lewis Tsurumaki Lewis, even though in my first encounter — their submission to the 2000 Cooper-Hewitt Triennial — I found to be overly fussy (I say this not with critical authority, I just think prejudices should be clearly stated). Subsequent projects, most explicated via exquisite hand drawn perspectives, had a decidedly different effect. I was also unaware of their rather impressive professional credentials. I only knew they had office space in a pretty ramshackle storefront in my neighborhood, a work environment that has long been a fantasy of mine.

Rather than take the typical approach of the interested indie aficionado angered by the welter of attention they have received as of late, I’m pleased that they seem to be pervasive in the narrow world of architectural publications (even moving beyond). I’m consistently encouraged by the tactile and, frankly, fun, spirit imbued in their work. In an age where being avant garde seems to require a blob, they create compelling and original forms that do not require dogmatic intellectual biases to enjoy their visceral effects.

So I looked forward to the opening of their most recent work, Tides, a restaurant on Norfolk Street (just across from Tonic and what looks to be a positively abhorrent pending building from Tschumi) between Delancy and Rivington. Tides is quite obviously a seafood restaurant, and a small one at that. I’ll leave the final word on the food — though I had what to me were positively refreshing and tasty oysters and octopus on a steamy July night — to those with perhaps more skilz in this department. But don’t take my hesitance as an indictment of the food. I was there perhaps the fifth or sixth night they were open, and the food was comparable — to my limited palate — to that of Lure and the Oyster Bar. Instead, I’ll focus on what I presume to be my forte — the physical space.

The dominant element that will undoubtedly receive the most attention is the striking ceiling, which features thousands of bamboo skewers. Though the inspiration was literally a seabed, the undulating forms call to mind a range of ‘tidal’ inspiration, including, for me, the marshes where I spent my college years. Given the restaurant name, the resultant effect would seem to be a very literal interpretation, but the abstraction and executions supersedes this. With too much academic training, there can be a a fussy need to legitimate each decision, even as the most renown designers seem to operate on sheer formal virtuosity; here, it is a welcome admixture of the two poles.

As is notable in all LTL’s small space projects, it is not simply a ‘Big Wow’ moment surmounted by a very pedestrian space. Rather, the rest of the decisions are representative of the same degree of rigor — bordering on obsession — about every element one encounters. Opposing the sinuous forms of the skewers on the ceiling is a long band of highly polished wood that folds irregularly down the length of the space, forming two booths and the bathroom.

A clever visual trick is played by varying the heights of the booths, a necessity due to an intruding staircase, but also an idea so blindingly simple that it makes you wonder why it hasn’t been done more often. Even as the folds occur at varying heights and angles, the booths finish at a consistent height, topped by a hood that repeats over the bathroom. Due to the elevation of the benches and the small size of the space overall, it appears that the bathroom is undersized, which is not the case.

The bathroom itself is perversely understated and prominent. Not visibly marked in any way, it is also the only enclosed space in the room. The door slides, and is finished almost seamlessly (albeit set in) with the surrounding wood.

Inside, the underside of the last hood rises up to a dim but useful fixture, and the space is comfortable (even a nice respite, the most commodious space in the restaurant). The sink is always a place for designers to show their clever-clever props, and this doesn’t disappoint. I’m not one of those aggressive bathroom tourists who seek out the range of interesting solutions to be found in the city (I still haven’t been in a stall at Bar 89), and can only recall two memorable examples, that of the Royalton urinals (which has a superficial similarity) and sinks at Brasserie. Here one is faced with an interesting logistical challenge — how to preen as one’s visage is deformed by the sliding water — that is also a intellectual challenge to one’s vanity at the same time. The only real weak spot is the door handle, one those nice ideas that would work in a home, where you likely wouldn’t actually utilize it often, but here it is a little awkward to operate.

What made my visit exceptionally pleasant, both as a diner and putative critic, was a chance to sit and talk with one of the co-owners, Stephen Yee. Since I basically sandbagged him, it was a good test to explore how the client experiences the design process and to hear a relatively unvarnished presentation of the tribulations — or rewards — of working with an architect. It was gratifying because his comments reinforced the benefits a well-wrought collaboration can yield. He reported an enthusiasm and flexibility (the sketch of the booth concept was done on-site while trying to puzzle out a way to deal with the stair) in the LTL team that produced in him a similar commitment to realize as many of the ideas as possible, even those that presented budget challenges in a project that was a modest undertaking.

It seems I’ve gone on too long — is that so unusual? — and still haven’t mention still other details, including the tables (designed and manufactured by the LTL team) that feature a substrate of clear acrylic that is lit by a sunken candle, and light fixtures that have a similar ethereal finish. Even the required safety signage, placed so unfortunately when I was there, was due a revamp from the designers, along with a new wait station. If you go and it’s a bit warm, don’t blame the designers (as I wondered, looking at the fans clipped awkwardly to the booth hoods) — instead, it was the usual sad tale of a derelict contractor resulting in the wrong unit. It should be corrected by now, but if the HVAC gods looked unfavorably on Tides last week, fear not: a cool ocean breeze is certainly in their future.

So go: I recommend, unreservedly. I always feel odd when I get excited about a compelling interior. The first time I ate at Brasserie, I had the same sense of dislocation: I shouldn’t be getting so excited because I noticed something that perhaps wasn’t supposed to be so immediately evident. Rather than question my own perverse perspective, I’m going to let go of it, and accept that it is simply the wonder of encountering something that is simply good, endowed with all that such a simple and direct term implies. A good thing. Try it.

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