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Antiseptic Urbanism
Growing up, I always hated being in White Plains. “This is a fake city! I don’t want to be in White Plains!”, I would complain in the most irritating of tones to my parents from the back seat of our 2008 Nissan Rogue. And not to pat myself on the back for having urban design intelligence from a young age, but I was on to something. White Plains was a fake city. Not in the sense that it is not a city by way of governmental jurisdiction, but in the sense that it lacks many of the unprocessed, disorderly quirks that a city formulated in the absence of the hand of a developer would have. It is sterile… antiseptic even.
If any of you readers are familiar with the city of White Plains, NY, the crown jewel of Westchester County, then you may have felt that sterile feeling that comes from traveling through this territory of oversized and overwhelmingly aggregated office plazas, medical buildings, and luxury high rises. I'm not negating the idea that at one point in American history, White Plains had a soul, but today, there is barely a trace of what that 19th-century farming village might have been like. After the extensive urban renewal planning of the late 60’s, much of that little village was dissolved in the dust of a newfound business district and mixed-use development.
There is always this uninspiring, stale feeling that bleeds from the pores of new development, lacking the grit and rawness that comes from what I would describe as a “real city”. The greatest issue I have with many of these [re]developmental cities is their prioritization of curated consumer environments over shared civic life. They look like they could be social. They have the possibility of being inviting, but they often fail to offer any gathering spaces that don’t require the exchange of capital. Most, if not all, of the social spaces in [re]developed cities require money, membership, and consumption. These cities are surveillance-compliant and socio-economically gated. The city shuts down when the businesses do, and there is a price to pay for being on the streets “after hours” (as if such a thing should ever exist in the realm of public space) – especially if you are Black.
Ray Oldenburg, a 21st-century American urban sociologist, is well known for his study of the “third place”. His text, The Great Good Place (1989), dissects American urban environments into three “places: the first being the home, the second, the workplace, and the third being informal gathering spaces – places that foster civic life and social cohesion. Oldenburg argues that “third places” are necessary for democracy, community resilience, and urban vitality.
In Black communities, the third place is a stoop or that line of foldable park chairs sitting outside the entryway of an apartment building. They are basketball courts, storefront churches, and block parties (the ones that didn't need formal permit applications). They are waffle houses, jazz clubs, and poetry lounges. The “third place” is where folks want to go when they leave the main event, but they're not quite ready to go home. It’s the essence of Ernie Barnes The Sugar Shack. In Black communities, “third places” have historically held dual function as casual gathering spaces and as meeting places for political organizing, mutual aid, cultural production, and social survival.
There is a necessity in the design and [re]design of modern American cities for a diversity of “third places” that cater to multicultural “spatial imaginaries.” And although the fountains and the plazas are nice, oftentimes these plazas are absent of the public, whether that be a result of surveillance in public space or discriminatory practices that maintain specific demographics in these environments. Public space attached to “luxury” requires a constant demand for self-awareness and social performance. It lacks the ability, even in nomenclature, to provide a sincere respite from social exhaustion.
In our ongoing fight against gentrification, the surveillance state, and the city-beautiful style movements of our present day, there is a deep need for spaces that inspire genuine community gathering. Good design for all people (not just those willing to pay) is extremely important as spatial design practices quietly shape every aspect of human behavior. So, the next time you think of praising a new development, question what it is really offering the social structure of your environment and who it is really serving. After all, isn't the true measure of a good city how well people can exist together, rather than how well it can attract investment?
Until next month,
stay BAD.d
Written by Keren Dillard