Module 2 Annotated Bibliographies

Epp, G. (1980). Furnishing the unit from the viewpoint of the elderly, the designer and HUD. Boston, MA.

The author examines what she calls the actual versus perceived furnishability needs of the elderly, comparing data from four sources: an MIT study of elderly-occupied units, HUD Minimum Property Standards, a group of practicing designers and a group of beginning architectural students. She finds that those interviewed for the MIT study have substantially more pieces of furniture in their one-bedroom apartments than the other groups suggest they need, possibly due a greater emotional attachment to the furniture, and that they arranged it primarily against the walls in noticeable patterns while the other groups tended to favor circulation and zoning. She outlines several design implications which can assist designers of elderly units, such as utilizing corners effectively and specifying twin beds, and emphasizes the need for designers to rely on objective data over personal experience. Also, since the HUD standards were found to be lacking in both furniture content and arrangement, this effectively calls into question their widespread use as government-issued guidelines.

Lang, J. (1987). Creating architectural theory : The role of the behavioral sciences in environmental design. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold.

Lang argues that while we have become more aware about the relationship between the built environment and physical behavior, there are still many variables in effectively designing for these behaviors. He outlines several – temperature control, illumination levels, color perception, sound and noise – which are critical in creating environments where people can carry out activities comfortably and without added strain. For those confined to wheelchairs or without hearing or sight, barrier-free design can address specific needs and apply them to the general population. He attempts to address the link between personality, body type and “tolerances for fits and misfits” in the built environment, though he acknowledges that there is a lot of guesswork involved. He does, however, find a link between socioeconomic status and body size, finding that those exposed to better nutrition and healthcare grow larger from generation to generation – although twenty-five years after publication, obesity rates among the most impoverished are actually skyrocketing.

Monaghan, P. (2000, April 7). Modern Play Spaces May Be Safe, but They’re Stultifying, Some Experts Say. The Chronicle of Higher Education. Retrieved from http://chronicle.com/article/Modern-Play-Spaces-May-Be/6750

The author explores the work of cultural geographers who consider the changing nature of childhood as a function of physiological, psychological, socioeconomic and cultural processes. In what ways does the built environment relate to the social, cultural and political identities children form, he asks, and what are the best methods available to learn these things directly from children themselves? A lot of the work of these cultural geographers can be seen in direct opposition to the child-rearing specialist Jean Piaget, who posited that all children go through a series of stages of “normal” development. Of more interest is what happens outside of these generalities, things like intuition and collective experience. Places for children to play and explore these issues are either becoming highly regulated (the “Chuck E. Cheesing” effect) or disappearing altogether in places like inner-city neighborhoods. Connections can be seen to the Michael Chabon article, which addresses some similar issues.

Panero, J., & Zelnik, M. (1979). Human dimension and interior space : a source of design reference standards. New York: Whitney Library of Design.

The authors define anthropometry as the measurement of the human body to determine differences in individuals and groups, and they readily acknowledge that much of the data used in anthropometrics comes from military studies. They differentiate between “static” dimensions, such as measurements of specific parts of the body, and “dynamic” ones taken during the operation of specific tasks. Presented in graphic form, this data shows that there is an even, symmetrical and predictable distribution around a mean resembling a bell curve. This data can be further divided into “percentiles,” where the listed number indicates the percentage of data falling at, above or below that particular threshold. This is of particular importance in the Weber article, where standards utilizing male percentiles were locking out women. What are the implications of basing an entire science on the measurements of military personnel? While the authors acknowledge that body size can vary with age, ethnicity and socioeconomic status, how can the field effectively stay ahead of the rapid demographic changes occurring today and what impact does this have on designers?

Ulrich, R. (1992). How design impacts wellness. The Healthcare Forum Journal, 35(5), 20-25.

