Minimalism, An Obituary " the death of nothing"

The Death of Nothing

Architectural Minimalism rose again from the ground this week. Still not dead, it is 38.

Of course, the undead usually don’t get obiturized. That’s because the undead exist outside of those fundamental human frameworks of beginning and end, outside of the narrative arcs that we project onto the world around us. For the undead, there’s no life support machine to turn off, no last words, no final curtain.

In myths, we can finish off the undead with silver bullets, a stake through the heart or by slicing their heads clean off. In real life though, the undead are harder to destroy. They drift on, unchecked through eternity like debris through space. But maybe, in the real world, an obituary might just be the thing to do it. Maybe an obituary is not just a catalogue of the slings and arrows of a particular life form. Maybe it could gain a little agency. Maybe, in some occult manner, an obituary could perform proactively.

So, we come here to bury Minimalism, despite its own protestations. Don’t listen to its pleas as we throw handfuls of soil onto its grave. For all of us, even for Minimalism, scratching against the lid of its sublime onyx coffin down there, this is really for the best.

According to previous architectural obiturists, Modernism died at 3 p.m. on March 16, 1972, in St. Louis, with the demolition of the Pruitt-Igoe housing complex. But unnoticed at the time, something rose from the clouds of dust, a spectral architectural form. Minimalism was born—not alive, not dead—in this moment, a ghostly incarnation of one half of its genetic forbear just at the moment of death, like a soul leaving a corpse.

Minimalism sprung from the loins of an unlikely union. On one side of its heritage lies Modernism. The Big M, Continental Modernism, complete with revolutionary zeal and commitment to social progress, bearing its utopian dream and its belief that the very substance of architecture might be able to deliver this shining vision.

The other half of its DNA derives from a condition of totalized and singular aesthetic refinement—of high taste, of aesthetic rightness, of absolute disengagement with the world. A kind of nihilist perfection where things, rather than lives, are ordered, whose grand family tree stretches back through the ages. Its names have been legion, though we might call its secret constancy ”Aesthetic.” Throughout time, its power has operated through slight of hand, its invisible maneuvers assimilating opposition and threat through deployment of the most despicable of all tactics: irresistible cold-hearted beauty.

That Minimalism should emerge from these progenitors is the kind of tragedy that would have resonated with the Greeks. Earlier in the century, Modernism had attempted to assassinate Aesthetic, to overthrow its grip on the throat of culture and society, on the hierarchies of power and economics. Minimalism then was born out of this troubled relationship: out of Aesthetics’ anger at Modernism’s murderous intent, like a child of Hera whose sole purpose was to enact matriarchal revenge.

Out of the dust of Pruitt-Igoe, out of the collapse of belief in architecture’s social program, out of the dissolution of planning and the state, out of everything that Modernism had hoped for architecture—and the world—rose Minimalism. To look at it, you might be forgiven for mistaking it for its dead parent. It has the same eyes, the same frame, the same build. It is, as they say, the spit. This, of course, is part of its curse. Minimalism is condemned to reenact the aesthetics of Modernism cut free from politics and program. Its emptiness is a statement of victory of Aesthetics over everything else. Each iteration is a victory party, a dance on the grave of what will now never happen.

Minimalism is the undead form of Modernism, animated by Aesthetics. Like Ed Gein cavorting in suits made from the skin of his victims, Minimalism is a perverted and psychotic condition. It is there every time we look at something beautifully Modern. Its simplicity, its order, its calmness, its smoothness are displayed like the severed heads on Traitors’ Gate: a beautiful warning to architecture. The real perversion? Architects willingly and joyfully enact this macabre ritual.

Though it’s not really alive, it’s all around us, multiplying with a fury. It’s there in every bathroom ever designed by John Pawson—especially those fucking baths. It’s written huge as though it were real by David Chipperfield. It swirls around in the Conran Shop. Its shadow falls over the IKEAn mass-dissemination of design. It’s there whenever you see a shadow gap. Its there when critics type the word “elegant.” It haunts us all.

Minimalism then is the erection of false history, a zombie culture, a hollow laugh at the failure of architecture. A kind of anti-architecture, replaying Modernism’s tropes to opposite ends. Not utopia, not social progress, not a better world, but an ultimate and mesmerizing nihilism.

