We were lodged in Room 303, the Red Room (or the ‘REDRUM’ as I joked in my best Jack Nicholson voice), designed by Kate Austin and Kristin Ledgett of RUCKUS. It was, all at once, intimate, stylish and homey. Click here to peruse all of the ‘Classic’, ‘Gimme More’ rooms and ‘Sweet’ suites. In a strange small-world occurrence on Friday, I ended up eating downtown at the bar of the Queen Mother Cafe, corralling the only empty chair in the whole lunch-packed place. Apparently, as I would find out while researching this entry, I had seated myself next to Andrew Jones, an award-winning architect-turned-furniture/lighting-designer. Turns out he is the co-designer of Room 312 (Re:Fresh). And, as I would also realize, I had transacted with Kate Austin, half of my room’s design team, when I made an early Christmas purchase at her shop The Knit Cafe that same day. Even in such a large city, this small hotel is obviously succeeding as a magnet of art, design and culture.
Almost exactly three years later, Andrew Jones landed in my inbox with a pretty cool announcement and a feature in The New York Times. This Toronto-based furniture and lighting designer has added another award to his collection, beating out 678 other competitors with his design for a signature chair for New York City’s Battery Park. It features a petalled, curvaceous, open-flower shape and is cheekily named “Fleurt.”
Jones was awarded a $10,000 cash prize and will see 300 of the chairs, in four shades of blue, bloom on the park’s brand-new lawn as early as late 2015.
I think of the memorable hours I’ve spent in the slightly-reclined aluminum chairs of the Jardin des Tuileries in Paris, watching the world go by. Contrary to what Freud might have had to say about it, sometimes a chair is not just a chair: it’s a springboard for the imagination.
Thanks to the miracle of strangers on the internet and a benevolent Husband who made a run to McNally Robinson bookstore before hitting the airport, I had this book in my hands within hours of hearing about it.
Doug Holmes wasn’t kidding when he said the site (and even more so the book) “demonstrates exactly what you discuss.” Call it synchronicity, a manifestation of the collective unconscious, a case of great minds thinking alike, or, more likely, we three are siblings separated at birth, but the zeitgeist of my 500-word essay – that Winnipeg feels like New York used to feel before it went and got all gentrified – is uncannily similar to that of their book. But enough about me.
Wow, I say to Stuck in the Middle. Double-wow. It’s at once coffee table book, travelogue, history lesson, secret diary, social commentary, treasure map, love story, and Huck Finn adventure drawn from a place that everyone loves to hate. It nails the three things I look for in the finest non-fiction: The text is smart, lively, pointed and funny/mouthy sassy the kind of sassy that might warrant a sock in the jaw in certain kinds of mixed company; the photos are technically and creatively excellent, moving portraits of the uncommonly common; and it fills in knowledge gaps and sends me off in hitherto unknown directions.
Over dinner last week in Manhattan I declared to our three local hosts that Winnipeg is The Most Interesting City in Canada. They appeared politely skeptical as I tried to explain.
I’ve written about the city before here, here, here, here, and here, praising it up one side and down the other. I can easily list the qualities I love, but it wasn’t until this morning that I could boil down the essence of it into one sentence: Winnipeg feels like New York used to feel before it went and got all gentrified.
Another day of relentless blue skies and the city continues to surprise me with its ubiquitous public art, wealth of classic architecture, and intriguing tapestry of grand and pocket public spaces. I love that these work so seamlessly together, that art is interwoven with everyday life and business, that social justice issues appear to be studied in plain view, and that artists of all stature seem to command a respect here that isn’t as obvious in other Canadian cities.
I wasn’t exactly hanging in New York during the ’70’s and early ’80’s, but I hear myriad voices in the media nostalgic for cheap rents, interesting characters, and the scrappy creativity of that era, if not for its scarier or less desirable attributes.
It appears that geographic isolation and benign neglect, due to a dearth of speculative investment, has protected Winnipeg from being torn to bits and rebuilt from scratch. I feel no pity when I say that. Quite the opposite. Limited means keeps it from becoming stale and commercially and socially milquetoast. The city possesses a unique energy that reflects a particular moment in time, a socio-economic status, and a necessity to invent, then reinvent, gradually by way of internal muse instead of instant external gratification.
There are still areas in the city I’m advised not to walk after dark, unlike, say, Vancouver which has been washed clean of its sins. I mostly take that advice, but I am happiest when I walk the streets to search out the vast and evolving collection of street art, the undiscovered historic corners and architectural magnificence. Every time I feel a frisson of excitement, a distinct lack of predictability about how my day will play out, what exactly I will experience and whom I will encounter.
The city teeters a bit and it’s hard to say which way it will go. But, as all lovers know, keeping things a little off-balance provides a sense of mystery that’s worth jealously guarding.