While healthcare facilities have historically been designed to be functionally efficient, there is growing awareness and evidence that designers must take psychological factors into account in order to maximize the health benefits of the built environment. Stress, for instance, can negatively impact physical health and should be limited as much as possible through minimizing things which cause it (confusion, loud noise, lack of privacy) and giving patients a greater sense of control, better access to social support and positive distractions. While things like self-administered pain medication, patient rooms which allow for overnight visitors and sightlines to windows from bed may not seem like much, taken together they can have a profound effect on the health and wellbeing of not only patients but also staff and visitors. However, one could argue that the methodology used to draw some of these conclusions is potentially flawed, and more research – such as occupancy studies or evidence-based design theories – needs to be conducted.

Weber, R. (1997). Manufacturing Gender in Commercial and Military Cockpit Design. Science, Technology, and Human Values, 22(2), 235-253.

Examining the design of US military and commercial cockpits, the author argues that both have historically been built to the anthropometric measurements of men to the general exclusion of women and some smaller-sized men. In the 1990s, a military training system called JPATS originally specified certain anthropometric requirements for safe use, though these would have ruled out nearly two-thirds of women trainees. A 1993 directive instructed that JPATS should in fact accommodate 80% of women, resulting in their eventual inclusion after debate within the military and the press which focused on issues of pragmatism, inclusion and parity. Commercial cockpit design does not take these into account, the author argues, instead focusing on “the intersection of technological capability, labor relations and profit margins.” As it is not economically advantageous for airlines to design for female anthropometry, they do not do so. Many retired military pilots eventually work for commercial airlines, though, so as more servicewomen become pilots it may force airlines to rethink their cockpit design. Also, as technology and specifically robotics advances even further, maybe ways of bringing instruments to pilots instead of the other way around will be developed.

Compartmentalization of play

When we shuttle our youth around from activity to activity, we don't allow them to explore their surroundings and thereby prevent them from learning to create effective cognitive maps of their environment. What are the implications for a generation which hasn't been given the opportunity to play unsupervised?

The "Standification" of NYC

So I decided to head out to the Museum of Modern Art to see what I images I could find, and the first place I wandered into was the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Here’s the main ticketing area, and what immediately struck me was the complete and utter lack of seating available. There isn’t one single place to sit down, and it got me thinking about how our public spaces have been systematically stripped of places to sit and, by extension, linger – something I’ve decided to call “standification.”

And it’s happening everywhere. You might think, “Sure, they can’t have seating at the Port Authority, because then the homeless will move in.” Here’s the lobby of the New York Times building, which opened not too many years ago. Notice anything? The woman on the left is leaning up against one of the columns, because there isn’t anywhere to sit down. Perhaps she’s waiting for someone to come down to meet her for lunch. She’s tired – what else is she supposed to do?

On to Rockefeller Center. Anyone who’s ever worked in this part of Midtown knows that outdoor seating is at a premium, and people will sit just about anywhere they can. The people on the right side of the photo don’t have it too bad, as the height of the ledge surrounding the fountain is at a reasonable height. But as your eye moves left, you can see that the seating height gets lower and lower, which increases discomfort. And where’s the shade? If this were a 100-degree day in late July, it would be positively brutal.

Nearby are some built-in benches, one of the few areas in this part of Midtown where there is quasi-comfortable seating. But notice the metal dividers, which are simply screwed into the seat of the bench as if an afterthought (which they probably were). Not only would they make lying down uncomfortable, but they are spaced in such a way where fewer people are going to be able to sit down than if the dividers weren’t there. This is problematic in an area of the city where outdoor seating is at a premium.

Inside MoMA, I finally found somewhere to sit down. You might question why such a deep bench is necessary – and it probably isn’t – but then the gentleman lying on his back and apparently asleep wouldn’t have somewhere to nap. Part of me wants to believe that MoMA understands there isn’t anywhere to sit down outside of its doors and is offering up these benches to weary tourists and natives alike. Then again: if you’re paying $20 to get inside (unless you’re an FIT student, of course, who gets in for free), then the least they should offer you is a comfortable place to sit down.

