Feminist Practices

Feminist Practices
For my mother and grandmother, the first feminists I knew

Feminist Practices
Interdisciplinary Approaches
to Women in Architecture
Edited by Lori A. Brown

First published 2011 by Ashgate Publishing
Published 2016 by Routledge

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Copyright © Lori A. Brown 2011
Lori A. Brown has asserted her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988, to be identified as the editor of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Feminist practices : interdisciplinary approaches to women
in architecture.
1. Women architects. 2. Feminism and architecture.
3. Architecture and society. 4. Architecture--Philosophy.
I. Brown, Lori A.
720.8’2-dc22
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Feminist practices : interdisciplinary approaches to women in architecture / [edited] by
Lori A. Brown.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-4094-2117-7 (hardback) -- ISBN 978-1-4094-2118-4 (ebook)
1. Feminism and architecture. 2. Architecture and society. I. Brown, Lori A. II. Title: Inter
disciplinary approaches to women in architecture.
NA2543.F45F46 2011
720.82--dc22
2011016740
ISBN: 978-1-409-42117-7 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-315-58223-8 (ebk)
Contents
List of Figures vii

Notes on Contributors xi
Preface xxi
1 Introduction 1
Lori A. Brown
2 Critical Spatial Practices: Setting Out a Feminist Approach

to some Modes and what Matters in Architecture 17
Jane Rendell
3 Inventing Feminist Practices: Women and Building in

Fin-de-Siècle Berlin 57
Despina Stratigakos
PART I FEMINIST PRACTICES IN DESIGN
4 Breathing Spaces: Whispering Walls, Feminist Spatial Practice 83

Cynthia I. Hammond
5 Blazing Inter Alia: Tropes of a Feminist Creative Practice 99

Julieanna Preston
6 Sister2 123
Kyna Leski
7 Interior-scapes 139
Lois Weinthal
8 Materializing the Tiger in the Archive: Creative Research and

Architectural History 155
Lilian Chee
vi feminist practices
PART II FEMINIST PRACTICES IN PEDAGOGY
9 The Pedagogy and Practice of “Placing Space: Architecture,

Action, Dimension” 169
Ronit Eisenbach and Rebecca Krefting
10 Axis Mundi Brazil Studio 199

Meghan Walsh
11 Fishing for Ghosts 213

Margarita McGrath
PART III FEMINIST PRACTICES IN DESIGN RESEARCH
12 Gender Roles at the Intersection of Public and Private Spheres:

Transformation from Detached House to Apartment in Izmir,
Turkey239
Özlem Erdoğdu Erkarslan
13 Courtyards 263
Meghal Arya
14 Politicizing the Female Body 277

Lori A. Brown
15 Home Grown 295

Kim Steele
PART IV FEMINIST PRACTICES IN COMMUNITIES
16 Urban Threads 317

Janet McGaw
17 Preparations for the Afterlife: Barking Town Square muf

architecture/art 333
Liza Fior and Katherine Clarke (muf architecture)
18 La Marqueta Mile: East Harlem, New York 347

Meta Brunzema
19 Conclusion 367
Lori A. Brown
Index 373
List of Figures
2 Critical Spatial Practices: Setting Out 4 Breathing Spaces: Whispering Walls,

a Feminist Approach to some Modes and Feminist Spatial Practice
what Matters in Architecture
4.1 The Bay Street façade of the Design
2.1 muf architecture/art, The Pleasure Exchange, Toronto, Ontario
Garden of the Utilities 4.2 View of “Ladies’ Room”, sound work
2.2 Julieanna Preston, SHEAR installed in the women’s washroom
2.3 atelier d’architecture autogérée, Passage 4.3 View of “Elevator Lobby”, sound work
56 installed in the elevator lobby
2.4 Jane Rendell, An Embellishment: 4.4 View of “Vestibule”, sound work
Purdah, kohl on glass, (2006) installed in the entry area to the Design
2.5 Sarah Wigglesworth and Jeremy Till, Exchange
Stock Orchard Street
5 Blazing Inter Alia: Tropes of a
3 Inventing Feminist Practices: Women Feminist Creative Practice
and Building in Fin-de-Siècle Berlin
5.1 Blaze 1 of 8
3.1 Sick ward in the women’s surgery clinic 5.2 Blaze 2 of 8
in Schöneberg, Berlin, 1910 5.3 Blaze 3 of 8
3.2 Emilie Winkelmann, c. 1890 5.4 Blaze 4 of 8
3.3 A female photographer high above 5.5 Blaze 5 of 8
Berlin, c. 1910
5.6 Blaze 6 of 8
3.4 View in 1916 of the Victoria
Studienhaus, designed by Emilie Winkelmann 5.7 Blaze 7 of 8
3.5 View of the garden and rear façade of 5.8 Blaze 8 of 8
the Victoria Studienhaus, c. 1930
6 Sister2
3.6 One of the residence’s communal living
rooms designed by Winkelmann, c. 1916
6.1 Sister in glass house
3.7 A student room in the Victoria
Studienhaus, 1916 6.2 Glass house
3.8 Dining on the terrace, c. 1930. 6.3 Shadowed Space
3.9 Street façade of the Haus in der Sonne, 6.4 Sketch of concept of Shadow House
designed by Emilie Winkelmann 6.5 Cone of light
3.10 Interior of a two-room apartment in 6.6 Flower
the Haus in der Sonne, 1926
viii feminist practices
6.7 Section of Shadow House mixed with corn flour, table disposed due to
6.8 Petal-shaped wall stench)
6.9 Intersecting vaults 8.5 Black Fur (wooden table, black matted
faux fabric fur glued on)
6.10 Blind spot
6.11 Plan of Shadow House 9 The Pedagogy and Practice of “Placing
6.12 Progress model of Shadow House Space: Architecture, Action, Dimension”
6.13 Bird’s eye view of Shadow House roof
9.1 View up and through the moving ‘walls’
6.14 West side of model of Shadow House
6.15 View of Shadow House 9.2 Placing Space laboratory
6.16 One of many dream paintings 9.3 Cross-section of University of Maryland’s
Great Space with the Placing Space
6.17 Sister Squared
environment inserted into it
7 Interior-scapes 9.4 Track and rope detail
9.5 Rotating hardware detail
7.1 Furnishings for a small drawing room 9.6 With each new mode of inquiry,
7.2 Front and back torso pattern with dart students adjust panels to shape space
notation 9.7 High-powered theater projectors set up at
7.3 Wing Chair folded up either end of the 120-foot-long Great Space to
7.4 Wing Chair unfolded in plan view project selected video or still images
7.5 Wing Chair under construction with 9.8–9.9 Two plan configurations among an
wings being sewn to chair legs infinite set of variations
7.6 Detail of the wing unfolded 9.10 Spatial variations
7.7 Detail of Wing Chair floor with inscribed 9.11 Props and panels are arranged in
cut anticipation of action. Action animates
environment
7.8 Cutaway wall section showing plaster
over metal or gypsum lath and metal studs 9.12 The noon meal is an opportunity for
building community and dialogue
7.9 House Coat detail with notes conveying
the process of construction 9.13 Journal page, Monday June 19, Deborah
Bauer, architecture student
7.10–7.11 House Coat in trace paper and
backlit to show the presence of a figure 9.14 Pinning up the first attempt at the
“Balance” exercise
7.12–7.13 Front and back of Pocket Map
Coat with pockets wrapping around front, sides, 9.15 Hands touch and the fabric gives,
arms and back drawing forth the memory of the unyielding
column surface
8 Materializing the Tiger in the Archive: 9.16 Steel props and a square of light from a
Creative Research and Architectural History skylight above recreate a tiny pantry space that
offered a sense of extension and containment
for Yoko
8.1 White-wash (wooden table, ‘white’
undercoat primer, applied evenly four times 9.17 As Krefting waits, everyone elses moves
over four days) around her
8.2 Mud (wooden table, caked mud from 9.18 A simple action, lifting up the large
garden, baked under sun for ten hours) panel, transformed a series of impenetrable
planes into a space of entry
8.3 Stripes (wooden table, 100% Cotton Print
from Liberty’s ‘Indian Stripes’ Collection glued 9.19 Reciprocity of movement and space;
on) transformation through action
8.4 Meat (wooden table, expired minced meat 9.20 Placing Space, a framework for inquiry
list of figures ix
10 Axis Mundi Brazil Studio 12.2 Urban fabric around Culture Park,
1940s; postcard, Izmir Ahmet Pirişitina Kent
10.1 Axis Mundi Logo Arşivi ve Müzesi
10.2 Final Jury and Capoeira Angola roda at 12.3 19th century row-houses and first
Catholic University modern houses circa 1948, Karşıyaka
District; postcard, Izmir Ahmet Pirişitina
10.3 Escada do Povo
Kent Arşivi ve Müzesi
10.4 Welding in Plataforma
12.4 Karşıyaka Çamlık Parcel No. 44
10.5 Bench
12.5 Karşıyaka Çamlık Parcel No. 45
10.6 Hand Drawing
12.6 Karşıyaka waterfront in 1940s;
postcard, Izmir Ahmet Pirişitina Kent Arşivi
11 Fishing for Ghosts ve Müzesi
12.7 Karşıyaka waterfront in early 1950s;
11.1 Display of ghost houses during annual postcard, Izmir Ahmet Pirişitina Kent Arşivi
Ghost Month festivities in Taipei ve Müzesi
11.2 Character pairing devised by students to 12.8 Karşıyaka waterfront in 1958;
name the project postcard, Izmir Ahmet Pirişitina Kent Arşivi
11.3 Station 5. ve Müzesi
11.4 Le Corbusier’s Five Points (from left 12.9 Karşıyaka waterfront in early 1970s;
to right) 1. Pilotis; 2. Free façade; 3. Ribbon postcard, Izmir Ahmet Pirişitina Kent Arşivi
window; 4. Free plan; 5. Roof terrace ve Müzesi
11.5 Eye of the Savoye 12.10 Karşıyaka waterfront in early 1980s;
11.6 Spatial typologies of the residuals postcard, Izmir Ahmet Pirişitina Kent Arşivi
ve Müzesi
11.7 for getting LA. Foyer installation of
Residuals Exhibit 12.11 Apartment blocks built in Karşıyaka
around 1980-90
11.8 Architectural Dictionary
11.9 Analysis of spatial conditions along 13 Courtyards
parade route
11.10 Study of ideal spatial conditions for one 13.1 A Mediterranean courtyard
of the ghosts (left). Examples of cubes (right)
13.2 A dense settlement of Bundi compact
11.11 Station Two. “Still Nature” Ghost. Boi- built form punctuated with courtyards
Yu Dai, Jia-Yin Zhen
13.3 Small open-to-sky space in houses of
11.12 Station Three. Chin-Tin Shen, Ching- Ratnal, Kutch
Hua Wu
13.4 Dense urban fabric of Jodhpur
11.13 Station Five. Zhen-Shun Lin, Zhen-Yi characterized by courtyards and
Mu terraces.
11.14 Station Seven. Pei-Ling Xu, Yi-Xiao 13.5 Courtyards in Indian houses display
Chen varying entrances conditions
13.6 Arrival courtyard of Nahargarh
12 Gender Roles at the Intersection Palace, symmetrical in articulation with
of Public and Private Spheres: accentuated gates
Transformation from Detached House to 13.7 An Amber Palace courtyard
Apartment in Izmir, Turkey
13.8 Typical Jodhpur house courtyard
12.1 Traditional row-houses from Karataş with different living elements integrated
District; postcard, Izmir Ahmet Pirişitina into this space
Kent Arşivi ve Müzesi
x feminist practices
13.9 Section of a haveli in Phalodi, 17 Preparations for the Afterlife -

Rajasthan with open-to-sky spaces. Parapets Barking Town Square muf architecture/
and railings give terraces a sense of
courtyards 17.1 The urban arboretum
13.10 A courtyard in a pol house, 17.2 Paris use suggests use
Ahmedabad
17.3 UK pavilion in Venice
13.11 A little bit of sun inside the house.
17.4 Shady public space
13.12 Changing quality of light in a
17.5 Sunny public space
courtyard Mansingh Mahal, Gwalior
17.6 Public space
14 Politicizing the Female Body 17.7 Folly wall in background
17.8 Construction fencing and steps
14.1 USA counties with and without
providers
14.2 Excerpt from matrix of US states and
their restrictions 17.11 The urban arboretum
14.3 Clinic locations in Kentucky 17.12 The urban arboretum
14.4 Kentucky population levels compared
to poverty levels 18 La Marqueta: Park Avenue Market
Mile
14.5 Hospital locations in Kentucky
14.6 All pharmacies in Kentucky 18.1 Park Avenue and 111th street
14.7 Potential clinic locations in Kentucky looking north
14.8 Shopping malls 18.2 Under the viaduct at 116th street
looking north
14.9 Military bases
18.3 Park Avenue and 130th street
14.10 Jails
looking east
14.11 Public high schools
18.4 Park Avenue and 127th street
14.12 Churches looking east
18.5 La Marqueta at Park Avenue and
15 Home Grown 115th street
18.6 La Marqueta Mile site plan
15.1 Chemical inputs for conventionally
18.7 La Marqueta Mile site plan 111th to
grown apples in the United States
119th streets
15.2 Chemical inputs for conventionally
18.8 Tilted Tower kiosks at 111-112th
grown tomatoes in the United States
streets
16 Urban Threads 18.9 Hydroponic kiosks at 112-113th
streets
16.1 Sophie’s bedroom 18.10 Animal Murals at 113th street
16.2 Kylie’s WAR(d)robe looking east
16.3 The Path of Most Resistance (and 18.11 Floating Animals block at 113-
Least Distance) 114th streets
16.4 Ally’s chrysalis 18.12 Old steel beams to be reused in Steel

Village
16.5 Discursive Process: Making Urban
Threads 18.13 Steel Village plan at 118-119th
streets
Notes on Contributors
Meghal Arya
Meghal Arya is a graduate of the Centre for Environmental Planning and

Technology (CEPT), Ahmedabad, India and completed her Master in
Architecture at the Georgia Institute of Technology, Atlanta, USA. She teaches
design, history of Indian architecture and construction detailing at the Faculty
of Architecture, CEPT University, Ahmedabad. She has a varied range of
interests, but the essence of it remains a concern with the meaning of space in
Indian architecture and its contemporary manifestation. This is reflected in her
teaching, research, as well as her professional practice. She is working towards
an integrated approach to architecture, one that is inclusive. She is a partner in
the firms Arya Architects and M/s Minakshi Jain Architects. Arya Architects
is a young firm that negotiates the divergences of working in a traditional
society with strong contextual influences along with a global impact. Most of
their practice revolves around the architecture of public buildings. Meghal,
along with her partner Vijay Arya have been recipients of several national
awards including the Institute of Architects for public buildings, the Jindal
award for outstanding design, and the J.K Award for public building. She is
widely travelled and continues to nourish that passion through study tours
and workshops for students. She has done extensive detailed documentation
of the palaces and forts of Rajasthan as part of her research interests and is
in the process of exploring spatial and architectural links amongst them.
“Courtyards” is one of the first of those links. More recently, she is exploring
the aspect of sustainable environments within this. She has written many
articles and her work has also been published in leading magazines.
Lori Brown
Lori Brown received a Bachelor of Science from the Georgia Institute of

Technology, attended the École d’Architecture in Paris, and a Master of
Architecture degree from Princeton University. At the intersections of
Architecture, Art, Geography, and Women’s Studies, her work emerges from
xii feminist practices
the belief that architecture can participate in and impact people’s everyday
lives. As an architect and artist, her design, speculative work, and classes all
engage with the larger idea of broadening the discourse and involvement of
architecture in our world. Focusing particularly on the relationships between
architecture and social justice issues, she has currently placed emphasis
on gender and its impact upon spatial relationships. She has recently been
working with the Matilda Joslyn Gage Foundation designing a Library of
Feminism, the Upstate University Hospital renovation design for their chapel,
and the Vera House, a local women’s shelter in Syracuse, NY renovating their
kitchen, dining and storage facilities. Her second book, to be published in
2012, investigates highly securitized spaces such as abortion clinics, women
shelters, and hospitals and examines the spatial ramifications of access and
security within spaces that are highly personal, private, and sometimes secret
or even hidden. She has been awarded artist residencies at Macdowell, Jentel
and Caldera and her work has been published in 306090, gender forum, Women
and Environments International Magazine, Journal of International Women’s Studies,
ACME: An International E-Journal for Critical Geographies and has been awarded
an AIA Unbuilt Design Award for her University Hospital Chapel design. She
is an associate professor at Syracuse University where her teaching builds upon
her interdisciplinary interests and goals of challenging the gendered academic
landscape with alternative pedagogical methods.
Meta Brunzema
Meta Brunzema is an architect and urban designer based in New York City. She
founded the firm Meta Brunzema Architect P.C. in 1998. She is also an adjunct
associate professor at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, where she teaches graduate
architecture, urban design, and theory. She believes that innovative design
can accelerate the systemic societal changes that are needed to insure long-
term socio-economic and environmental sustainability. Her professional and
academic endeavours focus on ecosystem-based design that addresses rapid and
non-linear changes in the economy, climate, communication, and technology.
For example, she designed an innovative flow-through River Pool in Beacon,
New York that engages people and the aquatic environment in a completely
new way. Her architecture and urban design work has been exhibited and
published widely, and she is a frequent speaker at professional conferences.
Ms. Brunzema received a Bachelor of Environmental Design Science degree
from Dalhousie University in Canada and a Master of Architecture degree from
Columbia University in New York. She is a Fellow of the Institute of Urban
Design in New York City.
Lilian Chee
Lilian Chee is a writer, theorist and designer. Trained at the Bartlett and the
National University of Singapore, where she is currently Assistant Professor,
contributors xiii
Lilian’s research focuses on domesticity. Her publications include “An

Architecture of Twenty Words”, in Negotiating Domesticity (2005); “A Web in the
Garden,” in Pattern, Haecceity Papers (2007), “Living with Freud,” in Architectural
Design special issue “Atmosphere” (2008), “Performing Domesticity: Ma
Qingyun’s Father’s House,” in Home and Space, Haecceity Papers (2009) and “Under
the Billiard Table” in the Singapore Journal of Tropical Geography (forthcoming
2011). She also serves as Regional Editor for the Journal of Architecture. Lilian is
currently working on a project exploring representations of Asian domesticity
in architecture, art and film.
Ronit Eisenbach
An Associate Professor at the University of Maryland School of Architecture,

Planning & Preservation and a graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design
and Cranbrook Academy of Art, Ronit Eisenbach is an architect whose creative
and scholarly efforts are located at the intersection of art and architecture.
Eisenbach employs design to generate discourse about the built
environment. Her practice includes teaching, curating, exhibition design,
and the construction of temporary site-specific environments; she explores
how the perception of subjective, invisible, and ephemeral objects affects
understanding and experience of place. An interest in thinking through
making and refining perception has led her to develop a series of situation-
based installations and courses that frame elements of architecture such as
light, colour, space, and shadow in conversation with human movement.
Her installations and maps have been exhibited both here and abroad in
venues such as the Detroit Institute of Arts, the Graham Foundation, the
Cranbrook Art Museum, the Art Gallery of Windsor, Princeton University,
and the streets of Tel Aviv. In 2010, Eisenbach published, with co-author Dr.
Sarah Bonnemaison, Installations by Architects: Experiments in Building and
Design (Princeton Architectural Press). In May 2010, “Sculpture at Evergreen
6: Simultaneous Presence,” co-curated with Jennie Fleming, opened at Johns
Hopkins University. A film, “The Radiant Sun: designer Ruth Adler Schnee,”
co-produced with Terri Sarris, and an associated exhibition at the Kibel Gallery
premiered at University of Maryland, before opening at the Palazzo Mocenigo
in Venice, Italy in June 2011. She was a Beverly Willis Architecture Foundation
Fellow in 2008, and has been awarded residencies at the MacDowell Colony
Fellow, Montgomery College, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts.
Özlem Erdoğdu Erkarslan studied architecture at the Dokuz Eylül University in

Izmir and obtained her Master and Doctoral degrees from the same institution.
She received a travel grant in London offered by the British Council in 1991 while
she was pursuing her Masters thesis. During her doctoral research, the Aga
Khan Awards for Architecture awarded her funding for travel to Switzerland.
xiv feminist practices
After having a nine-year period of academic positions in different universities

in Turkey and TRNC, she started to work as an assistant professor at the Izmir
Institute of Technology in 1997. Her research interests include anti-orientalism,
contemporary architecture in Islamic countries and gender issues. She is the
author of two book chapters on the topic of women in architecture published
in Turkey. She received a commendation from the Milka Bliznakov Prize in
2002 with her article entitled “Turkish Women Architects in the Late Ottoman
and Early Republican Era, 1908-1950”. She is also teaching and conducting
research in the graduate program of Women Studies in Ege University. She is
currently Chair of the Department of Architecture at Izmir Gediz University
Faculty of Engineering and Architecture.
Cynthia Hammond
Cynthia I. Hammond teaches architectural history in the Department of

Art History, Concordia University. She completed her PhD in 2002 through
Concordia’s interdisciplinary Humanities Doctoral Program. After teaching
in several Canadian universities, she held a SSHRC postdoctoral fellowship
at the School of Architecture, McGill University (2004-2006). Hammond
has received awards for her research, including the Governor General’s
Gold Medal for Doctoral Dissertation (2002) and the Nineteenth Century
Studies Association Emerging Scholar Award (2007) for her essay on hospital
reformer, Florence Nightingale. Her FQRSC Emerging Scholar grant (2008-
2011) supported research on the rise of modernism in Montreal, 1945-1965.
Since her appointment at Concordia, Hammond has published on a range of
subjects related to architectural history and contemporary urban issues. She
has presented this work at professional conferences in Helsinki, Berkeley, New
York, Washington, Dublin, Leipzig and Pécs, Hungary. Her book on women’s
contributions to the built environment and cultivated landscapes of Bath,
England will be published by Ashgate in 2012. This publication will coincide
with the one-hundred year anniversary of suffragette activity in that city, which
is one of the key subjects of the book. In addition to research and publishing on
architecture, cities and landscapes, Hammond maintains an interdisciplinary
studio practice that includes public art, painting and drawing, sound and most
recently, digital video. More details about her publications, research and art can
be found at www.cynthiahammond.com and at www.pouf.ca.
Rebecca Krefting
Rebecca Krefting earned a BA in English and Psychology at the University of

Alabama, Huntsville and an MA in Women’s Studies at Ohio State University
(OSU). She completed her doctorate in American Studies in 2010 at the
University of Maryland, College Park (UMD). Beck’s research specializations
are studies in humor and laughter; performance studies; gender, sexuality, and
race/ethnicity studies of visual and popular culture; identity and difference;
women’s history; cultural studies; feminist, disability, and comic theatre;
contributors xv
and pedagogical studies. She is currently working on a monograph titled:

Not Just a Joke: American Humor and Its Discontents. Besides researching
and publishing in the field of humour studies, Beck has published work in
disability education and theatre. She has presented her research nationally
and internationally, been invited to lecture about humour, and was a PAGE
(publicly active graduate education) Fellow for Imagining America in
2007. She is currently a Visiting Assistant Professor at Skidmore College in
the Department of American Studies. She was recognized for excellence in
teaching at OSU when she was nominated for a graduate teaching award in
2004 and again at UMD when the Center for Teaching Excellence named her
a Graduate Teaching Fellow in 2009-10. Her work is transdisciplinary and
interdisciplinary and she has taught in many disciplines including Women’s
Studies, American Studies, African American Studies and in UMD’s Honors
Humanities Program as a Doctoral Teaching Fellow.
Kyna Leski
Kyna Leski earned a Bachelor of Architecture from The Cooper Union Irwin
S. Chanin School of Architecture in 1985 and a Master of Architecture from
Harvard University’s Graduate School of Design in 1988. She is a professor of
architecture at the Rhode Island School of Design where she has been active in
forming, teaching and coordinating the first semester core design curriculum
since 1989. She has just completed a book on this pedagogy, called The Making
of Design Principles. She also served as the head of the RISD European Honors
Program in Rome from 1993 to 1995. Kyna Leski and Christopher Bardt are
principals of the architectural design firm 3SIX0 (http: www.3six0.com). Their
work includes residential, commercial, institutional and furniture commissions
as well as urban competition projects. 3SIX0 has received several AIA Awards
and has been recognized as one of the Architectural Vanguard Firms by
Architectural Record in 2002. Leski’s project, “Dream House,” placed first in The
Japan Architect’s Shinkenchiku Residential Design Competition in 1998 and was
published in Modern House 2 by Claire Melhuish (Phaidon Press, 2004). In 1997
the Architectural League of New York selected Leski as one of five winners of
its annual “Young Architects Competition.” In 2000, she was nominated for the
Chrysler Design Awards. Currently, she is serving as the “City Architect Design
Decision Review Advisor” to the Mayor of Providence, the Planning Department,
and the City Planning Commission and Downcity Review Commission.
Janet McGaw
Janet McGaw is a Senior Lecturer in Architectural Design in the Faculty of

Architecture, Building and Planning at the University of Melbourne. The
creative project that is described in this book, “Urban Threads,” was the
subject of her doctorate, awarded in 2007. Her research works, teaching
and practice continue to investigate equity in the urban realm. Janet uses
methods that are discursive, collaborative, and sometimes ephemeral. Recent
xvi feminist practices
publications include essays in the Journal of Architectural Education (for

which she was awarded the Deans Prize for Published Postgraduate Work),
Architectural Theory Review, The Journal of Architecture, and interdisciplinary
journals Junctures, Emotion Space Society and Double Dialogues. She is currently
a chief investigator on an Australia Research Council Linkage Grant with the
Melbourne City Council Indigenous Arts Program, the Victorian Traditional
Owners Land Justice Group, and Reconciliation Victoria to investigate
Indigenous Place-making in Melbourne in light of a desire by Indigenous
groups for a major, purpose-built centre for Indigenous Culture, Knowledge,
and Education in Melbourne. As part of the research, Janet is working on a
creative collaboration with Traditional Owners to produce a contemporary
possum skin cloak that represents the “place” of each language group in the
state of Victoria. Janet maintains a small private practice that specializes in
domestic architecture. Her “Warehouse Conversion in Ascot Vale” won the
Royal Australian Institute of Architects Award for best alteration and extension
in 2006.
Margarita McGrath
Margarita McGrath received a Masters of Architecture from the University of

California, Los Angeles, and from Rice University a Bachelor of Architecture
and a Bachelor of Arts in Art History. A Fulbright project, Loos, Musil and
Wittgenstein: Three Houses, took her to Vienna, Austria where she studied at the
Universität für angewandte Kunst. She spent an additional three years abroad
in Seoul, South Korea where she practiced, travelled extensively through
Asia, and began teaching architecture. Margarita is currently an Associate
Professor at the School of Architecture + Design at Virginia Tech, where her
focus is on championing a cadre of young practitioners equipped to re-position
the profession of architecture as a cultural and civic practice devoted to a
broad public audience. Margarita has participated on multidisciplinary teams
developing curriculum to deploy design in technology-laden environments,
including a million dollar grant shared by three universities focused on
teaching design in computer science HCI programs. Her shared practice (with
Scott Oliver), noroof architects, is committed to prompting individual, civic,
and environmental connectiveness aligned to living within smarter, smaller
footprints. Beginning with a national AIA Housing Committee citation for their
first built work, noroof has received community, national and international
recognition, including features in Sanctuary (2009), dwell (2009), wallpaper*(2008),
the New York Times (2006), The New Modern House (Bell and Stathaki, 2010), Tiny
(Zeiger, 2009), Brooklyn Modern (Lind, 2008), Contemporary Design in Detail: Small
Environments (Chan, 2007) and numerous awards including two New York City
AIA merit awards for design excellence.
contributors xvii
muf architecture
muf architecture/art was established in London in 1995. The practice has an

international reputation for its site-specific, research driven projects that
address the social, spatial, and economic infrastructures of public space. The
work constantly negotiates the lived and the built and who might be defined as
client. Practice is funded through commissioned projects, the work is made by
questioning and extending briefs. Projects range from large-scale urban design
strategies, landscapes and buildings, and temporary interventions.
Their work is predominantly in East London but not exclusively so; recent
work includes the British Pavilion for the 2010 Venice Biennale, Barking Town
Square, winner of the 2008 European Prize for Urban Space, and a number
of projects in the fringes of the Olympic site. Liza and Katherine are visiting
professors at Yale University. www.muf.co.uk
Julieanna Preston
Julieanna Preston’s practice as an academic and designer is grounded in her

education at Virginia Tech (Bachelor of Architecture, 1983) and Cranbrook
Academy of Art (Master of Architecture, 1990). She is a sole practitioner of
Building Arts Practice in Wellington, New Zealand and an Associate Professor
at The College of Creative Arts, Massey University, Wellington. Julieanna’s
teaching and creative work exemplify her commitment to design research
through making across several scales and medium including full-scale
constructions and installations coupled by collaborative and interdisciplinary
inquiry. Recent publications include INTIMUS: Interior Design Theory Reader
(2006), “Soft Stuff” in The Sensuous Intellect (McLeod, Pringle and Kaltenbach,
eds., 2006) and “Ro:oM, Spatial and Material Transmissions” in IDEA Journal
(Attiwill and Lee, eds, 2005). Julieanna is currently in the final stages of a
creative practice doctoral project entitled “inertia: interior, surface, matter” at
RMIT which has produced several performative installations, sculptures, visual
essays and critical reflection on construction, interior environments and ethic
feminist material practices..
Jane Rendell
Jane Rendell BA (Hons), Dip Arch, MSc, PhD is Professor of Architecture

and Art and Vice Dean of Research at the Bartlett, UCL. An architectural
designer and historian, art critic and writer, she is author of Site-Writing
(2010), Art and Architecture (2006), The Pursuit of Pleasure (2002) and co-editor
of Critical Architecture (2007) Spatial Imagination (2005), The Unknown City
(2001), Intersections (2000), Gender Space Architecture (1999) and Strangely
Familiar (1995). She is on the Editorial Board for ARQ (Architectural Research
Quarterly) and the Journal of Visual Culture in Britain, a member of the AHRC
Peer Review College and chair of the RIBA President’s Awards for Research.
In 2006 she was a research fellow at CRASSH (Centre for Research in Arts,
xviii feminist practices
Social Sciences and Humanities) at the University of Cambridge and received

an honorary degree from the University College of the Creative Arts. As a
writer, researcher and educator of artists, architects and historians, through
individual and collaborative research projects, her work over the past ten
years has explored various interdisciplinary intersections: feminist theory and
architectural history, fine art and architectural design, autobiographical writing
and criticism.
Kim Steele
Kim Steele received a Master of Architecture, a Master of Landscape Architecture

and a Bachelor of Arts in Mathematics from the University of Colorado as well
as a Master of Arts in Art History from the University of North Carolina. She is
an Associate Professor in the School of Architecture and Landscape Architecture
at Arizona State University. Working from the belief that design and design
research must breach traditional categories for it to be relevant today, Kim seeks
to transform narrow disciplinary boundaries in her own work as well as in her
role as an educator. She has worked on a variety of design/research projects
ranging from public art installations to master planning and site design for an
eco-resort in the Bahamas to participating in the development of the Center for
Sustainable Rural Living in Shorter, Alabama. Her current research and creative
work investigates market- and state-driven practices of silencing marginalized
populations, of disinvesting in the creation of meaningful public space, and
the methodical eradication of small farms and diversified food sources. Her
work on agricultural landscapes, “Home Grown,” grew out of an interest in
analysing the many excessive landscape practices extant today.
Despina Stratigakos
Professor Stratigakos received her PhD from Bryn Mawr College and taught at
Harvard University and the University of Michigan before joining the SUNY
Buffalo. She is an architectural historian with an overarching interest in gender
and modernity in European cities. Her book, A Women’s Berlin (2008), explores
the conception of a city built by and for women, a place that was imagined and
partially realized in the years before the First World War. She has also published
on the public image of women architects, the gender politics of the Werkbund,
connections between architectural and sexual discourses in Weimar Germany,
and exiled Jewish women architects in the United States. She recently curated
an exhibition on Architect Barbie and is currently writing a book on the work
of Gerdy Troost, Hitler’s trusted artistic advisor and one of the most powerful
architects of the Third Reich.
Meghan Walsh
Meghan holds a Master of Architecture from the University of Michigan and

a Bachelor of Fine Arts from the University of Massachusetts. She is a Senior
contributors xix
Architect at the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Rural Development, Rural

Housing Service. She is the Owner and President of MW Architecture, PC, a
private architectural practice, and the Founder and President of AxisMundi,
Inc. a non-profit design/build educational organization focusing on the use
of natural and recycled materials. AxisMundi emphasizes a multi-tiered
mentoring process, whereby youth are mentored by college students,
who are mentored by recent graduates, who are mentored by mid-career
professionals, who are mentored by their elders who have spent 20 years
or more in their areas of expertise. She has taught architectural design as an
adjunct faculty member at Howard University and Catholic University of
America and as a Resident Fellow in the Alice Lloyd Scholars Program at
the University of Michigan. Her built work includes many private residential
projects for clients who are conscious of using space efficiently and building
with environmentally sustainable materials and methods. She balances her
private work with a contingent of projects for non-profit organizations,
including schools, arts centres, transitional living programs and offices where
she maximizes creativity to compensate for tight budgets. In addition to her
work in the US, Meghan spends a lot of time working on a creative, urban,
design/build effort to improve infrastructure in Bahia, a small community
in Salvador, Brazil. She takes students from all over the world each year to
contribute and make a small but creatively crafted improvement.
Lois Weinthal
Lois Weinthal is Associate Professor and Graduate Advisor for the Master of
Interior Design Program in the School of Architecture at The University of
Texas at Austin. Her practice focuses on the relationship between architecture,
interiors, clothing and objects, resulting in works that take on an experimental
nature. She is editor of the interior design theory reader, Toward a New Interior:
An Anthology of Interior Design Theory (2011) and co-editor of After Taste:
Expanded Practice in Interior Design (2011) with Kent Kleinman and Joanna
Merwood-Salisbury, both published by Princeton Architectural Press. She
was Director of the Interior Design Program at Parsons The New School for
Design from 2007-2009. She has received grants from the Graham Foundation,
Fulbright, and DAAD for residency in Berlin that led to the exhibit, “Berlin: A
Renovation of Postcards” at the Friedrichstrasse train station in Berlin. In 2007,
she curated “Architecture Inside/Out” at the Center for Architecture in New
York City. Lectures include the Architectural League in New York City and
the Museum of the City of New York in addition to national and international
lectures. She received her Master of Architecture from Cranbrook Academy
of Art and Bachelor of Architecture from the Rhode Island School of Design.
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Preface
I would like to acknowledge and thank those who have made this project
possible. I should first give credit to Iris Marion Young’s 1990 book Throwing
Like a Girl and Other Essays in Feminist Philosophy and Social Theory which I was
reading at the time the idea came to me to even begin thinking of this project
in its exhibition format. Her essays exploring one’s body, one’s identity, and
the spatial relationships that are a part of who one is continues to be influential
in my own thinking and creative practice.
Before becoming a book, Feminist Practices was a travelling exhibition at
many schools of architecture in the United States and Australia. I thank all
of these schools for believing in the project and hosting the exhibit at their
various institutions.
I would also like to thank Marcia Feuerstein for her many suggestions and
supportive emails when I was seeking ideas for exhibition participants who
are now contributors to the book. I must also thank Ruthanne Dutton at Plan
and Print Systems in Syracuse. I can never thank her enough for all of the
material recommendations and countless hours she dedicated to printing the
exhibition. I thank the Women in Architecture Committee at the Rhode Island
School of Design, with special thanks to Amity Kurt, lead organizer of the
event, who helped create the first iteration of the feminist practices exhibition
for their “Where are we now?” international symposium in April 2008. That
event was the beginning of this project’s public life. I must also thank Wanda
Bubriski, Executive Director of the Beverly Willis Foundation, for her initial
suggestion to create an edited book from the feminist practices exhibit. How
long and far the project has evolved from then!
I would also like to express my gratitude to my dean at Syracuse University,
Mark Robbins, for his support through several faculty grants in helping make
all iterations of this project, both in exhibition and book form, possible. In
addition, I thank Susana Torre for her critical review of the book idea and
insights into making it a stronger project.
I must also thank all of the contributing authors in the exhibition and book.
I am honored you wanted to participate and thank you for your involvement
and commitment to all facets of the project.
xxii feminist practices
In deep gratitude do I recognize and thank Val Rose, the commissioning

editor for Feminist Practices. I am forever grateful for her belief and patience in
this project. This book would not have been possible without her.
I also must thank all of my students who continue to be both an inspiration
and impetus for change. In particular I must especially thank Katie Walsh
and Chi Lee. Two extremely thoughtful and tenacious young women whose
investment and energy in gender and diversity issues at Syracuse University
School of Architecture were synchronistic with my own. Their drive and
commitment is influential to my continuous efforts in this area. I would also
like to thank Vera Tong who was instrumental in creating the digital format
of the travelling exhibit.
I must thank my family and feminist community both in Syracuse and
elsewhere with special heartfelt thanks to my father Joseph Brown and my
brother Michael Brown, Ann Husaini, Rose Liebman, Susan D’Amato, Kelin
Perry, Alison Mountz, Jennifer Hyndman, Samantha Herrick, Craig Watters,
Jeannine DeLombard, and Trish Lowney. Your support and intellectual
engagement continue to keep me on my toes and push me to become a better
academic, feminist, and person.
Lastly, I am forever indebted to Martin – my partner in life, husband, and
creative consultant par excellence! Without your support both emotionally
and intellectually, none of this would have ever been possible. I look forward
to many more such projects with you by my side.
1
Introduction
Lori A. Brown
First conceived as a traveling exhibition and series of public talks, Feminist

Practices: Interdisciplinary Approaches to Women in Architecture focuses on
various forms of architectural investigations employing a range of feminist
methods of design research and practice by women designers, architects and
architectural historians. The primary goal of the project is to raise awareness
for those both within and outside the profession about ways feminist
methodologies impact design and our relationship to the built environment.
The genesis of this project was years in the making, stemming from my
observations as both a practitioner and an academic. While practicing in New
York after graduate school, it became very clear in the larger firms where I first
worked that there were far fewer women and minorities in positions of power,
if any at all. Yes, there may have been some but not in a similar proportion
as I had encountered in graduate school. As I began to teach ten years ago, I
became disturbed by the observation that the ratio of female to male students
in the undergraduate program was basically 50 percent in the first year but
by the fifth year there were 17 percent less female students remaining. For
minority students, the statistics are far worse. African American and Latino
students currently comprise at best 6 percent to 11 percent respectively of the
student body.1 What was and is happening? As Leslie Kanes Weisman has
written in her article “Diversity by Design: Feminist Reflections on the Future
of Architectural Education and Practice:”
How can an architectural education that continues to define professional

expertise in relation to the history of white, heterosexual, Euro-American
male consciousness prepare students to function as effective professionals
in pluralistic communities? How will students be sensitized to “difference”
when they are encouraged to suppress their own gender, race, and class
identities in the process of becoming “professional”?2
It was unclear to me what was causing the attrition of our female and minority
students. Clearly the students may be experiencing something similar in
2 feminist practices
school as I was experiencing both in the profession and academia: architecture

was not diverse enough nor was the demographic changing quickly enough
and offering a much needed support or mentoring network.
Academia became a parallel experience to my prior professional life. One
particular set of experiences has stayed with me and directly impacts how
I began to frame the feminist practices project. During the beginning of my
third year teaching at Syracuse University’s School of Architecture, an on-
going conversation developed with two female second-year undergraduate
design students in my studio while independently I was struggling with
similar experiences of the gender disparities they had begun to notice. One
young woman had started a women’s issues column in our then student-
produced newsletter Trace and an excerpt from one of her articles summarizes
some of the student’s concerns which I also shared:
The proportion of female faculty is … an issue. Only 9 of the 34 SOA faculty

are women.. A third year student recently observed that she has never had
a female studio professor, and probably never will. Currently, the second
and first year studios have a 50/50 gender representation of faculty, but
after that it’s hard to find female undergraduate studio professors. Though
faculty do rotate teaching assignments annually, one would hope there
could be more evenly distributed representation of gender throughout
all of the five years of [our] architectural education. Additional female
faculty would provide positive role models to women and help foster
an environment of support and inclusion leading to greater retention of
women not only in school but also once they enter the professional realm.
Her article also cited recent numbers from the National Center of Educational
Statistics further illustrating the lack of women in architectural academic
institutions: only 20.56 percent of all faculty members in accredited
architectural schools were women and only 15.89 percent of these were
tenured. Even as this book is being finished, Woodbury University’s School
of Architecture recently posted an open call for an exhibition titled “13.3%”
in response to Suzanne Stephens’ 2006 Architectural Record article “Not Only
Zaha: What is it like to be a female architect with a solely owned firm in the
U.S. today?” where she cites only 13.3% of members in the American Institute
of Architects, a national organization for architects, are women. The exhibition
website states “13.3% is an exasperated reply to those who say: ‘there are no
women making architecture.’”
During that Fall 2003 semester, these same two students in my studio
began Women In Design (WID), an organization for students in all design
disciplines at Syracuse University. At their request I became their faculty
advisor. Female and male students became active members in WID and the
organization was comprised from a diverse range of disciplines including
visual and performing arts, fashion, industrial and interior design, as well as
architecture. One of WID’s primary interests focused on establishing a voice
for issues surrounding women in the design professions and creating a public
forum for such issues to be debated and discussed. In addition, WID students
introduction 3
hosted a series of regularly scheduled public events including brown bag

lectures with emerging women in various design disciplines, an after school
design mentor program at a local elementary school with exhibitions of their
students’ work culminating the end of every semester, and an exhibition
showcasing a wide range of student design work hosted in the School of
Architecture’s public atrium.
Over the course of the next several years, I researched various other
events and publications addressing the influences between women and
design. I would like to highlight two particular events directly impacting the
organizational ideas for the Feminist Practices exhibit and what would later
become this book. These two events became pivotal in helping to position
Feminist Practices in conjunction with earlier influences of feminist theory in
architecture and design discourse.
The first project was both an exhibit and book titled Women in American
Architecture: A Historic and Contemporary Perspective edited by Susana Torre.
Originally begun in 1973 and published in 1977, this project catalogued and
created public exposure for women designers and architects in the United
States. The book’s foreword by Marita O’Hare states the importance of this
book is that it writes history as “… one [not] dominated by key figures who
epitomize the architecture of a time and place … [but one where] … a picture
of the diversity in architectural practice and concern that characterize the
energy and innovation of American architecture [emerge].”3 Explicit in the
framing of this history, the project connects social and historical trends in
order to foreground women’s careers, unlike their male counterparts careers
“…have always been linked to the opportunities and expectations of women
in the larger society.”4 These constrictions are ever changing rather than
“absolute cultural models.”5
Torre’s fearless discussion about pressures on female designers and
the circumstances around their educational and support networks that
previously went publicly unspoken and unacknowledged is critical to the re-
writing of architectural history. This new history is not one obsessed with
the star architect system but one more accurately and realistically including
women, their design work, and the influence their work has had on the larger
architectural profession and built environment.
Building upon Torre’s project, the second event informing the Feminist
Practices project was the 1984 exhibition and catalog by the Boston Society
of Architects Women in Architecture Committee. In conjunction with the
centennial of the first woman elected to the American Institute of Architects
27 years after the AIA’s founding in 1857 and “…in response to a growing
concern that the professional visibility of women architects was not increasing
in proportion to their numbers,” the BSA Women in Architecture created an
exhibit showcasing the work of women practicing in New England.6
In her catalog essay for the show, Judith Wolin, a former Head of
Architecture at the Rhode Island School of Design, opined that the exhibit
showcased the architectural competency of the women architects and their
…vernacular building practice, attentive to its context of historical

buildings, and compliant with the conservative taste of an affluent New
England clientele … [y]et the price of respectability (and survival) can also
be glimpsed in the show, through the small number of projects that venture
outside the constraints imposed by the pressures of the private home,
condominium, and office park market. One senses an undercurrent of stifled
inventiveness behind the presentation of professional accomplishment.7
Wolin’s critique urged me to question what exactly is the ‘professionalism’

of the discipline in the 21st century and to push beyond this, questioning
what is architecture’s role or more importantly what could architecture’s role
be? What influences have feminism brought to the discipline and what are
possibilities for its future? Currently, architects are only involved in 2 to 5
percent of all construction.8 What role does architecture really provide for the
general public when 85 percent of the global household wealth is owned by 10
percent of the adults in the world?9 What do architects contribute to this other
90 percent? And how is academia preparing students to work within these
parameters and for this demographic?
Constructing the Feminist Practices Framework
When considering the Feminist Practices exhibit and later book, I was interested
in how one can more broadly define architecture and what relationships
can be made between feminist methodologies and their various approaches
toward design. How might feminist approaches impact our understanding
and relationship to the built environment? If feminism, as feminist activist bell
hooks posits, “…is defined in such a way call[ing] attention to the diversity
of women’s social and political reality, … compelled to examine systems of
domination and our role in their maintenance and perpetuation…”,10 we as
designers begin from a place questioning normative design relations and their
expected outcomes.
Designing through feminist critiques questions whose voice the designer
ultimately represents, whose vision is being created, and what the products
produced need to be. In other words, if the “star” architect, who as students
we were all taught to emulate, is no longer the working model, then what
sorts of models should replace it? What kind of engagement with the project,
the client, or community partner is possible and how might this relationship
inform the design process and eventual outcome? How does architecture
benefit from these types of relationships? What are other possible ways the
architect can design with and through civic engagement? What are broader
spatial implications of this type of approach?
The book’s contributors present possible models both implicitly and
explicitly. The contributors work towards making visible the invisible
power dynamics at play. The included projects and essays help to re-
conceptualize power and create different value systems11 for design. For
introduction 5
example, several contributors are designing opportunities for community

economic partnerships to reinvigorate stagnant neighborhoods’ economies
and designing spaces for diverse communities to come together and engage
with one another, while others promote awareness at the scale of the body.
Feminist does not necessitate the project to be female focused; nor be gender
specific. As Gillian Rose, a feminist geographer, quotes Teresa de Lauretis:
[t]he subject of feminism is thus constituted ‘not by sexual difference alone,

but rather across languages and cultural representations; a subject en-
gendered in the experiencing of race and class, as well as sexual, relations;
a subject, therefore, not unified but rather multiple, and not so much
divided as contradicted’.12
She further writes:
…[t]here is a sense that there are other possibilities beyond the discursive
status quo. There is a notion of things that are not representable in
masculinist discourse, but which women themselves may sense if not
articulate. Feminist critique depends on a desire for something else13
[…] and [t]he subject of feminism insists that spaces are extraordinarily
complex … Its multidimensionality refers to complicated and never self-
evident matrix of historical, social, sexual, racial and class positions which
women occupy, and its geometry is one strung out between paradoxical
sites. These feminist maps are multiple and intersecting, provisional and
shifting, and they require ‘ever more intricate skills in cartography’.14
As Rose clearly articulates, feminist methodologies are nuanced and

multivalent. They approach problems from varied points of view, can seem
unstable and unclear. Yet, feminist approaches are latent with the possibility
of discovering far more than one assumes or anticipates.
Practice
What do I mean by practice? As defined by the Oxford English Dictionary,
practice is “the actual application or use of an idea, belief, or method, as
opposed to the theory or principles of it; activity or action considered as
being the realization of or in contrast to theory.” If one considers action and
activity more specifically, this type of practice broadens the applications and
engagements of architecture in our contemporary world. Therefore practice
as referred to in this project requires an investigation of an idea, belief, or
method and an application of this investigation. Roberta Feldman expands
upon this idea describing a practice as activist as one where “architects
leav[e] the office, engaging a community, and seeking a need for design in
that community, rather than passively waiting for clients to come to them.”15
Whether this is through installation, text, drawings, or built form, feminism is
pursued in various ways and at different scales throughout each contributor’s
work.
Interdisciplinarity
I believe this aspect is of utmost importance in our world today. If architects
are to remain vital to the built environment and especially to the 90 percent
mentioned earlier, we must cross disciplinary boundaries in order to broaden
architecture’s role politically, socially, and materially. As Mark Linder states
in his essay “TRANSdisciplinarity”:
[t]he appeal of interdisciplinarity is no doubt in part a reaction against the

seemingly conservative, even repressive implications of discipline: it is
associated with punishment, control, oppression, and pain, or inflexible
rules, hierarchies, and methodologies. Discipline is also related to an even
more pejorative word: disciple, a person who is a follower, a sycophant,
a convert, a zealot. Advocates of interdisciplinarity tend to believe that it
is the very nature of discipline to isolate itself and to produce disciples.
Thus it’s not even much of a stretch to consider that the appeal of and to
interdisciplinarity lies in its potential to serve as a euphemism for academic
or artistic freedom.16
Interdisciplinary work demonstrates how negotiations between disciplines

produce reconfigured modes of practice.17 Ultimately, this is one of the
primary goals of Feminist Practices; to think outside and beyond the practice
of architecture in order to broaden and expand architecture’s role and
engagement within our everyday world for everyday people.
Participants
Feminist Practices presents investigations using feminist methods of design
research and practice by women. Much internal debate and consideration
was given as to whether or not to include men in this project. Clearly there
would be benefits in doing so. It is important to be as inclusive as possible
for that is one argument that feminism makes. However, there were many
more reasons why I believed men should not be included. For one, as I think
back on my own experiences as a student, to experiences of my own students
where women’s design practices are not equally shown or discussed in their
various classes, to the inability to answer why there are still too few examples
of female architects studied in architectural history and theory courses, more
needs to be done to alter this gender disparity and to increase female and
minority representation in the discipline. Although there are many schools of
first year architecture classes with more than 50 percent female enrollment,
women are still not equally represented within academia or in any facet of
the discipline after graduation. In order to provide a forum for women to
showcase the myriad ways practice is being pursued today, I ultimately
decided to include only women designers.
Another goal of the book is to raise awareness to the diverse ways feminist
practice impacts the world around us and expands the ways we see and
understand spatial and built relationships. The curatorial and organizational
focus concentrates on including differing scales of projects and varying
capacities in which feminist approaches are employed. Including scales of the
introduction 7
global, the national, the infrastructural, the domestic and the body, the book’s
structure builds upon these general themes and is organized around four
broader categories: design, pedagogy, design research, and communities.
Divided into these four larger sections, the book’s format offers a reading into
the differing scales of projects discussed, the critical issues within each, and
the various feminist approaches each designer pursues within her work.
Feminist Practices in Design

Employing drawing, modeling, and installation methods, this group of
designers explores specific relationships between the body and its engagement
with its immediate context often at full scale. As Elizabeth Grosz’s work has
explored “the ways in which the body is psychically, socially, sexually, and
discursively or representationally produced, and the ways, in turn, bodies
re-inscribe and project themselves onto their socio-cultural environment so
that this environment both produces and reflects the form and interests of
the body”,18 each project challenges a range of gendered spatial assumptions
asking the viewer to substitute her own body for the represented body. In
doing so either literally or metaphorically, the viewer’s bodily experience
is called into question. Who is responsible for the health of a space of its
inhabitants? What are the physical limitations of the female body? How
is privacy understood within the domestic sphere and how is this idea
materially reinforced? How can the furniture with which we occupy space be
reconsidered and redesigned so as to neutralize any gendered associations?
What role does representation have in constructing identity and meaning?
Destabilizing the familiar, each of these projects confronts the viewer with her
own gendered assumptions about the body.
“Breathing Spaces” by Cynthia Hammond focuses on what is often
considered an ephemeral aspect of a building, the ventilation system, and
creates a series of sound installations, challenging one’s understanding of
how air flows in and out of a building. As architectural historian Anne Marie
Adams has discussed, women have long been associated with the health of
interior domestic spaces. It was common belief that the “healthy house … was
an equally important expression of women’s participation in the public urban
realm”19 and was even suggested to be “an expression of female power.”20
Considering the Victorian relationship between women and the health of the
home, Cynthia challenges this idealized association by bringing this idea out
into the public realm and engaging the ventilation system of the Toronto Stock
Exchange. This series of installations focuses upon an aspect not typically
materially or visually significant to one’s encounter with a building and yet
critical to its “health” and all who come in contact with it. “Breathing Spaces”
highlights this invisible system making it become visible and aurally present.
In both Julieanna Preston’s “Blaze” and Kyna Leski’s “Dream House” each
designer uses drawing as an exploratory means for discovery. Employing
different techniques of drawing, from geometrically pursued forms to collage,
these different drawing methods provide a range of opportunities for spatial
exploration. Geometric-based inquiries create formal relationships where the

use of collage and the juxtapositioning of different materials, image scales,
photographs and text allow a viewer to interpret these drawings anew every
time they are viewed. Both techniques literally inscribe the maker’s and the
viewer’s body and her body’s affect into the space of the drawing.
Julieanna’s non-hierarchical employment of text, image, and sketching
create opportunities for the viewer to enter into her project from multiple
places and scales. Collaging these various components, this project challenges
the way one reads and understands a site and the body’s relationship to this
site. Part autobiography, part representation, part speculation, “Blaze” creates
a series of environments the reader must traverse as she moves from collage
to collage.
The speculative domestic realm Kyna pursues through her drawing and
modeling explorations are deeply indebted to her memories and imagination
of her childhood home, its materiality and the effects of light, shade, and
shadow as she once experienced. Ideas of privacy historically associated with
the domestic realm and more specifically with the space for women and their
children is no longer recognizable, having been dramatically transformed and
re-constituted into the primary elements of her newly articulated “Dream
House.” Through her representations of this new house, we no longer
understand public and private, shade and shadow in the same way again.
Lois Weinthal’s “Interior-scapes” employs perspectival and orthographic
drawing investigations from the 18th-century furniture maker Gillows &
Company to reconsider the ubiquitous wing chair. Borrowing inherently
gendered disciplinary representational conventions from architecture,
interior design, and apparel construction, the architectural interior space and
the space the chair inhabits are inverted and used to question the relationship
between the two. Creating an object all together different and yet recognizable,
her methodology questions gender’s impact on the use of such an object, who
makes the object and how it is made, and what roles materials have in the
coding of furniture.
Lilian Chee’s “Model Creatures” challenges the idea of the architectural
model and the aura around its perfect form through a series of clever model
billiard tables. Acknowledging the historical significance models have had in
the practice of architecture, her project’s material choices subvert the model
itself, producing a different reading of the model as something “other” – be
it imperfect, grotesque, and not particularly respectful of the more normative
conventions of architectural model making. Her series is both a witty and
thoughtful critique of an architectural device most architects take for granted,
provoking the viewer to see the model in a new and different ways.
Feminist Practices in Pedagogy

These three projects engage design-build paradigms to pursue pedagogic
investigations. Design build refers to a type of class requiring students to both
design a project and then to build the project at full scale all within the time
introduction 9
frame of a typical semester. For example, this type of class may spend one third
of the semester designing and two thirds of the semester building the design.
In each project included in this book’s section, the pedagogical structure
was envisioned to challenge normative teacher-student relationships, the
classroom’s hierarchical structure, and the professor’s role in the class.21 In
the normative model, the teacher is understood as the knowledge provider
standing or sitting at the front of the classroom and the student as the
knowledge receiver sitting in a group in front of the teacher. Encouraging
the students to have far more ownership, autonomy, and possession of the
class process and design results, the working relationship in these included
projects was one of collaboration and reciprocity. As hooks states, teaching
is performative and through this action, “…it is meant to serve as a catalyst
that calls everyone to become more engaged, to become active participants in
learning.”22
Each professor’s strategy establishes both an intellectual focus and design
parameters for the various investigations demanding direct engagement and
ownership by the students. Overall, the students’ participation and influence
is vital for the final designed results and the design’s completed construction.
Ronit Eisenbach’s “Placing Space” is a collaboratively taught class with two
choreographers that developed feminist pedagogical approaches of dialogue,
experimentation, play, and performance to test the boundaries between
architecture, choreography, and the literal space they occupy. Inherent
within the course’s design was the questioning of the relationship between
the body, these two disciplines, and how to design movement and the space
for this movement interdependently. Requiring the students to reconsider the
process of design and the body’s direct engagement and influence on this
process, design became the result of how one moves through space and what
one encounters through this movement.
Investigating every day and overlooked spaces, Margarita McGraw
challenges her students to find potential in what is typically overlooked. She
wants her students to come to recognize the responsibility we all have for
the spaces we share. Working at smaller and more incremental scales, “Ghost
Fishing” engages mapping techniques, cultural memory, myth, and public
space, capturing intangible aspects of a site and allowing these to inform
and be revealed through the process of design. This series of site-specific
installations and performances in Taipei, Taiwan intersects with UNESCO’s
adoption of “intangible heritage sites,” sites whose value is no longer clearly
perceivable but once was historically significant to the site’s cultural and
political identity.
Meghan Walsh’s Axismundi Brazil Studio is an on-going collaboration
between architecture students and the outlying community of Plataforma,
Brazil. Designing and building a series of small-scale infrastructural projects
like drainage systems, public stairs, ramps, and handrails, the studio works
toward slowly improving this impoverished rural area. Through this year-to-
year long-term commitment, these incremental improvements in conjunction
with community feedback and collaboration are having a profound effect

upon the village and the residents’ quality of life.
Feminist practices in Design Research

This group of projects investigates the spatial implications of various social,
economic, and political systems. Rose’s description of feminism as a relational
and constantly shifting state always in flux is clearly exemplified through
the research being presented in this section. Feminist methodologies and
approaches influence these projects in widely different ways, providing a
voice for women and under-represented constituencies when historical,
cultural, and legislative endeavors deny or severely impede these groups to
be heard or seen.
Engaging a feminist critique of space, social, and political theory, Özlem
Erdogdu Erkarslan’s “From Detached House to Apartment” researches the
impact gender roles have had on the evolution and development of housing
blocks in Izmir, Turkey. Her research traces the transformation of Turkish
housing from one of the traditional dwelling where women were secluded
from the public to one of the modern post-war detached house where women
were freely visible and considered integral to the health of the family and the
state. She re-writes this period of Turkish history giving primacy to women’s
ways of occupying and constructing domesticity.
Meghal Ayra’s research and documentation on courtyards within
traditional Indian domestic spaces traces the climatic, societal, economic, and
political influences on courtyard structures, their size and location within
the Indian house. Although these aspects have evolved and vary by region,
the essence of the courtyard has remained relatively unchanged over many
millennia. The evolution of the courtyard reflects the changing relationship
between the public and private realm and the gradual transformation these
spaces have had within Indian familial, cultural and spatial practices.
Lori Brown’s “Politicizing the Female Body” explores the issues of the first
amendment and public space through examining the space of abortion clinics.
Employing drawing and mapping methodologies, the project illustrates how
highly restrictive state legislation makes abortion access next to impossible
for many lower income women in states with few abortion providers. Because
different states independently control and govern degrees of access, legislation
creates both landscapes of access and denial. The manipulation of political
and spatial relationships directly impacts a woman’s mobility and access to
the spaces of abortion. The project provides an opportunity for architecture to
engage a much larger and contested spatial terrain.
Kim Steele’s research investigates the complex relationships between
industrial agriculture and environmental and social justice issues. The
environment has long been a concern of feminism as seen by the eco-feminist
movement. This has become an even greater issue as the United States
continues to stall and thwart a real energy and pollution policy as greenhouse
gases continue to rise. Using drawing and mapping techniques to both
introduction 11
illustrate and explore these issues, the project uses a series of case studies to
critique and present the vast networks of contamination caused by industrial
agriculture.
Feminist Practices in Communities

These projects engage and are dependant upon the communities they are
designing with. Working with under represented constituencies from each
project’s inception, each designer positions herself as a collaborator with
her community partner. Subverting the typical power relationship between
architect and client where the architect would usually assume a dynamic
of “power over” the client, all three projects deliberately work to deny this
power relationship and instead work “power for” the client.23 Analogous to
participatory research within the social sciences where direct engagement
with a community is integral to the focus of the project, the sociologist
Heidi Gottfried argues that “[p]articipatory research exemplifies one of the
most radical and activist elements of feminist methodology by enlisting a
community’s participation and collaboration in social change projects.”24
Cleverly bringing feminist methodologies into their design practices, each
project works to challenge power structures and create alternative models for
practicing as designers today.
Janet McGaw’s “Urban Threads” installation project would not have
happened without the consent and collaboration of several homeless women
in Melbourne, Australia. Asking what does it mean for a woman to mark out
a private territory in public space, these architectural installations created a
series of “rooms” for both the women and the city and a “passage” connecting
them. Providing a place for both a literal and political voice, the project
enables these women to claim public space beyond ways they typically would
through a series of installations that they themselves construct. In addition,
the project demonstrates the incremental affect design research can have in
helping shape urban space.
Liza Fior and Katherine Clarke of muf worked with communities in Barking
East London to re-conceptualize what the civic space in their local town square
could become. muf initiated a series of workshops with the residents to better
understand the communities hopes and fears for the public space. Playfully
creating a series of staged events, muf directly translated the residents’
desires through the creation of a series of construction fences with collaged
images created from community involvement. Explicit in the construction of
designer and client relationship, muf articulates that “consultation can also be
an exchange … Project by project we designed contemporary accommodation
for voices and knowledge, which … were big enough for difference.”25
Meta Brunzema’s Park Avenue Market Mile project encompasses far
more than just the formal aspects of a reconceived public urban market. The
project’s framework also includes designing strategies and procedures for
how local small businesses can be created and sustained for the market mile
project in East Harlem, New York. Design in this project impacts all facets of
the project from initial discussions with the developer, the physical image and
branding of the project, to the tax implications and responsibilities of running
a small cottage industry business. Not only does the project depend upon the
re-use of materials found on and around the site but also will reclaim and re-
invest in a neglected lower economic area of Park Avenue and the historic La
Marqueta marketplace.
Francesca Hughes’ wrote in The Architect Reconstructing Her Practice,
[t]he absence of women from the profession of architecture remains,

despite the various theories, very difficult to explain and very slow to
change. It demarcates a failure the profession has become adept at turning
a blind eye to … [J]ust as the absence of either sex from a large constituency
must indicate some internal crisis in which gender plays a crucial role, the
absence of women from the profession points to a profound gender-related
crisis at the base of architecture.26
Although some inroads have been made, there continues to be a stark

disparity between female and minority students’ academic and professional
experience. To advance our profession it is critically important for all students
and practitioners to be exposed to a diversity of contemporary architectural
practices. Although exposure is not sufficient for change, it is a necessary first
step to transform architectural practice and engagement.
Feminist Practices: Interdisciplinary Approaches to Women in Architecture
hopes to expand one’s ideas about what architectural practice and pedagogy
can be and do. Dividing the projects into four general categories provides
an overall structure for the reader to peruse at her free will. The categories
are both specific and yet general enough to create a less hierarchical reading
experience. The book is not expected or designed to be read in any particular
or sequential order but to be entered into at any point, skipping ahead to what
interests the reader, thus creating a book choreographed by the reader’s own
interests.
References
13.3% exhibition call. Woodbury University Hollywood Exhibitions [Online].

Available at: http://wuho.org/13point3 [accessed October 2010].
Anne Marie Adams 1996. Architecture in the Family Way Doctors, Houses, and Women,
1870-1900. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press.
Ainley, Rose 2001. Circuitous progress in This is What We Do: a muf manual, edited by
R. Ainley. London: Ellipsis, 224-226.
Bell, Bryan 2008. Expanding Design Toward Greater Relevance, in Expanding
Architecture Design as Activism, edited by Bryan Bell and Katie Wakeford. New
York: Metropolis Books, 14-17.
Boston Society of Architects Women in Architecture. 1988. Women in Architecture A
Centennial Exhibit. Boston: Boston Society of Architects.
introduction 13
Dovey, Kim 1999. Framing Places Mediating Power in Build Form. London: Routledge.
Feminist Pedagogy Working Group. 2002. Defining Feminism, in Feminist Geography
in Practice Research and Methods, edited by P. Moss. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers.,
21-24.
Findley, Lisa 2005. Building Change Architecture, Politics and Cultural Agency. London:
Routledge.
Fisher, Thomas 2008. Public-Interest Architecture: A Needed and Inevitable Change,
in Expanding Architecture Design as Activism, edited by Bryan Bell and Katie
Wakeford. New York: Metropolis Books, 8-13.
Gottfried, Heidi 1996. Introduction Engaging Women’s Communities: Dilemmas and
Contradictions in Feminist Research, in Feminism and Social Change Bridging Theory
and Practice. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1-20.
Grosz, Elizabeth 1992. Bodies-Cities, in Sexuality and Space, edited by Beatriz
Colomina. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 241-252.
hooks, bell 1984. Feminist Theory from Margin to Center. New York: Routledge.
hooks, bell 1994. Teaching to Transgress Education as the Practice of Freedom. New York:
Routledge.
Hughes, Francesca 1996. An Introduction in The Architect: Reconstructing Her Practice,
edited by Francesca Hughes. Cambridge: The MIT Press, x-xix.
Linder, Mark 2005. TRANSdisciplinarity. Hunch #9, 12-15.
Linder, Mark 2006. Conference Introduction. TRANSdisciplinary Applications
Symposium, Syracuse, NY, April 12, 2006.
Moss, Pamela 2002. Taking on, thinking about, and doing feminist research in
geography, in Feminist Geography in Practice Research and Methods, edited by P.
Moss. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Ltd., 1-20.
MUF. 2001. The lived and the built, in This Is What we Do: A muf manual, ed. Rosa
Ainley. London: Ellipsis, 8-12.
Naudé, Wim and James C. MacGee 2008. Wealth Distribution, the Financial Crisis
and Entrepreneurship. [Online: United Nations University World Institute for
Development Economics Research UNU-Wider]. Available at: http://www.
wider.unu.edu/publications/newsletter/articles/en_GB/10-03-2008-feature-article/
[accessed July 14, 2010].
O’Hare, Marita 1977. Foreword, in Women in American Architecture: A Historic and
Contemporary Perspective, edited by Susana Torre. New York: Whitney Library of
Design, 6-7.
Oxford English Dictionary, accessed June 2007, http://www.oed.com.libezproxy2.syr.
edu/view/Entry/149226?rskey=YGckY6&result=1#.
Rose, Gillian 1993. Feminism and Geography: The Limits of Geographical Knowledge.
Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Stephens, Suzanne 2006. Not only Zaha: What is it like to be a female architect
with a solely owned firm in the U.S. today? Architectural Record [Online],
194(12). Available at: http://archrecord.construction.com/practice/archives/
articles/0612zaha-1.asp [accessed: November 2010].
Torre, Susana 1977. Introduction: a parallel history, in Women in American Architecture:
A Historic and Contemporary Perspective, edited by Susana Torre. New York:

Whitney Library of Design, 10-13.
Weisman, Leslie Kanes 1996. Diversity by Design: Feminist Reflections on the Future
of Architectural Education and Practice, in Sex of Architecture, edited by D. Agrest,
P. Conway, and L.K. Weisman. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 273-286.
Wolin, Judith 1988. A personal view, in Women in Architecture: A Centennial Exhibit,
edited by Boston Society of Architects Women in Architecture. Boston: Boston
Society of Architects, 4-5.
Notes
1 I would like to thank Vittoria Didio, Undergraduate Recruitment Specialist,

for these statistics. Unfortunately, the school does not have enough retention
data for either African American or Latino students as of yet. Although these
minority representations have increased 400 percent for African American
students and 14 percent for Latino students since 2006, there are still far too few
students of color.
2 Leslie Kanes Weisman, “Diversity by Design: Feminist Reflections on the Future
of Architectural Education and Practice,” in Sex of Architecture, edited by Diana
Agrest, Patricia Conway, and Leslie Kanes Weisman (New York: Harry N.
Abrams, 1996), 279.
3 Marita O’Hare, “Foreword,” in Women in American Architecture: A Historic and
Contemporary Perspective, ed. Susana Torre (New York: Whitney Library of
Design), 6.
4 O’Hare (1977), 6.
5 Susana Torre, “Introduction: a parallel history,” in Women in American
Architecture: A Historic and Contemporary Perspective, edited by Susana Torre
(New York: Whitney Library of Design), 12.
6 Women in Architecture A Centennial Exhibit (Boston: Boston Society of Architects,
1988), 2.
7 Judith Wolin, “A Personal View,” in Women in Architecture A Centennial Exhibit
(Boston: Boston Society of Architects, 1988), 5.
8 Thomas Fisher, “Public-Interest Architecture: A Needed and Inevitable
Change,” in Expanding Architecture Design as Activism, edited by Bryan Bell and
Katie Wakeford, (New York: Metropolis Books, 2008), 9.
9 Wim Naudé and James C. MacGee, “Wealth Distribution, the Financial
Crisis and Entrepreneurship.” United Nations University World Institute for
Development Economics Research UNU-Wider. http://www.wider.unu.edu/
publications/newsletter/articles/en_GB/10-03-2008-feature-article/ (accessed July
14, 2010).
10 bell hooks, Feminist Theory from margin to center (Boston: South End Press, 1984),
25-26.
11 hooks (1984), 85, 88.
12 Gillian Rose, Feminism and Geography The Limits of Geographical Knowledge
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), 138.
introduction 15
13 Rose (1993), 138.

