Prepared for Professor Colin Mercer, Foundations of Cultural Planning, UBC

The Cultural Planning: A Citizen’s Approach

      When I told my friends and family that I had signed up for a class in cultural planning, they asked me: ‘What's that?’ and to be quite honest, I couldn't give them a straight answer.  It seemed like an esoteric subject hinting at a Kafkaesque bureaucracy.  It can sound redundant or, at its worst, like a coercive regime.  Luckily, as defined in contemporary Western terms, cultural planning is a practice of facilitation not dictation. It is an encompassing theoretical framework available for use not just by a basement office in a city hall somewhere, but, I will argue, for every citizen. I am not a professional planner, but I am a potential citizen. To unpack what this means for me, I will first address the notion of ‘the citizen’ then I will suggest ways that a cultural planning approach can be incorporated into the everyday life of the individual in the transformative process of ‘civilizing.’

As there is hardly the space to deconstruct the philosophical concept of the ‘citizen,’ instead I would suggest that a cultural planning approach requires at a minimum the acknowledgment of a difference between a resident and a citizen. Mercer has delineated forms of the city between the urbs and the civitas: the former being the mere physical space; the latter being a fuller engagement and participation in that space (Foundations). I would suggest that the individual who occupies the space of the urbs could be called a resident in contrast to an individual who participates in the civitas as a citizen.

Referencing Bloomfield and Bianchini's Planning for the Intercultural City, Mercer agrees that ‘citizenship is the connective tissue of intercultural planning’ (“Local Policies,” 13). To extend the metaphor then, my role as a citizen is as a cell within the tissue. Every cell needs to be healthy in order to contribute to the well-being of the tissue. The success of cultural planning in a city rests not only with the planners, but also with those for whom the plan is aimed.  

Ultimately, citizenship is stakeholding; it requires engagement and participation. But a single citizen cannot provide the infrastructural resources that a government can.  As a citizen, I have fiscal obligations to my city to overcome the problem of the commons; but engaging in a cultural planning approach requires more of me than that. And this is perhaps where a cultural planning model has an advantage for enhancing citizenship over an Athenian model of democracy:  the political realm is but one facet of participation for the citizen. The citizen must both produce and consume cultural resources. Bianchini suggests cultural resources can be applied in economic, symbolic, social, environmental, political, educational, and cultural sectors (“What is,” 3). An individual's efforts in each of these areas cannot be equally distributed, but nevertheless, this provides a good framework for how an individual can become a citizen in terms of cultural planning.

One of the primary ways individuals exist in a city is as economic actors. Not all actors are equal:  choices are made that discriminate between a resident and a citizen. A cultural planning approach would suggest that a citizen has a consumptive role to play to bolster local industry and commerce. ‘Buying local’ could support the independent businesses that give a city personal character. Although many chain shops operate as independent franchises, supporting local mom-and-pop shops with individual names sends a message that citizens prefer a unique identity for their city.  Using disposable income on activities within the city, whether by going to a restaurant, to a theatre, or to a hockey game, can act as an investment in the community.

The return of the Winnipeg Jets NHL hockey team stands as a good example of economic citizenship. Naysayers argued that Winnipeg could not sustain the economic requirements for the return of the NHL franchise, but the citizens supported the return of the hockey team to the city.  They demonstrated this commitment  in a variety of ways, and ultimately through economic consumption (Turner). While it's too soon to tell if the novelty will wear-off and the money will disappear-- along with the civic pride it reinforced-- it stands as a good example of how individuals as economic actors can become citizens of their cities.

