Report briefly on Field Work exercises; submit and assemble photos or anything students want to share.
Discuss Project Development
James Michael Buckley, “Just Fieldwork: Exploring the Vernacular in the African American Community in Portland Oregon’s Albina District,” Future Anterior: Journal of Historic Preservation, History, Theory, and Criticism, Winter 2020, Vol. 17, No. 2, 1 – 16.
Sarah Lopez, “A Personal Reflection on People as ‘Subjects’ for Built Environment Research,” Buildings and Landscapes: Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum, Vol. 29, No. 2, Fall 2022.
Arjit Sen, “Making a Case for Serendipity in Architectural Fieldwork,” Buildings and Landscapes: Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum, Vol. 29, No. 2, Fall 2022.
Suggested:
Elaine B Stiles, “Fieldwork Futures: Historic Preservation,” Buildings and Landscapes: Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum, Vol. 30, No. 1/2, Spring 2023.
Jahn Gehl and Birgitte Svarre, How to Study Public Life (Island Press, 2013).
Last Wednesday, I walked from Broadway to Dixwell around 2:30pm, aiming for a transect-style walk rather than a sedentary durational experience—always walking forward and always moving through space. While I have taken this route many times, I was more aware this time about the subtle ways the built environment signal a change in use, ownership, program, and community. I noticed that while Broadway / the Shops on Broadway area is paved with red bricks, signaling an academic / residential feel, the paving eventually turns into solid concrete sidewalks once you enter Dixwell. I’m aware that this change in paving is primarily attributed to Yale’s ownership of the former area, but it also contributes to a subliminal shift in atmosphere where the former feels more walkable and friendly and the latter is more car-centric and a bit cold.
Another point that I brought up during discussion section is the question of what makes an area “walkable”. Broadway feels more walkable than Dixwell not only because of its shops, student life, landscaping, and attractions, but also because of its constant breaks and turns (the use of short blocks, pedestrian crossings, variations in types of gathering spaces, etc.). While I find Dixwell somewhat enjoyable to walk down because of its interesting buildings, it is much less walkable in comparison I think because of its straightness and vastness. The whole street is continuous and unbroken, unlike the choppiness of the Shops, making the journey feel long, unending, and somewhat monotonous.
Buckley’s text about studying vernacular architecture through fieldwork/sensory/verbal/prolonged research makes me want to go back to Dixwell and conduct a more targeted observation of the area to understand how the sidewalk functions. Every time I’ve walked down Dixwell, it feels a bit desolate, especially the large plaza right outside of the Q House (which seems too big and empty to be enjoyed at the human scale). However, on one of my regular walks down Dixwell two years ago, I saw this plaza become a lively venue for a double dutch competition which invited women from all around the country. I was so surprised because I had never seen the plaza filled with so much life, and now I’m curious which other areas along Dixwell become lively at different points in the year.
During class last Wednesday, I decided to follow the instructions and walked down Chapel Street from Day Street to State Street. Although I have traversed Chapel Street many times—mostly running and occasionally walking—this time I chose to take it slow. I photographed every facade along this route in an attempt to reconstruct a transect, hoping that viewing the entire street at once might provide an interesting perspective compared to the usual experience of merely walking.
What captivated me the most was the realization that, while the university campus has no physical walls separating it from the city of New Haven, there are moments that create invisible mental barriers signaling a clear transition: on one side is Yale, and on the other side is New Haven and its residents.
This idea connects back to my deríve to The Hill neighborhood during the break, where I also sensed an abrupt shift from Yale to New Haven. I notably felt this transition when I crossed a pawn shop located at the intersection of George Street and Howe Street. The sudden change in the types of businesses and the scale of the buildings made it clear that upon crossing the road, I was no longer on campus.
Moving forward, I want to identify these moments of invisible barriers around the city that create a mental separation between Yale and the rest of New Haven and create a map. I plan to elaborate on these “walls” by photographing, analyzing them, and connecting them to historical events that may explain this phenomenon. Additionally, it can potentially become a game where people can share about their “walls” between Yale and New Haven as well.
For my walk last week, I took a walk along the length of Crown Street between Howe and State.