14 Rose (1993), 155.
15 Bryan Bell, “Expanding Design Toward Greater Relevance,” in Expanding
Architecture Design as Activism, edited by Bryan Bell and Katie Wakeford (New
York: Metropolis Books, 2008), 15.
16 Mark Linder, “TRANSdisciplinarity” Hunch #9, 12-15.
17 Mark Linder, “Conference Introduction” (TRANSdisciplinary applications
symposium, Syracuse University School of Architecture, Spring 2006).
18 Elizabeth Grosz, “Bodies-Cities,” in Sexuality and Space, edited by Beatriz
Colomina (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1992), 242.
19 Anne Marie Adams, Architecture in the Family Way Doctors, Houses, and Women,
1870-1900 (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1996), 80.
20 Adams (1996), 95.
21 See bell hooks, Teaching to Transgress Education as the Practice of Freedom (New
York: Routledge, 1994).
22 hooks (1994), 11.
23 See Kim Dovey, Framing Places Mediating Power in Build Form (London:
Routledge, 1999), Chapter 1.
24 Heidi Gottfried, “Introduction Engaging Women’s Communities: Dilemmas and
Contradictions in Feminist Research,” in Feminism and Social Change: Bridging
Theory and Practice, ed. Heidi Gottfried (Champaign: University of Illinois Press,
1996), 10.
25 MUF, “The lived and the built,” in This Is What we Do a muf manual, ed. Rosa
Ainley (London: Ellipsis, 2001), 12.
26 Francesca Hughes, “An Introduction,” in The Architect Reconstructing Her Practice,
ed. Francesca Hughes (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1996), x-xi.
2
Critical Spatial Practices: Setting Out a Feminist Approach

to some Modes and what Matters in Architecture1
Jane Rendell
Setting Out
This chapter sets out some modes and matters, which are a current feature of
the work of a wide range of practitioners and theorists from various disciplines,
interested in feminism and architecture. It is an attempt to describe – here and
now – the quality of these interdisciplinary encounters between architecture
and feminism. The ‘here’ is defined by the place of writing – my own position
as an intellectual who travels but is located within the academy in London, UK,
and the ‘now’ by the time of writing – the end of the first decade of the twenty-
first century. My setting out notes some characteristic modes of working for
feminists engaging with architecture, and in so doing also draws attention to
specific matters of concern. It is not intended to be an overview survey or a
detailed analysis: but rather to put in place some markers, which highlight
several particular thematics and their relation to one another. This setting out
has therefore a certain precision, but also selectivity: it describes work that I
have encountered directly, right here, right now, and which I consider to offer
a critical feminist alternative to conventional architectural practice.
Before starting to set things out in the here and now, I’d like to take a
step back to the there and then, to 1999, to a collection of essays, which I
co-edited with Iain Borden and Barbara Penner. This book, Gender, Space,
Architecture, aimed to provide a detailed map of the shifts in the debate
around feminism and architecture over a 40-year period, from the 1970s,
when (arguably) feminist debate in architecture first emerged, to the 1990s,
when discussions concerning the relationship between gender and space
gained theoretical strength in the academy.2 At that time there were a number
of collections on gender, feminism and architecture, all of them fascinating,
but none of them providing an overview of the subject area. Gender, Space,
Architecture attempted to address that gap and provide an interdisciplinary
approach which located architecture’s relation with feminism (and vice versa
of course) in a broader territory which explicitly acknowledged the ways in

which anthropology, art history, cultural studies, film theory, geography,
philosophy and psychoanalysis had provided useful tools and models for
critiquing architectural culture – design, theory and history.
While the other edited collections of the time had in common a
multifaceted nature, composed of specially commissioned essays,3 Gender,
Space, Architecture comprised a collection of existing seminal texts organized
both chronologically and thematically and structured into three parts.
‘Section 1: Gender’ introduced key debates in the development of feminism,
women’s studies and gender theory over the past century. ‘Section 2: Gender,
Space’ covered different ways of thinking about the terms themselves from
alternative academic positions, such as anthropology, cultural studies,
geography, philosophy and psychoanalysis and the different ways that
gendered representations had been produced and received in different
cultural and social practices – including writing, painting and dwelling.
‘Section 3: Gender, Space, Architecture’ consisted of chapters largely drawn
from inside the discipline of architecture which dealt with considerations of
different forms of architectural practice – design, history and theory. While
Sections 1 and 3 offered two historical perspectives on how feminist thinking
had changed over time, outside architecture, in the former, and then inside
architecture, in the latter, Section 2 had a spatial rather than historical quality
to its epistemological framework, and attempted to map the variations in
debate across the disciplines across space rather than through time.
Gender, Space, Architecture looked at the series of changes architecture’s
engagement with gender difference had undergone, from the earlier more
overtly politicized discourse of feminism(s), where some, taking a liberal
position, argued for equal representation in architecture, and others, taking a
more radical approach, called for the overturning of the patriarchal profession
of architecture and its replacement in the 1990s by a new form of feminist
practice. Through the course of the 1990s feminist research in architecture
itself shifted understandings of the role of theory in architecture, from an early
position where theory tended to be generated from inside architecture and
operate as a form of ‘how-to-do-it’ or design prescription, to a later position
in which the theoretical tools came from outside architecture, from critical
theory, and offered possibilities for the critique of design methodologies from
intellectual positions generated elsewhere, connecting architecture not only
to production, but also to reproduction through representation, consumption,
appropriation and occupation.
The work of feminist architectural practices such as muf in the United
Kingdom, to whom I will return later, and the one-time Liquid Incorporated
in the United States, strived to relate feminist theory to architectural design,
built practice to written text, and dealt with issues of femininity and
decoration, relations of looking and the materiality of fluids.4 The drawn and
written projects of American architect and critic, Jennifer Bloomer were highly
influential in this respect.5
critical spatial practices 19
Bloomer’s work aimed to reveal the insufficiency of logical and rational

structures such as spoken language to explain the world, and instead brought
into operation the irrational and subversive elements in written texts – the
feminine. Bloomer’s work demonstrated that the feminine can be a radical
element in architectural practice. Drawing parallels between the creation of
a building, assumed to be a clean act of control and precision, and the mess
of childbirth, Bloomer questioned the gender of creativity. Through her dirty
drawings and her incorporation of parts of the female anatomy – breasts,
milk, fluids, blood, hatching, udders – into architecture, Bloomer generated a
critique of the sterility of the architectural drawing process. The feminine in
her work was to be found in the so-called slippage of words, for example, the
term ‘big jugs’ placed within an architectural context, suggested many things,
including large breasts, but also the role of the feminine and female body
as a container or empty signifier used to represent patriarchal ideologies.
This type of feminist work influenced a number of other architectural design
projects, which, drawing on theoretical concerns, stimulated new forms of
design, from the choosing of site to the articulation of services.6
Another important aspect of feminist work in architecture in the late 1990s
which also tested architecture’s professional and disciplinary boundaries, was
demonstrated through the projects of architects who developed an artistic
aspect of their practice, such as Maya Lin, or collaborated with artists and
other spatial practitioners in the public spaces of the city.7 Collaborating with
those operating through other modes of spatial practice, for example in dance,
film, art and writing, provided architecture with new feminist spatial tactics
and strategies, where the role of audience, user and critic became increasingly
vital to the construction of subjectivity through aesthetic and spatial processes.
Feminist French philosopher Luce Irigaray has argued that if women
are not speaking subjects in the existing symbolic order, then the only way
for women to represent themselves is through an acknowledgement of this
condition – through mimicking or parodying their objectified position.8
Architect Elizabeth Diller addressed this issue through a project, which
showed how feminist critiques of women’s role as domestic labourers could
be used to inspire creativity in architecture.9 Diller’s project involved a
complex choreography, where, by performing a series of folding movements
similar to origami, a number of shirts were ironed into perfectly useless forms.
This project can be understood as a parody of the precision of housework
and a reworking of the skills of the housewife for a new function: feminist
architectural design.
In working across the boundary between theory and practice, and
between architecture and other disciplines, these significant and influential
feminist projects of the 1990s point to certain matters of concern, specifically
critiques of disciplinary boundaries and procedures informed by a political
understanding of subjectivity. Their work suggests new modes of enquiry
and action, which have since been developed through current endeavors,
moving from providing a gendered analysis of architecture and its multiple
forms of representation, to the production of work inside and outside the

academy where subjects, selves and spaces are understood to be performed
and constructed rather than simply represented.
It is over a decade now since the publication of Gender, Space, Architecture,
and it is clear that much has changed. The rise of interdisciplinary and
practice-led research in the UK, accompanied by a more general shift
in focus from theory to practice, has produced a state of play where the
work of contemporary feminist practitioners interested in architecture is
located at sites of encounter between different spatial disciplines. Such
work highlights an interest not only in the end product, but in the process
of design itself, pointing to the importance of the dialogue between theory
and practice in architecture. In Gender, Space, Architecture I called this mode
of operation, ‘feminist architectural praxis’, but here I am more interested in
thinking about the feminist characteristics of critical spatial practice, for two
reasons. First, because the emphasis on interdisciplinary perspective needs
to be strengthened in order to accommodate the various forms of emergent
criticality in contemporary feminism, and for me the term ‘spatial’ signifies
a more expanded field than ‘architectural’. Second, because the term ‘praxis’
has a very precise technical meaning in Marxist literature, and although I do
want to retain a critique of capitalism here, I feel more comfortable using the
phrase ‘critical practice’, which also draws on a Marxist tradition, but that of
the revisionist work of the early Frankfurt School, whose practice of ‘critical
theory’ as a reflective and emancipatory activity I go on to discuss in more
depth below.
This chapter will now go on to set out in more detail certain feminist aspects
of contemporary critical spatial practice. I will suggest that specific terms and
concepts, processes and modes of analytic enquiry and interpretation, as well
as aspects of critical and creative production appear across the work of a wide
range of feminist practitioners in and outside architecture. So following this
introduction and the subsequent definition of the term critical spatial practice,
the chapter offers an account of five thematics I have noted in the current
dialogue between feminism and architecture, which I consider to characterize
a particularly feminist approach to critical spatial practice, and which feature
as the location of original new research in academe and the profession:
collectivity, interiority, alterity, performativity, materiality.
Critical Spatial Practice
If the past decade has seen a flourishing of activity in feminism and architecture,
driven by interdisciplinary concerns, then one of the changes in knowledge
and understanding this has produced has been a rethinking of the role of
theory, from a tool of analysis to a mode of practice in its own right. I use the
term ‘theory’ here not to refer to modes of enquiry in science through either
induction or deduction but rather to critical theory,10 specifically because
critical theories are forms of knowledge which are ‘reflective’ rather than
‘objectifying’ and take into account their own procedures and methods; they
aim neither to prove a hypothesis nor prescribe a particular methodology or
solution to a problem but to offer self-reflective modes of thought that seek
to change the world.11 I find it helpful to extend the key qualities of ‘critical
theory’ encapsulated by the Frankfurt School to include the work of feminists
and others whose thinking is also self-critical and desirous of social change –
who seek to transform rather than simply describe.12
In a fascinating conversation between philosophers Gilles Deleuze and
Michel Foucault that took place in 1972, Deleuze reveals quite directly, though
certainly abstractly, how he comprehends a ‘new relation between theory and
practice’. Rather than understanding practice as an application of theory or
as the inspiration for theory, Deleuze suggests that these ‘new relationships
appear more fragmentary and partial’,13 and discusses their relationship in
terms of what he calls ‘relays’: ‘Practice is a set of relays from one theoretical
point to another, and theory is a relay from one practice to another. No theory
can develop without eventually encountering a wall, and practice is necessary
for piercing this wall.’14
The Deleuzian view of the relationship between theory and practice as
fragmentary and partial resonates with key concerns of a feminist approach
to critical spatial practice, as does his notion that theory is ‘not for itself’: ‘A
theory is exactly like a box of tools … It must be useful. It must function. And
not for itself. If no one uses it, beginning with the theoretician himself (who
then ceases to be a theoretician), then the theory is worthless or the moment
is inappropriate.’15 Much feminist practice in architecture and other related
spatial disciplines, sometimes with explicit reference to Deleuze, has developed
ways of working with the ‘useful’ aspect of theory, not necessarily from a
pragmatic point of view, or in the mode of application, but rather through
the practice of theory in a speculative manner – proactive and inventive.
Deleuze notes that in its encounter with ‘obstacles, walls and blockages’
theory requires transformation into another discourse to ‘eventually pass to
a different domain’.16 In The Point of Theory, cultural historians and theorists,
Mieke Bal and Inge E. Boer, also point to the productive aspects of theory, and
argue that theory is a way of ‘thinking through the relations between areas’
and ‘a way of interacting with objects’:17
‘Theory’ only makes sense as an attitude; otherwise the generalization

of the very concept of ‘theory’ is pointless. Part of that attitude is the
endorsement of interdisciplinarity, of the need to think through the
relations between areas where a specific theory can be productive, and of
the need to think philosophically about even the most practical theoretical
concepts, so-called ‘tools’.18
This transformational passage, of ‘passing from one domain to another’

(Deleuze) or ‘thinking through the relations between areas’ (Bal and Boer),
offers the potential for change, and the possibility that an encounter with ‘an
other’ brings; and as such has been and continues to be a key inspiration for a
feminist project which combines critique and production.
A fascination with the critical, political and ethical possibilities of
interdisciplinarity as the site of exchange between theory and practice has
been the key stimulus to the work of many feminists. Over the past ten years
this term’s status has changed dramatically, from occupying the margins, to
currently taking up centre stage of government and funding body discourse
in the UK at least, in ways, which sometimes bear little relation to the site of
its genesis. So it is worth saying a little bit here about how I understand the
nature of feminism’s affinity with interdisciplinarity and how this relates to
the critical derivation of this term.
In both academic and arts-based contexts, the term interdisciplinarity is
often used interchangeably with multidisciplinarity, but I understand the
terms to mean quite different things. Multidisciplinarity research for me
describes a way of working where a number of disciplines are present but
maintain their own distinct identities and ways of doing things; whereas in
interdisciplinarity research individuals operate between, across and at the
edge of their disciplines and in so doing question the ways in which they
usually work. This can occur when one individual’s work moves from one
discipline to another, and it can also occur in collaborative work when
individuals from different disciplines work with one another getting closely
engaged in the procedures and ideologies and structure each other’s research
paradigms in order to question and develop them.
It is possible to describe this kind of work as having a spatial patterning (in
terms of critical spatial practice) that prioritizes horizontal actions (surveying
a field, examining the fissures, boundaries, folds, overlaps, tears and rips – the
points where disciplines come apart, and the places where they come together)
over the vertical procedures favoured by traditional research (going in depth
into a subject). I have often understood my own work in terms of what it
means to travel outside my discipline into another in order to provide a new
vantage point, a chance to understand one discipline from the perspective
offered by another.
In exploring questions of method or process that discussions of
interdisciplinarity and the relationship between theory and practice inevitably
bring to the fore, Julia Kristeva has argued for the construction of ‘a diagonal
axis’:
Interdisciplinarity is always a site where expressions of resistance are

latent. Many academics are locked within the specificity of their field:
that is a fact .. the first obstacle is often linked to individual competence,
coupled with a tendency to jealously protect one’s own domain. Specialists
are often too protective of their own prerogatives, do not actually work
with other colleagues, and therefore do not teach their students to construct
a diagonal axis in their methodology.19
In my view, engaging with this diagonal axis demands that we call into question
what we normally take for granted, that we question our methodologies, the
way we do things, and our terminologies, the words we give to the things we
do.
The construction of ‘a diagonal axis’ is necessarily a difficult business.
Kristeva’s phrase ‘expressions of resistance’ points to the unconscious
operations at work in interdisciplinary practice.20 And cultural theorist Homi
Bhabha also describes the encounter between disciplines in psychoanalytic
terms as an ‘ambivalent movement between pedagogical and performative
address’ – suggesting that we are both attracted by and fearful of the
interdisciplinary.21
It is precisely for this reason that I am a passionate advocate for
interdisciplinarity; because interdisciplinary projects are for me both ethical
and political – interdisciplinary work is difficult – not only critically and
intellectually, but also emotionally and psychically. In demanding that we
exchange what we know for what we don’t know, and give up the safety
of competence for the dangers of inability, the transformational experience
of interdisciplinary work produces a potentially destabilising engagement
with dominant power structures allowing the emergence of new and often
uncertain forms of knowledge.
The aim of such work is to question dominant processes that seek to control
intellectual and creative production, and instead generate new resistant forms
and modes of knowledge and understanding. It seems to me that this is why
an interdisciplinary approach, as I have defined it here, is crucial for feminism.
Interdisciplinarity does not, I argue, reflect a desire to work to existing
standards, rather it is the kind of transformative activity that intellectual and
creative life requires to critique and question such ‘norms’.
It is only through the interdisciplinary, that the opposition between history/
theory/criticism (or activities which write about architecture) and design (or
activities which produce architecture) can be reformulated as an interaction
or generative rather than oppositional exchange. Within academia, the rise in
what has been termed ‘practice-led/-based research’22 as well as the influence
of the writings of Henri Lefebvre and Michel de Certeau on spatial practice,
has produced an understanding of practice as a process which occurs not
only through the design of buildings but also through the activities of using,
occupying and experiencing them, and through the mode of writing and
imaging used to describe, analyse and interrogate them. This has allowed
architectural design to be understood in a more extended way, and has
thus opened architecture out to fascinating engagements with other creative
disciplines, particularly art, design, film, performance, poetics, theatre. At
the same time, the realm of professional architectural practice has seen the
rise of collaborative and interdisciplinary work across art and architecture,
where the constructing of relationships between disciplines and a focus on
the process as well as the product of design has started to play a key role and
shape debate in the shaping of the public realm.
In Michel de Certeau’s discussion of spatial practices, he uses the terms
strategy and tactic. For de Certeau, strategies seek to create places that conform
to abstract models; whereas tactics do not obey the laws of places.23 While
for Henri Lefebvre, spatial practices, along with representations of space and
spaces of representation, form a trialectical model where space is produced
through three inter-related modes.24 For Lefebvre, spatial practices can be
understood in terms of perception and representations of space in terms of
conception. Lefebvre also makes a careful distinction between representations
of space and spaces of representation; the first he sees as operations which
involve a systematized set of abstract and dominant codes, the second as the
spaces of resistance, where invention and imagination flourish.
It is possible to draw connections between de Certeau’s strategies and
Lefebvre’s representations of space on the one hand, and de Certeau’s
tactics and Lefebvres’ spaces of representation on the other, and suggest a
distinction between those practices (strategies) that operate to maintain and
reinforce existing social and spatial orders, and those practices (tactics) that
seek to critique and question them. I favour such a distinction and have called
the latter – ‘critical spatial practice’ – a term which serves to describe both
everyday activities and creative practices which seek to resist the dominant
social order of global corporate capitalism.25
In the context of this particular book, it is pertinent now to consider
whether there is a set of particular qualities, which together or apart might
characterize a specifically feminist approach to critical spatial practice. I
suggest that the following five themes – collectivity, interiority, alterity,
materiality, performativity – start to hint at the subject matters that resonate
with feminists as well as modes of operation that feature strongly in a
predominantly feminist mode of critical spatial practice.
Collectivity
In Hanley, in 1998, muf won an open competition set up by Stoke City Council
with the Public Art Commissioning Agency. muf’s brief was to make a lifting
barrier to prevent illegal traffic entering Hanley town centre as part of a larger
urban regeneration project. In dialogue with the council planner at an initial
stage of the project, the brief was opened out to reveal how ‘art can contribute
to a safer, more social environment’.26 The proposal was to make two ceramic
benches in close collaboration with Armitage Shanks from a design generated
by muf. The Stoke area has a strong tradition of ceramic production, today
branching out into sanitary ware, and this was the inspiration for the design of
the bench, ceramic patterned with oversized fragments of a blue dinner plate
design positioned among white birches and roses. Projected overhead, in close
physical proximity to the benches, a video showing portraits of people’s faces,
was a documentation of the design process and underscored the benches’ role
in tracing the relationships between the various people who produced the
work, as well as their position as prompts for future conversations between
those who lived and worked around them about the site and its culture of
2.1 muf architecture/art, The Pleasure Garden of the Utilities, in situ after
completion, (1998), Stoke-on-Trent. Photograph: Cathy Hawley, (1998).
ceramic production: ‘We wanted to reveal this as the place where the hands
of the person you sit next to on a bus or pass in the street are the hands of the
person who shaped the plate from which you eat your dinner.’27
As an architectural practice, muf’s work, also included elsewhere in
this book, has made influential and inspirational contributions to feminist
architecture over the past 20 years, while never (at least almost never!)
referring to themselves as feminists. There was a period in the first decade of
the twenty-first century when muf was frequently criticized in mainstream
architectural discourse for not producing any ‘architecture’, but this was
because the discourse was unable to recognize architecture as the production
of anything other than stand-alone object-buildings. muf’s very mode of
operation continues to evolve and invent new feminist approaches to critical
spatial practice precisely because its way of working is itself a critique of
architectural design methodologies that emphasize form and object making.
muf’s working method highlights the importance of exchange across art and
architecture, the participation of users in the design process and the importance
of collaborating with other producers. For muf, the architectural design
process is not an activity that leads to the making of a product, but is rather
the location of the work itself. As one architect member of muf comments in
reference to an artist colleague: ‘There is a sharp contrast with what Katherine
[Clarke] has taught me – that the conclusion is unknown – with the deceptive
reassurances of architects who begin by describing a conclusion.’28
muf’s methodology is established out of a critique of the brief, and
through the ensuing development of a dialogue between clients, artists,
architects and various other material fabricators, between those who produce
the work and those who use it. In architecture, to position a building as a
‘methodology’ rather than as the end result of the method or process that
makes a building, is a radical proposition. This approach to practice, that the
process is the product, is familiar to those working in the field of fine art,
for whom the terms ‘social sculpture’ and ‘relational aesthetics’ are common
place, and where it is not hard to consider the making of relationships or
the processes of materialization to convey aesthetic values, but architecture
and other built environment disciplines are still challenged by the idea that
aesthetic values might not only be object-driven but also related to time,
process and subjectivity.29 There are many collectives current in art practice,
but although, perhaps because, architecture is produced by numerous people,
the collaborative qualities of design tend to be normalized as part of day-
to-day practice, and are rarely raised as part of a critical discourse.30 In the
1970s and 1980s there was evidence of socialist design build collectives which
operated to critique the capitalism system of building production, the feminist
architectural cooperative Matrix was part of this tradition at its outset.31 The
early 1990s saw the rise of various practices, such as muf, but also fat and
Fluid, which highlighted their collaborative intent by choosing non-proper
nouns as names to challenge the use of the name of the leading director as
usual single architectural signature of authorship, and currently there are in
2.2 Julieanna
Preston, SHEAR,
one standard
sheet gypsum
wall board,
dimensions:
2400mm x
2400mm x
5mm (2009).
Photograph: Paul
Hillier (2009).
operation at least two fascinating versions of a particularly feminist collective

practice: FATALE and taking place.32
Interiority
The philosophy of deconstruction developed by Jacques Derrida has allowed

us to critique binary thinking and understand how the hierarchical relationship
often assigned to two terms in a pair is not natural or pre-given but a social
construction that can change according to how we are positioned. In a binary
model, everything that one is, the other cannot be, thus limiting the possibility
of thinking of two terms together. Such a model operates hierarchically,
where one of the two terms is placed in a dominant position. Derrida’s project
aims to expose the ways in which binary systems allow things to be only ‘like’
or ‘not like’ the dominant category and replaces such prevailing intellectual
norms with new formulations.33 The radical move deconstruction offers is to

think ‘both/and’ rather than ‘either/or’, putting deferrals and differences into
play and suggesting instead ‘undecideability’ and slippage.34 Feminist theorist
Diane Elam has observed that Derrida’s understanding of ‘undecideability’ is
not indeterminate but rather a ‘determinate oscillation between possibilities’
and argues that by refusing to choose between one and another such a position
offers a political potential.35
Feminist critique has been particularly effective in mobilizing the
possibilities of Derridean deconstruction in architecture, to allow a thorough
and ongoing critique of a number of binary oppositions, but most specifically
the separate spheres or the ‘public-private’ division of gendered space
manifest in different cultures at various historical periods. This work has
drawn attention to the spaces both marginalized within gendered binaries
in mainstream architectural discourse such as the domestic and the interior,
and/or positioned as the term which exceeds such a binary distinction, such as
the margin, the between, the everyday, the heterotopic and the abject.36
The interior and the domestic have been perhaps the most thoroughly
explored of these ‘other spaces’ as they have both been directly associated
with the private sphere, and as such subordinated to the public city, in both
patriarchal and capitalist cultures, and within the discourse of modernity.
There is a huge feminist literature, which critiques the separate spheres, and
revalues the private sphere, but what is significant in this newer work, is the
lack of defensive positioning. The arguments are not necessarily foregrounded
in the separate spheres debate, nor launched from a specifically feminist
position, and often forge alliances with texts that are not part of the feminist
lineage.37
The research on the interior has a different resonance, with, I think, a
unique set of reasons surrounding its current emergence. First, the new-
found confidence of interior design or interior architecture, a professional
and academic discipline, which has long been marginalized in relation
to architecture.38 Mark Taylor and Julieanna Preston’s reader Intimus,
for example, sketches out an intellectual context for interior design and
architecture, which celebrates its difference from the main stream profession,
and in so doing draws on a rich and far more densely textured field of
reference.39 Preston’s own work as an architect-artist engages with the interior
through a wonderfully rich range of sculptural work, which has transformed
through several stages, one of which involved physically working into
standard modularized building materials to reveal their unique and often
sensual interiors.
Second, the interior – as has been pointed out by Charles Rice – is both a
space and an image,40 and as Rice so eloquently discusses, its emergence in
the bourgeois culture of late-nineteenth century Europe, links it closely to the
birth of psychoanalysis as a discipline. This is a subject explored in relation
to writing practice by both Diane Fuss and Victoria Rosner.41 The significance
of current interest in the interior might then be understood in terms of the
position it occupies as the site of convergence between space and subjectivity,

place and psyche.
In visual and spatial culture, feminists have drawn extensively on
psychoanalytic theory to further understand relationships between the spatial
politics of internal psychical figures and external cultural geographies.42 The
field of psychoanalysis explores these various thresholds and boundaries
between private and public, inner and outer, subject and object, personal
and social in terms of a complex understanding of the relationship between
‘internal’ and ‘external’ space. The work of Elizabeth Grosz and Steve Pile
has been particularly influential in this area,43 as have the writings of key
Australian feminist philosophers, such as Moira Gatens and Genevieve
Lloyd, whose thinking has revealed, from a feminist perspective, the spatial
qualities of mainstream philosophy. One of the most interesting forms of
critical spatial practice emerging today continues this feminist challenge
to conventional spatial epistemologies, and located in Australia, seeks to
forge relations between the separated professions of interior and landscape
architecture. Informed perhaps by the extent of Australia’s own enormous
interior landmass, as well as its rich feminist traditions in philosophy and in
public/land art, this extraordinarily creative vein of practice considers both
‘the interior’ as a form of landscape, but also external landscapes and masses
to have interior qualities.44
Alterity
The 1990s saw a rise in the relevance and pertinence of identity politics
focusing on class, gender, race, ethnicity, and sexuality. Emerging through,
and at times diverging from, this discourse, has been the work of post-
structuralist feminists, which has been particularly important for architecture
in offering metaphorical insights through their focus on location. In this
work new ways of knowing and being have been discussed in spatial terms,
developing conceptual and critical tools such as ‘situated knowledge’ and
‘standpoint theory’ to examine the inter-relations between location, identity
and knowledge.45 The groundbreaking personal/poetic writing of black
women such as bell hooks is seminal here, as well as the work of Rosi Braidotti
who exemplifies this beautifully, for her the figure of the ‘nomadic subject’
describes not only a spatial state of movement, but also an epistemological
condition, a kind of knowingness (or unknowingness) that refuses fixity.46
This subtle understanding of position as physical, emotional and
ideological, and difference as multiple rather than binary, well as a diversified
knowledge of the role of colonializing practices/discourses, is present in new
understandings of positioned knowledge from a range of post-structuralist
feminists as Seyla Benhabib, Sue Best, Rosalyn Diprose, Jane Flax, Moira
Gatens, Sandra Harding, Elspeth Probyn, Linda Nicholson, Andrea Nye,
Gayatri Spivak. As this work makes clear, identities are contingent and
2.3 atelier situated, and constructed in response to particular times and places; the notion
d’architecture of gender difference as essentialist – as ahistorical and ageographical – has been
autogérée, Passage
thoroughly critiqued. Many of those with an Anglophone perspective have
56, cultural
and ecological been wary of the ‘feminine’ for its association with biological essentialism,
space managed but for those with a training in continental philosophy and in the French
by residents language, it is clear that the ‘feminine’ is not only biological but also cultural,
of St. Blaise and has been associated with the other, with lack (following Jacques Lacan),
neighbourhood,
and located as the site of difference itself (Derrida). The feminine is a term
Paris, (2005–
ongoing). which allows an engagement with aesthetic experience and as one feminist
Photograph: critic has suggested, can the role of females in producing architectural space
Constantin be examined without recourse to the ‘feminine’?47
Petcou (2009). An important and timely volume, Altering Practices, edited by Doina
Petrescu and published in 2007, focuses the debate on feminism and
architecture around the ‘poetics and politics of the feminine’.48 In taking
account of the feminine, rather than, or at least as well as, the feminist, essays
in this book acknowledge the role of aesthetics as well as ethics, form as
well as function, in architecture, turning the focus to the processes through
which practices of space are gendered. The volume originates in a conference
held between L’Ecole d’Architecture Paris Villemin and L’Ecole Nationale
Superieure des Beaux Arts in 1999 in Paris, under the title of Alterities. The
focus on the other, and within the book the development of an understanding
of practices which aim to change, transform or alter – as forms of practicing
‘otherwise’ or ‘otherhow’ – evidences the diverse range of feminist work

current in architecture in a clear, articulate and political way. Petrescu’s own
practice as an architect with aaa (atelier d’architecture autogérée), and the
ECObox project based in the La Chapelle area of Paris, is trans-disciplinary,
locally focused and works to produce small ecological and cultural changes
on a micro level in the community.49
The question of alterity and difference taken up and explored by feminists,
draws on the important work done in post-colonial theory. In architecture,
research in this area has transformed from ‘critical regionalism’ into a more
profoundly politicized and radical arena. Although Felipe Hernandez’s work
does not deal explicitly with gender, it is of importance in that he has chosen
to develop the critical concept of ‘transculturation’ generated by the Cuban
anthropologist, Fernando Ortiz, in the early 1940s, in relation to his own
research on Latin American architecture, as a pointedly political alternative
to the more usual use of the ‘holy trinity’ of Homi Bhabha, Edward Said and
Gayatri Spivak, whose theoretical writings are the backbone of postcolonial
studies, yet whose own locational positions are rarely taken into account.
For Hernandez, the use of a critical concept generated in the Caribbean,
is an important part of his project, which raises the issue of the location of
post-colonial theory in architecture.50 Lilian Chee’s work attempts to ‘locate’
research practice by bringing together both feminist and post-colonial
discussions of difference through her invention of ‘spider writing’ as a new
form of architectural history which grows out of an ‘intimate encounter’ with
the postcolonial site of the Raffle’s Hotel, Singapore.51
Lesley Lokko has addressed issues of black identity in her edited book
White Papers, Black Marks: Architecture, Race, Culture which holds fast to a strong
sense of desire for political change while recognizing the often contingent and
situated conditions of race and identity.52 This collection is subdivided into
three sections by scale: ‘1: 125,000 – Urban Angles’, ‘1: 1250- Displacement/
Diaspora’, ‘1:1 – One on One’. Scale operates from the macro to the micro in
terms of the physical scale of the practices described, from strategic planning
and policy making, to architectural details and small-scale art projects. Scale
also describes a differential mapping of subjectivity, from the huge distances
covered by movements of migration created through colonialisation and
subsequent diasporic displacements, to the close-up proximity of more
intimate relationships. Such shifts of scale also operate within many of the
chapters themselves. For example, in Ana Betancour’s and Peter Hasdell’s
discussion of tango, the intimate spatial tension between two dancers is used
as a way of exploring the interactions of colonized and colonizer in the urban
history of Buenos Aires. In Felicia Davis’ chapter, the artist’s small-scale
critical art interventions in Manhattan make visible much broader cultural
histories in the development of New York, previously embedded in the
urban fabric. This spatial structuring device demonstrates the book’s main
aim: the bringing of architectural modes of operation, the use of scale as a
mode of knowing, into the very writing of urban and architectural history
and theory. This is evidence of the spatialization of the discipline not just in
content but also in form. White Papers, Black Marks is a highly creative text,
where differences of race are shown to be intrinsic to architecture, and where
architectural thinking – or at least spatial thinking – informs the very ways in
which we understand racial difference.
The veil and the associated practice of purdah,53 which involves separating
and hiding women through clothing and architecture – veils, screens
and walls – from the public male gaze, have in many ways occupied a
key position in recent debates around gender and space in post-colonial
studies. The origins of purdah are highly debated culturally, religiously and
geographically,54 connected to class as well as gender,55 and have provoked
much controversy, especially in feminism.56 In an account of arguments for
and against the veil raised in early twentieth-century Egypt in response to
the publication in 1899 of Qassim Amin’s Tahrir Al-Mar’a (The Liberation of
Woman), feminist cultural historian Leila Ahmed argues that in identifying
the veil as a tool of female oppression, feminism has, perhaps unwittingly,
along with anthropology, played the role of ‘handmaid’ to colonialism.57 In
using the veil to represent Muslim culture as backward, the aim of unveiling
women in order to liberate them from repression, has operated as the mode of
justification for one patriarchal culture to possess another. This is an attitude
and practice witnessed historically, for example, in the French colonization
of Algeria, where, as Ahmed quotes from Franz Fanon’s A Dying Colonialism
(1967), ‘the occupier was bent on unveiling Algeria’.58 More recently unveiling
was given as one of the reasons to justify the invasion of Afghanistan by
today’s crusaders – the United States, the United Kingdom and their allies
– to depose a regime, which, as well as supporting terrorists, also oppressed
women through its use of the veil.
The rise in interest in the veil through cultural forms – film and literature
– has increased dramatically since the western invasion of Afghanistan and
Iraq.59 Iranian director Moshen Makhmalbaf’s film Kandahar (2001) tells the
story of an Afghan woman journalist living in Canada who travels back to
Afghanistan when her sister writes from Kandahar to say she is going to
kill herself before the next solar eclipse. The female protagonist’s journey
is at times filmed from behind the burqa she is wearing, offering western
audiences a view out from the inside of the veil, so reversing the usual media
representation of the camera imaging a covered faceless figure.60 And it is
the disguise offered by the veil in Yasmina Khadra’s The Swallows of Kabul,
that allows the central characters – two Afghan women – to change positions
unnoticed and dramatically alter the narrative as agents of their own history.61
Describing how under the Taliban regime, in Shia areas such as Herat, in
western Afghanistan, women’s lives were the most oppressed, Christina
Lamb’s The Sewing Circles of Heart discovers how, in order for women writers
to read, share ideas and study banned foreign literature, they had to meet
under the guise of sewing groups, such as the Golden Needle Sewing Circle.62
But these stories told from ‘behind the veil’ are often authored by those
2.4 Jane
Rendell, An
Embellishment:
Purdah, kohl
on glass,
(2006), Spatial
Imagination,
The Domo Baal
Gallery, London.
Photograph:
David Cross
of Cornford &
Cross (2006).
Reproduced by
kind permission
of David Cross.
who have not experienced this reality directly, extending the problem of the
western-dominated representation of the veil in the media, which in Christina
Noelle-Karimi’s opinion has rendered Afghan women faceless and voiceless:
the veil obscures their faces; while others tell their stories,63 returning us to a
key question for feminism and architecture: what does it mean to intervene,
to write, to design for an another, or on their behalf?
Performativity
The insights of psychoanalysis, or the exploration of one’s relation to another,

have slowly but surely infused architectural theory in recent years, destabilizing
understandings of both the boundaries of the subject of architecture and the

researching subject him/herself, placing emphasis on the performance of
subjectivities and sexualities. The differing impact of the theoretical insights
concerning the relationship between subjects, objects and spaces, emerging
out of the writings of Sigmund Freud, Jacques Lacan, Julia Kristeva and Luce
Irigaray, and their interpreters in philosophy and cultural geography have
been highly influential in engendering a shift in architectural theory which
has (finally) begun to take questions around subjectivity seriously.
Although architecture has been informed by psychoanalysis at the level
of theoretical interpretation of buildings, images and texts, what is new in
the feminist work in this area, is the degree to which understandings of
subjectivity are informing the position of the writing subject and construction
of the theoretical texts themselves. The level of self-reflectivity in architectural
debate lags behind other disciplines, namely art and literature.64 Although,
there has been, in architecture, some degree of exploration of the relation
between criticism, history and theory, 65 there has been, to my knowledge,
very little explicit discussion of the situated-ness of the critic herself, and
therefore the relation between criticism and practice. The Critical Architecture
conference, which I co-organized at the Bartlett School of Architecture in 2004,
aimed to address this relation.66
In the ‘Architecture-Writing’ session of the conference I was keen to bring
the debate on art-writing, which informed my own practice of ‘site-writing’
into architectural criticism. The possibilities opened up for criticism by art-
writing engage closely with debates around the relationship between theory
and critical practice in the visual and spatial arts. But what happens when
such ideas are taken into architectural criticism? Are such concepts and
creative modes of production derived from elsewhere seen to be as relevant
to architecture as those generated within the discipline itself? For some,
interdisciplinary debate is a distraction: critical enquiry and architectural
production are relevant only when they emerge out of architecture itself.67
‘Travelling concepts’ are indispensable,68 they allow us to challenge
assumptions internal to disciplines and to re-think, in this instance, what
architecture is, what it might be and how we might think, write and make
buildings critically. This is not to ignore the particularity of the context in
which architectural criticism is located – the architectural profession – but to
return to it, having been transformed through ideas experienced somewhere
else.
In my own work I have begun to recognize how movements of exchange
between disciplinary sites creates a spatial pattern – moving outside a
discipline to a new one from which it is possible to review the mechanisms
of operation of a former discipline, before returning in order to suggest
alternative modes of enquiry. Although my aim has been constant, I have
sought to make manifest the position of the writing subject and her choice
of objects of study and subject matters, processes of intellectual enquiry and
creative production; my methods have transformed from the more literal
attempt to produce a feminist Marxist architectural history to current work

which is more lateral and metaphoric.69 It was through the process of writing
Art and Architecture: A Place Between – a theorized study of projects that occupy
places between art and architecture and which I call critical spatial practice
– that I came to understand how my position between art, architecture and
theory was constantly changing and that this migratory aspect of the research
influenced my interpretative accounts. I concluded Art and Architecture by
arguing that criticism is a form of situated practice in its own right, one that
is critical and spatial.70 This new work explores the position of the author, not
only in relation to theoretical ideas, art objects, and architectural spaces, but
also to the site of writing itself.
‘Site-Writing’ is what happens when discussions concerning site-specificity
extend to involve criticism, and the spatial qualities of the writing become as
important in conveying meaning as the content of the criticism.71 Conceptual
concerns frame my argument for the spatialization of criticism as a form of
critical spatial practice, but the criticism operates as a form of practice, where
site-writings transform over time depending on their specific locations.72 My
suggestion is that this kind of criticism or critical spatial writing, in operating
as a mode of practice in its own right, questions the terms of reference that
relate the critic to the work positioned ‘under’ critique. This is an active
writing, composed of a constellation of voices that spatially structure the text,
constructing as well as tracing the sites of relation between critic and work.
Feminists in cultural, literary and post-colonial criticism, such as Hélène
Cixous and Gloria AnzaldÚa, have woven the autobiographical into the critical
in their texts, combining poetic writing with theoretical analysis to articulate
hybrid voices.73 A ‘voice’ in criticism can be objective and subjective, distant
and intimate. From the close-up to the glance, from the caress to the accidental
brush, such an approach to the writing of criticism can draw on spaces as they
are remembered, dreamed and imagined, as well as observed, in order to take
into account the critic’s position in relation to a work and challenge criticism
as a form of knowledge with a singular and static point of view located in
the here and now. Mieke Bal’s exploration of the critic’s ‘engagement’ with
art explores this territory in art history, as someone coming from literary
criticism; her interest in narrative opens up ways of thinking about subject
positions in criticism.74
In architecture, Guiliana Bruno, another interdisciplinary traveller, moving
this time from film criticism to architecture, also points to the situated nature
of writing about architecture, outlining both a personal journey in the
introduction to her Atlas of Emotion, as well as suggest that the book itself
adopts a spatial structure.75 Rather than write about the work, I am interested
in how the critic constructs his or her writing in relation to and in dialogue
with the work. The focus on the preposition here allows a direct connection to
be made between the positional and the relational.76
The work of Katja Grillner and her colleague Rolf Hughes, and one-time
students, now colleagues, Katerina Bonnevier and Malin Zimm, at KTH,
Stockholm, has been developing in similar directions. Interestingly when

Grillner links the two words – architecture and writing – she does it the
other way around: ‘Writing Architecture’, not architecture-writing.77 What
difference does it make if one word comes before another, or if a preposition,
for example, ‘for’, ‘with’, ‘to’, is inserted between the two terms?78 And what
of the hyphen? This small line that brings the architecture and writing into
close proximity allows us to think of one in relation to the other, but also
creates a hybrid form. It is important that we focus here on this insignificant
point of conjunction, on such a tiny detail as the hyphen, to demonstrate the
importance of the decisions we make in designing the position of words –
writing constructs as well as reflects meaning. The role of writing as a form
of practice in its own right, has been explored by Hughes in his discussion of
the prose poem as a hybrid genre which combines critical and creative writing
practices and in relation to what is called practice-led or based research.79
Bonnevier operates a performative writing which stages theoretical analysis
and historical research to re-examine queer space.80
The discipline of performance studies is increasingly becoming a central
reference point for feminists writing in architecture, mainly because it is within
performance practice, including theatre, that one finds the conceptual depth
to the thinking-through of ‘performativity’. Here I want to make particular
reference to the collaborative work of feminist practitioners, such as Dorita
Hannah (performance designer and scenographer) and Carol Brown (dancer
and choregrapher) and their consideration of the relation of the female body
to architecture through performance,81 but also the more broadly based
approach of performance writing, generated out of the MA with that name
operating at Dartington College in the 1990s, and also the speculative work of
theorists and practitioners based in academic settings in the UK today.82
The autobiographical approach to Peggy Phelan’s commentaries on
performance art have developed a mode of writing criticism that declares its
own performativity and the presence of the body of the critic in the writing
as ‘marked’.83 In drawing attention to the conditions of its own making at the
level of the signifier, not only the signified, much autobiographical writing
is performative. In Della Pollock’s highly informative discussion of the key
qualities of performance writing, she includes being subjective, as well as
evocative, metonymic, nervous, citational and consequential as exceptional
aspects of this type of writing.84 And in Gavin Butt’s edited volume The End
of Criticism, the attempt by critics and practitioners to ‘renew criticism’s
energies’ within fine art occurs specifically through a ‘theatrical turn’.85
Across the arena of experimental and critical writing, new possibilities are
being invented, usually performative, which question the distanced objectivity
of academic writing styles.86 This includes artists producing text-based
works,87 writers exploring the poetics of criticism,88 as well as performance
writers,89 poet-artist practitioners,90 and philosophers who question
subjectivity through alternative visual writing forms.91 Spatial practitioners
can draw inspiration from this intensely creative and theoretically rigorous
2.5 Sarah
Wigglesworth
and Jeremy
Till, Stock
Orchard Street,
Sandbag Wall,
London (2000).
Photograph: Paul
Smoothy, (2001).
strand of speculative criticism, yet within it there is also a very particular

focus for those engaged in architecture: to enhance writing’s spatial qualities
and in so doing to explore the ‘position’ of the writer through the spatial and
material qualities of the text. In architecture there is a growing feminist interest
in the critical, interdisciplinary performative qualities of writing, as a form
of materialized philosophy, in the work of Hélene Frichot and Stephen Loo;
art practice, in the work of Linda Maria Walker; and criticism, in the work of
Naomi Stead.92
Materiality
Although some critics are also beginning to consider the possibilities that
the medium of their work affords and many have written about the spatial
potential writing affords, fewer have actively exploited its textual and material
possibilities, the patterning of words on a page, the design of a page itself – its
edges, boundaries, thresholds, surfaces, the relation of one page to another,
or wondered what it would mean for criticism to take on new forms – those of
art, film or even architecture.93 Each medium surely has its own architectonics
– a series of procedures for the material organisation and structuring of space.
Literary critic Mary Ann Caws’s concept of ‘architexture’ is helpful here in
allowing us to take texts, structures which are not buildings, as architecture,
a move which is rather more closely guarded against in architecture itself,
where the professional view still tends to dominate. A term that refers to the
act of reading rather than writing, for Caws, architexture ‘situates the text in
the world of other texts’ 94 drawing attention to the surface and texture of the
text, and suggesting rather implicitly, or certainly this is what I draw out of
her work, that we might consider the text as a form of material construction
or architecture. And to return to Jennifer Bloomer briefly, her texts have a
materiality that is spatially structured, operating as metaphoric sites through
which imaginative narratives are explored, as well as employing metonymic
devices to bring the non-appropriate into architecture. For Bloomer, different
modes of writing express new ways of understanding architecture through
the intimate and personal, the subjective rather than objective, though sensual
rather purely visual stimulation. Bloomer’s text is her architecture; her textual
strategies are used to interpret architectural drawings and spaces but also to
create new notions of space and creativity, allowing links to be made between
architectural design and theory
It is possible to consider how this kind of research positions the modes
in which we practice theory and criticism to be more than a description of
content, but to define critical positions. The ‘architecture’ of the writing of
history, theory or criticism, might then take into account the structure,
processes and materials of the medium employed, considering these modes as
integral to the construction of the writing, indicating that the spatial practices
of history, theory and criticism have a materiality, thus offering a new way
of connecting with architecture through a particularly feminist and material
aspect of critical spatial practice.
The influence of Marxist methodologies in architectural history has played a
key role in critiquing a type of architectural history, which placed the designer
and the form of the building at the forefront of the discipline. Historical
materialism pointed instead to the ‘social production of space’ – to the role of
the construction industry, cultural/social context, as well as the reproduction
of space through its representation and use. Such methodologies were
adopted/adapted by certain feminists in the field to highlight the gendering of
processes of production and reproduction, but also through feminism’s own
version of materialist analysis, which involves an understanding of the role of
body as matter, following on from the rich discussions of chora, foundational
in the feminist architectural work of the early 1990s.
More recently, this understanding of ‘materiality’ or matter has started to
produce work where material is not only as the social and economic context
for architecture but also viewed as an active ingredient in the processes of
making architecture. This might appear to be more obvious in its relation to
architectural design, but feminist explorations of the different potential of
architectural materials from the conceptual design to the level of the detail
remain limited. Sarah Wigglesworth Architecture is one practice, which has
consistently explorated new potentials for materials, most famously in 9 Stock
Orchard Street, the Straw Bale House, from 2001.95
It is also the case that new considerations of materiality have informed
processes of researching and writing architecture, placing emphasis on
embodiment, narrative and voice, and articulating texts that are patterned,
and that create topographies of intersecting epistemologies and ontologies. 96
In Peg Rawes’ theoretical writings she explores spatial figures in philosophy
while drawing attention to different theories of subjectivity, criticality and
materiality, while Katie Lloyd Thomas has looked specifically at the role of
matter and its relation to writing in the architectural specification. 97
Setting In
I am aware that the range of feminist approaches to critical spatial practice

that I have described here – characterized by their modes and matters in
terms of a specific set of thematics – might appear to be quite an exclusive
gathering. This is in part because my own focus on art criticism as a form of
feminist critical spatial practice in recent years has produced a narrow focus.
In attempting to look for commonalities, I may well have presented a sense of
easy alignment between those present inside the terrain of my setting out and
thereby suggested a new-found integration across the diversity of this practice
which leaves aside the productive tensions that exist through difference –
I hope this has not been the case. I am also aware that a great breadth of
feminist critical spatial practice exists outside the markers I have set out here,
so in the final paragraphs of this chapter, I would like acknowledge that my
setting out has limits, and point towards the presence of work that lies above,
beneath, beyond or outside the themes I have been discussing in order to
push the debate into new arenas.98
Issues raised by feminism and taken forward through debates on the
‘feminine’ and gender difference have infused architecture to such an extent
that they are no longer visible explicitly in terms of concerns generated
out of sexual politics. Conditions of visibility have been very much part of
feminist debate over the past decades, in particular the ways in which vital
contribution of feminist forbears have often been obscured, thus we must
be careful now not to produce a new version of ‘hidden from history’ and
partake in the act of obscuring feminism’s political imperative, while still
allowing it to be indirect and to diffuse. Feminist architectural historian
Karen Burns has noted very recently that despite the large number of feminist
publications in the 1990s, this was also the decade that saw the absence of
feminist texts in major architectural theory anthologies and the inclusion of
the ‘feminine’ in such anthologies through invited contributions authored
by men. Most provocatively she makes the excellent point that feminist
architectural discourse and practice has, in various instances, in particular the

discussions between Jacques Derrida and Peter Eisenman, been conducted by
men through the bodies of women – through choric space.99
The topic of feminism in architecture itself has perhaps been less than visible
in recent years. There seem to have been fewer sole authored publications
on topics of feminism in architecture than in other disciplines such as visual
culture, art history and cultural geography and recent edited collections which
have deepened the exploration of certain gendered dimensions of architectural
design and culture have done so in a more nuanced, subtle and implicit way
than earlier work. These collections often examine themes derived from
feminist enquiry, for example, domesticity, materiality, interiority, criticality
and pattern, but, for the non-informed and often non-feminist reader, the
association with the concerns of gender and sexual politics might not be at
all obvious, at least not at first! Such collections have been edited by feminists
who ten years ago would have made their feminist agenda explicit (and I
include myself here) but now, perhaps because of the theoretical advances
feminism has made in some parts of the academy, they no longer feel the need
to directly flag up their political position, making it possible not necessarily to
abandon politics, but to explore alternative, perhaps less oppositional, ways
of being feminist.
However, the danger is that, unless the references to feminism are made
clear, we are unwittingly ‘unwriting’ architecture’s feminist genealogy.
This then poses questions about acknowledgement, and raises the dangers
of invisibility and of appropriation, to quote the Guerilla Girls, of ‘seeing
your ideas live on in others’. Additionally and more importantly, to focus
myopically on this issue, is to be blind to today’s context where far more urgent
forms of oppression, marginalization and difference demand our attention
right now. Some of these remain directly connected with sex and gender,
others are less obviously connected, for example operations of resistance
against neo-conservative and neo-liberal politics at work in architecture,
connections between military domination and oil consumption, the uneven
distribution of wealth between the majority and minority world, and the rapid
unfolding of environmental catastrophes. Most recently we have witnessed
gross acts of finance acquisition, where in the name of ‘bank bailouts’, wealth
is being transferred, with government consent, to a tiny majority, while the
catastrophic amounts of debt owed by ordinary people are ignored, and the
very conditions that created the so-called credit crunch in the first place are
not placed under review. In this situation, in the UK to name just one country,
in the ComDem Government’s Comprehensive Spending Review of 2010,
women have been named as one group of society to lose out.100
It is important to recognize the international dimensions of the feminist
struggle as well as the gendered dimensions of transglobal power – dominant
and resistant. Because these operate at both macro and micro levels connections
need to be constructed between the large scale and the small detail, linking up
concerns of the marginalized in the north and the south. It strikes me that this
is the task for a feminist critical spatial practice in the second decade of the
twenty-first century – this is the matter at hand and that the modes of working
characteristic to a feminist approach to critical spatial practice which I have set
out in this chapter are highly appropriate for tackling the three stranded collapse
of ecology, energy and economy that faces us now – the disasters produced by
climate chaos; the resource crises, including peak oil, mineral depletion and
food scarcity; and the unacceptable inequalities created by a capitalist global
economy driven by credit and debt – all three are now setting in.
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Rendell, Jane 2004. ‘Architectural Research and Disciplinarity’, ARQ, 8(2), 141–7.
Rendell, Jane 2006. Art and Architecture: A Place Between. London: IB Tauris.
Rendell, Jane, Jonathan Hill, Murray Fraser and Mark Dorrian. Eds. 2007. Critical
Architecture. London: Routledge.
Rendell, Jane 2009. ‘Critical Spatial Practice’ in New Curating Practices, edited by Judith
Rugg. Bristol: Intellect Books.
Rendell, Jane 2010. Site-Writing: The Architecture of Art Criticism. London: IB Taurus.
Rendell, Jane 2011 ‘Tendencies and Trajectories: Feminist Approaches in Architecture’
in Architectural Theory Handbook, edited by Stephen Cairns, Greg Crysler, Hilde
Heynen, Gwendolyn Wright. London: Sage.
Rendell, Jane. Site-writing course, MA Architectural History Bartlett School of
Architecture, UCL. Available at: http://www.rhul.ac.uk/english/studying/
Postgraduate-Study/MA/PoeticPractice.html.
Rice, Charles 2007. The Emergence of the Interior: Architecture: Modernity, Domesticity.
London: Routledge, 2007.
Robinson, Claire. 1994. ‘Chora Work “Dear Jennifer.”’ ANY, 4 January/February, 34-7.
Rogoff, Irit 1998. Studying Visual Culture. The Visual Culture Reader, edited by Nicholas
Mirzoeff. London: Routledge, 14–26.
Rogoff, Irit 2000. Terra Infirma. London: Routledge.
Rosner, Victoria 2005. Modernism and the Architecture of Private Life. Columbia: Columbia
University Press.
Sanders, Joel. Ed. 1996. Stud: Architectures of Masculinity. New York: Princeton
Architectural Press.
Sarrah Wigglesworth Architecture. 2001. Straw House. Available at: http://www.swarch.
co.uk/.
Serres, Michel 1995. Angels: A Modern Myth. Paris: Flammarion Press.
Silverman, Kaja 1996. The Threshold of the Visible World. London: Routledge.
Soueif, Ahdaf 2001. The Language of the Veil. The Guardian, 8 December 2001.
Spankie, Ro 2009. Drawing Out the Interior. Switzerland: AVA Academia.
Spahr, Juliana, Mark Wallace, Kristen Prevallet and Pam Rehm. Eds. 1994. A Poetics of
Criticism. Buffalo, New York: Leave Books.
Stanford Friedman, Susan 1998. Mappings: Feminism and the Cultural Geographies Of
Encounter. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Stead, Naomi. Ed. 2010. Architectural Theory Review, 15(3).
Taylor, Mark and Julieanna Preston. Eds. 2006. Intimus: Interior Design Theory Reader.
Chichester: Wiley-Academy.
Urban, Hinkel Rochus. Ed. 2011. Urban Interior: Informal Explorations, Interventions and
Occupations. Forthcoming.
Notes
1 This essay draws on and extends Jane Rendell, ‘Tendencies and Trajectories:
Feminist Approaches in Architecture’, Architectural Theory Handbook, Stephen
Cairns, Greg Crysler, Hilde Heynen, Gwendolyn Wright (eds) (London: Sage,
2011).
2 See Jane Rendell, Barbara Penner and Iain Borden (eds.), Gender, Space,
Architecture: an Interdisciplinary Introduction (London: Routledge, 1999).
3 See for example, Beatriz Colomina (ed.), Sexuality and Space (New York:
Princeton Architectural Press, 1992); Diane Agrest, Patricia Conway and Leslie
Kanes Weisman (eds.), The Sex of Architecture (New York: Harry N. Abrams
Publisher, 1997); Debra Coleman, Elizabeth Danze and Carol Henderson (eds.),
Architecture and Feminism (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1996);
Francesca Hughes (ed.), The Architect: Reconstructing Her Practice (Cambridge,
MA: M.I.T. Press, 1996); Duncan McCorquodale, Katerina Rüedi and Sarah
Wigglesworth (eds.), Desiring Practices (London: Black Dog Publishing Limited,
1996) and Joel Sanders (ed.), Stud: Architectures of Masculinity (New York:
Princeton Architectural Press, 1996).
4 See muf, Architectural Design, (August 1996), 66(7-8), 80-3 and Amy Landesberg
and Lisa Quatrale, ‘See Angel Touch’, Debra Coleman, Elizabeth Danze and
Carol Henderson (eds.), Architecture and Feminism (New York: Princeton
Architectural Press, 1996), 60-71.
5 Jennifer Bloomer, ‘Big Jugs’, Arthur Kroker and Marilouise Kroker (eds.), The
Hysterical Male: New Feminist Theory, (London: Macmillan Education 1991), 13-27
and Jennifer Bloomer, Architecture and the Text: the (S)crypts of Joyce and Piranesi
(New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1993).
6 In the work of Clare Robinson, this is clearly formulated in a project which
redefines site as chora or female container. For Michelle Kauffman, the gaps
between buildings and occupied by women in patriarchy gave rise to a design
project based on a lacuna wall. See Claire Robinson, ‘Chora Work’, ‘Dear
Jennifer’, ANY, n.4 (January/February 1994), 34-7 and Michelle Kaufman
‘Liquidation, Amalgamation’, Dear Jennifer’, ANY, n.4 (January/February 1994),
38-9.
7 See for example, Nina Felshin, But is it Art?: The Spirit of Art as Activism (Seattle:
Bay Press, 1995); Suzanne Lacy (ed.), Mapping the Terrain: New Genre Public Art
(Seattle: Bay Press, 1995).
8 Luce Irigaray’s theory of ‘mimicry’ has been used to show how, when
working within a symbolic system with predetermined notions of feminine
and masculine, where there is no theory of the female subject, women can
seek to represent themselves through mimicking the system itself. See Luce
Irigaray, ‘Any Theory of the “Subject” Has Always Been Appropriated by the
“Masculine”’, Speculum of the Other Woman (New York: Cornell University Press,
1985), 133-46.
9 Elizabeth Diller, ‘Bad Press’, Francesca Hughes (ed.), The Architect: Reconstructing
Her Practice (Cambridge, Mass.: The M.I.T. Press, 1996), 74-94.

10 Critical theory is a phrase that refers to the work of a group of theorists and
philosophers called the Frankfurt School operating in the early twentieth
century. The group includes Theodor Adorno, Jurgen Habermas, Max
Horkheimer, Herbert Marcuse and Benjamin; and their writings are connected
by their interest in the ideas of the philosopher G.W.F. Hegel, the political
economist Karl Marx, and the psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud. Taken together,
their work could be characterized as a rethinking or development of Marxist
ideas in relation to the shifts in society, culture and economy that took place in
the early decades of the twentieth century.
11 Raymond Geuss, The Idea of Critical Theory: Habermas and the Frankfurt School
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 2.
12 For a detailed discussion of the various possibilities opened up by critical theory
for thinking the relationship between theory and practice, see Jane Rendell,
‘Between two: theory and practice’, in Jonathan Hill (ed.) Opposites Attract:
Research by Design, Special Issue of Journal of Architecture (Summer) vol. 8, no. 2
(2003), 221–38.
13 Michel Foucault and Gilles Deleuze, ‘Intellectuals and power: a conversation
between Michel Foucault and Gilles Deleuze’, in Donald F. Bouchard (ed.)
Language, Counter-memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews (New York:
Ithaca, 1977) p. 205.
14 Foucault and Deleuze, ‘Intellectuals and power’, 206.
17 Mieke Bal and Inge E. Boer (eds) The Point of Theory: Practices of Cultural Analysis
(New York: Continuum, 1994), 8–9.
18 Bal and Boer, The Point of Theory, 8.
19 Julia Kristeva, ‘Institutional Interdisciplinarity in Theory and Practice: an
interview’, Alex Coles and Alexia Defert, eds, The Anxiety of Interdisciplinarity,
De-, Dis-, Ex-, 2 (London, 1997), 3-21, 5-6.
20 See for example Jessica Benjamin, Shadow of the Other: Intersubjectivity and Gender
in Psychoanalysis, London: Routledge, 1998, 25 and Diane Fuss, Identification
Papers (London: Routledge, 1995), 2-3.
21 Homi K. Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 163.
22 See for example, Jane Rendell, ‘Architectural Research and Disciplinarity’, ARQ
(2004), 8(4), 141–7.
23 Michael de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1988, 29.
24 See Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1991).
25 Jane Rendell, Art and Architecture: A Place Between (London: IB Tauris, 2006).
26 muf, This is What we Do: A muf Manual (London: Ellipsis, 2001), 92.
27 muf, This is What we Do, 92.
28 muf, This is What we Do, 25.
29 See for example my discussion in Section 3 of Rendell, Art and Architecture. See
also Joseph Beuys, ‘Not just a few are called, but everyone’ (completed in 1972),
in Charles Harrison and Paul Wood (eds) Art in Theory 1900–1990: An Anthology
of Changing Ideas (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992), 890–92; Nicholas Bourriaud,
Relational Aesthetics, translated by Simon Pleasance and Fronza Woods (Dijon:
Presses du reel, 2002) and Grant H. Kester, Conversation Pieces: Community and
Communication in Modern Art (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004).
30 For an exceptional collection of essays that challenges this perspective, see
Peter Blundell Jones, Doina Petrescu and Jeremy Till (eds), Architecture and
Participation (London: Spon Press, 2005).
31 See Matrix, Making Space: Women and the Man Made Environment, (London: Pluto
Press, 1984).
32 For FATALE, see for example, http://researchprojects.kth.se/index.php/kb_7796/
io_10197/io.html and for taking place, see for example, Katie Lloyd Thomas,
Helen Stratford and Teresa Hoskyns ‘taking place’, Scroope, v. 14 (2001), Doina
Petrescu and Teresa Hoskyns, ‘Taking place and altering it’, Doina Petrescu (ed.)
Altering Practices: Feminist Politics and Poetics of Space, (London: Routledge, 2007);
Katie Lloyd Thomas with taking place, ‘The Other Side of Waiting’, Imogen
Tyler and Dr Caroline Gatrell (eds), Birth, special issue of Feminist Review, (2009).
For an excellent collection of essays exploring and critiquing the concept of
authorship in architecture, see Tim Anstey, Katja Grillner and Rolf Hughes (eds)
Architecture and Authorship (London: Black Dog Publishing, 2007).
33 See for example, Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, translated by Gayatri
Chakravorty Spivak (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1976)
especially pp. 6-26. See also Jacques Derrida, Dissemination, translated by
Barbara Johnson (London: Athlone Press, 1981) for an attempt to perform rather
than describe deconstruction. See also Christopher Norris, Deconstruction: Theory
and Practice (London: Routledge, 1991).
34 Derrida’s aim is not to destroy the categories but to ‘destabilize, challenge,
subvert, reverse or overturn some of the hierarchical binary oppositions
(including those implicating sex and gender) of Western culture’. See Elizabeth
Grosz, Sexual Subversions (London: Taylor & Francis Grosz, 1989) p. xv.
35 Diane Elam, Feminism and Deconstruction: Ms. En Abyme (London: Routledge,
1994) p. 83.
36 See for example Mary McLeod, ‘Everyday and “Other” Spaces’, Debra L.
Coleman, Elizabeth Ann Danze and Carol Jane Henderson (eds.), Feminism and
Architecture (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1996), 3-37, Ben Campkin
and Paul Dobraszcyk (eds) Architecture and Dirt, Special Issue of the Journal of
Architecture, 12(4), (September 2007), Ben Campkin and Rosiie Cox (eds) Dirt:
New Geographies of Cleanliness and Contamination (London: IB Tauris, 2010) and
the conference The Rise of the Heterotopia: On Public Space and the Architecture of
the Everyday in a Post-Civil Society, AAE Conference 2005, Leuven, Belgium, 26-28
May 2005 organised by Hilde Heynen.
37 Hilde Heynen and Gülsüm Bayday (eds), Negotiating Domesticity: Spatial
Productions of Gender in Modern Architecture, (London: Routledge, 2005) and
Hilde Heynen, ‘Architecture, Gender, Domesticity’, Special Issue of the Journal of
Architecture, 7(3) (Autumn 2002).
38 See for example Ro Spankie, Drawing Out the Interior (Switzerland: AVA
Academia, 2009).
39 Mark Taylor and Julieanna Preston (eds) Intimus: Interior Design Theory Reader
(Chichester: Wiley–Academy, 2006).
40 Charles Rice, The Emergence of the Interior: Architecture: Modernity, Domesticity
(London: Routledge, 2007). See also Barbara Penner and Charles Rice (eds)
‘Constructing the Interior’, Special Issue of the Journal of Architecture, 9(3)
(Autumn 2004) and Barbara Penner, ‘Researching Female Public Toilets:
Gendered Spaces, Disciplinary Limits’, Journal of International Women’s Studies,
6(2) (June 2005), 81-98.
41 Diane Fuss, The Sense of an Interior: Four Rooms and the Writers that Shaped Them
(London: Routledge, 2004) and Victoria Rosner, Modernism and the Architecture of
Private Life (Columbia: Columbia University Press, 2005).
42 See for example, Susan Stanford Friedman, Mappings: Feminism and the Cultural
Geographies Of Encounter, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998; Diane
Fuss, Identification Papers (London: Routledge, 1995); Irit Rogoff, Terra Infirma,
(London: Routledge, 2000); and Kaja Silverman, The Threshold of the Visible World,
(London: Routledge, 1996).
43 See for example Steve Pile, The Body and the City: Psychoanalysis, Subjectivity
and Space (London: Routledge, 1996); Elizabeth Grosz, Volatile Bodies: Toward a
Corporeal Feminism, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press,
1994 and Elizabeth Grosz, Architecture from the Outside: Essays on Virtual and Real
Space, (Cambridge MA.: MIT Press, 2001).
44 The instigators of this hybrid feminist practice are landscape architect Gini Lee
and curator Suzie Attiwill. See also http://www.idea-edu.com/Journal/IDEA-
Journal. See also Rochus Urban Hinkel (ed) Urban Interior: Informal Explorations,
Interventions and Occupations (forthcoming 2011).
45 For example Donna Haraway’s ‘situated knowledges’, Jane Flax’s ‘standpoint
theory’ and Elsbeth Probyn’s notion of ‘locality’, all use ‘position’ to negotiate
such on-going theoretical disputes as the essentialism/constructionism debate.
See Jane Flax, Thinking Fragments: Psychoanalysis, Feminism and Postmodernism
in the Contemporary West, Berkeley, Los Angeles: University of California Press,
1991, 232; Donna Haraway, ‘Situated knowledges: the science question in
feminism and the privilege of partial knowledge’, Feminist Studies, vol. 14, no.
3, Fall 1988, 575–603, especially pp. 583–8; and Elspeth Probyn ‘Travels in the
Postmodern: Making Sense of the Local’ in Linda Nicholson (ed.), Feminism/
Postmodernism, London, Routledge, 1990, 176–89, 178. See also Seyla Benhabib’s
articulation of ‘feminism as situated criticism’ in Situating the Self: Gender,
Community and Postmodernism in Contemporary Ethics, Cambridge: Polity Press,
1992, 225–8; and bell hooks’ discussion of the margin in Yearnings: Race, Gender,
and Cultural Politics, (London: Turnaround Press, 1989).
46 See Rosi Braidotti, Nomadic Subjects, (New York: Columbia University Press,
1994).
47 Ann Bergren, ‘Dear Jennifer’, ANY, n.4 (January/February 1994), 12-5.
48 Doina Petrescu, Altering Practices: Feminist Politics and Poetics of Space, (London:
Routledge, 2007).
49 Doina Petrescu, ‘Losing Control, Keeping Desire’, in Peter Blundell Jones, Doina
Petrescu and Jeremy Till (eds), Architecture and Participation (London: Spon Press,
2005), 43–64.
50 Felipe Herandez (ed.) Transculturation in Latin America and Architecture, special
issue of Journal of Romance Studies, 2(3), (Winter 2003) and Felipe Herandez,
Mark Millington and Iain Borden (eds) Architecture and Transculturation in Latin
America (New York and Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2006).
51 Lilian Chee, ‘An Architecture of Intimate Encounter: Plotting the Raffles Hotel
through Flora and Fauna (1887-1925; 1987-2005)’, University College London,
(2006) unpublished thesis.
52 Lesley Naa Norle Lokko (ed.), White Papers, Black Marks: Architecture, Race, Culture,
(London: Athlone Press, 2000).
53 Quoting Malek Alloulla, David A. Bailey and Gilane Tawadros describe how the
veil marks the closure of private space and its extension to public space where the
viewer is to be found. See David A. Bailey and Gilane Tawadros, ‘Introduction’,
David A. Bailey and Gilane Tawadros (eds) Veil: Veiling, Representation and
Contemporary Art (inIVA and Modern Art Oxford, 2003), 16–39, 22–23. Referring
to the writings of Hamid Naficy on the poetics and politics of the veil in
revolutionary Iranian cinema, Bailey and Tawadros suggest that veiling is not
fixed or unidirectional, but that it is rather ‘a dynamic practice in which both men
and women are implicated’, and that the relation between veiling and unveiling is
dialectical.
54 See for example Leila Ahmed, ‘The Discourse on the Veil’, Women and Gender in
Islam: Historical Roots of a Modern Debate (Yale: Yale University Press, 1993) pp. 144-
168.
55 For example, Ahdaf Soueif, in a discussion of the differing practices and terms
for the veil in Muslim cultures across the world including Arab countries, focuses
on the history of its use in Cairo, Egypt. He explains how between the 1920s to
the 1960s, as part of the move to accept western culture, the veil was rejected,
except the bisha, which continued to be worn by working class women and more
traditional women of all classes over 50. The veil was taken up again as the hijab
and the full niqab in the 1970s and more recently as a sign of resistance to the west.
See Ahdaf Soueif, ‘The Language of the Veil’, first published in The Guardian,
weekend supplement (8 December 2001) pp. 29-32 and reprinted in Bailey and
Tawadros (eds) Veil, 110-119.
56 Ahmed, ‘The Discourse on the Veil’, 144-168.
57 Ahmed, ‘The Discourse on the Veil’, 155.
58 Ahmed, ‘The Discourse on the Veil’, 164.
59 Alison Donnell has drawn attention to the number of books that feature an image
of a veiled woman on the cover. See Alison Donnell, ‘Visibility, Violence and
Voice? Attitudes to Veiling Post-11 September’, Bailey and Tawadros (eds) Veil,
122-135.
60 Samira’s Makhmalbaf’s At Five in the Afternoon (2003) made by Moshen
Makhmalbaf’s daughter, also focuses on the life of women in Afghanistan.
61 Yasmina Khadra’s The Swallows of Kabul (London: Vintage, 2005) was first
published in French as Les Hirondelles de Kaboul (Paris: Julliard, 2002).
62 Christina Lamb, The Sewing Circles of Heart: My Afghan Years (London:
HarperCollins Publishers, 2002) pp. 156-160.
63 Christina Noelle-Karimi, ‘History Lessons: In Afghanistan’s Decades of
Confrontation with Modernity, Women have always been the Focus of Conflict’
(April 2002). See http://www.wellesley.edu/womensreview/archive/2002/04/highlt.
html (accessed 14 May 2008).

64 See for example, Gavin Butt (ed.) After Criticism: New Responses to Art and
Performance (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2005).
65 See Kate Nesbitt (ed.) Theorizing a New Agenda for Architecture: An Anthology of
Architectural Theory 1965–1995 (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1996),
16 and Michael K. Hays (ed.) Architecture Theory since 1968 (Cambridge, MA: MIT
Press, 2000), v. See also Neil Leach (ed.) Rethinking Architecture (London: Routledge,
1997); Iain Borden and Jane Rendell (eds) InterSections: Architectural History and
Critical Theory (London: Routledge, 2000).
66 See Jane Rendell, Jonathan Hill, Murray Fraser and Mark Dorrian (eds.) Critical
Architecture (London: Routledge, 2007). See also Peg Rawes and Jane Rendell (eds)
Spatial Imagination (London: The Bartlett School of Architecture, 2005).
67 A variation on this position is the one that argues that architecture is itself
interdisciplinary and so has no need to engage with other disciplines. For an
expanded discussion of many of these issues see Jane Rendell, ‘Architectural
Research and Disciplinarity’, ARQ, 2004, v. 8, n. 2, 141–7.
68 I thought I had invented the term ‘travelling concepts’ but it turns out Mieke Bal
had also been using it. See Mieke Bal, Travelling Concepts in the Humanities: A Rough
Guide (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2002).
69 Compare for example Jane Rendell, The Pursuit of Pleasure, to my ‘site-writings’.
See for example, Jane Rendell, ‘Travelling the Distance/Encountering the Other’,
in David Blamey (ed.), Here, There, Elsewhere: Dialogues on Location and Mobility
(London: Open Editions, 2002), 43–54; and Jane Rendell, ‘Writing in place of
speaking’, in Sharon Kivland and Lesley Sanderson (eds), Transmission: Speaking
and Listening, vol. 1, (Sheffield Hallam University and Site Gallery, 2002), 15–29.
70 Jane Rendell, Art and Architecture. See also Jane Rendell, ‘Critical Spatial Practice’
in Judith Rugg (ed.) New Curating Practices (Bristol: Intellect Books, 2009), for an
account of my collaborative work.
71 On art and site-specificity see for example, Alex Coles (ed.), Site Specificity: The
Ethnographic Turn (London: Black Dog Publishing, 2000); Nick Kaye, Site-Specific
Art: Performance, Place And Documentation (London: Routledge, 2000); and Miwon
Kwon, One Place After Another: Site Specific Art and Locational Identity (Cambridge,
MA: The MIT Press, 2002).
72 See Jane Rendell, Site-Writing: The Architecture of Art Criticism (London: IB
Taurus, 2010).
73 See Gloria AnzaldÚa. Borderlands/La Frontera: the New Mestiza. San Francisco:
Lute Books, 1999 and Hélene Cixous. ‘Sorties’. (trans. Betsy Wing) from Susan
Sellers (ed.). The Hélene Cixous Reader (London: Routledge, 1994).
74 See Mieke Bal, Louise Bourgeois’ Spider: The Architecture of Art–Writing (London
and Chicago: University of Chicago Press), 2001, xi. See also Norman Bryson,
‘Introduction: Art and Intersubjectivity’, in Mieke Bal, Looking in: The Art of
Viewing (Amsterdam: G+B International, 2001), 1-39, 12.
75 See Guiliana Bruno, Atlas of Emotion: Journeys in Art, Architecture and Film,
(London: Verso, 2002).
76 The significance Trinh T. Minh-ha assigns to the shift from speaking ‘about’ to
speaking ‘to’ has been stressed by Irit Rogoff who underscores how, instead
of taking power relationships to produce spatial locations, it is possible for a
change in position to advance a change in relation. See Irit Rogoff’s discussion of

Trinh T. Minh-ha’s assertion in Irit Rogoff, ‘Studying Visual Culture’, Nicholas
Mirzoeff (ed.), The Visual Culture Reader (London: Routledge, 1998), 14–26, 18.
77 See http://www.akad.se/progwri.htm. (AKAD: The Academy of for Practice-
based Research in Architecture and Design). See also Katja Grillner ‘The Halt at
the Door of the Boot-Shop’, in Katja Grillner, et al. (eds), 01.AKAD, (Stockholm:
AKAD and Axl Books, 2005); Katja Grillner, Writing and Landscape – Setting
Scenes for Critical Reflection in Jonathan Hill (ed.), Opposites Attract, Special Issue
of the Journal of Architecture, 2003, 8(2), 239-49 and Katja Grillner, Ramble, Linger
and gaze: Dialogues from the Landscape garden, PhD Dissertation 2000, KTH
Stockholm.
78 The role of the preposition is a personal fascination. For me, prepositions indicate
the importance of ‘position’ and ‘relation’ in the spatial encounter between the
critic and the art or architectural work. Michel Serres, for example, writes of the
angelic qualities of prepositions in terms of their role as messengers and their
transformational qualities. See Michel Serres, Angels: A Modern Myth (Paris:
Flammarion Press, 1995), 140–7.
79 Rolf Hughes, ‘The DROWNING METHOD: On Giving an Account in Practice-
Based Research’, Jane Rendell, Jonathan Hill, Murray Fraser and Mark Dorrian
(eds.) Critical Architecture (London: Routledge, 2007), 92-102. See also Rolf Hughes,
‘The Poetics of Practice-Based Research’, in Hilde Heynen (ed.), Unthinkable
Doctorates? Special Issue of The Journal of Architecture, 11(3), 2006, 283-301.
80 Katerina Bonnevier, Behind Straight Curtains: Towards a Queer Feminist Theory of
Architecture, PhD Dissertation 2007, KTH Stockholm (Stockholm: Axl Books, 2007).
81 See for example Dorita Hannah and Carol Brown, HER TOPIA: A Dance
Architecture Event, Duncan Dance Centre of Research in Greece (Athens, 2005).
82 Here I should note the work of practitioners and writers at the University of
Roehampton, such as P.A. Skantze, Emily Orley and Ella Finer, and Susan
Melrose, at the University of Middlesex.
83 See for example, Peggy Phelan, Unmarked: Politics of Performance (London:
Routledge, 1993) and Peggy Phelan, ‘To Suffer a Sea Change’, The Georgia Review
45(3) (Fall 1991) pp. 507-525.
84 Della Pollock, ‘Performing Writing’, Peggy Phelan and Jill Lane (eds) The Ends of
Performance (New York: New York University Press, 1998) pp. 73-103.
85 Butt (ed) After Criticism.
86 See for example Maria Fusco (ed.) ‘The Dream that Kicks: Transdisciplinary
Practice in Action’, special issue of a-n (Artists’ Newsletter) (London, 2006). See also
The Happy Hypocrite a new journal edited by Fusco.
87 See for example Brigid McLeer, ‘From ‘“A…” to “B…”: A Jealousy’, Peg Rawes
and Jane Rendell (eds) Spatial Imagination (London: The Bartlett School of
Architecture, UCL, 2005) pp. 22-23 and Ken Ehrlich and Brandon Labelle (eds)
Surface Tension Supplement, n. 1 (Copenhagen and Los Angeles: Errant Bodies
Press, 2006).
88 For alternative strategies of critical writing by poets and others, see for example,
Juliana Spahr, Mark Wallace, Kristen Prevallet and Pam Rehm (eds) A Poetics
of Criticism (Buffalo, New York: Leave Books, 1994). For an account of critics
exploring creativity in critical writing see Rob Pope, Textual Intervention: Critical
and Creative Stategies for Literary Studies (London: Routledge, 1995).

