Originally Published in the Adelaide Literary Magazine Awards Anthology, 2018

Somewhere in San Diego, California

If the woods are haunted, but the forest merely enchanted by shadows and soft light, into which realm does the stone staircase lead? And who will follow?

In a different era, as industrial wealth of the twentieth century flowered into great family fortunes, workmen were transported to a distant location and ordered to arrange a pile of rocks. It was an interesting task. Their employers—the founding fathers of our city—were determined to build a grotto in what was then wildland, something of a monument to affluence and ambition, a hint of things to come. Although, at first glance, it seemed like nothing more than a curiosity, the project had obviously been calculated, its site chosen with something in mind; the location was a place set apart from prying eyes and gentility, a place where the activities of a grotto could go unchallenged and remain hidden—never to be seen in newspapers or history books. Even now, long after the age of discretion and propriety has faded, the grotto remains a significant destination. Although suspicion has given way to appreciation over the years, something of the original aura persists; the structure still engages travelers as they explore pathways and wander in the shallow woods.

Every aspect was designed with care. Gray and orange rocks form not only a fount but also a series of walls and a staircase, steps that gently descend into an entanglement of oaks.

In the late afternoon, a larger vision becomes clear; odd angles reveal how the builders were able to use light, as it passed through tree branches and thick brush, to create an interesting experience; a journey of the mind no less than that of the body. Although the forest of our era has thinned considerably, the experience of traveling through light and shadow remains tangible.

Into the Grotto

Standing at the base of the stairs, one is immediately confronted with a choice; either climb back to the full embrace of sunlight or give way to momentum and continue the descent. Enjoy a reprieve from uncertainty or delight in a new adventure, the choice is yours. In the present era, the impact is less than what it must have been during the early twentieth century, back when the rocks were first arranged. And yet, the shadows cast by the staircase are still compelling, emphatic in a way that the escalators of a shopping mall, or even the steps of a venerable bank building, simply are not. The choice offered by the grotto is not only unavoidable—in that the traveler must either ascend or descend—it’s also something of a coy challenge. Are you willing to follow the shadows of an old stone structure? A few interruptions of darkness await you, but they will quickly give way to sunlight and the predictable elements of home. You can climb safely out of the forest and be on your way. Or would you prefer a deeper venture into the woods? Decades ago, when settlers were uncertain about their new surroundings, the experience must have been powerful.

Sadly, times have indeed changed. In the presence of traffic, and in the company of dogwalkers and children at play, the haunting ambience of the grotto is greatly reduced, perhaps returning only at night. However, at the moment of decision—when one must travel either up or down—a quick rush of anticipation is easy to feel, a reminder of the previous century, when the land was far more mysterious.

Even now, the mood of the place is difficult to capture and define. It’s as if the grotto is always becoming something different, reasserting itself in the face of history, crumbling slowly but nonetheless remaining defiant and vaguely disturbing.

As daylight fades, and hints of dusk become more insistent, the atmosphere truly changes. At the base of the stairs, sunlight begins to look a bit less capable of rescuing travelers from darkness. And the climb to the top begins to look forbidding. As night approaches, enchantment seems less likely than outright haunting, adventure being more a matter of survival than the experience of enjoyment. Again, from the vantagepoint of the stairs, these sensations become magnified, as the mind prefigures the body’s journey. Moreover, the mood of the place serves as a reminder; life is full of choices, many of which are difficult. At some point, before the full arrival of darkness, certain decisions must be made.

As for the question of who will follow the stairs as they beckon, either for an ascent to the world above—or a downward movement into the woods—a quick glance in any direction provides an answer.

The Visitors of Night

Empty whiskey bottles and beer cans, graffiti and the annoying presence of food wrappers have all converged on the old grotto, as if to challenge its claim to a mysterious past. The question of who follows its path is easily answered. At such moments, introspection can quickly transform into a feeling of grief. On one occasion, however, I was offered something more.

As I began my ascent, and tried to clear my mind of the inviting yet disquieting spirits of the place, I realized that I was not alone. It was a strange moment. I paused very close to a patch of graffiti—glaring red streaks of paint that reduced the grotto to a mere neglected ruin—as two people approached me. They were teenagers, a loud, enthusiastic boy and girl making their way through the afternoon. Both were laughing and sipping from plastic cups, the boy playing music on his phone, the girl texting on hers. They were moving with the ease of childhood, perhaps smiling at the rapid approach of their adult responsibilities. I smiled in return. We passed each other in the awkward manner of travelers who meet while going in opposite directions; they were heading to the base of the stairs I had just left. As they reached it, I glanced down and met the boy’s gaze. It was the familiar expression teenagers give to adults who are neither their parents nor teachers, but authority figures nonetheless, still capable of chastising them for their intimacy or demanding that they turn down their music. I did no such thing. My attention was elsewhere.

Although the day had been bright and warm, the air had recently begun to chill, and shadows had grown among the oaks, engulfing spaces that seemed to welcome the arrival of night—a sudden change in the mood of things. I wondered if they had noticed.

 

A. M. Palmer Literary Nonfiction

Newsletter Portfolio

Newsletter creation is wonderful for writers, allowing us to explore graphic design and layout development. I was fortunate to have such an opportunity while working as a park ranger for the City of San Diego. I developed Chollas News and published it for the last two years of my career, one of my favorite interpretive projects.

Click the link above to view my newsletter album and find fresh ideas for your publications.

As you plan your next project, consider using overlapping transparencies of various colors. The boxes and straight edges you create will guide your layout design, adding depth and order as well as vivid color.

Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

Beginning in 1923, a new era of study was beginning to unfold, an examination of world political and social movements initiated by the Institute of Social Research. The most prominent members of the institute, Theodor Adorno, Max Horkheimer, Franz Neumann, Erich Fromm and Herbert Marcuse redefined the western academy, establishing their rigorous, interdisciplinary analysis of society, the substance of which was compelling; a wider view of the cause-and-effect mechanisms of history opened at their insistence. Originally a Marxist study group, attempting to understand the economic forces which had failed to bring about the predicted demise of capitalism, the institute—under the leadership of psychologist and philosopher Horkheimer—departed from a strict economic inquiry in order to study culture and human behavior on a deeper level, thus changing the way humanities scholars undertook their endeavors.

Human beings themselves were, after all, the engines behind revolutions and economic movements. The measure of man was not only a matter of aesthetics and philosophy but also a component of tumultuous world events. So, people and culture had to be analyzed more assiduously. And what were the results? Anyone who has attended undergraduate lectures rife with psychological and cultural analysis can attest to the influence of the institute—informally known as the Frankfurt School. Even now, their work is the subject of much study and debate.

 

The Scholarship of Martin Jay

 

One of the most insightful and useful books on this subject is Martin Jay’s The Dialectical Imagination: A History of the Frankfurt School and the Institute of Social Research, 1923-1950, about which Marcuse himself said, “An amazing example of scholarship without dullness, of objectivity and love for the subject matter!” Perhaps less to his liking would have been The Devil’s Pleasure Palace: The Cult of Critical Theory and the Subversion of the West by Michael Walsh. As one begins to study the history of the Frankfurt School and Critical Theory, it becomes evident that their work remains polarizing to this day. A look at this realm of higher education helps us to understand the current state of things. Indeed, the far right and their counterparts on the left have weighed in vociferously over the years, both sides offering instructive commentaries.

 

A Conservative Reading

 

A thinker from the right might offer the following assessment: a group of Marxist theorists subverted the academy to bring about a cultural revolution, a takeover based on manipulating the behavior and beliefs of naïve university students. The Institute of Social Research had misread the causes of societal transformation, focusing too narrowly on economic factors, and they sought a new way to influence the movements of history. By infiltrating universities for a program of intellectual restructuring (rather than fomenting an armed revolution) Marxists achieved the overthrow of capitalist culture—and eroded the underpinnings of liberal democracy in the process. This narrative has been explored by many conservative thinkers, as a way to fathom the Frankfurt School’s influence over our intellectual life. Again, the far right tends to promote a certain view of this complex and fascinating movement. Let’s consider this viewpoint more deeply, according to prevailing ideas and arguments.

From the 1960s through the 90s, professors who functioned more as propagandists than educators convinced women and minority students to play the role of victims, arming them with the bludgeon of “political correctness,” perhaps the most corrosive legacy of the Frankfurt School and Critical Theory. Whether one views this period as a liberating episode, empowering those who had long been exploited by capitalist society, or as a time of oppression—labeling many forms of expression as hate speech—the impact of this intellectual current is undeniable.

Dozens of doctoral students, educated either directly or indirectly by the institute, entered academia during this period, with publications spanning sociology, philosophy, literature, psychology, political science, and history. Indeed, there were few patches of intellectual earth untrodden by the children of Critical Theory. Beyond this, it must also be noted that Marcuse, Neumann and Otto Kirchheimer worked for the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), the precursor to the CIA. From the academy to the intelligence community, the Frankfurt School enjoyed an unprecedented level of influence, the substance of which had much to do with language, its use and abuse as a tool of politics and culture. With that in mind, a more conservative reading of the Frankfurt School and Critical Theory would be incomplete without a glance at the work of Jacques Derrida, the controversial French philosopher whose work took root in American English departments during the late 1980s. Who Was Jacques Derrida? by David Mikics is an excellent source.

For the moment, let’s focus a bit narrowly and consider an idea which underwrote Deconstruction, Derrida’s most famed and derided critical method. Indeed, it is undeniably complex, based on a belief that the written word fails along fault lines, fissures where the meaning conveyed does not match the fullness of the experience in question, or the depth of occurrences an author purports to describe. “Writing and Difference and of Grammatology,” the second chapter of the Mikics book, clarifies the subject well. (1)

Writing plainly lacks the harmony between the spoken word and the present tense implied by the naïve metaphysics of voice. (2)

To Derrida’s mind, writing loses the very impact it seeks to codify and convey to readers, a loss somehow related to a metaphysical quality of voice, an aspect of communication he believes to be naïve—perhaps unaware of itself.

In his far-reaching intellectual biography, Mikics explains the depth and breadth of this elusive thinker and offers a level of clarity rarely associated with Derrida’s extensive body of work. Interestingly, the celebrated French theorist completed Grammatology in 1966 and arrived in America to speak at a conference organized by none other than Richard Macksey. Now, we move to a left-leaning narrative of Critical Theory.

 

From A More Liberal Vantagepoint

 

That capitalism has benefited from the mechanisms of war and oppression, while, simultaneously, bringing the fruits of the Industrial Revolution to the wealthy (and a once prosperous middle-class) is undeniable. The Frankfurt School theorists understood the complexities at work here. To their collective mind, every institution and mode of thought within the west exists as part of a larger capitalist context, and is therefore in need of critical examination from the broad spectrum of an interdisciplinary approach, largely informed by psychoanalytic methods and the philosophical analysis of history. And why not equip marginalized groups for battle, providing them with Critical Theory to indict the concepts and institutions of their oppressors? Why not challenge the conformity of popular culture, the oil that fuels engines of capitalism with desire, prompting laborers to seek the fetishized object and obtain it as a commodity? After all, when the system remains free of critical intervention, totalitarianism—spotlight now on the National Socialists of the early twentieth century—can easily emerge unchallenged. And who better than the professoriate to provide a system of analysis?

