FAR to FSM: Developing for Food Security

(Typical Enclosed Balcony - Exterior Facade)

They have either been the bane of one's ownership/renter experience, or sanctuary in a world of increasing noise in our urban environments. Solariums, or "private open-space amenities" (if a glass box that resembles a quarantine facility in one's living area can be considered "open space") were the once well-intentioned plans to encourage balconies in the construction of new buildings throughout Vancouver. With a significant percentage of their footprint excluded from a site's FAR calculations, the City has since created a building typology that subverts its original intentions and instead brings homogeneity and 'private closed-space tragedies'.

Recently attending the 2nd Annual MAS Jane Jacobs Forum "Re-Imagining New York: Designing Urban Farms to Feed our City", I found myself listening to a panel that was espousing the needs for food production within the fabric of our cities - preaching to the converted no doubt. By no means a completely novel idea, the design and practice of vertical farming was being touted as a saviour to  a diminishing capacity to feed the world's population. Perhaps one of many solutions needed to address this growing problem, I see opportunity to 'right-a-wrong' in the commodification of enclosed balconies.

Many developers continue to take advantage of the exclusionary clause, that remains nearly unchanged, - a maximum of 8% of FAR, with an allowance for 50% enclosed - to construct enclosed balconies that are nefariously marketed as “dens”. These areas contribute to the purchase price of the unit eliciting the same value as interior floor area. Due to their physical construction and design guidelines, however, they often lack the legal ability or physical flexibility to renovate.

While some forward thinking individuals already treat the otherwise mundane enclosures like the "outdoor environments" they were  intended; by nurturing plants in an environment with a reduced sensitivity to variable outside weather conditions, most resort to illegal conversions, or find solace in their found access to diminishing storage space. Serving a laudable goal of reducing noise pollution within urban residential units, the bigger picture of the value of "space" looms heavily on all of us, particularly when it is used in inefficient ways and that benefit the few.

Is it possible that vertical farms may be right under our noses? Can we move beyond our youthful protestations in 'guerilla gardening' while still embracing the fostering of 'community gardening', and take charge of our own self-sufficiency and sustenance? While not all of us wish to, or are inclined to become farmers, gardeners, or plant enthusiasts, space design has the ability to influence and encourage these behaviours. If we can suspend judgement for just a moment, can we envision a typical residential tower that supports the dietary needs of its residents and the community?

Change is often incremental and begins with small steps. The 'Tipping Point', however, is viral and leads to paradigmatic shifts. It is not my intention to suggest that "enclosed balconies" are the panacea for Food Security Management (FSM) but it does strike me as worthy of exploration. Can developers still be incentivized to build for a future that ensures food security? Can we design buildings with site-specific open-spaces that respond to the needs of its inhabitants better - simultaneously managing desires for privacy as well as community? Can we achieve truly 'productive growth' in our existing and future vertical residences and still have a choice to participate in its bounty?  I have no answers, only questions. At the very least we may spawn the emergence of a new built form.

(Typical Enclosed Balcony - Interior)

(Solarium Garden?)

A Slice of Nature?

Greeted by an entry passage experience that is reminiscient of a clash between Frank Gehry and Tadao Ando - lacking the level of craftsmanship one might expect to find on either of their works - I make my through the concrete gauntlet more eloquently known as 'the vessel'. The vessel is one of many 'tip-of-the-hat' nuances referencing the industry that once hung precariously to the edges of the Newtown creek bulkheads. The paved drainage channel highlights a more contemporary approach to the conveyance of water and finds irony in its adjacency to New York's primary wastewater treatment facility - the spectacle of which is best seen under the thoughtful lighting of L'Observatoire Internationale.

("Entry Gate and Fence")

("The Vessel")

("Industrial Scenes")

Designed by George Trakas and implemented with the aid of Quesnell Rothschild, the entrance to this 'nature walk' is best described as brutal and somewhat contradictory. Bleak concrete paths are thoughtfully softened with crushed granular materials. However, accompanied by the randomly placed groupings of native plantings the surfaces do little to buffer this sinuous sliver of land standing its post between the sewage treatment facility and the creek - a living layer that seeks to make peace with the heavy contamination once contributed between Greenpoint, Brooklyn and Long Island City, Queens.