 Although the citizen's role is often as a consumer, the individual can play a part in the symbolic and educational sectors of a city's cultural plan. The rise of social media has created a space for citizens to act as city marketers. Recommending local activities and sharing information about upcoming events on social media (such as Twitter or Facebook) can help to improve a city's reputation. If I mention a new event happening every day, my connections--both within my city and outside of it--will increasingly sense that my city is rich with cultural activities. Duxbury, Simons and Warfield go further to suggest that citizen's media, often occurring online, ‘take involvement…to a new level, sometimes redefining cultural identity and what counts as meaningful culture.’ (43) If properly applied, online tools can be used positively to fuse the private space with the public, mitigating what Bianchini calls ‘the privatized existence’ of less skilled workers (“The Difficult Art,” 2) 

Participating in the social and environmental improvement also has a different meaning for the citizen than for the planner. A citizen alone can't increase funding to implement safer streets initiatives; and standing on a bad street corner to prove ‘I'm not scared’ may not be the most effective strategy to improve the overall perception of a neighbourhood's safety. However, choosing to use public spaces, in lieu of private alternatives, can improve the overall sense of place. Instead of hosting a backyard barbecue (a private space), a public park could be used for the same event, contributing to a sense of neighbourhood. In some neighbourhoods this would increase the sense of safety that might be lacking, whilst in others, it would display to the parks department that the facilities are actually used. It's hard to defend spending money on maintaining a park that never has any people in it.  Inevitably, some public spaces may not be worth defending in their extant forms.  In such cases, the citizen could engage the political sector for solutions.

The degree of effectiveness of the individual's actions ultimately lies in the responsiveness of the local government. If the government itself is not open to concepts expressed through a cultural planning approach, many of the quiet efforts of the individual will not be fully recognized. If local government does not conduct thorough audits regarding the use of local spaces, attendance at local events, influencing the allocation of fiscal resources will be more challenging (Mercer, "What is Cultural," 6). The political sphere is the domain for the citizen to participate in larger scale, more direct action. This should mean more than simply voting, but it is not necessarily reasonable to expect that all citizens can dedicate their lives to Athenian-style professionalized citizenship. Attending city council and departmental meetings is a traditional possibility for engagement; however, the contemporary citizen is an email away from voicing concern. As in the case of Montreal,  the physical town hall can give way to online forums for citizens' ideas and concerns (Montreal for Tommorrow). If an administration is slow to embrace the principles of cultural planning; the citizen could voice his or her concerns either directly to the administration, or to the political opposition.

Citizenship following a cultural planning approach could be a full-time job, but in this paper I have tried to outline the small choices that an individual can make to engage as a citizen rather than an idle resident. If we don't consider the active role of the citizen in the cultural plan, then the cultural plan itself becomes what Mills has called "the icing on the cake rather than the yeast." (7) At the crux of cultural planning is an encompassing approach that requires the internalization of its principles; principles that go beyond merely the political.  Whilst planners and governmental implementers must be working strategically to create an essentially intuitive plan for the citizen, I have argued that the citizen also benefits from a conscious understanding of cultural planning. If we all know the name of the game, it's easier to play.

Works Cited

Bianchini, Franco. "The Difficult Art of Cultural Planning."  The Arts Council of England. Nd.

---.  "What is 'Cultural Planning'?" Urban Cultural Policy in Britain and Europe: Towards Cultural Planning. Griffith University, Institute for Cultural        plannning Studies: 1993.

Duxbury, Nancy. Derek Simons, and Katie Warfield. “Local policies and expressions of cultural diversity: Canada and the United States.” ed. Institut           de Cultura, Barcelona City Council, as Chair of United Cities and Local Governments' Working Group on Culture, in the framework of the study         "Local policies for cultural diversity" commissioned by the Division of Cultural Policies and Intercultural Dialogue of UNESCO. Institut de                    Cultura,  Barcelona: 2006. Print.

Montreal for Tomorrow. Ville de Montreal, nd. Web. 23 October 2012.

Mercer, Colin. Foundations of Cultural Planning. University of British Columbia. n.d. Web. 25 October 2012.

--. "Local Policies for Cultural Diversity: Systems, Citizenship, and Governance: With an Emphasis on the UK and Australia." ed. Institut de Cultura, Barcelona City Council, as Chair of United Cities and Local  Governments' Working Group on Culture, in the framework of the study "Local policies for cultural diversity" commissioned by the Division of Cultural Policies and Intercultural Dialogue of UNESCO. Institut de Cultura, Barcelona: 2006. Print.