Unfortunately, although rigorous, the analytical models of liberal theorists often lack clarity and accessibility.

While the interdisciplinary approach has brought us fresh insights, and a number of outstanding academic works, when taken to the extreme, it creates confusion, presenting theories which do little more than generate succeeding theories, all to no avail. Beyond this, a haphazard application, as evidenced by political correctness, can further divide groups who desperately need clarity and free communication to resolve their differences. Here, it’s worth noting that Derrida’s own peers took issue with his work.

In a letter written to protest his nomination for an honorary doctorate at Cambridge, it was said: “in the eyes of philosophers  . . . M. Derrida’s work does not meet accepted standards of clarity and rigour.” (3) The complaint goes on to accuse him of employing academic “tricks” and “gimmicks” to the “silent embarrassment” of his peers, quite an indictment for a scholar still sometimes regarded as a genius. Looking beyond his awkward connection to colleagues, Derrida and the poststructuralists do have an issue with language which deserves renewed attention. Here, we find it useful to defer to the eloquence of François Jullien. I believe that one of his rich themes fits our consideration of Deconstruction quite well. He stated the following in his book, The Propensity of Things: Toward a History of Efficacy in China:

It is this realm that we are not capable of questioning, namely, the fabric of our thought that is woven by Indo-European languages, informed by the implicit categorizations of speculative reason, and oriented by a characteristic aspiration toward “truth.” (4)

And herein lies, in my estimation, the central theme of this reflection: the decline of intellectual clarity plays out, in poetic fashion, in the twilight of a grand and beautiful library, as young adjunct professors toil in Amazon fulfillment centers and undergraduates continue to take out student loans. Need we say more? This image truly stands in contrast to the halcyon days of midcentury American life. And what about the future?

In the present age of pandemics, and unaffordable higher education, it makes sense for thinkers to gather online, rather than in the libraries of scholars. Books will remain the focal point of study and discourse, but interaction will often take place at a distance, even after the current crisis subsides. So, the age of postwar scholars has drawn to a close with the passing of luminaries like Macksey, Derrida and Harold Bloom, and the parallel rise of distance learning. So many sad images arise from this state of affairs.

It remains heartbreaking to envision a scholar’s home bereft of its precious library. Yet, the darkness of the present day is also poetic; great book collections remain, and young scholars continue to explore ideas and generate impressive work, as in the previous era, the postwar years that unfolded with great brilliance and numerous shortcomings, as well. Without a doubt, much about the recent past remains to be studied and understood in light of our new era, this time of emerging crises and societal restructuring.

And what will our new world resemble? Will academic relationships continue to flourish, even as distance begins to define scholarly life? Clearly, those who came before us bequeathed great learning—and libraries resplendent with intellectual treasures—but also left us with a considerable burden; their analysis of culture left a void which has yet to be filled, one aptly symbolized by the library of a deceased professor. But ironies persist; on one of my own literary expeditions, I purchased a copy of The Johns Hopkins Guide to Literary Theory & Criticism at a used bookstore. Upon opening it, I found a library stamp declaring the volume to be a “Gift of Richard Macksey.”

Works Cited

 

1) David Mikics, Who Was Jacques Derrida? An Intellectual Biography. (New Haven: Yale   University Press, 2010). (pgs. 63-137).

2)  ibid. (p. 74).

3) ibid. (p. 223).

4) François Jullien, The Propensity of Things: Toward a History of Efficacy in China. (New York: Zone Books, 1999). (p.18).

 

Remembering my Years as a City of San Diego Park Ranger

 

The other day, a friend — also a municipal park ranger, but younger and at the start of her career — asked me a question I had never before considered. “Why urban parks and not the NPS?” Why, indeed?

I loved that question and really began to ponder its significance, since most people assume that a city park ranger hopes to graduate to the prestige of the National Park Service, working in the most beautiful landscapes, undertaking essential enforcement, and preserving countless species for future generations. This is truly the stuff of dreams. And it seems like a natural progression, as well; cut your teeth on little parks in the city, write a few tickets, chat with meth users on playgrounds, and move on to that which is bigger, better, and just downright prettier. Interestingly, however, I had a number of colleagues who did just the opposite, for various reasons.

 

Danger Ranger in the City . . .

 

Rangers who had worked, not only for the National Park Service, but also for the State of California, the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) (along with Arizona and Utah state park administrations) came to the City of San Diego during my time. In fact, one of my first supervisors had Rocky Mountain National Park to his credit. And, as I recall, my last supervisor had served as a ranger/emergency medical technician for the BLM, rescuing off-road enthusiasts from burning vehicles and searching hot, desert sands for lost hikers. So, why leave all of that behind?

Although death-defying excitement — being a danger ranger — is fun for a few seasons, most people prefer to enter middle age a bit more peacefully. One colleague put things even more directly, when she reflected on her time as a peace officer and park ranger: having members of the public constantly eyeing your gun belt — as you contact them in remote regions without backup — gets a bit old. Moreover, a lack of full-time employment has led many an NPS ranger to smaller, less glamorous agencies. Again, a career of part-time/seasonal employment is ideal for some people, but not for others. If you want to remain in one place, and support a family, municipal agencies are often your best option. So, what about me?