 

But! Out in the sculpture garden, I noticed an odd thing: even though there were actual seats available in both the sun and shade (I went and looked to be sure), several people were voluntarily sitting on the steps (as you can see in the foreground). And I think it’s because we’ve been so conditioned to not having anywhere to sit down that people are willing to sit on steps – which are generally quite filthy things – because often it’s the only place available even resembling a seat. 

And speaking of seats, who wouldn’t want to sit here?

And speaking of standing: “How you know you are tall in a country.”


That is the caption my friend Susan put on this picture which she recently posted to Facebook. She’s currently in Mozambique, and I thought this was a near-perfect illustration of how something quite simple – like the placement of a mirror – can make you feel out of place. Oh, and Susan is probably something like 5’8”.

Phone books-a-go-go

Came home last night to find the following scene in the entryway to my building. There are over 40 phone books stacked up but only 13 units - plus the fact that I for one don't have a landline, and I would imagine that many other units in the building don't have one either.

I called SuperMedia this morning to complain, and the agent I spoke with audibly gasped when I told her how many books were left behind. They're supposedly coming to get them sometime in the next "couple of days" and won't deliver any more in the future.

I know that several West Coast cities, including Seattle, have instituted a mandatory "opt out" for phone books - they might even have an "opt in," I have to check. I wonder what it would take to get NYC to institute something similar?

If this happens to anyone else, SuperMedia - the branch of Verizon that makes the "SuperPages," among other products - can be reached at 800-446-9639.

Module 1 Annotated Bibliographies

Aciman, A. (2000). Shadow cities. In A. Aciman (Ed.), Letters of transit: Reflections on exile, identity, language and loss (pp. 15-34). New York: The New Press.

Through a discussion of his favorite park on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, Aciman – a self-described “exile” from Alexandria in Egypt – argues for the existence of what he calls “shadow cities,” effectively versions of the remembrances of other cities one has inhabited for any length of time that exist alongside, underneath and through one’s current locale. These shadow cities allow us to appreciate where we are more fully by creating a mirror, which Aciman calls a “mnemonic correlate,” in which one can see these other cities one has known or even only imagined inhabiting. For instance, he says, he never actually sees the real New York; instead, he only sees a New York which stands in for other locales or helps him to remember the other places he has been. Exiles, he argues, fear change and instinctively look for their homeland abroad in order to minimize the stress of the longing and loss they feel. This is, effectively, the opposite of the concept that you can never go home again – you’re always home wherever you are, because you are constantly bringing your concept of “home” with you, wherever you go.

Chabon, M. (2009, 16 July).  Manhood for amateurs: The wilderness of childhood. The New York Review of Books, 56, 12.

Chabon reminisces about his childhood home in Maryland, where his family lived at the edge of a wooded area. He connects the “wilderness of childhood” to well-known children’s stories of adventure and their usual inclusion of a map which not only reveals the geography of the tale but also serves as metaphor for the mental maps which children create of their surroundings as they learn and grow. Recalling his interest in a series of books of the lives of famous Americans as children, Chabon finds a familiar link from their adventures in the wilderness through his play (and mental map-making) as a child and contrasts that with the current generation of American children, including his own, who don’t get to experience the wilderness of childhood for fear of abduction or otherwise serious harm. Ultimately, he worries what effect this closing of the wilderness will have on both children’s imaginations – their ability to play, think and create freely, unencumbered by adults – and “the world of adventure, of stories, of literature itself.”

Cooper, C. (1974). The house as symbol of the self. In J. Lang, et al. (Eds.), Designing for Human Behavior (pp. 130-146). Stroudsburg, PA: Dowden, Hutchinson and Ross.