89 See for example Iain Biggs, Between Carterhaugh and Tamsheil Rig: A Borderline
Episode (Bristol: Wild Conversation Press, 2004) and Mike Pearson, In comes I:
Performance, Memory and Landscape (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2007).
90 See for example the work of Carolyn Bergvall, Redell Olsen and Kristen Krieder.
See Carolyn Bergvall, Éclat (pdf edition, ububooks, 2004) http://www.ubu.com/
ubu/bergvall_eclat.html; Carolyn Bergvall Fig (Cambridge: Salt Publishing,
2005); Redell Olsen, Book of the Fur (Cambridge: Rem Press, 2000); and Kristen
Krieder, ‘Toward a Material Poetics: Sign, Subject and Site’ (University of London,
unpublished PhD, 2008).
91 See the work of Sue Golding (Johnny de Philo) and Yves Lomax. See Sue Golding
(Johnny de Philo) Games of Truth: A Blood Poetics in Seven Part Harmony (this is me
speaking to you) an Inaugural Lecture delivered at the University of Greenwich, 27
March 2003; Yves Lomax, Writing the Image: An Adventure with Art and Theory
(London: I.B. Tauris, 2000); and Yves Lomax, Sounding the Event: Escapades in
Dialogue and Matters of Art, Nature and Time (London: I.B. Tauris, 2005).
92 See for example the recently published Architectural Theory Review, 15(3)
(December 2010) edited by Naomi Stead.
93 I teach ‘site- writing’ as part of the MA in Architectural History at the Bartlett
School of Architecture, UCL, and aspects of site-specific writing and poetics are
taught on the MA in Poetic Practice at Royal Holloway. See http://www.rhul.
ac.uk/english/studying/Postgraduate-Study/MA/PoeticPractice.html.
94 Mary Ann Caws, A Metapoetics of the Passage: Architextures in Surrealism and After
(Hanover and London: University Press of New England, 1981) p. xiv.
95 See http://www.swarch.co.uk/.
96 See Ana Araujo, Jane Rendell and Jonathan Hill (eds) Pattern, special issue of
HAECCEITY (2007).
97 See for example, Peg Rawes, ‘Plenums: Re-thinking Matter, Geometry and
Subjectivity’, in Katie Lloyd Thomas, Material Matters: Architecture and Material
Practice (London: Routledge, 2007), 55-66 and Peg Rawes, Irigarary for Architects,
(London: Routledge, 2007). See also Katie Lloyd Thomas, ‘Going Into the Mould:
Process and materials in the architectural specification’ in Radical Philosophy, 144
(July/August 2007) and Katie Lloyd Thomas ‘Specifications: Writing Materials in
Architecture and Philosophy’ in ARQ, 8(3-4), (2004).
98 Here I am aware of the important work currently undertaken by feminist
architects such as Sasa Lada at the School of Architecture, Aristotle University of
Thessaloniki and those working in the Department of Architecture at METU.
99 Karen Burns, ‘Of Murmurings and Muses: Luce Irigarary and Architecture’,
keynote presentation at Whirlwinds (chaired by Jane Rendell), Sexuate Subjects:
Politics, Poetics, Ethics, conference held at UCL, 3-5 December 2010.
100 See for example, http://www.fawcettsociety.org.uk/index.asp?PageID=1198
(accessed 21 January 2010).
3
Inventing Feminist Practices: Women and Building in

Fin-de-Siècle Berlin
Despina Stratigakos
Agnes Hacker knew a great deal about women’s bodies. As one of Germany’s
first practicing female surgeons, she performed hundreds of operations on
female patients and fought for improved medical treatment for women.1 In
1908, she opened a small surgery clinic for women in Berlin, staffed by female
doctors, who were barred from practicing in public hospitals.
Despite the clinic’s immediate success, Hacker envisioned something
better, grander: a private hospital dedicated to female patients and run
entirely by female doctors.2 Small clinics, she and others warned, could not
accommodate the growing number of female patients seeking their help.3 An
expansion and centralization of services within a larger hospital facility would
better serve the medical needs of the city’s female residents.4 It would also
save lives by offering women an alternative to the often humiliating treatment
they received in public hospitals. Faced with the prospect, for example, of
being examined by a room full of male interns, some women avoided seeking
medical attention until it was too late.5 The pursuit of a women’s hospital thus
expressed the desire to create a protective, dignified space for the female body.
In 1908, Hacker founded an association dedicated to building the hospital and
its members included many luminaries of the women’s movement.6 Money
for the project was raised from private donors, such as Ottilie von Hansemann,
the wealthy widow of the Berlin banker Adolph von Hansemann (who co-
founded the Deutsche Bank), as well as through public fund-raising events.
These events included an art exhibition, concerts, and a lecture series with
distinguished guest speakers such as Georg Simmel and Heinrich Wölfflin.7
With funds rapidly accumulating, the association asked Emilie Winkelmann
to draw up plans for the hospital.8 The first woman architect to open an
office in Berlin in 1907, Winkelmann became the leading designer for the
women’s movement, contributing to numerous feminist-sponsored building
projects in her firm’s first decade of business. Hacker, as chairperson of the
women’s hospital association, insisted on the importance of hiring a woman
3.1 Sick ward in the women’s surgery clinic in Schöneberg, Berlin, 1910. Source: Eliza Ichenhaeuser,
“Weibliche Arzte [sic] und Frauenkrankenhäuser unter Leitung weiblicher Ärzte,” Die Welt der Frau 39
(1910), 613.
architect. Every part of the project, she asserted, from the operating theater
to the drafting board, must be controlled by women in order to demonstrate
to a skeptical German public the enormous capacities of the female sex.9
Moreover, a female architect could be counted on to better understand her
clients’ needs for a gender-responsive built environment. Whether through
instinct or experience, a woman was expected to design differently.10
This chapter explores the feminist building practices developed by women
patrons and architects active in Berlin in the years leading up to the First
World War. I present their work with two intentions. The first is to contribute
to the recovery of radical practices in architecture that often elude mainstream
histories. This involves shifting the focus from architectural discourses on
gender, which I have examined elsewhere, to building practices, including
organizational and financial strategies.11 Nonetheless, such practices, as we
will see, are informed by contemporary discourses on gender. My second
intention is to enable the reader of this volume to compare the concerns
and methods of women who pioneered feminist interventions in the built
inventing feminist practices 59
3.2 Emilie
Winkelmann,
c. 1890
environment a century ago with those of practitioners today who continue

to seek a similarly radical engagement. This awareness of continuities and
differences is vitally important, allowing us to historicize and contextualize
the concept of feminist practice and thereby add depth and nuance to our
understanding of its complexity across time and cultures.
From Dallas to Berlin, urban landscapes were transformed at the turn of
the twentieth century by a new type of builder: women.12 As patrons and
3.3 A female architects, women intervened in the built environment to give form to a novel
photographer vision of urban living. They did so partly in physical terms, erecting structures,
high above
creating spaces, and occupying terrains. From residences to restaurants,
Berlin, c. 1910.
Source: schools to exhibition halls, a visible network of women’s spaces arose to
Bildarchiv accommodate changing patterns of life and work. Alongside this material
Preussischer transformation emerged a visionary encounter: the reimagination of the city
Kulturbesitz/ by women seeking a distinctly modern and “feminine” urban experience. In
Art Resource,
cultural productions ranging from literature to clothing, women expressed
New York.
a new relationship between themselves and their city, one that emphasized
freedom of movement and empowerment in space. Interweaving the
imaginary and the physical, they began to remake the city in the image of the
dynamic New Woman.
An extraordinary photograph taken in 1910 succinctly captured her
exhilarating ascent. A female photographer stands daringly on the railing
of a construction crane recording Berlin’s shifting urban landscape beneath
her. The image evokes the brave new horizons then opening up to the New
Woman, who sought a life beyond the parlor, and positions her as a symbol
of the modern city – the photographer not only records, but also embodies
change.
Female builders in Berlin looked to parallel developments in Western
countries, and particularly to England and the United States, to shape
their conception of the New Woman and her architecture. While part of a
broader phenomenon of women taking space, Berlin nonetheless represents
a singularly important case study. To a degree not seen elsewhere, an

unprecedented amount of building by women produced a more fully
realized conception of an alternative metropolis. Various factors coincided
in the imperial period (1871-1918) to make this possible: Berlin’s debut as a
global capital, the integration of the architectural profession by women, and
the appearance of a large urban population of single independent women. A
fourth and crucial factor was the growing financial strength of the women’s
movement and the willingness of its leaders to invest those resources in
the built environment. Beginning to coalesce in the late nineteenth century
and peaking in the years before the First World War, these combined forces
created the desire for, and the ability to partially realize, a radically different
metropolis that would redefine the way women imagined and experienced
their lives. And it was primarily to women architects that feminists looked for
the physical creation of this new, gendered city.13
By 1914, women’s associations in Berlin had turned to female designers
to plan, in addition to the hospital, a residential center for female university
students, women’s clubhouses, a colony for retired “career girls,” women’s
exhibition and commercial spaces, and a series of apartment buildings for
single professional women. Men were hired for similar projects – for example,
in 1911, Paul Mebes designed an apartment complex for single female teachers
– but women architects earned the lion’s share of such commissions. At a
time when the civil service, the largest employer of architects in Germany,
remained closed to women, the opportunity to create innovative large-scale
projects for the women’s movement represented an important professional
boost for female designers.
The admission of women to German technical institutes, starting in 1905,
prompted a debate on the gendered nature of the architect and women’s
capacity to function in the role. Arguments for and against female builders
reached a wide audience in publications ranging from professional journals
to popular magazines and career guidebooks for girls. Both supporters and
opponents agreed that women brought different qualities to the job, and
therefore would produce a different kind of architecture. A key point in this
respect involved the role of the client: both detractors and proponents of
women architects believed that clients would be more involved with a woman
architect on the job. To those who upheld the ideal of the architect as a free-
spirited, independent genius, the client’s intrusion threatened the integrity
of the work.14 Supporters of women architects, by contrast, asserted that
collaboration promoted design better suited to the clients’ needs.15 For women
struggling to define themselves as architectural clients and still unsure of their
spatial identities and needs, such sensitivity on the part of the designer held
enormous appeal.
Housing represented an area of particularly fruitful collaboration between
female patrons and architects. Women’s adoption of new lifestyles necessitated
a shift in existing domestic forms. When, for example, women earned the right
to matriculate at German universities after the turn of the century, the lack
3.4 View in 1916 of the Victoria Studienhaus, designed by Emilie Winkelmann. The building still stands
today at Otto-Suhr-Allee 18-20 in Berlin. Source: Postcard Collection of the Zentrum für Berlin-Studien,
Zentral- und Landesbibliothek Berlin.
of housing for female students created a new impediment to study. Unlike

English residential colleges or many American campuses, German universities
did not provide dormitories. The types of accommodation available to male
students were either inaccessible or considered inappropriate for women.
Most young men let a room in a private residence, a form popularly known as
the student Bude. The Bude symbolized the liberties associated with university
study, including drinking and sexual experimentation (with prostitutes,
waitresses, maids, and other morally dubious women). In the years before the
First World War, the Bude increasingly came under attack as an unhygienic
form of living and a dangerously sexualized space. Innocent young men,
reformers warned, were corrupted by landladies who justified astronomical
rents by offering their daughters in the bargain, and bright futures were lost
when they were forced to marry low-class women they had made pregnant
in their Buden.16 With this kind of reputation, even the most liberal supporters
of women’s higher education found it “unimaginable” to associate a young
German woman with a student Bude.17
The Victoria Lyceum – the first institution in Berlin to offer academic
courses, though not degrees, to women – took the initiative in responding
to this housing crisis.18 In 1915, the board of trustees opened the Victoria 3.5 View of
Studienhaus in Berlin, a residential center for female university students.19 the garden and
rear façade of
If unbounded liberty and the pursuit of pleasure constituted the tenets of
the Victoria
the Bude, radically different ideals of university life guided the conception Studienhaus,
of the Victoria Studienhaus. Indeed, in the absence of women’s colleges in c. 1930. Source:
Germany, as then existed in the United States and England, the Victoria From an undated
Studienhaus played an important role in defining the collegiate experience for brochure in the
collection of the
German women. As part of that process, Ottilie Fleer, who would become the
Heimatmuseum
residence’s first director, visited over 40 colleges and universities in Europe Charlottenburg-
to gather information on the academic and housing conditions of female Wilmersdorf.
students. She also attended female student conferences in Germany, held
in 1912 and 1913, to listen to what young women had to say on the topic.20
This research was funded by Ottilie von Hansemann, a staunch supporter
of women’s higher education and also a benefactor of the women’s hospital.
From this period of intense deliberation, a vision emerged of a residential
center for female student life. With Hansemann’s financial sponsorship and
capital from the Victoria Lyceum, the dream assumed built form.21
As their architect, the board of trustees selected Winkelmann, who
must have seemed an ideal candidate: beyond her expertise in domestic
architecture, which had received considerable critical acclaim, she had
personally experienced the difficulties of academic life for young women.22
For the Victoria Studienhaus, she created a novel form of architecture in
3.6 One of Berlin, the closest thing the city had to an American-style college campus.
the residence’s On the limited space of a city plot in Charlottenburg, she designed a hook-
communal living
shaped building that incorporated an auditorium, classrooms, living and
rooms designed
by Winkelmann, reading rooms, a dining hall, library, darkroom, art studios, a gym, and 96
c. 1916. Source: single rooms for students. A secluded garden, dining terrace, and sports area
Landesarchiv were located at the rear of the building.23
Berlin. Winkelmann’s aesthetic choices reveal a desire to find an architectural
language that would speak to the aspirations and desired public image of the
inhabitants. The building’s exterior evoked the architecture of the second half
of the eighteenth century, the period in which neoclassicism was ascendant
in Berlin and other European cities. By robing the facades in neoclassical
forms, the architect alluded to the Enlightenment and its emphasis on reason
and secular learning, a heritage claimed by the young women of the Victoria
Studienhaus. Numerous architectural examples in Berlin, including the
university and art museums, linked classicism to higher intellectual pursuits.
By drawing parallels through a shared classical language, the Victoria
Studienhaus partnered itself visually with these state institutions of public
education. In the interior, the monumental classicism of the residence’s public
face gave way to the intimacies of Biedermeier. Flourishing in Austria and
3.7 A student
room in
the Victoria
Studienhaus,
1916. Source:
Landesarchiv
Berlin.
Germany from the early to mid-nineteenth century, Biedermeier represented

an unpretentious style of living centered on the bourgeoisie and the home.
It also evoked the grand era of the Berlin Salonnière. The salon, a distinctly
feminine and domestic form, helped shape a new realm of heterogeneous
social discourse that philosopher Jürgen Habermas identifies as the bourgeois
public sphere.24 It also represented an institution of self-cultivation for women,
who welcomed the public worlds of learning, culture, and politics into their
homes.25 One can easily imagine the symbolic appeal of the Salonnière for a
project such as the Victoria Studienhaus.
3.8 Dining on the terrace, c. 1930. By the time this photograph was taken, vegetation had softened the
severity of the Victoria Studienhaus’s neoclassical architecture. Source: From an undated brochure in the
collection of the Heimatmuseum Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf.
The project’s patrons and supporters, expressing their views in newspaper

and journal articles, praised the architect for creating a real home for female
students, a physically healthier and spiritually loftier alternative to the
student Bude. Like a good mother, who leaves her moral imprint on the
malleable character of a child, Winkelmann’s building was credited with
creating an environment that compelled its young residents to live up to
the highest moral standards, in direct contrast to the degrading setting of
the male Bude.26 In these comments, we hear echoes of arguments made by
bourgeois feminists at the time about women’s moral superiority. Women,
they argued, were inherently more nurturing, ethical, and spiritually minded
than men. Champions of the Victoria Studienhaus implied that these gender-
specific moral aspects also attached themselves to the gendered creations of
the architect.
Winkelmann received further accolades for her sensitive attention to
individuality. A common housing complaint of single women in this period
concerned the anonymity of pensions and rented rooms. Avoiding institutional
overtones, the architect fostered a sense of individual style by creating 96
different rooms: none were alike in decoration or furniture, all of which
Winkelmann designed herself. Moreover, each room had a mini-vestibule
with double doors that insured privacy, even as the building’s abundance of
communal spaces encouraged social interaction. The communal rooms on the
ground floor were not particularly large, and the arrangement of furniture
broke up the space into intimate clusters. The dining hall was set with small
tables and was divided into indoor and outdoor sections. This combination of
privacy and sociability was consistently cited by female patrons as imperative
to the housing needs of single women, who wanted to protect their hard-won
independence without paying for it with isolation and loneliness.
Similar client concerns dominated designs for two further residential
projects for single women developed in Berlin prior to the First World War:
a model apartment building for the New Woman, who, foregoing marriage
and children for a professional career, was compelled to rethink traditional
patterns of domestic life; and, as she entered her sunset years, a housing
settlement for her retirement. As with the women’s hospital and the Victoria
Studienhaus, the patrons of these two housing projects used building as a
tool of identity politics, insisted on collaborative forms of design, and focused
attention on an architectural ethic of freedom and choice. However, in the
case of the apartment building and retirement colony, the patrons’ feminist
practices extended to their methods of financing and, in particular, to the
creation of women’s building cooperatives, in which women architects played
an important role.
According to prevalent social norms in imperial Germany, middle-class
women exchanged their parents’ residence for a marital abode. Unmarried
career women seeking an autonomous domestic existence had no place in this
formulation. While initially a formidable social constraint, this homelessness,
which demanded the creation of alternatives, was simultaneously liberating.
Experiments with new forms of same-sex residences emerged in response to
a growing desire among single women to reconfigure domestic identities.
While single women insisted on their independence, their notion of privacy
became intertwined with the idea of an empowering communality; women
sought a space of their own but not solitude.
Writing in 1913 for a women’s guidebook to Berlin, Margarete Pochhammer,
a journalist, noted the dearth of choices confronting single career women
looking for accommodation in the city. Reputable pensions were expensive
and the transitory character of their clientele undermined the sense of a
genuine home life. The option of renting a room or apartment of one’s own
was considered morally suspect, leading to “uncomfortable situations and
false judgments.” The necessity of a respectable address and the expense
of setting up a “proper” household meant that such accommodations were
unaffordable for many middle-class women.27 Nor were single rooms or
apartments easy to find, since landlords were reluctant to rent to single
women for fear it would damage the reputation of their building and because
of women’s reputation as burdensome tenants. Indeed, many Berlin rental
contracts stipulated the landlord’s refusal to rent to women. As a result, they
often had to settle for the dark, cramped spaces located at the back of buildings
that men refused. Women who rented furnished rooms complained of the
lack of freedom to decorate, the landlord’s disregard for their privacy, and the
constant fear that they would be evicted for a better paying tenant. The least
popular option available to single women were institutional-type homes,
often run by religious organizations. Their strict rules and mass anonymity
appealed little to women who had struggled, and often paid a high price, for
their personal freedom.
Women’s attempts to rethink domestic arrangements were embedded
within broader discourses about the form of the modern bourgeois family.
The search for new types of same-sex communities tended to redefine home
life along more voluntary, egalitarian lines. Whereas the traditional family
abode sheltered a group united by ties of matrimony and blood and organized
according to authoritarian principles, the new domestic forms pioneered by
single career women envisioned peership, friendship, and community as
their foundation. While gender constituted a central factor in defining these
new bonds, other aspects, such as class, age, and professional interests, also
played an important role.
In 1911, the Association for Modern Women’s Apartments was founded
in Berlin as a mediating agency that helped bring together single educated
women who wished to form communal households. Its guiding principle was
the formation of “hearth collectives” (Herdgenossenschaften), apartments
shared by several women. The association acted as a matchmaker for tenants:
women could register their wishes (regarding area, price, and roommates)
at the office, or come to the association’s meetings and be introduced to one
another. Women were encouraged to build their hearth collectives around
a similarity of life experiences.28 In addition to social advantages, this
arrangement was economical: by sharing kitchen, bath, and other communal
rooms, residents had access to more comfortable facilities at a lower cost
than they would renting alone. Sharing housework also reduced the need for
servants.
While the association initially rented apartments, it expected that private
builders would step forth to design residences specifically for hearth
collectives as demand for this new form of housing increased. By 1914,
however, the association had shifted from relying on the private market to its
own initiative. In order to heighten public interest in a planned residence, it
issued two series of colored promotional stamps. The first series pictured six
women in different professions. The second series illustrated the proposed
building, including views of the exterior, an interior common space, and
different sides of a furnished room.29 The themes of the two series interwove
the modernity of the New Woman with that of architecture – a juxtaposition
that would become widespread in the Weimar era, which twinned the Neue
Frau with the Neues Bauen. Yet the Wilhelmine example was far more radical
in its conception of the occupant: her unconventional, to some heretical, way
of living became the foundation on which to build. Although architects of the
1920s accommodated the needs of the New Woman – through, for example,
communal laundries or efficient kitchens – they ultimately intended to create

better and happier housewives.30
The Association for Modern Women’s Apartments spawned a limited
liability cooperative, the Women’s Apartment Cooperative Limited, to
oversee construction of the new buildings.31 Buildings cooperatives were a
recent phenomenon in Germany, appearing around the turn of the century
in response to the chronic inability of the private market to produce good,
affordable housing.32 Share certificates in the women’s cooperative cost 200
Marks and could be paid for in monthly installments as low as three Marks,
so that even those with little money could join. Representatives on the
cooperative’s board of directors suggest the peculiar confluence of interests
sparked by this housing experiment. Among them were Hedwig Rüdiger,
the president of the powerful Association of Female Postal and Telegraph
Employees, noted ethnologist Caecilie Seler-Sachs, and Elisabeth von
Knobelsdorff, the first woman to earn an architectural degree in Germany.33
Knobelsdorff may have been the architect responsible for creating the building
prototype.
An article from 1916 described the design of the proposed buildings, which
were to be located in various districts of Berlin. The upper floors incorporated
studios for women artists, as well as one-room apartments that carefully
maximized the comfort and utility of their small spaces. Larger, self-contained
apartments to be shared by several women were planned for the lower stories.
Visiting, music, and reading rooms for common use were located on the ground
floor, as was a larger apartment for two women who operated a canteen for
residents not wishing to cook.34 This urban project – mixing domestic, work,
and public spaces; designed for female professionals, possibly by a woman
architect; and funded by a women’s building cooperative – was unique not
only within Berlin but also internationally. Similar projects, established on
a for-profit basis and designed by male architects, had begun to appear in
London in the late 1880s, the most famous of which was Sloane Gardens
House.35 As with other ventures, Berlin women pushed both the social and
economic implications of such precedents further by seeking all-female (or
nearly all-female) productions. Unfortunately, the project was never realized,
perhaps because of the advent of war or financial difficulties. Nevertheless,
this collaborative undertaking, which united an ethnologist and an architect,
among others, opened up new ways to imagine the single woman’s home life.
While numerous housing initiatives in this period sought to address the
needs of single women active in the work world, one contemporary project
turned its attention to the architectural and life trajectories of this pioneering
generation of New Women. A coalition of women’s professional organizations,
which brought together teachers, nurses, musicians, and home economists,
launched a cooperative to erect a housing colony for retired career women
near Berlin.
This project similarly represents the search for novel architectural forms
to accommodate a new social type: the retired “career girl.” In Germany, the
3.9 Street façade of the Haus in der Sonne, designed by Emilie Winkelmann. The current address of
the building is Hermann-Maass-Strasse 18-20 in Potsdam. Source: Else von Boetticher, “Heimstätten für
Frauen,” Berliner Frauenclub von 1900 3(10) (1915), 6.
years preceding the First World War witnessed a generation of bourgeois

women who had begun careers in the last quarter of the nineteenth century
approach retirement age. With only modest pensions to support themselves,
they worried that a comfortable retirement would elude them. Nor did they
feel any attraction to traditional retirement homes run by religious and
charitable organizations. The new retiree wanted to retain in her old age the
independence that she had struggled to gain in her youth; she also wished to
be with others who understood her life experiences. Above all, she sought an
environment that she could shape to reflect her needs and tastes.36
From the start, the cooperative struggled to finance its ambitious program.
Membership, acquired through the purchase of share certificates, grew
more slowly than anticipated. In December 1912, when the cooperative was
legally registered, it had only 90 members, a number insufficient to carry
out its plans.37 Moreover, most of these shareholders were retired women, a
group with limited capital. Desperate appeals went out in the women’s press
to increase membership beyond this circle so that funds could accumulate
and construction begin. Women still active in their careers were told that
duty, as well as their own self-interest, compelled them to help their aging
colleagues.38 Ella Mensch, editor of a women’s magazine, played on different
sympathies, based perhaps on her own experiences as a teacher. She entreated

wealthy women who depended on female teachers to educate their children,
whether as private tutors, school teachers, or music instructors, to repay this
debt by supporting the cooperative.39 Ultimately, however, it was professional
associations that came to the rescue. They possessed not only the requisite
capital reserves but also members anxious to see the residences completed.
A Berlin association that trained female home economics teachers donated
5,000 Marks, and the national pension institute for male and female teachers
provided a mortgage to construct the first house.40
Compared with this slow financial start, attracting tenants was no problem;
indeed, most apartments were rented before construction was completed.41
Eligible residents were members of the cooperative, retired from professional
service, and solvent. Although rents were low relative to the private market,
a minimum income requirement made clear that the cooperative would not
and could not function as a charity.42 In return for fulfilling their contractual
obligations, tenants were guaranteed never to be issued an eviction notice.
Such security was dear to women who, as noted above, lived with the constant
fear of being turned out for a better paying tenant.
Two architects, a man and a woman, submitted drawings for the project,
and it was the latter, Emilie Winkelmann, who received the commission.43
She had been involved from the earliest stages, participating in the working
committee that devised the initial plans for the cooperative and, in February
1912, displaying a model of the future home that was seen by thousands of
visitors to a monumental exhibition of women’s work held in Berlin.44 Her
qualifications for the job were indisputable. Beyond her extensive experience
designing residences, she was familiar with the proposed location of the
project in the villa district of Neubabelsberg (near Potsdam), having built a
cottage and studio there for two female artists, Margot and Adele Grupe, in
1909. In addition to her professional acumen, Winkelmann may have brought
a personal interest to the project. As a single career woman, then in her late
thirties, she was in the unusual position of creating what might have been her
own retirement home. The experiment in living was directly relevant to her
own life choices.
The complex, named the House in the Sun, opened in June 1914 and
included a villa-style residence, vacation house, and dining hall. Located on a
wooded plot, the buildings nestled among tall pine trees, which were carefully
preserved by the architect. The concern with nature’s restorative effects,
evident in the location and planning of the site, attests to the influence of the
garden city movement in England. Its founder, Ebenezer Howard, advocated
the creation of self-sufficient communities located in rural settings as a means
to improve the quality of life for those living in congested, overcrowded
cities. Seizing on these new ideas in urban planning, the project’s patrons
hoped to make the benefits of a healthy environment available to elderly
women beyond Berlin. Although the House in the Sun was modest in scale,
its creators intended it to serve as a prototype for the eventual expansion
3.10 Interior of a two-room apartment in the Haus in der Sonne, 1926. Source: Photograph by W.
Herrmann. From Dora Martin, “Heim der Genossenschaft für Frauenheimstätten,” Frau und Gegenwart
40 (1926), 9.
of a network of women’s retirement colonies across Germany.45 As with

the Victoria Studienhaus, Winkelmann’s design attended to the desired
interweaving of community and independence, and particularly to issues of
choice. Communal services, such as the dining hall, were optional, and such
spaces were made to feel homey rather than institutional. The main residence,
which adopted the appearance of a single family home, offered self-contained
apartments with design features that could be varied by the occupant, such as
a loggia with retractable windows that disappeared into the ledge, allowing
each occupant to transform the space as desired from a completely open
balcony to a sheltered sun room, with a range of variations in between.46
Every inhabitant, furthermore, was free to select her own décor.
A cacophony of styles resulted: “Modern artistic taste or old-fashioned
comfort rule in the different rooms, each according to the character of its
resident.”47 The liberty to decorate according to one’s own taste represented a
much valued freedom to women who, having spent years in rented furnished
rooms, had hitherto been constrained in this form of personal expression.
In this context, being able to hang a picture one had chosen or decorate as
one wished was deeply meaningful, indeed, even politically significant.
What would have been anathema to many architects of this period – stylistic
anarchy – was celebrated here as the measure of true independence.
The image of the woman architect to emerge from the favorable press
surrounding such projects, much of it generated by the patrons and clients
themselves, emphasized her unique ability to understand women’s needs and
desires. It also promoted the advantages of a collaborative design approach,
a client-centered perspective that the architect Otto Bartning dismissed in his
contemporary writings as the source of “weak” and “feminine” architecture.48
At a time when many male architects adamantly opposed the entry of women
into the profession, having one’s strengths defined as differences threatened
to deepen the perceived gender divide. Thus, on the rare occasion when
Winkelmann wrote about her own work and the opportunities facing women
architects, she insisted that women’s capacities were indistinguishable
from those of men: all that mattered was talent, not gender. Elisabeth von
Knobelsdorff similarly insisted that, in a professional capacity, she was an
architect first and a woman second. Significantly, Knobelsdorff seized the
opening created by the outbreak of the First World War to enter government
service, leaving behind her work for private female patrons.49 Thus, while there
is no doubt that an old girl network nurtured the careers of women architects,
and that the collaborations before the war between female architects and
patrons resulted in significant experimental projects, the question remains
as to the degree to which such collaborations were based on economic and
professional necessity for the designers themselves. Ironically, greater political
freedom in the Weimar era brought them less, not more, work. With the legal
establishment of equal rights for women in the 1919 Weimar constitution, the
feminist network that had arisen in response to disenfranchisement largely
disappeared. The war brought an end to many of its architectural projects,
including the women’s hospital, and these were not revived by the politically
debilitated and financially impoverished bourgeois women’s movement
that emerged in the postwar period. Despite the massive housing projects
undertaken during the Weimar Republic, women architects were unable to
capitalize on their previous experience with experimental housing, because
the old boy network continued to function much as it had before the war.
Winkelmann downsized her office and survived on small commissions.
Knobelsdorff was laid off by the government soon after the war, retired, and
moved to Boston. A younger generation of female architects, while enjoying
new opportunities for study at institutions such as the Bauhaus, rarely had
access to monumental building projects. Despite guarantees of sexual equality
in the constitution, women architects discovered that the Weimar Republic
defined them more than ever by their gender.50
In comparing feminist practices today with those of the past, we recognize
commonalities and differences, gains and losses. Female designers and patrons
working in Berlin a century ago paid attention to the dignity of the female body,
which was construed not as an issue of cloistering, but rather as one of freedom
– women decided when they wanted to be visible or not – and comfort. They
recognized the importance of built form in exploring and sustaining alternative

identities and lifestyles. This stemmed from a conviction that architecture was
fundamentally ethical in nature, as illustrated by the expectations that the
Victoria Studienhaus would elevate and inspire its inhabitants. This did not
imply, however, a dictatorial approach: to the contrary, ethical architecture
emerged from a dialog that explored the client’s best nature and needs.
Thus, extensive research on housing conditions and discussions with female
students laid the basis for Winkelmann’s designs. Above all, feminist practice
in this period meant a respect for choice – both in the built forms and the life
they made possible – that enabled a balance between the individual and the
collective, the private and the public. Financial strategies emphasizing self-
help nurtured such freedom in design while also allowing the participation of
individuals who might otherwise lack the resources to build.
Today, architects engaged in feminist practices continue to explore
inclusive design that gives voice to alternative lifestyles and socially and
economically marginalized groups. Their work pays attention to human (and
animal) bodies, values collaboration with clients, and is concerned with ethical
building, particularly with regard to traditional patterns of human interaction
and the integrity of the natural environment. These aspects of practice,
however, are less closely tied to gender than they were in the preceding
century. That is not to say that gender has been superseded in the definition
of a feminist architecture, but rather that it has become one of a broader nexus
of variables that defines the differences of that practice. Women architects
and patrons active in Berlin at the turn of the twentieth century employed
feminist practices to create space for themselves in a mainstream that denied
their presence. Today, architects employ feminist practices to challenge the
very nature of the mainstream itself.
Decoupling feminist practice from gender allows a more diverse and
inclusive pool of practitioners to identify in this manner. It also frees female
architects from the expectation that they will, by nature or socialization, practice
differently. While dissolving potentially limiting boundaries, these shifts are
not without risks, as other scholars and activists have pointed out with regard
to the demise of identity politics.51 Women remain an architecturally marginal
group, both as users and practitioners. While one would not welcome a return
to the factionalized professional and building politics of a century ago, there is
no denying that women in imperial Berlin managed to create unprecedented
and, to some extent, unsurpassed architectural possibilities for themselves.
And this was possible not only because of feminist practices among designers,
but importantly, also among patrons. If history teaches us one thing in terms
of feminist practice, it is the necessity of that collaboration. 100 years ago,
women, whether rich or poor, were ready to pay for an architecture that
granted them greater freedoms. Feminist practice today needs the economic
commitment of individuals and groups, whatever their gender identification,
who are unwilling to live with the status quo.
List of References
Albisetti, James C. 1988. Schooling German Girls and Women: Secondary and Higher
Education in the Nineteenth Century. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
“A.P.” 1915. “Das Viktoria-Studienhaus: Ein neues Studentinnenheim in
Charlottenburg,” Neue Bahnen 50(18), 142-143.
“A.S.” 1914. “Das Haus in der Sonne,” P.F.H. II Zeitung, January issue, 19-20.
Bartning, Otto. 1911. “Sollen Damen bauen?” Die Welt der Frau (Gartenlaube) 40, 625-
626.
Behnisch-Kappstein, Anna. 1916. “Wohnung und Frau,” Die Welt der Frau 24, 380-381.
Boetticher, Else von. 1915. “Heimstätten für Frauen,” Berliner Frauenclub von 1900
3(10), 5-7.
Bullock, Nicholas and James Read. 1985. The Movement for Housing Reform in Germany
and France,1840-1914. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Crawford, Elizabeth. 2002. Enterprising Women: The Garretts and Their Circle. London:
Francis Boutle.
“Das Heim unsrer Studentinnen: Haus Ottilie von Hansemann.” Berlin. 1916. Daheim
52(47), 23-24.
Deutsch, Sarah. 2000. Women and the City: Gender, Space, and Power in Boston, 1870-
1940. New York: Oxford University Press.
“Die Genossenschaft ‘Die Frauenwohnung’ E.G.m.b.H.” 1914. Frauenkapital – eine
werdende Macht 21, 18.
“Die Vereinigung für Frauenwohnungen.” 1914. Frauenkapital – eine werdende Macht 5
Geschäftliche Notizen section, 20.
Enstam, Elizabeth York. 1998. Women and the Creation of Urban Life: Dallas, Texas, 1843-
1920. College Station: Texas A&M University Press.
Faubel, Louise. 1916. “Das Viktoria-Studienhaus in Berlin.” Die deutsche Frau 6(24),
2-3.
“Fest-Zeitung zum 25 jährigen Jubiläum von Fräulein Martin.” 1917. Archiv
Pestalozzi-Fröbel-Haus, Berlin.
Flanagan, Maureen A. 2002. Seeing with their Hearts: Chicago Women and the Vision of the
Good City, 1871-1933. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
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Nachrichtenblatt Haus Ottilie von Hansemann, Victoria-Studienhaus 26, 1-11.
“Frauenheimstätten.” 1913. P.F.H. II Zeitung, July issue, 8-10.
“Genossenschaft für Frauenheimstätten.” 1913. Die Frau 20(4), 248.
“Genossenschaft für Frauenheimstätten: Sitz Berlin.” 1913. Frauenwirtschaft 4(2), 46-47.
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“Heimgenossenschaft für Frauen.” 1912. Die Frau 20(1), 55.
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the Frankfurt Kitchen,” in Architecture and Feminism. Edited by Debra Coleman,
Elizabeth Danze, and Carol Henderson. New York: Princeton Architectural Press,
221-253.
“Hilfskomitee des Deutschen Lyceum-Clubs.” 1913. Deutscher Lyceum Club:
Mitteilungen für die Mitglieder 9(11), 414.
Hoesch, Kristin. 1995. Ärztinnen für Frauen: Kliniken in Berlin, 1877-1914. Stuttgart: J.B.
Metzler.
Hoesch, Kristin. 1993. “Eine Ärztin der zweiten Generation: Agnes Hacker: Chirurgin,
Pädagogin, Politikerin,” in Weibliche Ärzte: Die Durchsetzung des Berufsbildes in
Deutschland, edited by Eva Brinkschulte. Berlin: Edition Hentrich, 58-64.
Ichenhaeuser, Eliza. 1910. “Weibliche Arzte [sic] und Frauenkrankenhäuser unter
Leitung weiblicher Ärzte,” Die Welt der Frau 39, 611-614.
Lange, Helene. 1916. “Das Berliner Victoria-Studienhaus,” Die Frau 23(6), 339-342.
Lloyd, Mora. 2005. Beyond Identity Politics: Feminism, Power and Politics. London: Sage.
Martin, Dora. 1926. “Heim der Genossenschaft für Frauenheimstätten,” Frau und
Gegenwart 40, 9-10.
Meehan, Johanna, ed. 1995. Feminists Read Habermas: Gendering the Subject of Discourse.
New York: Routledge.
M[ensch], E[lla]. 1914. “Das Haus in der Sonne,” Frauenkapital – eine werdende Macht
24, 18-19.
“Mitteilung, betreffend die Vorarbeiten zur Gründung einer Heimgenossenschaft
für aus dem Beruf geschiedene gebildete Frauen.” 1912. P. F. H. II Zeitung,
“Probenummer” issue, 23-24.
Pearson, Lynn. 1988. The Architectural and Social History of Cooperative Living. New
York: St. Martin’s.
Pochhammer, Margarete. 1913. “Berliner Wohnungsverhältnisse,” in Was die Frau von
Berlin wissen muss: Ein praktisches Frauenbuch für Einheimische und Fremde. Edited
by Eliza Ichenhaeuser. Berlin: Loesdau, 231-238.
Rappaport, Erika Diane. 2000. Shopping for Pleasure: Women in the Making of London’s
West End. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.
Ryan, Mary P. 1992. “Gender and Public Access: Women’s Politics in Nineteenth
Century America,” in Habermas and the Public Sphere, edited by Craig Calhoun.
Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 143-163.
Sonnenschein, Carl. 1911. Wie Studenten Wohnen. Flugschriften des Sekretariats
Sozialer Studentenarbeit, no. 2. Mönchengladbach: Volksvereins-Druckerei.
Spain, Daphne. 2001. How Women Saved the City. Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press.
Stratigakos, Despina. 2009. “The Bobbed Builder: Women Architects in the Weimar
Republic,” in Essays on Women’s Artistic and Cultural Contributions 1919-1939:
Expanded Social Roles for the New Woman Following the First World War. Edited by
Paula Birnbaum and Anna Novakov. Ceredigion: Edwin Mellen Press, 203-216.
Stratigakos, Despina. 2008. A Women’s Berlin: Building the Modern City. Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press.
Stratigakos, Despina. 2008. “The Good Architect and the Bad Parent: On the
Formation and Disruption of a Canonical Image,” Journal of Architecture 13(3),
283-296.
Stratigakos, Despina. 2007. “The Professional Spoils of War: German Women
Architects and World War I,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 66(4),
464-475.
Stratigakos, Despina. 2007. “‘I Myself Want to Build’: Women, Architectural
Education and the Integration of Germany’s Technical Colleges,” Paedagogica
Historica 43(6), 727-256.
Stratigakos, Despina. 2003. “Women and the Werkbund: Gender Politics and German
Design Reform, 1907-14,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 62(4), 490-
511.
Stratigakos, Despina. 2001. “Architects in Skirts: The Public Image of Women
Architects in Wilhelmine Germany,” Journal of Architectural Education 55(2), 90-
100.
Stratigakos, Despina. 1999. Skirts and Scaffolding: Women Architects, Gender and Design
in Wilhelmine Germany. UMI: Ann Arbor.
Temming, Theodor. 1913. Sturmfreie Buden: Eine Denkschrift für alle, denen das Wohl
unserer studierenden Jugend und unseres Volkes am Herzen liegt. Essen: Fredebeul and
Koenen.
Vicinus, Martha. 1985. Independent Women: Work and Community for Single Women,
1850-1920. Chicago: Chicago University Press.
Wilhelmy-Dollinger, Petra. 2000. Die Berliner Salons: mit historisch-literarischen
Spaziergängen. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter.
Ziegeler, Beate. 1993. Weibliche Ärzte und Krankenkassen: Anfänge ärztlicher
Berufstätigkeit von Frauen in Berlin 1893-1935. Weinheim: Deutscher Studien Verlag.
Notes
1 On Hacker, see Kristin Hoesch, “Eine Ärztin der zweiten Generation: Agnes
Hacker: Chirurgin, Pädagogin, Politikerin,” in Weibliche Ärzte: Die Durchsetzung
des Berufsbildes in Deutschland, ed. Eva Brinkschulte (Berlin: Edition Hentrich,
1993), 58-64; and Beate Ziegeler, Weibliche Ärzte und Krankenkassen: Anfänge
ärztlicher Berufstätigkeit von Frauen in Berlin 1893-1935 (Weinheim: Deutscher
Studien Verlag, 1993), 65.
2 Kristin Hoesch, Ärztinnen für Frauen: Kliniken in Berlin, 1877-1914 (Stuttgart: J.B.
Metzler, 1995), 73, 88-89, 102ff; Hoesch, “Eine Ärztin der zweiten Generation,”
58.
3 Eliza Ichenhaeuser, “Weibliche Arzte [sic] und Frauenkrankenhäuser unter
Leitung weiblicher Ärzte,” Die Welt der Frau 39 (1910), 613.
4 Hoesch, Ärztinnen für Frauen, 111.
5 Ichenhaeuser, “Weibliche Arzte und Frauenkrankenhäuser,” 613; Hoesch,
Ärztinnen für Frauen, 133.
6 Hoesch, Ärztinnen für Frauen, 98-99.
7 For a more detailed discussion of the various organizations that supported

the hospital and their activities, see Despina Stratigakos, Skirts and Scaffolding:
Women Architects, Gender and Design in Wilhelmine Germany (UMI: Ann Arbor,
1999), 275ff.
8 Hoesch, Ärztinnen für Frauen, 101; “Hilfskomitee des Deutschen Lyceum-Clubs,”
Deutscher Lyceum Club: Mitteilungen für die Mitglieder 9(11) (1913), 414.
9 Hoesch, Ärztinnen für Frauen, 100.
10 Despina Stratigakos, “Architects in Skirts: The Public Image of Women
Architects in Wilhelmine Germany,” Journal of Architectural Education 55(2)
(2001), 90-100.
11 On these discourses, see Despina Stratigakos, “The Good Architect and the
Bad Parent: On the Formation and Disruption of a Canonical Image,” Journal of
Architecture 13(3) (2008), 283-296; and, Despina Stratigakos, “Women and the
Werkbund: Gender Politics and German Design Reform, 1907-14,” Journal of the
Society of Architectural Historians 62(4) (2003), 490-511.
12 See, for example, Maureen A. Flanagan, Seeing with their Hearts: Chicago Women
and the Vision of the Good City, 1871-1933 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 2002); Daphne Spain, How Women Saved the City (Minneapolis: University
of Minnesota Press, 2001); Erika Diane Rappaport, Shopping for Pleasure: Women
in the Making of London’s West End (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press,
2000); Sarah Deutsch, Women and the City: Gender, Space, and Power in Boston,
1870-1940 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000); Elizabeth York Enstam,
Women and the Creation of Urban Life: Dallas, Texas, 1843-1920 (College Station:
Texas A&M University Press, 1998).
13 Despina Stratigakos, A Women’s Berlin: Building the Modern City (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 2008).
14 Otto Bartning, “Sollen Damen bauen?” Die Welt der Frau (Gartenlaube) 40 (1911),
625.
15 Stratigakos, “Architects in Skirts,” 97-98.
16 Carl Sonnenschein, Wie Studenten Wohnen, Flugschriften des Sekretariats
Sozialer Studentenarbeit, no. 2 (Mönchengladbach: Volksvereins-Druckerei,
1911), n.p.; Theodor Temming, Sturmfreie Buden. Eine Denkschrift für alle, denen
das Wohl unserer studierenden Jugend und unseres Volkes am Herzen liegt (Essen:
Fredebeul & Koenen, 1913), 13-16.
17 “A. P.,” “Das Viktoria-Studienhaus: Ein neues Studentinnenheim in
Charlottenburg,” Neue Bahnen 50(18) (1915), 142.
18 On the Victoria Lyceum, see James C. Albisetti, Schooling German Girls and
Women: Secondary and Higher Education in the Nineteenth Century (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1988), 117-21.
19 Helene Lange, “Das Berliner Victoria-Studienhaus,” Die Frau 23(6) (1916), 339-
340.
20 Ottilie Fleer, “Das Werden des ersten Studentinnenheims in Deutschland,”
Nachrichtenblatt Haus Ottilie von Hansemann, Victoria-Studienhaus 26 (1940), 2-3.
21 Albisetti, Schooling German Girls, 285, note 32.
22 Despina Stratigakos, “‘I Myself Want to Build:’ Women, Architectural Education
and the Integration of Germany’s Technical Colleges,” Paedagogica Historica 43(6)
(2007), 736-740.
23 Agnes Harder, “Ein Heim für Studierende Frauen in Berlin,” Die Welt der Frau 36
(1916), 564-565.
24 Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere, trans.
Thomas Burger (MIT Press, Cambridge, MA: 1989), 31-43. For feminist critiques
of Habermas, see Johanna Meehan, ed., Feminists Read Habermas: Gendering the
Subject of Discourse (New York: Routledge, 1995); and, Mary P. Ryan, “Gender
and Public Access: Women’s Politics in Nineteenth Century America,” in Craig
Calhoun, ed., Habermas and the Public Sphere (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1992),
143-163.
25 Petra Wilhelmy-Dollinger, Die Berliner Salons: mit historisch-literarischen
Spaziergängen (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2000), 2.
26 Helene Lange, “Das Berliner Victoria-Studienhaus,” Die Frau 23(6) (1916),
341; Louise Faubel, “Das Viktoria-Studienhaus in Berlin,” Die Deutsche Frau
6(24) (1916), 2; “Das Heim unsrer Studentinnen: Haus Ottilie von Hansemann,
Berlin,” Daheim 52(47) (1916), 23.
27 Margarete Pochhammer, “Berliner Wohnungsverhältnisse,” in Was die Frau
von Berlin wissen muss: Ein praktisches Frauenbuch für Einheimische und Fremde,
ed. Eliza Ichenhaeuser (Berlin: Loesdau 1913), 236. For a detailed discussion of
women’s housing in Berlin, see Stratigakos, A Women’s Berlin, 53-96.
28 Pochhammer “Berliner Wohnungsverhältnisse,” 236.
29 “Die Vereinigung für Frauenwohnungen,” Frauenkapital—eine werdende Macht 5
(1914), Geschäftliche Notizen section, 20.
30 Susan R. Henderson, “A Revolution in the Women’s Sphere: Grete Lihotzky and
the Frankfurt Kitchen,” Architecture and Feminism, ed. Debra Coleman, Elizabeth
Danze, and Carol Henderson (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1996),
221-253; Stratigakos, A Women’s Berlin, 169-178.
31 “Die Vereinigung für Frauenwohnungen,” Frauenkapital – eine werdende Macht 5
(1914), 20.
32 Nicholas Bullock and James Read, The Movement for Housing Reform in Germany
and France, 1840-1914 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 235-238.
33 “Die Genossenschaft ‘Die Frauenwohnung’ E.G.m.b.H.,” Frauenkapital – eine
werdende Macht 21 (1914), 18.
34 Anna Behnisch-Kappstein, “Wohnung und Frau,” Welt der Frau 24 (1916), 381.
35 Elizabeth Crawford, Enterprising Women: The Garretts and Their Circle (London:
Francis Boutle, 2002), 206-217; Lynn Pearson, The Architectural and Social History
of Cooperative Living (New York: St. Martin’s, 1988), 45-55; Martha Vicinus,
Independent Women: Work and Community for Single Women, 1850-1920 (Chicago:
Chicago University Press, 1985), 295-297.
36 “Frauenheimstätten,” P. F. H. II Zeitung (July 1913), 8-9.
37 “Frauenheimstätten,” P. F. H. II Zeitung, 9; “Genossenschaft für Frauenheimstätten,”
Die Frau 20(4) (1913), 248.
38 “Genossenschaft für Frauenheimstätten: Sitz Berlin,” Frauenwirtschaft 4(2) (1913),
47; Else von Boetticher, “Heimstätten für Frauen,” Berliner Frauenclub von 1900
3(10) (1915), 7.
39 Dr. E[lla] M[ensch], “Das Haus in der Sonne,” Frauenkapital 24 (1914), 19.
40 “Fest-Zeitung zum 25 jährigen Jubiläum von Fräulein Martin” (8 September
1917), 11. Archiv Pestalozzi-Fröbel-Haus, Berlin.
41 “A. S.,” “Das Haus in der Sonne,” P. F. H. II Zeitung (January 1914), 19.
42 “Heimgenossenschaft für Frauen,” Die Frau 20(1) (1912), 55.
43 Stratigakos, Skirts and Scaffolding, 259.
44 “Mitteilung, betreffend die Vorarbeiten zur Gründung einer
Heimgenossenschaft für aus dem Beruf geschiedene gebildete Frauen,” P.
F. H. II Zeitung, “Probenummer” issue (July 1912), 24. On the 1912 women’s
exhibition, see Stratigakos, A Women’s Berlin, chapter 4.
45 Ibid., 23-24.
46 Dora Martin, “Heim der Genossenschaft für Frauenheimstätten,” Frau und
Gegenwart 40 (1926), 9; M[ensch], “Das Haus in der Sonne,” 18. The original
windows have been replaced.
47 Boetticher, “Heimstätten für Frauen,” 6.
48 Otto Bartning, “Sollen Damen bauen?” Die Welt der Frau 40 (1911), 625.
49 Despina Stratigakos, “The Professional Spoils of War: German Women
Architects and World War I,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 66(4)
(2007), 464-475.
50 Despina Stratigakos, “The Bobbed Builder: Women Architects in the Weimar
Republic” in Essays on Women’s Artistic and Cultural Contributions 1919-1939:
Expanded Social Roles for the New Woman Following the First World War, ed. Paula
Birnbaum and Anna Novakov (Ceredigion: Edwin Mellen Press, 2009), 203-216.
51 On the debates within feminist theory about identity and political agency, see
Mora Lloyd, Beyond Identity Politics: Feminism, Power & Politics (London: Sage,
2005).
PART I
FEMINIST PRACTICES IN DESIGN

4
Breathing Spaces: Whispering Walls, Feminist

Spatial Practice
Cynthia I. Hammond
Introduction
The unstoppable and heartily observant seventeenth-century Englishwoman,

Celia Fiennes (1662-1741) famously travelled solo through the counties of
England on a sidesaddle, recording her experiences in a travel diary. Writing
about shadowy, epic Gloucester Cathedral, Fiennes commented on a peculiar
characteristic of this venerable space. She wrote,
I saw a Lady stand at one corner and turn herself to the wall and whisper’d,
Her voice came very Cleer and plaine to the Company that stood at the
Crosse Corner [of] the roome ... it must [have been] the arch overhead
which was a great height [that carried her voice across the room].1
The idea that the architecture itself had taken this anonymous woman’s voice
and carried it though space and now, via Fiennes’ writing, through time, has
become a metaphor for how I understand architecture’s capacity to articulate
the traces of those who do not usually feature strongly in the history of the
built environment. This capacity depends on the presence (past or present)
of someone who “speaks” through architecture, and someone who uses
architecture as a way to “listen”.
This idea is not new; it has many iterations in feminist architectural history
and critical spatial studies of the past few decades. Architectural historian and
feminist activist Dolores Hayden, working with the Power of Place collective
in Los Angeles in the 1980s and early 1990s, explored sites in California
through questions of race and gender, discovering places of importance to
black and Chicana women’s history. Through public art and history projects,
the Power of Place collective provided locations for others to listen to and
learn from the cultural landscape of, for example, a parking lot in Los Angeles
that had been, at one time, the home of the first freed female slave to own land
in the state. With her collaborators, Hayden made visible and spatial the role
of women in and on such sites, recasting the architecture in question through

a critical and more inclusive idea of what the built environment, as cultural
and social space, is.2
Listening to architecture has been taken up as a theme in interdisciplinary
spatial studies more recently as well, for example, in the work of cultural
studies scholar, Jeff Melnick. Melnick puts the architecture of American,
high-rise public housing “at the centre of the map of American popular
music”3 and in so doing, sidesteps the well-rehearsed idea that all housing
projects are failures. In Melnick’s observant essay, the music of the projects
is inseparable from its spaces. But, as he notes, if the communities producing
such music have created a global awareness about the realities and conditions
of the housing estate, then they too have brought cultural capital and a global
presence to those same spaces, through rap in particular. The rhetoric of
“failure” must be reconsidered in relation to rap’s ever-increasing power as
a worldwide musical phenomenon. Post-occupancy oral history projects, in
which the researcher examines space through the experiences of its occupants,
are another way of listening to architecture differently, and thus looking
at, and learning from architecture in a new way. Architectural historian,
Annmarie Adams interviewed intergenerational members of the Clarkson
family, as long term and thus informed inhabitants of an “Eichler Home”:
a prefabricated, post-war house in the San Francisco Bay area. Using their
memories, and a variety of visual and material culture the family produced in
and about their house, Adams explores the differences between architectural
intention and post-occupancy experience of domestic architecture.4
Finding Feminist Alternatives
Since completing doctoral work in 2002, I have became increasingly

interested in the ways that built spaces could be temporarily transformed
or defamiliarized through simple and ephemeral means. Performance, gift
works, light and shadow interventions have led me to consider ways of
marking spaces, touching or recasting them with histories that often must be
unearthed from the archive.5 Using sound as a way of investing space with
affective qualities was a step that intrigued me, and I developed my skills as a
sound engineer, collaborating with artists and musicians in the Montreal area
in the early 2000s.
My opportunity to unite these diffuse explorations came with my
collaboration with a group of Canadian and Inuit artists who had worked
together under the banner of “Breathing in the Cold” – a series of exhibitions
and events relating science, design, health and art, with a special emphasis
on experiences of “the North”.6 In 2005, we were invited to be part of an
exhibition on these themes at the Design Exchange in Toronto, Canada, an
historic building originally designed in 1937 as the Toronto Stock Exchange.7
breathing spaces: whispering walls, feminist spatial practice 85
4.1 The Bay Street façade of the Design Exchange, Toronto, Ontario. First built as the Toronto Stock
Exchange, George & Moorehouse Architects in collaboration with S.H. Maw, 1937. Converted to an
exhibition space under the direction of Kuwabara Payne McKenna Blumberg (KPMB), 1988-1994.
This high-tech building was the first in the city to have air conditioning,
and its sleek Modern and Art Deco lines on the exterior and interior spaces
were echoed in the sophisticated, internal, pneumatic mail delivery system,
spanning several floors via elliptical tubing, placed deep within the building.
Repurposed in the late 1980s and early 1990s as a museum dedicated to the
history and practice of design, the interior is today visually and spatially
complex, old (Streamline Modern) and new (postmodernism) jostle in the
Chalmers Design Centre on the main floor. To some extent, this interior
space (retrofitted 1988-1994 by Toronto firm, Kuwabara Payne McKenna
Blumberg, or KPMB) reflects the multiple architectural identities that now
frame the Design Exchange’s exterior. In 1967 the world-famous modernist,
Ludwig Mies van der Rohe (1886-1969) was given the privilege of designing a
complex of office towers for the Toronto-Dominion Bank on the same block as
the former Stock Exchange. Although the complex was incomplete at the time
of the architect’s death, construction of the towers continued posthumously.
All three monoliths are dressed in Mies van der Rohe’s signature somber
colours, rich materials and highly mathematical surface treatment. In 1992,

the final tower of the Toronto-Dominion Centre, the Ernst & Young building
was inserted into the airspace above the former Stock Exchange, which
was by then a heritage site. In the present-day scale of the Bay-Wellington
intersection, vastly increased from the 1930s, the former Stock Exchange now
has the appearance of a decorative, built-in fixture: a lovely ornament to a
massive, sleek and gleaming environment.
The former Stock Exchange may now be a museum devoted to the history
and practice of design, but its setting is entirely that of commerce and
capitalism, which, within globalization, are almost entirely the preserve
of men.8 Susan Faludi notes that “the top ten full-time jobs for women in
the United States – secretary, waitress, sales clerk, etc. – are the same as
thirty years ago, and over the course of their prime earning years women
make 38 percent of what men make.” The economic is not the only arena
in which patriarchy appears to have regained anything it may have lost
during second-wave feminism. Faludi continues, “male dominance of
public leadership is still the rule (men occupy 80 to 95-plus percent of the
top decision making positions in American politics, business, the military,
religion, media, culture, and entertainment).”9 These figures, too, are part
of the context of the work I did in 2005 on Breathing Spaces in the heart of
the business district of downtown Toronto.
On my first visit to the Design Exchange, I found the idea of intervening
in its visually loaded interior overwhelming. Only after spending extended
periods of time sitting in the lobby, the ground-floor exhibition area, and
hovering near the gift shop did I become accustomed to the sounds of the
building’s ordinary functioning. Gradually, in the moments of relative quiet
that occurred in the lull between tour groups, I realized that the building
was breathing: wheezing, sighing, blowing and sometimes coughing.
I became fascinated by the combination of early twentieth-century
ventilation technology, and postmodern visual and engineering solutions
to the problem of how to bring air in and out of this particular space.
These reflections on the breath of the building were a return to the
themes that my collaborators in “Breathing in the Cold” wished to address,
but they led me to think further about the history of architecture, and
the ways that women have been thought responsible, historically, for the
“healthy” functioning of (usually domestic) architecture, and by extension
the health of the family, or even of a nation’s citizens. The Victorian
obsession with ventilation had an echo in the ornate grills and screens that
marked the Design Exchange’s older breathing systems. I decided to make
my intervention not in the main spaces of the ground floor exhibition area,
but in the spaces where air either entered or left the building, or spaces
where the lack of air movement had historically been understood to be a
problem for the health of bodies within the building: the bathroom and the
elevator shaft. Feminist architectural history, feminist theory, the standard
Canadian building code and the built space of the Design Exchange itself
were all invoked in the sound works in order to bring into question the
ways in which public, even contemporary buildings spatialize ideas about
gender, bodies and health.
What links the scholarly methods described above is what inspired me
when I set out to make a series of three site-specific sound works for an
exhibition space in 2005: their setting to one side the traditional concerns
and aspirations of architectural history. What Hayden, Melnick and
Adams, among others, do is not ignore but rather suspend the purchase
of authorship, influence and aesthetic lineage that usually preoccupy
architectural history. The centrality of the façade – the primary signifier of
the author’s mastery and signature style – gives way in their work to what
perhaps cannot be seen using traditional methods of architectural history,
whereby artistic intentionality (and frequently, a male creator) takes centre
stage. Instead, these methods see the production of architecture as a durational
process, a collaboration – if usually unheralded as such – between designers,
users and the influences of history and culture. Working as an artist, how
could I use the space of the Design Exchange, an important public museum
in downtown Toronto with a significant architectural and economic history
of its own, to explore questions of gender and space? How could my work
allow me, and others, to listen to the space differently, with feminist ideas at
the forefront? The text that follows explores the resulting project in relation
to the collaboration in which my intervention occurred, the site of the Design
Exchange itself, and the use of sound as part of a feminist spatial practice.
Breathing Spaces
Using professional-level digital recording technology, I created three, short

sound pieces in the fall of 2005. All incorporate a combination of spoken
word, read or sung text, digital or recorded sound, and interview material.
As a collection of sound works, Breathing Spaces took the respiratory system
of the Design Exchange as a point of connection between the institution, the
building and the diverse publics who have used this space since its opening
in 1937. Because the operational sounds of the Design Exchange are prevalent
when the building is in use, I made the decision to use headphones in two
of the three locations (“Vestibule”, “Elevator Lobby”), and speakers only in
one (“Ladies’ Room”). The headphones had the effect of isolating the listener
in the noisier spaces of the museum, while the normally quiet restroom was
transformed through the most brash and pop of the three pieces. The action
that Breathing Spaces took was to make the limits and barriers of a building
temporarily unfamiliar through sound, and by drawing attention to the
parallels with human physiognomy in everyday aspects of architectural
design, each piece addressed the space for which it was designed, and the
user of that space.
4.2 View of In “Ladies’ Room”, I used a standard pop format to introduce and conclude
“Ladies’ Room”, a core, spoken word section set to music about the history of middle-class
sound work
Victorian women and their entry into the fields of both medicine and
installed in
the women’s architecture as non-professional experts, responsible for the design of their
washroom, homes and thus the health of the inhabitants: their families.10 Installed in the
ground women’s washroom of the Design Exchange, this was the only piece to be
floor, Design amplified through speakers rather than earphones, so that someone listening
Exchange, 2-25 at the door might also hear. This location also capitalized on a space within
November 2005.
the building that is relatively discrete and private, as far as user experience
is concerned. My intended audience was, with this particular piece, women
visitors to these facilities, and my primary intention was to give these listeners
the opportunity to hear something about how the relationship between
architecture and gender – even when historical women have found a place for
themselves in its closed ranks – is fraught. An excerpt from the spoken word
section of the piece was heard as follows:
The idea was that if you built a house just right, you would have in your
possession a bonafide preventative medicine. And so women became
experts on houses, architecture, medicine, sanitation; not professionals, but
experts. Only thing was, this theory about housing needing to breathe like
people? Well, it was true, but it wasn’t that simple. And so, when people
kept getting sick, and dying, it’s not hard to guess who got the blame.11
The piece alternated between the more troubling aspects of the relationship
between women, health and architecture, and a more lighthearted look
at how that relationship has carried down to the present day, observable
through design’s wide acceptance of the need to ventilate bathrooms even
where no opening to the outside is possible, such as at the Design Exchange.
My intention was to show that even in a space as banal as a public washroom,
one might find links to a history of women’s constitutive relationship to the
built environment.
“Elevator Lobby” took its name from the shining steel elevators situated
discretely beyond one of the building’s grandest heritage features: a sweeping
Modern staircase that leads to the 10,000 square foot, former trading floor
above. The elevator lobby is functional and small, belonging to the 1988
retrofitting of the building. Recessed lights and an elegant stone bench
create a feeling of repose in this otherwise neutral space, a decided contrast
to and removal from the Design Exchange’s competing modernism and
postmodernism.
I asked architect Thomas D. Strickland, former employee of KPMB, to
explain how contemporary building codes would have affected or intersected
with the types of historic ventilation already at work in the former Stock
Exchange, in particular with regard to how buildings “breathe”. He spoke of
things that are normally never seen and are in fact intended to be invisible in
architecture, such as vapour barriers, chimneys, flues and ducts, places where
the unmanageability of air is mediated. He spoke eloquently as well about how
buildings are supposed to be extensions of the body in that the membrane that
is the wall is always intended to be a barrier against the outside, particularly
against the cold. “The outside and the inside will always meet somewhere in
architecture,” he explained. And then, speaking as if discovering something
for the first time, he said with some wonder:
It’s quite a phenomenal thing that in a building the wall itself is a barrier
between the interior and the exterior, but in the end, no building is
impenetrable to the air ... the wall itself is very permeable. Air is constantly
passing in and out of the wall, of its own accord.12
This sense of air as something inevitably part of, passing through but also
virtually unnoticed in architecture resonated with my growing ideas around
gender and architecture, specifically the notion that women are an essential
part of architectural and spatial histories, but rarely considered as such.
I turned to feminist theory in search of a discussion of air – had anyone
considered what was becoming for me an instinctual connection between
women, or possibly the feminine, and the prevalence of air? The strongest
answer I found was in the work of French philosopher, Luce Irigaray, in
particular her book The Forgetting of Air in Martin Heidegger. I drew upon
Irigaray’s insight that, in Heidegger’s extensive philosophical engagements
with place and being, there remains a factor that he continuously “forgets”
to consider, a factor which underpins everything with which he is concerned,
4.3 View
of “Elevator
Lobby”,
sound work
installed in the
elevator lobby
of the Design
Exchange, 2-25
November 2005.
without which nothing he describes can occur, namely: air. Irigaray writes:
“To air he owes his life’s beginning, his birth, his death, on air. He nourishes
himself in air ... He manifests himself, can see and speak.”13 Air, for Irigaray,
is not strictly the same thing as “woman” or “the feminine”. Yet in its telling
absence from Heidegger’s thought, air shares something in common with
women as the constitutively undervalued, negated, othered component of
patriarchy. Air thus has the significant status as something “unthought” in
this famous philosopher’s oeuvre. Irigaray observes that:
... in this unthought, the force of mother-nature prevails, at least until the
present day, over all of his powers … there remains air.14
“Vestibule” was, for me, the most successful of the three sound pieces created
for the Design Exchange. I sang sections of Irigaray’s text, including the
quotations above, interspersing them with music that aimed in its cadence,
bright tone and major key to suggest something rather wonderful about the
presence, the “remembering”, or “thinking” of air. Woven into these aural
strands were my descriptions of and suggestions for how to look at the
vestibule of the Design Exchange with these ideas in mind. The headphones
were situated immediately inside the Design Exchange’s beautiful, original
vestibule, attached to a floor-to-ceiling aluminum post – one of the Design
Exchange’s moveable pieces of equipment, used for installing exhibitions.
The post echoed the metallics of the headphones and playback equipment as
well as the heavy brass Modern doors and shining marble floor.
Stop. Wait. You are in the threshold of the building: the vestibule. Between
two sets of doors, you are in the air, that is neither in nor out of the
building. Neither and yet both, you are, like the air, between two worlds,
in the midst of a gap, the building’s grasp, the building’s gasp, on the outer
world from which it will shortly protect you.15
A visitor to the exhibition, held in November, listening to the piece, would

likely still be wearing their coat but, positioned near the door, would
experience the movement of air to which I spoke, with the slight sound of a
heartbeat and a slowly building swell of an electronic viola in the background.
As I took care to point out, winter is a special time in which air – warmed
by its transformative passage through our bodies – is fleetingly visible as
breath. In this way, “Vestibule” as a sound work facilitated a different way
of looking at the threshold of the Design Exchange; beyond the question of
architectural or heritage value, the piece raised the possibility (while never
proposing a singular answer) that air, like gender, is something forgotten
within but central to all design, all architecture. Listeners to the piece could
reflect on these connections through the sight, sound and experience of their
own breath, leaving their bodies in the yet-to-be warmed air of the vestibule.
4.4 View of
“Vestibule”,
sound work
installed in
the entry area
to the Design
Exchange, 2-25
November 2005.
Site-Specific Sound as Feminist Spatial Practice
Site-specific sound was the central strategy used in all three pieces for the
Breathing Spaces installation. After having created these pieces, what can be said
about the use of sound as part of a feminist spatial practice? It was interesting
to note that visitors to the exhibition used the headphones to escape the other
sounds and visual intensity of the Design Exchange. I often saw them listening
with eyes closed, or turned away from the more occupied parts of the interior.
I often heard women laugh when they first entered the washroom, listening
to the sound piece, perhaps in surprise at having something to listen to other
than the usual sounds of such a space. But given the common assumption that
music is the only truly transcendent art, somehow leaping over barriers of
time, taste, ideology and fortune, how does sound, or music, stack up in terms
of its use as a specifically feminist strategy?
Musicologist Marcia J. Citron takes issue with the idea that music is
somehow a “universal communicator by virtue of the accessibility of sound
and its ability to go beyond the kinds of barriers erected by language.”16
She does not see any kind of composer as magically liberated from their
social, economic, cultural or gendered standpoint simply because music is
their cultural product; music cannot therefore make any claim to a similarly
liberated position, or liberating capacity. What Citron does suggest as
belonging to music is the potential for it to confer upon the listener the role
of creator. Just as the poststructuralist position sees the act of reception, in
reading, as “authorial”, so too does Citron find in the act of listening, or
responding, a certain creativity and agency.
Although seemingly last in a process starting with creation, response

displays temporal multiplicity. It precedes creativity in the sense of
constructing the social and aesthetic conditions in which a work will be
written and thereby influencing the way the work is fashioned.17
Certainly in planning my works, I anticipated the listeners of the pieces,

imagining where they would stand or sit, what actions were possible in those
locations, which visual, aural, tactile experiences would be afforded to the
listener by virtue of the site in conjunction with the sound works I had made.
Anticipating is not the same as guaranteeing an outcome, as Citron suggests,
thus the listener or respondent to my sound pieces were the vital activators of
the works themselves. Particularly with the works that could only be heard
through headphones, the pieces were entirely dependent upon an active and
engaged but ultimately unpredictable and uncontrollable listener.
My process in making feminist sound pieces for an architectural setting
deeply inscribed in patriarchal, capitalist culture, paralleled in some ways
the process of the designers whose work the Chalmers Centre presents and
understand. In other words, just as architectural design cannot control the
consequences of its premeditated spaces, nor could I shape the responses of
my listeners. I could provide an opportunity for the collaboration between
myself as artist-composer and the listener as respondent-creator, but I could

neither compel nor control the outcomes of this encounter. This in itself
registers importantly for me as a feminist spatial practitioner. Using music’s
possibly innate characteristic of requiring a listener-respondent to “complete”
the music is a conscious repetition and differentiation of what architecture
does, but often fails to recognize: the importance and centrality of its own
user-respondents.
Architectural theorist, Catherine Ingraham writes that “women invent a
way into architecture by inventing different kinds of practice: small practices,
hybrid practices, practices in theory. The one architectural practice that
resists, or proves difficult for, this type of intervention is building buildings
... the very form of a (so-called) invented practice has a puzzling and
problematic relationship to buildings.”18 My practice as an artist, or perhaps
more accurately, as a research-creator has led me repeatedly to feminist
theory, feminist architectural history and spatial analysis as conceptual and
analytical strategies for reading buildings through questions of gender. I
tend to work in the physical and conceptual interstices of the city, and in
the points of connection between different scholarly approaches. To put it
another way, contrary to the view of architecture and the city that positions
them as mere backdrops to human action, I am convinced instead that the
contingencies of the built environment – the beauty of a particular space, the
failures of grand design visions, the gaps between urban planning programs,
the historic myopia of development initiatives, and the crassly exclusionary
politics of many urban centres – are themselves saturated terrains, with the
power to prompt individuals to act, to work against architecture’s preferred
readings, and to collaborate with architecture’s spatial possibilities. Such a
view of the built environment keeps architecture’s many forms of agency
in the foreground, while allowing that the relationships between users and
spaces are mutually constitutive.
Conclusion
Several days before I installed Breathing Spaces at the Design Exchange,

an employee of the museum contacted the Toronto & Ontario Ghosts and
Hauntings Research Society. According to the Society’s online bulletin, the
staff member reported observing in the building:
... poltergeist-like phenomena such as turning on taps in the kitchen,

interference with the electrical system, footsteps, apparitions, eerie feelings
of a presence, and possible images of this strange creature caught on a
surveillance camera.19
After a substantial study of the architecture, building materials, site history

and former occupants of the Bay Street edifice, the Society could not attribute
the reports of paranormal activity to any history of suspicious deaths in
the building, nor to any physical features of the Design Exchange. Sadly,
the surveillance tapes had been erased, so no visual trace of the haunting
remained. But one aspect of the building remained in question: its pneumatic
mail delivery system, dating back to the 1930s. Despite its exhaustive study,
the Society was unable to ascertain whether or not the pneumatic tubes
through which letters and memos once flew were still extant, somewhere, in
the building. Could these tubes, wondered the Society, perhaps still connected
to their systems of compressed air and partial vacuum, slowly be releasing
the breath that they have held all these decades, and thus be responsible for
employees’ sense that “a strange creature” haunts the Design Exchange?
I take this idea of the haunting of the Design Exchange as an evocative
image with which to conclude this text. Ghosts and pneumatic tubes are not
all that haunt architecture. This was the essence of the three sound works
that I created for Toronto’s former Stock Exchange, where I sought to create
a rhetorical space for the consideration of gender and architecture, working
with my unpredictable but entirely necessary collaborators, my listeners. Just
as a ghost can evade the capture of a video camera, and the communication
practices of another era can go missing in the depths of a building, so too
can the role of women in the built environment seem – in a cultural history
so marked with male presence – ephemeral, fleeting, difficult to pin down.
Just as I asked visitors to listen to a breath for a moment in a cool vestibule,
it is possible to listen to architecture for its gendered stories. One has to be
interested in the answers, but perhaps questions can prompt more active
listening than words alone.
Catherine Ingraham points to the difficulty for practices such as mine,
which are of architecture, in architecture, but not architecture itself. Yet this
difference allows for a kind of proximity to architecture that retains its critical
position, or distance, the potential for the articulation of ideas from “outside”.
As Elizabeth Grosz argues, it is the voices from the outside – “social and
cultural outsiders – including women and minorities of all kinds - must also
be the concern of the architectural and the urban.”20 While I am fully aware
of the centrality and privilege of the university position I now hold, I retain
nonetheless the importance of Grosz’s comments with regard to the many
buildings whose spaces have not yet been listened to, with gender in mind.
My practice as an artist-researcher is a collaboration with built space, its
historical specificities, exclusions and resonances, its strange creatures. It is
also a way of listening to architecture and to the city, to allow the voices of the
past to come, even as whispers, “very clear and plain” across the room.
Acknowledgements
Warm thanks to Sheila Butler, who invited me to participate in several

events related to the Breathing in the Cold project, and to Lori Brown, for her
interest in this work and her unflagging commitment to the Feminist Practices
project throughout 2007 to the present. I would like to thank Thomas D.

Strickland for his voice and architectural expertise, which made possible two
of the pieces in question, and Michael McGourty of Park Row West studios,
where I produced the sound works. I am grateful to the Social Sciences and
Humanities Research Council of Canada; with their support I was able to
produce the project described in this essay.
List of References
Adams, Annmarie. 1995. “The Eichler Home: Intention and Experience in Postwar
Suburbia” in Gender, Class, and Shelter: Perspectives in Vernacular Architecture V.
Ed. Elizabeth Collins Cromley and Carter L. Hudgins. Knoxville: University of
Tennessee Press, 164-78.
Adams, Annmarie. 1996. Architecture in the Family Way: Doctors, Houses, and Women,
1870-1900. Montréal and Kingston, London, Buffalo: McGill-Queen’s University
Press.
Citron, Marcia J. 1994. “Feminist Approaches to Musicology” in Cecilia Reclaimed:
Feminist Perspectives on Gender and Music. Ed. Susan C. Cook and Judy S. Tsou.
Champaign, Illinois: University of Illinois Press, 15-34.
Faludi, Susan. 2010. “American Electra: Feminism’s Ritual Matricide.” Harper’s
Magazine Oct, 28-36, 38-42.
Fiennes, Celia. 1982. The Illustrated Journeys of Celia Fiennes, 1685-c.1712. Ed.
Christopher Morris. Great Britain: Macdonald & Co. Ltd..
Grosz, Elizabeth. 2001. Architecture from the Outside: Essays on Real and Virtual Space.
Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
Hammond, Cynthia I. 2012. Architects, Angels, Activists and the City of Bath, 1765-1965:
Engaging with Women’s Spatial Interventions in Buildings and Landscape. Farnham:
Ashgate.
Hayden, Dolores. 1995. The Power of Place: Urban Landscapes as Public History.
Cambridge, MA. and London: MIT Press.
Ingraham, Catherine. 1996. “Missing Objects” in The Sex of Architecture. Ed. Diana
Agrest, Patricia Conway and Leslie Kanes Weisman. New York: Harry N. Abrams,
Inc., 29-40.
Irigaray, Luce. 1983 The Forgetting of Air in Martin Heidegger. Trans. Mary Beth Mader.
London: Althone Press.
Melnick, Jeff. 2005. “Project Culture: the Popular Arts of Public Housing: Proceedings
from the Warren Centre for American Studies Conference: Reinterpreting the
History of the Built Environment in North America [Online]. Harvard University, 29-
30 April 2005, [accessed 29 Nov. 2007].
Toronto & Ontario Ghosts and Hauntings Research Society. The Former Toronto
Stock Exchange – Current Design Exchange: In-Depth Study. Toronto & Ontario
Ghosts and Hauntings Research Society, n.d. [accessed 1 Oct. 2010].
Notes
1 Celia Fiennes, The Illustrated Journeys of Celia Fiennes, 1685-c.1712, ed.