 

The Beauty of Urban Greenspaces

 

Well, from the beginning, I just loved city parks. Those patches of green that intersect concrete are delightful to me, places where families can — hopefully — escape inner-city grayness for a day at the beach or a tour of historical attractions. In short, my passion was to solve land management problems that were complicated by difficult social issues. For me, I saw urban ranger work as being different from the NPS side of things, although no less important. However, the lack of public acknowledgement could be a bit challenging, at times, especially on hot days at the beach, dealing with illegally parked cars and cranky meth users. Ah, those were the days.

I once met a woman who said that her son was a “real” park ranger, because he carried a gun. Clearly, she had noticed that I was without a sidearm. I smiled and told her that, regardless of my unarmed status, she was still illegally parked and needed to move her car. The things people would say, once I had my ticket book in hand, ready to write, were always amazing. True, we did not have guns — but it was not because our jobs were so safe as to render them unnecessary.

 

 

At any rate, I enjoyed patrolling storm drains in “under-represented” areas of the city, as much as I loved working in scenic La Jolla, watching over California sea lions and chatting with curious tourists. Both experiences were part of urban ranger life, and I loved them equally. As for the splendor of NPS parks, I was more than happy to leave it for others. Encountering brown bears, camping in the backcountry, and roasting in the desert were not the adventures for me. I preferred a very different sort of environment.

 

 

 

Play invigorates the mind and informs our design work, opening the way for countless new projects to unfold. The exploration of ideas, the discovery of new forms and colors, can occur when least expected, especially when playful experiments are underway. Will your journey through playtime lead to a new line of clothing or, perhaps, a series of paintings and prints? There is always the chance that it could, that a fortunate combination of elements might launch your career. However, even if not, you will enjoy a bit of refreshment and create a collection of ideas for the future.

Thanks to the rise of print-on-demand websites, graphic design options abound, decorating everything from shirts and mugs to wall coverings and phone cases. Shiny and bleeding with color, or bold and austere, whatever style you seek, it’s sure to be found somewhere in virtual reality. Or, if not, it awaits the creative expression of a designer, amateur or professional. But how can we begin this process? A square, a simple geometric form, offers us a wonderful point of departure.

This is where I typically begin, and sometimes remain for the duration of the project. A simple form underwrites the space. From there, I can add sketches or overlay sets of transparencies. In the best-case scenario, a new design takes shape and offers itself to multiple applications. What else can we do to inspire play?

 

Collage Creation with Clipart and Photos

 

Assembling ideas with vector art and photos is a regular practice among professionals and hobbyists alike. Beyond project development, however, the activity is simply fun and relaxing, a wonderful way to create possibilities for the future. To begin, just cut and paste images into a publisher document and experiment with the arrangement of forms.

As for my own design work, most of it arises from experimentation, just moving shapes and colors around to see what transpires. When a session goes well, I might have new artwork for shirts or any number of accessories. More than anything, I enjoy the process; just fill the page with random images, experiment with transparency and size, and create a series of collages to launch your next project.

 

 

The Interdisciplinary Approach: Architecture and Writing

 

You can utilize architectural photos and drawings to hone your drafting skills, either by creating detailed, photorealist copies, or by transforming the vernacular of forms you discover into something new, a fresh perspective for your upcoming projects. Architects like Louis Kahn and Frank Lloyd Wright—to name just two—are useful to study. Both successfully translated their conceptions of space into magnificent structures, the likes of which can teach students of graphic design a great deal. Consider Kahn’s use of volume and light and how you, as a designer, might translate his approach into a two-dimensional representation, invigorating your typography and negative/positive spaces. Here, I have in mind the National Assembly Building of Bangladesh and the magnificent shadows it casts at various times of day. Can you incorporate these shapes into your work?  Or, perhaps, you favor the sweeping horizontal lines of Mies van der Rohe, modernist architect of renown. Dividing your artboard with long shapes could recall the minimalist impact of his work. In any event, studying architectural photos and drawings—as well as the various philosophical perspectives of practitioners—is a wonderful way to enrich your design practice. Next, we consider how the written word can help to generate visual representations.

 

From Text to Image: Constructing the Story

 

Each expression of language has texture, be it a smooth, solitary word standing on its own, or a gathering of jagged phrases disrupting the page. As a designer, you can make use of these qualities; take the story from an entire page of text, or simply extract a phrase, and use forms to retell the events. For example, “He landed with a resounding thud on the wet pavement.” Of course, you can draw a depiction of the event, a figure crashing to the ground at an inconvenient moment. Apart from that, you can abstract the characters and elements into random forms, none of them bearing any resemblance to the written account. From there, you can place them on the page, accenting each one carefully with unanticipated colors and textures.  Although no one will recognize the original subject, you, as the designer, might have an innovative new set of forms to utilize. In this manner, the texture of language can move from written to visual expressions with ease, inviting you to create your most insightful designs.

 

Building a New Series

 

After you find pleasing combinations, you are ready to apply them to your print-on-demand products. As you experiment with the techniques described above, your repertoire of designs will quickly increase.

 

First published in Belle Ombre, fall of 2019

 

For those of us who grew up during the 1980s, the indoor mall—first etched into the landscape by architect Victor Gruen three decades earlier—was a hub of life and teenage social activity. At the mall, we enjoyed a shared destination, a space for interaction where shoppers could display their purchases—all the accoutrements of fading upper middle class life—and share the company of peers. Born of postwar prosperity, malls emerged to augment the suburbs, which, although comfortable, were largely unsuitable for community gatherings. Gruen’s innovation helped to solve this problem, transforming car culture into mall culture, as newly mobile suburbanites drove off to shop and meet for lunch. If we are to understand this phenomenon and its current decline—within the context of new, emerging social spaces—a glance back at the age of mall building and middle class growth is useful. Beyond this, we can consider the interpretation of Walter Benjamin’s view on history, as well as the mid-century conception of retail space. These viewpoints contrast, in a revealing fashion, and exhibit an interesting synthesis when we read them alongside the medium of film.