("Seven Stone Circles")

("Granite Steps")

The name Newtown Creek Nature Walk conjures up connotations of natural beauty. However, instead of the historic tidal marshes that once swept the front steps of Manhattan's forests, the nature here is, again - like many parts of Manhattan's environs - a stark dose of 'human nature's' voracious appetite for consumption. Gracious steps and timber mooring points provide seamless access to the waters edge where urban anglers and brave paddlers may pass their days gazing across at the byproducts of human development. 

("Granite Steps")

In the distance large billboards loom over the LIE like the majestic trees typical of Manhattan's great streets. Barges creep back and forth moving piles of recycled metal waste - floating graveyards whose destination is unknown but will likely be reborn into that which sustains human 'nature'. The rise and fall of the Manhattan skyline, as well as the new architecture that stands silhouetted against the background that is Long Island City is a 'natural' journey that speaks to what sustains the City.

("Watershed Bollard")

Despite the sparse planting and the obvious lack of grasses, the layers of history - both abstract and didactic - provide an optional and, arguably, more educational narrative for its visitors. The native American words that adorn much of the site's surfaces and furnishings, however, endure a muted existence much like the current 'natura' of this place. 

("Whale Creek Path")

Currently, with only one entrance that also serves as the walk's exit, the number of emergency phone boxes does little to enhance the comfort or experience of this honest place where one can immerse themselves in the realities and contradictions of this industrial wilderness. Metaphors abound as one contemplates the 'Nature Walk' as a byproduct of the industrial processes that continue to support us. It is an iconic symbol of that which we are and which we have created. Arguably, to experience light one needs darkness. Mutually supportive, the cultural environments we have created that seek to sustain life also have a darker side that serves as a toxic reminder of the harm that we may cause in their pursuit.

Great expense is often the result of attempts to provide an illusory foil to the ills of our 'natural' habits. The Newtown Creek Nature Walk, however, does not claim to make amends for such actions but, I believe, succeeds in its attempts to educate, and to provide us a place for reflection and contemplation on where we have come from and where we wish to get to. Public art funded and waterfront access planned: post-apocalyptic backdrop of Newtown Creek incidental.

Backpedaling through Harlem

A last minute registration on Sunday night landed me directly in the midst of a thought provoking and inspiring forum Monday, hosted by the CUNY Institute for Sustainable Cities. "In the Wake of the Half Moon" (subsequently the name of Henry Hudson's ship - who knew!) brought together academics, professionals and like-minded individuals to explore three very timely and much needed questions:

1. How do places change?

2. What role does the connection between people and the environment play in these changes?

3. How can we learn from these connections to best respond to the current challenges of climate change and sustainability?

What drew me to this day-long forum was the recent work of Eric Sanderson and the Mannahatta Project. A fascinating and visually stunning "Natural History of New York City", the project's broader contextual references, virtual reconstructions, and subsequent implications provide me with the narrative for one of my more recent explorations throughout the five boroughs.

The implications for the world, but more specifically for New York City are immense, complex and perhaps even a little frightening. However, as the City in North America that relies the least on the automobile for transportation there is hope for a brighter tomorrow. With that in mind I reflect on a more recent cycle excursion through upper Manhattan - 125th Street in Harlem, through to West Harlem Piers Park at the Hudson Rivers edge, and home through Riverside Park. .

Moving north from the confines of affluent anal retentives of the upper east side I slowly find myself being enveloped by the more lively environs of Harlem. What's most shocking is the generosity of the sidewalks that line both Malcolm X and Clayton Powell Jr Boulevards on either side of 125th street. The rich and colourful facades of the residences and businesses epitomize "decayed authenticity". There presence only heightened by the expanse of concrete that serves to allow observation from a distance. Easily two to three vehicular lanes in width, these 20-30' sidewalks seemed to be oversized for their level of activity. In fact they exhibited the spatial qualities one would expect of their more historical ecological roots - that of open grass/scrub-land (see map below).