Like all the undead, we can suppose its only real desire is for death’s release, for an end, for its animation by an external agent to cease. Which is where we started: an obituary for something that isn’t dead, but was never alive, yet is everywhere, all the time. Maybe we should write obituaries where once we wrote manifestos.



Edited by Strange Harvest is edited by Sam Jacob

Sam is a director of FAT, contributing editor to Icon, columnist for Art Review and teaches at the AA and Yale

Los Angeles boasts lowest homicide rate in 40 years

Los Angeles boasts lowest homicide rate in 40 years
Emily Henry | 1-4-2011

The LAPD reported a total of 297 homicides in the city this year, making it the quietest year for murder since 1967.

“I am proud to announce that last year the City suffered fewer murders than at any point since 1967," said Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa during press conference. "This is not just a year-end statistic; it is perhaps the most powerful statement on the state of our city and our Police Department."

More than 40 years have passed since the total number of homicides in the city equaled less than 300.

LAPD Chief Charlie Beck hailed the men and women of the police force for their part in homicide reduction, but added: "There are more lives that can be saved. Working together with our communities, the LAPD will be committed to doing just that in 2011."

The drop in homicides represents a five percent decrease since 2009, and a 22 percent decrease since 2008. Murder rates have continued to fall in the past few years, declining by one third since 2007. With fewer than 300 murders in 2010, the city has experienced a 75 percent drop in homicides since 1992, when murders peaked to 1,092.




Homicides have been decreasing throughout the county, with a total of 596 murders in 2010. The year previous, 2009, saw 739 homicides in L.A. In 2008, there were 879 murders and in 2007 there were 939. Factoring in population, 2010 represents the lowest homicide rate per capita since 1964. In 1992, the most recent peak of violent crime in Los Angeles, there were 3.09 homicides per 10,000 people. In 2010, there were 0.74 homicides per 10,000 people.

“Even during tough economic times, we have kept our sights on a more hopeful, promising and safer future and the statistics once again shed light on a much brighter outcome for our City," said Villaraigosa. "Our unwavering commitment to public safety has yielded tangible results and has saved lives.”




The LAPD Valley Bureau saw the greatest reduction in homicides, with an 11.76 percent drop since 2009. The Central Bureau, however, reported an increase from 93 to 95 killings in the area from 2009 to 2010.

Although the year ended well statistically, a slew of murders around the Christmas period included four killings on Christmas Eve and five murders on Christmas Day. Both 2007 and 2009 had fewer murders on Christmas Day, with 10 murders on Christmas Day in 2008.

Statistics and graph from LAPD Online.

The Place Making Dividend (La identidad del lugar )

The Place Making Dividend

22 December 2010 - 2:29pm

Author:

• Edward T. McMahon

Edward T. MacMahon of ULI explains why cities and towns with unique character have an economic advantage over the sameness of chain stores and malls, and why people should fight to preserve and create a sense of place.

In June 2010, the technology giant Apple finally opened its first store in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington, D.C. The grand opening was the culmination of a saga stretching back two and one half years to when Apple bought a building that formerly housed a women's clothing store.
It took Apple eight months to build its new store, but it took them more than twice as long to get design approval (19 months) for the new building which replaced the former clothing store. The protracted design review process began when Apple proposed their standard (off-the shelf), modern façade (they are, after all, a high-tech company) that they use in suburban stores all over the country. The Georgetown Design Review Board balked at this and reaped a heap of criticism for letting historic preservation stand in the way of retail progress.
The new building, which is now complete, looks pretty much like dozens of other historic commercial structures that line Georgetown main commercial thoroughfares. Some may think the façade is bland. Others will say it fits right in. Whatever you think, one of the things the new design proves is that when a chain store developer comes to town it generally has at least three designs (A, B, or C) ranging from Anywhere USA to Unique (i.e., sensitive to local character).
According to retail consultant, Bob Gibbs, "which one gets built depends heavily upon how much push back the company gets from local residents and officials about design and its importance."
While the Apple store owners were no doubt frustrated by the community's demands and the design review process, they will assuredly do very well in their Georgetown location. As local blogger Toper Matthews said, "Most simply won't notice the building's architecture at all and will instead hone in on the toys inside."