While Benjamin warned of the chaos and deterioration proffered by industrialized life, postwar builders saw nothing but the opportunity for wealth. The visual aspects of film resolve these opposing perspectives, first in the commercial/industrial utopias articulated by Fritz Lang in his 1927 film Metropolis, and, nearly a century later, by the poignant chronicles of videographer Dan Bell in his “Dead Mall Series.” Taken together, these discourses comment on American mall culture, providing images of its downward momentum in context, from which we can draw a conclusion: the end of “the American Century,” and the decline of our consumer spending-driven economy—as well as the transformation of social engagement imposed by technology—call for a radical reassertion of third spaces, not only for the sake of commerce, but for the preservation and continuance of community life, a reinvention which must incorporate the renewal of massive vacant mall properties. Let’s begin with a look at the birth of the indoor shopping center and consider some of its more compelling social contexts.

 

THE VISION OF VICTOR GRUEN

 

In 1950, the Allied Stores Corporation opened Northgate Shopping center in the Seattle, Washington   area. Recreating a downtown configuration, a thoroughfare was lined with stores, and parking was   located on the outskirts to exclude cars from the shopping environment. (1) Although a significant number of retailers could be accommodated, the problem of walking great distances in order to shop created an obstacle, since most patrons had grown accustomed to the convenience of driving. Creating an alluring form of architecture was essential if the problem was to be solved. Consumers wanted shopping districts that would accommodate their vehicles. It was a challenge, but this was an age of economic optimism and innovation, and designers embraced it. They would use aesthetically pleasing spaces to direct consumers to their destination, and accommodate their cars, in grand style. And this had everything to do with the spirit of the times.

In general, mid-century modern architecture was expansive and exuberant with its elongated lines, defined horizontal views, and bright spaces, a choreography of subtle textures emphasizing peace and the enjoyment of new prosperity. It was nothing if not a salient cultural moment. And the vision of Victor Gruen, whose innovative retail designs would set the industry standard, would grow out of this momentum, as he created America’s mid-century shopping culture. In short, he translated the postwar attitude into a unique solution for retailers: car friendly districts of commerce. With the Northland Shopping Center in suburban Michigan, completed in 1954, Gruen began to develop the architectural form for which he would be best remembered—to his eventual consternation. In Gruen’s mind, the key to reinventing the suburbs as a shopping destination was simple. In 1948 he stated: “We are convinced that the real shopping center will be the most profitable type of chain store location yet developed, for the simple reason that it will include features to induce people to drive considerable distances to enjoy its advantages.

 

And what were those advantages? After wartime rationing was no longer an impediment to comfort, and jobs were plentiful, convenience was a primary consideration, a key advantage of modern life. Although suburban housing developments were generally more comfortable than their urban counterparts, the former lacked the conveniences of city life. However, far from welcoming new shops into their neighborhoods, suburbanites had to be persuaded of their advantages, and Gruen obliged. Even before creating the American mall landscape, he reminded suburbanites that the individual department stores he was designing would offer them new services and opportunities for socializing. (3) The corner markets and newsstands of the city, where people could meet to discuss events of the day, were considered to be too inconvenient, even somewhat anathema to the goal of living apart from downtown culture. In the suburbs, new shopping districts would offer dining options and meeting spaces, as well as innovations like Gruen’s rooftop parking designs. Moreover, these spaces emphasized a separation from urban life. This was indeed a revolutionary enticement, but his main innovation had to do with placing an anchor at the center of the shopping “mall” and surrounding it with concentric circles of retail space. The problem posed by walking a lengthy “main street” configuration had thus been solved. Later, in the nation’s first fully enclosed and climate-controlled mall, Gruen would revise this design to incorporate a second anchor store. For the first time, the American retail landscape had a formula for shopping center design, one which would remain standard for decades to come.

In 1984, Jerry Jacobs called the mall “a conglomerate of retail stores linked together by enclosed walkways or corridors. Each end of the mall has its . . . major national department stores . . .” (4) Herein lies the basic structure of the American mall we know so well; two “anchor” stores (one at either end of the structure) directing foot traffic through a corridor of smaller establishments, the vision of Gruen taken to a new level. Even beyond the aspect of commerce, however, the total immersion shopping experience created a unique environment for socializing.

Jacobs reminds us that the mall offers a predictable setting, where the hazards of urban life are excluded and suburbanites can gather, comfortable in the knowledge that “nothing unusual” happens at these indoor shopping centers. (5) Of course, that ideal has changed over the years, but the early promises issued by Gruen for social spaces, as well as his vision of enticing people to drive considerable distances to shop, remained viable for several decades. Additionally, these shopping structures offered a new concept of middle class life; if the advent of planned obsolescence, during the early part of the century, had conditioned people to identify themselves with their cars and clothing, shopping had become a full-fledged lifestyle by the 1950s, an emphatic statement of upward mobility. That many people have gone into debt to fund this way of life is, perhaps, the greater part of the shopping legacy, this and the many vacant malls that now encumber us. And yet, shopping was not the only aspect of mall life; amusement and diversion were also key devices.