(Malcom X and Adam Clayton Jr Boulevards)

(Mannahatta Project)

As I make my way west to the Hudson, where a newly constructed West Harlem Piers Park sits as a modern day terminus to the outfall from an historical tidal creek, I am cognoscente of the powerful impact topography has on our built environment. The historical ecologies that once ruled this island have evolved through anthropocentric succession to manifest themselves in the built environments that exist today. Not only does 125th street simply follow the once rippling pathways of the tributaries that previously fed this tidal estuary, it serves as a transportation corridor for it's modern day inhabitants to move from city to edge - recreating at the areas much needed West Harlem Piers Park. This corridor is further emphasized by the natural threshold that effectively separates the two neighbourhoods of Morningside and Hamilton Heights.

(Mannahatta Project)

(Google Maps - Terrain)

Arriving at West Harlem Piers Park may best be described as arriving at the proverbial 'pot of gold' at the end of the rainbow. Forward movement through the topographical threshold, comprised of not only the neighbourhoods mentioned above but also Riverside Park, reveals sweeping views to the north and south along the Hudson River and beyond; much as the early Dutch or Lenape peoples may have once seen. The park itself stands out nearly as strongly as I - new and exuding life - in a neighbourhood that is hardened and beautifully weathered. In fact, there are a great many people reading, fishing, and simply watching the waves lap at the piers' structural timbers.

(View Looking West from Pier 1)

(View Looking South)

Designed by W Architecture here in New York, the park has all the necessary elements of program to provide a destination as well as a pit stop for cyclists speeding north and south along the Hudson River bikeway. What I am most drawn to, however, is not the curiously placed remnants of granite or 'strategically placed' pieces of public art, but the placement and bi-sectional severing of the piers that cast themselves into the Hudson River. It is obvious these arms frame ones view at the terminus of 125th street. However, it was not until today's serendipitous attendance at Hunter College that I find myself truly "In the wake of the Half Moon".

As Henry Hudson certainly would have seen this location upon arrival to Mannahatta, the landscape architects attempted to recall this historical ecology by attempting to suggest a "design (that) is based on the idea of the valley form as a place for deposits". However, upon further investigation I would go even further to suggest that, in addition to the ecological elements, the geological realities of this place have, in fact, been clearly and metaphorically represented in the displacement of these two piers and the physical manifestations of the park's overall design. This deliberate split may very well represent the 125th Street Fault Line - a further layer of history, and present reality, that lies across this section of Manhattan.

(View Looking Northwest)

Apart from the single restorative feature of this park's design - habitat creation through the use of 'reef balls' - there appears little evidence of landscape urbanism rapidly finding its way into the design ethos of New Yorkers elsewhere throughout the City. In an attempt to summarize the lessons gleaned from the inspiring talks of today's forum, it is that in order to develop effective sustainability solutions to our current and future challenges, it is necessary to embed these efforts - our designs - more fully in an historical and locally specific context. Be it ecological or geological history, learning is always more comprehensive in reverse; even on a bike ride.

Authenticity in REpresentation

(createconsumedelete)

With today’s culture so heavily based on image consumption, a crippling reliance on design representation has followed the light-speed advancement of technologies with a booming onslaught of 'designers' to meet the demand. Does a problem exist, however, when we become so obsessed with keeping up, so afraid to fall behind the 'leaders of innovation'? Is there a sense of authenticity that is lost in the propositions of an improved future? Arguably, the imagery that continues to advertise and promote our evolving designed landscape - both urban and rural - subverts authenticity in favour of 'uniqueness' and 'newness'. Instead we often seem to be left with "points of interest" that do little to evolve our understanding of the  entire city as a holistic construct.

An industry that relies so heavily upon design representation to give form to our ideas should be questioning the predominant methods by which they are conveyed. As it relates to placemaking, it is the quality of the representational artifacts that helps to determine the degree of reflection on our designs, and by others. Are we limited by our abilities to inspire change through our curremt technological capacities of communication? Is visual communication the only avenue? What ability do our other senses have to influence design thinking? Places, like music and smells are equally significant contributors to the interconnecting nodes of our experiences.