--. "What is Cultural Planning?" ed. Community Arts Network National Conference. Sydney, 10 October 1991.  

Mills, Deborah. "Cultural Planning-Policy Task, not Tool." Artwork Magazine, 55, 2003: 7-11. Print.

Turner, Randy. “Go! Winnipeg Go!” Winnipeg Free Press. 10 October 2011.  A9. Web. 25 October 2012. Web.

On Apartment Buildings

Structuring Memory: Modernist Objectivity and Post-War British Housing.

“Our own epoch is determining, day by day, its own style. Our eyes, unhappily, are unable yet to discern it.” (Le Corbusier, 3)

Can an objective architecture exist? Can architecture be malicious? Why is the British Modernist project a failure? Are these shortcomings an indictment on the totality of Modernism, an in particular, the principles espoused by Le Corbusier? The tenets of his Modernism succeed and fail to varying degrees, save one clear failure: context does matter. Although they took two different approaches to the programme, the housing projects of Alton East (1952-1955) and Alton West (1954-1958) both argue that an objective architecture cannot exist; that where there are subjects inhabiting a space, there will be subjectivity.

A place cannot be a tabula rasa if the people occupying the new space are not themselves afforded the same mental erasure. The British experience informs a profound lesson for a sinister duality in architecture: what is meant to be read as normative--as space meant to develop the inhabitant for an impending New Epoch--can simultaneously engender a critical observation of the contemporary situation. This pluralistic reading is particularly key in the context of the massive postwar housing initiatives that were “spearheaded by the LCC [London County Council]...using compulsory purchase, relocation of non-residential institutions, wholesale demolition and comprehensive redevelopment of housing estates.” (Schofield et al.) The architectonic tradition of designing either public spaces or elite private spaces allows a certain forgiveness when these spaces fail. People don’t live in opera houses, libraries or office buildings, so their failure is always limited. Mass housing is not so forgiving: it is special in its degree of use, and from this intensity of use comes a magnification of meaning.

 Indeed, he warned us. In Towards a New Architecture, Le Corbusier proposes that the right state of mind is necessary for the successful adoption of the house-as-machine principle. This seems, in a sense, lost in translation, in postwar Britain. Not simply in terms of Continental principles ill-fitting in an historically more isolated architectural tradition, but in the sense that the trauma of the War could hardly be conducive to this radical re-ordering of space. Whilst Le Corbusier suggests his forms are more beautiful, imbued with a humaneness, when one's occupation of a Modernist flat is involuntary, the mechanization of the space of the home-dwelling becomes oppressive. Disallowing a "return to normalcy" exacerbates the traumatic memory, leaving little room to evoke optimism in the residents. .

Figure 1. Exterior view, Alton West Estate, across Downshire Field Of the two Alton Estates,

Corbusian principles are more closely adhered to by the LCC’s Alton West Estate. Like many Modernist buildings, they have a striking quality in photographic form; their symmetricality and rectilinearity creates a sense of great order--a sort of geometric perfection. Their narrowness creates a certain lightness that is reinforced by their pilotis. While they succeed as photographed sculpture, the very aspects that make them appealing to observe as objet d'art makes them insufferable as livable spaces. The opportunity for individuality and fluidity--essential to what Higgot calls “the poetic of the city” (82)-- is sacrificed. The lightness of the ground floor--with the buildings appearing detached from the land itself--exacerbates the sense of temporariness: an uneasy feeling to invoke for formerly forcibly displaced inhabitants. "An inevitable social evolution will have transformed the relationship between tenant and landlord, will have modified the current conception of the dwelling-house, and our towns will be ordered instead of being chaotic. A house will no longer be this solidly-built thing which sets out to defy time and decay, and which is an expensive luxury by which wealth can be shown; it will be a tool as the motor-car is becoming a tool." (Le Corbusier, 237)

