Jane Jacobs Chapter 22: The Kind of Problem a City Is

In her introduction to The Death and Life of Great American Cities, Jane Jacobs makes it quite clear that there are problems with cities. Right off, she makes it clear that these problems, be that of housing developments, zoning laws, parks, or basically any other aspect of the city in this sense, are not problematic because it is in their nature to be so; they are problematic because the planners have created them to be so. She shares her experience of visiting the North End of Boston at two different times: the first when it was overrun, crowded, and dilapidated, and the second when it was thriving, busy, and welcoming. In her research of the area, she discovered that the government had not given the neighborhood any money for reconstruction, but that the people in the neighborhood had pooled their money and had changed their living experience within the city. They knocked down walls to create larger apartments, they repainted, and they opened up shops. When Jacobs spoke to a planner about the North End, he shared in the welcoming atmosphere and the joy of walking down the streets as well, but kept coming back to 'This area is a slum. Why are you in the slums? You should get out of there. It has the densest city population. Immigrants are still coming in.'

From this man's conclusion about the area, regardless of personal experience, it is quite clear that had a planner been given funds to go in, gut, and rebuild this neighborhood, it would have completely collapsed. As Jacobs mentions a bit later in the intro, the main complaint in a housing development in East Harlem, NY, was that the planners had put a piece of grass within the development, and "What good is it? They didn't ask us what we wanted." This idea here, that planners and those of a "higher educational status" than the "rest of us" built what they assumed people wanted in a city, is what Jacobs would consider the root of the city's problems.

Chapter 22, appropriately entitled "The Kind of Problem a City Is" seems almost a direct continuation of the introduction. Stemming from the roots of these problems, that planners build whatever they believe ought to be built (usually grass), wherever they believe it ought to be built, Jacobs states that we must first find out what kinds of problems cities pose.

To do so, she creates a metaphor of the ways in which city builders think and the ways in which scientists think. The three stages of this thought development are as follows:

• The ability to deal with problems of:

1. simplicity
2. disorganized complexity
3. organized complexity

With problems of simplicity, there is usually a very small number of variables (two seemed like the magic number here). These variables directly affect each other, but don't affect much else in the vicinity. All other minimal variables are disregarded.

With problems of disorganized complexity, there can be variables numbering in the millions. Though one variable may not be able to be singled out and analyzed, there are enough variables to take a somewhat accurate average of their actions and interactions. It's simply probability.

With organized complexity, the number of variables falls somewhere in the middle of disorganized complexity and simplicity. There are too many variables to simply calculate out 'if this happens to V1, then this happens to V2...', but not quite enough variables to take an accurate average. And an average is not something that is called for with organized complexity. This type of thought development deals with specifics. Everything is mapped out and analyzed, not only as an individual "organism" but also how each variable interrelates to others, and what factors are influenced by it. This thought process cannot function on probability.

Cities, then, are of an organized complexity. There are many different regions or situations that ultimately can all be interrelated and have impact on one another. Jacobs uses an example of a park, and that how much it is used depends on its location, and the types of people in that location. These types of people are living in this spot because of other factors that may have nothing to do with the park, but in the long run, the usage of the park may depend on these outside factors. Probability of the park's usage in this case would horribly fail. If a planner were to look at a park and see that it is quite populated, and that the surrounding buildings are all 7 floors high on average, he may assume that a park placed in any location with similar building height would flourish in the same way. But perhaps he didn't realize that down the street is a really good school, and behind that is an ice cream parlor, and across the street is a day care center. Maybe he didn't notice that the people in this park were mothers and children, living in the area because of these other "landmarks". Not noticing what Jacobs refers to as "unaverage" clues (which I'll touch on in a second), the planner may place a park in an area with similar housing structures, but the park will not be touched because the people dwelling here are businessmen, leaving at 8am and returning at 6pm, with absolutely no need for a park whatsoever.