As the years of my career as a Landscape Architect continue to pass, it is with constant vigilance that I must remain cognoscente of the temptations of 'architectural pornography'. I have been staring at, even helped produce glamour-shot renderings and pulsating perspectives for a number of years and have begun to wonder, are we being true to ourselves in our pursuit of placemaking, and our understanding of the greater collective experiences that contribute to this? I would argue that it is near impossible to have a truly authentic experience, unless we view the experience as being authentic unto ourselves, at any given point in time. However, it is the temporal element of authenticity that makes it an elusive one. We continue to pursue it but rarely, arguably never, attain it. Site and structure have historical roots that persist. Certainly the physicality of the place may be authentic. However, the historical experience it claims to respect, and the future it promises to offer is often one of false promise - lacking the sights, smells and sounds, and experiences of older, and newer times.

It was with great relief - accompanied by a reinvigorated sense of purpose - that I came across the psychogeographic representations of Frank Dresme. Similar to mind maps in use since the 3rd century - used as a visual aid for learning, organization and problem-solving - these maps emphasize an approach to design representation that is currently ignored and/or underutilized. While commanding observation in their own right - as works of art - they appear to represent urban space as a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.

(Psychogeographic Maps for Thesis Project - Amsterdam, Frank Dresme)

(City of Rotterdam Commission, Frank Dresme)

I believe it is fair to suggest that our landscape is culturally transformed. Therefore we may also deduce from this the predominant difference between nature and landscape being human nature, or humans 'being'. Space becomes place when endowed with meaning and value, personal histories and interaction, and recollections of daily habits and contacts. We are all co-creators of our environments and contributors to their cumulative meanings - a collective psychogeography.

What authenticity in representation means for the design-planning profession is of significant importance to our understanding of place and place-making. It is necessary that we ensure a rigid standard of ethical design, an ethic which takes joy in the creation of realities that are our own. All too often design professionals are called upon, or take it upon themselves, to create environments that are thought to engage us, provide us with a connection to the land with images of 'authentic', historically relevant but 'forward-looking' themes. This only slows our pursuit of an identity, for “authenticity can only emerge in a current culture through a conscious effort to define how we ultimately intend to define our values and relate to nature and humanity” (Doug Paterson).

Experience Innovation: It's Not just about the Products

(IDEO)

Is Landscape Architecture a Model Ethnographic Practice for the Design Challenges of the 21st Century?


Focusing upon three mutually reinforcing elements of a successful design program - insight, observation, and empathy - author and design thinker Tim Brown's new book 'Change by Design' provokes me to ask, "Are Landscape Architects up to the task of relinquishing our role as simply "designers" to embrace a new ethos of "design thinking"? 


Suggesting that the design challenges of the 21st Century require 'design thinking', not more designers, Tim Brown speaks more to an audience involved in the creation of products and aesthetics, not places. However, it dawns on me that these principles are particularly relevant to the design challenges we as Landscape Architects are faced with today - ones that require solutions beyond the traditional and expected; not simply another park with a new wrapper. Rather than the creation of products (space), it may be that we need to concentrate ever more vigorously on the relationships and empathic relevance between people and products (place).


As a profession, we already emulate a model of 'open-source design' that seeks to enhance the level of collaboration between consumers and creators, but it is too often misplaced. The ability of LA's to engage the greater community creates a scenario in which customers or consumers begin to think of themselves as active participants in the process of design and creation is an empowering tool within one's skill-set. The erosion between proprietary and public domains is a direct result of our inherent abilities and multi-faceted backgrounds to gain insight, observe, and where possible empathize with our client constituent(s). The charette, or "unfocus group" as termed by Mr. Brown, is one such tool that seeks to enhance this synergistic fusion.


It strikes me as troubling that today's 'site designers' are divided, however. There are those who follow a strict regimen of research-based design - gaining empirical insights, but limiting their empathic understanding of a client group or culture. Second, those who engage in 'traditional practice' - meeting the immediate needs of their clients but forever perpetuating our reputation as followers or "bush-pushers", not leaders. Thirdly, in an insecure attempt to pursue the fame and fortune of our 'more esteemed' architect colleagues, armed with egos the size of our technological and visual apparatus', we fall short of our ability to affect real change - instead simply pushing the boundaries of design while creating a culture of 'need' rather than 'demand'.