Christopher Morris (Great Britain: Macdonald & Co. Ltd., 1982), 191.
2 Dolores Hayden, The Power of Place: Urban Landscapes as Public History
(Cambridge, MA and London: MIT Press, 1995).
3 Jeff Melnick, “Project Culture: the Popular Arts of Public Housing,” Proceedings
from the Warren Centre for American Studies Conference: Reinterpreting the
History of the Built Environment in North America. Harvard University, 29-30
April 2005, published Aug. 2005, web (accessed 29 Nov. 2007), 4.
4 Annmarie Adams, “The Eichler Home: Intention and Experience in Postwar
Suburbia,” Gender, Class, and Shelter: Perspectives in Vernacular Architecture V, ed.
Elizabeth Collins Cromley and Carter L. Hudgins (Knoxville: U of Tennessee
Press, 1995), 164–78.
5 My forthcoming book, Architects, Angels, Activists and the City of Bath, 1765-1965:
Engaging with Women’s Spatial Interventions in Buildings and Landscape (Aldershot,
UK and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2012) (forthcoming), discusses these strategies
in depth in relation to my 20-year relationship with the World Heritage Site of
Bath.
6 The two events in which I participated were Arrniliit: Breathing in the Cold, an
exhibition and interdisciplinary conference conceived and organized by Sheila
Butler and Jack Butler for the Brodie Centre, Winnipeg, Manitoba, and Design
for the Cold, conceived and organized by Sheila Butler at the Design Exchange,
Toronto (2005), with which this text is concerned.
7 An older Stock Exchange had also sat on this site. The building that has been
converted into the exhibition space was designed by George & Moorehouse,
Architects, in collaboration with S.H. Maw, and went into operation in 1937.
8 Susan Faludi, “American Electra: Feminism’s Ritual Matricide” Harper’s
Magazine (Oct. 2010), 30.
9 Faludi 30.
10 Annmarie Adams, Architecture in the Family Way: Doctors, Houses, and Women,
1870-1900 (Montréal and Kingston, London, Buffalo: McGill-Queen’s UP, 1996).
11 Excerpt from “Ladies’ Room” (5 min. 33 sec.), produced at Park Row Ouest
Studios, 2005.
12 Excerpt from “Elevator Lobby” (4 min. 16 sec.), produced at Park Row Ouest
Studios, 2005.
13 Luce Irigaray, (1983) The Forgetting of Air in Martin Heidegger, trans. Mary Beth
Mader (London: Althone Press, 1999), 12.
14 Irigaray 12.
15 Excerpt from “Vestibule” (3 min. 8 sec.), produced at Park Row Ouest Studios,
2005.
16 Marcia J. Citron, “Feminist Approaches to Musicology,” in Cecilia Reclaimed:
Feminist Perspectives on Gender and Music, ed. Susan C. Cook, Judy S. Tsou
(Champaign, Illinois: U of Illinois P, 1994), 24.
17 Citron 26.
18 Catherine Ingraham, “Missing Objects,” in The Sex of Architecture, ed. Diana

Agrest, Patricia Conway and Leslie Kanes Weisman (New York: Harry N.
Abrams, Inc., 1996), 34.
19 Toronto & Ontario Ghosts and Hauntings Research Society, “The Former
Toronto Stock Exchange – Current Design Exchange: In-Depth Study,” Toronto &
Ontario Ghosts and Hauntings Research Society, n.d., web (accessed 1 Oct. 2010).
20 Elizabeth Grosz, Architecture from the Outside: Essays on Real and Virtual Space
(Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2001), xvii.
5
Blazing Inter Alia: Tropes of a Feminist Creative Practice

Julieanna Preston
As a series of eight collages, BLAZE1 draws from contemporary feminist philosophy

and feminist art practice, most notably through works by Rosi Braidotti,2 Rebecca
Solnit3 and Rachel Blau DuPlessis.4 BLAZE articulates Braidotti’s literal and
conceptual exploration of subjective nomadism as an itinerant migration within the
political state yet securely governed by individual free will and sexual specificity.
BLAZE brings numerous associative and generative relations into focus between
the corporeal and sexed body including my own subjectivity towards its physicality
and its cultural capacity to make and to move, and that of traversing a landscape
that bears witness to the limits of wilderness. BLAZE is an attempt to (re)map the
nomad as a figuration, a term Braidotti establishes as a politically informed account
of an alternative subjectivity.
Given these philosophic orientations, BLAZE is constructed as an open-ended
and expanded itinerary underpinned by Rebecca Solnit’s attention to the manner
in which narratives structure a mindful yet wanderlust navigation of the world. I
have employed Solnit’s textual conflation of space and time in a visual narrative
that uses strategies of way-finding to (re)map a journey through a landscape
prompted by physical, intellectual, psychological, temporal and material tropes.
The eight drawings organize a reading of an actual journey through a Canadian
wilderness area, and yet the calculated marking of trees is shown to multiply the
possible footpaths towards and away from any specific destination. As matters of
adjacency between scraps of found data detour walking/reading in a straight line, the
tangential musings increase connotations between simple and every day operations
such as repair and maintenance of one’s flesh, house, state and imagination. Free
association aligned with mobility prompts getting lost in a genitive manner.
BLAZE’s visual expression is ode to DuPlessis’ exposition on the value of
feminist writing practices. It is to this work that I credit the power of assembling
fragments of images and text as a visual and exploratory language that deconstructs
normative reading practices dependent on legibility, transparency and grammatical
propriety. As DuPlessis pays careful attention to word choice, graphic format,
voice shifts and sentence formation, BLAZE offers a textual discourse capitalizing
on the surface of the drawing to prompt a performative act of reading that is non-
hierarchical in nature and supportive of my concerns as a female feminist in the
disciplines of art, architecture and spatial design.
5.1 Blaze 1 of 8. Source: Julieanna Preston © 1994

blazing inter alia: tropes of a feminist creative practice 101
We leave tomorrow.
The bare essentials for ten days
in the wilderness are almost more than I
can carry:
canoe, life jacket, hat, sun block, bug repellent, trousers, long sleeve shirt,
T shirts, wool jersey, rain pants and jacket, bandana, pocket knife, camera,
journal, pen, matches, torch, togs, towel, water shoes, walking shoes, first aid kit,
wool socks, sleeping bag, thermal mat, tent, tarpaulin, long line, paddle, duct
tape, toilet paper, plastic bags, water bottle, hatchet, cooking gear, fishing hook
and line, oatmeal, coffee, dried fruit, nuts, rice, beans, sardines, cheese, crackers,
honey, couscous, powdered milk, flask of single malt, fig bars and, of course,
a map.
Deep within Canada’s interior lies a large territory riddled with lakes and waterways
named Algonquin. This provincial park occupies a large part of Ontario’s landscape and
serves as a contemporary recreational wonderland as well as a historically significant site
of fur trading between the French Voyageurs and the Algonquin Indians. The Indians
taught the Voyageurs how to fashion birch-bark canoes, typically about 35 feet long,
made completely of forest products; no nails or metal hardware were used. Weighing
less than 300 pounds and capable of holding five tons, the birch-bark canoe was easy
to carry between lakes and it negotiated rapids well (Nute 24). Bartering knives, beads,
blankets and other trinkets for beaver, marten, bear, fox, wolf and other mammal hides,
the Voyageurs would traverse this wilderness as a network of waterways linked by
land routes called portages. The path of a portage was determined by the shortest
distance between lakes and the complications of navigating a long canoe through the
dense forest’s hilly terrain. It became the custom to mark tree trunks along the portage
trail with a hatchet. These marks are called blazes.
Blaze, blazing, to blaze forward, to move
as if burning, forging ahead, FOLLOW ME!
entering…
when my daughter Chora was born she had a
bright red blaze mark on her forehead.
It still re-emerges when she gets angry.
I came to know this place first hand in the early 1990s during annual canoe trips taken
with the man who was later to become my husband. Each trip was an experience that
extended the archetypical narrative of “journey” and tested the limits of my embodied
practices of space-making and place-finding.
After seven hours of driving, my novice paddling and David’s expert
j-strokes launch our wooden vessel away from the security and
creature comforts of the land into
the surface of the first lake.
I lost my footing.
To lose yourself; a voluptuous surrender, lost in your arms, lost to the
world, utterly immersed in what is present so that surroundings fade
away...And one does not get lost but loses oneself, with the implication
that it is a conscious choice, a chosen surrender, a psychic state achievable
through geography (Solnit 6).
Back there, on the shore, on solid ground, I knew who I was: an artist and architectural
designer with a special affinity for building, construction and material inquiry. Attention
to detail. Hands on. Independent. Self-motivated. Grounded. But as I sat precariously

perched in the prow, the glassy reflection in front of me, of me, was cleaved. As we
headed into the wind on a path uncharted, the lake swallowed our wake.
Me was flooded. Me was mobile. Cathartic.
Immersive.
…getting lost was not a matter of geography so much as identity, a
passionate desire, even an urgent need, to become no one and anyone, to
shake off the shackles that remind you who you are, who others think you
are. This dissolution of identity is familiar to travelers in foreign places and
remote fastnesses… (Solnit 16).
At the end of each day, a reiteration of home unfurled from our packs. Its manifestation
was always contingent upon the weather, the proximity to flat high ground and
accessibility to the landing spot. The physical geography and the simple need to paddle,
walk, paddle, pitch and strike camp consumed a clock-watching, list-making regime. It
was time to go to bed when the drone of mosquitoes overwhelmed the cry of the loons.
I am no stranger to shifting house, community, discipline, country or citizenship.
I have no allegiances to nostalgic notions of place – only rehearsed
habits of reconstituting myself in
a new context.
I returned from this wilderness not just with greater skills as an outdoor survivalist
and canoeist, but new awareness of how gender, posture, movement and spatial
sensation influence imagining, building and crafting thoughts, text and materials.
The story of my journey cannot be contained in a chronological account; it could
not explain the multiple infusions of desire that, like a strong wind, regularly blew
me off course. Though our planned path was denoted on the map by a fine red
indelible line, the itinerary had been superseded by the map’s own inability to be all
inclusive. Speaking to the propensity for ancients’ maps to denote unknown lands
beyond the horizon with the words ‘terra incognito’, Rebecca Solnit writes, “Between
words is silence, around ink whiteness, behind every map’s information is what’s
left out, unmapped and unmappable” (R. Solnit 161-162). She reflects upon this
situated mode of being lost, not as a masked form of homelessness or despair, but as
moments and experiences that yield to non-linear thinking and discovery in the face
of not-knowing what lies ahead. Her text dares me to gravitate towards those spaces
which exist at the margin – the limits of my body, my subjectivity and their mutual
mediation with the world.
In the dusk I practiced leaning further out such
that the lake nearly crossed the gunwale. He told
me I would not know where that edge was until I
was brave enough to capsize.
To get wet.
To fall into the white space.
One of those thin red lines connects Maple Lake with Erables Lake. It represents a
path demarked by blazes approximately every fifty paces apart. Because trees do not
grow up, the hatchet marks remain at eye level no matter what the type or age of the
tree. With a canoe on my head, these sign posts lead the way.



BLAZE is a series of eight 24” x 32” collage drawings composed on Arches

300# hot pressed watercolor paper. These drawings are the actual site of
processing observations, reflections and findings, ordering them and making
them public. Each sheet centers upon one of the blaze marks found along this
portage and then seeps outward into the off-white emptiness. Bound by visual
and textual associations, the pages collect ruminations stimulated by this
nomadic episode. Far from holiday snapshots, the collages are constructed
from bits of found text, images, transcribed conversations and oral histories to
synthesize a loosely knitted network of relations across architectural theory,
building construction, home repair, anatomy, biology, surgery, environmental
science, gender studies, forestry, geography, canoe lore, boat craft and spatial
mapping. Language, especially punctuation, plays a part in elucidating the
production of relations amongst this diversity of re-contextualized origins.
Tropes, especially metaphoric tropes, keep the suggestive nature of literal
and figural associations in circulation. The eight sheets are fields of lateral
musings.
Wander(ing)lust
Rachel Blau DuPlessis’ text “For The Etruscans” provided the bravery to
explore the limits of written expression and find merit in not following the
rules of grammar or proper communication techniques that I spent so many
years acquiring. Not to be confused as a sign of disrespect for my mother’s
efforts as an English teacher nor to the patience of the nun’s at my high
school, this was an act of unlearning that revealed what lives in the shadows
of discipline: a murky solution of rebellion and the viscous matrix of a self-
realizing voice. BLAZE reveals the visceral and playful dalliance in the
likeness between forms or spoken sounds in tune with DuPlessis’ working
definition of female aesthetic: “…the production of formal, epistemological,
and thematic strategies by members of the group Woman, strategies born
in struggle with much of already existing culture, and overdetermined by
two elements of sexual difference – by women’s psychosocial experiences
of gender asymmetry and by women’s historical status in an (ambiguously)
non-hegemonic group” (DuPlessis, 5).
Paper fields stare back, another terra incognito.

My room, strewn with bits of textual whiteness:
torn, cut, sliced, pasted, taped, drew, colored
and painted. They each somehow capture discreet
moments hovering around yet drifting away from
the blaze, my compass. A rogue autumn breeze
enters through the window
and reorganizes my disorder.
“…guarded, yet frank autobiography, textual analysis, and revisionary
myth-making suddenly fused into a demanding voice, with a matrix of
ecstatic power over cultural materials and mourning for the place of the
female in culture. The multiple pressures of living out feminist thinking led
me again and again to this non-objective, polyvocal prose, whose writing I
experienced as the most pleasure when it became the most speculative and
most uncontainable, most meditative and most passionate” (DuPlessis,
vii).
No guilt,
no caution,
no fear of I, I, I, i.
A visual essay,
a visualizing sashay,
swaying side to side,
fish in sine curve,
stirring the waters.
“Essays have always offered space. Far from belles lettres, I wanted these
essays to claim a larger and angrier space while remaining lambent and
evocative works of art; taking a position of positive negation, I would
rather see them be lettres laides” (DuPlessis, vii).
BLAZE is “evidence of the many heterogeneous ways in which feminists today
are exploring different forms of subjectivity of women and their struggle with
language in order to produce affirmative representations” (DuPlessis, 3).
BLAZE’s focus on embodied knowledge highlights a sexually differentiated
speaking subject.
I am not a monolithic essence.
My singularity does not pay homage to the “terrifying
stupidity” of the force of unity (Braidotti, 12).
I am a complex site of multiple potentialities at ease with
likely contradictions.
I am a female feminist nomad gathering, looting, tearing,
borrowing, stealing, scavenging, unpacking, reaping and
sacking the coffers of phallocentric schemes of thought
towards its own undoing.




BLAZE would be categorized as a second stage work in the “intellectual and

theoretical offspring of the ideas generated by the women’s movement...” as it
aims to reconstruct “knowledge on the basis of women’s experiences and the
ways of knowing and representing ideas developed within women’s cultural
traditions” (Braidotti, 234). Though autobiographical in nature, BLAZE asserts
an alternative system of representation with viable currency to transform
general values on the role of subjectivity. It is not merely a quaint trip down
memory lane, a self-indulgent diarist narrative; this is an empowering and
affirmative construction of my subjectivity as a material and nomadic agent
and hence therein lies its political currency. Its “thinking, the theoretical
process, is not abstract, universalized, objective, and detached, but rather it
is situated in the contingency of one’s experience, and as such it is a necessary
partial exercise” (Braidotti, 237).
…though for most of the trip my body served as

ballast, I kept the canoe low in the water and
steady on keel; not so dead weight.
…once I returned from the wilderness, it no
longer made complete sense to join two bits of
timber at a ninety-degree angle.
…unlike the canoe and anatomical depictions, I
am not hollow; my organs do not float in a void
but jostle, rub and co-mingle in various
thickened states. I am substance, intelligent and
desiring.
…and yet, when I leapt into the lake after a
long hot day, the cold water rushed into my inner
space, the place and the state from which I
actually speaking, “as if”…
…there is no room for binaries or dualities.
The hatchet with its wedged metal face, heavy-
headed wielding instrument, a force cutting
against the grain, tearing asunder, weeping
fluids, resinous tears, marked for life with a
vesica piscus, growing a two-lip scar is also a
shim that slides between two surfaces to hold
them apart and together simultaneously, to
balance, to level, to steady, to lever, to pry
out of balance, to provoke movement, to rock, to
throw off-centre, to mobilize, to incite nomadism.
References
Braidotti, Rosi. 1994. Nomadic Subjects: Embodiment and Sexual Difference in

Contemporary Feminist Theory. New York: Columbia University Press.
DuPlessis, Rachel Blau. 1990. The Pink Guitar: Writing as Feminist Practice. New York/
London: Routledge.
Nute, Grace Lee. 1955. The Voyageur. St. Paul, Minnesota: Minnesota Historical
Society.
Solnit, Rebecca. 2005. A Field Guide to Getting Lost. New York: Viking Press.
Notes
1 BLAZE (Julieanna Preston, 1994). BLAZE is one of twelve works included

in an exhibition entitled “Feminist Practices” curated by Lori Brown. In
addition to being publicly accessible via the exhibition website (http://www.
feministpractices.com/), this exhibition toured through the United States
and further to Australia 2008-2010. The exhibition and its curator have been
recognized by a 2008 Milka Bliznakov Women in Architecture Award.
2 Rosi Braidotti, Nomadic Subjects: Embodiment and Sexual Difference in Contemporary
Feminist Theory (New York: Columbia University Press, 1994).
3 Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost (New York: Viking Press, 2005).
4 Rachel Blau DuPlessis, The Pink Guitar: Writing as Feminist Practice (New York/
London: Routledge, 1990).
6
Sister2
Kyna Leski
Two sisters lived together in a glass house by the woods. They were identical
twins and had worn matching clothes ever since they were little girls. In order
to tell them apart, one sister wore the letter “S” on the right shoulder of her
outfits, and the other wore the number “2” on the left shoulder of hers. (This
was easily done, because the same character could be traced and cut from fabric
and flipped depending on which sister’s outfit it would be sewn onto.) The letter
“S” stood for “Sister,” the first born of the twins and the number “2” stood for
“Squared” the second born twin. “Squared” always signed her name with the
superscript “2”. Being very particular about how she looked, Squared thought the
“2” on her outfits was sewn too low.
Although they looked the same, the two sisters had very different personalities;
Sister was always shy and introverted and Squared was quite the extrovert.
Squared liked to be seen, stay up and out late at night. Sister preferred the early
mornings when she would take long walks in the woods surrounding their
house on three sides. The other side faced a field, where Sister never went. She
always left the house and went into the woods and walked off the paths where
the trees were dense. She liked the solitude of walking in the woods’ shadowed
space.
Squared, on the other hand, slept for most of the day. Usually, Sister didn’t
see her twin until the smells of dinner filled the air of the house. Conversations at
dinner were usually about Sister’s walks, where she went, what the weather was
like and what she saw. Sister would give an update on each tree that she passed.
Then Squared would excitedly talk about her night out and who she wanted to
meet and what to wear. Squared liked to dance. She felt alive and in the world
when dancing.
Squared often asked Sister for advice on what to wear. This was important
because as twins, they always wore identical outfits and had to reach an
agreement. At dusk, they would meet where two hinged glass doors met in
a corner of the house. With the lights on inside the house, the glass would
be reflective and when the glass doors were opened wide, the sisters could
6.1 Sister in
glass house
see all sides of their outfits through the reflection of one glass in the other.
Sister and Squared would stand side by side and see reflections of themselves
in a stack curving into infinity, the insignias on their shoulders smaller and
smaller until they could no longer be read.
Like a two-way mirror, the glass walls were transparent or reflective
depending on the amount of light on each side. At night, the twins could not
see out but one could easily be seen inside the house from the outside, without
seeing who was doing the seeing. Sister always imagined someone outside at
night looking in. It made her afraid of the dark. During the day, the dwelling’s
boundaries blew out from the planes of glass to reach in between the trees. It was
as if the house had two personas: the relaxed and extroverted space expanding
into the surrounding woods during the day and the contracted self-reflecting
dwelling at night.
Sister wished that she weren’t so shy. One night Squared stayed home instead
of going out, Sister stayed up, and the twins played cards. Because Sister didn’t
want to be visible from the outside, in case someone was there, they played by
candlelight. Out of nowhere, a moth flew towards the light. Sister hated moths.
Afraid of the dark, moths ate the leaves that formed the shadowed space of the
woods that Sister loved. Sister cast a spell. She said, “In girum imus nocte et
consumimur igni!” (We go wandering at night and are consumed by fire)1 The
moth flew towards the light again, but this time, flew too close and into the candle,
sister2 125
6.2 Glass house
getting caught in the molten wax. The moth tried to pull itself out, only to be frozen,
encased at the edge of the candle, hardening in its struggling gesture. Squared blew
the candle out and the card game was over.
Days were easier for Sister as she took to the woods. She wove a path through
the natural placement of trees. Sister imagined a seedling’s destiny tied to how
much light was left after the surrounding trees already took the air and light that
they could. Lightning struck some down, giving room for saplings. Others died
of rot or ice storm; the gypsy moths made banquets of oak trees. Bats slept in their
hollowed trunks.
Movement signaled an intruder. Peripheral vision sharpened perception of
anything that moved. Intuitively, Sister looked away from what she sensed, in
order to find it. Keeping her eyes half focused so as to not preference any portion
of view over the periphery, she could dwell in the wood’s depth. Between two
trees, two more trees and between those two trees, two more. Each tree had cast
a visual shade: a sweep of obscured space. And when her line of sight shifted, just
by a fraction of an inch, a completely different set of views extended into its depth.
6.3 Shadowed
Space
Sister’s moving point of view exchanged one visual shade for another; a blinking
shadowed space.
Most of the time, there was no intruder; she found only the trees, birds, rabbits,
raccoons, and chipmunks. Giant oaks, maple and elm stood guard as survivors. Sister
felt safe as their dignity stopped wrongdoing in its tracks. The woods were her dance
hall. She felt in the world here, dancing with the phenomena of view and shade.
One evening at dinner, Squared was excitedly talking about her night out
dancing with friends when she noticed Sister’s fallen face. “What’s wrong?”
sister2 127
Squared asked. “I wish I weren’t so shy,” Sister replied. “Maybe if I didn’t feel 6.4 Sketch
so exposed, I would have courage to go out like you. I feel safe in the woods, of concept of
with all its shadows. I wish I could live in a house that’s shadowed like the Shadow House
woods.” Squared said, “Then do it! Design a house that’s shadowed like the
woods and we’ll build it.” Sister’s face began to glow and expand into a smile.
“That’s a great idea. Let’s do it.” And the sisters made a pact that evening, to
build a house of visual shadows.
The next day Sister brought her sketchbook and pencils with her on her
walk in the woods. This time, she skipped and walked and danced and then
stopped and drew what she imagined was there, all the eyes of the chipmunks,
raccoons, rabbits, birds, and even possible intruders. She drew cones from
those imagined eyes coming from all directions as she moved through the
woods. The drawing looked like a fantastic sea urchin of intersecting spikes.
The trees stood intercepting the cones of sight and Sister’s path. And the
openings between the leaves of the canopy cast tiny suns everywhere, a
thousand pinhole lenses projecting images. That gave Sister an idea: her house
should be designed to intercept all the sight cones that she could imagine.
Sister went home and found some paper and tape. She made all kinds of
cones by rolling the paper and taping them. Tall skinny cones, fat short cones
and oblique cones of all kinds. At dinner, Sister showed Squared all the cones
and told her about her plan: “if we could intercept all these cones, we’ll have
the design of the house,” she said. Squared looked puzzled. “I have an idea,
we’ll need to light the candle,” Sister said. That night Squared did not go out and
Sister stayed up. They arranged the cones in all sorts of ways. Sister cast her spell
again, but this time in reverse, “In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni!” Sister
lit the candle with the encased moth and tried not to notice as the wax melted
from its wings.
Sister was preoccupied with her experiment. She had a card that had a hole
in it. By holding up the card in front of the candlelight, a cone of light was cast
through the hole. Where this cone of light fell on a paper cone was an intersection
6.5 Cone of light
6.6 Flower
of two cones. By tracing this intersection, templates could be cut, and the walls of
the house built. Sister held the card in front of the candle and Squared arranged
a cone according to plan. If the card was close to the candle, the cone of light
would be wide; if further away, the cone of light would be narrow and if the card
was angled, the cast cone would be oblique.
sister2 129
6.7 Section of
Shadow House
Sister placed the card. The intersection of the light and the paper cone was
petal-shaped. By varying the placement of the card, the petals looked like they
were from all species of flowers. Squared traced the petal-shaped intersection
on each of the paper cones. As the twins moved around the model, the house
started to emerge. “What was that?” Squared asked. “What was what?” asked
Sister. “That.” Squared said, as a shadow flew past the cones. “A bat,” said Sister.
The black shadow in the air flew in sync with its shadow on the walls and ceiling; a
crack through the room. Sister opened a door so that it could fly away.
Once all the walls were traced and cut, Sister blew out the candle. The moth was
gone; but Sister said nothing about it and the twins went to bed.
Sister had a dream that night of a flower blooming. She was inside the
flower where the seed pod was while the flower slowly opened around her.
From the inside, she heard the words:
Never, not for a single day,
do we have before us that pure space the flowers
continually open into. For us it’s always a World,
and never a Nowhere without the No – a pure,
unguarded space you can breathe and fully realize
and not be longing after.1
Out of nowhere a giant moth approached. Its wings flapped like flags, sending
puffs of pollen into air. Sister awoke coughing; but longing after the flower’s
6.8 Petal-
shaped wall
sister2 131
6.9 Intersecting
vaults
6.10 Blind spot

6.11 Plan of space. She took out her sketchbook to draw the light filled and magically
Shadow House open, “Nowhere without the No” and wondered, “If light shapes flowers
then it could shape my house too.” Sister set out to shape all the parts of the
house from projected light.
Sister projected light on cones to shape petal-walls. The shadows of petal-
walls cast on other cones made a second set of walls, the space in between
became rooms, and the projected lines overhead, vaults.
sister2 133
All of the petal-walls could be arranged to protect the center of the house
so that it would be obscured from sight – a blind spot of a kind. And if all the
spaces of the house were arranged around the blind spot, Sister could move
through from one space to another without being visible to the outside.
That evening Sister and Squared discussed the house’s progress over
dinner. Squared had been thinking too. Once the plans were done, Squared
and all her friends could start building it at night, with lamps at full-scale. The
sisters agreed and Squared set out to recruit and gather her friends. Sister laid
out a plan, a folded geometry of spaces organized around a blind spot. The
fold of the plan ran north-south with the spaces built up around, in a clockwise
fashion, each space being a couple of steps higher than the next so that when all
the spaces were in place, the center of the house was a spiraling stair. Starting
in the east was the kitchen, or “sunrise-room.” Then as you moved clockwise
around the center was the dining room, next in the south was the living room or
“floaters,” in the southwest was the entry or “blink,” then the studio or “fuse-
with-the-all-room,” then in the west was the bathroom, and finally in the north
was the bedroom, or “deep-sleep-dream-room.” “Deep-sleep-dream-room” was
a full set of steps higher than the ground below. She wrote the letters “dn” for
“down” on the stairs with an arrow pointing down and named that space below,
also in the north, “insomnia room” because that was the space to be when “up.”
For weeks, Sister would sketch and model and Squared and her friends
would build the house.
One night Sister had a dream that she was in a blind spot. Again, like her
dream of being inside of a flower, everything was in slow motion. As light slowly
entered the blind spot, she could see a giant lens that slowly focused the light.
An upside down image started to take form on a concave wall on the other side
of the lens. Just as the image started to appear, she realized that she was inside of
an eye and woke up. Sister took out her dream journal and sketched her dream
of an eye and thought, “Images are possible only in blind spots. I have to build
a lens for my house.”
That day she found an old ten-gallon glass jug with a thick solid glass base
and broke off the base from its sides. She chipped off the pieces left from the
sides of the bottle. Using sand and a flat pavement stone, Sister ground the base
into a blank. Next she needed to grind the glass blank into a lens. Squared gave
her an iron pipe about half the blank’s diameter. Sister rocked the blank back
and forth on the open end of the pipe forming a curved surface on one side of
the glass blank. For weeks Sister spent her days grinding the lens while Squared
spent the nights building the house. Each evening they would meet and discuss
their progress. The lens took shape as the blind spot took form. After the lens was
perfectly curved, Sister started to polish it using finer and finer grit each day. The
lens became sharper and clearer as the house grew more shadowed. Squared
told Sister that bats would often visit the building site. She could see them in the
lamplight diving and catching moths, their shadows on the petal-shaped walls.
One day Sister held the lens up to the sun light and it focused a sharp beam onto
the pavement. “It’s done.” The twins decided that the lens would be placed in the
6.12 Progress
model of
Shadow House
blind spot, at the center of the house. She went back to the plan of the house to draw
the lens in place; but, this time she viewed the drawing from another point of view.
“dn” which she had written earlier, for “down,” appeared as “up.” “Hmmm,” she
thought, “a downside up stair, a perfect location for a lens that projects images
upside down.” Sister felt satisfied, was tired and went to bed.
The next morning Sister woke up and looked at the blue sky. She noticed the
floaters in her eyes and chased them, looking to the right as they fell out of view,
like a dog chasing its tail. Even though they seemed like they are in the tears on the
surface of the eyes, she knew that they are in fact deep inside the eye between the
lens and retina. “We don’t really know where the self begins and the world ends,”
she thought out loud. That made her very excited in thinking about her house. “To
be in between a lens and a projected image on a retina is to be filled with wonder.”
She looked around her and the lens that she had finished the previous day was
sister2 135
gone. Nothing was left in the glass house besides the bed that Sister slept on. Not 6.13 Bird’s eye
even Squared was there. Sister went outside and ventured down to the open field, view of Shadow
House roof
where the house was being built. It was the first time that she went into the open
and the first time she saw the house: a strange set of petal-shaped walls and vaults.
It was surprisingly porous, and open; none of the walls enclosed a room, yet she
could not see deep into the center. The walls of the house were arranged exactly like
the model, in a way that screened its core, making it invisible.
Sister wove her way past the petal-walls and into the house. At the core of
the house, a stair accumulated from the levels of each room and connected
all the rooms of the house. Rooms, in essence, were landings for the stair
that gently spiraled up. And the walls of the rooms screened the center, the
blind spot of the house. There was her lens, mounted in the wall that screened
the stair, a wall that she had named “lens wall” and an image of the outside
6.14 West side was projected upside down on the concave side of its twin wall, which she had
of model of named “retina.” Everything else was there, all of her belongings: her furniture,
Shadow House
her clothes, her art supplies and pots and pans.
She decided to make a great meal to celebrate the house and cooked all day.
No one showed up to her dinner, not even Squared.
Every night she had fantastic dreams and every day she painted them on the
concave surfaces of the walls of her house. She would apply wet plaster in the
morning and paint frescos of her dreams in the afternoons. She thought that by
filling them with her dreams she could make the walls dissolve. The concave
surface of the vaults she painted a Prussian blue, because Prussian blue has the
longest focal length of any color and it made the vaults seem so far away that
they almost disappeared.
The walls slowly filled with images of her dreams and the retina wall flashed
with images from the outside, projected by the lens.
Each morning she took her walk in the woods and passed the glass house,
each time looking inside. It sat empty. Each evening she prepared dinner for
Squared; but Squared never showed up. In fact, she never saw Squared again. But
occasionally her friends would stop by, and they would have dinner together.
References
Rilke, Rainer Maria. 1981 . The Eighth Elegy, Duino Elegies, translated by Gary
Miranda.
sister2 137
Notes
1 A Latin palindrome, “go strolling or wandering around” was said to describe

the behavior of moths.
2 “The Eighth Elegy,” Duino Elegies, by Rainer Maria Rilke; translated by Gary
Miranda 1981.
6.15 View of
Shadow House
6.16 One of
many dream
paintings
6.17 Sister
Squared
7
Interior-scapes
Lois Weinthal
Sewing
The title of Architect historically implies a masculine gendered discipline,

while the title Interior Designer implies the feminine counterpart discipline.
The lineage of architects and interior designers up until the twenty-first
century have proven these gendered stereotypes correct. It has only been
recently in academia and the profession of architecture that the presence of
women has become more commonplace. Although architects and interior
designers work in the same space, the division of permissible responsibility
can be found in the details of licensing exams where the primary division lies
in the knowledge and application of structures and systems.1 The licensed
architect has the ability to design and alter structures, while licensed interior
designers are allowed to respond to these constructed spaces without altering
the structure. A similar parallel can be found in the discipline of apparel
construction that shares a history of male and female titles where each implies
a different degree of construction and infill. Like the architect, the “tailor”
implies a masculine profession that brings structure to clothing. In her essay,
“Cutting Patterns,” Kerstin Kraft writes that it was “…tailors, those who cut
the material…not…sewers or seamstresses…”2 who gave structure to clothing,
and that in the “tailoring of clothes, cutting to fit, was based on the body of the
person who would wear the clothes: the clothes were cut to the shape of this
person’s body.”3 Tailoring cloth requires knowledge of the body’s form and
techniques for structuring textiles, whereas the implied role of the seamstress
– the feminine counterpart – is one who repairs or embellishes what already
exists. The roles of the architect and tailor are to oversee the design, structure
and fabrication of their trade, leaving the female counterpart roles to fill in
non-structural details. This relationship between structure and infill is not so
different from Gottfried Semper’s definition, whereby the hanging of textiles
and skins is the first act of the architect followed by the structure to support
them. Although Semper draws a division between infill and structure, the role
This figure has intentionally been removed for copyright reasons.

To view this image, please refer to the printed version of this book
7.1 Furnishings of the seamstress\interior designer associated with infill is given prominence
for a small as the first act of the architect. With the emergence of interior design as a
drawing room,
distinct discipline, the role of architect and interior designer become confused
Gillows and Co,
1822 (engraving) in Semper’s writings leaving the door open for new interpretation.
by English School The division of labor between architect – interior designer, and tailor –
(19th century) seamstress, provides a foundation for the following design projects in this
Source: Private essay that seek to synthesize the different construction techniques of each
Collection/The discipline in order to confuse their historically defined roles. The search for
Bridgeman Art
Library, with
a common ground in these disciplines reveals objective rules that translate
permission. across methods of construction that take the form of drafting, cutting,
connecting, scale and tools in the practice of making. The following design
projects integrate these rules and the different methods of construction
inherent to each discipline by transcribing and sharing a common language
that at times neutralizes the gender associated trades or challenges their
conventional roles. The first project brings methods of apparel construction
interior-scapes 141
to architecture, and the second two projects bring architectural notations to

apparel construction.
The starting point for this work begins with an essay by Robin Evans
entitled “The Developed Surface: An Enquiry into the Brief Life of an
Eighteenth-Century Drawing Technique.” Evans analyzes eighteenth-century
furniture makers’ drawings that show the placement of furniture in relationship
to interior rooms. These drawings encompass architecture and textiles as seen
in the floor plans and interior elevations that are filled with furniture, textiles
and accessories oriented according to their appropriate direction. In a drawing
by Gillows & Co. from 1882 for a small drawing room, an orthogonal floor plan
is surrounded on four sides by its corresponding interior elevations folding off
from the plan so that a common edge visually and logically connects the plan to
its elevation.
Evans describes this drawing as a developed surface interior because “In
descriptive geometry, folding out the adjacent surfaces of a three-dimensional
body so that all its faces can be shown on a sheet of paper is called developing a
surface.”4 Similar to this type of architectural drawing, Kraft also notes that for
apparel construction, “…the main problem involved in tailoring” is “covering
a three-dimensional body with tailored parts that are two-dimensional.”5 Both
architecture and apparel construction share the common problem of how to
move back and forth from two dimensions to three dimensions. In the Gillows
& Co. drawing, furniture and accessories are drawn in perspective while the
room plan is drawn orthographically. The plan conveys true measurement as
a foundation upon which embellishment – the furniture and accessories – can
begin to be designed and located. Architecture and interior design share the
same space, yet the information used to represent each are drawn with different
drawing techniques, further distinguishing architecture from the interior design.
Two points that I would like to focus upon are first, the developed surface
interior and its relationship to apparel construction, and second, the role of the
orthographic drawings as hierarchical upon which embellishment is secondary.
Information such as furniture, textiles and accessories is included in the
orthographic drawing in order to convey the program of a room and an overall
aesthetic. These dichotomies are much like the relationship between the architect/
tailor and interior designer/seamstress. The masculine roles provide the structural
foundation upon which the feminine roles add embellishment.
The developed surface interior drawing was used to convey the layout of
furniture, but as Evans’ analysis points out, the drawing “fractures space and
destroys its continuity”.6 “Cuts have to be made between adjoining walls so as to
splay them flat. To read the room as an enclosed space it is necessary to mentally
fold the walls up out of the paper.”7 A missing notation from the drawing is the
dotted line demarcating where edges can be folded up in order to return the
room to its three-dimensional state. This notation exists at the scale of apparel
construction through the use of darts, pleats, folds, etc. on clothing patterns
that allow textiles to transform from a two-dimensional surface into a three-
dimensional form.

7.2 Front and back torso pattern with dart notation. Source: Kopp, Ernestine,
Vittorina Rolfo, Beatrice Zelin and Lee Gross. Designing Apparel Through the Flat
Pattern, Sixth Edition, Pages (27). © 1992 by Fairchild Publications, Inc. Reprinted
by permission of Fairchild Books, a division of Condé Nast, Inc.
Second, the orthographic drawing grounds architecture in a set of legible

relationships by representing true measure and providing plan and elevation
as a drawing base upon which furniture can be located. This hierarchical
relationship can be interpreted through the lens of gender, where the masculine
trade of architecture is required before the feminine interior designer can even
begin. Evans explores this idea further by referencing Thomas Sheraton’s 1793
publication, Cabinet Maker and Upholsterer’s Drawing Book noting: “Time alters
fashions and frequently obliterates the works of art and ingenuity, but that
which is formed in geometry and real science will remain unalterable.”8 Sheraton
interior-scapes 143
believes that the measured drawing is a necessary and timeless foundation upon
which the temporal nature of fashion (or interior design and all that necessitates)
can attach and detach. In other words, the work of the architect is timeless and
fundamental whereas the work of the interior designers is temporal due to its
response to fashion.
Apparel construction is not so different. Clothing patterns begin with
foundational patterns that are clothing’s true measurement. These are altered
and further embellished depending upon the style of the time. Kraft further
associates tailoring with the sciences through the early development of the
clothing trade. She argues that “it was tailors who cut open a path for later
anatomical investigation: when tailors dissected the body into its individual
parts before putting them back together…That which has long been practiced
by tailors is now becoming possible in the world of science: the ‘making to
measure…’”9 Similarly Kraft frames the act of tailoring in the same sphere of
measure and structure for apparel construction as Sheraton’s advocating that
measured drawing was primary.
Returning to the image by Gillows & Co. of the small drawing room, Evans
characterized the disconnect between the orthographic plan and elevations to
the furniture drawn in perspective as: “They needed also to show each item of
potential purchase, whatever its position, in sufficiently pictorial form, and they
needed to show their combined effects on the rooms as a whole. They ended up
conflating three distinct types of drawing…”10 In order to correct the drawing,
the furniture and accessories would need to be drawn orthographically. This
is not difficult to do, but the question of how to represent the furniture in
perspective or any other view and still convey its overall character in the way
that a perspective achieves is left unanswered.
The Gillows & Co. drawing reinforces Sheraton’s idea where architecture
is primary and furnishings are secondary. In order for the furniture to be
represented in Sheraton’s language of objectivity and science, it is not only the
furniture that needs to change but also the architecture as well.
Wing Chair
Remaking a chair acts as a starting point for merging the two drawing types.
This requires the furniture to become a measured element of the drawing
similar to architectural components. The resulting drawing disputes Sheraton’s
hypothesis through the convergence of the hierarchical roles of the architect’s
measured drawings associated with the secondary role of perspectival images
of the interior designer. To take this idea one step further, this approach poses
the following: how can the furniture become dominant within this type of
drawing while the architecture becomes secondary?; thereby reversing the two
disciplines.
This project begins with the construction of a piece of furniture titled Wing
Chair. Properties of the developed interior surface drawing are carried into
7.3 Wing Chair

folded up
7.4 Wing
Chair unfolded
in plan view
interior-scapes 145
the chair by building the chair so that, similar to the Gillows & Co. drawing
room unfolding at its edges to show plan and elevation simultaneously, the
physical chair unhinges and deconstructs revealing its plan and elevation
views all at once.
Front, back, seat, and side are all treated as individual surfaces unfolding
into orthographic projection. Where the developed interior surface drawing by
Gillows & Co. disregarded the potential of notations to reconstruct the room,
notations are built into the Wing Chair as “wings.” Drawn with measure and
providing structure to the chair, the wings borrow the notation of darts from
apparel construction and are enlarged to meet the scale of the chair.
7.5 Wing
Seams are built into the wings that allow the insertion of steel rods to provide Chair under
structural support. When the chair is in the upright position, the wing detail construction
marks the shift from ornament to structure. Structure, a system that divides with wings
the professions of architecture and interior design, is now transferred away being sewn to
from architecture and sewn into the realm of the interior designer. The textile chair legs
wings or structural seams bear the weight of the chair and its occupant, and
are the hinge point between two and three dimensions.
By assigning textile wings the role of structure, the feminine roles of
interior designer and seamstress previously providing “fill,” now replace the
masculine roles of architect and tailor associated with structure and science.
7.6 Detail of the The historical relationship of skin and structure defined by Semper returns in
wing unfolded Wing Chair with structure now integrated into the textile wings.
When Wing Chair is unfolded, its elevations and plan are seen in one
view similar to the Gillows & Co. developed surface interior drawing. To
reinforce the relationship of the orthographic drawing as being the primary
representational tool, the hinge point between the floor and the chair receives
cut lines whereby the chair becomes dominant and re-configures the floor.
The result re-assigns textiles and furniture as the hierarchical representation
often claimed by architecture.
Returning again to Sheraton’s quote, the canvas wings of the Wing Chair
reverses what would normally be considered embellishment and ornament
into Sheraton’s objective orthographic language that emphasizes the timeless
and is equated with the scientific. The interior is no longer secondary, but
dominant.
Constructing Clothing
Wing Chair developed from the desire to question and hybridize the traditional
roles of men and women in architecture, interiors and apparel construction.
The result led to bringing apparel construction techniques into interior and
architectural design. The following two clothing projects work in the reverse
direction, where apparel construction borrows from architecture and interiors.
interior-scapes 147
The similarity in tools and methods of representation between the disciplines 7.7 Detail of
opens up the possibility of transferring one method to another while bridging Wing Chair floor
with inscribed cut
scales. Both disciplines rely upon tools for measuring, drawing, cutting, and
exacting precision. These tools translate into representations taking the form
of patterns, proportions, drawing surfaces, and notational systems such as
dotted lines, symbols and text.
In contrast to Wing Chair, where apparel construction was implemented
in furniture and architecture, the design of House Coat borrows notations
from architecture and interiors. A coat is constructed using three areas of
architectural representation: drafting notations, drawing surfaces, and the
language of notes on construction documents. The design of the coat is treated
as a constructed space that houses the body whereby drafting notations such
as centerlines and façade orientations are drafted directly onto the coat. Dotted
lines are used to translate secondary information of the coat construction,
much like a dotted line on an architectural drawing signifies a secondary
mark that does not meet the requirements for a solid line. The coat pattern’s
instruction notes are re-written into the language of construction documents
and typed onto the surface of the coat. Both construction documents and
clothing patterns rely upon instruction through symbols and words where
each influences one another in the construction of these projects.
Trace paper, typically used for architectural sketching and is considered
a low value material, is selected as the fabric for the coat. The substitution
of fabric for trace brings the tangible act of drawing literally onto the coat.
Trace paper allows for architectural phenomenon to translate into the body

7.8 Cutaway wall section showing plaster over metal or gypsum lath and metal
studs. Source: Architectural Graphic Standards, 11th Edition, American Institute of
Architects, Hoboken, N.J.: John Wiley & Sons, c2007. Reprinted with permission of
John Wiley & Sons, Inc.
of the coat, such as the effects of light and translucency as seen when the coat
is illuminated from behind and the body appears in silhouette. The literal
drawing onto the trace paper as a form of construction recalls Colin Rowe’s
writing on the distinction between literal and phenomenal transparency. The
act of drawing the construction process notations onto the trace paper was
the primary objective in sharing information between disciplines, but what
interior-scapes 149
7.9 House
Coat detail with
notes conveying
the process of
construction
was unforeseen was the resulting translucent nature of the figure occupying
the coat.
A second coat integrates a Cartesian grid, which is typically implemented
as an ordering system at the scale of a city or landscape. The system uses
quadrants located by numbers and letters to assist in spatially locating oneself
7.10–7.11 House
Coat in trace
paper and
backlit to show
the presence
of a figure
interior-scapes 151
in a grid. The Cartesian grid is rarely used as a base for clothing patterns
because of the need for patterns to respond to curved surfaces. The application
of the grid in Pocket Map Coat seeks to integrate an ordering system at the
scale of clothing that can be utilized similar to a grid at the scale of building.
For example, quadrants on a map locate nodes of interest and are translated
into pockets on a coat that locate nodes of objects.
Pocket Map Coat hybridizes the grid and pocket into functional pockets,
each lettered and numbered in a coordinate system similar to a map (see
Figures 7.12–7.13, overleaf). Coordinate systems provide location in cities and
landscapes, similarly, Pocket Map Coat organizes and locates items associated
with personal possessions in an immediate set of coordinates. Items such as a
wristwatch, phone, money, a pen or scraps of paper that normally get tucked
into pockets or purses are now neatly tucked into any of the pockets. The
body becomes the site, and possessions become the nodes located within a set
of coordinates.
By integrating the Cartesian grid with the surface of Pocket Map Coat,
a fundamental system of organization grounded in science and objectivity
is brought to a garment typically associated with fashion. Returning to
Thomas Sheraton’s dictum dividing timeless forms grounded in geometry
and science and the temporal nature of art and fashion, Pocket Map Coat
challenges this division. The organization system grounded in geometry and
science now becomes the details of fashion on the surface of the coat. The
differences that Sheraton points out between geometry and science to that of
art and fashion are true for many disciplines, however there is also room for
interpretation through the sharing of geometry, notations and materials. In
these three projects, the differences between historically gendered disciplines
are reorganized to produce works that maintain feminine and masculine
qualities. The search for the appropriate framework in which to undertake
these questions did not require that the solution be neutrality. Instead,
the search looked to tools, mediums and notations of parallel and related
disciplines to provide a new set of complimentary relationships.
List of References
Evans, Robin. “The Developed Surface: An Enquiry into the Brief Life of an
Eighteenth-Century Drawing Technique.” In Translations from Drawing to Building
and Other Essays. Edited by Robin Evans, 195–231. Cambridge, MA: The MIT
Press, 1997.
Kraft, Kerstin. 1998. “Cutting Patterns.” form + zweck 15: 66–69. Originally published
in Mentges, Gabriele, and Heide Nixdorff. zeit.schnitte. Kulturelle Konstruktionen
von Kleidung und Mode. Dortmund, Germany: Editions Eberbach, 2001.
Rowe, Colin. and Slutzky, Robert. 1963. “Transparency: Literal and Phenomenal.”
Perspecta 8.
7.12–7.13 Front and back of Pocket Map Coat with pockets

wrapping around front, sides, arms and back
interior-scapes 153
Notes
1 The scope of work allowed by an Architect or Interior Designer in North

America is outlined by two licensing bodies. The Architect Registration
Exam (ARE) offered by the National Council of Architectural Registration
Boards (NCARB) is the licensing body for practicing with the title of
Architect; the National Council for Interior Design Qualification (NCIDQ)
for the title Interior Designer.
2 Kerstin Kraft, “Cutting Patterns.” form + zweck 1998 (15): 66–69. Originally
published in Mentges, Gabriele, and Heide Nixdorff. zeit.schnitte. Kulturelle
Konstruktionen von Kleidung und Mode. Dortmund, Germany: Editions Eberbach,
2001.
3 Kraft (1998), 67.
4 Robin Evans, “The Developed Surface: An Enquiry into the Brief Life of an
Eighteenth-Century Drawing Technique,” in Translations from Drawing to
Building and Other Essays (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1997), 202.
5 Kraft (1998), 69.
6 Evans (1997), 203.
7 Evans (1997), 211.
8 Evans (1997), 198.
9 Kraft (1998), 67.
10 Evans (1997), 219.
8
Materializing the Tiger in the Archive: Creative Research

and Architectural History
Lilian Chee
‘Invention is the only true intellectual act’

(Serres 1997, 92).
In 2003, I began my doctoral research on the Raffles Hotel in Singapore, a listed

monument which had undergone extensive conservation and restoration
works approximately a decade ago. I had intended to learn more about the
architectural history of this building type – it being a grand hotel – with
particular emphasis on its role as a social condenser during the golden age
of colonial travel in Singapore and Malaya, specifically around the turn of the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries. One of its more intriguing spaces was the
old Billiard Room, which had achieved far-flung fame as the spot where the
last tiger was shot in urban Singapore.
It was reported in the local broadsheet that the infamous incident took
place in August 1902 when a tiger, escaping from a native circus act stationed
near the Beach Road reclamation site, took refuge in the undercroft space
of the Billiard Room. The beast was spotted by one of the hotel’s bar ‘boys’,
‘staring through the low verandah railing on the hotel side of the Billiard
Room’ (Straits Times, 1902). In no time, Mr C.M. Phillips, the head teacher
from one of Singapore’s leading boys’ school, the Raffles Institution located
near the hotel’s premises, was summoned to the scene from his slumber. He
had been to a fancy dress ball the night before at the Government House
and was still nursing his hangover when he was called to the emergency.
Dressed in his pyjamas, the head teacher proved to be a poor marksman as he
aimed, fired, and missed the tiger several times, hitting the brick pillars of the
building instead. After he managed to finally kill the beast, the tiger’s body
was dragged out from under the Billiard Room by nervous bystanders.
There were neither photographs of the ill-fated tiger nor of the
uncoordinated head teacher. There was also no taxidermic specimen of the
prized trophy. All that remains of this historical incident is the newspaper
report, which offers a blow-by-blow account of this ‘hunt’. The ambivalent
report, titled ‘Shot at Raffles Hotel – Under the Billiard Room’, gives the
impression that the reporter and the hotel crowd were not impressed by
Philips’s forlorn performance. Instead, sympathies resided with the majestic
beast fondly nicknamed ‘Stripes’, which was admired for his enviable length of
‘tip to tip 7 feet 8 inches, and 5 feet 4 inches in height’, and rather than being a
menace, was reportedly terrified of the crowd until he was rudely shot.
As I immersed myself in the historical material surrounding this space, I
became increasingly frustrated with the lack of fit between what I had expected
of an architectural archive and what was ultimately available. It seemed that
apart from the architectural drawings, which documented the gradual expansion
of the space to accommodate the game’s heightened popularity during the first
decade of the twentieth century, the research material connected with the Billiard
Room comprised the odd newspaper report or two, and primarily a collection of
anecdotal fragments recounting the tiger incident, which was later backed up by
contemporary cartoons and children’s fables.
Today, tiger lore thrives in the hotel. In its shop, there are cuddly tigers, t-shirts
with tiger prints and tiger posters on sale. The Billiard Room continues to honor the
game by keeping two tables, one marked as an ‘original’ dating back to the time of
Stripes’ visit. A tiger-themed billiard exhibition match was hosted here in the 1980s.
At the bar, guests drink out of mugs emblazoned with a tiger motif, and patrons
are given keepsake matchboxes which feature an image of a tiger accompanied by
a question that keeps the guests curious: ‘Was there really a tiger under the billiard
table?’ The tiger story has also inspired a series of contemporary cartoons and two
illustrated volumes of children’s stories – Kathy Creamer’s The Tiger who Came to
Tea (1995) and Kelly Choppard’s Terry’s Raffles Adventures (1996). During the hotel’s
centenary celebrations in 1986, a white female Bengal tiger from a visiting circus
act was roped in by the hotel’s manager Roberto Pregarz, who dressed himself
up as a colonial hunter, to re-enact the primal scene from a hundred years before
(Straits Times, 1986). Stories about where the tiger was shot became so widespread
that the whereabouts of the beast shifted from under the Billiard Room to under the
billiard table. Given that the Billiard Room was operational between 1896 and 1917,
then only reinstalled in 1989, these remarkable stories are amongst those that have
circulated in the intervening seventy years when this space was physically non-
existent. Thus, during this interim period, the Billiard Room effectively existed as a
footnote to its tiger stories.
‘In the middle, between things…’
On first impressions, the material related to the Billiard Room was ‘useless’
since the anecdotes fell outside the conventional framework of the architectural
archive. There were two glaring discrepancies. The anecdote, firstly, was not
a normative document issued by the architect – these being conventionally
accepted as drawings, models, briefs, and instructions dealing with the design
or with the construction of the building. An anecdote, secondly, is viewed
suspiciously in historical work because it cannot be verified. The anecdote, as
architectural historian Barbara Penner (2005) points out, is often alienated in
academic discourse. Dictionary definitions link the anecdote to ‘a tendency to
materializing the tiger in the archive 157
tell too many stories’, and oppose it to ‘corroborated evidence or proof’ (The New
Penguin Dictionary 2001, 48). And yet, in conversations, interviews and stories which
persistently arose during my research, the tiger incident remained intransigent. In
short, the Billiard Room would not be in the forefront of our imagination today
without the tiger.
Nevertheless, situating the research within the realms of architectural history
proved challenging in ‘a research paradigm … (where) knowledge and creativity
are conceived as mutually exclusive’ (Carter 2004, 8). The discipline of architectural
history with its emphases on formal design lineage and influences, finds little
relevance in such evidence, which summarily put, has ‘nothing to do’ with
‘Architecture’, and even less with its history. At the same time, there is almost no
discussion about the compatibility of architectural historical research methods
which privilege distance and objectivity, as well as the centrality of the architect
and the design/building, as opposed to the practice of architectural design which
tends to value subjectivity, self-reflexivity, experience, and instinct.1
Consequently, the former methodology restricts the types of evidence and
findings which may matter to the discipline, thus precluding, in this instance,
the reproduction of the Billiard Room through the means by which it has been
consumed. In their paper, ‘Detecting Architecture’, architectural historians Penner
and Charles Rice (2009) question ‘the centrality of architecture in architectural
history’, proposing instead that the discipline of architectural history consider
architecture’s ‘background effect’, that is, to understand the elusiveness of
‘architecture as an object of historical inquiry’, and that ‘a change in the nature
of the inquiry’ may be needed. If the discipline of architectural history takes into
account tangential developments related to an architectural object’s production
such as the effects of technology on its construction, the architect’s political and
cultural influences, and the client’s requirements, it would, I argue, be sensible to
also consider how this object – a building or a space – continues to be reproduced
after its construction through subsequent consumption, occupancy and use. In
this sense, architectural history’s conventional affiliation with the architectural
profession and art historical scholarship may benefit from techniques and modes of
evidence relevant to other spatially-inclined disciplines such as geography, cultural
history and the history of science, for example.
Additionally, I suggest an understanding of architectural history as a temporal
activity which is bound to a specific encounter between the historian and her
object of study for as much as we ‘historicize our objects of study’, we also need
to historicize ‘our own embedding in history’ (Gallop 2002, 89). Architectural
historical knowledge is produced both through scholarly interpretation as
well as through visceral means, for example, the historian may have the
opportunity to physically occupy or psychologically inhabit an architectural
object or space. However, even as the historian’s role as experiencing subject
is key to such knowledge production, the notions of subjectivity and experience
are frequently masked in architectural discourse, which prioritizes the figure of
the architect as author (Burns 1996). Thus, the architectural historian’s experience
is conventionally directed toward understanding either the architect’s intentions
or skills, or the historical significance of the building in a wider political, social,

cultural or economic circumstance.
Rather than being limited by these disciplinary conventions, which have to
do with intentionality and significance, I argue for the capacity to theorize and
historicize a building or a space as one finds it, or to begin the research as it were,
‘into the middle of things’, that is, to allow a critical position to emerge out of
such experience. This critical mode is akin to what Walter Benjamin (1996, 3-5;
1999, 159-62) calls the ‘lived experience’, that is, the experience of a present or
a moment in time (Erlebnis) privileged over experience shared or accumulated
through tradition (Erfahrung); for example, one mediated by the limits of
architectural history. In another context, literary theorist Jane Gallop (2002, 5)
describes this lived activity as ‘occasional’ because it is linked to a particular
moment rather than simply attached to a ‘familiar narrative’, and ‘… the
moment is in fact an opening – the occurrence of something new, something
surprising’ (Gallop 2002, 85). Similarly, feminist literary critic Nancy Miller
(1991, xi-xii) reminds us that ‘the fallout of the event’ creates ‘the chance for
something to happen in the wedge of unpredictability not yet foreclosed by
… discourse’.
At the same time, the notion of ‘evidence’ is conventionally limited to
that which is recognized by a potential narrative (Scott 1994, 366). Hence,
an established architectural narrative predetermines its modes of evidence,
and consequently, controls the formation of what can, or cannot, be
constituted as a legitimate architectural subject. Yet back at the Billiard
Room, I was reluctant to dismiss its unruly evidence for two reasons.
Firstly, the anecdotes gestured to a specifically feminine mode of knowledge
which was circulated primarily by word-of-mouth resulting in a network
of stories. I also observed that these stories empowered the teller and her
audience, enabling both to gain imaginative access to an otherwise limited
space, which customarily welcomed only men of certain status. Secondly,
the newspaper report and its later spin-offs portrayed the colonial hunter,
a masculine figure emblematic of the gendered Billiard Room, as somehow
flawed or emasculated.
Feminist cultural theorist Meaghan Morris (1988, 7) suggests that
anecdotes are not mere expressions of ‘personal experience’ but ‘can be put
to show up the contours of a social terrain’, that is to say, anecdotes can
map precisely a ‘discursive context’ and represent ‘allegorical expositions
of a model of the way in which the world can be said to be working’. Gallop
(2002, 8) tells us that the anecdotal is ‘exorbitant’, that is to say, it is linked
to ‘exteriority … exits, departure, attempts to get out, and in particular
the attempt to get out of a rut’. What is more, Gallop’s description of the
anecdotal is also insistently gendered. Hence, anecdotes manifest ways of
saying what may be otherwise censured or repressed.
As a consequence of both the method (the anecdotal storytelling) and
the content (the botched up job of slaying the tiger), the insularity of the
Billiard Room as a sacrosanct male domain was ultimately disturbed.
In relation to these aspects and following an expanded definition of the

discipline, the Billiard Room’s ‘architectural history’ could never be just
about design motivations and methods. In effect, how this space was
subsequently consumed reveals as much, or more, as how it was initially
produced. It intrigued me especially that this masculine space relied
heavily on repressed feminine foundations – the power of its anecdotes, the
persistence of storytelling as its primary mode of dissemination, and the
centrality of the untamed beast in the founding of this genteel space. Rather
than reinforce a familiar narrative revolving around the genius of a colonial
architect operating in the midst of an alien socio-political context, how could
I intervene with, and expose, the Billiard Room’s alternative foundations?
‘By making a model you will have the opportunity, thoroughly to weigh
and consider the form and situation’
(Alberti 1986, 22).
Taking the evidence of the tiger as key, I attempted to locate physical traces
of the animal in the Billiard Room today. This exercise raised the unlikely but
significant evidence of the billiard table, an original relic which was retained
by the hotel to mark the infamous tiger incident. After many rounds of
enthusiastic storytelling, it was erroneously accepted that the ill-fated tiger
had been shot under the billiard table rather than under the Billiard Room.
As history making and storytelling gradually became undifferentiated, this
piece of fiction stuck and became ‘fact’ in the Billiard Room’s founding fable.
In essence, the table is a surrogate for the missing animal, and it restructures
the experience of this room. Thus, I sought to examine the table as both a
material artifact and a metaphorical frame.
Responding materially to this unusual piece of evidence, I constructed
a third archive – a series of miniaturized models of the billiard table,
which could supplement, or subvert, the existing holdings in the hotel’s
museum (the newspaper reports and cartoons) and the state’s archive
(the architectural drawings and photographs). The architectural model is
central to the representation of an architectural idea. The model is, above all,
concerned with the perfection of form. As Leonardo da Vinci’s ‘Vitruvian
Man’ and Le Corbusier’s ‘Modulor’ – two exemplary models – suggest,
architectural models are also primarily androcentric. Models are idealized
finished forms which are made to be encased, admired and fetishized. The
original, disused billiard table at the hotel currently also serves as a model,
since it stands for the idealized values of a masculine, colonial past. As with
design practice, the model is also conventionally employed in historical research as
a representation of a finite form, often as reconstructions of lost cities or demolished
buildings, thus resurrecting an idealized condition whereby the building or city is
relatively intact. I was intrigued by the kind of ‘model’ which would best represent
the Billiard Room given its association with the tiger. Would this model promise
utilitas, firmitas and venustas? Would it possess a gender?
8.1 White-wash
(wooden table,
‘white’ undercoat
primer, applied
evenly four times
over four days)
8.2 Mud
(wooden table,
caked mud from
garden, baked
under the sun
for ten hours)
8.3 Stripes
(wooden table,
100% Cotton Print
from Liberty’s
‘Indian Stripes’
Collection,
glued on)
8.4 Meat
(wooden table,
expired minced
meat mixed
with corn flour,
table disposed
due to stench)
8.5 Black Fur

(wooden table,
black matted
faux fabric fur,
glued on)
To this end, I crafted a series of model billiard tables which were carefully covered
with matter denied by conventional architectural historical research, in this case,
matter connected to the tiger anecdote – fabric patterned in distinctive ‘stripes’
recalling Mr Philips’ pyjamas and the tiger’s nickname, mud associated
with the dark undercroft space of the original Billiard Room, and the body
of the beast represented by (faux) fur and rotting meat. These extraordinary
coverings were exhibited together with a white-washed model, whose pristine
finish is status quo in architectural representation (Figure 8.1).
By re-appropriating the model, which is one of the most important
architectural tools for experimenting with, and ultimately to achieve an idealized
architectural form, these model tables were subject to formal experiments with
the aim of revealing what was ‘Other’ to the architectural space of the Billiard
Room. The conventional categories of architectural model making, for example,
materiality, scale, solidity, functionality and likeness, were subverted in these
experiments.
More importantly, I also began to internalize the complex gendered
reproduction of the Billiard Room through its tiger anecdotes since the act of
making raises ‘a complex of interactions involving factors of bodily possibility,
the nature of materials and physical laws, the temporal dimensions of process
and perception, as well as resultant static images’ (Morris 1993, 75). The model
tables were performative in the way they underscored the extraordinary and
often alienated matter (dirt, filth, fur) surrounding the subsequent reproduction
and perception of the Billiard Room in the wake of the tiger’s visit.
The models also highlighted a metaphorical frame for re-reading the Billiard
Room. With the disappearance of the building’s undercroft space following
renovations undertaken in the first quarter of the twentieth century, the billiard
table assumes the status of the imaginative object onto which the animal
anecdote hinges. Significantly, the technical specifications for a billiard table

reiterate the importance of its uprightness, solidity, firmness, elegant design and
the smoothness of its surface to ensure the precision, speed and accuracy of the
game (Crawley 1977, 12; Gillett 1996, 5-6). It is striking that there is a resemblance
between the qualities of a sturdy billiard table and the Vitruvian (1999, 26)
principles of architecture, the latter similarly exalting beauty, commodity,
uprightness, firmness and strength as architectural virtues. Another important
meaning of the word ‘table’ is ‘tabula’, that is, a ground, or a foundation.
Metaphorically, a perspective of the room from ‘under the table’ implies an
upside down view. It reflects a child’s perspective, which may explain why the
animal story survives most vividly today as part of a collection of children’s
stories. It challenges what is upright, normal and orderly. Something that is
‘under the table’ can also be something that is ultimately hidden or repressed,
and to turn the tables on someone or something suggests a subversive reversal of
positions. The awkward perspective produced from ‘under the table’ necessitates
a conceptual recasting of the room’s foundations.
The model is a miniaturized world concomitant with nostalgic versions
of childhood. It made me aware of the possible political significance of
contemporary juvenile literature which also revisited the original tiger incident.
In the late 1990s, following major restoration work at the hotel, the Billiard Room
featured as an architectural centerpiece for two volumes of children’s fiction –
Creamer’s The Tiger Who Came to Tea, and Choppard’s Terry’s Raffles Adventures.
These stories reenact the historical scenes within the Billiard Room by using
humour and caricature to parody the overblown sense of self-importance and
power invested in particular colonial identities. As cultural theorist Steve Baker
(1993, 123-4) and feminist writer Ursula Le Guin (1990, 10) reiterate, to identify
with the animal is ultimately to consort with an inexplicable ‘Other’, specifically
with ‘women, children and animals’. The Billiard Room cannot be divorced from
its animal, and also thus, implicated in the feminized foundations of this ‘Other’.
As these newly written ‘animal stories’ are circulated to another generation
of readers, it is equally important to consider how a masculine hunting tale is
transformed so that now, the Billiard Room would be inevitably encountered in
gendered terms, since these stories were written for, and read by, an Other, that
is, they were written to be read to children by their mothers. As such, the tiger
anecdote is a subversive instrument, despite appearing in its most benign form
as a child’s story.
Even as the subject matter of the Billiard Room and its colonial ‘hunt’ are
outwardly hostile to feminist practices, in privileging subjectivity, emergent
instinct and the ability to reveal the space’s repressed feminine foundations,
these methods and their outcomes are not only implicitly feminist in
orientation but also develop trajectories in architectural history which
embrace ‘personally situated, interdisciplinary, and diverse and emergent
approaches (that) often contradict what is expected of research’ (Barrett 2007,
2).
References
‘A Tiger in Town: Shot at Raffles Hotel Under the Billiard Room’. The Straits Times, 13
August 1902.
‘A Legend Roars Back to Life’. The Straits Times, 11 February 1986.
Alberti, LB. 1986. The Ten Books of Architecture, the 1755 Leoni Edition, Book II, Chapter
1. New York: Dover.
Baker, S. 1993. Picturing the Beast: Animals, Identity and Representation. Manchester:
Manchester University Press.
Barrett, E. 2007. ‘Introduction’, in Practice as Research: Approaches to Creative Arts
Enquiry, edited by Barrett E. and Bolt, B. London: IB Tauris, 1-14.
Benjamin, W. 1996. Selected Writings, V.1, 1913-1926, edited by Marcus Bullock and
Michael W. Jennings. Cambridge, Massachusetts: The Belknap Press.
Benjamin, W. 1999. ‘On Some Motifs in Baudelaire’, in Illuminations, edited by
Hannah Arendt. London: Pimlico, 159-96.
Burns, K. 1996. ‘Architecture/Discipline/Bondage’, in Desiring Practices: Architecture,
Gender and the Interdisciplinary, edited by Duncan McCorquodale, Katerina
Ruedi, Sarah Wigglesworth. London: Black Dog Publishing, 73-87.
Carter, P. 2004. Material Thinking: The Theory and Practice of Creative Research.
Melbourne: Melbourne University Press.
Choppard, K. 1996. Terry’s Raffles Adventures, illustrations by Patrick Yee. Singapore:
Landmark Books.
Crawley, R. 1977. The Billiard Book. London: Ward, Lock, and Co.
Creamer, K. 1999. The Tiger who came to Tea. Singapore: Oxford University Press.
Deleuze, G. and Felix Guattari. 1999. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and
Schizophrenia. London: Athlone Press.
Gallop, J. 2002. Anecdotal Theory. Durham: Duke University Press.
Gillett, S. 1996. The Earlier History of Billiard Tables and Accessories as seen from the
Sales Journals of John Thurston 1818-1843. London: Thurston and Co.
Le Guin, U. 1990. Buffalo Gals and Other Animal Presences. London: Victor Gollancz.
Miller, NK. 1991. Getting Personal: Feminist Occasions and Other Autobiographical Acts.
London: Routledge.
Morris, M. 1988. ‘Banality in Cultural Studies’, in Discourse, 10(2), 7.
Morris, R. 1993. Continuous Project Altered Daily: The Writings of Robert Morris.
Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press.
Penner, B. 2005. ‘Researching female public toilets: Gendered spaces, disciplinary
limits’. Journal of International Women’s Studies, 6(2), 81-98.
Penner, B and Rice, C. 2009. ‘Detecting Architecture: Questions of Evidence in
Architectural History’. Session Introduction to panel discussion at the College
Art Conference, New York City. Unpublished paper.
Rendell, J. 2010. Site-Writing: The Architecture of Art Criticism. London: IB Tauris.
Scott, J.W. 1994. ‘The Evidence of Experience, in Questions of Evidence: Proof,
Practice, and Persuasion across the Disciplines, edited by James Chandler, Arnold
I. Davidson, and Harry Harootunian. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press,
363-87.
Serres, M. 1997. The Trobadour of Knowledge, trans. SF Glaser and W. Paulson. Ann
Arbor: University of Michigan Press.
Vitruvius. 1999. The Ten Books on Architecture, trans. Ingrid D. Rowland. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
Notes
1 Recent discourse revolving around creative research is scarce, with notable

publications by Barrett and Bolt (2007), Carter (2004) and Rendell (2010), which
explore the intersections of art, dance, creative writing and film with academic
research.
PART II
FEMINIST PRACTICES IN PEDAGOGY

9
The Pedagogy and Practice of “Placing Space: Architecture,

Action, Dimension”
Ronit Eisenbach and Rebecca Krefting
The fundamental question facing architectural education and practice

today is not how better to train future architects to compete against one
another in a diminishing job market and professional role; but, rather, how
to improve the quality of architectural education and practice as inherently
interrelated, life-affirming models for understanding the world at large,
and each person’s special “belongingness” to it.
Leslie Kanes Weisman1
Introduction
Placing Space: Architecture, Action, Dimension was a three-week intensive summer

course offered at the University of Maryland (UMD), whose instructors met at
an event sponsored by the Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center designed to
spark potential collaborations at UMD between faculty and Center for Creative
Research2 (CCR) choreographer fellows. In this chapter, we will examine
relatively unexplored territory in the field of architectural and dance education
– views of architecture and its experiences as embodied, ephemeral conditions.
Using Critical Pedagogy and Feminist theory as a lens, we offer reflections and
critical analyses of this intensive seminar and the environment created for it.3
Placing Space: Architecture, Action, Dimension, was envisioned to help architecture
students learn to appreciate and trust their bodies when designing spaces, not just
to rely on abstract representations of space and material and to enable students
of movement to explore the ways in which the physical environment shapes
experience. Co-developed and co-taught by Ronit Eisenbach (architect) and
Dana Reitz (choreographer), and later joined by Bebe Miller (choreographer), the
facilitators possessed a mutual interest in exploring relations between movement,
time and space directly.4 Each brought their own perspective – the architect
focused on environments that anticipate and shape event and gesture and the
choreographers in the event and gesture that create environment and story.
9.1 View up In Placing Space: Architecture, Action, Dimension, students explored the
and through the intertwining of architectural space and human movement at full-scale and
moving ‘walls’.
in real-time. The class focused on the embodied experience of “place” in an
Photo: Jackie
Croussillat. interdisciplinary context of shared inquiry and serious play. To encourage
multiple ways of addressing and studying this flexible condition, Eisenbach
and Reitz conceived of a spatial laboratory to: support research about and hone
students’ sensitivity to embodied spatial experience; enable manipulation
and study of spatial, temporal and movement relationships; and develop an
explorative feminist pedagogy based on dialogue, experimentation and play.
The Placing Space environment designed by Eisenbach and installed in the
center bay of the “Great Space” of the School of Architecture, Planning and
Preservation at the University of Maryland, consisted of sliding fabric panels
hung from uni-strut tracks floating above a sprung dance floor and a series of
steel frames that delineated spatial volume and boundary.
Eyehooks embedded in the concrete ceiling provided anchor points for a
temporary grid of moveable steel tracks. Installed by riggers from the performing
arts center, these tracks supported a series of eleven space-defining translucent
fabric panels. The design allowed for spatial collapse as well as extension. The
panels could be moved slowly or quickly, each panel sliding along its track.
Four central panels rotated around a pivot, allowing for the creation of oblique
space. Ropes attached to the panels and sliding tracks allowed participants to
make adjustments from the floor or from the adjacent balcony.
the pedagogy and practice of “placing space” 171
9.2 Placing Space

laboratory.
Photo: Jackie
Croussillat.
9.3 Cross-
section of
University of
Maryland’s
“Great Space”
with the
Placing Space
environment
inserted into it.
Drawing: Ronit
Eisenbach.
9.4 Track and

rope detail.
Photo: Jackie
Croussillat.
9.5 Rotating
hardware detail
Photo: Jackie
Croussillat.
9.6 With each

new mode of
inquiry, students
adjust panels
to shape space.
Photo: Yoko
Feinman.
9.7 High-
powered theater
projectors set
up at either end
of the 120-foot-
long “Great
Space” to project
selected video
or still images.
Photo: Jackie
Croussillat.
Participants could pull the tracks supporting the panels down the long axis of the
space along other tracks adding greater flexibility to the system. High-powered
theater projectors were set up at either end of the 120-foot-long “Great Space”
to project selected video or still images that brought the outside world into the
studio enriching the environment and the conversation.
The design allowed participants to change the environment’s size, shape,
volume and image in response to and in anticipation of human action – to move
between questions like “what if?” to “what is it?” to “now what?”. In a very
short amount of time, we were able to strategically adjust our movements and
calibrate the space in response to these queries. As one student noted, “The
9.8–9.9 Two plan

configurations
among an infinite
set of variations.
Drawing: Ronit
Eisenbach.
9.10 Spatial
variations.
Photo: Jackie
Croussillat.
versatility of the panels allowed us to truly transform space, versus imagining

that transformation.”5
This structure offered all participants the opportunity to shape this
environment in concert with the actions they performed. The situation
allowed the group to directly engage the architect Bernard Tschumi’s position
that architecture is “not simply about space and form, but also about event,
action, and what happens in space.”6
9.11 Props
and panels are
arranged in
anticipation of
action. Action
animates
environment.
Photo: Jackie
Croussillat.
9.12 The Placing Space was offered to undergraduate and graduate students of spatial
noon meal is design and movement. The course description was distributed widely across
an opportunity
campus and student participants hailed from the School of Architecture,
for building
community Planning, and Preservation, the Department of Dance, the School of
and dialogue Education and the Department of American Studies.7 The self-selected group
was composed of 12 females and one male student – a gender ratio common
in dance, but unusual in architecture. A mix of graduate, undergraduate and
non-matriculated students from three disciplines assembled for five hours each
weekday for the three-week intensive seminar. Each student was assigned studio
space within close proximity of one another and near the “Great Space.” Some
students already knew other students but the intimacy and cooperativeness
of course exercises and time-intensiveness of the course accelerated their
familiarity and comfort with one another. Building upon existing models of
dance and architecture studio pedagogy, faculty cultivated an intensive social
and intellectual culture in a short period of time by meeting daily for many
hours, sharing meals and engaging in movement/dance exercises and group
work in which the roles of expert and novice shifted, and structured reflection
and critique.
In contrast to most architecture design studio experiences, students
were asked to shift their focus away from the production of objects to that
9.13 Journal
page, Monday
June 19, Deborah
Bauer, architecure
student
of situated, embodied, experiences from which they could learn. Unlike

other architecture “learning by doing” courses (for example, a traditional
architecture design studio or design/build workshop), given the ephemeral
nature of this material and the focus on student development, student efforts
left no physical trace of products behind only personal records of the events
in the form of video and paper journals.8
This was “normal” for the dance majors, but for the architecture majors it
required a shift in thinking and for those in American studies, it was all
new.9 Instead instructors nourished and encouraged the development of
individual “kernels of genuine curiosity” which would inspire future related
work.10 To support this shift, the physical infrastructure for the course was
not a fixed “stage-set,” rather it was a provisional installation, a laboratory in
time. Embracing this condition, one participant recorded that “being in the
space that I designed allowed me to constantly come up with different and
new ideas. I felt that this point of ‘testing’ in the space became the ‘true’
element in the design, not the final product.”11 In this place, participants’
actions became vehicles to explore ideas and to observe and think about
the interrelationships between event and action, movement and gesture,
space and place. Towards the end of the three weeks, these were put in
conversation with urban landscape and architecture in the District of
Columbia and Maryland, popular and current events, and social justice
issues. The instructors sought to create an interdisciplinary and hybrid
experience allowing students the autonomy and freedom to create new
spaces in which they were empowered to participate and reflect upon
underlying structures of power and relationships in new ways. Together
students and instructors investigated presence, absence and generated
possibility.
Pedagogical Practices
This next section offers an overview of feminist pedagogical commitments

and practices and how those were enacted in this course. Feminist, critical
and libratory pedagogies have all sought to create alternatives to traditional
pedagogies utilizing what educator Paolo Freire in his book, Pedagogy of the
Oppressed, famously labeled “the banking system” of knowledge acquisition
in which students attend class wherein the instructor deposits information,
data they are required to regurgitate verbatim at exam time. Alternative
pedagogies have not remained above reproach, but its practitioners remain
committed to thinking critically about how we make the classroom a place
where students can learn and be engaged. In architectural education,
feminist pedagogical practices – i.e., emphasizing collaborative learning,
play as pedagogical practice, sharing authority and knowledge, addressing
power differentials and social inequality, and valuing experience as
knowledge – are “especially useful in constructing a new model of
architectural education and practice attuned to today’s real problems and
possibilities.”12 As we will elaborate below, Placing Space course objectives,
exercises and assignments exemplify these feminist commitments.
The practices and methods salient to the environment’s design and the
course instruction include an interdisciplinary, collaborative approach
privileging the shared territory of movement and spatial design while
exploiting the viewpoints each discipline offers; a pedagogical scaffolding

advocating a fluid, spatial environment allowing inhabitants to test it;
exploring the reciprocity of the teacher-student dyad and student-student
partnerships in which the roles of expert and novice shift; releasing and
valuing corporeal ways of knowing by engaging multiple senses – not just
vision; and teaching about space and design as an example of feminist
practice made material – learning is accomplished directly through the
body’s inhabitation rather than indirectly. The juxtaposition of disciplinary
lenses reframed the integrated situation of movement and space for each
discipline. For the architects learning through one’s own body was a
significant shift in position, for the choreographers the shift was enacted
by a refocusing on the space around the body, while participants from
American Studies offered a critical position outside of both disciplines to
the discussion and were challenged by a situation that began with embodied
experience rather than theory. Just as the disciplines of choreography and
architecture were placed in relation to one another, here, in this instance, the
installation and exercises designed for this course, on one hand, engaged
with phenomenology and the haptic body and on the other hand, allowed
participants to be specific about individuals and place. The installation and
exercises functioned as a critique of phenomenology by acknowledging that
the position (culture, community, gender, race, power) of the individual in
her location creates important differences that when glossed over results in
a loss of richness and meaning.
In an article addressing feminist architectural education, Leslie Kanes
Weisman broaches issues of architecture education and social justice,
briefly discussing low-income housing, healthcare, “lifespan” design (new
spaces for trans-generational family living), restoring the environment
(green design), preparing students for cultural pluralism and equal access
to information technologies. After outlining a radical revision to the content
and emphasis of architectural curricula she follows with suggestions for a
shift in pedagogical praxis suggesting that the “how” is as important as the
“what” in producing the types of people we train to enter the profession.
Employing collaborative learning is one of the feminist educational
principles she identifies as useful to architectural education. Instructors
can create exercises relying on teamwork and group interdependency rather
than competitive or solitary course exercises.13 Similarly, Teresa Hosyken
and Doina Petrescu assert that “[p]ractising with others alters the way we
conceive and practise architecture and frees the transformative power of
alterity14 in space.”15 Instructors fostered a learning community mutually
interested in the exploration of space, possibility and transformation. Students
worked together on various movement and creation group exercises, they
created daily video journals and the course culminated with choreographed
movements with multi-media images placed in a space designed specifically
for the event. The focus was less on defining space than on exploring our
relationship to it; less on achieving fixity than on understanding the space as
ephemeral, i.e., following one idea at a time “but knowing that many other
stories could be told.”16
The provisional and ephemeral character of the installation environment
and the pedagogical model matched the nature of movement itself – allowing
for a direct inquiry into the subject. In many regards, the mutability of the
physical environment and what students learned from each subsequent
transition from one space to another was meant to strengthen student
reliance on the haptic body and their own experience. Elizabeth Ellsworth
writes:
But it’s not the difference of the teacher having more knowledge,
authority, or experience than the student. Rather, the difference between
teacher and student is a difference of location within the pedagogical
structure of address that takes place between student and teacher… The
who that teaches isn’t a who at all. What teaches is a structure of address; it
is a relationship that teaches.17
Course instructors used this “structure of address” to develop activities and

exercises emphasizing collaboration and personal experience as expertise
rather than their own, supplanting the traditional role of teacher as active/
students as passive and teacher as authority/students as obsequious. Part
of the objective was to “design studio investigations in such a way that
allows for examination of many perspectives free from paternalism or
cultural hierarchy.”18 This was achieved in part by encouraging students to
use their bodies and senses as their authority versus texts. While students
were provided with an extensive reading list on topics related to the
course, the required reading for the course was intentionally minimal to
foster confidence in mutual interpretation and self-discovery. Texts were
used to contextualize and support course objectives, rather than as the
primary means of disseminating course content. It was a rare opportunity
for students to gain access to knowledge that they may not have previously
considered and explored themselves prior to this experience. Using a
provisional installation allowed students to shape the environment in which
they acted and challenged the tendency for location to fix and disqualify
certain knowledges.
In architectural education, value is often mistakenly displaced to the
product. The student’s designs serve as evidence of what the student
has learned and yet the object of celebration is often shifted to the design
produced rather than student development and knowledge. Just as Elizabeth
Ellsworth recognizes that it is a “structure of address” or the “relationship that
teaches,” Kanes Weisman knows that this structure can be altered vis-à-vis
the sharing of authority and knowledge.19 This is another important feminist
education principle to incorporate into course development. One means
of doing so in architectural education in particular, is to think of places
as not simply static structures rather, that places are always “in states of
becoming” and that we should think of “place-as-assemblage”: for example
place as contingent, dynamic, and unique to its occupants and viewers.20