That being said, the type of problem must first be identified before action can be taken. Ways in which this might be possible, are:

1. To think about processes
2. To work inductively, from particulars to the general
3. To seek for unaverage clues involving small quantities, which reveal the way larger and more "average' quantities operate

When thinking about processes, one must look at the circumstances and context in which things exist. Simply based on this, things change how they interact with society (such as the park example). Location matters as a part of process, as well. Once processes are understood, the thought pattern may then go to catalysts that cause these processes to happen, and their factors, too. Most ordinary people, that is to say, those who are not planners, usually inherently understand these processes.

By working inductively, one must understand particulars before jumping to conclusions. Immediate generalization leads to absurdities and irrational actions. Citizens also seem to understand this.

Back to the "unaverage" clues. These clues, though small as they may be, tell the true workings of a city; the reasons why a certain store does well in one neighborhood of the city but not in another, or why one street is always busy, but a similar street a few blocks away only sees tumbleweed on its busiest days. These small clues usually lead to a larger understanding about the city, but they do so in small steps of specifics (again, because the city is an of an organized complexity. These unaverage clues are the specifics that cannot be generalized). These clues are indispensable, and when overlooked, as planners will see them as statistically inconsequential, the types of absurdities that cause problems within the city tend to arise. The idea of these clues made me think of the "police boxes" here in Chicago, the cameras with the blue flashing light atop streetlamps. Though non intrusive to daily activity, and potentially overlooked by somebody trying to determine what size housing development might go across the street, they seem to me to tell something about that specific location. If the neighborhood is one where there is not really any crime, it would seem pointless to put one of these cameras up because part of its use is to act as a crime deterrent. However, when I see one, a little bell goes off telling me to be more cautious of my surroundings; there is a reason that camera was placed at this intersection.

To continue with the subject matter of planners misunderstanding a city, Jacobs refers back to her introduction regarding the Garden City and the Radiant City. Planners were using the Garden City in relation to the simple though process. They were seeing two or so variables, such as population and number of jobs, and using that as a basis to plan an entire society. Obviously there are more variables that affect how a society thrives, but in this utopia, this was all that seemed to matter. As for the Radiant City, a thought process more related to disorganized complexity was taken up, although this isn't too far off from what this "perfect" city would actually be. Because of the style of housing, the understanding of this city's workings would largely be based off of averages of population. Probability would be more acceptable here. Though this doesn't seem like such a big deal, considering 1) that these types of cities in no means took off and dominated the world and 2) they were organized with the idea that they were to be perfect and flawless, so other factors are irrelevant (where in reality they would be relevant). There was sort of a Stepford Wives ideal set upon these Garden and Radiant Cities, and everything was perfect and nothing goes wrong and everybody is happy. It really didn't matter too much that these ideals were unrealistic for the planning of an unrealistic type of city. However. Larger problems began to take place when large city planners looked toward these Utopian city plans for legitimate "advice". Large scale cities, of organized complexity, began to base their planning off of disorganized complexity or even simplicity. Population and housing became a probability numbers game, then was used to determine maybe one or two other variables, breaking down the city into groupings that it did not actually support. It is impossible to create a successful large scale city based off of anything but organized complexity. There are simply too many variables constantly changing at indeterminable times based off of interrelations that cannot be seen from the surface.

Planners would see the city, people walking in crooked lines on sidewalks (though never colliding with anybody or anything, and always making it to their destinations), as disorganized and broken, and install narrow passages for people to walk a straight line, thinking they have fixed it. Planners see disorder where there is simply an order that is not their own. That is the problem in the city.

A solution, it seems, would be to do what the people of the North End did and the people of Greenwich Village did in Robert Fishman's Revolt of the Urbs: Rober Moses and His Critics: choose the way you want to live in your space and act on it.

The Exploration of Street Photography In America

Jane Livingston's piece The New York School Photographs 1936-1963, describes the rise of the group of sixteen individuals that made up the New York School. These photographers created this school based on the style of breaking the photographic rules, but with disregard to the fact that they were breaking them, or that these rules even existed. Many of the photographs that came to be from this group had the feeling of photojournalism, but could not exactly be categorized as such. There was a fleetingness in the work, a sense of disregard to the fine details and perfection of cropping. It transcended both commercial and journalistic styles of photography, and perhaps the best way to categorize it would be to say that it took the complete opposite standpoint of the f64 club on the west coast. Large format cameras were replaced with 35mm hand helds, super fine film grain was replaced with experimental forms of 35mm, a formal control over lighting was replaced with an almost carelessness of lens flare and blowouts. It was artistic rebellion at its finest.