In this “think piece,” Cooper takes the Jungian concepts of the collective unconscious, archetypes and symbols and relates them to the modern construct of the house. For Jung, archetypes are nodes of psychic energy in the unconscious mind, and symbols are the manifestations of archetypes in the real world. For Cooper, the house serves as a symbol of the self, and humans treat their homes as reflections of the people they are, the people they want others to see them as, or the people they someday hope to be. This house-as-self image that individuals project may often happen unconsciously, but it is fraught with the same stereotypes and judgments that are found in issues of socioeconomic status, racial inequality and cultural normalcy. She then examines examples of house-as-self in literature and poetry, finding that the house as “womb” or “mother” is a common theme. Further connecting to research of Carl Jung, Cooper uses examples of Jung’s accounts of his own dreams of houses and subsequent actual additions to his house to show that the collective unconscious is constantly at work building and shaping our homes and, by extension, our lives. Although somewhat dated, Cooper’s collection of research and anecdotal evidence ultimately suggests that architects and designers need to consider their clients’ sense of self when designing for them or risk producing “a symbolic reality which leaves the residents bewildered and resentful.”

Proshansky, H. M., Fabian, A. K. & Kaminoff, R. (1983). Place-identity: Physical world socialization of the self. Journal of Environmental Psychology, 3(1), pp. 57-83.

The authors examine the concept of “place-identity,” whereby they extrapolate from the development of self-identity a concurrent theory concerning an individual’s learned ability to make distinctions between oneself and not only objects and things but also the spaces and places in which those things are found. This place-identity is crucial to the development of one’s ability to effectively respond to a variety of physical settings encountered throughout life, they argue, whether or not one has been exposed to a particular environment before. In this way, we collect a database of place-identities which allow us to navigate our way through life. They discuss the various functions of place-identity, including recognition, meaning, expressive-requirement, mediating change, and anxiety and defense. Physical settings dominate the lives of children, and the authors insist that it is within the framework of these spaces where children learn the significant social roles they will inhabit for the rest of their lives. Therefore, place-identity is instrumental in the formation of one’s self-identity and its importance cannot be overstated. Their exhaustive analysis of place-identity is largely effective, though it often diverges into somewhat convoluted and repetitive reasoning which tend to lessen the impact of the basic argument. Plainer language and a tighter thematic framework could strengthen their discussion considerably.

Whitehead, C. (2001, 11 November). The way we live now: 11-11-01; Lost and found. The New York Times. Retrieved from http://www.nytimes.com         

 

In an article written two months after the terrorist attacks of September 11, Whitehead rather effectively argues, through humor no less, that you can call yourself a New Yorker “when what was there before is more real and solid than what is here now” – or, rather, once you’ve created your own private version of the city which is based on all of the places you’ve lived, frequented, worked or otherwise known. The places that have disappeared still exist, he says, because we still exist and we still remember. Not only that, but having this history also proves that you were part of the city and, by extension, it was a part of you. It’s a rather poignant reaction to the destruction of the two World Trade Center towers, which Whitehead suggests still stand “because we saw them…were lucky enough to know them for a time.” He ultimately wonders what, if anything, will physically take their place and suggests that we give whatever does a chance to share the city with us too.

Wow!

"A Washington-based technology company announced plans Tuesday to build a 20-square-mile model metropolis that would be used to test everything from renewable energy innovations to intelligent traffic systems and next-generation wireless networks. The replica city would be capable of supporting a population of 350,000, but would be the state's newest ghost town."

from The Huffington Post

Environmental Autobiography, Part IV

By 2004 both of my parents had retired, and it was time to start thinking about plans for the future. They knew they would always retire out to Whitewater Lake, and it had been clear for a very long time that the cottage wouldn’t be nearly large enough for all of their things. At first, my dad was pretty married to the idea of keeping the house intact, but adding onto it – an idea from which the builder he’d hired immediately tried to talk him down. While the builder knew that the house had great sentimental value for my dad, he also (correctly) recognized that my parents would need something far more stable and efficient, since they would be spending hopefully many more years there. In the end the builder won out, and my dad doesn’t regret this decision at all. Why not? Well, I’ll venture a guess: because one’s sense of place, while certainly informed and influenced by material objects, is never surpassed by them.