The design of course projects requiring students to continually add new
elements and layers to the temporary spaces manipulated out of the fabric
panels and props took emphasis away from the structure or physical site.
This encouraged students to consider the transitory nature of place and
how place is contextualized by its audience and occupants. Here the priority
was student knowledge and experience celebrating knowledge collected by
and stored in our bodies. Shifting practice and focus from design product
to experience in architectural education illustrated that “when internal
dialogues are exposed, the reactions of others enrich the meaning and
progression of these dialogues.”21 It also meant that non-architectural
students could participate in the course, which enriched discussions
even more so as students incorporated varying perspectives and posed
questions unique to their educational profile. In evaluations and in informal
discussions with instructors and each other, students expressed appreciation
for the course’s interdisciplinary approach and how architecture was made
accessible to the non-expert by virtue of course design. One participant
noted, “What I found most useful was the great variety of interests and
skills of the instructors and students which made for new and refreshing
inter-disciplinary dialogue and a rich sense of community, brimming with
generosity.”22
Course instructors also wished to account for personal viewpoints,
ways of knowing gathered by virtue of being a woman, being an African
American, a practicing Hindu, etc. Who we are and how we identify has
links to how we experience our environment. A useful illustration of this is a
course assignment asking students to leave the studio and go to Washington,
DC or a neighbouring suburb over the weekend and select a building or
public space and study its spatial character. Students were asked to create a
movement module that reflected and “fit” some quality of that space. That
movement was then recreated in the studio. The choices students made
in selecting places and their means of representing the spatial qualities of
their particular place through movement and spatial relationships evinced
personal politics, experience and identity formation. Lynne Breslin examines
the dialectic of public versus private (i.e., nationality vs. individual identity)
using museums as visual and material forums where this dialectic plays out.
Importantly, she writes:
The nature of our private identification – the acknowledgement of our

individuality (depending on gender, race, nationality, values, politics)
– has spatial and architectural implications. Similarly, our ability to
identify public spaces, our readiness or reluctance to project ourselves
into those public spaces, and our actions in those spaces depend on our
well-being in, and psychological evaluation of, such spaces.23
Later when students presented their building or urban space, all revealed
personal stakes and connections to the place selected. The course assignment
usefully evoked personal, emotional, and visceral experience of place so that

students could begin to consider all of these elements in their own quest to
create place. In the architecture building’s “Great Space”, students were able
to create and recreate environments and course themes in different forms –
i.e. problems of balance such as black and white compositions and spatial
design with a movement component – were aimed at students gauging
visceral and emotional responses to space as it changed and was charged by
their own actions.
Four Types of Exploration
This section discusses Placing Space’s course assignments and participant’s

experience of these. All too often in architectural education, we do not
develop our students’ sensitivities to the contingencies of spaces. This
opportunity to partner with two distinguished choreographers, whose
work focused on narrative and the body in space, opened up the possibility
to engage a relatively unexplored territory of architecture – the view of
architecture and its experience as an embodied, ephemeral condition
involving time-based events. Part of the value of this experience was the
opportunity for participants to use their own bodies to test out spatial and
movement ideas in a field focused on making a tangible end product.
The intent was to create a relational and situated pedagogy of becoming
supported by a culture of dialogue and play, a pre-condition for creative
research focused on the inter-relationship of action and space. Research that
in the words of choreographer, Dana Reitz, was “not necessarily saying, ‘I
want to test “x” in order to conclude “y”.’” Rather, the objective was to
construct creative situations in which the researcher sets up possibilities
to observe and ask: How do you test that? How do you keep going in that
direction? How do you create a situation in which a question leads to the
next in a chain of open inquiry. The physical and pedagogical conditions
allowed student participants to use their interests to set up situations in
order to experience the space and allow the event to develop. Students
engaged in a “generative research process,” as Reitz puts it, similar to the
iterative process of design studio, in which they learned to find aspects in
their projects that did not quite work and use that information to formulate
their next effort.24
The samples of work that follow are situated in terms of the questions
they sought to explore. They reflect the pedagogical praxis advocated by
Kanes Weisman – emphasizing collaborative learning, play as pedagogical
practice, sharing authority and knowledge, addressing power differentials
and social inequality, and valuing experience as knowledge. Together they
illustrate the four types of exploration that characterize student movement-
spatial work in the course: embodied experience, portability of spatial
experience, improvisation, and narrative and reference.
The environment enabled students of movement, space and performance

to observe and engage the intersecting elements of their different practices.
Participants were actively involved in all aspects of the project from
making movement and spatial choices, to witnessing, acting, recording
and shaping situations. The compressed time frame promoted in-depth,
cross-disciplinary investigation in an intense laboratory environment. This
occasion to consider “embodied” knowledge beyond each discipline’s
normal routes of inquiry, language or conventions, fostered a sense
of mutual exploration, experience and awareness. These four types of
exploration put into practice principles of feminist pedagogy, offering
enrolled students a creative architectural education.
Embodied Experience as Valued Knowledge

These preliminary exercises had four goals: first, to introduce students to
the nature of “present-ness” as a quality of performance and of architecture;
second, making tangible and charged, relationships of space and mass;
third, the idea that our bodies are highly sensitive instruments that collect
valuable information about our surroundings; and fourth, the notion that
the “whole” includes and implicates the action, its placement and the space
around it. By entering into conditions of balance and extension, students
became particularly aware of their bodies’ limits and ability to extend into
and to “charge” a space as well as the ways in which any scenario is part
of a larger whole.
With the intent of awakening the group to a heightened sense of active
balance and tension and “present-ness,” Placing Space began with an
apparently simple composition assignment that first involved three black
shapes and a sheet of white paper and shifted to participants playing with
a long stick in situ. Rudolf Arnheim’s classic chapter on “Balance” from his
book, Art and Visual Perception was our starting point. Each participant was
invited to bring his or her sense of equilibrium, tension and energy to the
task of creating a dynamic, balanced and tense composition: “You are given
a white 11x17 paper, black paper, scissors and glue. Create three black
shapes. Imagine a field filled both with tension and a sense of equilibrium.
Balance the field. Maximize the tension. Destabilize the field, rectify it and
energize it with your next move. Consider the effects of weight, edge, center,
size, pressure and force.” 25
Students quickly realized that the black objects had an effect beyond
their perimeters and that the power of the composition resulted from the
interdependence of all its elements: the objects, the spatial field and the edge
of the paper. With this example in mind, students developed movement
modules for their own bodies that strove to intensify relationships between
their actions and a site in the studio environment.
One group’s movements in situ exposed contrasting material conditions
of the “Great Space”. At the start of the presentation, bodies and concrete
pushed against one another. The tensed bodies flattened, conforming to the
9.14 Pinning up harder concrete. Later, when pressing their palms against a draped panel,
the first attempt the translucent fabric revealed the hand’s surface at the point of contact but
at the “Balance”
concealed the body immediately behind. This work allowed us to see what
exercise
we already knew and took for granted – concrete columns are hard and
continuously work to hold up the building and the fabric was both responsive
to touch and transformed vision. Touch, sight and force are joined through
carefully placed gestures in a material environment.
Visual concepts of balance and instability become visceral with a six-foot
long stick in hand. In this final exercise in this series, students explore their
body’s ability to balance, the division and delineation of space, and the ways
in which their own energy might be extended to spaces beyond their reach.
By extending their reach, students began to explore the shape of space and the
line of action formed by their energy and implied by their movement.
Portability of Spatial Experience

Building on the idea that the “whole” includes and implicates the action, its
placement and the space around it, our goal for this second set of assignments
was to explore memorable and transmissible characteristics of place. The
focus was on gesture, spatial experience and their intertwining. We wondered:
how does an understanding of movement inform spatial design and vice- 9.15 Hands
versa? What effects might the phenomenological character and quality of a touch and the
fabric gives,
space have on movement? How might one design space and movement to
drawing forth
direct attention on particular aspects of their inter-relationships? What social, the memory of
cultural and political dimensions might be revealed through a study of these the unyielding
relationships in place? column surface.
To explore these questions, some students were encouraged to begin with Viewers
experience these
a movement phrase, they were told to: “develop a movement phrase that
differences
is independent of a site. Now design a series of spaces for that movement visually and
module.” Others were asked to begin with the design of a site: “develop a viscerally in their
spatial set-up. Inhabit this set-up with a movement module especially created bodies. Photo:
for that environment.” The week culminated with a request to “study a space Mercedes Afshar.
outside of our studio. Determine what gives that space its particular character.
Watch how people move there. Consider movements that illuminate some
particular aspect of that location. Transplant the found movement to the
studio and situate it in a new space that captures some essential characteristic
of the original place.”
Yoko Feinman, an undergraduate dance major, chose to study a tiny, tiny
room just off her kitchen: it was both pantry and screen porch, threshold and
closet. As she explained it, doors and screens offered a sense of extension,
9.16 Steel props

and a square
of light from a
skylight above
recreate a tiny
pantry space that
offered a sense
of extension and
containment for
Yoko. Photo:
Deborah Bauer.
yet at the same time, its minute footprint lent a sense of containment. Using
props from the studio and a square of light from a skylight, she recreated
an environment that held for her the essential characteristics of the room.
Although at times her dance carried her beyond the illuminated confines of
the “room,” as the square of light slowly migrated along the floor with the
path of the sun, she was careful to keep her feet placed within the threshold
of the imagined room
Yoko’s identified threshold as a critical element that shaped the character
of the space she chose and in her work. She crafted spatial boundaries and
9.17 As Krefting
waits, everyone
else moves
around her
temporal transitions to shift attention from one moment and place to another
as the piece unfurled.
Rebecca Krefting on the other hand, chose a public space – the corner of
New Hampshire and University Boulevard – a busy, suburban, commercial,
intersection adjacent to the University. Krefting chose to use this opportunity
to question the ways in which “architecture is enmeshed in practices of
power,” what many call critical and feminist architectural education or what
Kim Dovey calls “socially engaged architecture.”26 Surrounded by parking
lots, shoppers and traffic, she watched local Latino labourers standing in
groups or sitting on a curb, waiting patiently for day work. Noting that this
is an “uncomfortable” location for people to wait she asked us to consider
how “we ‘read’ bodies at rest in public spaces not intended for leisure…”
and “wonder[ed] when ‘waiting for work’ is interpreted as loitering.” She
observed, “this is a heavy pedestrian area, yet despite signs and arrows
denoting where one should cross and fences prohibiting movement, people
move and cross where and when it is convenient” in a landscape shaped by
the car.27 This friction or mis-fit between design intention and human action
results in alienation and a gap that must be bridged between location and
inhabitation. Krefting’s analysis and interpretation of this situation led to a
work where the studio group was implicated in her scenario through their
own movement around Krefting who like the day laborer patiently waited for
an event that would change her social and physical location.
Improvisation, Narrative and Reference

Movement involves transformation in time. Time suggests the possibility of
story. The dancers among us were used to thinking about compositions and
environments that evolved, the architects less so. This group had to expand
their focus to include the temporal dimension. At the start of the third week
anticipating questions of narrative and reference inserted by Bebe Miller,
we introduced two exercises that reinforced non-verbal communication,
intuition, play and a sense of compositional development in time. The first,
Silent Dialogue (conducted with three objects and a partner), used gesture,
rhythm and choice to keep the dialogue alive. The second, People Play, had a
similar structure but with people. In each case, the next “move” required the
“players” to gauge the situation and jump in. It was interesting to note how
even in silence narration, association, expectation, desire, and humor crept
into the arena and kept the action going.
As in the balance exercise, an exploration that began with objects continued
with people. As images flashed behind them, one person left the audience to
become an actor. The choice of place and action was hers alone. She considered
the situation and began to raise the largest panel. Another person joined upon
feeling that the moment was right. Together they rolled and raised the fabric.
Someone else walked through the newly created opening. The panel was
dropped upon a body now caught between the two sides. Action, reaction,
action, reaction, the play continued, inspiring a change, inspiring a new move,
inspiring a new participant to join, until everyone in silence felt that the play
was spent (see Figure 9.18).
In the final week, choreographer, Bebe Miller joined us and our focus
moved to the construction of place and narrative seeded by material gathered
from the earlier site visits. By making elemental changes to the wall structures
– as simple as adding visual imagery or as radical as relocating the work
site – the class noted the effects of memory, association, event and time on
their understanding and perception of context. Participants explored such
questions as: Can spatial and temporal juxtaposition alter meaning? Are
there fundamental associations or narrative fragments that can be found in
certain places? Video clips and images co-opted from the world beyond the
studio were projected on the panels, introducing scale and reference to the
vocabulary of movement, dimension and surface (see Figure 9.7).
Altering Assumptions
In this context where generative ideas and structured play were encouraged,
a priori assumptions by faculty about the relationships between the physical
environment, human movement and projected imagery were re-imagined by
the participants.
As the work developed, students began to generate new questions that 9.18 A simple
challenged initial assumptions about fixed attributes and parameters of the action, lifting up
the large panel,
environment. Curious and engaged, the students wondered not only “what
transformed
if?” but also “what-if-not?”28 What if the screens were not vertical but twisted? a series of
What if the ropes were not just for pulling but could be employed to hang impenetrable
things? What if images were projected but not from the fixed projectors? What planes into
if the space was not fixed but constantly changing? These “misuses” were a space of
revelatory, exposing assumptions built into the flexible design and reinforcing entry. Video
stills: Tsveta
the richness of working in situ. (see Figure 9.11).29 Kassabova.
With the realization that the installation allowed transformation of the
spatial configuration in time, the movement of people and the movement
of structures began to coincide. Instead of “setting up” the space prior to a
presentation, architecture joined choreography and became fluid, pulled and
turned by people who shaped both space and human gesture in concert (see
Figure 9.19). The complementary movement of the people and the panels
implied a narrative reference point without bringing in other imagery and
opened up a new conversation about “how the body in action both makes and
occupies space in time.”30
Looking Back, Moving Forward
We close with reflection upon this type of workshop’s impact and import in
architecture education. Architecture degrees in universities offer accredited,
professional training. As such there is an important focus on outcomes: Do our
students have the skills and knowledge they need to acquire an architectural
license and become capable professionals?
Such training in skills, traditions and knowledge of the discipline is
clearly important. Yet, when we focus primarily on these skills, we leave
aside forming the individual and shaping the person who will need to enact
this professional role responsibly in times of change. And when we view
disciplinary knowledge narrowly, we may pass over opportunities to develop
the sphere of embodied and haptic knowledge so critical to making. Viewed
from this perspective, in addition to skills and disciplinary knowledge, we
need to outfit our students with the capacity to experiment and judge, to
ask “what if?” and “what-if-not?” We need to educate professionals (citizen
leaders) who can shape their own questions and agenda in response to the
9.19 Reciprocity situation they face and the situation they imagine. We need individuals who
of movement can recognize places that transform and elevate human experience so that
and space;
they are capable of imagining and designing environments with the same
transformation
through action. powerful sense of presence. In this context, we wonder how to move a course
Photo: Jackie like Placing Space from elective experience, to a regular, required component
Croussillat. of the curriculum.
In contemplating such a move, it is useful to note the reaction of the
students who selected to take this class. They valued their experience; and
conscious of the ways in which the course was an uncommon experience,
the entire class composed a letter to the University Provost, the Dean of the
School of Architecture, Planning, and Preservation, and the Directors of the
Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center and the Center for Creative Research,
sponsors of the class in which they expressed their support for the experience.
They wrote:
… [We] have been informed and inspired to express in action, the

relationship of the human body to the forces that buildings and places
exert…
The inter-disciplinary experience is transformational, collegial, open-
ended and expansive; education in one of its richest forms. The play of
multiple teaching methods and teaching media has pushed us into new
areas of practice and understanding. We have each been engaged to the
maximum of our attention and abilities at all times. Students of varied
disciplines have gained new experiences of dimension and space, body and
action, time and place. Through the intensity of contact this workshop has
provided, we have developed a creative community, in which we have been
shaped and propelled by each other’s artistic development. This experience
has stimulated reflection that will continue to inform our work. 31
While it is useful that these students valued this experience, their thoughts do
not yet help architecture educators develop a language with which to describe
the assessable educational outcomes of such a course, and to connect those

outcomes to the work of the profession.32 A key component of the challenge is
the variety of ways the individuals in a course respond to attempts to shape
them as people and their ways of asking and exploring questions. With this open
question in mind, we conclude the chapter with a series of quotes from our students
and peers, and with the challenge to imagine how to develop modes of describing,
assessing and advocating for the kinds of learning present in their words.
Before the class started my viewpoint of architecture was very different.

When I was designing, I only used to think about the functions and room-
making. Circulation and movement through the building were my last
preferences [sic] but now my perspective changed, I think movement
through [space] is really important. (Anonymous)33
It was very rewarding to have, for lack of better words, primary experiences
[our emphasis]. So much in the way we study architecture is mediated by
methods, tasks and cognitive processes- not that this is bad per se; but the
chance to experience the environment of the panels in a relatively unself-
conscious way, and the chance to work with materials and representation
simply at the level of my own experience was a continuous refreshment.
…When people are moving in a space, their movements are generally
directed by a need or a desire; they are not focusing on whether their
movements are genuine, inhabited, archetypal, weighted, connected to
their surroundings, aesthetically meaningful, or any other phrase that we
might have used to evaluate class presentations. They are acting on the
agenda of the present moment and the space helps create and shape that
agenda. As an architect, this is the level at which I am intensely interested
in movement. (Deborah Bauer, Architecture Graduate Student)34
My trust in my body as intuitive and expressive has improved [as well as]
my understanding of dimensions of space, place and feeling… especially in
terms of thinking about human scale in relation to location. (Anonymous)35
The course helped with my ability to observe. It also developed my skills in

working with people. (Tzveta Kasabova, Dance Graduate Student)36
I felt like I was more aware of my body and the relationship my body had
with its surroundings. Even what path I chose to walk to my car in the
parking lot – how my movements could be controlled by things around
me...became noticeable. (Anonymous)37
The overall tone of play and exploration was so valuable as well as the
physicality and contact/comfort. It helped me to keep searching deeper
instead of getting hung up on insecurities or fears. (Anonymous)38
Lifeless and boring white panels could be manipulated and turned into
magnificent scenes of life and energy...seeing the simple arm waves of
Debbie against a white cloth created intense thoughts and emotions – I
found it fascinating how by the movement of a single panel – or by an
addition of one simple object of no meaning or interest could turn a space
into one with so much feeling that it created reactions, questions and
curiosity from the audience. A still object such as a concrete column in the
“Great Space” suddenly became one that could breathe and dance with our
bodies... (Cynthia Cheung-Wong, Architecture Undergraduate)39
During the past year and half conclusions and thoughts, generated during
the course of the three weeks we spent together and a “bunch of white
panels,” have haunted me and have developed and branched out into so
many new ideas, conclusions, and questions. I have sat in auditoriums and
contemplated about the direction I faced relative to the walls, to the rest
of the space, and to the audience. I have walked down hallways thinking
about the influence of the repetitive doors, lights, and carpet patterns or
tiles on my movement and what my body desired to do at such spaces (i.e.
roll up the walls and walk underneath them). I have designed circulation
spaces that took into consideration people’s movements relative to one
another, as well as to the spaces themselves as well as the light sources
and etcetera. It is as if haunted by the white panels and our discussions
and experiences, my life as an architect took a new course ever since.
(Mercedes Afshar, Architecture Undergraduate)40
Watching dancer and “non-dancer” improvise equally with balance,

abandon, confidence, and joy reminded me of how much we human
beings dance without knowing that we do so. Carrying forward Bebe’s
“I see a dance right here,” I am now much more alert to dance as it is
happening before me, in its many manifestations, spaces and places… The
most relentless question that has followed me from the program is why
I “danced” so little throughout the course. It seems I was determined to
experience “beginner’s mind” through architecture, rather than to apply my
already acquired knowledge in dance. I believe that the cross-disciplinary
study allowed me to drop away from what I already knew – knowing that
it was solidly within my grasp – in order to reach toward something new.
Struggling on a daily basis with a new discipline took away any conceit
or composure that would have allowed me to stay “placed” within my
own discipline…One of the most valuable aspects of the course for me
was the open discussion between faculty members. Particularly when
they were reflecting on experiences from the previous day’s activities, the
shared ideas and understandings opened worlds of possibility, and were
among the most interesting and enlightening privileges of being in the
course. Teachers’ candid reflection on their own struggles to work within
an unfamiliar discipline and, over time, to see its implications in their own
discipline was exciting, and even thrilling. Eventually I could identify
this process within my own experience, and I could observe its fruition
among my peers. … This course is a model of higher education in its
most fulfilling form; a creative community of scholars. (Mauria Peckham,
Graduate Student, Dance and Education)41
List of References
Breslin, L. 1996. Confessions in Public Space, in The Sex of Architecture, edited by D. Agrest
et al. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 263-272.
Damiani, G. 2003. Tschumi. New York: Rizzoli International Publications, Inc.
Dovey, K. 2010. Becoming Places: Urbanism/Architecture/Identity/Power. London & New
York: Routledge.
Eisenbach, R. 2008. Placing Space: Architecture, Action, Dimension. Journal of Architecture 9.20 Placing
Education, 61(4), 76-83. Space, a
framework for
Eisenbach, R. 2008. Placing Movement, Shaping Place, ACSA 96th Annual Meeting
inquiry. Photo:
Proceedings, Houston, TX, March 2008.
Deborah Bauer.
Ellsworth, E. 1997. ‘Who’ Learns? ‘Who’ Teaches? Figuring the Unconscious in Pedagogy,
in Teaching Positions: Difference, Pedagogy, and The Power of Address. New York and
London: Teachers College Press, 54-73.
Hoskyns, T. and Petrescu, D. 2007. Taking Place and Altering It, in Altering Practices:
Feminist Politics and Poetics of Space, edited by D. Petrescu. London and New York:
Routledge.
Skar, S. 1993. Ground Rules and Social Maps for Women: An Introduction, in Women and
Space, edited by S. Ardener. Oxford and Providence, RI: Berg Publishers Limited,
1-30.
Weisman, L.K. 1996. Diversity by Design: Feminist Reflections on the Future of
Architectural Education and Practice, in The Sex of Architecture, edited by D.
Agrest et al. New York: Harry N. Abrams, Inc., 273-286.
Wilkins, C.L. 2007. The Aesthetics of Equity: Notes on Race, Space, Architecture, and Music.
Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press.
Notes
1 Leslie Kanes Weisman, ed. “Diversity by Design: Feminist Reflections on the

Future of Architectural Education and Practice,” in The Sex of Architecture. ed.
Diana Agrest, Patricia Conway and Leslie Kanes Weisman (New York: Harry N.
Abrams, Inc., 1996), 273.
2 The Center for Creative Research (CCR) was initiated in 2004 by Sam Miller at
the New England Foundation for the Arts (NEFA) to support contemporary
American dance. Central to this mission is the reaffirmation of the arts
as valuable contributors in the creation of new knowledge. Consequently,
CCR promotes situations for senior established choreographers to enter into
university life in a more non-traditional manner – to initiate projects that do
not necessarily reside in dance programs, to address subjects and situations not
necessarily rooted or contained in dance, and to take advantage of and encourage
embodied experience, knowledge, and curiosity. Three universities and eleven
choreographers were the initial partners in a pilot program. University of
Maryland was one of the three. This particular project was made possible with
the generous support of CCR, LINC, The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, and the
University of Maryland Clarice Smith Performing Arts Center (CSPAC). Susie Farr
the Director of CSPAC and Dana Whitco of CCR were instrumental in making this
experience a reality.
3 Associate Professor in the School of Architecture, Planning, and Preservation at
the University of Maryland, College Park, Ronit Eisenbach joins Rebecca Krefting,
formerly a graduate student enrolled in Placing Space and now a visiting assistant
professor in the American Studies Department at Skidmore College.
4 Dana Reitz and Bebe Miller are Center for Creative Research (CCR) fellows who
visited the University of Maryland as part of a partnership between CCR and the
University.
5 Anonymous feedback from course evaluation, 2006.
6 Giovanni Damiani, ed. Tschumi, (New York: Rizzoli InternationalPublications,
inc., 2003.), 34.
7 Student participants included: Mercedes Afshar, Swetha Akasapu, Deborah
Bauer, Suzanne Braman, Anita Chen, Cynthia S. Cheung-Wong, Jackie
Crousillat, Yoko Feinman, Franklin Grace III, Tzveta Kassabova, Rebecca
Krefting, Mauria Peckham, and Amelia Wong.
8 To reflect on their experience, students created daily paper and video journals.
For examples, go to: www.claricesmithcenter.umd.edu/engagement/placing_
space/home.cfm
9 While participants were self-selected and entered into this experience
with their “eyes open,” the lack of tangible design products did challenge
preconceptions of what an architecture course should require. At the same time,
the requirements parallel many study abroad courses launched from the school
in that they require students to keep a reflective sketchbook of their experiences
and observations rather than produce a design for a foreign culture and site.
10 Paraphrased from a conversation with Dana Reitz, June 2006.
11 Anonymous, student course evaluation, June 2006.
12 Weisman (1996), 280.
13 Ibid.
14 “‘Alterities’ became an invented word to name the multiple possibilities of
praxis: ‘other spatial practices’ or practicing ‘otherwise’, expressing alternative
and alterative positions formulated according to the current re-compositions
of individual and collective subjectivities within the new technological and
geopolitical contexts.” Doina Petrescu,“Foreword: from Alterities and Beyond”
in Altering Practices: Feminist Politics and Poetics, ed. Doina Petrescu (London and
New York: Routledge, 2007), xvii.
15 Teresa Hoskyns and Doina Petrescu, “Taking Place and Altering It,” in Altering
Practices: Feminist Politics and Poetics, ed. Doina Petrescu (London & New York:
Routledge, 2007), 36.
16 Petrescu (2007), 19.
17 Elizabeth Ellsworth, “‘Who’ Learns? ‘Who’ Teaches? Figuring the Unconscious
in Pedagogy,” in Teaching Positions: Difference, Pedagogy, and The Power of Address
(New York and London: Teachers College Press, 1997), 62.
18 Craig L. Wilkins, The Aesthetics of Equity: Notes on Race, Space, Architecture, and
Music (Minneapolis & London: U or Minnesota P, 2007), 132.
19 Ellsworth (1997), 62.
20 Kim Dovey, Becoming Places, (London and New York: Routledge, 2010), 1; 27.
21 Dovey (2010), 7.
22 Anonymous, student course evaluation, June 2006.
23 Lynne Breslin, “Confessions in Public Space,” in The Sex of Architecture, ed.
Diana Agrest, Patricia Conway and Leslie Kanes Weisman (New York: Harry N.
Abrams, Inc., 1996), 264.
24 Paraphrased from a series of conversations with Dana Reitz during and after the
workshop, June 2006.
25 Project statement.
26 Kim Dovey, Becoming Places: Urbanism/Architecture/Identity/Power (London and
New York: Routledge, 2010), 43: 41.
27 Rebecca Krefting, Placing Space,Weekend #1 Assignment, June 11, 2006.
28 Mathematicians Steve Brown and Marion Walter’s concept of “what-if-not”
encourages individuals to develop problems themselves. Their book explores
the educational potential of integrating problem posing and problem solving.
See Stephen I. Brown and Marion I Walter, The Art of Problem Posing (Hillsdale,
NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum, 2005), 33-65.
29 Ronit Eisenbach, “Placing Space: Architecture, Action, Dimension,” Journal of
Architecture Education 61, no. 4 (May 2008): 82.
30 Eisenbach (2008).
31 Excerpted from a letter addressed to the UMD Provost written by the entire
class, June 2006.
32 This preoccupation is not one that my dance colleagues -- who do not teach in a
professional program – shared.
33 Anonymous, Course evaluation, June, 2006.
34 Debbie Bauer, Course evaluation, September, 2006.

36 Tzveta Kasabova, Course evaluation, June, 2006.
39 Cynthia Cheung-Wong, E-mail to Ronit Eisenbach, March 27, 2008.
40 Mercedes Afshar, E-mail to Eisenbach, Reitz, and Miller, December, 21 2007.
41 Mauria Peckham, E-mail to Eisenbach and Krefting, November 15, 2010.
10
Axis Mundi Brazil Studio

Meghan Walsh
Brazil Studio began in 2004, inspired by my love for Capoeira Angola.
Menina, presta atenção

No que eu vou lhe dizer
Na roda da capoeira
Tem coisas que tem que saber
Existem brigas, amores, ciúmes
Coisas que quebram o coração
Tem gente na roda, menina
Que não tem mais que o berimbau
A mesma gente, menina, tem tudo
No mundo espiritual
Atrás de um jogo bonito
Um jogo delícia com dendê
São cem quedas no chão
Mesmo que cem vezes se levante
O valor de um capoeirista
Na capacidade, não é
O valor de um capoeirista
Está em quantas vezes pode levantar-se
Camará…
Girl pay attention

In what I’m going to say
In the roda of capoeira
There are things you need to know
There are fights, loves and jealousies
Things that break your heart
There are people in the roda, girl
Who have nothing more than a berimbau
The same people, girl, have everything
In the spiritual world
Behind a beautiful game
A delicious and smooth game
There are 100 falls on the ground
And 100 times of picking oneself back up
The worth of a capoeirsta

Is not in the skill
The worth of a capoeirsta
Is how many times she picks herself back up
My friend….
Architecture encompasses far more than buildings, forms and materials.

Ultimately, its goal is to inspire. Inspiration can occur through the visual
experience of space, elegant proportions, well-choreographed light or in the
zen-like aura emanating from a carefully crafted architectural detail. It is
difficult to put into words… you just have to feel it, much like a spectacular
dance performance. This is also true of a well-designed curriculum for a
design studio. I will never forget, for example, Kent Kleinman’s 1994 studio
at the University of Michigan where each of the nine students were asked
to design a neighborhood in an apple orchard for a cast of nine characters
ranging from a gatekeeper to a timekeeper, to a melancholy tenor. These
experiences leave traces of inspiration that last a lifetime. The Brazil Studio
and all of Axis Mundi’s work seeks to inspire in this way.
The Brazil Studio is born out of several impactful, seemingly disparate, very
personal experiences that have shaped me and my career as an architectand
design educator. These experiences include growing up in a dance company,
having a professional boxer for a grandfather, time spent in Africa, participation
in Native American and African spiritual traditions, Capoeira Angola, and a
fine arts degree. I am driven to make a difference in the way things are made,
who is included in the process of designing and making and how they play
off of each other in the process. I believe that architectural design education
can be a tool for creating relationships across barriers of language, culture and
perhaps even transforming and healing conflict, ultimately inspiring others to
rise to their greatest potential as human beings.
My intention for this chapter is to illustrate how these influences have come
to inform my teaching and practice, and to inspire and encourage others to
follow their own path.
***
Axis Mundi – Dance, Martial Arts and Irish Ancestry
The world is a circle without a beginning and nobody knows where it

really ends…. (lyrics of Burt Bachrach’s “The World is a Circle”, 1973)
When I started dancing at age 5, this song played at every ballet class. Over
the years of working with space, place, design and architecture, and within
the world of music, movement and ritual theater, I have come to see this little
childish chorus as a profound and simple mantra, a recurring theme.
The term Axis Mundi was introduced to me in an architectural theory
course, taught by Brad Angelini, while in graduate school at the University of
Michigan. We studied famous plazas around the world and the relationship
axis mundi brazil studio 201
10.1 Axis
Mundi Logo
between these public spaces and the axis mundi – the critical, sacred spaces
that were created by the careful juxtaposition of massing, proportion and
alignments of important elements. However the actual axis mundi is the place
that contains no famous building, obelisk or architectural element. It is the place
where no-thing exists, the negative space, the emptiness charged with energy
resulting from the various elements arranged around it. Literally meaning
“Axis of the World” in Latin, the axis mundi signifies a connection between
earth and heaven – the radial line coming out from the center of the earth’s
core extending infinitely outward. The term is also used in yogic traditions to
describe the connection of the spine from earth to heaven while seated in lotus
position (cross-legged meditation pose).
I founded the non-profit organization Axis Mundi, Inc. to signify the
importance of the idea of negative space. With no one person occupying a
central position, with all individuals coming by attraction to and creating this
axis mundi, giving energy and inspiration and receiving it in turn. The image
of the Axis Mundi, Inc. logo shows two people appearing to move in a circle
representing this same circular concept in Bachrach’s song and to my Irish
ancestry. The logo bespeaks the childhood song and is also reminiscent of Irish
Celtic knot illustrations that have no beginning and no end. Simultaneously
and coincidentally, the logo also mimics the game of capoeira that I will later
discuss in detail.
This circular concept is encapsulated in Giles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s
Rhizome philosophy describing cultural multiplicity. In describing a
rhizome, they explain that “It is composed not of units but of dimensions,
or rather directions in motion. It has neither beginning nor end, but always a
middle (milieu) from which it grows and which it overspills.”1 Similarly, it is
impossible for me to separate my life as a dancer from my life as an architect,
or to truly develop a linear chronology of what brought me to create the Brazil
Studio. I will say that architecture was a “fall back” for me, when I hurt my
knee and was no longer able to pursue a full time career as a dancer. I didn’t
bother applying to college because I had already received a scholarship to
the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. I accepted the scholarship and
created my own degree from an array of interdisciplinary courses including
engineering, art, landscape architecture, interior design and of course dance.
Beyond the obvious ergonometric intelligence and the discipline and
rigor of dance training paralleling that of architecture, there is an inherent
reaching for something defying gravity – beautiful and otherworldly that
both disciplines seek to attain. When it is “right” there are few words that can
describe it. Even the best critic cannot capture its essential beauty. You just
have to be there to see it, experience it and feel it.
My dance career morphed into martial arts, perhaps because of my
ancestry. When I stopped performing, I took dance classes, but did not feel
the same sense of collaboration and camaraderie as being in a company. I
drifted into other types of movement classes, and found that my strength,
power and flexibility served well in boxing. I had forgotten how much I knew
about boxing from growing up. My American-born, Irish grandfather was
a professional boxer, and my father and his brothers also boxed. In 1999 I
decided to try my hand at boxing and trained seriously for two years. With
a rigorous discipline on par with ballet training, boxing got my body into
incredible shape, but it exacerbated a feeling of anger that left me constantly
on edge and ready to fight or argue. In 2001, I attended my first Capoeira
Angola class, and my life changed forever.
When I first found capoeira, I trained intermittently, still dabbling in other
things. But once I began regularly attending weekly capoeira rodas, I felt as if
I were home. There is a melancholy within the music, a humor and banter in
the game, trickery, deception and joking between two players that resonated
as something deeply familiar to me. How could this Afro-Brazilian tradition
evoke such emotions in me? It was later that I saw the parallels between
the capoeira tradition and the musical and dance traditions of Irish culture.
Both contained many of the same elements related to cultures of resistance
expressed through movement and music.
I started to train. Fate would have it that Mestre Cobra Mansa, one of the
greatest Capoeira Angola masters in the world had a school in DC where I
lived. I didn’t know how famous he was at that time nor was I aware of what
a privilege it was to train with him. I also had no idea the depth to which my
life would be influenced by this one choice… to become a capoeirsta.
In addition to running my own architectural practice, MW Architecture, and
my non-profit educational program, Axis Mundi, I was teaching architectural
design studio at Catholic University when I began studying Capoeira Angola.
I began to see pedagogical significance of connecting the capoeira roda to the
roda of the design studios.
Within a typical architectural design studio, students work individually
on their own design project. While there is camaraderie within the studio and
some students will assist one other in the design process, rarely is there a give
and take of skills and insights directly resulting in a project that belongs to
more than one student.
While teaching design studios, I encouraged my students to challenge the
traditional single student with a single design project by working in teams
of two to produce two separate projects but with neither student being the
sole author of either project. Unbeknownst to them, they were being asked to
emulate the game of two players in a roda. I created a studio project requiring
the design of a cultural center for Capoeira. They were required to attend
both a movement and a music class of Capoeira Angola and encouraged
to physically participate in the classes. This introduction gave them some
exposure into the language, movement and music of Capoeira, but to truly
understand the dialogue and improvisational interplay that takes place
between two capoeirstas, students needed more structured engagement. As
a result, they were assigned a partner with whom to work on designing their
projects. The design process emulated the martial arts practice, with two
players in the roda creating their game, or two design students collaboratively
designing.
Each week, students exchanged their design work with their partner who
would work on the design for a week and then return it to their partner.
Models were built, drawings produced, and ideas exchanged just as in any
other studio, but the boundary between self and other was challenged, making
it difficult to know where the ideas of one began and another took over –
much like the circle of my childhood song, axis mundi, and the capoeira roda.
The power of producing two uniquely individual designs, in response to the
same problem, allowed both students to understand that there is always more
than one way to produce a design. There are no right answers, but there are
solutions that are more elegant, efficient and appropriate than others.
In each game between two players in a capoeira roda, the music changes;
different songs are sung, different instruments are played, different people
sing and interact. Because each player brings with them the experiences of
their past, the delicacy of the present moment, forces of energy at work, there
is no way to ever replicate a game. Just as in the roda where there are never
two games alike, no two projects could emerge alike within these parameters.
Student projects in the best teams echoed each other, but were unique. The
two students spoke of their projects as collectively owned, rather than as
“my project” and “your project”. The final review was a round robin jury
of architects, professors and Angoleiros who critiqued the pairs of projects
together.
Capoeira would come to inform my teaching even more deeply as
I eventually developed the Brazil Studio focusing on creative urban
infrastructural projects. I felt that my students and I could make a small
difference in the life of residents in Salvador, Bahia, Brazil. The courses were
developed to be an exchange of knowledge and wisdom of cultural traditions
with our creation of small, urban gems with the function of improving daily
life. Founded on the premise that all participants are equally exchanging
10.2 Final Jury skills, knowledge, and information, the Brazil Studio seeks to create critical,
and Capoeira functional and artful projects in public spaces to be used by all. As anyone
Angola roda
who has ever worked on projects in underdeveloped nations can attest,
at Catholic
University. poverty there looks a lot different from poverty in the U.S. The Brazilian
From left to middle class live in greater poverty than those classified as very low
right on bateria: income in the U.S. Infrastructure is in disrepair or is non-existent in most
Dale, Meghan, areas of the city, especially outside tourist areas, and wealthy communities
Skher, Sylvia,
comprise a very small percentage of any of the large cities. The projects
Phil, Dorothy,
Wes. Playing in that the Brazil Studio has undertaken are miniscule compared to the extent
roda: Jennifer to which improvements are needed. However the process of constructing
and Khepra. these projects, the relationships that have resulted, and the depth of cross-
cultural understanding have profoundly impacted each person who has
participated, Brazilian and American alike.
The neighborhood in which we work in Salvador is called Plataforma.
It is an old neighborhood including a central plaza and historical Catholic
church. The small street on which we worked is called Santo Antonio and is
the home of Jorge Sampião, a priest of Candomblé – a Pae de Santo – and his
temple, the Terreiro de Caboclo Eru.
Candomblé is a uniquely African-Brazilian religion and cultural tradition
that is largely led by women in Salvador. Although Jorge is a Pae de Santo
(priest), a Mae de Santo (priestess) is a more common leader of a typical
Brazilian terreiro. In Lazaro Faria’s documentary film “Cidade das
Mulheres,” (meaning city of women), he describes the central importance
of women in Candomblé and in the city of Salvador. While Candomblé,

like all other African traditions, including capoeira, was banned in Brazil
for decades in the twentieth century, today it is one of the main attractions
to the city of Salvador, bringing tourists from all over the world to visit
terreiros to learn about the orixas (deities of Candomblé). Each person has
an orixa that is similar to a guardian angel. People seek the guidance of
Paes and Maes de Santo to know their orixas and to seek guidance in their
spiritual lives.
Students in the Brazil studio learn directly from Jorge and other Maes
and Paes de Santo in Candomblé about the spiritual tradition and its
relationship to other world religions as a part of the design studio. Because
most of Brazil’s cultural traditions grow from the same root, learning about
the spiritual tradition helps to better understand not only capoeira but
also samba dancing, drumming, and even Brazilian culinary traditions.
The students are typically fascinated to learn about the orixas and attend
traditional ceremonies in which it is common to see people taken by the
spirit and immersed in trance, while the music and dancing of the elaborate
ceremony continues uninterrupted. Some are taken aback at first, because
the tradition seems very different from what is familiar to them. But even
those from the most seemingly different cultural backgrounds eventually
grow to see the commonality between themselves and what appears to be
so different from what they know.
Perhaps more important to the mission of Axis Mundi, Inc. than the
creation of physical constructions is the building of bridges between people
through the work that we do. A young, female, somewhat conservative and
recently-married Muslim student who wears the hijab had a very moving
experience while visiting the Pierre Verger foundation and speaking
with its caretaker, Dona Ceci, a Mae de Santo. Dona Ceci discussed the
evolution of the terreiro and the designation of sacred and profane spaces
with the students and presented archival architectural images of terreiros
from the archives of the Pierre Verger foundation. She also spoke about the
first major Brazilian rebellion of enslaved people in 1835 led by enslaved
Muslims. Because of the Muslims’ ability to read and write through the
studying and reading of the Koran, they were able to learn to read and
write in Portuguese. After slavery ended in 1889, some 40,000 Muslims left
Brazil to return to Africa establishing many mosques.
Dona Ceci showed books documenting the “Brazilian Mosques” along
the coast of Nigeria. Dona Ceci explained that the orixa Oxala (pronounced
Oh-sha-la) is typically the orixa head of most Muslims, and this happens
to be the orixa and orixa of her terreiro. Because of this, Dona Ceci had a
script in Arabic given to her by a visitor. She had never been able to read it,
but the female student, recognizing it as the first verse of sunnah (Muslim
prayer), was able to translate it for her because she had some knowledge of
Arabic. Clearly moved by Dona Ceci’s time and generosity that she shared
with the group, the female student gave Dona Ceci “a wallet-sized, plastic-
laminated card with the sunnah with all of its verses”. Her husband had
given it to her to comfort and protect her on her journey. This gesture at
once illustrated the lowering of her guard and the opening of her heart
and mind to new ideas and experiences. Her gesture brought an emotional
response from the other students and helped to bond group for the rest of
their time in Brazil. She later expressed she had not seen any connection
between herself and Brazilian culture. But after this interaction, the student
felt proud to be connected to Brazil in this way.
Students spend about a week attending lectures and classes about
Brazilian history, traditions and culture led by architects and scholars in a
variety of disciplines including architecture, history, sociology and cultural
studies. Over the years, architects Chico Rocha and Lula Marcondes of
the architectural firm O’Norte worked closely with the Brazil Studio to
develop curriculum helping introduce students to Brazilian art, design and
architectural theory and history. Chico leads the student tours of Salvador,
his hometown. Focusing on Brazilian design ingenuity, he shows not only
architectural examples but also urban objects such as coffee carts and other
creations that have been developed with recycled materials serving useful
purposes in the city.
After these classes, the students embark on their own design project.
Their site is a small street in Plataforma – actually an unpaved, steeply
sloping path, with no vehicular access. The projects must stay within
a very tight budget that is managed by the students themselves. Using
their own money that would typically be spent on modeling supplies in
a studio back home, students usually spend about $40-$75 each for the
entire project, much less than they spend in a typical studio. Almost
all the materials are recycled and are used for purposes other than
their original use. This allows students to learn fundamental principles
about construction detailing. Instead of searching Architectural Graphic
Standards and going to the hardware store to purchase the exact materials
specified in a product specification book, students must feel the materials,
envision their alternate uses, combine them, and test their details before
their implementation. Through designing and building simultaneously,
students come to understand the inherent potential of materials and
methods in a deeper and more visceral manner than through textbooks
and computer drawings.
For three years, Axis Mundi focused on the neighborhood of Plataforma,
returning each year to contribute another small project. The first project
Axis Mundi did in Plataforma was named Escada do Povo (The People’s
Stair) by the students. It is a set of stairs made of recycled tires, fishing net,
lightweight concrete parging, and tile mosaic.
10.3 Escada
do Povo
The following year, students returned to rebuild the temporary rope railings
made the previous year. These new railings were constructed from metal with
wood painted totem poles representing orixa spirits, as well as other metal
details installed along the pathway. The students spent a lot of time welding
recycled scrap metals in this studio under the direction of Jack Sanders. Jack is
an architect, design/build instructor, member of the faculty at the University
of Texas at Austin, founder of Design Build Adventure in Austin, Texas, and
one of the late Sambo Mockbee’s former Clerks of the Works at Auburn
University’s Rural Studio.
10.4 Welding
in Plataforma
In the third year, students constructed a multi-purpose bench defining a small

plaza area overlooking the ocean that also served as clotheslines for neighbors
to dry laundry. Jack and the students developed the project using recycled
metals and formed, poured concrete.
The design/build studio mandates that students work collectively to
develop a design and refine it through the process of building. In our earlier
years, we required students to bring their laptops and cameras to help
facilitate their design process and to document their work. But as the studio
developed, we became lower tech to emphasize a pedagogy focusing on the 10.5 Bench
tactile relationship of commonalities of hand drawing and building by hand.
Given the current emphasis in most schools of architecture on digital
fabrication and computer-aided drawing technologies, the studio offers an
approach to developing a more intuitive understanding of materials and
methods. Students gain confidence in their ability to solve building and
design problems independently of electronic media, freeing them for work
in contexts that cannot support dependence on these technologies for the
production of buildings. Work in developing countries in the context of
poverty and insufficient infrastructure, and even in disaster areas requires
architects to be able to respond with sets of skills that were once foundations
of architectural design pedagogy but have now taken a back seat to digital
technology. A metaphor would be that Axis Mundi teaches students to “drive
a stick” rather than an automatic.
The Axis Mundi studios have attracted students from all over the country
and across the world. It is open to any student, anywhere. Some students have
received credit from their school as an independent study or as a studio. In
the last two years, Axis Mundi has been dormant, and has not put on a Brazil
Studio, but we expect to do the studio again in the near future.
10.6 Hand Appendix: Glossary

Drawing. From
left to right: From
left to right: Jack, Capoeira Angola
Lauren, Sue, Capoeira Angola is an Afro-Brazilian martial art and also a form of dance.
Tessa, and Lula Created by Africans and brought by enslaved African people to Brazil, this
martial art has morphed into what has today become known as capoeira.
“Angola” signifies a family of capoeira originating in Salvador, Bahia Brazil
that has distinctively slow, intertwined movements close to the ground with
an interdependence of music, movement and spiritual tradition. Capoeira
Angola is a rarer form of capoeira than its popular cousins, Capoeira Regional
or Capoeria Contemporanea, which are often showcased in popular movies,
such as Only the Strong, and Oceans 12. Capoeira Angola focuses more on the
essence of capoeira, preserving oral history through music, movement, and
ritual theater of the capoeira roda.
Slowly moving out into the circle of onlookers with graceful movements
responding to each other, the players commence an intense, improvisational
dialogue of movement that appears at once a dance, but is also clearly a
martial art. Capoeira is considered to be a form of self-defense by Africans
who escaped slavery and maintained independent communities, or Kilombos,
in Brazil. Because of its power as both a martial art and its African roots,
Capoeira was banned in Brazil during the early twentieth century when
white Brazilians with political and economic power were trying desperately
to disassociate Brazil from African culture. Capoeirstas were jailed for playing
it in the streets. Capoeirstas developed various means of hiding their games
and probably the “dance” aspect evolved as a critical means of concealing
the martial side of the game so as to prevent capoeirstas from being jailed.
Today Capoeira has preserved the gracefulness of the dance but remains a
dangerous martial art in some parts of Brazil where only the best players
ought to step into the roda to play. Also, today African cultural expressions
in Brazil, particularly in Salvador, Bahia, are now a critical part of the tourist
economy, and are thus no longer banned but rather celebrated.
Roda
Roda, meaning wheel in Portuguese, is used to describe the ritual of capoeira
in all its fullness. In a roda, there are 8 percussion instruments, each with a
particular sound and meaning within the roda.
A roda can go on for many hours, perhaps even days. It is another circle
without a beginning or end like my childhood song. Since capoeira has come
into my life, I have come to see all interactions with others as rodas. From
one-on-one conversations to larger group structures, I see the same elements
of dialogue and play as there are within the roda.
Music of the Bateria (orchestra)

The iconic instrument of capoeira is the berimbau – a fishing rod like
instrument with a gourd that echos the sound. The roda is controlled by the
gunga berimbau which is the loudest of the three berimbaus producing the
deepest sound. The atabaque, a large drum, is the keeper of the heartbeat of
the roda and is relevant to the origins of capoeira within the spiritual tradition
of Candomblé in Brazil, where drums are sacred instruments, inseparable
from worship in the terreiro (temple).
Capoeira songs are called ladainhas, chulas, and corridos. The first, the
ladainha, or opening song, tells a story and sets a tone for the roda to follow.
The ladainha is typically sung by either the Master or most senior person at
the roda, who is typically playing the gunga as well. Following the ladainha
is a series of chulas that typically pay homage to past masters and set the tone
for the “game” to come. It is called Jogo de capoeira in Portuguese, meaning
the game of capoeira. It is referred to this way, unlike other martial arts that
might refer to the interaction of two martial artists as a fight, a spar or a match,
primarily because of the elements of trickery and deception and the playful
banter between two friends engaging in a delightful interchange. The two
players, sometimes called capoeiristas or Angoleiros (if playing capoeira
Angola), come to the foot of the berimbau squatting close to the ground
waiting while the ladainha and chulas are sung. The singer continues into
a corrido, or chorus, and is a call and response form of song where all the
participants in the roda, including those in the bateria, the players and those
who are sitting in the circle watching, respond with a chorus. When the gunga
is ready, it is lowered as an indication for the two players to begin their game.
Notes
1 Deleuze, Giles and Guattari, Félix. tr. by Massumi, Brian. A Thousand Plateaus.
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), 21.
11
Fishing for Ghosts

Margarita McGrath
Introduction: Ghost Fishing (Taipei, 2006)
Every year Taiwan invites its local ghosts for a one-month visit to the island.
When the Tower Gate of the Keelung Laodagon Temple is opened, Ghost Month
begins. The visitors are welcomed with special houses, furnished with showers
and tables set with feasts prepared in their honor.
Events held during the month include processions, rituals such as releasing
paper lanterns into the sea and a ceremony called “Grappling with the
Ghosts” which features a pole climbing competition for young men. During
the festival, the living are cautioned to avoid particular activities – such as
swimming, changing address, traveling or marrying – that might engender
the malign influence of unfriendly ghosts. The week closes on the first day
of the eighth lunar month by ushering the ghosts back to the afterworld and
closing the shrine’s gate behind them.
How do traditional rituals such as Ghost Month interface with life today?
Upcoming generations are more apt to disregard than rebel against their
ancestors, let alone revere them. Clues to tradition’s place or lack of place in
modernity might be found in architecture – a cultural practice, a vehicle for
contemporary life, and a technological commodity. In 2006, the international
workshop “Ghosting: Talismanic Architecture,” organized by Thomas Tilluca
Han at Shih Chien University, challenged the next generation of Taiwanese
architects to study the cultural space of Ghost Month. The workshop proposed
that design be used to net local (sui generis) intelligence from this cultural
reservoir for the students to add to their architectural tool kits.
Five architects and artists from around the world were invited to each lead
a workshop section in Taipei. My group of a dozen third-year architecture
students selected to site their work within the final event of the workshop: a
parade to carry the final projects from the university to a riverside park. The
students analyzed the route and identified spatial conditions corresponding
to eleven specific types of ghosts. They then used these habitat studies to
11.1 Display
of ghost houses
during annual
Ghost Month
festivities
in Taipei
inform their designs for small 6” x 6” houses devised to embody an ideal

“ghost space” for each of type of ghost. These custom houses became bait used
to lure particular ghosts into a “ghost hotel” where they were trapped until the
parade passed safely by. At the conclusion of the parade, the “ghost hotel” was
launched into the river as an effigy. Rather than making a work for the event,
our project entered into it.
Ghost Fishing1 is part of an ongoing practice that investigates intangible
aspects of architecture through design and teaching. This stream of inquiry
began during a Fulbright study of three houses by Adolf Loos, Ludwig
Wittgenstein and Robert Musil that took me to Vienna at the beginning of
my career.2 With these studies as a catalyst, I became interested in limits,
the boundaries between “sense” and “non-sense” (Wittgenstein’s tautology
and contradiction) and the discrepancies between writing about architecture
and making it. Ghosts appeared early in the work as figurative stand-ins for
grasping intangible qualities inhabiting the in-between fringes of architecture.
Some of these ghosts were proxies for invisible influences, such as the impact
fishing for ghosts 215
11.2 Character
pairing devised
by students to
name the project
11.3 Station
FIve. Installation
placed at
midspan of
the bridge slid
to extend and
drop the “ghost
house” to the
terminus of the
parade below.
Zhen-Shun Lin,
Zhen-Yi Mu
of memory, others for information that is not easily represented, such as

movement. Both memory and movement, although challenging to portray,
are vital in the construction of space. As a way of working, this practice
developed into a weir for collecting things of value that have been overlooked
or forgotten. In Ghost Fishing, a literal reading of “ghost space” revealed fine-
grain qualities not otherwise perceptible – a spatial architecture of Ghost
Month nested in the urban fabric.
The following chapter explores how this work might be considered a
“feminist practice”; develops the path of inquiry through a pair of speculative
research projects, a series of international workshops, and an expanded
description of the methods deployed in the Ghost Fishing project; and concludes
with the work’s inheritance in terms of feminist practices in architecture.
For many, including myself, “feminism” is a spooky word. It might also be
itself a kind of ghost: feminism’s edges have faded into the background as an
unacknowledged presence.
Alternative Routes: Feminist + Practices
The most important thing to realize is that what drives the modern
movement is a spirit of inquiry, it’s a process of analysis and not a style.
We worked with ideals.3 (Perriand)
What is a “feminist practice”? Practice is an easy term to handle; feminism is a

bit more unwieldy. A practice can be understood as “the actual application or
use of an idea, belief, or method, as opposed to the theory or principles of it.”
(Oxford American Dictionary) The root praktikē (Greek, f), “practical science
or practical work,” is from praktikos “concerned with action” and prattein “to
do, act.” (Collins English Dictionary) It is important to point out in the context
of feminism, that although to practice is to act, practice is not synonymous
with activism. Activism turns on the end result. Practice is a process of
repetition, in which projects are considered not only outcomes, but also as
interchangeable instruments for ideas and a synthesis of theory and action.
The beginnings of feminism are found in the mid-eighteenth through early-
twentieth century voting rights movements. Following this “First Wave,” so-
called “Second” and “Third” waves focused on inequalities and norms beyond
the achievement of the right to vote. The resulting term carries a nuanced and
conflicted history, which is why some women of my generation now hesitate
to use the label “feminist.” Yet its legacy has shaped our current practices: as
opposed to writing about feminism, we are putting it to use.
To extricate this legacy from last century’s list of “-isms” is a difficult
proposition. Under its own auspices, feminism’s primary targets were
cultural norms and social policy. Postmodernism rejected hierarchical norms
of contemporary social order by calling attention to the often overlooked
or unseen conventions and assumptions supporting this order. Combined,
feminism and postmodernism reshaped creative practices. In architecture, the
role of the architect as a solo artistic visionary was interrogated, and other
possible modes of practice emerged.
This chapter discusses my own practice, which is based upon such
alternative understandings of architecture. How the work is made, for whom
it is made, and even what is considered inform the following inquiries:
• The adaptation of cartographic strategies as a means of inquiry to inform

the design process and open it up to discoveries that often eclipse the
imagination of traditional authorship.
• Architecture as a cultural practice that crosses disciplinary boundaries in
order to devote itself to a broad public audience.
• Architecture as a contingent practice engaged with building meaningful
and extraordinarily multi-dimensional spatial experiences, a practice
which runs contrary to the current focus on the design of isolated formal
objects.
Although these occupations with authorship, boundaries, and experience

reflect influences of postmodernist thought and even feminist activism, in
the case of architecture my position is that they might also be read as an
alternative route the discipline could have taken through modernism. One
perhaps closer to the arts.
In painting, music, writing, and later sculpture, artists such as Cézanne,
Cage, Cummings, and Serra, made what I consider one of the most interesting
discoveries of twentieth century modernity: the recognition of white space.
Whether it was areas left unpainted in Cézanne’s work in which the white
of the underlying canvas remained visible, the study of “silence” in Cage’s
“4’33””, or Cumming’s arrangement of words and empty space on the page,
the materiality of each media expanded to include not only the figure but also
its “ground.” The space in-between was no longer an unseen leftover, but
granted equal consideration.
The architect’s primary task is to delineate space. When drawing a plan, we
poché the thickness of the walls and service areas, which makes “black space.”
Is the remaining space then white space? In the other arts, an absence reveals
a background presence: paint exposes canvas; sound, background noise; or
text, paper. But in architecture the space framed for inhabitation is by intent.
It is considered neither “empty” nor left purposefully blank. What then is the
white, or blank space of architecture, and which, if any, presence is manifest
in it?
As Duchamp (1957) asserted, a key role of empty space in a work of art
is to accommodate the viewer’s imagination, by allowing them to fill in
the blanks.4 My inquiries into incorporeal and elusive facets – architectural
“ghosts” which inhabit this so-called white space – demonstrate, as in the
other arts, that there is truly no “empty” space in architecture. Per Duchamp,
the viewer completes the picture; in the case of architecture, the inhabitant
completes the space through not only imagination but also memory.
Understanding the nature of architecture’s white space is particularly

relevant in an age dominated by media and technology where qualities that
cannot be represented, engineered or monetized are endangered. The aim
of this alternative mode of practice is to reveal intangible aspects through
which architecture contributes meaning to the built environment: the unseen,
overlooked, or forgotten. The following inquiry is indebted to specific
practitioners and practices that map out an intelligible feminist legacy, which
I’ll discuss in the final section of the chapter.
Mapping Architecture’s “White Space”
As an architect preoccupied with what is often undetected, the obvious first

question is how to represent what cannot be seen. Adolf Loos faced a similar
dilemma: what he valued most in his work could not be represented through
drawing or photography.
It is my greatest pride that the interiors which I have created are totally
ineffective in photographs. I am proud of the fact that the inhabitants of
my spaces do not recognize their own apartments in the photographs, just
as the owner of a Monet painting would not recognize it at Kastan’s. (Loos
1910)
Although the context of Loos’s claim is aimed at promoting the uniqueness

of his own design – the Raumplan5 – through criticizing the danger of an architect
holding a two-dimensional representation of equal value to a built space, I’ve often
wondered about his use of the analogy of being unable to recognize a painting at a
wax museum (Kastan). Loos seems to imply that his clients experienced temporary
prosopagnosia – in this case “house-blindness” in lieu of “face-blindness” – in failing
to recognize a snapshot of their living room. The actual neurological disorder is
marked by the failure to parse, organize and assemble discrete features, and then
connect this pattern to a previous memory that triggers facial or topographic
recognition. A photograph might be an apt device for recording features, but it
often misses syntax, the relational structure that allows the inhabitant to coordinate
and connect what they see to memory. Part of what distinguishes architecture from
building is this missing presence. Building can provide the form; architecture, the
essence. Form can be captured via a lens; syntax cannot.
Even if it is an approximation, or if it ultimately fails, the quest to represent the
intangible can bring attention to that which eludes the camera, the architectural
drawing, or the computer rendering. This search requires challenging current
representational conventions. The first two “ghost” projects introduced below
experimented in registering non-formal inputs through distorting strategies from
generative mapping processes and mathematics.
The Eye of the Savoye (A Machine for Forgetting Architecture) (UCLA, 1995) 11.4 Le
In a collaborative graduate thesis, The Eye of the Savoye, Sui Wai Law and I Corbusier’s Five
challenged the limits of the mapping process’s application to architecture. In Points (from
left to right)
the early 1980s, architects including Peter Eisenman,6 Dagmar Richter,7 and
1. Pilotis; 2.
others, had adopted cartographic practices as a means of recording existing Free façade; 3.
orders and historic traces of previous site occupations. Resulting layers Ribbon window;
were superimposed in order to inform the spatial organization and form of 4. Free plan; 5.
the work. Sui Wai and I, rather than using mapping to register geometrical Roof terrace
orders to be echoed or formal traces to be reconstructed, focused on how to
capture an intangible context in order to inform the design. We selected the
Villa Savoye (1929) as the site for our investigations as it is considered by many
to be one of the quintessential works of Le Corbusier, if not all of modern
architecture. Le Corbusier’s claim in the Five Points towards a New Architecture8
to have dispelled with all manifestations of tradition provided clues to the
intangible.
Aspects of traditional “house-ness” lingering in the Villa Savoye, were
designated as “ghosts.” The aim of the thesis was to de-haunt the villa.
One effective tactic was adapted from the technique of achieving quod
erat demonstrandum (QED) solutions for mathematical proofs by working
backwards from the answer. In this example we proposed interventions
to occupy the “white space” in the villa in order to block any potential
manifestations of the “ghost of the center” (one of the ghosts derived from
the Five Points)
for getting LA (Residuals, Graz, 1994-5).

The second project, for getting LA, took these investigations into the city. The
project came about through an invitation by Brigitte Löcker to participate –
along with six other artists and architects living in cities around the world
– in a research project that culminated in the group installation Residuals.9 We
were given a year to study the presence of Michel Serres’s residuals in our
host cities. My “ghosts” were the essential characters (the residuals) identified
by Serres that make up a city: bridge, well, prison, hotel, labyrinth and death.
11.5 Eye of the Savoye. Round Three: Intervention filling the void (the “eye”) under the ramp. Sui Wah Law,
Margarita McGrath
11.6 Spatial typologies of the residuals (from left to right): bridge, well, prison, hotel, labyrinth and death
Linked homogeneity erases catastrophes, and congruent identity forgets

difficult homeomorphisms. Reason, as the saying goes, has triumphed
over myth. No, it is Euclidean space that has repressed a barbarous
topology, it is transport and displacement without obstacles that have
suddenly taken the place of the journey, the ancient journey from islands
to catastrophes, from passage to fault, from bridge to well, from relay to
labyrinth. Myth is effaced in its original function, and the new space is
universal, as is reason or the ratio that it sustains, only because within it
there are no more encounters. (Serres 1982, 52)
The criss-cross of contradiction is perpetually effaced, the wound

cauterized, the traces of differentiation’s passage emerging only as the
determining lines of the whole which has capitalized on them as its
own treasury. This is the propriety of the totality, and the differences
are established and connected and combined in the growing complexity
which totalizes them…. In their (the totalities of being and history)
gathering up of differences, in this very act, both of them cancel productive
differentiation and contradiction by means of integration. (Marin 1984,
Second Preface xix)
Serres and Marin voice an anxiety with the loss of differences in an idealized
or “universal” topography. Their concern is not only postmodern, but
can also be traced back to the onset of modernism. Differentiation was a
main preoccupation in fin de siècle Vienna and the subject of Adolf Loos’
architectural and cultural criticism, Ludwig Wittgenstein’s writings on
language (1913), and Robert Musil’s unfinished novel The Man Without
Qualities (1930, 1932). Difference requires a boundary.
The project for getting LA speculated that if Marin’s “productive difference”
occurs where spaces encountered are perfectly defined – without waver or
blur – then the ghosts of the city could be found by looking for “impotent
differences.” This hypothesis follows a proof by transposition in which
impotent differences would exist where spaces are imperfectly defined.
Imperfections might be sensed when two spaces are compressed to the
extent that the status of each wavers between foreground and background,
or where boundaries have shifted throughout history. Hints of forgotten
divisions – the ghosts of the city – can be discovered in these zones of spatial
and temporal slippage.
Several instances of “imperfect definition” in Los Angeles were studied,
including boundaries demarcated by bankers’ redlining10 practices and
street gangs’ tagging, which were interpreted as the residuals of “prison”
and “labyrinth,” respectively. In each situation, one visible through lack of
development and the other through graffiti, territorial boundaries were in
play. The observation of chance encounters within overlaps of where past
verses current boundaries had been drawn were catalogued as vestigial
examples of Serres’s imperiled topology.
The Residuals research project led to an exhibition installed at Steirische
Herbst, a cultural event held annually in Graz, Austria. Rather than making
an installation about Los Angeles, I chose to “site” the work in the exhibit
itself. This entailed curating maps of the seven cities across the globe where
each of the seven participating artists and architects had done their work.
Each of the participants were provided a 3 meter x 3 meter frame, one for
each city, constructed of lumber, recycled 1/8” pegboard, and bubble wrap.
Designed to frustrate the forming of cosmetic visual linkages, these
frames become physical separators impairing simultaneous apprehension
of the cities. Maps of each of the cities were mounted on the frames, which
were positioned so that it was impossible to see more than one city at a time.
In order to make a comparison, one had to look back and forth between
11.7 for getting

LA. Foyer
installation of
Residuals Exhibit.
Steirische Herbst,
Graz, 1995.
Photograph: BLP/
Rembert Rayon,
reprinted with
permission.
frames, temporarily holding a memory of one of the cities to be compared. A

“Gro∫stadt” (world city) resulted from the remaining memories one could not
forget.
Both the Eye of the Savoye and for getting LA projects took an approach of
constructing physical hindrances or blockages in order to delineate the space
of the intangible. Although the work takes a similar path as Bruce Nauman’s
A Cast of the Space Under My Chair (1968) and the “anti-room” of Rachel
Whiteread’s Ghost (1990), a key distinction exists in how space is understood.
In these casted pieces, both Nauman and Whiteread create an absence in
physical form. Instead of reading space as a static “anti-mass,” in my work
space is grasped in terms of movement as proposed by Moholy-Nagy:
A definition of space which may at least be taken as a point of departure

is found in physics – “space is the relation between the position of
bodies.” Therefore: spatial creation is the creation of relationships of
position of bodies (volumes). On the basis of volume analysis, we can
understand bodies, whether large or minute, in their smallest extensions,
e.g., thin plates, sticks, rods, wiring, and even as relations among limits,
terminations, and openings. The definition of course must be tested by the
means by which space is grasped, that is by sensory experience. (Moholy-

Nagy 1928, 57)
Viewing space, which is in essence intangible, as relationships mapped

through fine-grain analysis of how volumes interact provides a corporeal
way of working that allows architectural overtures to white space. Specifically
useful at the fringe of demarcation, this method constructs details which
disclose how space is grasped in its “smallest extensions, e.g., thin plates,
sticks, rods, wiring, and even as relations among limits, terminations, and
openings.” This fringe is analogous to Wittgenstein’s boundary between what
can and cannot be said, between sense and non-sense.
Movement is how we apprehend space. The sensory experience described
by Moholy-Nagy is more than sight, as we have encountered earlier in
Loos’s pride in creating space that is not recognizable in a still photograph.
The interdependence between motion and spatial perception can be clearly
understood through Le Corbusier’s work, of which the Villa Savoye is a prime
example, and his writings: “Architecture is judged by eyes that see, by the
head that turns, and the legs that walk.”11 As a speculative project, the Eye of
the Savoye proposed interventions, following the model of the furnishings Le
Corbusier envisioned as domestic servants, as animated presences designed
to respond to visitors in the house; in for getting LA, the arrangement of
the frames encouraged the visitor to move between exhibits by blocking
simultaneous views between the maps of each city.
Architecture as a Cultural Practice
Investigations of the intangible qualities between “sense and non-sense”

that engender and give meaning to architecture built upon the practices
established in these initial projects continued with students. These included a
series of international Prop workshops, in which students proposed temporary
architectural interventions to World Heritage Sites as both structural and
“memory” fixes, and the Ghost Fishing workshop in Taipei, introduced earlier
in this essay where students engaged Taiwan’s annual Ghost Month. The
workshops primarily involved Asian students and were shaped by a lesson
learned in an early project, Architectural Dictionary, dating back to my first
teaching position at Kyong-gi University in Seoul, South Korea.
Architectural Dictionary (Seoul, 1998)

At Kyongi-gi, the corresponding limits of English and Korean meant that
the students and I had to rely upon what they made rather than what they
said to convey their ideas. We assumed architecture was a shared language,
and the first project we undertook was to create an Architectural Dictionary.
The students decided that we needed two entries for “structure,” which they
constructed out of elastic materials (one entry out of panty-hose and the other
11.8 out of thin medical latex tubes). The panty hose “definition” depicted tension
Architectural and movement while the latex “definition” demonstrated a tactile experience.
Dictionary. This second tactile meaning required a sub-entry, a transparent shadow that
Kyong-ii
rotated within its box.
University 1998
Not one of these three entries translated to either of the two usages of
“structure” in the West (as building components that resist gravity and lateral
forces, or as an ordering system). This revealed an unanticipated degree of
differentiation between cultural understandings of architecture. Architecture
is not a universal language, and although areas of overlap in our architectural
dialects existed, the boundaries were not synonymous. Certain concepts and
distinctions were simply not translatable, revealing yet another white space
within architecture itself.
Props (1996)
The next set of investigations included a pedagogical component to expand the

students’ understanding of architecture beyond the disciplinary boundaries
encompassed in their typical studies. The inspiration for the Prop workshops
began with visits to a series of cultural heritage sites in South East Asia during
the time I was based in Seoul. In the mid-1990s most were in disrepair. Ad-
hoc repairs, including bamboo props and heavy-handed concrete buttresses,
populated the sites as a cast of actors testifying to the forces of gravity and
time. A visitor to a heritage site rarely perceives these forces because many
sites under conservation have been preserved into an equilibrium which
forgets weathering, duration and even effaces the damages of conflict and
looting. And, since the invention of the printing press and Victor Hugo’s
apt declaration that the “the book will kill the building,” (1862, 87) we have
become accustomed to reading bronze placards and laminated signs rather
than buildings for information about our built environment. The idea behind
the Prop project was to propose architectural interventions in lieu of these ad-
hoc props that could be designed to not only provide temporary structural
fixes but also to underpin other imperceptible material and cultural aspects
which inhabit the site.
Architecture students, both Asian and American,12 who participated in the
Prop workshops were surprisingly less interested in the physical characteristics
(gravity/weathering) of the interventions than with the potential of these
architectural props to bring meaning to material culture. Their designs of
small-scale interventions for heritage sites reinforced an understanding of
physical aspects of history and fostered an engagement in the intangible
aspects of culture and means of representation.
This line of research intersected in 2003 with the recognition by the
International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) of a dilemma
inherent in the preservation mechanism of UNESCO’s World Heritage List.
By the time a site of cultural or natural heritage was successfully listed, aspects
that made it “of universal value” (the listing criteria) were often absent,
having been lost either before or via inscription. It became evident that the
act of preservation itself can precipitate this loss by transforming living sites
into heritage artifacts. ICOMOS’s Convention for the Safeguarding of Intangible
Cultural Heritage adopted by UNESCO broadly addresses this as “intangible
heritage.”
Intangible Cultural Heritage means the practices, representations,

expressions, knowledge, skills – as well as the instruments, objects, artifacts
and cultural spaces associated therewith – that communities, groups and,
in some cases, individuals recognize as part of their cultural heritage. This
intangible cultural heritage, transmitted from generation to generation,
is constantly recreated by communities and groups in response to their
environment, their interaction with nature and their history, and provides
them with a sense of identity and continuity, thus promoting respect for
cultural diversity and human creativity. (UNESCO 2003)
Bridging tangible and intangible heritage, the Prop research is revelatory of

otherwise immaterial, unseen, or overlooked aspects of architecture’s presence
in cultural heritage. Like the Architecture Dictionary, the Prop workshops also
revealed a fundamental cultural specificity to architecture, or, in the least,
11.9 Analysis that it has regional dialects. Through making we discovered an “in-between”
of spatial architectural language, which had remarkable abilities to articulate otherwise
conditions along
elusive spatial qualities.
parade route
Ghost Fishing (Taipei, 2006)

Up to now in investigating the intangible in architecture, ghosts were
figurative stand-ins for grasping the impact of memory and movement upon
the construction of space. As mentioned earlier, in the Ghost Fishing project
the ghosts were quite literal. The students and I began the first day of the
workshop asking each other questions about the nature of our ghosts. This
took some time, because we had to rely on sketching, writing, pantomime,
and spirited cross-discussions amongst the students. Below is the resulting
list:
If Ghosts are invisible, why/ how do we see them

(notice them)?
If Ghosts can go through walls, why do they need space?
Why do Ghosts need houses? Do they need to sleep?
Why | How do Ghosts take showers? Eat?
If Ghosts travel, do they need a boat, airplane, car?
Can we live together with Ghosts?
If we can’t see Ghosts, can Ghosts see us?
Is there a difference between Chinese and Western Ghosts?