In New York in the 1930s, art, commerce, and politics began to intermingle. Artists began to believe that their art might be able to be used for some purpose other than for their own enjoyment, and started to create art for social means. Photography was especially apparent in this "social welfare" movement, as it could show real people in real situations in real life that others may never see or experience in their lives. Taxes began to subsidize the arts, and while many were okay with this distribution of funding, battles against this continuous support for the arts drew some separation between the general public and the artists, and the "personal artists" and the reformers. Because of this idea that the "artists" were not worth funding and that they were somewhat seen as not doing successful things to benefit day to day society, many of the reform artists refused the title of "artist" at all.

To once again encourage the arts, magazines began to come into print primarily for the purpose of showing images. These photographic magazines would not only publish photographers work, but they would also hire out photographers to shoot for them. During this time, Magnum was also founded. Though scarcely, museum galleries began to exhibit some photographs, though for quite a long time, no "all-photo" gallery existed, as photographs were made more for the purpose of books rather than wall hangings. The types of photographs being created at this time, at least the "serious" types of photographs, and especially at the New York School (NYS), were greatly inspired from films of the time. These films were ones of corruption in high places and vulnerability of the little man, which was quickly soaked up by the NYS. There was also much European influence over photographic movements in the '30s. The sixteen of the NYS were a mix of US natives, emigres, and NYC natives, and all were familiar with the cubism, surrealism, and constructivism movements. Aside from surrealism, most of these photographers were against these movements and created a base in their work with which they could shed the roots of those widespread ideas. Some of the photographers dabbled in surrealism, but ultimately turned to an "approach [residing] in an engagement with the ordinary world."

Helen Levitt was one of the sixteen at the NYS and was greatly influenced by Henrie Cartier-Bresson. Levitt never joined any artistic or philosophic movements of the time, and was pegged as more of an independent photographer and film-maker. She took her own style, and although she did have some photographs displayed in MoMA, she refused a Vogue job because she disagreed with the type of commercial/fashion shooting they were asking her to do. Her book "A Way of Seeing" was comprised of photographs that were made to feel like a story of sorts, similar to that of Cartier-Bresson's work. Levitt was not socially driven to photograph in the streets of New York, but she was aesthetically driven, and photographed for the beauty of the image (and in doing so, also caught much humor in the streets of New York, similar to the type of humor seen in excerpts from Lewis Mumford's The City).

Robert Frank took on a slightly different style than Levitt. Whereas Levitt seemed a bit more "easy going", Frank spent a good deal of time in Europe with friends who were also involved in the art world. They would display work in the same exhibitions, and spoke about sculpture, painting, and other art in correlation to photography. His book "The Americans" gave the 'okay' to break all the rules, as he jumped on the bandwagon of 35mm film and available light photographs. His methods were those of trial and error, and he experimented with film and lenses to create what is now known as his "style". His work is anticlimactic and not particularly cautious of framing or fine detail. His style and work was formed around the emerging styles of the time, and he ultimately helped to create this style as well.

William Klein took an even further step from Levitt, and actually tried to do the opposite of Cartier-Bressson by being "there" and "visible" (while Cartier-Bresson was known more as the "invisible camera"). Klein had no qualms with working for Vogue and shooting commercially for them, while at the same time working on his own work. Here, "his own work" is meant in the most literal of terms. Klein's book "New York" was photographed by him, designed by him, laid out by him, and the typography and editing was done by his hand as well. He saw it cheating that others would be allowed to edit down, order, write about, and title one's images. He is known for very imperfect printing and composition, and strove to include as much information in a frame as possible (his standard lens was a 28mm). Klein was in many ways similar to Frank. Both inhabited vanguard painting and sculpture groups, both used photographs to transcend traditions in photography, both created an original body of photographs, both became filmmakers, both made largely known books, and both spoke of photography with an avant-garde style.

