Growing up in inner-city Newark and attending school in suburbia, I have always wondered how these two environments were so distinctly different. How could so many cultural and socioeconomic differences exist in communities only a few miles apart? Furthermore, how did the suburban environment of my school effect the urban environment of my home?
I have spent much of my life walking around New York City. The layout of this metropolis’ streets has always interested me. I relish in discovering new ways to walk between two places and in finding new streets I have never seen before. Inevitably, I ended up asking myself the following question: How does the layout of New York City streets reflect its urban development over from 1609 to the present?
Walking is my form of enlightenment.
I live in Newark. My city is generally ten degrees hotter than its neighboring environment. The airport. The port. The downtown. All are blanketed in asphalt that turns my city into a hot desert.
Tens of thousands of cars, and one of the largest garbage incinerators in the country, spew their fumes into my city. Returning home, the smell of burning garbage often greets me. As a child, I had asthma.
At night, I am alone. Nobody my age lives in my neighborhood. From my front window, I see a parking lot for corporate commuters. From my back window, I see a vast parking lot for university students. Both are desolate after dusk. As an infant, my first words were “demolition” and “truck.” As a child, I never had play dates; my suburban “friends” feared my city. As an adult, I hope to see my city’s vacant lots developed. I keep on dreaming.
The streets of my city are not made for walking. They are made for driving. I walk. I stop. I wait. Speeding traffic and interminable stoplights hinder my progress.
But I love walking in New York City.
When I walk, I am free to choose. Each street guides me forward. Each intersection is a choice. Each destination is irrelevant. When I walk, I sometimes choose a random order of directions, left, right, left, right, right, left, left, straight. I see where they lead me. I know not where.
When I walk, I am free to move. I love walking on the High Line. I float above the cars that prevent the city from realizing itself as a community. I see the crowded streets twenty feet below. I see the gardens on either side of me. I let the verdantly landscaped path channel me forward.
When I walk, I am no longer alone. I walk in the footsteps of the millions who passed before me. I am one among millions, all of us on our separate voyages. Lawyers. Butchers. Tourists. Homeless. We all walk alone. Yet, we are together in walking alone.
When I walk, I see the world. In Spanish Harlem, street fairs sell traditional Mexican foods. In college town Columbia, well-dressed university students amble on their way to class. In the Upper West Side, the shabby chic push their grocery prams. In Times Square, tourists lug their large shopping bags from theater to theater, store to store. Finally, after many neighborhoods, I reach the ceaseless bustle of Wall Street. Tired after many miles of walking, I descend the subway steps.
When I walk, I achieve tranquility. I am happy.
One of my recent projects is painting New York City, neighborhood by neighborhood. Each day, I choose a new district to stroll through. Then, equipped with my miniature watercolor palette and notepad, I walk and paint. I discover the city block by block. I aim to capture a fragment of what I see through painting.
Like a pianist who memorizes music by heart, the flâneur (or urban pedestrian) embraces the street symphony with his soul and feet. People’s voices and buildings serve different, but equally important, clefs in the symphony. As le Corbusier wrote, “… first to look, and then to observe, and finally to discover.” My countless urban walks enhance my passion for cities, their architecture, their history, and their planning.
Living in Newark inspires me to dream. Walking in New York City enlightens me to walk. I am ready to walk my next journey.
(Selected from college application essay)
Chinatown is both static and dynamic: Static in its resilience against gentrification, dynamic in its cultural interplay between past and present, immigrant and American.
Everywhere in Chinatown, past and present intermingle. Dusty and decrepit Jewish textile stores struggle onward; their elderly owners wait to close up shop and sell out for many millions. By Division Street rests a former synagogue with an AT&T outlet on one side and an immigrant job agency on the other. Bustling bakeries and bodegas abut reminders of past immigration. Lyricist Ira Gershwin’s birthplace is still inhabited, red paint flaking off its brick walls. Weathered brick tenements, serving successive waves of Germans, Italians, and Irish, still serve elderly Asians and urban “hipsters.” Streets are still chronically dirty, as they were a century ago. Chinatown is still a living, breathing being in constant flux.
On select corners sprout feeble tendrils of gentrification: a pricey café, a garishly painted crêperie, a chic souvenir shop advertising “I love Chinatown” tote bags. This neighborhood is devoid of its youth; little children and wizened elderly remain. The rest have left to work in the America beyond. Beneath the Manhattan Bridge a sign reads, “Chinese-American special carrier to return infants to China.” The shabby A Train rumbles on above.
On the neighborhood’s fringes is the touristed Tenement Museum. The cycling documentary chronicles life on the Lower East Side. Black and white imagery flickers across the screen: Italians and Irish, Germans, and Jews, the immigrant experience, dreams of coming to America. It is all too convenient to reflect on the past and to falsely conclude: That what was New York no longer is. That its immigrant travails have now vanished. That overcrowding and grime is no more. Problem solved. Case closed.
Much has changed. Much has not. The city awaits the next tide of tired, poor, and huddled masses.