Can Ghosts touch us?
What scares us about Ghosts?
How do the visible and invisible worlds meet?
From here we decided to closely document the path of the parade in order
to study what kind of spaces ghosts might prefer. Beginning at the front
steps to the School of Design, a modern building of stone and glass, the
route detoured into a low scale traditional neighborhood in order to avoid
a major thoroughfare. It passed through a narrow street lined with local
shops, restaurants, and a park; came to a busy intersection adjacent to a police
station in which pedestrian traffic was routed to an underground crossing;
and then traversed the Da-zhi bridge. At the end of the bridge a pedestrian
ramp contoured down to a park along the Kee-Lung River. The students
spent the first afternoon photographing spatial conditions that they thought
ghosts might frequent. These were printed out, and taped onto two walls in
our workspace. We developed a notational system that each student used to
designate spaces that they thought a particular ghost might find attractive.
What was revealed from this study was that the local ghosts could be identified
by the spaces that they inhabited, suggesting genera based on habitat, and
could also be divided into “good” and “bad.”
Table 11.1 Ghost Taxonomy
Type Good Bad

Things 撐禁錮
[cheng] [ jin‛ gu‛]
Nature (still) 招宿
[zhao- su‛]
Space 路。線牽引
[lu‛ xian‛] [qian- yinˇ]
Building 太平指津
[tai‛ ping‛] [zhiˇ jin-]
Nature (mov- 下。線茫道
ing) [xia‛ xian‛] [mang‛dao‛]
Bridge 胯下間
[qua‛xia‛jian-]
The eleven resulting ghosts were parceled out to the students. Each of them
constructed an ideal space for their ghost in the form of a 6” x 6” cube, a
customized “ghost space.” Although the students’ perception of their native
ghosts was based on cartography, as in the Architecture Dictionary, their
interpretation was not clear to me until they made the cubes. For example,
two different types of ghosts inhabited the park spaces along the parade route
– a “still” nature ghost and a “moving” nature ghost. “Still” and “moving”
11.10 Study
of ideal spatial
conditions for
one of the ghosts
(left). Examples
of cubes (right).
11.11 Station
Two. “Still
Nature” Ghost.
Boi-Yu Dai,
Jia-Yin Zhen.
11.12 Station
Three. Chin-Tin
Shen, Ching-
Hua Wu
are in quotes because they approximate the differentiation evident only after
the construction of each ghost’s ideal space in the cube form. Whereas we had
begun provisionally communicating the taxonomy by pointing to the places
on the map, after the cubes were made we were able to use them as three-
dimensional characters that named each ghost.
Once we understood the ghosts we were dealing with, we went back to
the parade route and mapped points of intensity for each genre of ghost. We
found seven such areas, which we called “stations.” Installations were made
at each station to make the points of haunting along the parade route visible.
11.13 Station
Five. Zhen-Shun
Lin, Zhen-Yi Mu
This method of cartographic analysis captured a dimension of space unique

to Taiwan. We had begun by wondering if ghosts can move through walls,
why would they need a house or want to take showers and eat? Through
documenting the spatial conditions of each ghost we revealed the spatial
architecture of Ghost Month nested in the urban fabric.
11.14 Station
Seven. Pei-Ling
Xu, Yi-Xiao Chen
Legacy
To revisit feminism at the beginning of the twenty-first century is a timely

proposition. As Mary McLeod wrote in a 2004 essay for the Harvard Design
Magazine, “Reflections of Feminism and Modern Architecture,” architectural
scholars “in their twenties or thirties tend to find other subjects – sustainability,
digitalization, and globalization – more compelling” than feminism.
I’m in my 40s. It is bold to reveal one’s age, but in this discourse I think it is
critical. I am part of a generation that shares the experience of entering architecture
school when classes suddenly switched from having one or two women students
to a cohort of 50 percent or more. I remember my teachers, almost all of them

men, struggling with the change of demography; and, I remember the scant
women faculty and academics of that generation as advocating determined
agendas, being “savage readers”13 (Dagmar Richter, 1991) or creating magical
“marginal” assemblages (Jennifer Bloomer’s tabbles of bower, 1992).
For architecture, the wave of feminism spanning the decade between the mid-
1980s and mid-1990s seemed focused on position, on perspectives of the “other.”
I found these practices meaningful as a student in the way that it opened up the
horizon of what a work of architecture and an architect might be. My first studio
teacher at Rice, Eleanor Evans, actually was the only woman on the faculty of
the architecture school at that time. She explicitly framed the studio as “not”
architecture, and in fact, banned the very mention of the “a” word from the
studio. Ms. Evans was of the Bauhaus school, and in hindsight the lessons we
learned in “how to see” had great impact on our future architectural practices.
Later, in the fourth and fifth year of my studies, several visiting women faculty
were brought in by the School to teach for a semester in order to fill the gap in
representation.
I think in this way I was exposed to some of the waves of feminism as they
broke in architecture. Eleanor Evans gave me examples of the “what,” a range
of practices focused on the warp and weft of the ordinary world; subsequent
visiting women faculty, issues of gender and multi-culturalism; and later,
coinciding with my graduate studies at UCLA, Dagmar Richter’s generation,
strategies targeted at existing hierarchies and systems. In terms of feminism,
these inclusive practices might roughly align with the so-called “Second Wave.”
Perhaps the “First Wave’s” manifestation in architecture was the issue of
authorship. McLeod’s 2004 article was written upon the publication of her
compilation of essays on the French designer Charlotte Perriand (McLeod 2003).
Continuing McLeod’s stance on feminism, we might consider Perriand, Eileen
Gray and Lilly Reich as our well-known “feminist” great-grandmothers. Almost
any question of authorship has the power to summon them back as examples
of collaborators who did not receive credit for their contributions. McLeod
suggests that adhering to this paradigm as one of the groundings of feminism
in architecture is no longer productive and cites Perriand herself in suggesting
that she opportunistically ceded her authorship rather than it being “taken”
from her. Perriand claimed to have deployed this strategy in order to grant
the work a wider impact than it would have had if it remained “her” work.
Although in this case the work went out under another’s name, this rather
cold-blooded disregard for authorship in deferment to the work provides a
lineage to Dagmar Richter’s “savage reader.” Yet re-defining authorship itself
was perhaps the most lasting contribution that Perriand made. As suggested by
Joan Ockman’s essay in McLeod’s collection, Perriand, by taking the writings of
Adolf Loos to heart, pioneered the “designer’s role as a discerning selector and
‘improver’ of forms rather than first and foremost an inventor.”14
Richter’s “savage reader” exploits the ramifications of uprooting the author
as the denominating presence. In the early 1990s architecture world, this was
considered an avant-garde practice, even though the theoretical grounding

existed in the arts since Walter Benjamin’s 1934 lecture “The Author as
Producer” which recognized the political potential; and Duchamp’s 1957
lecture, “The Creative Act,” which mustered the poetic promise:
The creative act is not formed by the artist alone; the spectator brings the
work in contact with the external world by deciphering and interpreting
its inner qualifications and thus adds his contribution to the creative act.
(Duchamp 1957, 77-8)
Hacking into the shifted role of the reader from consumer to producer, Richter’s
reader is a primitive who is incapable of reading between the lines (because
they are ignorant of the conventions), but who must sound out every word.
Her practice during the time we overlapped at UCLA adapted cartography
as a means to notate and re-program formal artifacts of building conventions
and social prescriptions. Richter had little interest in the autonomy of the
architectural work, but rather its potential to transform social constructions.
Yet various strictures, including membership in the architectural avant-garde
in order to retain clout, meant that the work inevitably ended up in a de rigueur
deconstructivist cladding.
What the practices of Perriand and Richter have in common is the tactic of
masquerade, for Perriand the pretense of Le Corbusier’s authorship, for Richter,
the “proper” avant-garde. Both masks were assumed to garner visibility for
the work, and in a sense both practitioners took on the role of agent in order
to operate within (Perriand) or upon (Richter) social conventions.
As an inheritor of this legacy, I have adopted their tactics but less so their
agency. What I see as most relevant under the existing rubric of feminism
to my own practice of architecture is the work itself. This is not because it is
made by a woman (which it actually is not because each project has at least one
other key collaborator), nor that it engages theories of gender and hierarchy,
but rather the focus on intangible aspects rather than formal outcomes.
Alternative views of authorship and inclusiveness are present in the work,
but are not preoccupations. The work concerns the nature of architecture.
Although certainly architecture is just as much a political practice as
a cultural one – with a definite leaning today more towards the political-
economic rather than the arts – my own realm of practice is sited in its waning
cultural aspects. In dealing with the idea of white space, also an interest
shared by Perriand [Japanese Ma (間)], “Mad-Max”-ism rather than Marxism
informs my modus operandi. A “scavenger” rather than “savage,” my position
is as a collector locating value in what has been overlooked or forgotten. From
this approach, the possibility of revolution, in contrast to the Marxist notion of
loading the existing system until it collapses, lies in Thomas Kuhn’s paradigm:
Change occurs when old models are abandoned through seeing that which
has been long overlooked by those who have a stake in the status quo. (1962)
Design has an unexpectedly precise ability to bring together intellectually
unrelated variables into productive and meaningful connections. Since most
of us perceive architecture as a field of substance (material, form, technology)

and measure, it is easy to forget the value of the intangible and insubstantial –
how we inhabit space through experience, memory and imagination.
List of References
Benjamin, Walter. “The Artist as Producer.” 1934. Lecture given at the Institute for the
Study of Facism, Paris. New Left Review I/62 (1970). Accessed December 10, 2010,
http://newleftreview.org/?page=article&view=135.
Bloomer, Jennifer. 1992. “Abodes of Theory and Flesh: Tabbles of Bower.” Assemblage
17, 7-29.
Le Corbusier. 1980. Modulor I and II. Translated by P. de Francia and A. Bostock.
Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Collins English Dictionary – Complete and unabridged 10th Edition. Harper Collins
Publishers. Accessed December 16, 2010, http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/
practice.
Duchamp, Marcel. 1957. The Creative Act. Paper to the Session on the Creative Act:
Convention of the American Federation of Arts, Houston, Texas. In Robert Lebel,
Marcel Duchamp, 77-8. New York: Grove Press, 1959.
Hugo, Victor. 1862. The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Translated by Henry Llewellyn
Williams, Jr. New York: Dick and Fitzgerald.
Kuhn, Thomas S. 1962. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press.
Loos, Adolf. 1985. “Architecture 1910.” In The Architecture of Adolf Loos: An Arts Council
Exhibit. Edited by Yehuda Safran and Wilfried Wang, 104-109. London: The
Council, 1985.
McLeod, Mary. 2003. Charlotte Perriand: An Art of Living. New York: H.N. Abrams in
association with the Architectural League of New York.
McLeod, Mary. 2004. “Perriand: Reflections of Feminism and Modern Architecture.”
Harvard Design Magazine 20, [64]-67.
Marin, Louis. 1984. Utopics: Spatial Play. Translated by Robert A. Vollrath. Atlantic
Highlands, NJ: Humanities.
Moholy-Nagy, Laszlo. 1967. The New Vision. Translated by Daphne M. Hoffman.
Union City, NJ: New City Printing Company.
Musil, Robert. 1980. The Man without Qualities. Translation and foreword by Ernst
Kaiser and Eithne Wilkins. New York: Perigee Books.
Ockman, Joan. 2003. “Lessons from Objects: Perriand from the Pioneer Years to
the ‘Epoch of Realities’.” In Charlotte Perriand: An Art of Living edited by Mary
McLeod. New York: H.N. Abrams in association with the Architectural League of
New York.
Oxford Dictionaries. April 2010. Oxford University Press. Accessed December 16, 2010,
http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/practice?region=us.
Richter, Dagmar. 1991. “Reading Los Angeles: a Primitive Rebel’s Account.”
Assemblage 14, [66]-81.
Serres, Michel. 1982. “Language and Space: from Oedipus to Zola.” In Hermes:
Literature, Science, Philosophy, edited by Josué V. Harari and David F. Bell, 39-53.
Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press.
UNESCO. 2003. Definitions. Article 2.1. Convention for the Safeguarding of Intangible
Cultural Heritage, October 17. Paris: UNESCO.
Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1961. Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. London: Routledge &
Kegan Paul Ltd.
Notes
1 “Ghost Fishing” is an approximate translation of the character set the students

constructed by combining several words including 吊詭 (diaoˋguiˇ) paradox and 釣
鬼 (diaoˋguiˇ) (fishing fish).
2 Adolf Loos, Villa Moller (1928); Wittgenstein House (1926-28) was designed by
the philosopher for his sister; Robert Musil, fictional house imagined by Ulrich,
the protagonist in Musil’s unfinished novel Man Without Qualities (v 1 1930; v 2
1932).
3 Charlotte Perriand as quoted in one of her last public interviews. At the age
of 24, Perriand achieved early notoriety for a solo exhibit, Bar sous le Toit (Bar
under the Roof, 1927) held at the Salon d’Automne. This work was inspired by Le
Corbusier’s books Vers une architecture (1923) and L’Art décoratif d’aujourd’hui
(1925). Upon the exhibit’s success, Perriand was able to join Le Corbusier’s office
and collaborated for the following decade and then intermittently during her
long career on interiors and exhibits, most notably on designs for products and
furniture. Perriand’s collaboration was unaccredited until the last decade of her
own life when two retrospectives were held, one in 1985 at des Arts-Décoratifs
in Paris and the other in 1998 at the Design Museum in London.
4 “All in all, the creative act is not performed by the artist alone; the spectator
brings the work in contact with the external world by deciphering and
interpreting its inner qualifications and thus adds his contribution to the creative
act.” (Duchamp, 1957) This quote also appears in the concluding “Legacy”
section of this chapter.
5 Loos’s Raumplan is a spatial organization distinguished by its articulation in
section, as well as plan. In a conventional plan, rooms are aligned on a stacked
series of floor plates connected by vertical penetrations. In the Raumplan, rooms
are conceived as volumetric spaces that are arrayed in an upward spiral.
6 The Wexner Center for the Visual Arts at Ohio State University, Columbus, OH
(1983-1989) by Peter Eisenman was one of the first built works informed by
this process of design. In shifting the scale of his work from the house to larger
institutional projects, Eisenman expanded his investigations of visual syntax
into scalar geometry. Scalar geometry is used to map complex systems such as
weather by assigning a mathematical number or physical quantity to every point
in a space. In the case of the Wexner Center, traces collected through adapting
this cartographic methodology to the design field include axial alignments with
a nearby airport runway and fragments of an armory previously existing on site.
7 In Re-Reading the City: An Earthscratcher for Century City (1990), Richter Dagmar
collected both “historical/cartographical” and “contemporary/topographic”
information, including forgotten landscapes of demolished film sets, oil fields,
orange groves and bungalows, readings of the current Century City drawn
from the physicality of its modern glass towers (skins, structure, etc.) and their
reflection (shadows), as well as the infrastructure of Los Angeles (railroads and
freeways). (Richter 1991, 74-5)
8 The manifesto, “Five Points towards a New Architecture,“ was originally
published in Almanach de l’Architecture moderne, Paris 1926. Le Corbusier
proposed “an entirely new kind of building” based on a shift from traditional
load bearing walls to a modern column structure. The Five Points argued for
independence between structural and non-structural elements, as well as
proposing green roofs and increased day lighting.
9 Residuals, interactive urbanistic research project: idea, concept and curator/
organisation: BLP BRIGITTE LÖCKER PROJECTS. Graz, 1995.
10 “Redlining” is a practice by banks to demarcate neighborhoods where loans are
considered to be of high-risk. Redlining initially demarcated African American
neighborhoods, and carries with it both racial and economic associations.
“Tagging” is a form of graffiti used by street gangs to demarcate territory.
11 The full quote implies a filmic approach: “Architecture is judged by eyes
that see, by the head that turns, and the legs that walk. Architecture is not a
synchronic phenomenon but a successive one, made up of pictures adding
themselves one to the other, following each other in time and space, like music.”
(Le Corbusier, 1980).
12 Workshops have been held to date in Perth (Australia), Seoul (South Korea), and
Tempe (Arizona).
13 Richter’s terminology for the role of the designer in generative mapping
processes. “Savage” is used in the sense of a primitive, one who is unaware of
social conventions and interpretations and therefore only reads exactly what is
written on the page.
14 The full quote reads: “But the interpretation of the designer’s role as a discerning
selector and ‘improver’ of forms rather than first and foremost an inventor
remains one of Perriand’s most consistent and significant contributions to the
development of modernist aesthetics.” (Ockman, 2003, 154)
PART III
FEMINIST PRACTICES IN DESIGN RESEARCH

12
Gender Roles at the Intersection of Public and Private

Spheres: Transformation from Detached House to
Apartment in Izmir, Turkey1
Women and Architecture as Crucial Instruments of Modernization in Turkey
The concepts of women’s social roles, architecture and domesticity have never
been so interwoven in history than perhaps in the modern world, shaped by the
nation-state politics. Without exception, both in the central and peripheral forms
of modernity, women were asked to play important roles in society, primarily
by raising a new generation in order to guarantee the continuity of a modern
Turkey and its industrialization. For this reason domestic life, the profession of
housewifery and house design became key elements of the modern Turkish ideal.
Studies in modern architecture have deciphered the extremely gendered
status of the built environment we experience daily. Scholarship focusing on the
American suburbs and their architectural character has demystified the iconic
American of the single-family detached home, which represented a wealthy,
comfortable post-war life style. Detached or semi-detached houses with large
yards were embodied as the ideal family home where the mother cooks and
cares for the children and the father earns money and acts as the head of the
family. The American family and its ideal house typologies were copied to
various degrees outside of the U.S. and proliferated where popular culture
was heavily saturated with Hollywood movies. The reproduction of this ideal
modern home differs from culture to culture by revealing differences in the
modernization process among various societies.
The relationships between domesticity and nationhood have been examined
by various scholars from different viewpoints and from different ideological
standpoints. In many forms of societies, from primitive to modern, the relations
of material production, and the extended public and political ties and associations
– the state, family – which these relations make possible, dominate and define
family relations – the sphere of human reproduction.2 Women in modern
societies were understood as the caretakers of modern ideals, not because of
egalitarian and liberal ideals but because they could exert moral influence on
their husbands and children, thereby influencing the nations’ destinies.
The role of women as ‘agents of change’ in the modern world clashed with
the traditional symbols associated with femininity, such as motherhood. As in
the case of the Weimar Republic where women were seen as motherly figures
and positioned far from equality and independence, women’s entry into labor
markets did not create the political and social power that the women’s liberation
movement aspired to.3 Heynen describes the female figure squeezed in between
freedom and motherhood as the New Woman and places the origins of this
figure in the United States at the early twentieth century. The rising national
ideologies in Central Europe in the pre-war period transformed this New
Woman into active agents of the society by providing a privileged position for
those women who could work for the future of the state without sacrificing her
primary duties as wife and mother.
Jitka Maleçkova portrays the contradictory positions of women in the
construction of national societies in countries such as Greece, Italy, Czech
Republic, Soviet Union and in the Ottoman Empire in similar ways.4 The male
leaders of the nation-state placed this image of the idealized, altruistic woman
into the very heart of the construction of the new society. The heroic woman of
the independence wars in Greece and the Ottoman Empire were expected to
fight for the independence of the country like men, be a productive member of
the labor class when the economy needed their contribution and always be a
virtuous wife and compassionate mother in their homes.
The role of women in nation-state societies was dependent upon their
compliance with the common ideals and values allowing no room for liberation
or leadership opportunities for women. Maleçkova also shows the close links
between patriarchy and the leadership system of the nation-states in Central
Europe and the Balkans at the beginning of the century. Nation-state builders
have simultaneously culturalized and masculinized the emerging political
process by defining national pride through military service where women
could only play subservient roles but could not take part in the decision-
making processes.5 Thus, the military culture within the state did not allow
women to be a part of the leadership class, forcing them to bear equal share
with men in the reconstruction of the state without releasing them from their
traditional responsibilities in the domestic sphere. The nation-state process in
Turkey at the beginning of the twentieth century was unique in that the young
republic had to be established on a truly new ground in terms of cultural and
social values. The modernization process in Turkey was not a smooth passage
to Taylorist production systems as occurred in the West; instead it involved a
radical transformation of the society from the traditional values of the Ottoman
Monarchy and its Shari’a legal system to a totally new set of value systems and
secular state structure. The cultural and political milieu in Turkey in the 1920s
had to be radically reshaped within a very short period of time through gaining
political and cultural recognition with the West in order to capitalize on advances
gender roles at the intersection of public and private spheres 241
made in the war. Thus, the state entered into the sphere of daily life by means of
a series of drastic social reforms.
Within this rapid developmental process Mustafa Kemal Ataturk needed
instruments that would hasten the Westernization process while simultaneously
highlight the progressive and new image of Turkey in the international arena.
The emphasis placed on modern architecture and women’s entry into the public
domain has been crucial instruments of this modernization process in Turkey.
Historically, these two groups have constituted the so-called Oriental image
from the Western point of view (such as the skyline of minarets and domes and
the veiled woman) from which the new Turkish Republic sought to free itself.
Baydar describes the reasons behind the important status of architecture in the
Kemalist regime as follows:
Indeed, modern architecture fitted well into the search for a new architectural
expression in the young Republic. The political/cultural demand to break
with the Islamic Ottoman past, the active search for a contemporary lifestyle,
invitation and employment of European architects and the need for fast and
cheap construction are often cited as reasons for its popularity.6
At the same time the veiled female figure represented another disparity between
Western and Eastern civilizations by symbolically creating the innuendo of master
and servant, dominant and subordinate, or positive and negative. To remove
this innuendo Kemalist reforms aimed at raising the status of Turkish women
by granting social, legal and political rights to women in the early twentieth
century, even a few years before many European countries did. The Turkish state
idolized the new Turkish woman figure by creating female role models from the
urban class and known for their fathers’ closeness to Ataturk’s inner circle.7 This
small privileged class of women were given equal opportunities to men in their
education and professional careers. In the absence of an independent women’s
liberation movement, these role models helped shape the ideal urban middle
class Turkish woman.
While the Turkish state was cultivating the unveiled female figure for
the public gaze and reconstructing the capital city of Ankara with modern
buildings, these two instruments of the Republic’s progress directly intersect
in the domestic sphere. The unveiled Turkish woman became spatialized
through the ideal modern home, which in turn, resulted in the feminization
of the modern house. Popular magazines of the Early Republican period and
bestselling male authors portrayed the proper woman as an unveiled, healthy,
highly virtuous individual who was supportive of her husband and a perfect
mother and housewife. Baydar states that the figure of the proper woman seems
to have worked as an appropriate metaphor for the modern house,8 noting the
relationship between spatial concepts such as ‘simplicity’, ‘elegance’, ‘beauty
without extravagance’ and their gendered representations characterized by the
ideal Turkish woman in popular magazines of the period.
The figure of idealized mother and wife was obviously closely linked to the
domestic sphere rather than the public sphere. For this reason, the entrance of
Turkish modern women into the ‘public sphere’ was an illusionary construction
of the nation-state that was merely focused on ‘unveilinga’ women as an integral
symbol of Republicanism.9
The Kemalist model of modernization was based on exaggerated and
dichotomized gender roles, sought to create a nation-state constructed around the
family. It has been shown that the highest achievement for a woman was the training
of her children for the republic by guiding them toward intelligence, virtue and
true happiness. The image of a modern Turkish woman was extremely important
for the continuity of the Kemalist revolution because the unveiled Turkish woman
represented the westernization of the country and a radical departure from the
Islamic past. The Kemalist revolutions guaranteed the entrance of Turkish women
to the public realm, and in turn, the state’s secular identity was guaranteed by the
status of such women. The new Turkish woman was not liberated in this public
realm, but became visible as an object of its gaze. Ataturk stated his personal view
on the image of Turkish women in one of his public speeches in 1932: ‘I must only
add that as I knew the Turkish race to be the most beautiful in the world, I took it
for granted that a Turkish woman would be selected Miss World’.
The Delayed Modernism in the City of Izmir
Izmir is the third largest city in Turkey in terms of population. It is a harbor city and
historically has been a gateway to the west for Anatolia for 5,000 years. During the
Ottoman period, Izmir, with its cosmopolitan population and rich trade potential,
created a distinctive character for itself. Izmir’s built environment has never been a
direct reflection of any central governments, neither in the Ottoman nor Republican
periods. In the nineteenth century, the bourgeois class, consisting predominantly
of Europeans and Levantines, pursued trade activities in the city; as a result, they
played the most important role in defining the urban identity and influencing the
cultural life of the city. An historical analysis of architecture in Izmir demonstrates
that the dominant thesis that ‘political history permeates the built environment’
is nearly impossible, since it is difficult to find a sufficient number of examples
supporting this claim.10 For this reason, architectural history of Izmir has remained
a secondary interest for scholars of architectural history in Turkey.
Izmir became the symbol of Turkey’s Independence War since the city well
represented the horror of the war through its ruined urban fabric and due to
economic problems could not be rebuilt until 1936. In that year, the City Council
decided to build a Culture Park on the area devastated by fire, which would also
host an International Trade Fair once a year. Until that time, the urban fabric was
predominantly leftover from the nineteenth century and the newer modern
architecture could only be perceived in a limited number of buildings. During
the rebuilding of the area destroyed by fire in the last 1930s and 1940s, modern
houses were constructed in mostly wall-bearing systems around the outskirts
of the Fair. This new urban fabric was different from the traditional terrace
houses that were specific to the nineteenth century city.
12.1 Traditional row-houses from Karataş District; postcard, Izmir Ahmet Pirişitina
Kent Arşivi ve Müzesi. Source: (APIKAM) Collections, reprinted with permission.
12.2 Urban fabric around Culture Park, 1940s; postcard, Izmir Ahmet Pirişitina
Kent Arşivi ve Müzesi. Source: (APIKAM) Collections, reprinted with permission.
12.3 19th century row-houses and first modern houses circa 1948, Karşıyaka District; postcard, Izmir
Ahmet Pirişitina Kent Arşivi ve Müzesi. Source: (APIKAM) Collections, reprinted with permission.
Izmir’s popularity in the early republican period was only related with the
existence of the International Fair, which was the largest state investment
in the city. The International Fair played a crucial role not only by bringing
economic recovery, but also by adding a new social attraction to the city.
Traditionally held between mid-August and mid-September, the trade fair
includes a wide range of international contributors as well as many visitors
from the other Turkish cities who enjoy special entertainment activities within
the Cultural Park.
After the creation of the republic, the economic conditions of the country
were quite limited and the city of Izmir was not a priority for state investments.
As would be expected, upon its foundation in 1923 the Turkish Republic
intended to emphasize its novelty and divergence from the Ottoman Empire by
moving the capital city to Ankara and embarking upon intensive construction
projects in and around the new capital city. Ankara, a small and undeveloped
city at the beginning of the twentieth century was extremely different from the
historical city of Istanbul, which had conveyed the magnificence and prosperity
of big empires for centuries. The Turkish Republic was decisive in designing
Ankara in a plain, non-historical, and rational architectural language (in other
words with the language of Euro-centric modern architecture) in order to
reflect its Westernized philosophy. European architectural designs can be seem
through the first public buildings built including the Grand Assembly of the
12.4 Karşıyaka Çamlık Parcel No. 44. Copyright Ege

Mimarlık 2006/3-58:41, reprinted with permission.
Turkish Republic and the master plan of the city itself designed by Clemens
Holzmeister.11
Unlike Istanbul and Ankara, Izmir’s multi-story housing blocks did not
emerge during the 1930s. The urban fabric of the city still consisted of one-
or two-story detached houses with large gardens, even after the addition of
modern housing. The preference for single-family housing during these
years is significant because in architectural history this period is considered
to be the starting point for the emergence of multi-story housing buildings.
Izmir introduced the modern detached houses in the 1950s and by the 1960s
with Izmir’s population growth (Figures 12.4 and 12.5); the city began to be
transformed through the proliferation of multi-story buildings, a process well
established by the 1980s. Many of the families who were living in detached
houses decided to rebuild their estate as multi-story blocks, promising a
good profit on their investment. Thence, domestic life and house design in
Izmir followed a significantly different pattern than in Ankara or Istanbul, a
development which conventional scholarship of architectural history has
overlooked.12
At the turn of the last century, the city of Izmir entered a period in which
the construction of the built environment decelerated because of lack of state
investments. Demand for new housing, which supports the emergence of a
comprehensive construction industry in the city, was comparatively less active
12.5 Karşıyaka
Çamlık
Parcel No. 45.
Copyright Ege
Mimarlık 2006/3-
58.43, reprinted
with permission.
in Izmir than Ankara until the 1950s and 1960s. However, the global economic
crisis, which started after the Second World War was finally receding by the
1950s, coinciding with a rise in the demand for housing in Izmir to a level
sufficient to activate the construction industry in the area.13
The arguments I make establishing links between early Republicanism and
the architectural and social environment in Izmir in the 1950s onwards is not a
coincidence or a simple anachronism. The single party was more concentrated
on the modernization of the capital city Ankara until 1945 – the city where
bureaucratic elites were represented. On the other hand, the multi-party system
guaranteed the representation of ‘others,’ the ordinary majority within the
country. Since Izmir was not one of the ‘priorities’ of Ankara in the early history
of the Turkish Republic, the tools for the modernization process did not enter
into the social life of the city during the same time period as Ankara and Istanbul.
For this reason modernization of the architectural and urban environment of
Izmir emerges after the 1950s, following the transition from a single party to a
multi-party system. The single party system that was in effect until 1945 was
more concentrated on the modernization of the capital city of Ankara. On the
other hand, the development of the multiparty system in 1950 guaranteed the
representation of the ordinary majority within the country.
The impetus for modernizing the city came directly from Adnan Menderes, the
leader of the Democrat Party, who appealed to voters from the Aegean Region as
a fellow citizen in the 1950 elections. There was a great sympathy and respect for
Menderes among the voters in Izmir, and in return, he paid special attention to
the urban redevelopment of Izmir once he came to power.
The Land of Beautiful Ladies
Izmir is well known for the beauty of the women in the city which became
an inspiration for many artists, poets, and writers both historically and in the
contemporary world. Historically the city became a meeting point for many
different ethnic groups such as Levantines, Greeks, Armenians, Jews and Gypsies
creating what has been referred to as a ‘Babel Chaos.’14 The first artist who
depicted the beauty of an Izmir woman in his travel books was the Dutch painter
Cornelius De Bruijn (Bruyn) during his grand tour of the Ottoman Empire at the
beginning of the 18th century.15 Brujin’s engravings include portraits of ladies
that he met during his visit in the residence of the Dutch Embassy in Turkey.
Hans Barth, another traveller, discusses the characteristics of each ethnic
group in the city and describes the physical features of women in Izmir.16 He
makes speculations about why such a large population of beautiful women
exists in one city and comments upon the various ethnic groups that represent
the utmost beauty of their kind. When examining these texts, one comes across
exaggerated sexual constructions about women in Izmir, many of which connect
the sexually appealing bodies of local women with the natural aphrodisiac foods
and the mild climate of the region. There are many other travellers’ notes starting
in the seventeenth century and continuing through the nineteenth century
which contain the same sort of sexualized generalizations of women in Izmir.17
Travellers’ notes became a major source for historians working on Izmir in the
twentieth century and many of these texts have been translated into Turkish.18
Izmir had always been a step ahead in westernization due to 200 years of trade
activities and the city’s European and Levantine population. The cultural life
in the city did not prohibit women from public spaces even during the pre-
republican era; rather the women in Izmir were radically liberated in their
dress and their social interactions. The common myth that ‘girls from Izmir
are beautiful’ originated out of the fact that women in Izmir had always been
involved in the social life of the city and they knew how to make good eye
contact and impress people with their communication skills. The patriarchal structure
manipulated this through associating these traits with sexual promiscuity and creating
rumors that women from Izmir were ‘immoral.’ Outgoing, liberated women are not
acceptable in traditional conservative cultures, especially in Islamic societies.
The overarching historical patriarchal system of ‘veiling women’ as practiced
within the Muslim religion, traditions, and social practices is reflected in Ankara’s
dominant point of view in which Kemalists guaranteed the integration of women
into the public sphere. The image of the liberated Turkish woman in Kemalist
ideology envisions an asexual modest profile of a woman, which is antithetical
to the picture of a woman in Izmir. In short, Izmir is out of step with the ideals
of the Early republic as well as the ideals of conservative Muslims. It was unique
in and of itself, and had never been important or a crucial city for Ottomans or
for Republicanists. So, neither the Kemalist regime, nor the mainstream of the
country was ideologically close to this city. The Izmir women were also too
liberated both for modern Turkey and the old Ottoman traditions. For this reason,
Izmir women were marginalized as ‘fully sexual objects’ in the popular culture.
Backyard, Garden and the Balcony: Dialectics of Unveiling or Veiling

the Private
Although the official modernization process in Turkey has been realized through
the built environment provided by the central authority throughout Turkey,
the city of Izmir had to draw its own map on the way toward modernization.
Since women in Izmir historically were never isolated from the public realm as
much as in the other areas of Anatolia, modern gender roles officially publicized
by the state were more quickly adopted into the social life of Izmir than in the
rest of Turkey. At the turn of the last century women living in other parts of
Anatolia had no ability to get involved in public life, even for the simplest of
daily routines. They were prohibited from all parts of the city, including the daily
market. Women were not allowed to go outside the house by themselves except
with an accompanying male or an older female family member. There were
strict traditional rules organizing outdoor female behavior. For example, when
a woman coincidentally came across a man on the street, she had to sit in the
middle of the street not raising her head until the man left.19
Ataturk was against this extreme isolation of women from the public
sphere. He spoke out against such traditions during his travels through
Anatolia. When Ataturk came to Izmir with his army in 1922, he met Latife
Hanim, a well-educated daughter of a wealthy Izmir family, and married
her. Latife Hanim represented the antithesis of a Turkish female stereotype:
she was smart, intellectual, modern and strong. She was even stronger than
Ataturk could tolerate because their marriage ended shortly after it began.20
On the contrary, since the seventeenth century, Izmir radically differed from
the typical Islamic life in Anatolian towns and cities of the period. In other words,
Izmir’s social life had already been transformed into a modern culture, long
before the emergence of modern architecture.
Until the late 1950s, the great majority of building stock in Izmir predominantly
remained from the nineteenth century. The traditional nineteenth century houses
known as ‘Sakız type’ were common in the Aegean Coast and were still serving
as family houses during that time. These two-story traditional Izmir houses were
built as terrace houses having direct access one meter above street level by five or
six steps. Although the traditional terrace houses had direct access from the street
at the front, the backyards were bounded with high masonry walls concealing the
private life. Exterior spaces in Izmir are extremely important spaces for domestic
life when one considers climatic factors. Hülya Gölgesiz Gedikler points out that
the women who were still living in these terrace houses in 1950s preferred to
sit in front of their houses to socialize rather than using the private backyards.21
Şeniz Çıkış also assumes that nineteenth century housing in Izmir can also be
identified as pioneer modern examples in terms of use of modern construction
materials, standardization and their spatial organization.22 The strictly isolated
spatial quality of the backyard was formulated according to family life and social
norms of the nineteenth century and was far from providing appropriate space for
women during the second half of the twentieth century. Such a close connection
between the public sphere and the domestic sphere was a novel spatial experience
even for the modern architecture of the Kemalist period of the time which was
promising women ‘liberation’ and involvement in the public sphere.
The privacy of women expected to be provided by the high masonry walls
of the backyard was accidentally subverted by women’s use of the street as a
semi-public space. The space between the street and the house’s front door being
utilized for socializing was small in scale, but probably had the most radical
impact in terms of making women more ‘visible.’23 Door-to-door exchanges
among women may have included a wide range of activities around food and
beverages, clothes, shoes and even furniture. This indispensable use of this
outdoor space created an intersection between the domestic with the public,
which had historically belonged to the male.
There are a number of factors expediting the emergence of the modern
detached house during the 1960s and 1970s. The first one is related to the
alteration in demographic structure. The household configuration was starting
to change slightly from large extended families to the modern nuclear family
by the beginning of the 1950s. In her study on daily life in Izmir between 1950-
1960, Gedikler quotes census data proving the decrease in the household of this
period.24
The second factor was the presence of a NATO (North Atlantic Treaty
Organization) base and non-governmental organizations serving the expatriate
soldiers. They were effective in shaping the popular culture in the city at the time.
Since Americanism was a strong trend in the political arena in 1950s Turkey,
Izmir’s status rose significantly with the establishment of the NATO base in the
city.25 The Turkish-American Women’s Association was founded in Izmir in 1954
through an initiative of American women living in the city. While the main goal
of this organization was to provide direct cultural interaction with local people,
another American-based women’s organization, Hospitality Association, aimed
at assisting new expatriate families and foreign guests in the city.26
Despite the highly sexualized image of women living in Izmir and the character
of the family structure, the patriarchal modes of labor segregation were not that
much different from elsewhere in Turkey during this period of time. The family
structure largely imitated the American model in which housewifery was the
ideal occupation for women. Women spent most of their time cooking for family
members and taking care of children.
The third factor in the emergence of the modern, detached house was the
poor physical and structural qualities of the built environment leftover from the
nineteenth century. The single-family detached house represented an American
dream – an ideal home of which ownership reflected the social status and
wealth of the family. The existing houses were not capable of providing modern
services and sanitary conditions that were becoming popular, especially after the
American families began to settle down in the city center. Many local families
bought their first refrigerator from second-hand dealers who resold the furniture
of expatriate Americans when their service in Izmir had ended.27
The last influence is the completion of the master plan which would allow for
the expansion of the city as a result of the empowerment of the local government
after the 1950 elections. This development was extremely important since the city
was so far behind in terms of planning activities as compared to Ankara, where
master development plans were realized by Hausmann in the early days of the
Republic. Although the population growth in Izmir city created a big demand for
the construction of new domestic buildings, potential sites for new developments
were still registered as farming lands and were denied construction permits.
The expectations of land owners, land speculators, contractors and potential
buyers were disregarded by the local government until the 1950 elections. Local
newspapers even voiced these expectations placing political pressure on the
candidates. The master plan served to guide the investors, contractors and buyers
for newly developed areas in the city.
Izmir began to be reshaped with the emergence of modern detached housing
especially in the new development districts of Kahramanlar and Karşıyaka
starting in the mid-1960s. One or two story detached houses were starting to be
built with private gardens, surrounded by fences at eye level. The houses were
not strongly isolated from one another which made it possible to preserve the
narrow street lines that were a characteristic of historical Izmir.28 The floor plan of
this type of housing shared similarities with the western suburban house in the
spaciousness of the living areas and large windows, both of which were novel
concepts for Izmir citizens. These new living spaces, unlike the ones in traditional
terrace houses, were designed as separate rooms with access to other rooms
by means of other circulation spaces such as entrance halls or corridors. These
houses had modern sanitary amenities similar to the homes of Europe.
Unlike the open front yards of the American suburban house, the new modern
houses in Izmir had front gardens bounded with accordingly low fences at eye
level. The filtering function of the fence was also supported by the greenery
behind. The garden became impenetrable by the landscaped borders constraining
access from the street level. In other words, the city of Izmir’s interpretation of
the American home, which is directly open to the street and the horizon, was
adapted to meet the need for controlled open urban space.
The garden in the detached house played a vital role in the daily routines of the
women who used them. Despite the spaciousness of the interior, the garden itself
was used for a number of functions including cooking, caring for children and
welcoming guests.29 In other words the garden was a socializing space as well as
a service space for its occupants. However, socialization in the gardens was also
restricted to neighbors and close relatives. The selective permeable qualities of the
garden feminized and marginalized these spaces.
Gardens provided a buffer zone and controlled the private-public hierarchy.

From this point of view, the detached house could be seen as a tightly controlled
experience of public space for women. While discussing issues of veiling and
unveiling within a domestic environment in terms of controlling the visibility of
women, it follows that the detached house was protected from the public gaze by
the garden.
At this point in the discussion, I would like to return to the biases of
Kemalist ideology on women’s entry into the public sphere. There are a series
of contradictory positions about the status of women in the process of Turkey’s
modernization. Arat clarifies the intricate structure of Turkish modernization by
stating that Kemalist ideology aims at integrating women into Turkish public life,
in contrast to Islamic premises. However, the state ideology portrayed the new
image of the Turkish woman as respectable and unreachable, serving the higher
cause of modernization in Turkey. According to Arat, asexualizing and veiling
are similar oppressive mechanisms of which difference comes only from their
religious or secular origins.
In that manner, Turkish women are seen as self-sacrificing, sacred creatures

whose integration into public sphere as teachers, nurses, and professionals
does not threaten morality or order. But in fact is required. The price for female
freedom in this early republican era in Turkey was the suppression of female
femininity, and thus visibility. Islamic practice controls women’s visibility
– their potential to threaten public order – by separating private and public
spheres and through veiling women. Kemalism, on the other hand, controls
their visibility by developing a stereotype of a Turkish woman; modest in
appearance, companion to her male in modernizing the country. In that aspect,
Islam and Kemalism were similar in that both depended upon the notion that
women constituted a threat to the social order. Islam dealt with that threat
by confining women to their houses and Kemalism dealt with that threat by
stripping women of their sexuality and by putting forth asexual stereotypes
that typified the new Turkish woman.30
The modern detached home in this sense was partially concealing and curtaining
the woman which had previously been displayed in the streets of old Izmir as
domestic life occurred in front of the traditional terrace houses. ‘Covering oneself
up is a sexual concept, women veil themselves because their faces, bodies, hair,
and voice attract men.’31 The sexually prescribed image of the woman of Izmir,
which exceeds the tolerance limits of state ideology and dominant Islamic
cultural ideas in the country, is thereby controlled through the transformation of
the houses into modern icons.
Many upper class women in Izmir who were married in the late 1950s and
early 1960s spent their early marriage years raising their children in modern
detached houses, mostly built in Alsancak, Karsiyaka, Kahramanlar and Bayrakli
districts that were new developments in Izmir. The detached house of that time
symbolized an upper-middle social class status whereas the terrace houses were
settled mostly by lower class inhabitants.
In the 1980s, the population of the city increased dramatically as a consequence
of the proliferation of migration from the country. This was one of the essential
12.6 Karşıyaka
waterfront in
1940s; postcard,
Izmir Ahmet
Pirişitina Kent
Arşivi ve
Müzesi. Source:
(APIKAM)
Collections,
reprinted with
permission.
12.7 Karşıyaka
waterfront in
early 1950s;
postcard, Izmir
Ahmet Pirişitina
Kent Arşivi ve
Müzesi. Source:
(APIKAM)
Collections,
reprinted with
permission.
12.8 Karşıyaka
waterfront in
1958; postcard,
Izmir Ahmet
Pirişitina Kent
Arşivi ve
Müzesi. Source:
(APIKAM)
Collections,
reprinted with
permission.
12.9 Karşıyaka
Waterfront in
early 1970s;
postcard, Izmir
Ahmet Pirişitina
Kent Arşivi ve
Müzesi. Source:
(APIKAM)
Collections,
reprinted with
permission.
12.10 Karşıyaka
waterfront in
early 1980s;
postcard, Izmir
Ahmet Pirişitina
Kent Arşivi ve
Müzesi. Source:
(APIKAM)
Collections,
reprinted with
permission.
components in the history of Turkish modern architecture, which caused both the
urban fabric and property rights to entirely change. This drastic change can be
followed from the different postcards of Karşıyaka which show the waterfront
between 1940s and 1980s as shown in Figures 12.6-12.10.32
Within 20 years, the family structure of the upper-middle class families
living in detached single-family houses changed as a consequence of their
growing sons and daughters who were starting to marry and leave the family.
Unlike the modern Western societies, parental relations in typical Turkish
families are largely concerned with economically supporting their children
until marriage.33 Traditionally, families in Turkey are expected to provide
a house for the son when he marries, whereas the daughter only takes a
trousseau before leaving her parent’s home. Continuing to practice patriarchy
by means of heritage relations is common in many Mediterranean and Middle
Eastern cultures and not exclusive to Turkey. On the other hand, never had
the impact of patriarchal heritage and continuity of prosperity so influenced
the shaping of an entire morphological character of a city than it did in Izmir.
In the 1980s many families in Izmir preferred to give their detached houses
to a local contractor to reconstruct as an apartment block where they could
earn a profit and gain one or two extra flats for themselves and their children
(undoubtedly as a marriage present for the sons). By this process, single-
family houses were rapidly transformed into multi-story apartment blocks.
The owner’s share of the property was generally around 40 percent of the total
building area, though this was an issue of negotiation.
The most important characteristics of these new apartment blocks were its
four or five story height, large windows and the addition of several balconies
as outdoor space. In the 1980s, these apartment blocks were generally
12.11 Apartment
blocks built
in Karşıyaka
around 1980–90;
Photographs by
Özlem Erdoğdu
Erkarslan
welcomed with great satisfaction by women, because the interior space of the
house was larger than the former house.34 The women who were interviewed
for this research stated that having a flat in the 1980s was highly prestigious
and increased the family’s social status.35
In spite of the various problems of the balconies they became a cliché for
apartment block morphology in and around Izmir city in the 1980s. The most
important reason for this was the fast transformation of housing through
the creation of apartment blocks by means of land speculation by contractor
firms and family leaders. The balcony created problems in domestic life with
its poor space allocation defined only by planar elements at the horizontal
level. The balcony was the antithesis of the garden: it was unbounded and
publicly visible. Unfortunately, it was an uncompromising element of the
apartment blocks. Balconies were representing iconic modernity and a new
urban lifestyle, whereas the existing cultural values and spatial habits were at
odds with them. They neither offered child-friendly spaces due to their height
(8-10 meters above the street level) nor were capable of providing space for
housework. However the most critical shortcoming of the balconies was their
inappropriateness for socializing.
Although the balcony space itself had no tightly defined borders as in the
garden fence, its linear form did not allowing for gatherings of more than three
or four people. Despite the temperate climate of the region, the contemporary
housing blocks did not provide any outdoor space. While looking in/at/from
the balcony, the viewer can only have one single angle of vision because of the
street-block configuration. The apartment blocks usually have three meter set-
backs from the seven-meter-wide street which was defined by the five story
high blocks from both sides. A person who is either standing or sitting on a
balcony similar to this would get a really narrow view of the other balcony or
the window to the house on the opposite block, creating an environment of
mutual surveillance.
Being either the object of observation or the observer is not something that
women occupants were comfortable with. Since the apartment blocks also
included large transparent surfaces, the mutual observation also includes the
viewing of the interior spaces. Although the balcony still maintains its iconic
status, much preferred by architects, the apartment inhabitants much prefer to
enclose balcony spaces with frames, often done illegally.
Conclusions
The story of western women in relation to the myth of domesticity became a

topic of public interest especially after the 1980s, with the proliferation of gender
studies. My interest in gender and space provided me with an opportunity to
question the dialectic and intricate nature of modernity and modern architecture
in Turkey both in theory and practice; both arrived at similar results although
they began in quite opposite directions. I would like to explain my argument
in this way: Modernity in Turkey, as a political target, came into the agenda
struggling against colonization and Western hegemony. These two concepts
certainly contradicted each other. From the beginning, modernity and its cultural
constructions in Kemalist Turkish Republic had conveyed essential conflicting
issues, one of which was the ill-defined integration of anti-colonialism and
Westernization. Another problem central to the Turkish modernity was the
issue of women’s liberation since liberation was only reduced to unveiling body
practices and it meant nothing more than this for the Reformists. Last but not
least, modern architecture had been an important instrument to propagate
westernization, similar to women’s unveiling, both of which were melted into
cultural politics and reflected in housing practices.
Izmir was a very convenient case to investigate these subjects since the city
had been well known as ‘modern’ both architecturally and socially far before
the establishment of the Turkish Republic. Historically, women from Izmir are
generally known as liberal figures in Turkey who enjoyed emancipation both
in the public and domestic realm for centuries. In this chapter, I have studied
hierarchy among public, semi-public and private spaces in relation to street,
garden and house syntax in three different cases which are namely the traditional
row houses of the nineteenth century, the detached houses in the 1950s and the
apartment blocks in the 1980s. The results of my analysis demonstrated that
women started to benefit less from direct public access as semi-private spaces
such as backyards were transformed into gardens and then balconies in all three
cases studied.
Modernism confronted the women of Izmir with an experimental practice
of ‘veiling’ through the introduction of modern architecture to the city after
the 1950s. The cultural politics and modern architectural practice during the
Republican Era played a crucial role in the transformation of urban fabric

of the city of Izmir as well as the transformation of the society. The new
urban fabric which is made of six or more story apartment blocks with small
balconies on the facade brought an end to the women’s presence in the city
which became a cultural myth and an inspiration to artists for centuries.
However, the Izmir women are still known as the most liberated women in
Turkey and they are the symbols of resistance against veiling which became
a matter of discussion within the last decade’s political milieu. I would like
to conclude this chapter with a question: Is there really a difference between
bodily veiling and architecturally veiling?
List of References
Baydar, Gülsüm. 2002. Tenuous Boundaries: Women, domesticity and nationhood in

1930s Turkey, The Journal of Architecture 7(3), 233-248.
Chodorow, Nancy. 2000. Why Women Mother in Gender Space Architecture edited by
Jane Rendell, Barbara Penner and Iain Borden. New York: Routledge, 56-59.
Çıkış, Şeniz. 2009. Modern Konut Olarak XIX. yy. Izmir Konutu: Biçimsel ve
Kavramsal Ortaklıklar, METU JFA 2009/2 26(2), 211-233.
Gezginlerin Gözüyle İzmir 17.yy cilt 1,2,3,4,5, Istanbul: Akademi Kitabevi.
Gölgesiz Gedikler, Hülya. 2006. 1950-1960 Yılları Arasında İzmir’de Gündelik Yaşam,
Unpublished PhD Thesis. Izmir: Dokuz Eylul University.
Gul Altinay, Ayse. 2004. The Myth of the Military-Nation: Militarism, Gender and
Education in Turkey. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.
Heynen, Hilda. 2005. Modernity and Domesticity in Negotiating Domesticity edited by
Gülsüm Baydar and Hilda Heynen. New York: Routledge, 1-29.
Konyar, Hürriyet. 1993. Çok Partili Hayata Geçiş Sürecinde CHP’nin Yeni ‘Çağdaş’
Türk Kadını, İlhan Pınar (1998), Tarih ve Toplum 120, 49-56.
Maleçkova, Jitka. 1998. Kadın ve Bir Milletin Kaderi. Milli Uyanışın İlk Dönemlerinde
Kadınlara Biçilen Rol, in Tarih Eğitimi ve Tarihte “Öteki” Sorunu edited by İlhan
Tekeli, (İstanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Tarih Eğitimi ve Tarihte “Öteki” Sorunu, 201-
204, İstanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları.
Tanaç Kıray, Mine. 2006. Karşıyaka Çamlık Sokak’ta 1950’li Yılların Tekil Konut
Mimari Karakterini Taşıyan Üç Ev EgeMimarlık 2006/3-58, 40-43.
Notes
1 This previously unpublished study was presented in the UIA 2005 Istanbul
Congress in a special panel entitled “Women, Architecture and the City: What
is the Difference Women Make?” and the summary was published in UIA
Symposium Abstracts with the title Domestic Architecture: Family and Gender
Relations. An Addendum for History of Architecture. I would like to express my
acknowledgements to Professor Dr. Neslihan Dostoğlu for encouraging me to
join the panel in the UIA Congress. This manuscript would have never been
possible without Jennifer Fraser who intensively edited the full version. I am
also grateful to Muzaffer Hancılar, Kadriye Hancılar Barlas, Ayten Hancılar
Çolak, Mualla Hancılar Erdoğdu and Dilek Barlas-the women figures of my
family – for filling me with the inspiration of my childhood memories, shared
by all in the backyard of my grandmother, in the front garden of my aunt
Ayten and in the balcony of my dear mother Mualla. Each of these women
symbolically represents different phases and faces of the modernization and
liberation process of Turkish women for me.
2 Nancy Chodorow, “Why Women Mother”, Gender Space Architecture edited by
Jane Rendell, Barbara Penner and Iain Borden (New York: Routledge, 2000), 57.
3 Hilda Heynen. Modernity and Domesticity in Negotiating Domesticity edited by
Gülsüm Baydar, Hilda Heynen (New York: Routledge, 2005), 12.
4 Jitka Maleçkova, Kadın ve Bir Milletin Kaderi. Milli Uyanışın İlk Dönemlerinde
Kadınlara Biçilen Rol, in Tarih Eğitimi ve Tarihte “Öteki” Sorunu edited by İlhan
Tekeli(İstanbul: Tarih Vakfı Yurt Yayınları, 1998), 201-214.
5 Ayse Gul Altinay. The Myth of the Military-Nation: Militarism, Gender and
Education in Turkey (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2004).
6 Gülsüm Baydar, Tenuous Boundaries: women, domesticity and nationhood in
1930s Turkey, The Journal of Architecture 7(3) (2002), 230.
7 Halide Edip Adıvar, the feminist writer and the founder of the Society for the
Elevation of the Status of Women in 1908 was an exception. She later married
Adnan Adıvar who was one of those close to Ataturk. The couple became active
before and after the Independence War. However, her liberal standpoint did not
fit well with the autocratic structure of the Kemalist elitists.
8 Baydar (2002), 232.
9 “Let them (women) show their faces to the world and see the world by their
own eyes. There is nothing to be scared of [in] this”, from Ataturk’s public
speech during the First International Women’s Congress Meeting in Istanbul
on 18 April 1935. The body of the woman is expected to represent the country’s
excellence and be the pride of the nation.
10 Şeniz Çıkış, Typological Transformations in Turkish architecture during the process of
peripherilisation, Unpublished PhD Thesis, (Izmir: Dokuz Eylul University, 1999).
Şeniz Çıkış discusses the evolution of building typologies peculiar to Izmir in
the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries in parallel with the trade activities
carried out by Levantines and other expatriates in the city. Fifth chapter of the
thesis especially refers to the particular points that I refered within the text.
11 Yüksel Pöğün, A Comparative Study on German Expatriate Architects in their
homelands and in Turkey during the period of 1927-1950, unpublished PhD
Thesis, (Izmir: Dokuz Eylul University, 2007).
12 One of the published works on 20th century housing in Izmir is Mine Tanaç
Kıray, ‘Karşıyaka Çamlık Sokak’ta 1950’li Yılların Tekil Konut Mimari
Karakterini Taşıyan Üç Ev. EgeMimarlık 2006/3-58, 40-43.
13 Hülya Gölgesiz Gedikler mentions that until the 1950s, there were only limited
construction activities in the city of Izmir. Hülya Gölgesiz Gedikler, 1950-1960
Yılları Arasında İzmir‟de Gündelik Yaşam, Unpublished PhD Thesis, (Izmir: Dokuz
Eylul University, 2006), 57. This thesis investigates the daily life patterns in Izmir
in between 1950-1960 and the full version in Turkish can be reached via http://
tez2.yok.gov.tr/, with the thesis number 146090.

14 There is always some truth in the myth, and some myth in the truth. It would
be impossible to give some rational reason behind the creation of the myth of
Izmir’s beautiful women within the limits of this study. However, the historical
connections between texts strongly prove that the myth also permeated formal
literature.
15 The book was entitled A Voyage to the Levant: or Travels in the Principal Parts of
Asia Minor (translated into English in 1702), for a further reading: Hond J. de,
Cornelis de Bruijn (1652-1726/27) A Dutch Painter in the East, in Eastward Bound:
Dutch Ventures and Adventures in the Middle East, edited by G.J. van Gelder, E. de
Moor (London/Atlanta: Rodopi, 1994), 51-81.
16 Hans Barth, Unter südlichem Himmel. Bilder aus dem Orient und Italien (Leipzig,
1893).
17 Such as Francis Herve, A residence in Greece and Turkey, with notes of the journey
through Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary and the Balkan. Two volumes (London:
Whittaker & Co, 1837), 412. George Rollestone (1856), Report on Smyrna,
presented to the Secretary of State of War, the full text is available for inspection
at http://books.google.com/books?id=IicAAAAAQAAJ&pg=PA3&dq=%22georg
e+rolleston%22+%2B+%22smyrna%22&ie=ISO-8859-1&output=html.
18 Rauf Beyru, 19. yüzyılda İzmir‟de Yaşam, (İstanbul: Literatür Yayıncılık,
2000). İlhan Pınar also published a collection of travellers’ notes on Izmir in
the classified order of the period (1998), Gezginlerin Gözüyle İzmir 17.yy volume
1, (İstanbul: Akademi Kitabevi). The other periods were also translated and
published by the same researcher with the same title and publisher. (1996), 18th
century, volume 2,(1994), 19th century I volume 3, (1996), 19th century II volume
4, (1997), 20th century volume 5.
19 Neslihan Dalkılıç, Meral Halifeoğlu, Kadın ve Erkeğin Toplumsal Cinsiyet
Bağlamındaki Yerinin Diyarbakır Geleneksel Kent Dokusundaki Yansımaları‟,
Spaces/Times/Peoples: Gender, Sexuality And Architectural History , Middle
East Technical University Department of Architecture Graduate Program in
Architectural History Doctorate Researches Symposium IV, Kubbealtı METU
Faculty of Architecture, 2005.
20 Latife Hanım, a new biography of more than 500 pages of Mustafa Kemal`s wife,
was written by a well-known Turkish Journalist, İpek Çalışlar. Çalışlar`s book
tries to illuminate the unknowns of Latife Hanım’s life by giving references
and adding many footnotes from more than a hundred books, national and
international journals and newspapers and interviews with various people
including the members of the Uşakizade family. Ever since Mustafa Kemal
divorced her in 1925, Turks have been fed images of a bossy and ugly woman,
who lacked the will and patience to manage her heroic husband and was
therefore to blame for the collapse of their stormy two-year marriage. For many,
Latife Hanım, the wife of Mustafa Kemal, was a peevish and mournful wife
distracting Mustafa Kemal while he was occupied with the formation of a new
nation. Çalışlar introduces the readers to a new Latife Hanım, the intellectual
daughter of a rich Merchant from İzmir who studied law in Europe. Latife
Hanım was a young woman who played a far larger role in the radical reform
in the formation of a new nation. She was educated abroad, multilingual,
charming and confident. The novel was written from a female perspective and
tried bring to life an almost-fictional character forced by male historians to sink
into oblivion. (The Independent (UK), 1 July 2006). Full citation for the book: İpek
Çalışlar, Latife Hanım, 11th print, (İstanbul: Doğan Kitapçılık, 2006).

21 Gedikler (2006), 445.
22 Şeniz Çıkış, Modern Konut Olarak XIX. yy. Izmir Konutu: Biçimsel ve
Kavramsal Ortaklıklar, METU JFA 2009/2 (26:2), 211-233.
23 Maison de Verre, as one of the icons of Modern Architecture in the West lately
became the best example for manifesting gendered readings of architecture
based on the exercise of the gaze. Two distinctive works on this building
examine the subversion of the intimacy and privacy of the domestic life by
means of large glass surfaces and provocation of the clinical gaze (the intimate).
Sarah Wigglesworth (1998), “Maison de Verre: sections through an in-vitro
conception”, The Journal of Architecture, 3, 263-286 and Christopher Wilson,
Looking at/in/from the Maison de Verre, in Negotiating Domesticity edited by
in Gülsüm Baydar, Hilda Heynen (New York: Routledge, 2005), 12. However I
will argue that using the street as an extension of the domestic sphere was more
radical in making the woman the object of the gaze. In this example, the control
of observation is taken by the women themselves, which also turned the power
mechanisms upside down.
24 Gedikler (2006), 24.
25 For further discussions on Americanism in Turkey please see Hürriyet Konyar,
Çok Partili Hayata Geçiş Sürecinde CHP’nin Yeni ‘Çağdaş’ Türk Kadını, Tarih ve
Toplum 120 (1993), 49-56.
26 Gedikler (2006), 442.
27 Annual Report of Izmir Municipality, 1956.
28 Interview with Jülide Tahtakılıç, 2005.
29 Interview with Özden Kılıç, 2005.
30 Yeşim Arat, Turkish Womens’ Predicament, Women’s Studies International Forum
22(3) (1991), 307.
31 Arat (1991), 307.
32 The transformation of housing in Karşıyaka from single housing towards
apartment blocks was analyzed. Oral interviews have been carried out with four
women living in the district. This is one of the essential counterpoints in the
history of Turkish modern architecture, both the urban fabric and possession
relations were entirely changed. In this process single houses were transformed
to multi-story apartment blocks in accordance with a contract signed between
the owner of the previous estate and the builder. The shares of the participants
were subject to change based on their negotiations, depending on the size of
the land and the building codes for new construction. The interviewed women
have many things in common. Each were married in the late 1950s and moved
to a house with a garden in the early 1960s. Three of the women lost their
husbands but all carried out their marriages for the rest of their lives. Another
common point is that each woman had two children and never worked during
their marriages. The stories of the women we spoke with were focusing on their
domestic life and family relations before and after the demolition of the single
house. The former owners of the estates took more than two flats in the newly
built apartments and moved to one of these flats. The shares of the builders were
sold out to some other families. These women described what they thought and
felt when they started to share their property with other neighbors, and how
their life patterns were affected by moving into a flat.

33 Emre Kongar, İzmir’de Kentsel Aile, Ankara: Türk Sosyal Bilimler Derneği
Yayınları, (1972).
34 Interviews with Ünal Pala, JülideTahtakılıç, Özden Kılıç.
35 They also compared the change in their interpretation of the apartment life in
1980s and under their present circumstances.
13
Courtyards
Meghal Arya
Courtyards have appeared as a spatial element across world cultures, in a

wide range of building typologies like houses, forts and palaces, religious
buildings like mosques, seminaries, and temples. Be it the houses of Mexico
City, Fez, Pompeii, Jaisalmer or Beijing, their endurance both temporally and
geographically, suggests their genesis to be likely in climate and security with
cultural and material variations expressing regional influences.
Courtyards were common to dwellings throughout most of the Islamic world,
owning as much to earlier living traditions and climate as to any specifically
Muslim requirements (Leherman, 1980). A courtyard is a generic element of
the built form of a large part of the arid and semi-arid regions of the world.
Settlements in these regions were typically dense masses of buildings, compactly
built, to protect against hostile climate and people.
The courtyards were the primary source of light and ventilation. They
become the outside, brought inside. The courtyard is the internal contained
world, often referred to as a room without a roof. It is this that is the essence
of any courtyard. A simple and yet evocative element, most of them allude
to this quality of a protected connection with the outside that typifies them.
In the Indian subcontinent, the courtyards become a thematic element, their
remarkable ability to demonstrate a meaningful continuum that makes these
spaces so vital for a true understanding of Indian spatiality. Evidence from the
Harappan period (2000 BC) of a high degree of crystallized house form indicate
that the genesis of the idea of the courtyard could easily be traced back to a few
thousand years before Harappa (Arya 2002, 43).
A small polygon (mostly square or rectangular) of light inside the house
with spaces around makes the courtyard the center of all living in a traditional
Indian house. In an earlier text (Arya 2002), the discussion was on the variations
of the courtyard found in India and how it has sustained as a thematic element
of Indian architecture, cutting across time, typology and geographic regions.
In continuation, this chapter will elaborate further some of those points and
also understand the courtyard as the heart of Indian living that brings the
13.1 A
Mediterranean
courtyard.
Photograph:
Meghal Arya.
courtyards 265
13.2 A dense settlement of Bundi compact built form punctuated

with courtyards. Photograph: Meghal Arya.
13.3 Small
open-to-sky
space in houses
of Ratnal, Kutch.
Photograph:
Prof.
Kulbhushan Jain,
Ahmedabad.
13.4 Dense
urban fabric
of Jodhpur
characterized
by courtyards
and terraces.
Photograph:
Meghal Arya.
disparate elements into an interrelationship, particularly relevant in today’s

changing context of social and cultural networks. Several references to the
previous document are made to tie up both the texts and also to provide
suitable support where required.
courtyards 267
As mentioned earlier, typically the settlements where the courtyard 13.5 Courtyards
dominates are very dense, low volume and compact. They are mostly in Indian houses
display varying
congested, often hot and noisy and the courtyard brings imminent release. The
entrances
mass of the built form can range from single storied small linear houses to larger conditions. Image:
four storied units, mostly built by sharing parallel walls. They are characterized AADI Centre,
by houses built back-to-back to protect against the harsh sun with minimal Ahmedabad.
openings to the outside, creating an introverted house form. The desired porosity
is achieved through courtyards, making a sponge-like mass. Typically, the cities
of Jaisalmer, Jodhpur and the old city of Ahmedabad, constitute such settlements.
Within this density, it would be imperative to provide for spaces that provide
light and ventilation, bring visual relief by opening up the built mass to the sky
and create a space that can take on a variety of roles. The courtyard becomes that
space, a central point that organizes all the other spaces around it and funnels
light into the otherwise mostly semi-dark spaces with no other source of light.
The hot air is lifted out of the house through the courtyard. This creates a draft
of air through the house, thus keeping the spaces fairly comfortable, especially in
the shaded areas.
In a sequence of spaces leading from the outside to the inside, the courtyard
comes after a semi-open and an enclosed space. Its location on the axis of the
entrance is determined by notions of privacy prevalent in a particular culture.
Where the demand on privacy is higher, the movement into the courtyard
from the outside may follow a barbican-like path. In such a case, there
may even be two or more courtyards, one for public interactions and then
13.6 Arrival others in varying degrees of privacy. On the other hand, in places where
courtyard of privacy, particularly related to women, is relaxed, the courtyard makes a
Nahargarh
direct connection to the entrance. It is surrounded by spaces of different
Palace,
symmetrical in activities. On the one side it has the area around the entrance of the house,
articulation with the public space of the house and on the other side it has the space for
accentuated storage and sleeping. The spatial hierarchy ranges from open to enclosed.
gates. The courtyard is bounded by verandahs beyond which are the rooms. The
Photograph: experience of this movement is heightened by the quality of light from
Manan
Singhal, UK. bright to dark. This brings out the centrality of the courtyard in the house.
The relationship from open, undefined, to semi-open, ambiguous to closed,
defined, allows the spaces to be in as many different ways as required. The
constantly changing spatiality and the whole idea of non-fixed formality
(Jain 2002) is characteristic of much of Indian architecture.
The articulation of the courtyard depends on several factors. Materials,
stylization, function, building type and nature of occupants are some. The
edges that define the courtyard are articulated in a manner similar to the
external façade. They are in fact, facades inside the house.
Traditionally the materials of construction were wood and stone. Their
capacity for spanning has given rise to sides that are mostly subdivided.
Elements like niches, doors, openings, stairs, balconies and zharookhas
are placed as required, creating a spontaneous space (Arya 2002, 51). This
courtyards 269
manner of putting the varied elements together depended on stylization 13.7 An Amber
and also function. For formal functions of the house, connected to the public Palace courtyard.
Photograph:
interface of the house, there was a tendency to move towards an articulation
Meghal Arya.
that derived from symmetry, axiality and elaborateness of expression. In
such cases, there was more than one courtyard. This is particularly true for
palaces and larger palatial houses of wealthy businessmen. The Amber
Palace, as with many others in Rajasthan, is a beautiful expression of how
the courtyard has been utilized and articulated not only for function, but
also social hierarchy, negotiating the topography and negotiating time.
The courtyards are the principal element of spatial organization, placed
along the ridge on which the palace is sited. Starting from the most
public, largest, and the most simply made at the lowest level, to the most
elaborate which forms a part of the king’s residence, to small intimate ones
in the queens’ residences, one finds very skillful craftsmanship in putting
together the courtyards. The palace is a construct over time. Courtyards
were a handy tool to make additions in a manner that each addition was
a complete entity yet integrated within the rest of the palace. Each ruler
added a courtyard and hence each of the courtyards exhibited stylistic
differences. This incremental quality embedded in the courtyard enhances
its ability for continuity.
13.8 Typical
Jodhpur house
courtyard
with different
living elements
integrated into
this space.
Photograph:
Prof.
Kulbhushan
Jain,
Ahmedabad.
On the other hand, very small, single room units with a courtyard are enriched
by the complexity of living resolved into simple elements placed as required.
Here one can find a niche for a water pot, several small niches for utensils, or
family heirlooms, all placed together in the courtyard. It is simultaneously both
a place for public display of wealth and for personal comfort. The courtyard
becomes the singularly most important space of the house.
courtyards 271
A staircase to the terrace, niches for oil lamps, a little plant, are all the varied 13.9 Section of a
components of a courtyard. The divergent elements of living are brought haveli in Phalodi,
into a semblance of cohesiveness by the manner in which they are placed Rajasthan with
open-to-sky
and by the material with which they are constructed. Typically, construction
spaces. Parapets
materials are either stone, wood or mud. There could be uniformity of size and railings give
or shape of the niches, consistency to the kind of stylization, or a uniform terraces a sense
color could be applied over mud plaster. These articulations are evidence of courtyards.
of people’s sensitivity combining day-to-day joys of creation with ordinary Image: Arya
Architects,
utility aspects, brought into the lives of the inhabitants. These nurturing
Ahmedabad.
spaces emerge from direct and intuitive expressions of creativity.
What sustains the courtyard is its very human scale, except when required for
larger gatherings like in mosques or public institutions. Even in palaces and large
havelis, the scale of the courtyard remains similar to that in small houses. While
size is the primary tool to maintain the human scale, elements like water bodies,
fountains, pavilions and landscaping are often placed. As the houses become
larger, the number of courtyards multiplies. They also move across the section,
becoming courtyard terraces. An interlocking system of enclosed, semi-open
and open spaces is created to make the built form a comfortable environment.
An elaboration of climatic factors can be seen in situations where one side of the
courtyard is made higher than others. This is done to create shadows during peak
summer in the courtyard, cooling it and therefore the rest of the house.
All the movement of the house happens through the courtyard. It builds a
physical connection between the different parts of the house, on all the floors and
binds them into one whole. There is an intermittent flow of activities responding
to various needs of a household. Cross connections in the house from one end
to the other are all through the courtyard. Standing in the courtyard, one
then can understand all the parts of the house. The courtyard thus becomes
the stronghold of the women of the house, for it is this space that they occupy
for a large part of their household chores. The kitchen may often be within the
courtyard or extend into the courtyard. Most preparations for cooking take place in
the courtyard and often, the actual cooking may also take place here. The internal,
enclosed spaces, which are mostly used for storage and sleeping in winters, are
connected to the kitchen through the courtyard. It is the place to linger, a place
13.10 A for a cup of hot tea on a rainy afternoon, a place to sit in the sun on a cold winter
courtyard in morning, or a place to dry mango pickles in the summer. From the courtyard, the
a pol house,
women can keep an eye on the outside, talk to friendly passers-by while continuing
Ahmedabad.
Photograph: their household chores. The upper and lower levels of the house are also connected
Meghal Arya. through the courtyard. It is the vertical capsule of space that leads the vision and
perception to the vertical. This reinforces the courtyard centrality both as a spatial
element and as a social and perceptual element. Invariably, then, one finds a swing
placed in the verandah that surrounds the courtyard. A place for the elderly to relax
in, a place for the matriarch to keep an eye on all the comings and goings, a place for
the afternoon siesta, always connected to the courtyard. It is the hearth, the center of
being, and the axis mundi of the house.
The locus of Indian society continues to be family life. Even today, several
generations live together. There is a strong sense of sharing of daily lives amongst
family members. Consultations with the elderly are common. Being made the
way it is, the courtyard allows for all the members of the family to meet each
other on their way in and out of the house. Children calling out a hello or
goodbye on their way in and out of the house, grandparents being able to
see the world go by are facilitated with ease, almost as if by chance. It is the
space in the house for unobtrusive interactions. In some ways this may seem
like an impingement on privacy in today’s contemporary social and family
structure, but in a traditional society, it was a way to keep everyone in contact
with each other. It was a way of life. The elderly were as much a part of the
household as were the young. The courtyard made the difference between
courtyards 273
13.11 A little
bit of sun inside
the house.
Photograph: Prof.
Kulbhushan Jain,
Ahmedabad
isolation and participation. The elusive quality of this participation was its
quiet, unobtrusiveness.
Nature, function and spirituality are all woven into a web of
interconnectedness in the courtyard. The courtyard is the medium to establish
a controlled and yet direct connection to the outside. The courtyard nurtures
13.12 Changing the human spirit in co-existence with nature. It is the sky and the earth, all at
quality of light once. When there is light outside, there is light inside, when it rains outside, it
in a courtyard
rains inside and when the stars shine above, they are seen from inside.
Mansingh
Mahal, Gwalior. It gives a most direct experience of time and space together in one place.
Photograph: The inside and the outside co-exist in the courtyard. The courtyard can be seen
Meghal Arya. as the most experiential, tactile space, and hence a powerful tool that tempers
the environment to bring it into a human comfort zone without imposing. It
sits lightly within its environment. It is a special place, but it is woven into the
rhythm of daily living.
The courtyard engages the other – nature – actively and dynamically.
Through the day and through the year, the quality of light in the courtyard
informs the inhabitants of the outside as they continue with work and leisure.
Seasons and days are both experiences in a real sense. The changing quality
of light through the day and through the seasons makes it a dynamic spatial
experience. The play of shadows as they change through the day engages the
inhabitants continuously with their environment.
The desire is not to create a separate space which ‘one goes to’ but to make
it a part of daily living. It is in the courtyard that the tulsi plant is grown,
to be worshipped daily and to build in the connection with nature into
everyday life. And in that sense, the courtyard becomes the expression of an
understanding of the co-existence of the many parts of human life. It is the
courtyards 275
space where all the dualities are meshed into a co-existence inside–outside,
horizontal–vertical, built–unbuilt, positive–negative, formal–informal. This
blurring of the dualities allows a deeper understanding of the multiplicities,
in-betweens and the subtle transitions.
By removing the courtyard from contemporary living, by massing the living
environment, we have taken away that essential element which brings us in
direct natural relation with the world beyond the built as part of daily life. In
the more recent times, largely post-industrialization, one has seen the gradual
disappearance of the courtyard. This has been the case since the attempt
to control internal environments of built form have substantially begun to
depend on mechanical and electrical means. But with this, the connection
of human life with nature, the sense of co-existence has been replaced by
compartmentalized, formalized and determined spaces. The development
of the multi-unit, apartment typology meant that the space occupied by the
courtyard was covered up to make the ‘living’ room. Some partial sense of
its existence then continues through this, making a part of its presence felt.
The atrium spaces of public and commercial architecture also elude to the
courtyards of institutions – large, protected arrival and gathering spaces. But
though the spatial form is continued, the relationships are lost.
In conclusion, one can clearly understand the courtyard as an important
spatial element that organized spaces, provided climatic comfort and was
the centre of living. As an oasis in the dense urban fabric, experience of
the courtyard invariably uplifts the spirit, brings a sense of calm, and has a
magnetic charm. It is an architectural element that has endured time and place,
culture and climate found across the length and breadth of India. Its ability to
connect to the human spirit lies in its profound quality of interconnecting the
myriad elements of nature and society.
List of References
Arya, Meghal. 2002. Courtyards in Thematic Space in Indian Architecture edited by