Poe to Benjamin to Gleber: The Flaneur

Edgar Allen Poe begins the "discussion" between these three writers by describing a gaslight era flaneur in his "Man of the Crowd". Walter Benjamin, citing some of Poe's descriptions, continues this timeline of flanerie through the electric light era, and Anke Gleber brings the flaneur into the modern era, placing these previous ideas, as well as some new ones, into the modern city life.

Poe's subtitle to this story is "Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul", or "The great misfortune of being unable to be alone" and he begins his short story with a description of the types of people he sees pass before him on the street as he sits inside a coffee shop in London (which would be the people who would most likely fit into his subtitle). Each type of person, the noblemen, clerks, upper clerks, pick-pockets, gamblers, women, and the "grunge of the city" (drunkards, beggars, etc.), carries with themselves a certain gait and exterior impression upon others, and each type of person interacts differently with those around them. It appeared to me, at first, that Poe here was the flaneur, sitting by idly, watching people pass with a vague interest in their appearance and character. However, as he spots one man that quite fully catches his attention, the roles are switched as if in a relay, and this elderly man becomes the story's flaneur. As Poe follows the man, he observes him in immense detail, down to attempting to distinguish the type of fabric his shirt is made of, and what sort of look sits below this man's furrowed brow. At no time does Poe make himself known to the man, so his observation is one of an uninterrupted and genuine nature. This man's composition drastically changes over the course of the night's hours. He is frail and uninterested when he finds himself alone. When he comes across a square, a busy street, or a bazaar, however, the man finds some inner youth and rushes forth. He wanders the crowd until it breaks, then continues on his journey aimlessly, once again expressing his age through his posture and gait. He enters a shop in the bazaar and gazes hollowly at and through objects inside the shop, certainly not looking to purchase anything, but simply grabbing small details and vaguely observing. Ultimately, we can see that this man is not alone when he is with people, regardless of his interaction with them, and he has no business but that of escaping from his own loneliness. This very basic definition of a flaneur gives Benjamin a running start into his addition to the term.

Walter Benjamin in his "The Flaneur" is the first to mention the actual word flaneur. The dictionary definition is as follows: an idler or lounger; one who strolls about aimlessly. This activity was not one that was in any means known until the birth of the arcades in Paris, France. These interior exteriors provided a place for people to actually walk without having to worry about being run over by carriages and other street vehicles. Their main purpose was not only to provide a place of ambulation, but to provide people with places to ambulate. The "walls" of these arcades were built of store fronts and shops, places for people to go into, move about, purchase items, and continue their stroll through the arcade. And stroll they did. Around 1840, some would walk turtles down these arcades to set their walking pace.

The first issues of this new concept of watching people pass by you as they watch you pass by them, was that this had never been done before. People didn't watch each other in public spaces (as there were no buses or subways or transportation of that sort), and Benjamin speaks that the ability to hear but not see would trump the ability to see but not hear, for looking is the awkward part, and by people burning their pupils into you they might perhaps glimpse your dark secrets. People were skeptic of being in public around strangers who may glance their way, so some Feuilleton physiologies began making claims that one could distinguish everyone they pass in a city just by their appearance. That artists would be identifiable, as would businessmen, and geniuses. This, for a short time, perhaps, kept some people's fears of public at bay, but soon enough, ideas of detectives and mysteries of the city became the hot topic in literature. The popularized idea was that somebody would disappear into the throngs of people by the hand of someone who could be described as "unknown to all others and thus does not have to blush in front of anyone", neither of which to be seen again, but that some average person would become detective and pick up on some small clue and solve the mystery. The people most likely to "come across these clues" would be the flaneurs, as they are the observers of the street, wandering aimlessly and recording details of passerbys' faces and visual forms of the crowds. As these detectives, it seemed that the idea of what would become street photography was born: "He develops forms of reaction that are in keeping with the pace of a big city. He catches things in flight; this enables him to dream that he is like an artist. Balzac claims that artistry as such is tied to a quick grasp."