 Perhaps it is Le Corbusier's refutation of solidity that is most unsuccessful when implemented for emergency housing. The impermanence implied in the design only stands to reiterate traumatic memory. The ground floor pilotis, rather than intimating a futuristic moralism, makes the building feel temporary--as if, at any moment, it could be moved. While this may seem to agree with Le Corbusier's argument for transforming the relationship between house and occupant from home-and-dweller to tool-and-user-- to expurgate the antiquated ideal of permanence from the domestic structure--this design cannot signify an establishing order in a postwar context. The lightness and ephemerality imbues the space with an uncertainty that precludes order for which the strictest geometry cannot compensate while the imposed narrative of newness denies the more relevant one of resilience. In this sense, these are not the apartments of the winning side. The denial of architectural precedence creates doubt: what are these buildings trying to forget? In this sense, their disconnection with ‘Britishness’ allows for a pessimism to permeate.

 Figure 2. (Left) Block of Flats, Alton West Estate (1954-1958) and (Right) High-rise building, Alton East Estate (1952-1955) Compounding the problems of the design itself, is the Modernist affinity for unadorned material. Even if one accepts the beauty of concrete in its perfect form, Alton West demonstrates that this look quickly slips away. With this weathering a new layer of failure is added: what should be perennially young becomes, in its material, worn and tired. To sustain the ideology of the space, something of a constant ecdysis is needed-- a practical impossibility for budget-restricted council housing. Thus, using concrete, these buildings appear as forgotten spaces, temporary domiciles living as relics past their expiry date.

 More quintessentially British is Alton East. British Modernism’s hallmark employment of texture is a turn away from Le Corbusier toward the more humane Scandinavian Modernism incorporating “the People’s materials,” (Mallgrave, 350). Adopting this approach, Alton East's brick contextualizes the space, mitigating the coldness of the Modernist aesthetic. Red brick carries both an historicist element and a greater sense of investment in the building's lifespan. In a semantic reading, by the perceived effort it takes to construct, the laying of brick signifies the permanence of the structure.

Unfortunately, this marriage of old material with new form is an unhappy one: the brick's sturdiness fights the thin lines of the window detailing, the pilotis, and the lightness that should provided by the central stairwell's large windows. Brick requires the grand gestures like those of the American historicists or the expressionist works of the 'Amsterdam School.' The Modernist details do not provide the stature required by the material and yet, weighed down by the brick, they cannot achieve the streamlined elegance demonstrated in Unité d’Habitation. Rather than succeeding where Alton West failed--and creating a comforting sense of permanence--Alton East's stylistic hodgepodge feels hasty and unintentional: temporary structures waiting for their permanent replacements.

 As the Smithson’s Huntstanton School (1949) exemplifies, it would be hyperbole to group all British Modernism as a resounding failure: it is in the adaptation from public form to large scale private space where the breakdown occurs. Post-war British Modernism, and its romanticism of functionality and denial of the past, was naive to the implications for the domestic space: imposing revolution rarely works. In their excitement to build a new Britain, the LCC architects and others were blinded to the meaning of housing to the inhabitant: that, perhaps as Joseph Rykwert argues, “what a man requires of his house is the conviction that he is, in some sense, at the centre of the universe.” (Mallgrave 373) While Le Corbusier believed the eyes could not yet discern the style of the time, it seems that British Modernist architects could not discern this relationship between the dwelling and the dweller in a context-heavy time and space.


Works Cited

 “Alton West Estate Roehampton, Wandsworth, Greater London, England. LCC Architects Department: 1954-1958 photo credit: Courtauld Institute of Art, London.” Art and Architecture. 23 Nov. 2011 http://www.artandarchitecture.org.uk/images/conway/889932ec.html

 “Block of flats, Alton West Estate , Roehampton, Wandsworth, Greater London, England: LCC Architects Department: 1954-1958. photo credit: Courtauld Institute of Art, London.” Art and Architecture. 23 Nov. 2011 http://www.artandarchitecture.org.uk/images/conway/b7d59f86.html

Forty, Adrian."Being or Nothingness: Private Experience and Public Architecture in Post-War Britain." Architectural History, Vol. 38 (1995), pp. 25-35.