Kulbhushan Jain. Ahmedabad: AADI Centre and New Delhi India Research Press.
Jain, Kulbhushan and Jain Minakshi. 1994. Indian City in the Arid West. Ahmedabad:
AADI Centre and Wien: Institut fur Planungsgrundlagen Akedemie der
bildenden Kunste.
Jain, Kulbhushan. Ed. 2002. Thematic Space in Indian Architecture. Ahmedabad: AADI
Centre and New Delhi: India Research Press.
Lehrman, Jonas. 1980. The Earthly Paradise, Gardens and Courtyards in Islam. Berkley
and Los Angeles: University of California Press.
14
Politicizing the Female Body

Lori A. Brown
Shocked by the news of the May 2009 death of Dr. George Tiller in Wichita,
Kansas, one of only three late-term abortion providers in the United States, this
project examines the relationships between space and the issue of abortion. As
cultural and political issues continue to insert themselves into and around the
spaces of abortion clinics, the access to reproductive healthcare continues to be
whittled away in this country. As more restrictive legislation continues to be
passed, abortion has become more difficult for certain groups to exercise their
legal right granted by federal law. Some of the direct results of this ongoing
struggle are various Supreme Court rulings for specific clinics legislating literal
dimensions of safety zones around buildings, parking lots, sidewalks and
people. How do these legal rulings produce spatial complexities? And why isn’t
architecture more culturally and spatially engaged with these spaces?
My research explores the issues of the first amendment and public space as
it relates to the abortion debate. In her essay “Civil Society and its Limits,” the
political philosopher Iris Marion Young defines the public sphere as “…a site
for communicative engagement and contest…[and]…refers to a relationship
among citizens within this site…[and]…to the form that speech and other forms
of expression take.”1 Later she continues, describing the public sphere as a place
that “…will properly be a site of struggle – often contentious struggle.”2 She is
right. The public space around abortion clinics has been and continues to be a
space where reproductive healthcare access is publicly fought. Both sides of the
debate have the right to this space. However, when protests and tactics begin
to impede and prevent access to safe medical care, different measures must be
implemented to protect those working at and going to abortion clinics. What
is architecture’s responsibility in this spatial conflict? Architecture makes and
defines space – so how can what architecture “does” be used to reconsider the
spaces of abortion? What can a critical research approach provide for abortion
clinics as they engage first amendment concerns? And in turn, how can looking
at these spaces help redefine architecture’s role in our society?
14.1 USA counties with and without providers. The white areas represent counties with providers,
dark grey represent metropolitan areas without providers, and light gray represent the rest of the
country without providers. Through this visual translation of national statistics, the disparities
between counties with providers (typically population densities and urban areas) versus areas of
the country where there is a real dearth of providers (everywhere else) are clearly demonstrated.
The project aims to reveal how legislation creates both landscapes of access and
denial and how access varies greatly from state to state. Young writes “…[w]
omen in sexist society are physically handicapped. Insofar as we learn to live
out our existence in accordance with the definition that patriarchal culture
assigns to us, we are physically inhibited, confined, positioned, and objectified.”3
State abortion legislation is created by legislatures that either have no real
understanding or relationship to the physical hardships these restrictions inflict
upon women or flatly are not concerned about the difficulties these restrictions
impose. Employing drawing and mapping methodologies, the project makes
visually clear the impact state restrictions have on abortion access.
Statistics
Although Roe v. Wade (1973) remains legally intact, different states

independently control and govern degrees of access.
politicizing the female body 279
14.2 Excerpt
maine
iowa
indiana
illinois
kentucky
hawaii
california
louisiana
kansas
idaho
georgia
delaware
florida
connecticut
colorado
from matrix
of US states
unconstitutional / criminal bans and their
state prohibits certain state employees or organizations
restrictions.
GAG
GAG
GAG
GAG
GAG
receiving state funds from counseling or referring women for

abortion services
TRAP, targeted regulation of abortion providers; state subjects
TRAP
TRAP
TRAP
TRAP
TRAP
TRAP
TRAP
TRAP
TRAP
TRAP
TRAP
TRAP
TRAP
providers to burdensome restrictions not applied to other

medical professionals
state law further restricts access to reproductive health

restrict
restrict
restrict
restrict
services
state law includes an intent to eliminate the right to choice

choice
no
VIOL
VIOL
state law protects women seeking reproductive health care and
VIOL
VIOL
VIOL
medical personnel from blockades and violence
physician-only restriction
state prohibits certain qualified health care professionals from
performing abortions
unenforceable rule requiring pharmacists to dispense women’s

birth control
HMO
HMO
HMO
HMO
state restricts insurance coverage of abortion
state allows certain entities to refuse specific reproductive

NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
NO
health services, information, or referrals
state prohibits use of public facilities for performance of

abortions
restrict
restrict
restrict
restrict
restrict
restrict
restrict
restrict
restrict
restrict
restrict
restrict
restricts post-viability abortions
women subjected to biased counseling requirements

24 hrs
24 hrs
24 hrs
24 hrs
24 hrs
24 hrs
24 hrs
state requires mandatory delays
unconstitutional and unenforceable law mandating husband

husband
husband
husband
husband
consent
consent
consent
consent
notice and/or consent before married woman may obtain

abortion
state restricts young women’s access to abortion with

parental
parental
parental
parental
consent
parental
consent
parental
consent
parental
parental
consent
parental
parental
consent
parental
parental
notice
notice
notice
notice
notice
notice
notice
mandatory parental notice and/or consent

informed
informed
consent
consent
informed
state has an abortion-specific informed consent law

consent
¢¢
¢¢
¢¢
¢¢
state provides low-income women access to abortion
state restricts low-income women’s abortion access

¢¢
¢¢
¢¢
¢¢
¢¢
¢¢
¢¢
¢¢
¢¢
¢¢
¢¢
state provides certain low-income women increased coverage

planning
planning
planning
planning
planning
planning
family
family
family
family
family
family
for Medicaid-funded reproductive health care servcies

choice
choice
choice
choice
state as an affirmative right to choose in its state law
state allows women greater access to emergency

EC
EC
EC
EC
EC
EC
contraception
contraception
contraception
contraception
contraception
contraception
contraception
contraception
state requires health insurance plans covering prescription

contraception
coverage
coverage
coverage
coverage
coverage
coverage
coverage
coverage
drugs to provide same contraception coverage
state’s legislature declared to reduce racial, ethnic, and

socioeconomic disparities in reproductive health
state’s constitution provides greater protection for a woman’s

>
>
>
>
>
right to choose than federal constitution

According to the Alan Guttmacher Institute, in 2005 87 percent of U.S. counties

had no abortion provider and in non-metropolitan areas, 97 percent of counties
were without a provider. Approximately one in four women who have had an
abortion are required to travel 50 miles or more for the procedure.4
The availability of access is also dependent upon where in the country you
live and varies widely. For example, in the northeast United States 17 percent
of women live in counties with no providers; in the Midwest, 50 percent; in
the south, 47 percent; and in the west, 15 percent.5 Illustrating further and
more specifically, in states such as South Dakota and Mississippi with only
one provider per state, extremely restrictive laws are in place and 98 percent of
the counties are without abortion access. Conversely in states such as Hawaii
and New Jersey access is far more open with 100 percent of the counties in
Hawaii and 90 percent of the counties in New Jersey with providers.6
As more restrictive legislation continues to be passed, certain groups of
women find it increasingly difficult if not almost impossible to exercise their
legal right to abortion. Statistics also illustrate abortions are increasingly
concentrated among poor black and Hispanic women. Women below the
federal poverty level now have almost four times as many abortions as higher
income women and black and Hispanic women comprise more than 52
percent of women having these abortions.7 As Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg
stated in the New York Times Magazine on July 12, 2009, “There will never be a
woman of means without choice anymore…we have a policy that affects only
poor women, and it can never be otherwise…the government has no business
making that choice for a woman.”
Clinic violence is probably the single greatest factor for the decline in
abortion providers. Having tracked clinic violence since 1977, the National
Abortion Federation has documented the total number of incidents of violence
against clinics to be over 6,000 including 8 murders, 17 attempted murders,
41 bombings, 175 incidents of arson, 151 burglaries, and 525 stalkings. In
addition there are over 33,000 arrests for clinic blockages and over 156,000
incidents of clinic disturbances (including hate mail, internet harassments,
hoax devices, harassing calls, bomb threats and picketing).8
The second most important factor for the decline in abortion providers
is the exclusion of contraception and elective abortion content in medical
school education in North America. In a recent study by Steinauer et al, they
found inclusion of such information varied widely by topic and region. Of
the respondent schools, 33 percent preclude elective abortion education and
southern schools included even less information on topics of contraception
and elective abortion than schools in other regions, demonstrating cultural
affects on medical education and consequently access. Their research
concludes abortion education within preclinical curriculum is greatly lacking
and if covered, more time is allocated to oral contraceptives than to elective
abortion procedures. This in turn creates medical students not fully prepared
to accurately discuss a complete range of contraceptive options with their
female patients.9
Brief History
On January 22, 1973, the Supreme Court handed down its landmark decision
in Roe v. Wade granting the right to abortion to all women.10 As Lewis and
Shimabukuro (2009) write, the “Court determined that the Constitution
protects a woman’s decision whether or not to terminate her pregnancy.”
Authoring the majority opinion, Justice Harry Blackmun stated that the
decision’s constitutional basis depended upon the Fourteenth Amendment’s
concept of personal liberty and the right to personal privacy embraced
a woman’s decision about having an abortion or not. In Doe v. Bolton, the
companion case, the Court determined the following state requirements
as unlawful: “abortions be performed in licensed hospitals, abortions be
approved beforehand by a hospital committee and two physicians must concur
in the abortion decision” (however this would not apply to denominational
hospitals and their employees).11
In 1977, the restrictions on abortion began. A trilogy of restrictions were
decided by the Supreme Court restricting public funding of non-therapeutic
or elective abortions. The Court held that “states have neither a statutory
nor a constitutional obligation to fund elective abortions or provide access to
public facilities for such abortions.”12 But, they could cover these expenses if
they chose to do so.13
Legal = Spatial
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or

prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech,
or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to
petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
(First Amendment to the United States Constitution)
All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the
jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein
they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the
privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State
deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor
deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.”
(Fourteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution)
What are the implications of the First and Fourteenth Amendment for
abortion in the United States? How do we understand these issues spatially?
In the most basic terms, there is a distance legislated by the Courts that one
side cannot cross. Although the distance dictated by the Courts is important
physically, how do we begin to understand the larger issues around the
spatial manipulations being experimented with in this debate? Space is the
issue yet becomes a metaphor for matters of access, the right to choose one’s
reproductive fate, states’ attitudes toward abortion, economic, racial and
ethnic discrimination, and ultimately the inability to have full authority over
one’s body.
Court rulings and federal law create a complex web of spatial issues. At
first, it would appear that a line is literally drawn on the ground equaling the
dimensions ordered by the Court and that should be enough. And there are
many examples where yellow lines have been drawn on sidewalks, doing just
that. In theory, this is exactly what the Court legislated. But in practice, legal
rights and safety do not often work this way and can be even more difficult
to enforce. Consider although these laws were in place, Dr. Tiller was still
murdered on a Sunday morning in his church, of all places. So the spaces these
struggles take place in are fraught with complicated dynamics that laws do not
always control.
Architecture, in this project, refers to two larger sets of inquiries. The first,
and more straight forward, is the obvious relationship between the literal
clinic building, it’s siting and access, what one passes through to enter the
clinic space, where windows are located, what can be seen from and into
the clinic and security required to ensure safety. The second set, which this
research is more focused upon, requires a broader framing of architecture and
its engagement with the larger political, social and geographic sets of concerns
that inherently affect how space is not only designed but also, and maybe
more importantly, registers in the everyday world with everyday people;
architecture as the register of these antagonistic forces. This second set of issues
include the economics around spatial production, the exclusionary tactics of
such production, the direct impact legislation has on the occupation of the built
environment, and how the control of public monies determines varying scales
of national and state infrastructural systems and support.
Findings
As an architect, I am interested in ways to visually communicate and explore

ideas. The working methodology of this research initially uses mapping
techniques to explore ways to make the research visually accessible. I believe
information can be more easily understood through a visual language. My
drawings seek to clearly illustrate how this happens and propose alternatives
to change it. The mappings included seek to visually represent a wide range of
issues around abortion access as well as examining the most highly restrictive
states with the fewest number of providers. The drawings are organized around
two groups: group one examines the larger issues around abortion in the
United States and how state restrictions and attitudes vary from state-to-state;
group two looks more specifically at six states with highly restrictive abortion
legislation and few providers; one of which is included in this chapter. When
researching these particular states, information sought typically included the
following: documenting all current state restrictions, all religious institutions
in the state, Native American reservations, any cultural or historical landmarks
14.3 Clinic locations in Kentucky. Primarily located in mid to northern Kentucky, a vast area of the state
is without providers. And although neighboring West Virginia and Tennessee contain a few providers, the
distance most women would have to travel is far greater than 100 miles.
that are state-specific and potentially important to the project, data collected
by speaking with every pharmacy in the state to determine whether they
stocked and sold Plan B® (the morning after pill; if taken within 72 hours after
unprotected sex it helps prevent fertilization and implantation and helps blocks
ovulation14), location of known abortion clinics, calculation of how someone
without a car would access these clinics including bus and train fares and the
time it would require to actually get there.
Zoom-in: Kentucky
The following set of drawings examines the state of Kentucky, its lack of
providers, and rethinks ways to increase state access. With only three abortion
providers throughout the state, Kentucky is one of the more difficult states for
women to exercise their legal right to abortion
With so few providers, women must travel greater distances to a clinic. If
someone does not own a car, how then are clinics accessed? Because there is a
mandatory 24-hour delay law before you can receive an abortion in Kentucky, a
woman will need to pay for another round-trip ticket or spend the night in the
clinic’s city, either way increasing the cost of the procedure. To further complicate
14.4 Kentucky population levels compared to poverty levels. The small darker grey circles are the percentage
of individuals living below the line of poverty and the larger lighter grey circles are the percentage of female
head-of-households with children under the age of 5 living below the line of poverty. As illustrated, poverty
is distributed throughout the state.
transportation issues, in many of the smaller towns there are no bus or train
services available requiring her to seek alternative modes of transportation.
As has been noted by the Guttmacher Institute, the abortion rate in the
United States can be directly connected to levels of poverty. Nationally, 13
percent of individuals live below the line of poverty. In Kentucky, the average
is slightly higher at 15.8 percent. Where statistics reveal greater disparity is in
the percentage of female head-of-households with children under 5 years of age
living below the line of poverty.
For example, in Louisville, the most populous city with 13.2 percent of the
state’s population, 21.6 percent of all individuals live below the line of poverty
compared to 50.7 percent of all female head-of-households with children under
5 live below the line of poverty. In a far less populated and more remote city like
London with only .14 percent of the state’s population, 20.7 percent of individuals
and 84.9 percent of female head-of-households with children under 5 live below
the line of poverty.15 Not only are these statistics extremely high but combine
this with the fact that Kentucky also restricts public funding for abortion and
prohibits publicly owned hospitals or other publicly owned health care facilities
from performing abortions unless it is necessary to preserve a woman’s life.16
The result of this legislation makes access almost impossible for women of lower
economic means. Connecting these dots, the direct correlation between poverty,
state restrictions and spatial access becomes apparent. Kentucky is just one
14.5 Hospital locations in Kentucky. Each darker circle represents one hospital and each pink circle
represents the location of an existing abortion clinic. Also included are the distances and costs of travel
between various cities and clinics providing an idea of the amount of time and money required to traverse
the state via bus or train service.
example among 49 other states. There is no state without some form of legislated
restriction affecting reproductive healthcare access.
There are several ways to rethink the issues around access. The first is to
reconsider the use of hospitals as places where abortions could be performed.
As per Figure 14.5, Kentucky goes from a state with three abortion providers
to one with over 100 providers! Not only does the provider number increase
but also the locations of hospitals cover the majority of the state’s geography,
dramatically decreasing the distance a woman must travel to a find a provider.
Another way to increase a woman’s accessibility is through Plan B®, the
morning after pill. Now available as an over-the-counter medication to women
17 years and older and as prescription-only for all other minors, the local
pharmacy is an indispensable tool in lowering the abortion rate and expanding
access. Having called all the pharmacies in the state, the data collected includes
whether each pharmacy stocks and sells Plan B®, stocks but does not sell Plan
B®, does not stock but will order Plan B® for next day pick-up, or flatly refuses to
stock and sell Plan B®.
Of the 959 Kentucky pharmacies contacted, 57 percent do stock and sell Plan
B®. 68 percent of female pharmacists are willing to sell Plan B® as compared to 55
percent of male pharmacists. In doing this survey, there were a number of rather
surprising responses that I would like to mention. When asking pharmacists if
they sold Plan B®, many responded that they were sorry they did not have any
14.6 All pharmacies in Kentucky. The size of the circle corresponds to the number of pharmacies located in
each city. The darker circles are the locations of existing abortion clinics.
in stock but would order it or that it would be in the next day, others hung up
without further discussion, one pharmacist recommended taking a dose of birth
control pills instead, others responded that no pharmacists at this location were
willing to sell Plan B®, others stated that they did in fact carry it but refused
to dispense it, and one male pharmacist got off the phone to be replaced by a
female pharmacist who continued answering the questions.
Although only 57 percent of Kentucky pharmacies will sell Plan B®, it is
important to note how many more pharmacies there are throughout the state
than hospitals and that pharmacies are located in much smaller towns and are
more widely accessible than hospitals. Pharmacies have the potential of reaching
a far greater number of people at a much earlier stage, potentially eliminating
the need for an abortion.
Including hospitals and pharmacies in expanding abortion and reproductive
healthcare access is a fairly simple act, assuming attitudes and state laws change
(a huge assumption, I realize). This requires no infrastructural alterations
but uses local resources already in place. The next level of change occurs by
increasing the number of clinics in the state.
After careful consideration of poverty levels, including female head-of-
households, and transportation networks, locating clinics in areas where poverty
is higher in combination with interstate systems enables those most needing
these services easier access to them.
14.7 Potential clinic locations in Kentucky. These locations are directly connected to areas of poverty and
interstate networks.
Abortion clinics should not need to be hidden away in order to ensure

protection and privacy. Often, this does not always work anyway. Protestors find
out the most intimate details of clinics including who works there, and publicize
the information. For example, there are dedicated websites that regularly post
photographs of people going into clinics, sites with thorough documentation on
particular abortion clinics including such information as how to physically enter
the clinic, location of security cameras and circulation paths patients use to enter
and exit the clinic. The level of surveillance required to create these websites
raises serious questions about whether the FACE law (Freedom of Access to
Clinic Entrances) is being enforced or more realistically just ignored.
Another step toward making abortion truly accessible, not only on paper,
is to take a far more radical approach. If one is to open up reproductive health
care services, then where should clinics be located? Why not fully integrate
their locations into our everyday lives making them truly accessible? By
siting facilities in places that attract the demographics most needing these
services, these “new” clinics would have a greater potential to help more
women. Possibilities include shopping malls,17 military bases, jails, public
high schools, and churches for starters.
These locations regularly attract large numbers of people. In addition,
these places could double as educational outreach centers providing real sex
education.
14.8
Shopping malls
14.9
Military bases
14.10 Jails
14.11 Public
high schools
14.12 Churches
14.8-14.12 Other sites for clinics: Shopping malls, military bases, jails, public high
schools and churches. In each example, the rational is to locate a new site in an existing
location that already attracts the demographic that seeks reproductive healthcare. This
does not assume everyone visiting these clinics is coming for abortion. These clinics,
like most today, provide a full range of women’s healthcare services, abortion being a
small percentage of the healthcare provided.
Conclusion
Although in theory not a difficult process to undertake, the expansion of access

through rethinking hospitals as possible clinics and the use of the morning
after pill requires a shift in national and regional attitudes. The first phase
would simply require all pharmacies in each state to actually stock and sell
Plan B® and all hospitals to provide abortions as part of their basic outpatient
surgery services. There would be no right of conscientious refusal allowed.
The second phase builds upon the first and essentially fills the geographic
gaps resulting from the first phase. This would include creating new clinics
to be located in areas with high female head-of-household poverty rates
typically intersecting major transportation networks.
Architecture has the ability to engage the larger political, social and
economic issues inherent within the abortion conflict. In order for architecture
to reclaim its place in shaping our daily lives, it must again engage the many
and conflicting factors influencing where and what form buildings are
provided for the public. Through reconsidering the spatial implications of our
first amendment rights and the security now required to protect them, abortion
clinics provide an opportunity to both claim and defend space simultaneously.
This decades-long conflict creates an opportunity for architecture to re-insert
itself into all aspects of design, from invisibly legislated protection zones to
how and where someone enters a clinic, actually impacting everyday people’s
everyday lives. By examining the space of abortion clinics, the project provides
an opportunity to move architecture out beyond itself and engage a much
larger and contested terrain.
List of References
Alan Guttmacher Institute. 2009. An Overview of Abortion in the United States.

Available at: http://www.guttmacher.org/presentations/ab_slides.html [accessed
June 18, 2009].
Bazelon, E. 2009. The Place of Women on the Court. The New York Times, July 12, 2009,
22–25, 46–47.
Gajdušek, P. “Quickening Doctrine.” Common Law Review Issue 5 Medical Law.
Available at: http://review.society.cz/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&
id=78&Itemid=2 [accessed June 19, 2009].
Garrow, D.J. 1998. Liberty and Sexuality The Right to Privacy and the Making of Roe v.
Wade. Berkeley: University of California Press.
FindLAw for Legal Professionals. Hill et al. v. COLORADO et al. Available at: http://
caselaw.lp.findlaw.com/cgi-bin/getcase.pl?court=US&navby=case&vol=000&inv
ol=98-1856 [accessed July 1, 2009].
FindLAw for Legal Professionals. Madesn v. Women’s Health Center. Available
at: http://caselaw.lp.findlaw.com/cgi-bin/getcase.pl?court=US&vol=000&invol
=U10379 [accessed July 2, 2009].
FindLAw for Legal Professionals. Schenck et al v. Pro Choice Network of Western
New York et al. Available at: http://caselaw.lp.findlaw.com/cgi-bin/getcase.pl?cour
t=US&vol=000&invol=95-1065 [accessed July 2, 2009].
Hames, M.P. 1993. A Brief History of Abortion Laws in the United States: Will We
Return to Pre-Roe Legislation?, in Abortion and the States: Political Change and
Future Regulation Section of Urban, State, and Local Government Law, edited by Jane
B Wishner. Chicago: American Bar Association, Section of Urban, State and Local
Government Law, 43–60 .
Hull, N.E.H., William James Hoffer, and Peter Charles Hoffer, eds. 2004. The Abortion
Rights Controversy in America A Legal Reader. Chapel Hill: University of North
Carolina Press.
Jones, R.K et al. 2008. Abortion in the United States: Incidence and Access to Services,
2005. Perspectives on Sexual and Reproductive Health 40(1), 6–16.
Kaplan, L. 1995. The Story of Jane: The Legendary Underground Feminist Abortion Service.
New York: Pantheon Books.
Lambert-Beatty, C. 2008. Twelve Miles: Boundaries of the New Art/Activism. Signs:
Journal of Women in Culture and Society [Online] 33(2), 309–327.
Lewis, J. and Jon O. Shimabukuro. 2001. Abortion Law Development: A Brief
Overview. Almanac of Policy Issues Congressional Research Service, Available at:
www.policyalmanac.org/culture/archive/crs_abortion_overview.shtml [accessed
June 19, 2009].
Mayo Clinic. Morning-after pill. Available at: http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/
morning-after-pill/MY01190 [accessed November 7, 2010].
Mitchell, D. 2005. The S.U.V. model of citizenship: floating bubbles, buffer zones, and
the rise of the “purely atomic” individual. Political Geography [Online] 24, 77–100.
Mohr, J.C. 1978. Abortion in America: The Origins and Evolution of National Policy.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
NARAL Pro-Choice America. Who Decides? The Status of Women’s Reproductive
Rights in the United States Kentucky. Available at: http://www.prochoiceamerica.
org/choice-action-center/in_your_state/who-decides/state-profiles/kentucky.html
[accessed August 4, 2009].
National Abortion Federation. NAF Violence and Disruption Statistics. Available
at: http://www.prochoice.org/about_abortion/violence/history_violence.html
[accessed June 18, 2009].
National Abortion Federation. Public Funding for Abortion: Medicaid and the Hyde
Amendment. Available at: http://www.prochoice.org/about_abortion/facts/public_
funding.html [accessed June 25, 2009].
National Right to Life. Abortion History Timeline. Available at: http://www.nrlc.org/
abortion/facts/abortiontimeline.html [accessed June 25, 2009].
NOVA. The Hippocratic Oath: Classical Version. Available at: http://www.pbs.org/
wgbh/nova/doctors/oath_classical.html [accessed June 19, 2009].
Reagan, L.J. 1997. When Abortion was a Crime Women, Medicine, and Law in the United
States 1867–1973. Berkeley: University of California Press.
Rubin, E.R. 1994. The Abortion Controversy A Documentary History. Westport,
Connecticut: Greenwood Press.
Simonds, W. 1996. Abortion At Work: Ideology and Practice in a Feminist Clinic. New
Brunswick, New Jersey: Rutgers University Press.
Singer, N. 2006. Skin Deep Love the New Lips! From the Mall? The New York Times,
October 26, 2006.
Solinger, R., ed. 1998. Abortion Wars A Half Century of Struggle, 1950–2000. Berkeley:
University of California Press.
Steinauer, J. et al. 2009. First Impressions: what are preclinical medical students in the
US and Canada learning about sexual and reproductive health? Contraception 80
[Online], 74–80.
The Feminist Majority Foundation and NOW Legal Defense and Education Fund.
1996. Drawing the Line Against Anti-Abortion Violence and Harassment [Online]
Arlington, VA: The Feminist Majority Foundation.
The U.S. Constitution Online. The United States Constitution. Available at: http://
www.usconstitution.net/const.html#Am1 [accessed July 1, 2009].
Tone, A. 2001. Devices & Desires A History of Contraceptives in America. New York: Hill
and Wang.
Unites States Department of Justice Civil Rights Division. Freedom of Access to
Clinics Act. Title 18, USC., Section 248. Available at: http://www.usdoj.gov/crt/
crim/248fin.php [accessed July 2, 2009].
US Census Bureau. State and County QuickFacts. Available at: http://www.census.
gov/ [accessed July 22, 2009].
Wickland, Susan and Alan Kesselheim. 2007. The Common Secret My Journey as an
Abortion Doctor. New York: Public Affairs.
Women on Waves. Available at: http://www.womenonwaves.nl/news/21.htm
[accessed July 6, 2009].
Young, I.M. 1990. Throwing Like a Girl and Other Essays in Feminist Philosophy and Social
Theory. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
Young, I.M. 2000. Inclusion and Democracy. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Notes
1 Iris Marion Young, Civil Society and its Limits, in Inclusion and Democracy
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 168.
2 Young (2000), 178.
3 Iris Marion Young, Throwing Like a Girl, in Throwing Like a Girl and Other Essays
in Feminist Philosophy and Social Theory (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
1990), 153.
4 Rachel K. Jones et al., Abortion in the United States: Incidence and Access to
Services, 2005, Perspectives on Sexual and Reproductive Health 40(1)(2008), 6–16.
5 Jones (2008), 11.
6 These statistics were provided by the Alan Guttmacher Institute website
http://www.guttmacher.org/presentations/ab_slides.html on “An Overview of
Abortion in the United States May 2006.
7 Guttmacher (2006).
8 National Abortion Federation (NAF), “NAF Violence and Disruption Statistics,”
http://www.prochoice.org/about_abortion/violence/history_violence.html.
9 Jody Steinauer et al, “First Impressions: what are preclinical medical students
in the US and Canada learning about sexual and reproductive health?”
Contraception 80 (2009), 74–80.
10 National Right to Life. “Abortion History Timeline,” http://www.nrlc.org/
abortion/facts/abortiontimeline.html.
11 J. Lewis and Jon O. Shimabukuro, “Abortion Law Development: A Brief
Overview,” Almanac of Policy Issues Congressional Research Service, www.
policyalmanac.org/culture/archive/crs_abortion_overview.shtml. (2001).
12 Lewis and Shimabukuro, (2001).

13 Lewis and Shimabukuro, (2001).
14 “Morning-after pill,” http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/morning-after-pill/
MY01190.
15 U.S. Census Bureau, “State and County QuickFacts,” http://www.census.gov/.
16 NARAL Pro-Choice America, “Who Decides? The Status of Women’s
Reproductive Rights in the United States Kentucky,” http://www.
prochoiceamerica.org/choice-action-center/in_your_state/who-decides/state-
profiles/kentucky.html.
17 The location of dermatologists’ offices providing Botox and other cosmetic
medical procedures in shopping malls could be considered the beginning of a
precedent locating medical offices in more retail-centered areas. See Natasha
Singer, “Skin Deep Love the New Lips! From the Mall?” The New York Times,
October 26, 2006.
15
Home Grown
Kim Steele
Nowadays, deciding what to eat poses some challenges. Basic concerns about
whether you are eating enough vegetables or too much fatty food have been joined
by a whole host of additional questions. Should you buy organic or locally grown?
Is conventionally grown produce safe to eat? Should you shop at the local grocery
store or seek out a farmer’s market? Is it safe to consume genetically modified food
or not? Is the food clean or has it been contaminated with salmonella, e.coli, cyclospora,
hepatitis A, shigella or listeria monocytogenes? Should you worry about whether food
has been irradiated? Is this chicken or beef really antibiotic-free? What about rBGH
in milk? Should you be concerned about the welfare of the animals you eat? What
about fair trade and social and environmental justice? Is industrial agriculture
destroying the ecological health of the planet? Sifting through all of the information
on agricultural practices and food processing and determining which factors to
prioritize as you select the ingredients for dinner demands a significant investment
of time. Volumes of information have been compiled, study after study conducted,
and article after article published all documenting the many facets, issues, and
problems associated with food production. Given the continued high-profile food
concerns maintain, establishing a baseline understanding of what we are putting
into our bodies is verging on a national priority. Choosing what to read, what to
believe and what to incorporate into your daily eating regimen requires a great
deal of effort but, if, as has been suggested, you are what you eat, do you want to
be what you are eating?
Questions such as these began to hound me nearly ten years ago following a
collaboration between the Landscape Architecture program and the College of
Agriculture at Auburn University. Asked to draw up ideas for a new Center for
Sustainable Rural Living to be sited on one of the University’s agricultural extension
sites, two of my colleagues in Auburn’s School of Architecture and I began a
crash course in agricultural studies, trying to suss out some relevant nuggets of
information that would help inform our design proposal. Little did I realize at the
time that I had stumbled onto an area of study that would consume me, propelling
me on a decade-long exploration into a very complex and often unwieldy subject.
Diving into the history of industrial agriculture’s rise to prominence and the
economic, environmental, and social mechanisms needed to sustain it, followed by
a survey of the literature on alternative agriculture and its viability, soon revealed
how difficult it is to unpack and make sense of this topic. The many narratives
and ideological positions endemic to the world of agriculture and food production
quickly became apparent. These narratives range from the conservative, touting
conventional agricultural practice as a story of innovation, success and progress,
to the progressive, espousing environmentalism, alternative methods, and
social justice as critical to the long-term sustainability of agriculture. Across the
spectrum the arguments are emphatic and heated and politically loaded. And
the consequences of not finding viable solutions put a great deal at risk: vitality of
rural communities and family farmers, welfare of farm workers, ecological health
and biodiversity, and climate change to name a few. Given the scope of the issue,
I became increasingly unsure of how I, a professor and practitioner of landscape
architecture and architecture, could make a difference in shaping future practices
of agriculture and food production. What role could design play that would move
beyond superficial or token proposals? And, perhaps most challenging, how could
I assimilate and organize the vast range of research available to make it accessible
and instructive for future work?
With the Center for Sustainable Rural Living in Alabama, my initial research
focused on agricultural outreach opportunities and how to promote sustainable
livelihoods in rural areas. Issues of stewardship formed the basis of the research and
included concerns about ecosystem health and preservation of natural resources in
conjunction with consideration of how to increase social equity and quality of life
for farmers and laborers. From this study three research tracks quickly developed:
Track 1) understanding how industrial agriculture affects food; Track 2) addressing
the continued degradation of natural systems by agricultural non-point source
pollution1 and strategies for ecosystem rehabilitation; and Track 3) looking at
alternative agricultural models and assessing their potential for transforming the
current system especially in terms of social equity. Although the research tracks
overlap one another, distinct research communities construct the narratives
inherent to each. Track 1 is widely discussed in popular literature by authors such
as Michael Pollan, Eric Schlosser, and Barbara Kingsolver among others as well
as by groups such as the Environmental Working Group (www.ewg.org) and
the Pesticide Action Network (www.panna.org) and by nutrition scholars such as
Marion Nestle.2 Research by scientists in various disciplines including horticulture,
entomology, ecology, and agronomy characterizes Track 2 while Track 3 comprises
research by sociologists, anthropologists, economists and geographers. Spanning
all three research tracks are contributions by national agencies such as the United
States Department of Agriculture (USDA), the Food and Drug Administration
(FDA), the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), state agriculture and
environmental services agencies and research arms of agribusinesses.3 A vast body
of specialized knowledge is generated by these individuals, groups, agencies and
corporations and research findings often conflict making finding a way forward
that benefits all stakeholders challenging at best. To find a way into this discussion,
home grown 297
I, like many before me, decided to build on my preliminary studies by looking at

track 1, industrial agriculture and food.
Track 1
Food permeates all aspects of our lives. Rife with symbolism, it turns up everywhere,
framing how we experience events and places, directing memories and emotions,
shaping identity and conferring status. Food has the ability to focus and magnify
our anxieties and fears as well as our aspirations and desires. As Roland Barthes
noted, food “is a system of communication, a body of images, a protocol of usages,
situations, and behavior.” (1997: 21) It has been argued that loss of control over
such a critical cultural element as food leads to the denigration of attachment to
local context and the fragmentation of community identity (Dusselier 2002).
Over the last 60 or so years, our agro-food system has undergone radical changes
leading to the breakdown of rural communities and the radical disassociation
between people, food and the land. As industrial agriculture has grown in scale
and stature, geography as a constraint for what appears on the dinner table has
collapsed and our relationship to food has changed. The old ties to yearly cycles
and seasonal production have evaporated giving rise to a loss of specificity of food
and homogeneity of context. Food, as a system of communication, has lost much of
the cultural specificity it had previously maintained for generations. Today, much
of the food we produce and consume has a universality to it that is not universally
appreciated. With its link to local ecology and culture severed, food now functions
as an input in urban diets and industrial processing plants (McMichael 2000)
shifting from an earlier conceptualization of food as integral to well-being. What
food seems to be communicating now is that we prefer it fast and consistent, cheap
and in bulk.
Cheap food is one of the hallmarks of industrial agriculture. Starting with the
Green Revolution of the 1940s and 1950s, farming began to shift from a diversified,
low-input, labor intensive venture into a high-input, mechanized, specialized
system where efficiency and productivity are the defining features. Foreseeing
global food shortages, the Green Revolution’s mission was to feed the world
through the creation of a reliable, endlessly productive agricultural system. In the
span of 20 years, resource-intensive, pollution-generating, monoculture agriculture
overran hundreds of years of sustainable food production to become the primary
agricultural model. In a 1939 essay, the environmentalist Aldo Leopold claimed that
the “landscape of any farm is the farmer’s portrait of himself” (quoted in Jackson
& Jackson 2002: 5) In the agricultural landscape of today, the farmers of Leopold’s
generation largely have been replaced by agribusiness and, as noted by Laura and
Dana Jackson, “the landscape of the farm is more like a portrait of Archer Daniels
Midland4” (Jackson and Jackson 2002: 5), one of the global top three agricultural
processors and self-proclaimed “supermarket to the world.”
The current incarnation of agriculture and food production is a culmination of
scientific invention, market commoditization, and oligopoly; it relies on economies
of scale, federal subsidies, and exploitation to maintain its economic profitability.

Today, nearly 95 percent of American food is a corporate product, organized and
disseminated by large agribusiness (McMichael 2000). The agriculture scene of
1935, where the average farm size was 200 acres and roughly 40 percent of the U.S.
population of 127 million people was working on 6.8 million farms, has vanished,
replaced by 2.1 million farms averaging 418 acres each that now serve over 300
million people while employing only 2 percent of the population (Dimitri, Effland,
and Conklin 2005). Mechanization facilitated this shift in labor requirements:
where one worker was needed for every 27.5 acres in 1890, by 1990 that number
had dropped to one worker for every 740 acres (Dimitri et. al. 2005). At the end of
the day, this dramatic shift has led to the availability in the U.S. of large quantities
of cheap food; food has become so reasonable that, according to the USDA, the
average U.S. consumer spends less than 10 percent of disposable income on food
down from approximately 22 percent when the Green Revolution began.5
Cheap food may be good on the pocketbook, but what does it mean for the
quality of the food and for our bodies? One aspect of producing cheap food is
maintaining control of all aspects of crop production, most notably controlling the
damaging effects of pests. Crops grown under the industrial agriculture model
are bombarded with an immense array of chemical insecticides, herbicides and
fungicides. With over 16,000 different pesticides in use and over 1 billion pounds
applied annually,6 the plethora of chemicals used in the production of food
transforms everything it touches.
Pesticides fall into several categories including those most commonly used in
agriculture: biopesticides and chemical pesticides. The former are derived from
natural materials but may include introduced genetic material that creates or
enhances pesticidal properties. Chemical pesticides, on the other hand, are created
from synthetic material that targets a particular pest. The majority of pesticides fall
into this second category. Designed to target specific pests, chemical pesticides act
by interfering with a pest’s biological system, often by disrupting some aspect of
the pest’s nervous system, endocrine system or molting process, or by interfering
with metabolism through contact or systemic absorption.7 The EPA regulates the
use of all pesticides in the U.S. and, in an effort to protect consumers from ingesting
harmful levels of pesticides, establishes tolerance levels for pesticide residues found
on food crops. Inspectors from both the EPA and the USDA monitor the food
supply, verifying compliance through strict regulations. In spite of this, startling
levels of pesticide contamination are routinely found on a variety of foods.
Analyzing testing data from the USDA and the FDA, the nonprofit Environmental
Working Group (EWG) evaluated the pesticide contamination levels of 49 of the
most widely consumed fruits and vegetables in the U.S. Certain commodities
such as celery, peaches, blueberries, and sweet bell peppers were found to
have over 10 pesticides detectable on a single sample.8 Two of the most widely
consumed fruits and vegetables, apples and tomatoes, each are treated with a
wide array of insecticides, herbicides and fungicides.
home grown 299
15.1 Chemical inputs for conventionally grown apples in the United States
15.2 Chemical inputs for conventionally grown tomatoes in the United States
home grown 301
Perhaps most problematic in terms of human and environmental health, is

the continued use of several restricted pesticides on these two crops. Two of
these, the insecticides azinphos-methyl, currently applied to 62 percent of the
apple crop, and endosulfan, currently used on 36 percent of the tomato crop,
are on the EPA’s phase-out list. The former will be banned from use after
September 2012, while the latter will be banned from use in Florida beginning
in 2015 and everywhere else in 2016.9 According to the USDA Pesticide Data
Program, endosulfan residue is found on tomatoes 17.2 percent of the time
and azinphos-methyl residue is found on apples 31.8 percent of the time.10
It is distressing to consider that both have been on the market for over 50
years: azinphos-methyl was first registered for use by the FDA in 1959 and
endosulfan was first registered in 1954.
While the presence of these chemicals and others on produce does not
necessarily equate with their appearance in the blood or tissue of people that
consume them, given the potential damage these chemicals may cause as they
accumulate in the body over time, reducing exposure would seem prudent.
In addition to consumption, pesticide contamination occurs through spray
drift, drinking water, and most commonly and detrimentally, through direct
contact, the latter being especially common among pesticide applicators and
farm workers. To document contamination levels, the Centers for Disease
Control (CDC) began a biomonitoring program to test for the presence of
certain chemicals in the population. In the Fourth National Report on Human
Exposure to Environmental Chemicals, released in 2009, the CDC surveyed 2,400
people and measured 212 chemicals in blood or urine including 75 which had
never been recorded before in U.S. populations (CDC 2009). Of the chemicals
screened for, roughly 25 percent fall into the categories of herbicides,
insecticides, or fungicides. Perhaps their presence in blood and urine is not
surprising: applied to control every conceivable pest, weed, and pathogen,
these chemicals last long after the sprayer is turned off, showing up not just
on food, but in wildlife, soils, and in ground-, surface- and well water.
Track 2
The chemical soup developed to control pests, while breathtaking in its

magnitude, is only one type of scientific innovation that has afforded
corporations the opportunity to remake the agricultural landscape. The
engineering of synthetic fertilizers as well as developments in biotechnology
such as transgenic or genetically modified organisms combine with
agrochemicals to facilitate the transformation of dynamic cultural and
ecological systems into artificially static ones. Formerly complex, biodiverse
landscape ecosystems have been replaced throughout agriculturally intense
areas for monocultures, where crops are planted “fence row to fence row.”11
The public and environmental health consequences of these developments
cannot be overstated: the advent of chemical fertilizers virtually eliminated
the need for careful management of soil health and fertility. Finely-tuned
land management strategies of cover cropping, planting sequences and crop
rotations, soil biodiversity conservation, and field edge habitats no longer
were as critical: soil fertility amendments now came in a bag and could
rectify even the most grievously degraded soil. The EPA estimates that over
52.2 billion pounds of commercial fertilizers, typically nitrogen, phosphate,
and potash, are applied annually or about 145 pounds per cropland acre per
year.12 The downside of applying fertilizers on this scale is the inability of
plants to absorb all of it before it washes off. In 2005, of the 220 billion pounds
of nitrogen fertilizer used in global agriculture, it is estimated that only 17
percent was consumed in crop, dairy, and meat products.13 The rest becomes
a significant source of environmental pollution.
With native habitat buffers between cropland and waterways diminished or
eliminated, excess fertilizer drains unimpeded through direct runoff and soil
erosion into streams and rivers. Due to the solubility and mobility of nitrogen
and phosphate, contamination from runoff presents significant problems:
drinking water contamination, toxic algal growth, eutrophication, and fish
kills from high ammonia levels. Although nitrogen and phosphate leaching
results from a number practices, nitrate accumulation in groundwater most
often stems from nitrogen fertilizers (Powers and Schepers 1989). The dead
zone in the Gulf of Mexico is one example of nutrient overloading caused
by nitrogen and phosphate runoff. As more nutrients enter the Mississippi
River’s watershed and drain into the Gulf, the water becomes hypoxic (low
dissolved oxygen levels) and sea life dies off. The Gulf dead zone at times has
covered over 9,000 square miles (Conley, Carstensen, et al 2009). The high
nitrogen levels in the form of nitrates and nitrites in drinking water spark
warnings of methemoglobinemia or blue-baby disease, a condition caused
when any nitrate enters the blood stream and inhibits the oxygen carrying
capacity of blood (McIlroy, Jones and Jacobsen 2003). In addition to being
toxic to infants and young animals, nitrates in drinking water have been
connected to certain cancers and reproductive issues (Ward, deKok, Levallois,
et al 2005). As commercial fertilizer waste continues to enter the water supply,
seeping into aquifers, the long-term effects become grimmer.
The problem of water contamination is not limited to fertilizers. In a 2006
study, the United States Geological Survey found startling levels of pesticides
in surface and groundwater. Among the findings was that in streams in
agricultural areas, 57 percent had pesticide levels exceeding safe standards
for aquatic life and 9.6 percent had levels exceeding EPA standards for
human health. The contamination was not limited to rural, agricultural areas:
6.7 percent of streams and 4.8 percent of groundwater in urban areas had
pesticide levels above EPA benchmarks for human health.14 The difficulty
with water contamination is that once it occurs, removing the pollutants
requires long periods of time given the slow movement and long residence
rates of groundwater (Puckett, Tesoriero, Dubrovsky 2010). In other words,
home grown 303
once pesticides and fertilizers leach into the water supply, we will be drinking
them for years to come.
The widespread use of transgenic or genetically modified (GM) crops poses
a different set of environmental challenges. Since they first appeared on the
market in 1996, GM crops have grown in popularity and now dominate the
corn, soybean, and cotton markets in the U.S.15 The two traits most commonly
engineered for are herbicide tolerance (HT) and insect resistance (Bt). HT
crops are modified to survive applications of certain herbicides allowing
farmers to spray for weeds without killing their crops whereas Bt crops have
been modified with a soil bacterium, Bacillus thuringiensis,that produces a
protein toxic to a variety of insects. There are several GM crops approved
for market in the U.S. including canola, wheat, alfalfa, tomato, rice, potato,
papaya, squash, flax, radicchio and cantaloupe. The types of modifications
for each of these vary from resistance to viruses and fungi to tolerance of
salt and drought. In addition to commercial GM crops, transgenic crops
developed for pharmaceutical uses are also popular. While there continues to
be conflicting evidence on the safety of these crops for consumption,16 there is
a growing body of evidence demonstrating their detrimental effects on extant
agricultural lands and natural systems. Most problematic is the tendency
for GM seed to escape confinement and infect adjacent crops or wild plants.
Seeds and pollen readily disperse either by wind, birds, animal excrement, or
by contaminated equipment. The cross-pollination of non-GM crops by GM
crops creates economic hardships for farmers selling to markets that do not
accept transgenic products. And for organic farmers, contamination of their
crops results in the revocation of their organic certification as recently seen in
the case of an Australian farmer whose canola was polluted by Monsanto’s
Roundup ReadyTM canola.17
These liberated transgenic seeds not only infect adjacent crops wreaking
economic havoc on farmers, they hybridize with wild plants creating
herbicide-tolerant weeds. To control these new HT weeds, additional,
alternative herbicides are required, typically the more toxic varieties the GM
crop was supposed to eliminate the need for such as 2,4-D (Beckie, Seguin-
Swartz, Nair, et. al. 2004), a major component of Agent Orange.18 A prime
motivation behind the development of GM crops was the promise of using
less toxic herbicides and insecticides in pest management; unfortunately, the
increasing prevalence of transgenes outside their intended target area has led
to more, not less, pesticide use.
A basic understanding of ecological systems suggests that farming in this
manner is hardly sustainable; eventually the soil will be dead, the water
polluted, wildlife numbers reduced, GM crops proliferating everywhere,
and the economic viability of the land substantially depleted. Unfortunately,
sensitivity to natural systems and the limited resilience they possess in the face
of an onslaught of foreign additives is something most agricultural producers
and government agencies will not respond to in any significant way. Industrial
agriculture is very big money and, as a result, the corporations involved
are very powerful. According to AGROW, the crop protection industry’s

research and trade journal, in 2006 agrochemical sales alone generated over
$32.9 billion internationally and $8.6 billion in North America.19 Once other
actors in the industrial food chain such as producers, processors, transporters
and retailers are factored in, the economics of the system become nearly
incomprehensible. Not unsurprisingly, the instinct to maintain the status
quo is deeply entrenched: additional regulations, increased monitoring or
shifts in policy are too great a threat to the bottom line. As a consequence,
the agribusiness lobby is one of the most effective in Washington, typically
spending over $100 million annually.20 And yet, a number of unavoidable
factors loom large for industrial agriculture: rising energy costs, growing
scarcity of water, and climate change.21 For a system predicated on cheap oil
to produce fertilizers and pesticides, to manufacture and operate equipment,
and to store and ship products, rising fuel costs cut into profitability. Rapid
aquifer depletion coupled with erratic weather patterns further complicate
the long-term profit outlook. Add to these the health and environmental costs
incurred by current industrial agricultural practices – estimated to be over $12
billion annually22 – and the long-term prognosis for the industrial food system
begins to dim.
Track 3
To redress the many shortcomings of industrial agriculture and food

production, alternative agricultural methods and new agro-food models
continue to grow in prominence. From the small organic farmers in California
in the 1970s who challenged industrial agriculture on social and economic as
well as environmental grounds (Allen, FitzSimmons, Goodman, et. al. 2003) to
the current appeal of urban agriculture and locally grown food, these models
offer consumers an alternative to the industrial status quo. Encompassing a
wide range of activities including community supported agriculture (CSAs),
farmers’ markets, community gardens, farm-to-school initiatives, fair trade
labeling and the Eat Local and Slow Food movements to name a few, the
alternative agro-food system options are mushrooming. Each, according to its
particular agenda, tries to reintroduce eaters to the complexity of producing
food and works to reclaim food and its production as the purview of
individuals and communities. And yet, in accepting these alternative models,
do we really understand what we are now buying? As Patricia Allen notes,
“In the face of an increasingly globalized political economy, contemporary
social movements have turned to discourses and strategies of localization as
a solution to a host of problems” (Allen 2010: 295) but are these discourses
and strategies revolutionary or just more of the same cloaked in a veneer of
environmental or social justice?
The trajectory of organic is a case in point. Originally a site of protest
against the dominant agricultural paradigm, organic agriculture sprang
home grown 305
from the counterculture movement of the 1960s and 1970s reintroducing

soil conservation techniques and creating food cooperatives and collectives
(Guthman 1998). Considered radical and unscientific because of their rejection
of industrial agricultural methods, organic farmers farmed in opposition
to convention; subscribing to the tenets of decentralization, independence,
community, harmony with nature, restraint, and diversity (Beus and Dunlap
1990), organic proponents valued farming within limits, conserving resources
rather than exploiting them. Fast forward to today and gone are the small-scale
biodiverse, industrial-resistant, organic farming systems of the 1970s. Today,
organic agriculture, in many respects, is indistinguishable from conventional
industrial agriculture in form and function: it is often farmed in monocultures
on large farms and uses a large number of inputs including a wide range
of USDA approved insecticides and fungicides.23 Many small-scale farmers
find it difficult to compete economically; the cost of certification alone is often
prohibitive to small operators. Consumers continue to perceive organic as
alternative, healthy, and sustainable, conjuring up a vision of agrarian idyll
(Vos 2000) and many producers and processors are not about to lift up the
curtain.
In spite of its drift from original principles, organic, like other alternative
agro-food models, remains appealing to many people; there is a sense of
taking control of a system that spun out of control a long time ago. Being
able to select among a range of food purchasing options – locally grown,
organic, fair trade or community supported agriculture, for example – allows
consumers to “vote” with their dollars for alternatives that better reflect their
preferences. While this sets up a misperception that individual purchasing
acts will ultimately lead to real structural changes in the food system,24 it
does allow consumers opportunities to express their preferences. However,
choosing food produced outside of the industrial system tends to be more
expensive so it is not surprising that to a great extent, people who support
and are served by alternative agro-food systems tend to be those people with
economic means and social power. As Guthman discusses, the alternative
agro-food proponents by-and-large are those who have access to information
and subscribe to the belief that once people taste this healthier food, they will
change; the “if they only knew” scenario (Guthman 2008). Who has access to
this debate and actually wants to participate seems to be a relatively narrow
segment of the population, a group that includes Whole Food shoppers and
backyard gardeners. To make the positive aspects of alternative agro-food
relevant to a broader public, addressing issues of social equity including cost,
access, and cultural preferences, will be necessary.
In 2010, I became involved with a community-based project focused on
creating healthy environments to encourage children to be more active and eat
healthier food. With funding from the Healthy Kids, Healthy Communities
Program of the Robert Woods Johnson Foundation, the community of
Maryvale, located in Phoenix, Arizona, has been charged with developing
policies and proposing changes to the physical environment to support
healthy, active lifestyles. Spanning 38 square miles, Maryvale has over 190,000
residents, 36 percent of whom are under the age of 18. The community has
a high percentage of residents who are overweight or obese (71 percent)
as well as a significant population of people living in poverty (18 percent).
Maryvale has undergone numerous changes over the past 60 years, shifting
from a predominantly white, middle-class, suburban enclave in the 1950s to
an ethnically and economically mixed urban neighborhood today. There is
a significant population of refugees from Africa and south Asia as well as
of Latinos and undocumented immigrants from Mexico and Latin America.
Notably, many in Maryvale actively participate in community activities and
improvement plans and are strongly committed to making it a dynamic and
rich place to live.
During the first phase of Maryvale on the Move (MTM), as the project is
known, graduate students from the Master of Landscape Architecture program
at Arizona State University worked closely with community members from
three areas of Maryvale, as well as faculty and staff from ASU’s Stardust
Center for Affordable Homes and the Family, to determine the needs of the
various constituents. Students accompanied residents on walking audits of the
various neighborhoods to learn first-hand what issues were foremost in their
minds. It quickly became apparent that there was a dearth of safe play areas,
a lack of functional open space, decaying infrastructure, a preponderance of
fast food outlets, and inadequate access to fresh food. Following this street
level mapping, three five-hour design charrettes were held. Between 30 and 90
youth and adults from the community, city departments and other interested
organizations participated in the charrettes, developing neighborhood
scenarios that resonated with their wishes while remaining consistent with
the goals of the Healthy Kids, Healthy Communities program. Recurrent
throughout each of the three groups was an interest in creating community
gardens, not only because they would allow residents to grow their own food
and save some money in the process, but because community gardens within
this community are seen as sites where all people participate. Culturally,
growing food was not seen as the purview of men or women, but rather
something families could tend to as a group. Given the cultural background
of the students and other non-community members, arriving at this as the
reason to propose community gardens for Maryvale probably would not have
occurred. Community gardens in Maryvale will provide multiple functions:
make fresh and culturally specific produce more available, encourage outdoor
activity, and create opportunities for residents to gather and intermingle. The
long-term success of these gardens is contingent upon residents defining their
needs and then working together to realize them: a “they will build it and
they will come” strategy versus one of “we will build it and they will come.”
home grown 307
Conclusion
What I have come to learn is that any proposed solution to the many
environmental, social and health related problems endemic to industrial
agriculture will never be simple and straightforward. The issues are just
too thorny and the stakeholders too various. That is not to say nothing can
change, that the status quo will remain firmly instituted from here on out.
Rather, it is to suggest that there are multiple options worth considering that
might point to a way out of the mess of the current system of food production.
Perhaps not surprisingly, neither architecture nor landscape architecture
has a deep track record in participating in agricultural issues. Only recently,
with the popularity of urban agriculture (UA), has design entered into the
discussion in any substantial way. The seductive lure of urban agriculture
for architecture and landscape architecture surely resides in its potential to
broaden the possibilities for programming the city, and to both offer urban
residents opportunities to participate in the growing food movement and
to remediate underutilized and derelict land within and on the periphery
of cities by planting food crops. While there is a history of proposing an
integration of agriculture and city (see Waldheim 2010), the current surge
of interest with design programs and the design professions is exceptional.
Landscape architecture as a profession seems well poised to jump into the
urban agriculture boom and over the past few years not only have more
and more UA projects materialized in landscape architecture curriculums,
professional practitioners also have become advocates. The American Society
of Landscape Architects (ASLA) features sessions on urban agriculture at its
annual meetings and has recognized several built UA works in its awards
program.25 Proposals for urban agriculture within architecture also have
gained traction although proposals at this point tend to be visionary, often
focused on transforming high-rise buildings into urban farms.26
Looking more broadly at industrial agriculture in general, the role for
design is more circumspect. Landscape architecture, with land stewardship
as one of its core tenets, seems like a logical partner in constructing more
sustainable methods for agriculture yet its presence is nearly absent. While
there may be participation by landscape architects in shaping large-scale
agricultural landscapes, few examples have been documented (exceptions
include Nasssuer, Corry and Cruse 2002; Jackson 2008; and Woltz 2010).
The reasons for this absence, my research suggests, are many. Typically,
landscape architecture focuses on the design and management of the physical
environment by weaving together knowledge of natural and cultural
systems in the creation of constructed landscapes. Acknowledging the inter-
connectedness of landscapes, landscape architects often see their work as
part of a larger continuum and seek to embed solutions within that broader
context. Central to the process is exploring design solutions that not only are
economically viable for the client, but also creatively preserve and enhance
the integrity of environment. Industrial agriculture, in its current form, leaves
no room for the creativity and inventiveness landscape architecture would

want to employ; the form it takes on the land is frequently the result of tightly
enforced economic constraints that mandate every square acre of land be
farmed to its fullest extent. Although economics are not the sole driving factor
dictating farming strategies, given the often slim profit margins for small
farms, to farm otherwise risks economic ruin for many farmers. It is difficult
to see how landscape architecture might intervene in this scenario when the
solutions most needed would necessitate altering the physical layout of fields
and fundamentally changing growing strategies.27
It is this exclusion from participating in transforming the larger
agricultural landscape that is most provocative; simply reacting to the
ecological degradation brought on by industrial agricultural methods will
not foster the structural change needed. Rather, to get at the roots of the
problem, the conservative, production-based narrative that champions
perpetually increasing crop yields through the use of chemical inputs and
biotechnology without regard to negative impacts, needs to be replaced by
a more ecologically and socially just narrative that recognizes the value and
importance of place-based food systems that occur at varying scales and
support and serve a spectrum of people. But most importantly, there needs
to be support at the local, state, and national level to underwrite individual
efforts; consumers will not be able to buy their way into a new, sustainable
agricultural system.
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Notes
1 Nonpoint source pollution is pollution emanating from many diffuse sources

rather than from a specific, discernable origin.
2 For example see Michael Pollan, The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four
Meals (New York: Penguin, 2006); Eric Schlosser, Fast Food Nation: The Dark Side
of the All-American Meal (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2001); Barbara Kingsolver,
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life (New York: HarperCollins, 2007);
Marion Nestle, Food Politics: How the Food Industry Influences Nutrition and Health
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002).
3 Similar to pharmaceutical companies, agrochemical companies such as Bayer
CropScience, Syngenta, BASF, Dow AgroSciences, Monsanto, DuPont, among
others, disseminate reports attesting to the safety of their products. Agrow World
Crop Protection News and Analysis Service provides an overview of these
companies and their output. www.agrow.com.
4 Archer Daniels Midland (ADM) is a multi-billion dollar food processing company
that “connects the harvest to the home by transforming crops that serve vital needs
for food and energy.” http://www.adm.com/en-US/Pages/default.aspx.
5 “Food CPI and Expenditures,” USDA ERS Briefing Room, accessed January
10, 2011, http://www.ers.usda.gov/briefing/cpifoodandexpenditures/data/

Expenditures_tables/table7.htm. For lower income homes this percentage jumps to
25 percent.
6 “Pesticide Illness and Injury Surveillance,” NIOSH, CDC, accessed January 3, 2011,
http://www.cdc.gov/niosh/topics/pesticides/.
7 “Types of Pesticides,” EPA, accessed January 4, 2011, http://www.epa.gov/
opp00001/about/types.htm.
8 “EWG’s Shopper’s Guide to Pesticides,” Environmental Working Group, accessed
September 30, 2010, http://www.foodnews.org/.
9 “Endosulfan Phase-out,” Environmental Protection Agency, accessed January
14, 2011, http://www.epa.gov/oppsrrd1/reregistration/endosulfan/endosulfan-
agreement.html.
10 “Pesticides: A Public Problem,” Pesticide Action Network, accessed September 30,
2010, http://www.whatsonmyfood.org/index.jsp.
11 Statement credited to Earl Butz, Secretary of Agriculture under Nixon.
12 “Fertilizer Applied for Agricultural Purposes,” Environmental Protection Agency,
accessed January 7, 2011. http://cfpub.epa.gov/eroe/index.cfm?fuseaction=detail.
viewInd&showQues=Land&ch=50,48&lShowInd=0&subtop=312&lv=list.
listByQues&r=216629.
13 Jan Willem Erisman, Mark A. Sutton, et. al., “How a century of ammonia synthesis
changed the world,” Nature Geoscience, 1 (2008): p. 637.
14 USGS, “Pesticides in the Nation’s Streams and Ground Water, 1992-2001-A
Summary,” http://pubs.usgs.gov/fs/2006/3028/.
15 According to the USDA, by 2010, adoption rates for biotech crops reached an all-
time high with biotech corn at 86 percent, and cotton and soybeans at 93 percent.
“Adoption of Genetically Engineered Crops in the U.S.: Extent of Adoption,”
USDA, accessed January 14, 2011. http://www.ers.usda.gov/Data/BiotechCrops/
adoption.htm.
16 In 2000 a number of people reported allergic reactions to taco shells that had been
contaminated by StarLink corn. Although the CDC did not find any evidence
that StarLink was responsible for these reactions, Aventis (the maker of StarLink)
voluntarily withdrew registration for it. For more information, see the CDC (http://
www.cdc.gov/media/pressrel/r010613a.htm) and the EPA (http://www.epa.gov/
oppbppd1/biopesticides/pips/starlink_corn.htm).
17 “Australian Organic Canola Growers Upset by GM Canola,” Seed Today December
23, 2010, accessed January 16, 2011, http://www.seedtoday.com/articles/Australian_
Organic_Canola_Growers_Upset_by_GM_Canola__Farm_Weekly_-102912.html.
18 Extension Toxicology Network, http://pmep.cce.cornell.edu/profiles/extoxnet/24d-
captan/24d-ext.html.
19 Arthur Dewar, “Agrow’s Top 20: 2007 Edition,” Agrow Reports (2007):39-48,
accessed January 5, 2011, http://www.agrow.com/multimedia/archive/00053/
DS258_58994a_53150a.pdf.
20 Open Secrects, accessed January 14, 2011, http://www.opensecrets.org/lobby/
indus.php?lname=A++&year=a.
21 Fred Kirschenmann, director of the Leopold Center for Sustainable Agriculture
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at Iowa State University, cites four major threats to industrialized agriculture –

the three listed here as well as ecological degradation. See Kalpa, “The 4 major
threats to industrialized agriculture – Fred Kirschenmann speaks,” Energy
Bulletin, September 17, 2010, http://www.energybulletin.net/print/54284.
22 David Pimentel, “Environmental and Economic Costs of the Application
of Pesticides Primarily in the United States,” Environment, Development and
Sustainability 7 (205): 248.
23 “Agricultural Chemical Usage: Field Crops Summary,” NASS, USDA (2008): 79.
24 As discussed by Patricia Allen et al., the motivation for alternative agro-food
systems is to increase consumer choice not to effect structural changes to the
overall food system. See Patricia Allen et al, “Shifting plates in the agrifood
landscape: the tectonics of alternative agrifood initiatives in California,” Journal
of Rural Studies 19(2003): 61-75. For further discussions of limits of alternative
agro-food systems, see Sandy Brown and Christy Getz, “Privatizing farm worker
justice: Regulating labor through voluntary certification and labeling,” Geoforum
39(2008): 1184-1196, and David Goodman and Michael Goodman, “Localism,
Livelihoods and the ‘Post-Organic’: Changing Perspectives on Alternative Food
Networks in the United States,” in Alternative Food Geographies: Representation
and Practice. Ed by Damian Maye et al. (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2007) 23-38.
25 See www.asla.org for past winners.
26 For examples, see “5 Urban Design Proposals for 3D City Farms: Sustainable,
Ecological and Agricultural Skyscrapers.” http://weburbanist.com/2008/03/30/5-
urban-design-proposals-for-3d-city-farms-sustainable-ecological-and-
agricultural-skyscrapers/.
27 Examples include replacing monoculture with polyculture through use of
multi-, inter- or strip-cropping, permaculture, and/or perennial cropping.
PART IV
FEMINIST PRACTICES IN COMMUNITIES

16
Urban Threads
Janet McGaw
Feminism has entered its third wave, somewhat stealthily, unwilling to disappear
as the agendas of its first wave (suffrage) and second wave (equal opportunity)
appear to many to have been fulfilled. The aims of the third wave are no longer
singular, having broadened to address multiple issues in the wake of post-
structural critique. For feminist architects issues include the gendered body as
a mediator of spatial experience, the intersection of gender with other forms
of marginalities including race, class, and poverty, critiques of hierarchies of
authorship (through collaboration) and critiques of traditional modes of practice
that essentialize site and privilege object-making over process and other sensory
experiences. This chapter explores one project in light of the writings of Jennifer
Bloomer, Elizabeth Grosz, Susan Buck-Morss and Jane Rendell, four theorists who
have helped prise open the cannon of architecture to dissident practices over the
past two decades. It is a project that Rendell might describe as a “critical spatial
practice”, a term that she invented to describe “a work that transgresses the limits
of art and architecture and engages with the social and the aesthetic, the public
and the private” (Rendell 2006). This chapter explores just one project, an urban
installation in Melbourne’s alcoves and back lanes, that engages with many
of these third wave feminist issues. “Urban Threads” was a collaboration in
October 2004 between the author of this chapter and five women who had
experienced homelessness and marginalization. It consisted of nine domestic
‘rooms’ and a path that connected them, exploring the discursive ways in
which private place is staked out in the public realm.1 Paul Carter defines
discursive place-making as a “flight of words, hands and feet,” suggesting
an interpersonal context, an iterative process of fabrication, a performative
process of assembly, installation, and disassembly, as well as an invitation
to passers by to enter into “dialogue”.2 Textual discourse preceded the
fabrication and framed the project conceptually. In particular the writings of
a number of feminist theorists whose theories and practice have prised open
the cannon of architecture to dissident practices over the past two decades.
This chapter will tell the story of the installation and reflect on the work of
these women who unknowingly shaped its development.
Private Places in the Public Realm
Michel de Certeau observed that spatial power plays out in the most subtle
and intricate ways (Certeau 1984). Power is not only evidenced through
property ownership, which he referred to as strategic. Ordinary, and indeed
marginalized, citizens have a spatial power at their disposal too: movement
and timing. These fluid operations, that de Certeau calls “tactical”, enable the
appropriation of space, even if only for a brief period of time.
Architecture is typically seen as strategic; sited, owned, permanent. Certainly it is
usually accessible only to those who have the means to own land, buy materials and
engage labour to construct it. This installation was an exercise in testing the extent
to which architecture could be tactical. We deliberately chose sites that belonged
to other people, materials that could be scavenged and transfigured, methods of
fabrication that were immediate and modes of construction that were temporary,
fragile and open to interference by the passing public. Part of the exercise was to
record the response of the city.
What does it mean to mark out a private territory in public space? We all mark out
a personal zone as we wander the city, but for most it is fleeting and unremarkable.
For those without a home to sleep in at night, however, this is a pressing need. Public
spaces are transformed into private places through acts of ablution, sleeping, eating,
and through the accumulation of possessions normally kept from view. These are
geographic spaces that have a static, though usually temporary quality. They are
the spaces transformed at dusk for occupation overnight. The same locations might
be returned to each night (until security guards, police or property owners move
them on), but signs of inhabitation are usually disassembled each morning. The
daytime spaces are less visible and static, though no less real. They are trajectories,
or “wandering lines”, as Michel de Certeau (1984) calls them, “a migrational, or
metaphorical city” (Certeau 1984) that exists alongside the physical infrastructure.
This is an invisible passage mapped out by the homeless as they move between
sites of rest. And there is a third type of occupation. Political scientist, Nancy Fraser,
argues that spaces that provide recuperation, resistance and “home” are not just
physical spaces but “theoretical, analytical and spatial displacements” where
“marginals” can come together to imagine new possibilities and can be confident
of their safety, support and encouragement (Fraser 1991). These are places defined
by their social context rather than their geographical location; they can be relocated
and still retain their potency as home. The installation we created together explored
the nature of these different types of private place that the homeless stake out in
the public realm. It was made from reclaimed rubbish (mostly discarded clothes
and other fabrics) and explored the issues that each woman deals with in her daily
occupation of the city. We named the installation Urban Threads.
urban threads 319
Urban Threads: An Installation 16.1 Sophie’s

bedroom.
My role was not easy to define. I was the initiator, facilitator and curator. But it would Photograph: Tim
Herbert 2004,
be wrong to compartmentalize my involvement through these terms. Although my with permission.
collaborators made all of the creative works that were installed in the city, it was
in the transference that occurred between us, the collision of our different worlds,
that our new creative work arose. My collaborators were Kylie O’Brien, “Sophie”,
“Ally”, “Joan” and Joeline. Some chose anonymity, others wanted recognition
for their work. Lesley Bardsley from Wesley Mission Melbourne and Bernadette
Suter and Gabrielle Bennett from Living Room Primary Health Service provided
practical and emotional support for these women and were closely involved in the
process. Together they ran a lunchtime support meeting, Time Out @ the Place. The
Place is a small meeting room owned by Wesley Mission Melbourne where we
met to share lunch, stories and fabricate our installation.
The first “rooms” were bedrooms. The women made a collection of three
chrysalis-like sleeping enclosures that were assembled from an array of
materials including bubble wrap, plastic, cardboard and carpet remnants.
They were suspended in a series of alcoves in city laneways. Homelessness is
often a transitory experience and always a transforming one; the chrysalis is a
vessel for metamorphosis that always has a way out.
The second series of “rooms” were WAR(d)robes for which the women
produced a number of garments. The garments were constructed from
16.2 Kylie’s donated clothes that were reconfigured with scissors and plastic, electrical
WAR(d)robe cable ties. They were hung, some together, in a few of the city’s closet-like
Photograph:
ante-spaces, and some separately in front of existing floodlights to create
David McGaw
2004 moving, shadowy silhouettes on temporary billboards at night. These were
connected along a path to each other and to Living Room (a Primary Health
Service that all of the women access) and to Dining Room (one of those rare
places where the homeless can find free or subsidized food). The path, which
we called The Path of Most Resistance (and Least Distance), was the shortcut
two of my collaborators used to get from the site of the Bedrooms and
Living Room to the site of the WAR(d)robes. This shortcut passed through
the covered atrium of KPMG House, a multinational accounting firm, and
on through Georges, formerly Melbourne’s elite department store, now an
arcade of smaller specialty stores.
The Path of Most Resistance and (Least Distance) was interfered with
before it even began. A range of authorities deemed illegal every suggestion
for marking it, including chalk lines. The final installation, a literal “paper
trail” – arrows overlaid on the text of my correspondence with the city council
and property owners – was partially removed from walls within hours. The
chrysalises, mounted within arm’s reach behind screens of clear, flexible
polyethylene sheeting received mixed responses ranging from slashing with
a knife to careful re-housing of one of the chrysalises with another further
up the street (room sharing at the most basic level). One of the WAR(d)robes
urban threads 321
had to be relocated before it was completely installed when a property owner 16.3 The
withdrew his approval. Another was used as a resting place by a homeless Path of Most
Resistance (and
man in the evenings. All experienced varying degrees of assault from the
Least Distance)
weather. Photograph: Janet
Before the installation was completed, Time Out @ The Place had been McGaw 2004
disbanded. All my collaborators disappeared. With few surnames and no fixed
addresses none could be contacted. In many ways the aftermath demonstrated
the closure of a tactic as the strategic elements reasserted control over their
domain after a fleeting interruption by those who have only movement and
timing at their disposal.
How might we understand this place-making practice? At its conclusion it
seems a sad story of loss and defeat; of intimacy offered but not reciprocated.
Yet when one reads closer, there is also strength, perhaps defiance, and even
pride. I suggest that it was not so much an exercise in making place as it was
in marking it. And in marking, my collaborators and I offered insights into
the “other’s” experience of the city and invited the city to reciprocate in a
spatial, formal, material and textual dialogue. By way of elaboration a more
detailed description of some of the bedrooms and WAR(d)robes follows.
The Bedrooms
We called “Joan’s” bedroom Boxroom. It was a minimal and expedient
enclosure made from a cardboard box wrapped in bubblewrap, a meager
gesture towards protection from the outside world. Significantly, the lid was
left open as an escape route. “Joan” did not want to depict homelessness as
a permanent condition. The Boxroom was suspended from the steel frame of
some security bars above a door alcove. The plastic covering the door recess
had the following text inscribed:
Bedroom 1: Boxroom
When I’m sleeping rough, speed, and expediency shape my architecture. I
choose a quiet place while it’s still light where I’m not likely to be noticed
and I make my concrete bed as comfortable as possible.
“Joan” employs tactics ever so lightly, never quite believing she has the power
or right to encroach on a strategy for long or transform it in any dramatic way.
She invests little energy in making her “bedroom” comfortable or beautiful. I
wondered if doing so would validate her homeless state too much; something
she wants to move away from.
The second chrysalis was made by ‘Ally’. She described it as a “self –cocoon”,
a transparent body-sized bag literally filled with all her crutches. “Ally” has
never slept on the streets. Her homelessness is characterised by an unstable
home life in part caused by cyclic addictions. As a consequence, the chrysalis
she creates is not a reflection on home-making, but rather on the things that she
draws security from.
“Ally” named her chrysalis and wrote the text that was inscribed on the
enclosure to bedroom 2. It was as follows:
Bedroom 2 – Inside out and I’m still standing.

Underneath everyone’s clothes is the invisible self-cocoon
“Ally” is much more assertive than “Joan” in her demand that she be accorded
dignity and respect. She engages with the idea of usurping space from the city
and claiming it as a soapbox from which she can state her opinions – through
text rather than voice – in the belief that she might change public opinion.
“Sophie’s” chrysalis was housed in the third “bedroom”. It was a body sized
and shaped object wrapped in layers of carpet and cardboard. It was extremely
heavy, and as a consequence it was propped, rather than suspended, in a
corner of an alcove. “Sophie’s” enclosure had the following text inscribed on
it:
Bedroom 3: Don’t slam the door on the way out!