As so eloquently acknowledged by Benjamin Zander, it is "one of the characteristics of a leader that he not doubt, for one moment, the capacity of the people he is leading to realize whatever he is dreaming". This does not mean that we are to misguide, or dupe people into digesting what we create like an evangelist presiding over his followers. Instead it is my belief that we can move toward a culture of participation and not consumption. Engaging our client groups and consumers in a way that allows us to give them what they need - analogous to a website that 'serendipitously' appears at the exact moment we've begun searching for that which we seek. We have the ability more than many others professions to gain and create inspiration simply by observing, empathizing, and moving beyond the individual; to create places that move beyond consumption and back into the realm of participation. That is a paradigm shift, and it is on our horizon.

The Taking of Pelham 6

An unexpected bout of warm spring air presents itself to New York and offers me an opportunity to, once again, storm the rails of the MTA. Shrugging off concerns and warnings of life in the outland - the Bronx - I am determined to extend my explorations to the outer reaches of the 5 boroughs. Destination? Pelham Bay Park. Line? 6ix-train.

Armed with nothing more than my camera, curiosity and an observational obsession for all things urban I find myself in a perpetual pursuit of adventure - social, environmental, and designed. I should mention that despite my navigational abilities, I have become increasingly reliant on the iphone compass and access to google maps. This piece of technology allows me to cast aside my worries of how to find my way in, out and around on the transportation systems, but also to orient myself in the greater spatial continuum of New York. I digress.

I often wonder what lays at the end of the subway lines. Is life any different? Does one experience a greater sense of arrival as opposed to simply moving with the ebb and flow of residents at the Grand Central, 59th street, or Union Square stops? Well, as one travels further outside the city there is no question that there is a certain patina of wear that emerges outside of the train at each progressive stop. Down the steps and I find myself stranded on a decrepit concrete island, flanked by the Bruckner Boulevard on each side. I can see the park in the distance but the blurring cacophony of the Bruckner Expressway severs any direct connection, leaving me feeling so close yet so far. Strangely, only two overpasses link the surrounding community to this park.

Majestic comes to mind as I wander aimlessly toward the waters edge of Eastchester Bay. There are few people around and I feel like 'the man' traveling Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road' in search of the coast (ironically I am carrying the book with me on this trip). The oaks and maples tower above me, and in places their presence is felt even where there is none. The Parks Department seems to have taken a selective attitude as to what remains and what is removed - SOD, DED? It seems that, ultimately, natural selection reigns.

(Man vs. Wild)

At last, as I emerge from the shrouded, unmarked, and decaying pathway, I arrive at the waters edge - an errant 'X' marks the spot. Crumbling infrastructure and chain link fences that skirt the walks edge give a sense that this is a "once upon a time" destination. Off my shoulder to the north a looming hill, nearly 150' in height, stands above the bay, strikingly out of place yet strangely fitting. Upon further investigation, my suspicions are confirmed - landfill earthwork. Secluded and somewhat forgotten, there was a particular rustic charm to this overgrown and hidden place with a view. It was not until I began to navigate my way back out of the park that I realized there were certain activities that a place such as this attracts, besides mere exploration.

(I'm here . . . which is where?)

(A forgotten waterfront - Eastchester Bay)

Homeward bound and watching the life of city pass, I am struck by the oncoming derelict remnants of industrial machinery, standing like Grenadier Sentries guarding a seemingly new park along an otherwise run-down stretch of the Bronx River - a brownfield site named 'Concrete Plant Park'. An oasis in the middle of an area I can best describe as "rough"- it took me a while to find the entrance after taking a wrong turn - this park appears to have considerable draw. I stop for a short chat with a man from Ecuador before I sit down to eat my packed lunch. Blue fish is the catch of the day here - up to 50 pounds I'm told - and before long more fishermen are showing up to cast their lines. "Good luck with that" I say as I watch a skim of refuse float slowly toward the containment boom stretched across the river's length.