The initial interest in Crown Street stemmed from our site on 337 Crown, however, taking the time to observe the length of the street really reframed both the street and the site for me. Crown has an unprecedented number of parking lots. I lost count while on site, looking through satelite imagery, you can count 9 parking lots within the first two blocks as you walk from Howe towards State – and 22 in total including two massive, multi-story garages. This highlights the fact that Crown acts as a service street to the busier and more prominent Chapel Street – a fact reinforced by the observation that the flow of traffic doesn’t change direction between these two adjacent parallel streets.
A walk along Crown also shows the many layers in which Yale has gradually bought up lots and buildings on the street – including our site. The areas that have been developed for retail are on the State end of the street. Towards Howe, the University’s neglect is evident – it owns all of the plots on that end of the street and has only begun developing the area once the new Drama School building was greenlit. As Crown Street ends on Howe, it intersects the street across from a YMCA and a large halfway house. The parking lot at that intersection has now been covered by a banner alluding to the construction of a new “Food Street” in downtown New Haven. In this context, I wonder what the fate of the YMCA and halfway house is as the university plans to make Crown an extension of Chapel street.
Buckley’s paper points out some incredibly important themes that I have been attempting to discuss in other classes, but haven’t had the words. He highlights the importance of understanding the neighborhood culture through the eyes of those who lived there and shaped the neighborhood’s culture. Creating a cultural map of an area could hopefully help protect the institutions and people the create a neighborhood. I have been specifically talking about this with green infrastructure projects that seem to be the new wave of urban renewal and regeneration. Don’t get me wrong they are essential to mitigate stormwater and the urban heat island effect. Everyone deserves green spaces, but they should be done in tandem with the community and ensure that these communities are not displaced through rent control and/or community land trusts.
In the Lopez reading I was taken by the quotation “the built environment creates conditions that influence what is and is not possible for people to experience, become, and imagine”. These words emphasize even more to me the importance of preserving the cultural heritage of built environments. Built environments should not look the same and have all the same stores and restaurants they should represent the diversity of people and ideas that are found within our communities. It seems that field research is a way to begin to really understand a place, but I am curious what comes next? How can field research be incorporated into protecting the people and institutions that may make up a neighborhood or community?
This question was partially answered in the Sen reading which encouraged co-creating and committing deeply to the communities that you are working with. Longterm consistent attention to the place and people you are working with is an essential part of the field work process. The sentiments that field work is a collaborative process really rang true. We can’t do anything alone.
In this week’s reading on serendipity as an architectural practice, I found validation of my own personal orientation to research, as well as tangible insights into how to successfully have conversations in the field. For example, the use of the “conversation starter kit” produce bags provide an entry point to getting to know someone in a way that is actually of interest to them. I also liked the idea of a show-and-tell type introduction where people bring items that tells a story of what it means to them to call Milwaukee home. Stories behind objects can unlock so much room for meaningful connection.
Buckley’s piece articulates what is lost from documentation in marginalized communities that are dispersed and displaced. Historical places for political organizing for example, don’t get commemorated in the same way in marginalized communities because they often take place in living rooms rather than formalized buildings. As people are pushed out and move away, these homes and their histories can become lost.
I am inspired by the solutions offered by each of these pieces – community story-boards, use-of-place historical designations, walking tours, and exhibits for stories of place. Thinking about Buckley’s note about the “standard of evidence” for academia that personal stories don’t always meet, I want to underscore his critique about what the role of academia is even for – why won’t it engage in supporting the story of a community’s history on their terms, not on journalistic publication terms? The tools we have as researchers can make a practical difference outside of the intra-disciplinary publications and internal knowledge-building systems we are accustomed to.
Something that stood out to me both on my own walk last week during class and in the readings for this week was the limitations of observational fieldwork, especially in the effort to understand communities and spaces that are not one’s own. The striking examples of community involvement in the Arijit Sen article, from the collaboration of block leaders and students to the creation of community archives through recording stories were beautiful and exciting to learn about, and the result of going beyond observational studies to reveal what cannot be learned by traditional vernacular architectural studies. The “fleeting elements of human experience” that are often overlooked or fetishized in architecture are not given the same rigor and research as more tangible elements, and this affects our ability to understand and have a language for discussing them.