So my parents built a house which looks like a lot of the other houses on the lake. It’s beige, has a stone façade at the front door and a two car garage. It’s wired for satellite television, and they’re waiting for prices to drop a little before they buy their third high definition set. Although much larger than Aunt Lee’s place, it’s also more energy-efficient and takes better advantage of natural east-west cross ventilation. Meanwhile, each summer the lake itself gets a little more crowded, with bigger and faster speedboats pulling larger numbers of waterskiers. When I visit in the summertime, we wait until dusk to take out the pontoon boat where I’m regaled with stories of the latest homes for sale and what’s being built where. My mother gets to garden, my dad gets to tinker, and all in all they’re doing just fine.

Living in a hyper-urban environment for over fifteen years now – Manhattan, my sixth and current home – you might question what part of Whitewater Lake remains with me now. Since my parents still live there, and I visit at least twice a year, my question would be: what part of it doesn’t? In a lot of ways, I don’t think I’d be in graduate school studying sustainability if it weren’t for the experiences I had growing up in both the city and the country. Aunt Lee was living nearly carbon-neutrally for a very long time, well before there was a term for it. I might not have known it then, but I can certainly recognize it now.

What do I think of my parents’ decision to tear down the cottage and start over? In the end, Aunt Lee's house was from a different time and, in fact, a remarkably different place. But if I walk out onto the pier and sit down, I still hear the same water lapping at the stones on the shoreline, hear the same birds calling out. I still see the same trees, the same vista, the same horizon. Do I miss the old house? Not really. If I close my eyes, I can still imagine sitting in Aunt Lee’s kitchen – like it was yesterday, in fact. The places we love live on, long after they’re gone.

Environmental Autobiography, Part III

But then I grew up. As I got into high school, I stopped spending summer weeks out at Whitewater Lake – I had a job, for one, and other things going on. We would still make our trips out to see Aunt Lee, but my sister and I might not go every time. Then I went off to college in Northfield, MN and moved to Minneapolis after graduating, the second and third places on the itinerary of my life so far. Aunt Lee died in December of the year I graduated - she was 88 years old and still occasionally babysitting for neighboring families. I don’t remember how I felt on the day I first went back to her house after she was gone, and I think this is probably for the best – I’d much rather remember the house with her in it. My parents inherited the cottage, and continued to go on at least a monthly basis – and every weekend in the summer -  just like Aunt Lee would have wanted it, I’m sure.

Eventually, it was my turn. In 1996 I got an offer from some friends who had been subletting an apartment in Brooklyn to move out to New York and share an apartment with them. It was an offer too good to refuse, but before the new lease would start I’d have almost three months to kill and I needed to be out of my Minneapolis place. Enter Whitewater Lake, where I lived for April, May and June of that year on my eventual way out to NYC. But where my experiences for the previous twenty-plus years had been nearly idyllic, my time spent actually living on Whitewater Lake was incredibly different. While I had the same free time to sit and relax and enjoy, the lake and the house especially felt increasingly like a prison. It was small, and the television reception was horrible. I had been living with no fewer than three other people for the previous four years, and I was missing daily interactions with friends. The uncertainty I was feeling about moving away had infiltrated my relationship with my environment in a big, bad way.

Sometimes it’s hard being surrounded by silence when all you want to do is scream.

It didn’t help that the sun came out from behind the clouds maybe fifteen or twenty of the ninety days I lived there, or at least it seemed that way. Summer was late in coming that year, so even the trees were mainly dormant for most of those months, adding to the increasing sense of expectation (and anxiety) that was swirling through my mind - until summer finally exploded in late May. Here’s a photograph taken later that June, near the end of my time living on Whitewater Lake. What’s not nearly perfect about this picture? My shadow is the only thing that’s giving away how I really feel, though in that kind of setting sunlight you’d be hard-pressed to have a care in the world.

Environmental Autobiography, Part II

Driving out to Whitewater Lake was always an adventure, and I remember being acutely aware of the changing scenery that flowed past the car windows – dense suburban housing that eventually began spreading out, then rather quickly transforming into countryside. (I know that drive like the back of my hand, and could have directed you there long before I could legally drive there.) The house sat along a road on a ridge that bisects the lake, coincidentally called Ridge Road, and you have to take a rather winding trip up and down, left and right, in order to get there.