 Garry Winogrand "Flip"

 Garry Winogrand "Los Angeles 1964"

Ultimately, street lamps were the answer to the feeling of safety within a city at night. These gaslights allowed people to stroll the streets when they otherwise would not be able to, and to look in shop windows by the light of the streetlamps. Baudelaire commented on Brussels that there are no shops and that the streets are unusable to the stroller because of this. The same point is made in "The Social Life of Small Urban Spaces" by William H. White:

whyte styles from chris woebken on Vimeo.
Storefronts are a mandatory aspect of a city to function properly in the flow of crowds. With the draw of more people to the streets, more shops began to open, and this "commodity idea" arose, with people going to and fro, observing the items and their pricetags, and moving about the objects. This new movement throughout stores gave a new sort of "location" for flaneurs, and their observations expanded. Though they were, in a way, part of the crowd, being that they are humans in a specific location, flaneurs are also people who are abandoned in the crowd. They mingle about, picking up pieces that other have left behind. I have a quote from Benjamin's reading, but am unsure that I am interpreting it correctly, so here goes:

Empathy is the nature of the intoxication to which the flaneur abandons himself in the crowd.

This seems to me to be describing flaneurs as having been once in the crowd, and realizing its monotony and sameness, and therefore breaking from this crowd as an individual, empathizing with what they once were, but enthralled with how they see the world as a flaneur. There is quite a long quote by Friedrich Engels on pages 57-58 of the Benjamin reading, so I will not quote it, but to sum it up, Engels describes how people move about with disregard toward others and an air of ignorance regarding everything but themselves and their destinations. They do not realize that everybody around them is also a human being, regardless of race, class, or appearance, and they become trapped in this tunnel vision flow of the city's movement. The more that someone sees themselves as just another in a crowd, the less interest they take in feeling anything toward others. Flaneurs, however, are still vaguely interested in the crowds around them, and at least acknowledge that there is not a drawn out path to take, but will be affected by external elements that they really don't have control over, but will accept with interest. They understand that enjoyment of a society is far greater and more rewarding than enjoyment in a society. This idea of a flaneur's freedom seems metaphorical of A Christmas Carol, where day to day life passes by and people go on their way walking through streets and buying things and going home, and repeating this pattern continuously until they, well, die. But Scrooge is then given the opportunity to observe these patterns and watch, with the freedom of movement and ideas, how these events may play out. As an outsider not fully involved in the activities before him, his senses are able to pick up more than they were able to as a participant, particularly the visual sense.

Anke Gleber speaks highly of the visual stimulus, quoting Benjamin's reading regarding the choice for comfortability of hearing over sight, but laying out just how visually based a city is. Her running definition of a flaneur seems to shift a bit over these twenty or so pages in her "The City of Modernity". At first, Gleber pegs a flaneur as "disinterested, yet highly visually invested in the perception of the style of others", as well as an outsider, an observer, someone devoid of class, indifferent, free to move, perceptive to stimuli and associations, and one who gives attention to details and images. There are two other types of social characters in modernity as well:

1. eccentricity and sophistication that can be aligned to a dandy's exterior habits.
2. blase urbanity; snob.

So as the snobs and eccentric and sophisticated people go about their business with their noses in the air and their eyes inward instead of forward and outward, the flaneurs drink in the visual stimulants that create the city around them. However, as the reading presses forward, Gleber seems to mesh "the crowd" and flaneurs into one large glob of people. She makes it clear that as time and technology move forward, and electric lighting comes in to play, that the city becomes more and more visual, until it is all about optical stimuli for this "modern city survival". I disagree. Maybe as posters (public, accessible art) was coming in to play and expanding was the crowd more aware visually of their surroundings, but I believe that in general, especially after time and in this modern city, people have come to ignore these things as well. Sure there are always slight visual attractions that may draw some of the crowd from their beaten path, but in general, people can still map out their route to the number of steps they take, and end up passing the same people every day, though they do not know this because they do not actually see these people. The distinction between who was a flaneur and who was not became very blurred in the last half of Gleber's writing (or I guess, what a flaneur was in this modern urban space).