I also found Buckley’s point on how spaces and architecture of historically minority/marginalized areas do not always reflect the culture of the communities being studied. As he points out “sometimes, such communities do not wish to stand out in an environment where they do not feel welcome, so they carefully avoid leaving evidence of their use of space.” The article goes on to talk about other forms of knowledge that can only be gained through speaking to community informants and how certain aspects of culture cannot be preserved through traditional historic preservation, which values the conservation of buildings and spaces. When the communities in question do not have the generational privilege and wealth to maintain their cultural heritage, and when they have been and are at most risk of being subject to demolition in the name of progress, how can we learn about their history through spaces that no longer exist?
I’ve also been thinking about this question in the context of my walk down York Street during class last week. In the block between Chapel and Crown, there are three properties slated for demolition to build the new Yale School of Drama. I myself don’t yet know the history of these buildings, but I have been wondering what will the community memory be of this block once it has been permanently changed, consumed into the Yale Campus. This take-over has been occurring on this block already – from the conversion of the church on the opposite corner to the Yale Rep Theater (what will this become if the theater is moved to the new school building?) to Yale’s quiet ownership over the townhouses and properties lining both sides of the block. Further down York Street, the Oak Street Connector and the changes it wreaked on the built environment bring forth more questions of how to acknowledge the communities and culture that was once in this area and has now been taken over by Yale Medicine. All this to say, while I feel I learned a lot from looking closely as I walked down York Street, the readings this week to me emphasized how much more there is to learn through conversations with past and current residents and community members, and how the questions I am asking may be completely different to the ones that may need to be answered.
Last week I chose to walk from the Yale center for British Art to the Knights of Columbus building. My original intention was to compare the two significant and arguably imposing buildings that make specific gestures toward pedestrians. At the start, Kahn chose to remove a prominent corner of the building, setting the museums entrance back from the street and allowing circulation through the negative space created by the removal of mass there. At the Knights of Columbus headquarters, Roche rotated the entire building on an oblique allowing for the site upon which it sits to have a similar porosity and seemingly welcome pedestrian traffic through. In actuality, however signifiers on the building itself and adjacent chain-link clad “public space” feel undoubtedly hostile. As such, rather than counting the number of people passing through that site (there were none)I decided to walk the perimeter of the site and take a count of the very conspicuously placed security cameras (there were 28). This feels a bit like what Sen’s concept in Making a Case for Serendipity in Architectural Fieldwork as my best laid plans were upended in a satisfying way that caused me to look in a very different direction. I set out to compare the effectiveness of gestural invitations for the public to filter through an architecture but wound up being much more interested in the standoffishness and micro-signaling of one building in my original pair. And now I’m thinking that maybe there could be something to be said for surveillance as fieldwork?
Last Wednesday I found myself taking a trek down Chapel St. starting at the corner of Rudolph Hall on York St. and heading towards Day St. where our small group discussion on the differences in sidewalk maintenance based on ownership, branding tactics seen in the relevancy and upkeep of the street banners and posters, and building setbacks, inspired me to observe how a building’s connection to the ground contributes to or destroys the notion of a an accessible area for the general public.
What I found were layers of hierarchy embedded in this landscape which I classified into three types: utmost public, semi- public, and private.
The utmost public moments I found were places like Booktrader’s, which while a place of business, allows individuals to enter in and browse, but does not force a sale, and has an exterior extension of it brick base that allows people a place to sit and gather. Meanwhile places like the Y had a distance drawn between its sidewalk connection and building with a moat-like planting zone, that encourages people to enter up through the staircase but also hints at a more limited use of the building (which I will contribute to the program’s membership systems). Finally, an apartment building on the corner of chapel and Dwight, had an elevated base with a stairwell parallel to the street creating an utmost private building with the handrail and balusters acting as a barrier to the general public.
After reading the work of Buckley, I question how I may advance this my initial street research to see how these foundations may have contributed to a greater story of inclusion and exclusion within New Haven, and what narratives may have been buried under the new developments, especially as Yale continues to expand. Where I then return to the banners we saw, and how they can be used as tools to conserve the history of everyday people and movements, alongside the names and faces of famous individuals local to New Haven.