This high-density tenement on Eldridge Street is home to a myriad of businesses including:
Third Brother’s Fuzhou Snack Bar
Green Forest Internet Bar
United Express and Lottery Tickets
Universal Phone Cards
Everything OK Job Agency
International Job Agency
Twinkling Star Job Agency
These frogs, marketed as seafood and known as “Field Chicken,” are sold for $5.19 each.
This all purpose establishment advertises the following services:
Western Chinese Music
Funerals and Birthdays
These sculptures made of paper, wire, and wood are powered by the wind. When placed before a light breeze, their pinwheels spin and power the sculptures’ cyclical movements. The bird will soar. The horseman will eternally charge forward, lance at the ready.
This series explores movement. Each sculpture physically and symbolically invokes the purity and lightness of moving elements.
Pinwheel is the simplest in this series. A light breeze spins a three-pronged pinwheel, which vibrates a wire. The following sculptures are variations on this mechanism.
In Ocean Voyage, the pinwheel gently rocks a sailing boat. Wind movement translates into wave movement.
Liberty explores the search for freedom. The pinwheel connects to a wire that flaps the dove’s white wings. Ironically, the dove flees from the source of its movement.
Similar to Liberty, Don Quixote’s Windmill explores the interplay between source and recipient of movement. The pinwheel powers the horse’s legs as it charges forward. Ironically, Don Quixote attacks the windmill that powers him.
In Cityscape two pinwheels power rows of zigzagging traffic. In this “snapshot” of urban life, movement is choreographed along mechanical lines. A black paper cutout contrasts the white sculpture, which is illuminated from beneath.
Time employs movement as a metaphor about life and death. A crank rotates a wheel and powers a walking skeleton. On the wheel, silhouettes of infant, child, worker, senior, cripple, and coffin symbolize the stages of life. While the skeleton depicts death, the wheel depicts continuity. In juxtaposition to the series, the human hand, not natural wind, moves the sculpture and completes the metaphor.
Vanishing City is a visual documentary about redevelopment in Newark, my birthplace. While my city’s industrial past slowly succumbs to demolition, new buildings grow from old lots. Through this series, I document the beauty behind decay, destruction, and rebirth.
I am witness to the frighteningly beautiful decay of my city’s cultural heritage. An abandoned barge slowly sinks in murky waters. A former factory tumbles before the wrecking ball. A sea of weeds lays siege to a vacant home. An empty lot is a gaping hole, a missing tooth, in the urban body. As a wall crumbles to the ground, a tree, firmly anchored to the wall, reaches to the sky.
Behind this slow decay, there is a hidden beauty in the ephemeral. It is the realization that what was built to last forever, will not last. It is the expectation that the destruction of the past could contain the seeds of a better city. Lastly, it is the hope that someday the past will become cherished in its entirety because a culture without history is like a body without life.
The ephemeral nature of my environment compels me to examine and re-examine my sense of place before it vanishes in the protean vortex of memory. Years from now, my city will continue redefining its identity. Years from now, I will assess my memories with fresh experience and nuanced perspective. Although today’s present may become tomorrow’s past, the present will survive through our collective consciousness.
When one visits the ruins of past civilizations, such as Greece, Carthage, and Rome, one sees them not as whole structures, but as shards of memory and as the detritus of what once was. Their grandeur stems not from seeing them intact but from imagining them as they once were; grandeur lost is more moving than grandeur still extant. These ruins are powerful because of their decay, not in spite of it.
The battered past should remind the proud present of its transience. I look at the built world of today and ask: Will the monuments we erect to culture and capitalism endure? What will the future remember us by? Roman roads lasted millennia; will our potholed highways last as long? Obelisks of stone withstood the elements for centuries; will our rusty skyscrapers of steel last as long? The Greek forum became legendary; could the same destiny await our “forums” of today, the strip mall, the grocery chain, and the drive-thru? The Renaissance aspired to the grandeur of Rome; what society will aspire to the “grandeur” of our society with its twisted piles of fallen metal and the troubled environment our children will inherit? Maybe the question should be different: in a culture of blind “progress”, what past will there even be to preserve? Time will tell.
To see a film featuring the work above: click here. Below, pictures of my neighborhood’s architectural losses, photographed first in 1978 and again in 2014 from the same camera angles.
The following images, all created in Photoshop, depict a surreal and imagined New York City, overwhelmed or controlled by strange forces of nature.
Space House is an exploration of 1950’s futurism and sustainable building practices. This model measures about 15 inches diameter and is made entirely from paper. The house is round and domed to better maintain heat. Circles are the most cost effective forms because they contain the greatest volume with the least amount of surface area. The house features large, porthole windows to better profit from the view and passive solar heating. In the heat of summer, blinds roll down over the windows to protect from the sun’s glare. The domed cupola and high elevation permit air to better circulate, reducing the need for energy-consumptive air conditioning. The open floor plan permits occupants to design a home to suit their specific needs. Overall, Space House attempts to reconcile the modernism of Buckminster Fuller with current sustainability and environmental challenges.