With railroads creating live cinema out their windows for those inside, Gleber "argues" that people are then more attuned to details and to watching the world around them. But as she says this, she compares this real life movement outside to a cinema, which is nothing more than artificial reality and not a step further from the "crowd's" daily routine. The fleeting details beyond the windows are essentially the same as the fleeting faces of passersby. The flaneur's however are basking in photographs and drinking in the detail that they can capture. Cinema is not of interest to them so much as still images are, with the frozen piece of world created for the purpose of looking, for scopophilia. Gleber then claims that flaneurs devote specific attention to certain detail, but it had been stated earlier that flaneurs do not specify their attention. They have no path and no goal, and do not narrow down their observations. The distinction I finally made between the crowd and the flaneur in Gleber's reading was comparable to a part in the movie WALL-E, whereas WALL-E would be the flaneur, and the location and other people (and maybe machines/robots as well) as the crowd. The "city" is full of visual stimuli, but people become enthralled in what only applies to them. Their paths are predetermined and they move with a logical flow of traffic. Go on green, stop on red. Do not collide. WALL-E breaks through this flow of traffic and freely goes where he wishes and is even intrigued by some of the people around him:

Lynch and de Certeau

The excerpt "Walking City" from Michel de Certeau's The Practice of Everyday Life and the excerpts from Kevin Lynch's The Image of the City both had different points of focus, but contained a few moments of similar topic (some of which paired up nicely and others that clashed). Having read de Certeau's piece first, Lynch's seemed sort of like child's play, so we'll begin there.

Lynch's writings spoke greatly of our (as humans) perception of things around us, our senses, and our associations with how we interpret these things around us. Through some experiments to "test" these perceptions, Lynch was able to give a vague breakdown of the different ways in which people understand and move through their worlds (or cities, more specifically). Using five main "points" of mapping, these experimental maps were able to be directly compared with each other. These five points are:

1. Paths: places where people move through or about their environments.
2. Edges: breaks in "pattern", a seam of the city, a dividing element.
3. Districts: neighborhoods, groupings of similar or comparable "things".
4. Nodes: a crossing over of paths, a center point, a concentration.
5. Landmarks: objects that are external and signify specific location.

Similar to our mapping of Chicago exercise during the first class period, Lynch was able to view these maps and create separations and groupings of how people interpret their city (Boston, in these maps). Whereas almost everybody had some sort of path indication in their maps, some were more path based, while others were more landmark based. Districts were vaguely a main point, but more so separated by the groupings of landmarks. A few maps were very specific in spacial relations of landmarks and nodes, while others were vaguely in some relation to each other, but would prove very unhelpful if used as an accurate map. Coming from Boston, and currently living in Chicago, I thoroughly enjoyed the stark differences between these Boston maps, and our Chicago maps. What struck me most, was perhaps the idea of what people consider important in mapping places out. While landmarks make the skeleton of Boston, some of our classmates even pointed out that they didn't even include landmarks in their maps. It was obvious that the grid and the lake were quite important pieces of the maps here, whereas Boston is anything but a grid, and it's sort of a natural given that the ocean is right there. Now regardless of these specific differences, what this goes to show is just how differently we drink in our environments. As Lynch is talking about how to rebuild a city, this issue arises as to what the best way would be to get a rise in people's senses. The one solid point that he speaks of is that people need to be aware of their senses, and need to use their senses in order to have a better city experience (navigationally, emotionally, etc). From these excerpts, however, the issue of which of these five points, if any, would be best to focus one in the "ideal city" still seems to be unsolved.

Lynch did talk about imageability, which is ultimately a way to invoke an image in somebody. His definition is as follows:

Imageability: that quality in a physical object which gives it a high probability of evoking a strong image in any given observer.

A way to create this imageability, may be through environmental image, which Lynch provides three points for describing.

• Identity: to distinguish its oneness/uniqueness
• Structure: spacial relation (to objects and to the observer)
• Meaning: practical or emotional to the observer

Perhaps, then, using this imageability and environmental image, a new sense of what a "landmark" could be or could mean for those observing it or using it, may arise.

At the beginning of his introduction, Lynch made a few comments on what a city is composed of. In "coordination" with what de Certeau writes about, Lynch would agree that a city is not only made up of immobile pieces, but also of the living, moving people within its boundaries. He would also agree that "only partial control can be exercised over its [the city's] growth and form", and that we seek not a final "solution" when building a practical city, but an open-ended "start", that can be continuously molded and adjusted for continual use and progress. Where Lynch's views seemed to stray from those of de Certeau's, was in his claim that "every citizen has had long associations with some part of his city, and his image is soaked in memories and meanings", and that the city outside the home is confusing and anxious and crowded and dizzying, whereas the inside is home and comforting and relaxing. De Certeau thinks slightly differently.

