The High Line

On Christmas day we went for a walk on Manhattan, through Greenwich Village, Soho and the Meatpacking district. I love the color and textures of these neighborhoods, the low (for New York!) brownstone buildings, the former industrial buildings turned art galleries, apartments and boutiques, and the not quite so touristy atmosphere. 

  

I was quite taken with this recent piece of architecture that blended so beautifully in amongst the brownstones. The street facade is clad in Corten steel, and I'm guessing it has a higher degree of transparency on the opposite facade.

Always when I travel, I have a list of what I want to see, both art and architecture, and drag my poor husband and kids around... This time in New York, I only had two things on my list: the occasional public sculpture and The High line. I had really high (excuse the pun, couldn’t resist) hopes for The High Line, and I was not disappointed. I’m a firm believer in new thinking around established phenomena, in this case the urban public park. To be elevated above street level and experience the city from another viewpoint had a greater impact on me than what I expected. It’s also an efficient use of valuable street level space and, most importantly, reusing excisting structures is both ecological and creates some unexpected spaces with valuable links to the past. I can highly recommend it, if you haven’t been there already.

The High Line is a public park built on an historic freight rail line elevated above the streets on Manhattan’s West Side. The first section of the High Line opened in 2009. It runs from Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking District to West 20th Street. The second section, which runs between West 20th and West 30th Streets, opened two years later. 

The High Line is owned by the City of New York, and maintained and operated by Friends of the High Line. Founded in 1999 by community residents, Friends of the High Line fought for the High Line’s preservation and transformation at a time when the historic structure was under the threat of demolition. In addition to overseeing maintenance, operations, and public programming for the park, Friends of the High Line works to raise the essential private funds to support more than 90 percent of the park’s annual operating budget, and to advocate for the preservation and transformation of the High Line at the Rail Yards, the third and final section of the historic structure, which runs between West 30th and West 34th Streets.

The High Line was built in the 1930s, as part of a massive public-private infrastructure project called the West Side Improvement. It lifted freight traffic 30 feet in the air, removing dangerous trains from the streets of Manhattan's largest industrial district. No trains have run on the High Line for more than three decades. The last train chugged along the High Line in 1980, carrying three carloads of frozen turkeys.

The design team of landscape architects James Corner Field Operations, with architects Diller Scofidio + Renfro, created the High Line's public landscape. Construction on the park began in 2006. For a relatively narrow and straight stretch of parallel tracks, I was impressed with the great variety of spaces they've created. The High Line's planting design is inspired by the self-seeded landscape that grew on the out-of-use elevated rail tracks during the 25 years after trains stopped running. Many of the species that originally grew on the High Line's rail bed are incorporated into the park's landscape. It may sound funny, but I really liked the winter dullness of the plants, all brown and not much to look at. It really added to the intended effect of the natural elements taking over an old industrial installation.

 

In recent years, the High Line has been adding interesting art along its length and even on the billboards facing the linear park. Now, public art seems to be spreading outwards into neighboring Chelsea, a long-time gallery destination.

“The river that flows both ways”. This installation is part of High Line Art, a program that introduces site-specific works that respond to the park’s unique qualities.Inspired by the Hudson River, Spencer Finch’s The River That Flows Both Ways (between West 15th and West 16th Streets) documents a 700-minute (11 hours, 40 minutes) journey on the river in a single day. The title is a translation of Muhheakantuck, the Native American name for the Hudson, referring to the river’s natural flow in two directions. Like the rail line that existed on the High Line, the Hudson River was, and still is, an active route for the transportation of goods into Manhattan. The river and the High Line have always been linked in their geography, their function, and their imprints on the industrial legacy of the city. 

From a tugboat drifting on Manhattan’s west side and past the High Line, Finch photographed the river’s surface once every minute. The color of each pane of glass was based on a single pixel point in each photograph and arranged chronologically in the tunnel’s existing steel mullions. Time is translated into a grid, reading from left to right and top to bottom, capturing the varied reflective and translucent conditions of the water’s surface. The work, like the river, is experienced differently depending on the light levels and atmospheric conditions of the site. In this narrative orientation, the glass reveals Finch’s impossible quest for the color of water. I really loved how the artist used an existing structure (the old framework) to create something new. It reminded me a bit of the modern, pixelated new take on the stained glass window in the Cologne cathedral by one of my many favorites, Gerhard Richter. 

“Busted” is a series of contemporary busts amid the High Line’s public gardens. Artist Steven Claydon, created UNLIMITEDS & LIMITERS, which humorously plays with the idea of the traditional bust, with doubles in resin and concrete. 