The Apple Store in Georgetown. Image courtesy of Flickr user trekkyandy.
Georgetown is one of the single best retail locations in the nation. Why? Because the historic neighborhood is one-of-a kind. It is charming, walkable, and filled with tech savvy young adults. Georgetown is the kind of neighborhood that provides "a place making dividend." This simply means that people will stay longer, spend more money, and come back more often to places that attract their affection.
We sometimes forget that every building has a site, every site has a neighborhood, and every neighborhood is part of a community. Georgetown is a successful retail location primarily because it has a unique sense of place. What would happen to the Georgetowns of the world if every chain store operator could build their standard, off-the-shelf building? Georgetown would simply cease to be a special place. It would lose its place-making dividend. Place is more than just a location or a spot on a map. A sense of place is a unique collection of qualities and characteristics – visual, cultural, social, and environmental – that provides meaning to a location. Sense of place is what makes one location (e.g., your hometown) different from another location (e.g., my hometown), but sense of place is also that which makes our physical surroundings worth caring about.
Land use planners have spent too much time focusing on numbers: the number of units per acre, the number of cars per hour, the number of floors per building, and not enough time on the values, customs, characteristics, and quirks that make a place worth caring about. Unfortunately, many American communities are suffering the social, economic, and environmental consequences of being places that simply aren't worth caring about. The more one place (one location) comes to be just like every other place, the less reason there is to visit or invest.
Just take tourism, for example: the more a community comes to look just like every other community, the less reason there is to visit. On the other hand, the more a community does to enhance its distinctive identity, whether that is natural, cultural, or architectural, the more reasons there are to visit. Why?
Because tourism is about visiting places that are different, unusual, or unique; if one place was just like everyplace else, there would be no reason to go anyplace. Similarly, when it comes to 21st century economic development, a key concept is "community differentiation." If you can't differentiate your community from any other community, you have no competitive advantage. Capital is footloose in a global economy. Natural resources, highway access, locations along a river or rail line, have all become less important.
Larry Goldman, a leading authority on economic development, has said, 'How people think of a place is less tangible, but more important than just about anything else.”

Where is this? Image courtesy of Flickr user ravenksy.
Today, however, the subtle differences between places are fading and larger regional differences hardly exist. Now, if you were dropped along a road outside of most American cities or towns, you wouldn't have the slightest idea where you were, because it all looks exactly the same: the building materials, the architectural styles, the chain stores, the outdoor advertising.
Building materials can be imported from anywhere. Hills can be flattened and streams put in culverts. We can transform the landscape with great speed and build anything that fits our budget or strikes our fancy. Technological innovation and a global economy make it easy for building plans drawn up at a corporate headquarters in New Jersey to be applied over and over again in Phoenix, Philadelphia, Portland, or a thousand other communities.
Over the past 40 years America’s commercial landscape has progressed from unique to uniform, from the stylized to the standardized. Author Wallace Stegner once said, paraphrasing his friend Wendell Berry, "If you don't know where you are, you don't know who you are." We all need points of reference and orientation.
A community's unique identity provides that orientation, while also adding economic and social value to a place. To foster a sense of place, communities must plan for built environments and settlement patterns that are uplifting and memorable – and that create a special feeling of belonging and stewardship by residents. A community also nurtures sense of place by understanding and respecting its natural context, such as rivers and streams, hills and forests, native flora and fauna, but also its community landmarks, whether historic or unique.
This is what heart and soul planning is all about. It is about helping communities adapt to change while maintaining or enhancing the things they value most. It is both a process and a philosophy. The process seeks to engage as many citizens as possible in community decision making. The philosophy recognizes that special places, characteristics, and customs have value.
As Lyman Orton, owner of the Vermont Country Store, and Chairman of the Orton Family Foundation, likes to say, "When a community takes the time to get to know itself, it gains a sense of identity and purpose that informs decisions about the future."
Similarly, for me, heart and soul planning is about helping communities ask the question: "Do you want the character of your community to shape the new development – or do you want the new development to shape the character of your community?"
Given the opportunity, I think I know how most communities will answer this question.

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Edward T. McMahon is Senior Resident Fellow/Charles E. Fraser Chair for Sustainable Development and Environmental Policy with the Urban Land Institute.