In his introduction, de Certeau describes the city very physically, as a "wave of verticals" and a "stage of concrete, steel, and glass", as well as a place of tension, a labyrinth, and a possessor. Whereas Lynch wrote a book on the physicality of the city, de Certeau did not speak much more than aforementioned about the physicality. From this point forward, there was a strong relationship born between the functions of the city and that of the flow of language. From the World Trade Center, he looked down upon this massive text of a city, seeing the people writing their way through streets and pathways, not only not being able to read what they are writing, but not fully aware that they are part of something larger than their own personal organism. Though these pedestrians create the city, their actual paths are faint and hard to distinguish, pointing only to what has been (as they are all passers-by, with a point A and point B). This lessening down of space, the removal of the in between, is what de Certeau refers to as the asyndeton of walking. Though these passersby seem to fully embrace this part of speech, they also embody a synecdoche, with an expanded spacial element, giving the walking action a thicker substance.

Something that Lynch did not seem quite as interested in (though he did mentioned it a small amount of times) was spacial relations. De Certeau made it clear that with pedestrians especially, the city is created fully upon these spacial relations. Paths are created by the walkers, defined by them, and redefined. They are given styles and uses, such as illegal, practical, beaten, inventive, etc. Physical objects can be overcome by these walkers, and new paths made between unexpected spaces. For walkers, the rules bend and fade, and they keep on their way. To appropriate these places, two things must be assumed:

1. It is assumed that practices of space also correspond to manipulations of the basic elements of a constructed order.
2. It is assumed that they are deviations...relative to a sort of "literal meaning" defined by the urbanistic system.

These deviations in the norm, or the use, of the beaten pathways separate out these "rebels" from this urbanistic system. This system is part of what would be called a "concept-city". First off, a city must 1) be a production of its own space, 2) have room for forward growth that is unforeseen at the time of "construction", and 3) be a universal and anonymous subject (a cornerstone to provide the backbone for future growth). At the start of this new city, ideas and concepts are thrown around and brought up and shot down, and everything that was not agreed upon is then known as "waste product". These waste product ideas float around the city, almost as an underground societal code to live by, and completely hidden from this urbanistic system that has risen to power. Ultimately, though the city started as this space where things are created and ideas are born, the higher powers will begin to use the city as an object in their "greater scheme", forgetting that it has become so much more than a physical mass since its birth. As this system begins to decay, bringing down the population with it (for their failed ideas are the population's failed ideas), this "under city", full of waste product and fresh, caged energy, begins to break free, wild and unadministered. It is this under-city which will survive and thrive. This whole idea of a concept-city was probably the most intriguing part of de Certeau's writing. Not only is his language visually stimulating, this idea has never been presented to me in such a way. It brought up scenes from movies of underground societies, and the "big brother" idea, but I have never read anything of this topic so eloquently simplified.

As he continued on, mostly with the pedestrian idea which was also fascinating to me, I began to lose interest in his concepts of proper nouns and the naming of places. I believe I understood where he was going with the idea, but it seemed a bit far fetched in the greater scheme of this idea of walking and the city and its invisible structural aspects. The one comment that related back to Lynch's about the home versus the city, however, stood out a bit from monotony of this section. When the woman was asked about what places in the city meant something to her, she said that her home was the only place left which was believable (not the places with proper names that we are led to believe are important). Where the city is filled with light to outline its every crevice and alleyway, there are still secrets at home, and shadows left to be discovered.

More so in de Certeau's writing than in Lynch's, I was presented with visuals and ideas that I had never actually condensed into one cohesive thought process before. I am intrigued by the ideas of this blurred-edge concept-city, and its endless stream of passers-by, and I can honestly say that at this point, these ideas are still too fresh to be able to directly relate them to here in Chicago, though I will begin to post about this relation as I start to figure out how the two might coexist.