(Bronx River)

(View of Concrete Plant Park from Bruckner Expressway Bridge)

(North End Overview)

(Park Infrastructure)

As I sit and enjoy the dialectics of this space, it dawns on me that it is the power of designed landscapes, carefully sited, that have the power to provide hope for cities and their inhabitants. It was obvious to me that each and every one of us who was reading, fishing, playing, or simply watching the river roll by at this park was here to escape the confines of our daily lives - our apartments, our streets, even our day-jobs. Reminiscent of Gas Works Park or Duisburg Nord - albeit a much more humble, scaled down and less interactive version - the shade cast from the preserved machinery looming above reminds me of another time. That time, not necessarily one I am all that connected to personally but one that retains an air of mystique and enduring substance, has turned my ordinary day's work into a face-off with yet another of New York's hidden treasures . . . and I'm taking it hostage.

Future Oasis or Perpetual Blight?

(Map of Gowanus Canal and Crossings, Author Unknown)

(View North from Union Street Bridge)

Continuing my explorations on the F-line, I find myself eagerly awaiting the toxic twists and turns of the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn. What is it about the post-industrial landscape that is so appealing? The patina of decayed authenticity stands proudly but cries out for intervention, contrast, and in this case environmental improvement and public accessibility.

(One of the many impediments to access along the canal's length)

Not so much a Canal that flows, but one that skulks, the Gowanus has long been used as a transportation corridor for industry - coal yards, cement works, manufactured gas plants, tanneries, factories for paint, ink, and soap, machine shops, chemical plants, and sulfur production. The fact that the Canal was the first site where chemical fertilizers were manufactured is a testament to its long and continued contribution of substantial water and airborne pollutants. To add insult to injury the combined storm-sewer overflows, once built to assist its restoration, now act as conduits of human effluent during times of heavy rain. The Canal's deathly silence and opaque murkiness reflect its surroundings with candor, revealing their neglect and abuse of this once productive waterway.

(Even the floating infrastructure shows signs of adaptation and growth)

Recent history has seen immense interest from various political constituents, stakeholder groups, and individuals in sparking change, reclamation, and improvement to the canal and its regional community. However, with every action there seems to be an equal and opposite reaction putting its future into a perpetual forward movement that closely resembles my first experiences driving a stick-shift. Hardly the 'Grand Canal of Venice' the Gowanus has a charm that continues to elicit response both for and against change. If nothing else, the passion its existence stirs says something of its wide appeal, or equal disgust. In my experience, it is such openly visceral responses to place that suggest it's something worth fighting for.

My observation and experience of this place is varied; as are the points of access along the canal's circuitous and multi-legged route. The scent of petroleum carefully blended with an aroma of essential oils from a nearby warehouse seem to duel one another in a type of push-pull response that leads to curiosity more than fondness or repulsion. There appear to be very few people or cars that abound, perhaps due to the dead ends one finds at nearly every cross-street. It's few points of crossing are highlighted by one landmarked retractile bridge at Caroll Street. Most bizarre, and certainly an indication of the hedging of bets on a prosperous future was the construction site of a future Whole Foods - if ever there was a sign of impending gentrification.

(Future site of Whole Foods)

With the rush of development proposals in recent years there is little doubt that the site's potential has been exposed. However, this is not San Antonio's River Walk - a picturesque collection of hotels and restaurants - nor does it necessarily want to be. As an outsiders observation, proving people can live on the canal is a direction worthy of, at the very least, a second thought. For every interest seeking to "improve" this place and make it "livable", there is another that seeks to retain the bohemian and layered qualities that make it so desirable. Recently dlandstudio and others have put forward proposals with laudable goals that address the canal's toxic ailments and suggest a future that is restorative, educational, and productive. Drastically changing the site's character is not their goal. In fact, they seek to integrate and reveal the very qualities that embrace the places' current identity.