Getty Station is a public art program based at the former Getty filling station conceived by real estate developer and art collector Michael Shvo to bring outdoor exhibitions to a broad audience in the center of the High Line arts district. The program centers on site specific installations as an opportunity to incorporate a classic twentieth century American icon into the contemporary art dialogue. I just missed Sheep Station (it ended in late fall) which showcased 25 of late artist François-Xavier Lalanne’s iconic epoxy stone and bronze ‘Moutons’. Lalanne’s first iteration of the sculptures was his infamous ‘Moutons de Laine’ in 1965, gradually expanding this particular body of work to include additional variations of the sculpture in epoxy stone and bronze in 1977. Set in a surrealist landscape amidst the existing industrial gas station architecture, the sheep symbolized Lalanne’s mission to demystify art. 

To me, even this New York phenomenon below could be an art installation, commenting the implications of urban density....But it's not! It's just an impressive parking structure:-)

Some "architect- nerdiness", a close up of a great material combo...

 

I really recommend this great video on YouTube, it gives you a  good overview and understanding of the High Line project and it's relation to the surrounding city. I also recommend this website for more info.

Manufactured landscapes

I’ve had a bit of a dry spell with the blogging lately. I could show you my newest thrifty acquisitions, but I thought I’d do something else this time and show you something that has inspired me immensely.

I'm usually all smiles (unless someone's done a good job at winding me up), but my taste and sense of aesthetics is more on the dark and gloomy side. I've always loved steel and the way it ages. There's something about the signs of lived life and the decay aspect that adds so much conceptually to a piece of art or architecture. Steel also makes me think of machines. Large machines in a landscape is a theme that's been a constant source of inspiration. In my student years I worked a lot with steel, often Cor Ten, a steel alloy that lets the surface rust quickly to form a protective layer. It won't rust through like regular industrial steel. When I designed a small pilgrim chapel once, my professor said: you know the Cor Ten steel might "bleed" down on the ground when it rains, don't you? He then thought about it for a few minutes (while I was thinking uh- oh) before he said: of course, let's hope it does, it's perfect for your concept!!

It's sad how few projects that allow for a purely conceptual approach, on a daily basis it's all about cost and deadlines and an enormous amount of paperwork. Sometimes I feel like I'm drying out as an architect and need to go back to the experimental student work, when it was ALL about concept and see if I can still get my mind into those tracks again.

Back to my source of inspiration. I've been immensely inspired by the photographs of canadian artist Edward Burtynsky, especially his series of photographs called Shipbreaking. If you’re not familiar with his work already, check out the website (quotes and images are courtesy of www.edwardburtynsky.com). He has documented manmade landscapes, landscapes that are shaped by industrial prosesses, like quarries, oil refineries, dams and mines. His photograps have so many layers. They can be seen as purely aesthetic, Burtynsky chooses to refrain from moralizing. He photographs civilization's materials and debris, but in a way people describe as "stunning" or "beautiful," and so, without words, raises all kinds of questions about ethics and aesthetics without trying to easily answer them. There's this strange feeling of guilt for finding them beautiful.

“The original idea for “Shipbreaking” started a long time ago. About four years after the Exxon Valdez oil spill I heard a radio program where they were talking about the danger of single-hulled ships. The insurance companies were refusing to cover them after 2004, which would force all these ships to be decommissioned. Only double-hulled ships would be allowed on the open sea to prevent that kind of catastrophe from happening again.

What went off in my mind was, wouldn’t it be interesting to see where these massive vessels will be taken apart. It would be a study of humanity and the skill it takes to dismantle these things. I looked upon the shipbreaking as the ultimate in recycling, in this case of the largest vessels ever made. It turned out that most of the dismantling was happening in India and Bangladesh so that's where I went.” 

Until the end of 1900, shipbreaking took place in industrialized countries, such as Great Britain and the US. Today, the industry has moved to Pakistan, Bangladesh and India due to cheaper labour, less restrictive laws concerning handling of hazardous waste, and no great risk of legal claims for injuries or health problems. There is hardly any basic protective gear, like helmets, gloves or masks being used in the demolition, it’s man (even children) against giant supertanker, barefoot in steel shrapnel and chemical waste.

The ships are dismantled, and even the smallest steel component is sold. Only tiny fragments are left after dismantling a supertanker, the industry supplies 80 percent of the steel resources of Bangladesh. It has become a valuable source of income that sadly comes with a very high price.