With the indoor mall, the activities of shopping and entertainment began their half-century-long romance, a relationship which has only begun to cool in recent years. Carousels and playgrounds for children, fashion shows, and movie theatres (beginning in the 1960s), came to exemplify shopping as a lifestyle of enjoyment and diversion. Malls of the era were, quite simply, how the middle class lived and aspired to embrace the promises of a vibrant economy. Underwriting this trend was an attitude, one which can be understood best through the lens of previous centuries, as we examine the rise of consumerism, as well as the theatrical conception of utopian city life.

 

HISTORICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL CONSIDERATIONS

 

In “Circumstantial Evidence: Shops and Display Windows in Photographs by Eugène Atget, Bernice Abbott and Walker Evans”, Ingrid Pfeiffer explores modes of commodity representation, how perceptions of shopping were beginning to develop during the early twentieth century. She notes that Atget was beginning to focus on the items and locations associated with mercantile life, rather than the buyers and sellers themselves. “It is not the portrait of the shopkeeper that forms the subject of the photograph Eugène Atget took in 1902 . . . ” Rather, it was the delicatessen in the background. (6) In another example of his work, we see an early use of mannequins, where the photographer highlights the secondary role played by humans, as people became mere reflections and representations of the commodities they cherished.

 

In the early days of the century in Europe, as well as in the United States, merchandise was beginning to be viewed as an autonomous aspect of life. Pfeiffer goes on to describe Atget’s sale of photographs to artists, those who wished to retain a clear and literal representation of merchandise for their own creative work. Regardless of abstraction and analysis in relation to the objects—whatever expressive renderings the artists would create—commodities had been acknowledged for their autonomous role in the new century. Things had a life of their own. So elementary and consistent were the pieces of merchandise in his photography that “Atget’s analytical visual angle was always the same, and in the course of time human individuals almost vanished completely from his repertoire.” (7) This speaks loudly to the overall relationship of human beings to their objects of consumption. Beyond this, we can go further and question larger aspects of material culture and the ways in which it represents the progress (or regression) of society.

Susan Buck-Morss considers the appearances and realities of rising consumer culture in The Dialectics of Seeing: Walter Benjamin and the Arcades Project. As the necessities of daily life, as well as a host of luxury goods, were beginning to disappear behind mythic representations, questions of perception arose. “How could this phantasmagoria be seen through? How could the mythic metaphors of progress that had permeated public discourse be unmasked and exposed as the mystification of mass consciousness, particularly when the big-city glitter of modernity seemed to offer material proof of progress before one’s very eyes?” (8)

One way to explore this question is to move from utopic to dystopic representations. In Fritz Lang’s Metropolis, the city—the setting of labor and material acquisition—assumes power over humanity, not only by imposing the conditions of labor and insisting on obedience and conformity (as people are subsumed into machine life), but also by the intervention of magic. Here, we consider “Metropolis: City, Cinema, Modernity” by Anton Kaes: “This sudden metamorphosis reveals Metropolis’s underlying ideology, which associates machines with man-eating monsters and the inventor Rotwang with black magic.”(9)

The city of entertainment, commerce, and luxury is also, in its deepest essence, a darker realm where the grueling labor of industrialization threatens to engulf rather than uplift humanity. Lang’s vision warns of widespread destruction, of a spiritual as well as physical nature. In contrast, Benjamin’s concerns are more immediate and prosaic, if no less urgent.

In the end, a city litters history with residue, even more than it contributes lasting monuments. And Buck-Morss reminds us that Benjamin considered the former to be worthy of analysis, even a bit more than the latter: “Where the megalomania of monumental proportions, of ‘bigger is better’ equated both capitalist and imperialist expansion with the progressive course of history, Benjamin sought out the small, discarded objects, the outdated buildings and fashions which, precisely as the ‘trash’ of history, were evidence of its unprecedented material destruction.” (10)

When we see millions of square feet of erstwhile retail space moldering, these ideas become highly relevant—urgent, even. The Mall of America, which, as of this writing, still graces the landscape of Minnesota, stands as a testament to the “bigger is better” ethos as its monumental dimensions produce tons of litter, perhaps hinting at the establishment’s eventual demise. This structure teeters under the weight of self-parody, but it is not alone; clearly, dozens of decaying malls and empty parking lots exemplify, in nearly poetic terms, “unprecedented material destruction.” Teenagers of the 1980s, accustomed to comfort and upward mobility, are likely a bit surprised and grieved to see, as they enter middle age, the hollow remnants of mid-century prosperity. Indeed, the decline of mall culture corresponds with urban decay in a complex relationship of haves and have nots. Outwardly, however, revitalization efforts in large cities have been reversing the trend, to some extent, as once depressed infrastructures are “repurposed” to meet the needs of changing demographics.

 

URBAN RENEWAL IN PERSPECTIVE

 

The development race was, ostensibly, between the suburbs, with its new homeowners and emerging car culture, and the declining urban landscapes. And, like a savvy architect, Gruen was able to step away from his suburban projects to offer urban planning commissions a way to save their downtown shopping districts.

In the unlikely setting of Fresno, California, Gruen began to address the issue of urban renewal. His relationship with the city was chronicled by Victor Gruen Associates in a 1968 documentary entitled, Fresno, A City Reborn. The firm aspired to create a fresh environment not only for commerce, but also for government and finance. The narrator states: “Great cities enrich our lives intellectually, socially, as well as culturally. And they provide opportunities for entertainment and relaxation.” Ironically, the great promise of the suburbs, which Gruen had helped to articulate and capitalize on a decade earlier, was being repurposed to gain a new client—the one he had helped to dismantle in the first place.