We visited basically every other week, not always precisely but it seemed to work out that way, through every kind of weather and each turn of the season. I remember how loud the screen door would slam if you weren’t gentle – which we rarely were – and gouging my knee on the weird concrete steps smack in the middle of the yard. (I still have the scar.) I remember the smell of freshly-mown grass, having been allowed to wield a push-mower from an early age, but especially the smell of burning leaves, which we would first rake into large piles and dive into before letting Dad loose with the lighter fluid. I remember the sound of the motorboats, but especially the sound after the motorboats fell silent, the sound of the lake making the sounds it’s always made, will always make.

Whitewater Lake was the place where I first lit smoke bombs, the place where I shot a rifle for the one and only time. (I closed my eyes and was physically thrown backwards by the recoil, but I somehow hit the can.) But what was the house to me? Was it just a place to sleep, a place to seek shelter from inclement weather – or was there more to it, how it exuded warmth from the moment you opened the door to the kitchen in subzero weather and smelled the apple cake that Aunt Lee had warm from the oven without fail each and every time you came to visit? How it freaked you a little bit to take a shower in the basement, in a dark corner without so much as a light bulb, with the cobwebs and the spiders and who knows what else? How in the winter you would access the basement through the hatch in the floor because there’s no way you’re going out in three feet of snow in your bathrobe, thank you very much.

I would spend several weeks each summer out at Aunt Lee’s by myself, bookended by visits from my family to drop me off and pick me back up. I’d work in the yard, mow the lawn, scrape and paint parts of the house that were peeling – anything she needed, because that’s why I was out there. I was there to have fun, of course, but I was really there for her – at least that’s how my nine-year-old self thought. Lying in the hammock drinking Dr. Pepper out of glass bottles. Catching butterflies in a net and letting them fly away. Fishing off the pier, but only when Aunt Lee was around – because if I caught anything, I would need her to take the fish off the hook. (To this day, I can’t touch a live fish.) It was those weeks where I learned how to appreciate simple things.

Environmental Autobiography, Part I

I haven’t lived too many places, geographically-speaking: barring a four-month stint studying abroad in Greece, I’ve lived in only three states – in order of appearance: Wisconsin, Minnesota and New York - and two cities per state (if you’re willing to count Brooklyn as a city). But while I was born and raised in Shorewood, WI, a small residential inner-ring suburb of Milwaukee, growing up I had the good fortune to be able to spend many weekends and several weeks per summer on Whitewater Lake with my Great Aunt Lee.

Aunt Lee – more specifically, Leora Emma Petronella Goelzer Frank – had been living on Whitewater Lake for a very long time, certainly as long as I could remember. She was my father’s mother’s sister, who had left Milwaukee shortly after marrying my uncle Carl Frank. He owned a small piece of land on a somewhat remote lake southwest of the city where he had built, with his own two hands, a small clapboard cottage some years earlier.

Of course, he had some additional work to do: the garage, for instance, took up more than half of the house. When it was just him, living in the small back room hadn’t been much of an issue – but now that Lee was going to be living there too, he had to lay tile over the garage floor, install another door and build an actual kitchen. The foundation may have been made of cinderblocks, but it was structurally sound and barely ever leaked. So what if the shower was a stall stuck in the corner of the basement? So what if there was only one toilet, a true water closet without so much as a sink? It was home, and Aunt Lee embraced it.

My dad had spent a large part of his youth going out to Whitewater Lake, where in a lot of ways he was like the child that Carl and Lee never had. So when my dad eventually got married and started his own family, we soon started our bi-monthly trips out to see Aunt Lee – Carl had unfortunately died shortly before I was born and Aunt Lee, stubborn as always, decided to stay on at the lake by herself even though she had no car (she didn’t know how to drive) and at that time there were few year-round residents. 

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