I decided to walk down York Street from the Rudolph steps to MLK Boulevard, where York cuts through the concrete Air Rights Garage. Thinking about transitions, I thought that this particular intersection was interesting for it containing the only public North-South pedestrian through-way from MLK to Frontage between College and Park Streets. The garage embeds itself into the topography as a large physical wall between Downtown New Haven and the Hill. Lined by trees and the Two Towers (the residential University Towers and New Haven Towers), it felt like the momentum of York’s streetscape built up to the Air Rights Garage. The massive concrete tiers of the structure are reminiscent of the renewal-era Temple Street Garage, while the 1980s po-mo signage beckoning foot and auto traffic through it brought some primary colors to the view, if faded. Beneath the bold serif “66 York” aged into a unique brown-gray that made it hard to tell what color it was originally, I noticed for the first time the word “SHOPS,” a sign so dirty and sun-damaged it was barely legible, and was a bit taken aback by the wording. Having repeatedly driven by the garage the last two years, I knew there were some food options in this shop area. It was a bit uncanny for me to note such a large Dunkin Donuts devoid of seating or tables, but it made sense considering morning rush hour and the commuters probably desperate for caffeine that needed the space to line up inside and be in and out. But knowing that this space beneath the garage ramps was ultimately meant for passing through (no benches or seating options, hyper exposed tor ca traffic air and noise pollution), at most stopping to grab a quick coffee or bite, the “SHOPS” signage was a strange advertising gesture to me, something I had only ever associated with malls. I imagined the gaps between ramps, where the limited sunlight of that cloudy day poured through the concrete, like mall skylights. The postmodernism continued subtly into the through-way, with a classic pentagonal-house shape at windows and doorways above orange brick lining the bottom of walls (echoing the Chapel-York Garage I had just passed on my walk down to MLK—the area surrounding the Air Rights Garage was littered with public and private garages and lots). I saw the Subway, the Dunkin, the halal family pizzeria I had spotted in the past as a driver. But on my first time walking through it, I was shocked to find a gym tucked away in there. Seeing the name—the YNHH LivingWell Center—pulled it all together. While it still felt like a strange, unappealing location for a gym, between the garage and the location and the Dunking and the pedestrians passing through (mostly Yale hospital staff and medical students based on the scrubs, ID cards, and backpacks), the Air Rights Garage is designed as a connective node servicing the Yale medical research infrastructure (and now the growing biotech presence along the Downtown Corridor project). It funnels only a specific kind of pedestrian traffic through it, blocking all other North-South movement like a wine cork. Later looking into the Air Rights Garage, I found out through Yale-New Haven Hospital’s 1981 and 1982 Annual Report 1981 that the garage was a combined project of the City of New Haven’s Parking Authority and the Yale-New Haven Medical Center, Inc. During a decade that saw the decline and closing of amenities like department stores that had been part of the original motivation for building the Oak Street Connector and abundant downtown parking, projects like the Air Rights Garage went up to cater to supporting Yale’s vision for New Haven. There were limited online resources about the garage, and I couldn’t easily find the architect for the project or too much else; learning more will require a visit to local archives like the museum and public library. I am interested in doing a follow up transect walk along MLK from Orange to Park Street to trace what has since happened to the Oak Street Connector and what biotech residency is doing to the corridor. Overall, it is an interesting site to consider past phases of urban renewal and car-centered design as they overlap into contemporary development projects.
Last Wednesday I walked around the hospital-care-research-med school complex immediately south of downtown. I use this term broadly, because walking east on Crown Street and past Madison Towers, I came to realize that so many of the higher-end apartments and hotels that extend even as far as Dwight Street (the Cambria Hotel) can be understood as revolving around the care and research economy created by the Yale-New Haven hospital. As Gabe Winant documents in The Next Shift (2021, Harvard University Press), what has come to replace working-class manufacturing jobs in the deindustrialized, neoliberal United States has primarily been healthcare. Healthcare’s “high-value” counterpart in the U.S.’s postindustrial economy is medical research. It would not surprising to me, then, if the hospital was flanked on the north and east sides by upscale apartments/condos/hotels where doctors, medical students, and YMS researchers live, and on the south by older, likely cheaper housing by the working-class people who staff the hospital’s healthcare jobs.