The stranded giants, partly taken apart, look quite surreal, unlike anything you’ve ever seen, like a scene from Dante’s Inferno. They are robbed of their dignity as ships, but are still impressive due to their overwhelming size. You can see elements you’ve never seen before, rare views of inner constructions. Nothing has ever amazed and inspired me more. 

To see beauty in destruction is a strange phenomenon. Nature transformed by industry is a common theme in Burtynsky’s work, places most of us don’t experience, but on a daily basis contribute to the upkeep of. The photographs reflect the dark side of our consumer society, but the artist’s aesthetic fascination for these manufactured landscapes shines through. He says of his work:

“These images are meant as metaphors to the dilemma of our modern existence; they search for a dialogue between attraction and repulsion, seduction and fear. We are drawn by desire - a chance at good living, yet we are consciously or unconsciously aware that the world is suffering for our success. Our dependence on nature to provide the materials for our consumption and our concern for the health of our planet sets us into an uneasy contradiction. For me, these images function as reflecting pools of our times." 

The documentary “Manufactured landscapes” (Jennifer Baichwal, 2006) documents Burtynsky’s travels to several areas transformed by industrial prosesses and we see him at work. I cannot recommend it strongly enough. 

Below, I've thrown in some samplers of my more abstract wrecks from my student days. Picture 2 to 5 are from a course that was purely experimental. We spent half of the semester wondering what the heck we were doing, until we discovered that was exactly the point. All our strange models were discussed very academically, it was REALLY interesting. I can't even remember how I described the purpose of my "machine" placed in the transition zone between land and ocean, I think our sensors read more into it than I had the brains to come up with... (pic number 5 of the sensor team of guest professors was taken by a friend) Although a bit frustrating, this research course led me to the idea for my diploma. 

The following images are from my diploma, where I designed a wave powerplant from a different strategy than the usual one, where the landscape is completely ruined. It consisted of several "machines", each fitted into natural gaps in the landscape and orientated according to the wave power potential. I chose my topic out of the shock of discovering that no landscape conciderations whatsoever were made in the planning of a test plant on the most beautiful island imaginable. I'm a firm believer in renewal energy, but in my country much of the resistance towards it is much due to landscape preservation. The installations leave permanent scars, while the technology is constantly being developed and they thereby have a relatively short lifespan on the site. I think a lot of effort needs to be put into the design and approach to the sites, minimizing the negative impact.

The site is very rocky and torn up, and I worked with the idea of seeing the power plant as a wreck being pushed into the gaps in the landscape by the force of the waves. I tried to examine how a shipwreck would hit land and where it would end up. I divided the powerplant into several individual “machines” that could be orientated according to the wave power potential. The company that was planning the test plant kindly gave me a lot of information and test results on the wave potential. Of course, I didn't tell them I was doing the project as a critique of their approach....

A wreck comes to rest on shore in a seemingly accidental way, but it is in fact a result of the topography and the force that pushed it there. It’s something man can't control or achieve, that's what makes it so fascinating. It is usually partly crushed in it’s violent encounter with the landscape. This produces asymmetry, strange angles and views of the inner spaces and constructions that are not usually seen. There’s a wreck on my favorite stretch of coast that I’ve often photographed, for my diploma I used some of them to illustrate my concept. 

Engineers helped me with some structural challenges, since they were a bit more "hardcore" than the usual building technology we’re expected to master, offshore construction and all. Through the whole semester I was so nervous about how the team of sensors would see it, it was the first time a power plant was designed in my school. Luckily, it all went very well. 

Wow, you must be exhausted by now if you've made it to the end of this post!! I promise I'll be more cheerful next time:-)

Pure therapy

I just had a weekend of pure therapy. My kind of therapy is deep breaths of ocean air, wind in my hair and watching the waves roll in from the North sea. My boys and husband stayed at home for a boys only weekend, while I flew over after work on friday and stayed with mum and dad for the weekend. And it was pure heaven, with the windy, misty weather that makes such a dramatic contrast between the steel grey sky and the green grass. I love the roughness of this landscape and the vastness of the endless horizon. I love listening to the howling wind and roaring sea. It's my paradise.

The medieval church at Orre, dating from 1250

The old vicorage by the sea, beautifully restored, now an art gallery

 

The landscape formations are not solid, but moraine deposits from the ice age. This mild coastal area is where the ice retracted first. The steep ridge has been shaped by the waves.

The lighthouse

Views towards the old vicorage, the westernmost cluster of white buildings

  

Obrestad harbour was the first harbour to be built on this coast. A rescue station for seafarers was established here in 1854.

 

Leaving this place, I always feel that I'm leaving a piece of me behind.