Fulton Mall, the fruit of Gruen’s labors, was enthusiastically dedicated in 1964, but the mood quickly changed. Beautifully designed with public art, gathering spaces, and major retailers, its halcyon days were short-lived. This revitalized area—a center reserved for pedestrians—gradually began to decline as the population shifted, eventually being eliminated in 2013, when the Fresno City Council voted to re-introduce vehicular traffic in yet another bit to improve the area. The pendulum of renewal and decay swings continually, rendering theories and strategies a necessary aspect of community planning. One constant seems to be the issue of changing demographics. When large numbers of people move, either from a new infusion of prosperity, or in the hopes of finding work, they take their business with them. Indeed, city planners and architects are nothing if not masterful at moving populations around to bolster struggling economies, then moving everyone back to repeat the process in the newly depressed region. And although there are numerous complexities involved, from a socioeconomic standpoint, this back and forth movement of resources appears to be a basic pattern, a game with clear winners and losers.

When renewal occurs, the question of who exactly benefits from new shopping centers and expensive housing options remains a point of contention. In the end, history could judge the development/renewal model to be no more than a cyclical movement of wealth and resources, and not an actual reinvention of socially and economically depressed areas. Moreover, the closing of numerous malls, once hallmarks of prosperity and growth, signals a larger issue to the entire country, which begs the question: is this nation actually prosperous? To some theorists, prosperity still lingers, but only for a limited segment of society.

In an address to the Urban Land Institute, at their fall, 2017 meeting in Los Angeles, theorist and professor Richard Florida articulated a new issue, related to his book The Rise of the Creative Class. He admitted that urban renewal—quite impressive in a number of cities—is only an advantage to the creative class, roughly a third of the population, this, while the remaining two thirds struggle to make ends meet in expensive environments where they generally work in a service capacity. Problem. The New Urban Crisis, which explores the vast socioeconomic divide, chronicled Florida’s solution, related, as it is, to age old questions of opportunity and equality. Here, we come to the issue of theory and its often contentious relationship to practice. The key has to do with the many contingencies which must be considered when dealing with human beings.

Theories surrounding urban renewal will always be required to expand and contract in order to address the human factor; simply devising academic ways to refurbish the built environment is not enough. The complex needs of a given population will, eventually, be the cause of failure or success when rehabilitating our commercial and residential centers. Beyond this, theories of renewal require the strength of visual images and experience to be truly effective when converted to the realities of practice. I mention this because the dozens of mall ruins that exist in America attest to the gravity of economic decline, a situation which often eludes even the most eloquent and far-reaching theories of revitalization. Here, the strength of images is highly relevant. To espouse ideas is one thing; to walk the ruins of once thriving environments is another. To gain further perspective, and understand just how widespread the collapse of mall culture is, it’s useful to study the work of videographers.

As of this writing, videographer Dan Bell publishes “The Dead Mall” series on YouTube, walking viewers through the retail ruins—and near ruins—we might not otherwise see, the missing rooftiles, stained carpets, broken windows, unoccupied food courts, and boarded-up shopfronts that speak to the phenomenon of commercial decay in poignant terms. In city after city, Bell documents the decline of once thriving malls on a personal level. Again, for those who grew up during the 1980s, the experience of viewing mall ruins is jarring, a sad bit of nostalgia his videos capture wonderfully. In particular, Bell’s footage of the Galleria at Erieview in Ohio offers striking views of center courts, dining areas, public art, and hauntingly vacant retail spaces. To date, he has visited roughly forty properties, panning the grand structures of the previous era, raising urgent questions about the future. Indeed, it’s staggering to note that tens of millions of square feet—of once prime retail space—have been impacted, portions of which have been repurposed, many of which stand vacant to this day. Even beyond the economic issues, which are substantial, the social needs of residents are also at stake. Bell captures the urgency of this situation quite effectively. In addition, his video narrative ties back to the previous century, reminding us that Metropolis spoke to the rise of technology and the transformation of human life in richly theatrical terms, for good reason; change was on the horizon, and its impact promised to be compelling. How would technology, and the drive to acquire more goods affect daily life and the quality of social interactions?

In 1927, the darker aspects of industrialization and the factory system were uppermost in people’s minds. However, the advent of planned obsolescence created a nation of consumers, ironically trapping laborers in the drudgery of the workplace to purchase necessities as well as the accoutrements of status. As of the early 2000s, Bell commented on this narrative to reveal the megalomania of consumerism—much of which is related to high technology—as it begins to undermine its creators, much like the flesh-consuming machines of Metropolis.

In part, “dead malls” are the result of internet commerce which has rendered trips to the marketplace a bit obsolete, convenience always being a commodity in and of itself. Even so, there are affluent areas where shopping and dining remain available to those of “the creative class,” prosperous centers where foot traffic is still the rule rather than the exception. But the mechanisms of “progress” do tend to feed on those who live on the fringes, even if such people constitute the bulk of the population.

 

RETAIL IMAGES IN CONTEXT

 

More than anything, mall culture at its height was a visual experience, as is the phenomenon of its decline. With that in mind, we have explored some useful images and ideas. From photographs and film footage, to the warnings of Benjamin regarding the illusory aspects of progress, the decline of mall culture can occupy a number of contexts. Even beyond the elegant theories of the moment, is the necessity to transform vacant malls into useful third spaces, posthaste. When decay goes unchecked, it has a pernicious way of spreading beyond all reparation.