According to a number of sources, not only were land and properties taken during the expulsion, but cultural treasures, among them books, manuscripts, personal papers, photographs and works of art, were seized, first by individual looters, then through systematic seizures by the Israeli army and universities.3
From the exhibition press release:
ex libris commemorates the approximately thirty thousand books from Palestinian homes, libraries, and institutions that were looted by Israeli authorities in 1948. Six thousand of these books are kept and catalogued at the Jewish National and University Library in Jerusalem under the designation “A.P.” (Abandoned Property).
Jacir photographed these books with her cell phone during repeated visits to the library over the course of two years. Jacir’s explorations and her subsequent selection of specific images create an intimate register of fragments and traces. Her work not only addresses the looting and destruction of books but also raises questions regarding repatriation and restitution.4
Today I studied maps of Israel/Palestine and read some history of the conflict for the first time. The concepts were vaguely familiar but I lacked all context. Nothing like a little High Line elevation to plant the seed of perspective.
In setting forth different principles, I shall mainly be writing about common, ordinary things: for instance, what kids of city streets are safe and what kinds are not; why some city parks are marvellous and others are vice traps and death traps; why some slums stay slums and other slums regenerate themselves even against financial and official opposition; what makes downtowns shift their centres; what, if anything, is a city neighbourhood, and what jobs, if any neighbourhoods in great cities do. In short, I shall be writing about how cities work in real life, because this is the only way to learn what principles of planning and what practices in rebuilding can promote social and economic vitality in cities, and what practices and principles will deaden these attributes. ~ Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities, 1961
Back in May, I lucked into being in New York City during Jane’s Walk, the annual neighbourhood walking event held in cities around the world. It’s named in honour of Jane Jacobs, the celebrated urbanist, activist, and writer who established herself first in Greenwich Village, and then in the Annex neighbourhood of Toronto. While I caught a couple of the walking tours (Park Avenue and Manhattan Civic Centre), I didn’t make it to the village, to the pilgrimage site of her former home at 555 Hudson Street.
This week, Jane’s neighbourhood was my unfinished business and a Google maps walking tour my guide. I wish I could say I discovered the area as something more than a tourist, but that’s what I was, poking around to get an initial sense of the shape of the place.
I walked (of course) from E.61st down to 14th, via W.11th and Hell’s Kitchen. The torrential downpour slowed, and then stopped, by the time I joined the High Line at 30th. At Hudson I stripped off my raincoat, sweating in the summer-like heat and humidity.
At midday the streets were mostly sleepy, dotted by women-of-a-certain-age and their tiny dogs taking lunch at streetside tables and benches. A solitary man in sunglasses and his shaggy pooch ruled over the sun-soaked patio of the iconic White Horse Tavern, traditional haunt of longshoremen and poets and writers like Dylan Thomas, Jack Kerouac, Norman Mailer and Anais Nin. A few blocks on, a crew shot a television series, crowding the sidewalk with imaginary activity. High sun and deep shadows framed the sidewalks; every hour or so the spotlight would shift, illuminating a different person, place or thing. By dinner time, the bright orange rays beamed low and magically along the east-west axis and the sidewalks teaming with people of all ages: suited men whisking uniformed children home from school and day care, office workers picking up groceries, college students taking advantage of happy hour prices, elegant high-heeled women rushing home from work.
Greenwich/West Village ranks as some of the most expensive real estate in the United States. The inevitability of gentrification has priced it out of the hands of everyone but the very wealthy or those lucky enough to benefit from rent controls. I can understand the attraction of the place. The scale remains intimate, human, the roads organic, confusing and enviously leafy, brick townhomes uniform yet eclectic, all molded by history. Everything is at hand: There are restaurants, taverns, shops, churches, schools, pocket parks, public transport, and the river. Charming, pretty, yet solid, it’s a fairytale village where communion with other souls seems possible. And all in the heart of a city of eight-and-a-half million.
Jane’s former home is plain painted brick, two floors over vacant retail space and, at this moment, burdened by scaffold. In quick succession, it has recently housed a specialty baby shop, a seller of glass wear, and a purveyor of ladies clothing. One has to sell a lot of chotchkes to make the pricey rent, never mind a reasonable living. Unfortunately, it’s the predictable, vanilla chains that can afford this, simultaneously putting dollars in the jeans of landlords while chiselling down the rough edges that lend neighbourhoods their uniqueness and real interest. It’s not exactly what Jane envisioned back in 1961 when she rallied for the preservation of old (old, low-rent and therefore useful vs. old, fancy, expensive) buildings in her famous treatise The Death and Life of Great American Cities.
I felt the urge to genuflect on her doorstep, but settled for taking coffee in the adjacent cafe and effectively becoming a pair of her famously-invoked eyes on the street. How’s that for life imitating art?
I wandered for several hours photographing to my heart’s content before ending the afternoon with a glass of wine and some charcuterie at the delicious and artfully-styled Buvette. Then I hoofed it back uptown in the day’s remaining light.
Exploring the intersection of people, their homes, and communities