 John Schofield, et al. "London." Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online. 25 Nov. 2011 . 

Higgot, Andrew. Mediating Modernism: Architectural cultures in Britain. New York: Routledge, 2007.

 “High-rise building, Alton East Estate Roehampton, Wandsworth, Greater London, England, LCC Architects Department 1952-1955: photo credit: Courtauld Institute of Art, London.” Art and Architecture. 23 Nov. 2011 http://www.artandarchitecture.org.uk/images/conway/d061677d.html Le 

Corbusier. Towards a New Architecture. New York: Dover, 1986. 

Mallgrave, Harry F. Modern Architectural Theory: A Historical Survey, 1673-1968. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005. 

 Sutton, Ian. Western Architecture: From Ancient Greece to the Present. New York: Thames & Hudson, 2001.

A predominant feature of Seoul's landscape is the infrastructure. Perhaps this sounds obvious, but it really is not. While other cities attempt to downplay, to minimize, the visual impact of city infrastructure, Seoul seems to praise it. If a city is a patchwork quilt and the stitching is the infrastructure, in some cities the thread is hidden by color matching and simple stitches whilst in cities like Seoul, oversized stitches in bold contrasting colours are used. There is no shame in the daily functioning of the city, no romanticism, there is function. There is pride in this function. Millions of people can move around thanks to the road and rail networks. Typically, we think of these things as the dirty necessities of life, perhaps more pertinent to daily life but less prideful than magnificent skyscrapers, parks and monuments that define other cities. To be honest, to an outsider, the Namsan Tower is not easily identifiable like the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, the Statue of Liberty or the Statue of Christ the Redeemer. Some might know there is a tower atop a hill in Seoul, but may struggle to decipher it from Tokyo Tower. Through the centre of Seoul runs the Han river, and again, is perhaps not as salient as the Hudson, the Seine, or the Thames. Seoul has tall buildings, but the 63 building doesn't have the same international cache as the Empire State Building, the Gherkin, the Sears tower, or even the Marina Bay Sands. And certainly Seoul has rich historical sites, such as the ancient gates (Namdaemun) and several palaces, but they remain less recognizable than the forbidden city or the Taj Mahal. So defines Seoul? One of the most famous parts of Seoul isn't even in Seoul. The Incheon international airport has gained international renown as one of the best airports on Earth. Its efficiency is unsurpassed. If we give Seoul credit for the Incheon airport, we should keep in mind that an image of this place doesn't easily come to mind. It is a site of function. Fantastic function. But function nonetheless. A good reputation is good, but it doesn't necessitate an iconic image. In this same vein, Seoul's other major landmark is not a specific place, but a network: the Seoul Metro subway system. Again, perhaps it is not as famous as Tokyo's network, but it is one of the great prides of the city. The air and rail networks are part of the triple crown, the remaining jewel being the road network. As unpopular a notion as it may be to the Western contemporary city sensibility, the road network, particularly the expressway system are explicit. One of the stamps of the 1988 Summer Olympics is not a sporting facility, but a road. The 88 expressway weaves alongside the Han river (and at points hovers above it), in a way that would make many a Westerner cringe.

Songdo IBD (International Business District) is a stark example of the complexities of master planning in the 21st century. Whilst its website cheers for a new economic day coming for this future city, it's hard to see the reality on the ground. It feels like the end of the Earth--if it can even be attributed to Earth. It is 100 million sq feet of seemingly unoccupied space (http://www.songdo.com/songdo-international-business-district/the-city/master-plan.aspx.) Of course, it is not nearly as vacant as I am claiming, but even if there are inhabitants, the sense is one of desolation. In person it is as beautiful as the mock-ups predicted due to a complete lack of humanity to sully it.