The increasing invisibility of industry is perhaps what makes landscapes such as these more than mere spaces. They are places dear to those who have either watched and nurtured its growth, or sought it for its inherently tumultuous qualities and uniqueness, as well as a connection to a past that we know less and less about. As I pass a weathering sign that advertises heating oil I am struck by both the irony and metaphor suggested as to the production of 'solar heat' (indirectly I suppose our petroleum-based industry can take credit for this). A metaphor, perhaps for rebirth or reinvention, the Gowanus Canal elicits excitement and interest because it provokes a fantasy about what is and what may be.

(Gulf Advertisement for Heating Oils . . . and Solar Heat)

F-Stop: Unraveling Roosevelt Island's Past and Present-Future

(SW Seawall Edge, Roosevelt Island)

Arriving at the proverbial 'fork in the road' I opt for the overhead route (I caught the F-train back to the City) to Roosevelt Island via the tram - feeling a little nostalgic about my many ascents up Grouse Mountain back home. This trip was over quicker than it began. No sooner have I risen into the canopy that is Manhattan's east side, we are crossing the great divide that is the east river. Descending upon this island of historical proportions one is taken by the visual progression of built history from Lighthouse Park to Southpoint. A clash of architectural styles that are clearly representative of the islands social and functional past and present, I naturally move toward the comfortable and familiar edge of the seawall. Unlike Vancouver where one is drawn to the edge for a regenerative glimpse of the mountains, it is the surrounding vertical builtscape of Manhattan that  inspires here. The inner workings of Roosevelt Island can best be described as banal form mindlessly following function. The in-between experience has been all but forgotten in order to accommodate the loading and unloading of goods and services. Uninviting, cold, and confusing, much of the interstitial spaces that exist here are to be simply avoided - "step back - there's nothing to see here".

Neglected monuments, contemporary interventions, and ambiguous breaks in the flow of traffic around the perimeter seawall collide to become haphazard "points of interest". The meat of the island, I eventually uncover, lies due souh of the Queensborough bridge. Here, the historic smallpox hospital and it's environs lie dormant, eerily suggesting a history that is begging for resurgence and recognition. As I cicumnavigate the islands southernmost tip I am drawn to the power of it's presence within the greater cityscape. Views abound as the grade embodies a 'natural' cant from north to south - a seemingly obvious fit for an amphitheater, not dissimilar to the views from the Times Square stairs atop the TKTS booth.

(Smallpox Hospital, Roosevelt Island)

It turns out, upon further investigation, that this was in fact the site of Louis Kahn's only unbuilt work in NYC - FDR Four Freedoms Park. A resurgence of support for the completion of this work - as much a well-intentioned memorial to Kahn as it is to FDR - has not been without it's conflict or resistance but it seems to be moving forward as designed. Kahn's construction documents, in fact, are to be implemented via the modernized oversight of Mitchell-Giurgola Architects.

(Contemporized Site Plan Rendering, Author Unknown)

(Site Plan Rendering, L. Kahn)

It dawned on me the political muscle that Architects wield - compared to their landscape architectural counterparts - as there seems to be litle current thought to the relevance of this 'once appropriate' design. Why is it that Landscape Architects are nowhere to be seen on this project team? Is such a pivotal and revered site within New York not worthy of some thoughtful attention that is both holistic and relevant? Certainly not an inappropriate site for a sculpture park and public open space, the design seems to lack an appreciation for it's context. Great walls of stone - "The Room" - and a double-sided allee of trees appear to mask and restrict any of the views that caused me such profundity and enjoyment. As well, there seems to be a lack of reverence paid and the thoughtful integration of the looming historical skeleton that exists immediately north - the Smallpox Hospital.

(On-site mockups of "The Room's" stone - I think. "What happened to our view?")

(Site Model, L. Kahn)

There is no doubt that a 'destination' for this island is desperately needed, both economically (for the island) and socially (for the ever expanding and densifying city). However, to pursue the design of today's public spaces that were envisioned and conceived in a very different economic and social time, without question as to their relevance, and based solely on the merits and political clout of a name seems a bit egotistical and short-sighted. It's appeal, for some, remains. A modern composition? Yes. Of the highest order? Perhaps. Has it stood the test of time? Only on paper. I suppose only time will tell. In the meantime, donate a tree and make the world a greener place - http://www.fdrfourfreedomspark.org/buy-a-tree