With this in mind, some malls have been remodeled into office parks, where fitness centers and restaurants serve workday crowds, a renewal model which might stand the test of time. But the underlying theme of illusion remains a compelling issue; the glamour of consumption comes at a price, and even in the best of times, only a small segment of society benefits from elegant environments. Moving into the midst of a new century, economic uncertainty will likely remain with us into the foreseeable future; even when commercial spaces are reinvented, the bright optimism of previous decades is likely to be missing. The new aesthetic of digital life does seem related to the symbols and images of Metropolis.

Today, we know the hazards of high technology environments—relentless surveillance, the buzz of drones, crowds shuffling forward while staring blankly at their phones. But the shadows of malaise and the conscription of society (stark images of Fritz Lang’s dystopia) were nowhere in evidence when Victor Gruen began to build his malls in the cheerful mid-century landscape. With this in mind, perhaps we can say that the decades of mall culture were no more than a fleeting aspect of social history. Time has shown that our grand cities produce vast amounts of despair and waste, even as they promise to fulfill our dreams.

As the horizon line fades for mall culture, we have a number of images from the past to consider, aesthetics and ideologies which may help to bolster newly revitalized commercial and social spaces. After all, the needs of human beings for goods, services, and pleasant community environments (third spaces) have not changed in the last century. Ultimately, injecting cash into beleaguered landscapes may prove fruitless. However, the entertainment hub/town center model seems to be the design of the moment, perhaps destined—in all of its sunny optimism—for the eventual fate of mid-century shopping malls.

Endnotes:

1. Nancy Cohen, America’s Marketplace: The History of Shopping Centers (Lyme, Connecticut: Greenwich Publishing Group, Inc.) 2002.
2. Victor Gruen 1948 quotation reprinted.
3. Jeffrey Hardwick, Mall Maker: Victor Gruen, Architect of an American Dream (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004). p. 101.
4. Jerry Jacobs, The Mall: An Attempted Escape from Everyday Life. (Prospect Heights: Waveland Press, Inc., 1984) p. 4.
5. ibid.
6. Ingrid Pfeiffer, “Circumstantial Evidence: Shops and Display Windows in Photographs by Eug ne Atget, Berenice Abbott and Walker Evans.” A Century of Art and Consumer Culture, Edited by Christoph Gruenberg and Max Hollein (Frankfurt, 2002), p. 93.
7. ibid.
8. Susan Buck-Morss, The Dialectics of Seeing: Walter Benjamin and the Arcades Project. (Cambridge, 1991). p. 92).
9. Anton Kaes, “Metropolis: City, Cinema, Modernity.” (Expressionist Utopias: Paradise, Metropolis, Architectural Fantasy, Timothy O. Benson, for the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 2002).
10. Buck-Morss, p. 92, 93.

 

 

 

Posing as a dialog with oneself, the journal entry records the movements of life, day by day, with stories, amusing asides, and the occasional wink and nod. How many commonplace occurrences would be forever lost, had they escaped the journal keeper’s analysis, or the diarist’s keen insights? Going further, musings about books and ideas are also well-preserved by one who journals, the writer who keeps track of questions and curiosities over the years. Although the nature of such work is deeply personal, perhaps intended only for the scrutiny of the author, it often presents historians with primary source material, a narrative of daily life or a chronicle of adventure. These works can bear witness to horrific times, and convey mundane experiences, as well. Or, they can serve to illuminate the intrigues of politics and court life. Here, Anne Frank and Samuel Pepys come easily to mind, theirs being two of the most widely read and admired diaries. It is certain that without their writings, which contain a wealth of remembrances and ideas, our understanding of history would be less informed.

The language of memory can be very powerful when shared, being an expression of our common struggles and experiences. In its best form, such writing invites readers to explore the narrative of a different life, from the distance of another time. In this relationship, writer and reader can create a joint narration, something like a mentor chatting at length with her protégé, or two friends sharing stories on a long walk. Hours spent reading the diaries left by Anne Frank and Samuel Pepys—to name but two examples—lend a sense of immediacy to the Holocaust and reveal the drama of seventeenth century court life. In short, the relationship between diarist and reader is a rich connection, one which offers opportunities as well as significant complications.

Even in the most vivid accounts, the author of recollections can easily be ignored by readers. Depending on your perspective, this omission could present an opportunity to hear the narrative in new ways, highlighting lessons from the story rather than the perspective of its main figure. Or, it could introduce aesthetic complication into the reading process, a disruptive silencing of the authorial voice. In any event, it brings to mind issues regarding the nature of journaling; although great art eclipses its creator, a journal or diary is, above all else, the testimony of its maker. The aesthetic “death of the author” is indeed exaggerated, where memoir is concerned. An eloquent journal entry attests to the writer being alive and possessed of continuing relevance, even long after passing. It is true, of course, that the most skilled author will cause readers to forget his personality, prompting them instead to embrace the nuances of the story and consider it alongside their own lives. This is certainly the hallmark of a great writer, one who presents readers with opportunities as well as useful complications.

In the end, the narrative of life history—as recorded by one individual among many—can sometimes take on a universal appeal, offered to entertain as well as instruct. Of course, the writer–who experienced and observed the events in question–can easily recede into the background and achieve anonymity, even as her remembrances gain momentum. Arguably, this is the fate (and blessing) of every impactful thinker, diarists no less than the authors of fiction. More than anything, however, it is the process of recording a private set of observations, faithfully across the rise and fall of many years, that offers clues for living. Journal keepers teach us to craft a meaningful existence in the world, by noting recollections and expressing ideas, patiently over a lifetime.