I really did take these pictures. If it looks like walking through a 3-D project proposal, that's exactly how it feels. At points. My sense was a great tension between the shiny newness, so surreal in its forwardness, and the abandonment more akin to ruins. Perhaps it was the searing 38C heat of a mid-summer day, but it felt like venturing around future ruins. Of course, it didn't help that some areas were abandoned. While a foot bridge in Central Park had two attendants polishing it, just a short walk away, unfinished bicycle and walking paths were overgrown. Tomorrow City, the showcase of the future, had gone empty.

Maybe when the trees grow more full Songdo will feel more hospitable, but for now, the only reprieve from the climate are the overbearing bridges. One of the few places where I actually encountered people was under one such bridge. A group of seniors were taking a rest in the only place that provided shade. An interesting juxtaposition, these elderly folks resting under a hyper-modern structure built on the very place where MacArthur first landed when they were young (there is a monument to this strange factoid.) The group seemed completely out-of-place. Like they had parachuted in from elsewhere. The Songdo Master plan does not purport the city to be a city for the elderly, but a place of cutting edge innovation for the (younger) entrepreneurial class. As the trees are still too young to provided reasonable shade, this group (the majority of the people in the park all together) were occupying a space in an unpredicted way. Sitting on the footings of the bridge rather than on the allotted benches a few metres away.

The dreams of New Towns

There is something compelling about a New Town in the abstract. It shares much with buying a new car. As ephemeral as the new car smell is, as quickly outmoded as the latest superfluous features are, they are enrapturing. They are impossibly alluring. It takes monkish piety to repress the lust for them. We know on paper they mean nothing. We know if questioned, we could never fully justify them. But we can't help ourselves. As it turns out, we don't reserve this craving of the new and supremely fresh for automobile purchases. And until just a few years ago, while we may have scoffed at the stupidity of buying an overpriced never-been-driven car, we saw no connection with our housing choices. After all, a car is just a car, but a house or an apartment, that's a home. A home is a different thing. A home is not meant to be shared. We don't want to think of these rooms sullied by pasts. It is appalling that our kitchens may have known better chefs, our dining rooms may have hosted better parties, our family rooms may have seen better holidays, our bedrooms may have had more salacious dalliances. If we think too much about it, if we allow ourselves even a moment to reflect, jealousy overwhelms us. A home can only have one family. Our family, to the exclusion of all others. Anyone else is a house guest. Anyone else has to knock. Sure, we may go on to sell those special, irreplaceable members of our family. We compartmentalize this as if that home, that certain home, no longer exists. This nostalgia pushes almost to believe the physical structure itself no longer exists. And while we know in a rational sense, yes, the structure is still there, we content ourselves in knowing the inhabitants are mere imposters living in a shadow version of the platonic form. We remember a house always remembers its first. As a child I remember a woman visiting my home. She appeared unannounced one day, as people on these kinds of visits usually do. She told my mother she had grown up as a child in my house. That this house, my house, was her house. There is only one reality when you're in early elementary school, and this woman's claim came as an affront to me. She explained that her family had planted the hazelnut tree that blocked the bathroom window from plain view. She explained that her parents had built the machine shed and the outbuildings near the rear of the orchard. And interestingly, she explained that hers had not been the first family in the house. She explained why the front door did not function as the front door, but more as decorative facade to be seen from the road far below, down the hill. She explained that post World War II a doctor had moved this little wartime bungalow to the top of the hill. An ostentatious move for an 800 square foot home. While the idea of my home as a roaming nomad excited me, her claim to a childhood in this home unnerved me. My home was her home. This was too intimate a claim for a youngster to manage. It seemed unnatural, or more accurately, sinful. While many of us grow out of this attachment to place in this way, we learn to live in more transient scenarios (rental properties and sublets), we can't deny this urge, this feeling. The desire to be the only one. It is with this understanding, maybe more empathy than sympathy, that maybe we can understand the romanticism of the New Town.