This is my chrysalis. It is my shield. In it I find warmth, protection, and a
place to regenerate. One day I will emerge, a beautiful butterfly.”
“Sophie” experienced the city as a physically cold environment where she

always had to find protection from a biting wind. Psychologically she felt
a need to demarcate a space around herself that created a distance from the
outside world. Although it was never overtly discussed, I suspected from
various comments she made that eating disorders and a distorted body image
urban threads 323
were aspects of her flight into homelessness. “Sophie’s” tactics are to shut the
city out physically and metaphorically. She seeks not so much to transform
the city as to transform herself so that the city ceases to impinge on her. Her
tactics turn inwards rather than outwards.
The WAR(d)robes
WAR(d)robe 1 was sited in a narrow window alcove in front of security bars in

a pedestrian lane. It contained two garments, created by Kylie and “Sophie.”
Kylie’s was reminiscent of a clown’s costume and “Sophie’s” alluded to an
old-fashioned navy and white nurse’s uniform. This ante-closet attempts a re-
description of identity of two new uniforms of office both endowed with powers
to incarcerate. The artist’s voices call for social change and the slashed and
reconfigured garments were acts of defiance. The text inscribed on the plastic
enclosure went as follows:
Towards new Uniforms of Office

“We live under martial law. I look forward to the day when police wear
clowns’ uniforms, drive Mr. Whippy vans and hand out lollipops.” (Kylie
O’Brien).
“I am intimidated by uniforms of authority. I feel powerless over a uniform.”
(“Sophie”)
Two garments were hung together in WAR(d)robe 3. One was made by “Ally”
and the other by “Joan”. This was the first of the night time billboards. Both
garments, fragile, billowing slips, were suspended from some protective. Ally
wrote the text:
WAR(d)robe 3: The noose of expectations

Attitudes are formed simply on the basis of what type of clothes you wear -
clothes do not maketh the man or woman.
When Ally presents her garment to the group at the end of the session she
holds it by the end of the man’s tie she had wrapped around the collar so that
it becomes a hangman’s knot. It is a reflection on the strangulating pressure she
feels to conform and the concomitant judgment. It is also an interesting clash
of dressing cultures: the masculine uniform of the city paired with the flimsy,
revealing, and feminine.
“Joan’s” garment is a non-garment. She creates the body beneath the garb, and
interestingly the fabric she has chosen, a loosely woven scrim curtain, renders
the body a mere skeleton. She too says that she feels judged by her appearance
and wishes people could see the person underneath. It becomes apparent that
one of the factors that has contributed to her homelessness is her pathological
body-image.
What are the tactics of those who don’t feel worthy to have a voice? This is a
complicated question. In this context, where my collaborators are surrounded
by people who affirm them, some seem to take hold of the opportunity for a
brief moment of power over their circumstances and have the confidence to
voice their views and experiences. But “Joan” is not one of them. A year later
“Joan” unexpectedly makes contact with me again and she reveals that she
never bothered to look at her work when it was installed. “I’m not a creative
person”, she said. A passer-by did not agree. A few days after the installation
was put up, a sticker saying “Vote 1 for Artists” was placed next to the sign.
Kylie O’Brien’s garment was the final WAR(d) robe. The tattered wedding
dress she had fabricated by montaging a discarded white dress with long
tendrils of plastic cut from supermarket shopping bags, is both a poignant
figure, a symbol of great expectations not fulfilled (she cited Miss Havisham
as she was making it) and also a triumph of capturing space in the city with
the most meager of means but with dramatic effect. Kylie had created a new
and ambiguous flâneur for Melbourne that extended the character of the
male Parisian wanderer into the feminine and the non-human realm. The
installation touched lightly on the site: the rope was tied off on existing posts
and bolts, the billboard was covered with calico using bulldog clips and tacks,
and the floodlight’s orientation was not altered. It was erected in few hours,
hung like a shadow puppet from a string for two weeks, and disassembled in
15 minutes. When night fell and the wind blew, the floodlight cast a shadow
onto the billboard that was sometimes dancing dress, sometimes witch, and
sometimes eerily undecipherable. She named it:
WAR(d)robe 4: Distant memories, lost dreams, faded hopes.
This installation was an exploration of the ways in which place in the city
can be more equitably created to reflect the broad populous of bodies that
occupy it. It also challenges architects’ traditional pecuniary relationship with
landowners and those who wield other sorts of social and political power. It
was a “minor architecture”.
Minor Architecture: Jennifer Bloomer
Jennifer Bloomer coined the term “minor architecture” as a critique of what she
perceived was a misunderstanding of poststructural philosophy by the (male)
architectural cognoscenti in the 1990s.
Eisenman is right: “Architecture will always look like architecture”. But

the “looks like” must be called into question…A minor architecture will
operate in the interstices of this architecture. Not opposed to, not separate
from, but upon/within/among: barnacles, bastard constructions, …
tattoos (ornament, embellishment)…An other writing upon the body of
architecture. (Bloomer 1993)
She suggests that this “other writing” is characterized by allegory as opposed to

symbols. Allegory contains ambiguous relationships between picture and text (it is
urban threads 325
16.4 Ally’s
chrysalis.
Photograph:
Janet McGaw
2004
hieroglyphic, or (s)cryptural, she calls it). But fundamentally, a minor architecture

challenges usual hierarchies: visual/material, permanent/transient, public/private,
laboured/expedient, precious/valueless.
There is no value given to visual aesthetics in our process. We do not seek

to anticipate what our chrysalises will look like, and as curator and facilitator
I consciously resist tidying things up. We do no drawings and the process of
fabrication is immediate and expedient. The result is the consequence of our
limited palette of materials, time, technical skill and raw feelings. Structure
is borrowed from the city and added to with only staples, rope and sticky
tape. Materials are worthless: cheap plastic, cable ties and discarded rubbish.
We follow sociologist, Michael Thompson’s suggestion that rubbish is a third,
covert category of material, not defined by its durability or ephemerality, but
by its flexibility. Discarded as valueless one day, it may be reborn the next.
Rubbish has the material status of maximum potential (Thompson 1979).
Co-creating Bodies and Cities: Elizabeth Grosz
Elizabeth Grosz argued that the corporeal ought to be given equal value to
the phenomenological or psychoanalytic in the interpretation of any specific
creation (Grosz 1994). In her feminist revision of the mind/body split in
philosophy, Grosz proposes that “bodies have all the explanatory power of
minds” (1994) and indeed in a complex exploration of the subject, inscriptions
and transformations of a body have a specificity (in particular, a sexual
specificity) that explorations of a generic mind do not. As an extension of
this, she suggests that the city is a collective prosthesis that simultaneously
protects and houses as much as it adopts the morphology and functions of
the imaginary bodies that occupy it. In a parallel process, cities regulate and
structure bodies (Grosz 2001), cities are not just products of the bodies that
occupy them, and nor are they simply representations of those bodies. Rather,
both are assemblages of parts that can “cross-breed”.
There are obvious extremes of this phenomenon, such as the human
becoming a cyborg (bionic ears and artificial limbs for example) and the
machine developing artificial intelligence. However, the relationship between
bodies and cities is often far more subtle and insidious. There is evidence that
social identity and body image (particularly women’s) develop in response
to different representations of the body within the city (billboard images
of “perfect” bodies) (Grosz 1992). There is even evidence of the gradual
modification of the muscular structure of a body as a result of its spatial
context (years spent using lifts and sitting at desks, for example). Conversely,
the city’s morphology is also subtly shaped by the bodies that occupy it.
Grosz draws heavily on insights from the disciplines of both psychoanalysis
and neurology, noting that the mental schema of one’s body can be
significantly different from the physical body one inhabits. Body image, which
is both innate and socio-culturally constructed, is defined here not simply as
one’s self-image, but the phenomenon of sensing how one’s bodily limits are
readily modified. For example, when driving, one has an internal sense of the
extent of the vehicle as if it is an extension of one’s body, and is thus able to
urban threads 327
manoeuvre it into tight spaces (Grosz 1994). Bodies, thus, have the capacity to
take in things from their environment to augment themselves.
If, then, we conceptualized the chrysalises and garments my collaborators
made as augmentations of their bodies – prostheses of sorts – what do they
reveal? Two corporeal conditions are integral to the body images’ of the
women who created Urban Threads: eating disorders and drug addiction.
Most of the participants who had been referred to Time Out @ the Place by
Living Room Primary Health Service had a history of drug use, and two (I
suspected) had had a history of eating disorders. Both conditions involve a
pathological relationship between one’s body and its capacity for taking in
things from the environment.
Grosz uses the term “the sexed body” rather than the “gendered body”
but one of the key symptoms of Eating Disorders is amenorrhoea, the absence
of a menstrual cycle. Early psychoanalytic views saw it as a regression from
instinctual sexual drives (Garfinkel 1995) and some even viewed it as a fear of
pregnancy. If the city is a collective body prosthesis, as Grosz suggests (Grosz
2001), then what kind of prosthesis is made by the body that is unable to take
anything in from the world? Or the one who impulsively takes in things that
diminish her capacity to function in the world?
Hilde Bruch, a key researcher of the pathology of Anorexia Nervosa in the
1950s, defined the condition as arising from a “distorted attempt at mastery for
persons who felt helpless in their worlds… linked with deficits in body image”
(Garfinkel 1995). A core feature of the disease is an inability to take in food, and
a distorted view of one’s shape and size. Bulimia Nervosa, which was defined
by Gerald Russell in the 1970s, is more common among impulsive personalities
who often exhibit problems with impulsivity in other domains such as theft,
alcohol or drug use. Ninety percent of sufferers of these conditions are women.
The “crutches” “Ally” placed in her bedroom/chrysalis she described as literal
extensions of her body. Her prostheses are chemical, not physical. Sophie’s
bedroom/chrysalis was shrouded in layers of cardboard, foam and carpet,
dense and impenetrable, that shut herself off from the city. Joan inhabits the city
lightly, almost invisibly. She punishes her body with hard surfaces, placing her
cardboard “box-room” in the angle where concrete footpath meets wall. What
we see in these narrow apertures in the city is not a physical augmentation of
self in the way a prosthesis is, but rather a shield against the world.
My collaborators’ capacity to shape the city was limited by their lack of
self-belief and self worth (McGaw and Vance 2008). Those who feel helpless
to control their world and turn inward to punish and control their body
through eating regimes and drugs have a limited capacity to change their
environment. What they do show by their creative works though, is that even
the barest of apertures are capable of occupation. They also demonstrate how
lightly they touch upon the fabric of the city, as their bedrooms dissipate over
the fortnight of their existence.
Grosz reminds us that it is the outsider, “the destitute, the homeless, the
sick and the dying… – including women and minorities of all kind” who serve
to cohere a community of “insiders”. (Grosz 2001) The outsider’s position is

not only negative; it is potentially both positive and innovative. The domains
that a discipline seeks to exclude usually form the edges of its operations and
are thus constant sites of negotiation. For architecture, she suggests these
edges are politics, bodies, technologies, and economics. Urban Threads, in
siting itself at each of these limits of the traditional concerns of architecture,
reveals quite specific relationships between the gendered, physical body and
material fabric of the city. But what of the gendered body-in-motion and the
city’s trajectories?
Wandering in the City: Susan Buck-Morss and Rebecca Solnit
Susan Buck-Morss’ reflection on Walter Benjamin’s writings in her “picture

book of philosophy”, The Dialectics of Seeing, has something of a common
objective to Grosz’s philosophical project on bodies and cities. (Buck Morss
1991) While Grosz seeks to balance philosophy’s historical preoccupation
with the mind by focussing on the body and by extension the morphology of
the city, Buck-Morss seeks to balance philosophy’s preoccupation with words
by introducing a parallel series of images. Buck-Morss pairs a photograph
of “a bag lady” with a quote from Benjamin about a bohemian woman he
observes sleeping under a Seine bridge:
All her household and personal possessions: two brushes, an open knife, a
closed bowl, are neatly arranged … creating almost an intimacy, the shade
of an interior around her. (Buck-Morss 1991)
But what kind of intimacy is it? Buck-Morss asserts that the “surveillance,
public censure and political powerlessness” (1991) that the homeless woman
experiences as she stakes out private territory in the city is in stark contrast
to the comfortable interior that Benjamin’s archetypal flâneur experiences.
Benjamin’s “flâneur” is a wandering dandy, voyeur, a poet, a “dreaming
idler”, at times a predator, and always male. For him, walking transforms
Paris into a comfortable, intimate interior space without thresholds.
For Benjamin, the enchantment of the city lay in its labyrinthine complexity,
an organizational structure that he believed could only be discovered through
wandering. While the street absorbs and seduces the male wanderer, or
flâneur, so he transforms Paris from a public realm into a private one. For
women, however, moving through the streets is a very different experience.
In the era when Benjamin was writing, merely walking in the street alone or
at the wrong time could place a woman under suspicion of prostitution and
give grounds for arrest. Rebecca Solnit, in her book Wanderlust: A History
of Walking (Solnit 2000) recounts the experience of Carolyn Wyburgh in
England in 1870, aged 19, who was seen walking with a soldier. She was
incarcerated for four days before agreeing to a pelvic examination which
confirmed her virginity. Streetwalking was prohibited for women and
urban threads 329
carried a three-month jail sentence. New Yorker, Lizzie Schauer, in 1895

who was on her way to her aunt’s house after dark, was similarly arrested
on suspicion of prostitution and “surgically raped” before she was released.
Even now amongst the homeless there is an assumption that women
ought not be on the streets after dark. “Sallie”, a homeless woman who’d
had a heroin addiction, recounted:
…if I was (sleeping out) on the street I’d at least have one male with me
for safety. I’m a big girl and can handle myself, but there’s no way I’d put
myself in that situation again. Bad things do happen to women on the
street. Some female friends of mine suffered worse; they ended up stuffed
into sports bags and dumped in the river (Byrne 2005).
But by day, the city also covertly and overtly restricts the trajectories of homeless
women. The Path of Most Resistance (and Least Distance) represented the
migrational path of my collaborators, their daytime wandering lines, and
revealed to those that trod the path, the resistances they experienced. The title
of the path came out of my discussion with Kylie and Joeline who recounted
experiences of being “moved on” by security guards, but I did not realise at the
time how apt it would become on many other levels. The process of marking
out the path became one of the most fraught and illuminating of the entire
installation. My original intention was to mark out the trajectory with chalk.
Unambiguous initially, it would fade over the weeks as rain and footprints
diminished its presence. But permission to do so was denied by the City
of Melbourne, deeming it an act of graffiti. It was after discussion with Paul
Carter, who observed that the correspondence was a paper trail of resistance,
that I decided to use the emails and letters between us as directional markers.3
The trail of arrows began to disappear within hours of being installed.
Those that were most vulnerable were the ones stuck temporarily to the
walls of private properties between the “rooms” of the installation. Erasure,
continued progressively over the life of the installation, rendering the
“rooms” increasingly dislocated from one another, mirroring the isolation
that my collaborators’ described. It was a spatial experience that could not be
captured by map or plan, the representational tools familiar to architects. One
had to tread the path, and in-so-doing read and write a new spatial story (De
Certeau 1984).
Conclusion
Although Urban Threads was specific, it models a way of practice that is

more broadly applicable. It embraces the difficulties of collaboration, values
a multiplicity of micro-narratives, delights in the immateriality of discourse
and the ephemerality of performance and reconsiders the value we place on
aesthetics. Specifically, it explores and develops Bloomer’s ideas of the “minor”,
Grosz’ ideas about the gendered and co-creating relations between bodies and
16.5 Discursive
Process: Making
Urban Threads.
Photography:
Janet McGaw
2004
cities and Buck-Morss (via Benjamin and Solnit’s) ideas about the gendered
experiences of wandering in the city.
Central to each of these theoretical framings is discursive processes. The dance
of establishing trust between the collaborators, the chatter of conversation that
accompanied and informed the making, the storytelling from my collaborators,
the acts of negotiation with the strategies that “own” the city, the physical to-
urban threads 331
ing and fro-ing during the erection of the installation, and the responses of
by passers-by, property-owners, authorities (and even the weather), were as
important as the objects that were installed. Performative architecture, a term
that has been around since the 1990s, has sought to critique the privileging of
the architectural object over the process. But the majority of explorations have
used performance as a design process (spontaneous sketching, cinematic freeze-
frames, parametric design tools, etc)4 so that architecture can be “performed”
into existence. For Urban Threads, the processes of its destruction revealed
as much as the processes of its generation (McGaw 2009). We discovered that
power relations between strategic and tactical players in the city are fluid and
constantly in negotiation. While we intended to be tacticians, it became quickly
apparent that we relied on benevolent strategies to support and accommodate
us (The University of Melbourne, Wesley Mission, Living Room Primary Health
Service) and strategies sometimes used tactics to thwart us.
While most architectural projects require conversation with clients, negotiation
with authorities and an iterative process of making, these are generally the
prosaic background rather than the foreground of the practice. In contemporary
art criticism there has been a shift over the past decade towards foregrounding
relational or dialogical practices. Rendell has recently revealed a growing
body of work in architecture (including practices like muf and public works)
for whom conversation and active listening plays a central role (Rendell 2006).
Discursive processes such as these give agency to the outsider, acknowledge
the importance of intersubjectivity in the making of our built environment, and
upend traditional power imbalances between designer and stakeholder.
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McGaw, J. 2009. Reciprocal performances: the (un)making of an architecture. The Journal
of Architecture, 14(2), 219-236.
Rendell, J. 2006. Art and Architecture: a Place Between. London, New York: I.B. Taurus.
Rendell, J., Penner, B., and Borden, I. (2000) Gender Space Architecture: An Interdisciplinary
Introduction. New York & London: Routledge.
Solnit, R. 2000. Wanderlust: a history of walking. New York: Viking.
Thompson 1979). Rubbish Theory: the creation and destruction of value. Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Notes
1 The description and images of the installation was previously published as

McGaw, J. 2006. Urban threads. The Journal of Architectural Education, volume(59)
12-18.
2 In conversation, 2007.
3 In conversation, 2007.
4 Practitioners and theorists who have used these design processes include Coop
Himmelb(l)au, Bernard Tschumi, Eisenman, Rem Koolhaas and Greg Lynn.
17
Preparations for the Afterlife: Barking Town Square muf

architecture/art
Liza Fior and Katherine Clarke (muf architecture)
This is an expanded account of a presentation of one project for a new public

space in the very East of London, a destination for any traveller falling asleep on
an eastbound Hammersmith and City Line. It is concerned with what it takes to
make a space that will endure once the architect leaves the site.
Barking Town Square, by way of the UK Pavilion in Venice 2010, was
used as a means to describe the tactics needed to promote the value of the
public realm to those, particularly the client paying for it, who do not go
to conferences or read publications such as this, and to build trust over the
five years it took to complete the project. Tactics and contrivances included
invitations and ways into the design process, which extended the project
beyond our design team and the site itself. These tactics also necessitated
a flexible understanding of who the client was: the developers funding the
project or the ultimate user.
Barking Town Square was presented in the exhibition Feminist Practices
when only half completed, when the arboretum stage 2 of the project was
only an illustration. This text is an opportunity to theorize, if we can rely
on Raymond Williams’s explanation of “theory” as a “scheme of ideas
which explain practice”. The talk which first generated this text (Vienna,
November 2010) was revisited as an opportunity for further reflection.
Although the built project for the square was completed in Spring 2010,
further negotiations since then include rewriting a maintenance contract in
order that a local city farm take responsibility for the everyday gardening
and be on the alert for stray vodka bottles left nestling in the woodland
planting after a Saturday night.
The architect acts as agent – sometimes double agent – in the realization
of a brief. This is inevitable when a brief is for a public space and by a client
who is wary of what that might imply.
Before the presentation proper, the talk began with the observation that it
was ironic to be talking about the potential of the public realm at a time when
17.1 The urban the impact of recent cuts in public services is already apparent. You telephone
arboretum a local authority client for some routine matter and discover they no longer
work there; you are arguing for the priority of a built scheme over keeping
a library open, and the question is how complicit you are when you apply
your skills, whether tactical or spatial, to keeping safe, shared spaces.
Design cannot be separated from the wider political landscape and from
discussions about what is cut, what is sold, what is precious, what can go,
how hard it is to replace things once gone, and finally what is of value.
The presentation began with the image in Figure 17.1, a photograph
taken in a moment that took 5 years to compose. Just as Jeff Wall composes
his pictures meticulously, for example installing a subject in a flat so that
it is sufficiently lived in before taking the shot, this picture of children
clambering over a vast semi-submerged fallen tree trunk took five years
to realize. The invisible armature that made the snapshot possible is a
continuous web of negotiations, small battles and tactical moves. Process
and project as object are given equal status and the marginalia of making
the project and making it possible are given equivalence.
Meaning can be changed by occupation rather than typology, a point
illustrated by the slide from Paris ’69 (the strikes continued after ’68) – we
think of the Ecole des Beaux Arts – where the Director’s office has been re-
designated as a crèche. This renaming is a reverse form of master planning
establishing strategy through detail: use is described through use.
A short description of the UK pavilion in Venice authored by muf is used
as a quick introduction to both the argument and the methodology employed.
The pavilion was furnished with The stadium of close looking™, a 1:10 model
of a section of London’s Olympic stadium, repurposed as a drawing studio
flanked by examples of fragile ecologies including ephemera from the British
and Italian Women’s Movement. The pavilion made room for Venetian
preoccupations both as exhibit and meeting place. In many ways the entire
six-month process from commissioning was a preparation for the final day, the
preparations for the afterlife 335
17.2 Paris use

suggests use
17.3 UK
pavilion in Venice
17.4 Shady
public space
only day when people could “meet in architecture” (the premise of the whole
Biennale) without paying €20. Not only was the pavilion materially adjusted but
there was also a continuous and repeated attempt to make it available through
meetings and collaborations. The project intention was to muddy the edges of
the building’s boundaries and footprint: see www.VillaFrankenstein.com for
a presentation of the pavilion content and in particular the 21st of November
Salutiamo Venezia, when different interested parties – including those protesting
about water privatization and the selling off of hospitals as hotels – used the
stadium for meetings, while at the same time children quietly but busily built
large nests in the undercroft.
Barking Town Square, Introduction to Context
Barking is a place with a history, the site of a seventh century abbey, industry
(fishing boat building) and then high postwar unemployment, until it became
the site of grand plans for the “Thames Gateway,” an extension of London with
Barking as a new town centre with a new town square. Suddenly a place where
there had been no investment for 60 years was filled with cranes. In this situation
the things that seemed most fragile were the “civic;” the Town Hall literally
overshadowed by private housing and secondly, the place of history in the midst
of change.
muf were responsible for the public realm for a commercial mixed-use
development, that included street level council offices and a library, classrooms
and café with housing above. The end client and landowner, to whom the square
would eventually be handed over, was the London Borough of Barking and
Dagenham, the immediate project client was a developer of volume housing, and
the architects were the successful and busy UK practice AHMM.
The project was delivered in stages and each increment was an opportunity
to build trust with the client for the next stage: each design move prefigured the
next. Our commission was to create a town square, “a sunny space for new and
existing communities to meet and drink coffee in the sun,” “a platform for social
cohesion”.
Illustrated is a first analysis of the site demonstrating that sunny space was
actually shady and that the height and configuration of the new buildings would
draw in a southeasterly wind. This reading allowed us to make the first move
to divide the site in two and make shady more shady, our understanding of
public space not as an unremitting condition of cheeriness but the assertion that
mystery, moodiness, and the desire to be alone have their place.
The scheme is two linked spaces: one empty, one filled. The first a hard
landscape, as open ended; as a platform for use as the original construction
drawings for the town hall, where moving chairs around could turn the space
from a boxing ring to a dance hall. The second space we filled with trees and
protected by naming it an urban arboretum. Most importantly at this early stage,
we were invited to make an art commission with an unusually open brief in
terms of site and outcome: we secured a site at the west end of the proposed
square which rendered the L-shaped site a T, a bastion from which we could
operate more independently.
The intuitive first reading of the limitations and opportunities of the site
was combined with weekly meetings with the architects. The footprints of
the buildings and the spaces between them registered the building up of
trust and one building became two. Pedestrian routes, as rights of way,
made their way through the site.
17.5 Sunny
public space
Phase 1 Years 2-3 17.6 Public

space
The first 2 and 3 phase years delivered two wildly contrasting pieces of the
final square. One intentionally self effacing with little to argue about, the
second complex in its making.
The area in front of the Town Hall was paved in pink Spanish granite.
That was it, apart from long timber benches painted in the palest of pink,
deliberately sacrificial ready to register the vandalism that was predicted.
What happened? People simply sat on them, and anxiety concerning the
inappropriate behaviour that the provision of public space might provoke
was addressed. The role of the civic was celebrated in oversized terrazzo
paving and urban chandeliers (designed with Tom Dixon) that made a route
between shopping street and Town Hall.
The art commission was under way. A folly, its provenance was very
different to the rest of the square. It was as much about its procurement
and making as its role formally. This 7-metre high folly not only makes the
L-shaped site of the original brief into a T but masks the back of a supermarket
in an adjoining street by introducing a new façade which is only one brick
thick. It can be read as a memento mori facing the new architecture of the new
Barking, incomplete and alluding to a lost history for the site. This instant
ruin is a composition of architectural salvage, built drawing on the expertise
of the master bricklayers of Barking College. The art commission was not on
17.7 Folly wall the site controlled by the developer, but adjacent to it, though all seemed
in background to belong to a single whole. The main contractors were both amused and
supportive of the traditional building techniques just next to the main site.
Once unveiled the folly allowed us to introduce detail in the making of the
next phase and was a model for the role of the bucolic, the open ended, a
container for some things lost.
The two parts of the new square, open hard-landscaped “room” and
arboretum, are conjoined with a set of steps (exact copies in form and scale
of the steps to the Town Hall) which extend as a stage, with power, water
and internet access. In advance of delivering the next phase, we substituted
the generic developer’s publicity hoarding (construction fencing) with a 1:1
model of these steps backed by an image of woodland, a hoarding that you
could sit in, where again the “what might happen” with the introduction
of informal seating was demonstrated by use, co-opted as stage and photo-
opportunity as much as for lounging.
17.8
Construction
fencing and steps
17.9
Construction
fencing and steps
17.10
Construction
fencing and steps
17.11 The urban

arboretum
17.12 The urban

arboretum
By now many arguments had been won: the new public space recognized as a
space for events and gatherings, both formal and informal; the possibilities of
mixing detail and background, the bespoke and the generic; and the place of
art practice all within a culture of the design-build project where limiting risk
is so high a priority and design is considered the highest risk of all.
The arboretum is a series of micro woodland ecologies. Glades of multi-
stem birch trees with forest floor planting are interspersed by other set pieces;
cherry trees are placed around the stage with swamp cypresses deeper into the
plan. The arboretum combines nature and artifice, the low walls to mitigate
the wind from the surrounding building are cast in shuttering impressed with
a tree bark pattern usually seen in German car parks of the 1970s, and indulged
forays to Epping Forest to select branches cast as the balustrade uprights. The
benches tested in phase 1 went through multiple transformations, stretching
around to protect planting, somewhere for two people to sit at the end of a
tiled promontory. The arboretum is adjacent to the library. Different overtures
were made to the librarians, one of which was a collaboration with a writer
and product design students from the Royal College of Art who made library
furniture both for inside and outside as temporary furnishings. Two of the
students’ pieces were made permanent. Again, the collaboration was a means
to pursue ideas outside the main contract and programmed.
The client had by this time, conceded so many of their reservations and
the public realm, which had seemed a hindrance to selling flats, was by now
being featured on the sales brochure. All that remained was the inclusion for
play. Stealth play had been previously included: the stage was being used for
performances, the square was both a site for special events, summer beach
volleyball, and winter temporary ice rink. However, we kept play until the
very last phase for year 5. Anxiety about the implications of what the public
realm might bring to land values was heightened when it came to the presence
of the child. Is not the act of agency in the architectural process the means to
represent those not included in the client team, for example the child?
The tactical moves to include play were a form of play in itself, appropriating
the structures of the building contract and the commission, to find uses outside
bald descriptions of hard and soft landscaping, wind mitigation and seating.
The final proposals intentionally were not conventional play equipment. Vast
tree trunks are partially sunk in the ground high enough to require safety
surface, somewhere for the urban child to experience some pleasures of a
forest which would require another hundred years before this arboretum got
there.
The client, recognizing the pleasures of his childhood, agreed to it at first
glance.
All pictures can be viewed in color on www.muf.co.uk
Credits
Barking Town Square Public realm

muf architecture art
With
Client Redrow
London Borough of Barking and Dagenham
Architects AHMM
Contrator Ardmore Construction
Barking College Building Trades (Bricklaying)
Platform 2, Royal College of Art
18
La Marqueta Mile: East Harlem, New York

Meta Brunzema
Introduction
La Marqueta Mile is an innovative economic development and public

space revitalization project that is currently underway in East Harlem,
New York City. The project site is located under a railroad viaduct in the
middle of Park Avenue, between East 111th Street and the Harlem River.
This mile-long space bisects a neighborhood where income, health and
educational attainment are among the lowest in New York City; a situation
that has been exacerbated by the current global economic crisis.
At present, the 22 City-owned blocks are mostly vacant or occupied by
parked cars; the only buildings are the 125th Street train station and two
aging public market halls south of 115th Street. These underutilized sites
under the viaduct (most are approximately 56 feet wide by 230 feet long)
form the median of Park Avenue and divide the dense, ethnically diverse
community. In addition, there are more than 25 vacant properties along
each side of Upper Park Avenue that further fragment the neighborhood
fabric.
Since 2001, the Harlem Community Development Corporation (HCDC)
– a New York State public benefit corporation charged with urban planning
and economic development in Upper Manhattan, has collaborated with
my architecture and urban design firm on a sustainable revitalization of
this complex site.
Working with selected community leaders, advisors and public
officials, we developed La Marqueta Mile as a new type of public project
that offers economic, cultural and learning opportunities to a community
that desperately needs them. In addition, the project seeks to increase the
resilience and adaptive capacity of the entire neighborhood with innovative
design and public engagement strategies. The ideas for La Marqueta Mile
were developed with my client Thomas G. Lunke, the director of planning
18.1 Park
Avenue and
111th street
looking north
18.2 Under
the viaduct at
116th street
looking north
la marqueta mile: east harlem, new york 349
18.3 Park
Avenue and
130th street
looking east
and development at HCDC; our staff members, project advisors and

community contacts also contributed exceptional research and insights.
Our project team started the planning and design process by examining
how poverty, discrimination and lack of opportunity are intertwined with
East Harlem’s history, geography and built environment.
The Impact of Railway Development on Park Avenue
Park Avenue is one of New York’s most unusual thoroughfares for a variety
of reasons. It shares its right-of-way with the Metro-North Railroad from
Grand Central Terminal at 42nd Street to 133rd Street and the Harlem
River; and traverses Manhattan’s least and most valuable real estates. The
striking contrast between the economically depressed areas surrounding
Park Avenue in East Harlem – the site of La Marqueta Mile – and the luxury
district south of 96th street can perhaps be explained by the tumultuous
history of the Metro-North Railroad Harlem Line on Park Avenue.
When early 19th Century planners contemplated moving horse-drawn
freight on rails from the heart of Manhattan to Upstate New York, Fourth
Avenue – as Park Avenue was then known – was chosen because it was less
developed than its neighboring avenues. The rail tracks ran at grade until
1871, when accidents and the noise from newly-developed steam engines
forced them to be submerged in a below-grade open cut. In 1902, after train
engines were electrified, all the rail functions on Park Avenue between 42nd
and 96th Streets were enclosed below grade (New York Times, 1902b). The
vast rail yard located between 42nd and 50th streets was covered by a huge
three-block wide platform – creating new real-estate development sites
and a wide park in the middle of Park Avenue. Grand Central Terminal
opened in 1913 with a spectacular Beaux Arts structure, and from 1915 to
1931 this new district was built with luxury apartments, hotels and offices
(Gray, 2010). To this day, some of the wealthiest New Yorkers live on Park
Avenue south of 96th Street.
Somewhat inadvertently, Park Avenue in East Harlem acquired a
completely different character. In 1892, the U.S. War Department requested the
construction of a new and higher Harlem River bridge to the Bronx – citing
the need to accommodate tall war ships (New York Times 1893). As a result,
the upper Park Avenue rail cut was filled, and a 37-block long viaduct was
constructed to meet the higher grade of the new bridge. Completed in 1897,
the massive steel viaduct was immediately blamed for dropping Park Avenue
land values between 96th and 133rd streets; resulting in East Harlem property
owners filing hundreds of lawsuits against the railroad company (New York
Times, 1902a).
Fragments of a Beaux-Arts Plan
The construction of the Park Avenue viaduct probably also spoiled a larger
plan to connect two Beaux Arts boulevards: Manhattan’s lower Park Avenue
and the Grand Boulevard and Concourse in the Bronx. Originally conceived
in 1890 and completed in 1909, the 180-foot wide Concourse was part of a
vast Beaux Arts plan for New York City that tied together the newly merged
boroughs with bridges, parks, tree-lined boulevards and speedways. This
vision was developed by Louis A. Risse, the chief engineer of New York City’s
Topographical Bureau. In 1900, Risse and his staff created a 24 by 28 foot map
of New York City that was exhibited at the 1900 World’s Fair in Paris, where
it was one of the greatest attractions (New York Times, 1899). Unfortunately,
this huge Beaux Arts drawing has been lost – and perhaps Risse’s grand urban
vision vanished as well. Over the years, both the Grand Concourse and lower
Park Avenue were significantly modified, and most of the gracious green
spaces were taken over by the automobile. Despite numerous attempts by city
planners, a direct connection between Park Avenue and the Grand Concourse
in the Bronx was never realized.
East Harlem was settled in the late 19th century by Germans who were joined
by Irish, Jewish, Italian and Eastern European immigrants soon thereafter.
After the Second World War, most of the original settlers had moved into other
middle-class neighborhoods – and sizable African American and Puerto Rican
communities took their place. From the 1940s on, 24 public housing projects
were built in East Harlem – one of the highest concentrations of low income
housing in America. Today, more than a quarter of East Harlem’s residents live
18.4 Park
Avenue and
127th street
looking east
in these federally subsidized housing projects – many of which are “Towers in

the Park” built by Robert Moses. The remainder of the housing stock consists of
fragments of 19th and 20th century row houses and modern apartment houses.
In the last 20 years, the local population has diversified to include African,
Caribbean and Mexican immigrants as well as native-born populations.
The Rise and Fall of La Marqueta
In 1936, New York City Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia opened La Marqueta, a

group of five enclosed market halls under the viaduct between East 111th and
116th streets. This commercial complex was designed to give a home to the
maze of independent pushcarts peddlers that gathered under the viaduct’s
trestle. La Marqueta soon developed into a popular Latino marketplace – a
“steaming, fragrant, noisy, tropical bazaar” (Mindlin 2008). which had its
heyday in the 1950s and 1960s with more than 500 vendors. It was the sort
of place where one could spend the entire day – food shopping, browsing
and socializing with friends. This enclosed market, once the spiritual heart of
East Harlem’s Puerto Rican community, declined in the 1970s when tropical
foods became widely available in neighborhood grocery stores and when the
City shifted investment away from light manufacturing. Today, three of the
market buildings have been demolished and a fourth is shuttered; with only
one publicly accessible building and less than a dozen market vendors.
18.5 La
Marqueta at
Park Avenue and
115th street
Over the last 30 years, many efforts to re-develop the legendary Latino
marketplace failed, in part because the development proposals were not able
to meet the financial expectations of the City combined with community
disagreements over the development concept and proposed uses. In 2007,
the most ambitious of these proposals, a six-block Latino-themed retail and
food mall, failed to attract private financing. These and other systemic issues
contributed to this outcome. For example, the City-owned site is legally part
of Park Avenue’s street bed; it is not a conventional development property
that can be used as collateral for a conventional real-estate development loan.
It is therefore not a surprise to find that today’s only active investments under
the viaduct are a garden centre and a City-sponsored community kitchen in
one of the old La Marqueta market halls.
Lack of Retail Choices
A recent retail survey by East Harlem-based Manhattan Community Board

#11 found that many consumers shop outside of the district because of
a lack of retail choices. More than 90 percent of the survey respondents
expressed interest in new restaurants in East Harlem and 85 percent
wanted more food and nutrition stores. The survey also showed strong
demand for art, recreation and entertainment services as well as book and
electronic stores (Costa, 2010). In a separate study, The Center for an Urban
18.6
La Marqueta
Mile site plan
Future, a New York City policy think tank, confirmed that East Harlem has
the lowest ratio of retail stores per capita in the entire city (Giles, 2010).
The La Marqueta Mile Project
The lack of retail and food choices in East Harlem, the isolation of La
Marqueta and the disjointed urban fabric near the railroad viaduct are
symptoms of a severely stressed urban system. East Harlem’s poverty and
unemployment rates are among the highest in New York City. The US
Census (2005-2009) finds that East Harlem’s median income is $28,000.00
per year. Furthermore, the Fiscal Policy Institute reports an average
unemployment rate of 13.6% in the area; for Blacks and Hispanics the rate
rises to 17 percent. There are of course many other factors – such as low
educational attainment, racial intolerance and sexual prejudice that also
contribute to the fragmentation and inertia of the neighborhood.
Right from the start, our team realized that bold and systemic
interventions would be necessary to increase East Harlem’s social and
economic mobility and help people transform their lives. Our project had
to strategically engage East Harlem’s existing strengths, address its lack of
resources and foster support networks. Most importantly, we wanted to
capture the untapped energy, creativity and resourcefulness of the people
of East Harlem and enhance their collective ability to solve economic,
social and environmental problems.
To achieve these goals, we developed La Marqueta Mile, a completely
new type of public market and park promenade located under the Park
Avenue viaduct, from 111th Street to the Harlem River. This site will
be transformed from a series of underutilized spaces to a public market
with light manufacturing and retail clusters for food, art and crafts that
are interspersed with informal public spaces for eating, culture and
entertainment. The dense, yet porous development offers multiple points
of entry to the neighborhood and also establishes a pedestrian connection
between Central Park and Harlem River Park.
Specifically, we plan to build commercial spaces as small as 80 square
feet (or larger) and aggregate them in loose clusters along the 22-block site.
These small production/retail spaces would be affordable to East Harlem
residents who want to open or relocate a food, art or craft production
business. New entrepreneurs would participate in skill and business
training – and benefit from shared amenities and resources. We currently
estimate that approximately 900 small businesses and over 4,000 jobs
could be created – a major boon for a city where independent businesses
continue to be squeezed out by national chain stores.
We plan to develop a large number of food production/retail facilities
with shared and individual kitchens to enable local residents to participate
in one of New York City’s most profitable light manufacturing sectors.
Ethnic and specialty foods, bakery products and more would be sold at
La Marqueta Mile and also to catering companies, restaurants and grocery
stores. We imagine hundreds of food kiosks and outdoor eateries along the
pedestrian promenade that would offer locally made dishes – an amazing
way to experience East Harlem’s ethnic and cultural diversity.
La Marqueta Mile will also provide more shopping options in a
neighborhood that seriously lacks retail stores and where so few groceries
sell healthy food that it was recently declared a “food desert” by New York
City public health and planning officials.
Unlike most public open spaces in New York City, La Marqueta Mile
is designed to be financially self-sufficient – not dependent on ongoing
public subsidies for its maintenance. Project revenues from commercial
rents or leases will pay for administration and financing costs as well as
for recruiting, training and marketing programs. Art and culture groups
will raise their own funding.
At the time of writing, the project has gathered the political support it
needs to begin the next planning phases that will include feasibility studies,
the expansion of strategic funding, development and programmatic
partnerships, and a community-based “open design” process. We
anticipate that it will take several years to realize the mile-long project.
Thinking in Systems
Let’s face it, the universe is messy. It is nonlinear, turbulent and chaotic.
It is dynamic. It spends its time in transient behavior on its way to
somewhere else, not in mathematically neat equilibria. (Meadows, 2008)
Complex Systems Theory offers an interesting framework for understanding

East Harlem as well as our planning and design process for La Marqueta
Mile. This theory is based on 40 years of applied and theoretical research
in Ecology, Physics, Sociology and other disciplines.
Generally speaking, systems are defined as a set of elements that are
interconnected in some way to produce their own pattern of behavior
over time; for instance cities, companies, forests or molecules. In essence,
complex systems constantly reorganize or adapt themselves in response to
disturbances. In cities, these impacts might include economic crises, real
estate cycles or natural disasters; for animal or plant species, they could be
predators, fires or sudden changes water, air or soil quality. The health of
a system is measured by its resilience, which is its ability to absorb shocks
and recover after disturbance, and its adaptive capacity or ability to shape
change. Systems are regulated by flows of information or feedback loops.
(Meadows, 2008)
In her book Thinking in Systems, Donella H. Meadows states that complex
systems are inherently unpredictable and cannot be controlled.
The goal of foreseeing the future exactly and preparing for it perfectly
is unrealizable. The idea of making a complex system do just what you
want it to do can be achieved only temporarily, at best. (Meadows, 2008)
She offers interesting thoughts on addressing the uncertainty inherent in

systems.
If you can’t understand, predict, and control, what is there to do?

Systems thinking leads to another conclusion, however-waiting,
shining, obvious as soon as we stop being blinded by the illusion of
control. It says that there is plenty to do, of a different sort of ‘doing.’
The future can’t be predicted, but it can be envisioned and brought
lovingly into being. Systems can’t be controlled, but they can be designed
and redesigned. We can’t surge forward with certainty into a world
of no surprises, but we can expect surprises and learn from them and
even profit from them. We can’t impose our will upon a system. We can
listen to what the system tells us, and discover how its properties and
our values can work together to bring forth something much better than
could ever be produced by our will alone. We can’t control systems or
figure them out. But we can dance with them! (Meadows, 2008)
While these concepts are well known in the art and science communities
as well as academia, Complex Systems Theory has not yet had a major
impact on New York City’s municipal planning culture. With the exception
of landscape planning where variability and adaptation are inherent traits,
larger public projects still seem to follow a standard “Goals and Strategies”
process aimed at creating narrowly defined projects with predictable
outcomes.
To some extent, the La Marqueta Mile project attempts to create a new
model for systems-based planning that fosters community resilience rather
than optimizing isolated sites in an urban system. This new approach
embraces uncertainty and change, makes local processes more clear,
responsive and engaging, and empowers people to make their own choices.
Sustainability, Adaptive Capability and Diversity
Sustainability is the capacity to create, test and maintain adaptive

capability. Development is the process of creating, testing and maintaining
opportunity. The phrase that combines the two, sustainable development
is therefore not an oxymoron but represents a logical partnership.
(Gunderson, 2006)
In their book Resilience Thinking: Sustaining Ecosystems and People in a Changing

World, scientists Brian Walker and David Salt suggest that diversity in all its
forms – biological, landscape, social and economic – enhances the resilience
and adaptive capacity of communities (Walker, 2006).
Our plan for La Marqueta Mile focuses on achieving diversity at many
levels: entrepreneurs and their staff, business sectors, products and
services as well as the spatial variety of the mile-long promenade. The

size of the smallest commercial unit – 80 square feet – was deliberately
designed to generate socio-economic diversity at La Marqueta Mile. This
small commercial unit would be affordable to a broad pool of potential
entrepreneurs, including street vendors and local residents from East
Harlem, especially youths, women, elderly and other traditionally
disadvantaged people. The example of a 12 square-foot spice business at La
Boqueria Market in Barcelona demonstrates that even smaller commercial
spaces can be economically viable if they are well integrated into a larger
commercial ecosystem. Bigger commercial spaces would be cheaper and
more efficient to build, but the numerous economic and social benefits of
giving career opportunities to a broad spectrum of local citizens outweighed
that argument. Furthermore, the small scale of the commercial units makes
it possible to design fine-grained and architecturally varied urban spaces
that are responsive to local conditions. To add flexibility, many of the small
commercial units will be outfitted with removable party walls so that the
businesses can expand or contract in response to changing market demands
or economic cycles.
In addition, we seek to attract a mix of ownership types – small privately
or family owned businesses, cooperatives and not-for profit enterprises,
as well as a variety of production/retail businesses and cultural uses. We
hope that this dense urban microcosm will catalyze far-reaching business
and personal networks, as well as innovative collaborations between
small businesses. Franchises of larger retail chains have been deliberately
excluded from our plan, because we think that independent businesses are
better able to withstand downturns in the economy. For instance, national
retail chains tend to suddenly close their least profitable stores. Independent
businesses also have another important advantage – which is that most of
their revenues are returned to the local community.
Investing in Food Production
It is interesting to point out that food manufacturing was an early interest

of my client Thomas Lunke – and that it has remained a defining element of
La Marqueta Mile. At the very beginning of the planning process, Thomas
Lunke arranged a visit to Chelsea Market, a huge factory building that
was transformed into a wholesale and retail center by the developer Irwin
Cohen for a set of small food manufacturers in the early 1990s in New York
City. This unique project was widely credited with revitalizing a formerly
isolated and dangerous area in West Chelsea, New York. Chelsea Market
was founded with a high concentration of family-owned businesses
including Amy’s Bread, Ruthie’s Cheesecake and Fat Witch Brownie –
each with their own production facility and retail store. These unique food
manufacturing businesses were instrumental in creating Chelsea Market’s

success.
Irwin Cohen eventually became an informal project adviser. He
argued strongly in favor of a developing a large array of independent
food wholesale/retail businesses at La Marqueta Mile as a way to create
local community wealth. He also suggested that Chelsea Market’s hybrid
wholesale/retail business model was particularly appropriate for an
economically challenged area like East Harlem for two reasons: first, more
money can be made by adding value to a raw material compared to simply
reselling one; and second, that a hybrid wholesale/retail business is more
resilient and adaptable in the face of inevitable economic swings and
shifting market conditions. In addition, food production is one of the most
lucrative blue collar occupations and a growing manufacturing sector in
New York City (Giles, 2010).
Furthermore, the food sector was particularly compelling because of its
very low entry barrier. This meant that people with limited career options
due to their age, race, sex or lack of educational attainment, would be able
to enter relatively lucrative careers paths. The food production sector is
especially welcoming to women, who can get compensated for skills that
are traditionally non-paid domestic work. In East Harlem, women also
hold the keys of an incredibly diverse food culture that draws on culinary
traditions from the United States, Latin America, Africa, the Caribbean
and more.
The ultimate argument for an investment in food manufacturing, eateries
and fresh produce markets is its potential to address the lack of affordable
and healthy food choices in East Harlem. Poor nutrition in the area has
been directly linked to a very high rate of heart disease, diabetes and other
illnesses. We anticipate studying these issues in an upcoming feasibility
study, that will also look at the market for locally made food products, the
infrastructure requirements for individual and shared kitchens, training
needs and the potential for tying into existing public nutrition campaigns
by the New York City Department of Health, the New York City Council,
the Manhattan Borough President and First Lady Michelle Obama.
Design for Community Engagement
We were also interested in pushing the boundaries of the architectural

design process, by developing interdisciplinary design methods that tie
vital economic and social systems with the generation of architectural
form. For us, the architectural process is a collaborative effort to shape a
system, not the development of abstract ideas that merely lead to a set of
project deliverables.
We are currently studying an interesting framework for linking
architectural design, workforce training and building construction at
18.7 La
Marqueta Mile
site plan 111th
to 119th streets
La Marqueta Mile. Specifically, our plan is to engage a construction

management firm to work with selected sub-contractors, such as masonry
firms, glass and metal fabricators and even auto body shops in Upper
Manhattan. These firms would participate in a “green” construction-
training program designed for apprentices from East Harlem. In an
interesting reversal, these fabricators would not build a premeditated
architectural design – instead, the training needs of the apprentices and
the capabilities of the local fabrication firms would determine the shape
and materials of our design. In essence, we would design an instrument for
teaching entry-level, intermediate and advanced building construction and
deconstruction techniques. Work produced as part of this skill training program
(which would be supported by education funding) “lowers” the construction
cost and enables the quality of the architecture to be higher and more refined.
Experienced workers would work hand-in-hand with trainees to develop a
myriad of cutting edge “green” construction details that will be meaningful on
other projects as well.
We also hope that that a large community participation in the construction
process will foster a sense of local ownership in the project.
An upcoming feasibility study will develop a framework for this project-based
“career pathways” model that matches the business expansion needs of local
fabricators with the unique training and employment needs of the East Harlem
community. This study will develop a list of potential construction and fabrication
businesses in Upper Manhattan as well as recruiting, training, design integration
and project delivery strategies.
We were also interested in using architecture and urban design to cultivate a
healthy, creative and intellectually stimulating environment that fosters individual
curiosity, public engagement and personal choices. Going beyond the functional or
monetary implications of design, we developed a set of proposals that address this
larger picture of human potential.
In 2007, my firm was commissioned by the Harlem Community Development
Corporation (HCDC) to develop a concept design and cost estimate for roughly
one third of the La Marqueta Mile project on eight blocks between 111th and 119th
streets under the Park Avenue viaduct. With the input from the New York City
Economic Development Corporation (EDC), we developed a more detailed project
with 315 commercial units as well as cultural and open spaces integrated into a
public promenade.
To make the new market more porous and accessible to the community, we
decided to deconstruct the two remaining La Marqueta market halls and to re-
use each of its building components – including old sprinkler pipes, doors and
70-year-old steel beams. These materials as well as old shipping containers
would be used to create commercial and open spaces on the eight blocks. This
“100% building material re-use” approach would virtually eliminate the need
for construction waste disposal and its related greenhouse gas emissions.
We found that this self-imposed constraint not only supported our interest 18.8 Tilted
in preserving physical elements of the old La Marqueta market and our Tower kiosks at
111-112th streets
environmental goals – but that it could push our design towards unexpected
formal and material solutions.
For us, La Marqueta Mile represents the development of opportunities
for economic and social mobility, greater self-sufficiency and life choices. It
is therefore only fitting that this environment should stimulate the sense of
volatility, creativity and innovation that is characteristic of many new businesses.
The block between 111th and 112th streets contains 25 commercial kiosks
that frame seating areas within the pedestrian promenade. These buildings are
made from re-used shipping containers that are cut at an angle. The tilting
towers not only create a stimulating commercial environment – their slopes
and shifting spaces also refer to the historic condition of this site – a swamp at
the edge of the old Harlem Creek.
The design of the block between 112th and 113th streets was inspired by a 18.9
detailed study of the old La Marqueta market hall at East 115th street and the Hydroponic
few remaining market vendors who have been there for many years. During kiosks at 112-
113th streets
our site visits, we observed that these vendors often surround themselves
18.10 Animal
Murals at 113th
street looking east
18.11 Floating with expansive hanging plants that receive some light from tall clerestory
Animals block at windows. This observation inspired our design for new commercial kiosks
113-114th streets
with tall skylights that can hold small hydroponic units. These are soil-less
hanging planters that can grow tomatoes, peppers, flowers or more in water
that can be re-circulated and reused automatically. By adapting a local market
tradition and creating well-lit commercial spaces that enhance urban gardening
and various forms of biological life, plants and their harvest and nutrition cycles
become integrated into the life and daily habits of the community.
The block between 113th and 114th streets currently holds a window-less 18.12 Old
concrete block market hall that is now used for storage. This full-block building steel beams to
be reused in
fills the space under the viaduct and creates a physical barrier between two
Steel Village
large public housing projects: the James W. Johnson Houses that are home
to approximately 2,957 residents and the Robert A. Taft Houses which house
about 3,316 residents.
Our design for this block balances preservation of selected building elements
with a strategy to create a mid block open-air meeting space that connects the
housing communities on the east and west sides of the viaduct and creates a
unique place within the mile-long promenade. This open space is surrounded
by food and beverage establishments as well as other businesses that are located
in the four corners of the block. Each corner is framed by wall fragments of the
old La Marqueta hall.
We introduced an element of humor by also preserving some of the murals
on the existing building. These murals are old butcher shop advertisements that
depict large pigs, roosters and cows. We chose to cut out three of the gigantic
animals and prop them up like surreal billboards at the edges of the block.
It is well-known that social and recreational activities enhance friendship as
well as community and business networks. That is why we wanted to create a
public space that has many activities for young and old, and places for planned
and impromptu encounters or festivities. The seating areas include tables
with artificial “trees” made of reused sprinkler pipes and other tubular metal
found on the site. These sculptural trees will form an umbrella-like canopy and
its branches will be retrofitted with LED lights to create a magical nighttime
atmosphere. We also plan to create small pavilions from re-used window
frames (without glass) to create alternative seating areas. These public spaces
18.13 Steel would be free and open to community members and visitors for eating and
Village plan at drinking, people watching, games and more.
118-119th streets
The block between 118th and 119th streets is tentatively called the Steel
Village. We plan to use hundreds of steel beams that will be salvaged from the
ceilings of two La Marqueta market halls. The beams will be deconstructed
in a professional manner and sorted on-site. We plan to stack the beams
horizontally to create three commercial buildings with multiple sky-lit
commercial units. Overlapping corner joints allow us to use a variety of
steel beam sizes and a fairly flexible geometry. The public spaces will also
be constructed with the steel beams, forming interesting canopies and public
seating areas.
Open Design Process
Our preliminary design for La Marqueta Mile will be superseded in the future
with the input from the community and stakeholders. In the next design
phases, we would like to create an “open design” process in which people can
collectively create, develop and improve La Marqueta Mile over time.
The design for the market would consist of essential infrastructure as well
as open areas and flexible zones that the community can help to program.
To facilitate this process, we would like to augment community and focus
group meetings with a well-designed Web 2.0 interface. This web-site would
document the design process and allow people to comment on the design and
make suggestions for specific uses (gallery, ball court, performance space etc.)
or programs (art exhibits, festivals, live music or theater) which would be
rated by submitting online, by text message or in person.
We imagine web-sites, blogs, fan pages, campaigns for various programs
and much more… engaging multiple stakeholders during the design and
construction process and after the opening of La Marqueta Mile.
Conclusion
We believe that La Marqueta Mile will enable the population of East Harlem
to take greater roles in sustaining resilient and viable livelihoods. This project
empowers the larger community not only in the areas of revenue generation
and environmental maintenance of their lives but also by a stimulating
environment that fosters individual curiosity, public engagement and
personal choices.
References
Costa, P. 2010. East Harlem Retail Analysis. Available at: http://www.cb11m.org/

node/873. [accessed: 26 January 2011].
Giles, D. 2010. CUF Report – A Highline for Harlem. Available at: http://www.nycfuture.
org/images_pdfs/pdfs/HighLineforHarlem.pdf [accessed: 26 January 2011].
Gray, C. 2010. Covering Its Tracks Paid Off Handsomely. New York Times
[Online, 19 August 2010] Available at: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/
realestate/22scapes.html [accessed: 5 August 2011].
Gunderson, L.H and Holling, C.S.. Eds. 2002. Panarchy: Understanding Transformations
In Human And Natural Systems. Washington, D.C.: Island Press.
Meadows, D. 2008. Thinking in Systems A Primer. White River Junction. Chelsea Green
Publishing.
Mindlin, A. Hope Amid the Plantains. New York Times [Online, 18 May 2008] Available
at: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/05/18/nyregion/thecity/18marq.html [accessed:
5 August 2011].
New York Times 1892. A New Speedway Project. [Online archive, 25 December]
Available at: http://query.nytimes.com/mem/archive-free/pdf?res=F60A13FD3D5
C17738DDDAC0A94DA415B8285F0D3 [accessed: 5 August 2011].
New York Times 1893. Viaduct Contracts Awarded. New York Times [Online archive,
15 June] Available at: http://query.nytimes.com/mem/archive-free/pdf?res=FA0D1
7F83F5515738DDDAC0994DE405B8385F0D3 [accessed: 5 August 2011].
New York Times 1899. Map of New York for Paris. New York Times [Online archive,
10 December] Available at: http://query.nytimes.com/gst/abstract.html?res=FB0
812FE395C12738DDDA90994DA415B8985F0D3&scp=4&sq=a%20Map%20of%20
New%20York%20for%20Paris&st=cse [accessed: 5 August 2011].
New York Times 1902a. Harlem Railroad Wins. New York Times [Online archive, 1
January] Available at: http://query.nytimes.com/mem/archive-free/pdf?res=F0091
EFF3B5A16738DDDA80894D9405B828CF1D3 [accessed: 5 August 2011].
New York Times 1902b. New York Central To Accept City’s Plans. New York Times
[Online archive, 27 December] Available at: http://query.nytimes.com/mem/
archive-free/pdf?res=F0091FF735591B728DDDAE0A94DA415B828CF1D3
[accessed: 5 August 2011].
Walker, B. and Salt, D. 2006. Resilience Thinking: Sustaining Ecosystems and People in a
Changing World. Washington, D.C.: Island Press.
19
Conclusion
Lori A. Brown
Feminist Practices: Interdisciplinary Approaches to Women in Architecture brings

together a new generation of female designers engaged in various scales of
feminist design practices. The creative practices included are expanding how
architecture is being defined today. As mentioned earlier, these varied types of
practices are important for several reasons. Not only expanding the diversity
and scale of work our students seek out and are able to research, analyze and
build upon but also the practices included help raise greater public awareness
and understanding about the influences, diversities, and impacts of the types of
design practices happening today. Until design is more universally embraced,
the inclusion of women and minorities no longer a concern and are equally
represented within the academy and design professions, there remains great
need for more examples and publicity of feminist design practices. Clearly
these issues being discussed throughout the book still remain pertinent, with
much work that still needs to be done.
Although I hope evident, in concluding this book it is important for me
to re-state what is meant by feminism. Whenever someone states they are
a feminist or uses the “F” word, there are immediate connotations, some
positive and some not so positive. As argued in my introduction, this is not
to assume feminism is female-centric. Rather, as the book’s contributors
have demonstrated, the scope and degree to which feminist methods and
practices permeate design research and architectural endeavors are quite
varied, inclusive and diverse. This is the common ground I find among all the
included participants.
Within the book’s framework, feminism is defined by at least two particular
avenues of thought. First, as both feminist geographers Heidi Gottfried
and Pamela Moss argue, feminist practices are political acts that seek to
challenge the status quo and identified relationships of power. One of the
many potentials these geographers see in using a feminist methodology is
that of “an open and dynamic knowledge community.”1 The book’s included
design research, teaching and practices is adding to and expanding feminist
discourse and our disciplinary design knowledge. Second, there are those
who work to improve and better the lives and spaces of others, concerned
with larger social justice efforts, but may never call themselves feminist. As
bell hooks writes, there are those who “…may practice theorizing without
every knowing/possessing the term, just as we can live and act in feminist
resistance without ever using the word ‘feminism.’”2 I believe that all of the
contributors operate within at least one if not both of these parameters and
each, in their own way, expands the expected products, accountabilities and
expectations of our design professions.
Borrowing from the work our colleagues in geography have done it feminist
research methods, feminist methodologies is defined as being “…about the
approach to research…relationships among people involved in the research
process, the actual conduct of the research, and the process through which the
research comes to be undertaken and completed.”3 As well, the geographers are
building upon those feminist philosophers who “…examin[e] the underlying
assumptions of who are the knowers, what can be known, and what is valued
as knowable.”4 Feminist methodologies in architecture and design contribute
to this larger body of research and knowledge community. Because there is
such limited literature on feminist design methods in architecture, this book
provides much needed discussion and examples of current work within this
area.
Offering observations and possibilities of claiming space, the contributors
make explicit certain relationships in order to put forth often times unexpected
or unconventional propositions. All of the approaches included within this
body of research and design work help to critically dismantle certain power
dynamics and assumed outcomes.
By giving voice to those who oftentimes are unable to be heard, many of
the projects included in this book help bring communities into action through
the architect’s design processes and proposals. Feminist Practices in Design
explores architecture’s agency through questioning the body’s experience
in space. Be this through systems of air and ventilations, furniture design
and construction, or drawing and modeling, the limits of the body’s spatial
understanding is being reconfigured. Designing through an imbalanced set of
relationships, the viewer’s spatial assumptions are fore grounded in order to
promote particular spatial awareness.
As Lisa Findley argues in Building Change Architecture, Politics and Cultural
Agency, the discipline of architecture has typically been used as an instrument
by those in power but yet
…has the potential to be a key player in the re-calibration of space when

power shifts….architects do not have to be servants to any cultural
hegemony. They can, through their role as imaginative producers of
culture, participate actively and constructively in the reallocation of
cultural agency and power. Architecture, like no other form of cultural
production, can manifest renewed cultural agency by making it spatial,
material, present and, in that sense, undeniable.5
conclusion 369
This must happen at multiple scales.

Feminist Practices in Pedagogy create discursive learning through design
opportunities. hooks argues in Teaching to Transgress Education as the Practice
of Freedom, that although we are at an exigency in education, ”[t]he classroom
remains the most radical space of possibility in the academy.”6 This book’s
section highlights inventive pedagogical practices and collaborations. Each
contributor conceptualizes and realizes pedagogical invention as one part
of a larger and inter-dependant whole. Rethinking the literal space of the
classroom as a space that can dramatically influence outcomes, the classroom
becomes the public realm of a building, the public street in a major city, or
the public thoroughfare of a small village. These contributors also explore
forms of empowerment through class involvement asking each student to
participate in creating different possibilities for playing and learning.
Feminist Practices in Design Research begin from the premise that the
research of social and cultural spatial identities are not always accurate nor
reflect those with the least amount of power. In Kim Dovey’s introduction to
Framing Places Mediating Power in Built Form, he writes:
[b]ecause architecture…involve[s] transformations in the ways we frame

life, because design is the imagination and production of the future, the
field cannot claim autonomy from the politics of social change. The relations
of architecture to social behavior are complex and culturally embedded
interactions…. Most people, most of the time, take the built environment
for granted…. The more that the structures and representations of power
can be embedded in the framework of everyday life, the less questionable
they become and the more effectively they can work… It is what Bourdieu
calls the ‘complicitous silence’ of place as a framework to life that is the
source of its deepest associations with power.”7
Each of these projects deny this silence, investigating the how and the why
spatial constructions are read the way they are. Often deeply embedded
within complex socio-political relationships, these contributors re-think and
re-write these circumstances giving agency to those who were previously
excluded.
Working and designing with communities is a demanding and challenging
endeavor. In Feminist Practices in Communities the designer not only agrees
to share responsibility and voice in what and who is the author, but also the
designer relinquishes much control over the role of the architect as sole creative
voice. This type of practice is also a design process where the end result is never
completely known and is potentially fraught with difficulty, indecision, and
many competing voices. Heidi Gottfried writes about participatory research in
geography as one type of research that “…exemplifies one of the most radical
and activist elements of feminist methodology by enlisting a community’s
participation and collaboration in social change projects.”8 Here I am taking
liberty by exchanging “designing with communities” for “participatory
research” because I see the two as closely related. Both collaborate and are
dependent upon the community they are working with. Without this mutual
agreement, a research project or a design project would not be able to begin,

progress, and provide possible solutions.
As the geographer Gillian Rose writes, “[f]eminism…, through its
awareness of the politics of the everyday, has always had a very keen
awareness of the intersection of space and power – and knowledge.”9 This
acute awareness separates these practices from other designers working
today. Feminist Practices showcases the next generation of architects exploring
alternative modes of practice within our everyday experiences. As architect
Francesca Hughes writes, “…critical practice [will] shatter the singular
purpose and nature of architectural production into multiple practices for
multiple architectures, pertinent to multiple genders”10 and “…will allow
women to expand the territory of architecture.”11
Rosa Ainley describes the practice of muf as one that will continue to
“redraw the boundaries of what can be called architecture.”12 I would like to
argue that the practices included in this book also call into question what is
architecture, for whom and for what is architecture produced, and expand the
expectations and possibilities of how we practice architecture today. This is
what I hope Feminist Practices will accomplish.
References
Ainley, Rose. 2001. Circuitous progress, in This is What We Do: a muf manual, edited by
R. Ainley. London: Ellipsis, 224-226.
Dovey, Kim. 1999. Framing Places Mediating Power in Build Form. London: Routledge.
Feminist Pedagogy Working Group. 2002. Defining Feminism, in Feminist Geography
in Practice Research and Methods. edited by P. Moss. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers
Ltd., 21-24.
Findley, Lisa. 2005. Building Change Architecture, Politics and Cultural Agency. London:
Routledge.
Gottfried, Heidi. 1996. Feminism and Social Change Bridging Theory and Practice. Urbana:
University of Illinois Press.
hooks, bell. 1994. Teaching to Transgress Education as the Practice of Freedom. New York:
Routledge.
Hughes, Francesca. 1996. An Introduction, in The Architect: Reconstructing Her Practice,
edited by Francesca Hughes. Cambridge: The MIT Press, x-xix.
Moss, P. 2002. Taking on, thinking about, and doing feminist research in geography,
in Feminist Geography in Practice Research and Methods, edited by P. Moss. Oxford:
Blackwell Publishers Ltd., 1-20.
Rose, Gillian. 1993. Feminism and Geography The Limits of Geographical Knowledge.
Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
conclusion 371
Notes
1 Feminist Pedagogy Working Group, “Defining Feminism,” Feminist Geography

in Practice Research and Methods. Ed. Pamela Moss (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers
Ltd, 2002), 22.
2 bell hooks, Teaching to Transgress Education as the Practice of Freedom (New York:
Routledge 1994), 62.
3 Moss, (2002), 12.
4 Moss (2002), 7.
5 Lisa Findley, Building Change Architecture, Politics and Cultural Agency (London:
Routledge, 2005), xi-xiii.
6 hooks (1994), 12.
7 Kim Dovey, Framing Places Mediating Power in Build Form (London: Routledge,
1999), 1-2.
8 Heidi Gottfried, “Introduction Engaging Women’s Communities: Dilemmas and
Contradictions,” in Feminism and Social Change Bridging Theory and Practice, ed.
Heidi Gottfried (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1996), 10.
9 Gillian Rose, Feminism and Geography The Limits of Geographical Knowledge
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,1993), 142.
10 Francesca Hughes, “An Introduction,” in The Architect Reconstructing Her Practice,
ed. Francesca Hughes (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1996), xiii.
11 Hughes (1996), xv.
12 Rosa Ainley, This is What We Do: a muf manual. Ed. Rosa Ainley. (London:
Ellipsis, 2001), 226.
Index
Page numbers in bold refer to illustrations. Page numbers with a suffix of ‘n’
followed by a number refer to notes at the end of chapters (e.g. 260n32 refers to
note 32 on page 260).
abortion 277–91 architectural history 155–63
clinics 277, 287, 288–90 Izmir, Turkey 242, 245–6,
Kentucky 283, 283–6, 284, 285, 249–50
286, 287 architectural models 8
mapping 282–3 architecture
providers 278, 280 aesthetics 19
restrictions 279, 281 and dance 169–70
spatial issues 281–2 education 1–2
statistics 278–80 feminism 17–20, 39–40, 231–4
US Supreme Court decisions 281 interdisciplinarity 23
violence 280 and interior design 139–43
Adams, Anne Marie 7, 84 listening to 83–4
adaptive capability 356–7 minor 324–5
aesthetics 19, 26 self-reflectivity 34
Afghanistan 32–3 spatial processes 19
agriculture 10–11, 295–301 architecture-writing 34, 36
alternative methods 303–5 architexture 38
industrial 297–304 Art and Architecture: A Place Between
organic 304–5 (Rendell) 35
urban 307 Association for Modern Women’s
Ahmed, Leila 32 Apartments, Berlin 68–9
Ainley, Rosa 370 Ataturk, Kemal 241, 242, 248
Algeria 32 Australia 29, 318–24
Allen, Patricia 304 Axis Mundi 200–209
Altering Practices (Petrescu) 30–31 Ayra, Meghal 10
alterity 29–33, 197n14
anecdotes 156–7, 158 Bal, Mieke 21, 35
Anorexia Nervosa 327 balance 185–6
Anzaldúa, Gloria 35 Barking Town Square 333–4,
apartment blocks 255–6 337–44, 338, 339, 340, 341,
apparel construction 146–51 342, 343
see also tailoring Barthes, Roland 297
arboreta 334 Baydar, Gülsüm 241
Architectural Dictionary 223–4, 224 bell hooks 4, 29, 369
architectural education 180–84 Benhabib, Seyla 29
Benjamin, Walter 158, 233, 328 Cixous, Hélène 35

Berlin, Germany 57–74 see also Clarke, Katherine 11
Germany classicism 64
Best, Sue 29 collaboration 181, 202–3
Betancour, Ana 31 collaborative design 73
Bhabha, Homi 23, 31 collectivity 24–6
Biedermeier 64–5 communities 11–12, 369–70
Billiard Room at Raffles Hotel Complex Systems Theory 355–6
155–63 courtyards 10, 263–75, 264–6, 267,
billiard tables 160–62, 162–3 268, 269, 270, 271, 272, 273, 274
BLAZE (Julieanna Preston) 99–120, credit crunch 40
100–101, 104–9, 112–19 Critical Architecture conference (2004)
Bloomer, Jennifer 18–19, 38, 324–5 34
blue-baby disease 302 critical spatial practice 20–24, 39–41
bodies and cities 326–9 and sound 93–4
Boer, Inge E. 21 critical theory 49n10
Bonnevier, Katerina 35–6
boxing 202 dance 169–70, 202
Braidotti, Rosi 29, 99 Davis, Felicia 31
Brazil 204–6 deconstruction 27–8
Brazil Studio 200, 203–9 Deleuze, Gilles 21, 201
Breathing in the Cold 84–6 Derrida, Jacques 27–8, 30, 40
Breathing Spaces 87–91, 88, 90, 92 Design Exchange, Toronto 84–6, 85,
Breslin, Lynne 183 94–5
Brown, Carol 36 design research 10–11, 369
Brown, Lori 10 detached housing 250–51, 254–5
Bruch, Hilde 327 developed surface interiors 140, 141–3
Bruno, Guiliana 35 Diller, Elizabeth 19
Brunzema, Meta 11–12 Diprose, Rosalyn 29
Buck-Morss, Susan 328 diversity 356–7
Bude 62 Dona Ceci 205–6
buildings cooperatives 69 Dovey, Kim 369
Bulimia Nervosa 327 drawing 7–8
Butt, Gavin 36 Duchamp, Marcel 217, 233
DuPlessis, Rachel Blau 99
Candomblé 204–6
capitalism 86 East Harlem, New York 347–65
Capoeira Angola 202–5, 204, 210–12 ecosystem degradation 301–4
Carter, Paul 317 Eisenbach, Ronit 9
Caws, Mary Ann 38 Eisenman, Peter 40
Center for Creative Research (CCR) Elam, Diane 28
196n2 Ellsworth, Elizabeth 182
Center for Sustainable Rural Living An Embellishment: Purdah (Rendell) 33
(Auburn University, Alabama) Erkarslan, Özlem Erdogdu 10
295–7 Escada do Povo 206–9, 207, 208, 209
Certeau, Michel de 23–4, 318 Evans, Eleanor 232
Chee, Lilian 8, 31 Evans, Robin 141–3
Chelsea Market, New York 357–8 The Eye of the Savoye 219, 220, 223
children and health 305–6
Çikis, Seniz 248–9 Faludi, Susan 86
cities and bodies 326–9 Feinman, Yoko 187–9
Citron, Marcia J. 93 Feldman, Roberta 5
‘feminine’ 30
index 375
feminism Guattari, Félix 201

architecture 17–20, 39–40, 231–4 Gulf of Mexico 302
communities 11–12 Guthman, Julie 305
design 4–5, 7–8
design research 10–11 Hacker, Agnes 57–8
history of 216 Hammond, Cynthia 7
interdisciplinarity 22–3 Hanim, Latife 248
international dimensions 40–41 Hanley, Staffordshire 24
pedagogy 8–10 Hannah, Dorita 36
third wave 317 Hansemann, Ottilie von 63
feminist practices 216–18, 231–4, 367–8 Harding, Sandra 29
fertilizers 302 Hasdell, Peter 31
Fiennes, Celia 83 haunting 94–5
Findlay, Lisa 368 Hayden, Dolores 83–4
Fior, Liza 11 health
Flax, Jane 29 children 305–6
Fleer, Ottilie 63 women 7, 86
food 297 Hernandez, Felipe 31
food production 295–301, 357–8 Heynen, Hilde 240
for getting LA 219, 221, 222, 223 homelessness 318–31
Freire, Paolo 180 hooks, bell 4, 29, 369
Freud, Sigmund 34 hospitals 57–8
Frichot, Hélene 37 Hosyken, Teresa 181
Fuss, Diane 28 House Coat 147–51, 149, 150
House in the Sun, Germany 70–72,
Gallop, Jane 158 72
Gatens, Moira 29 housework 19
Gedikler, Hülya Gölgesiz 248 housing 254–6
Gender, Space, Architecture: An detached 250–51
Interdisciplinary Introduction for single women 67–72
(Rendell et al.) 17–20 Hughes, Francesca 12
genetically modified crops 303 Hughes, Rolf 35–6
Germany
architects 61 improvisation 190
Association for Modern Women’s Indian courtyards 263–75, 265–6,
Apartments 68–9 267, 268, 269, 270, 271, 272, 273,
Bude 62 274
buildings cooperatives 69 industrial agriculture 297–304
House in the Sun 70–72, 72 Ingraham, Catherine 94, 95
housing for single women 67–72 interdisciplinarity 6, 22–3
student housing 61–4 interior design 28, 139–43
women architects 73–4 interiority 27–9
ghost fishing 213–16, 214, 215 Irigaray, Luce 19, 34
Ghost Fishing 226, 226–30, 228, Izmir, Turkey 243–4, 245, 246, 252–4,
229, 230, 231 255
Ghosting: Talismanic Architecture apartment blocks 255–6
213–16 architectural history 249–50
Gillows & Co. drawing 140, 141, 143 housing 250–51, 254–6
GM (genetically modified) crops 303 International Fair 244
Gottfried, Heidi 11, 369 Karsiyaka 260n32
Green Revolution 297 modernization 242–6, 248–56
Grillner, Katja 35–6 NATO 249
Grosz, Elizabeth 7, 29, 95, 326–8 women 247–9, 251
Jackson, Laura and Dana 297 Musil, Robert 221
Kandahar (2001) 32 NATO 249

Kanes Weisman, Leslie 1, 181 Nauman, Bruce 222
Karsiyaka, Izmir, Turkey 260n32 New Woman 240
Kentucky 283, 283–6, 284, 285, New York
286, 287 Beaux-Arts Plan 350–51
Knobelsdorff, Elisabeth von 69, 73 Chelsea Market 357–8
Kraft, Kerstin 139, 141, 143 East Harlem 347–65
Krefting, Rebecca 189–90 Park Avenue 349–50
Kristeva, Julia 22–3, 34 Nicholson, Linda 29
Kuhn, Thomas 233 nitrates 302
Noelle-Karimi, Christina 33
La Marqueta Mile 347–65, 348, 349, Nye, Andrea 29
351, 352, 353, 359, 361, 362, 363,
364 O’Hare, Marita 3
Lacan, Jacques 30, 34 open design 364
landscape architecture 307–8 organic agriculture 304–5
Le Corbusier 219 Ortiz, Fernando 31
Lefebvre, Henri 24
Leopold, Aldo 297 Paris, France 30, 335
Leski, Kyna 7–8, 123–36 Park Avenue Market Mile project
Linder, Mark 6, 15n16, 17 11–12
Lloyd, Genevieve 29 Passage 56 30
Lokko, Lesley 31–2 pedagogy 8–10, 180–84, 369
Loo, Stephen 37 Penner, Barbara 157
Loos, Adolf 218, 221 performativity 33–7
Perriand, Charlotte 232–3
McGaw, Janet 11 pesticides 298, 299–300, 301, 302–3
McGraw, Margarita 9 Petrescu, Doina 30–31, 181
McLeod, Mary 231, 232 Phelan, Peggy 36
Maison de Verre 260n23 photography 60
Maleçkova, Jitka 240 Pile, Steve 29
Marcondes, Lula 206 Placing Space: Architecture, Action,
Marin, Louis 221 Dimension 169–94, 170, 171–4,
Maryvale on the Move 305–6 175–6, 177–8, 179
materiality 37–9 The Pleasure Garden of the Utilities 25
Meadows, Donella H. 355–6 Pocket Map Coat 151, 152, 153
Melbourne, Australia 318–24 Pollock, Della 36
Melnick, Jeff 84 portability of spatial experience
Menderes, Adnan 246 186–90
Mensch, Ella 70–71 post-colonial theory 31–3
methemoglobinemia 302 Power of Place collective 83–4
Miller, Nancy 158 practice(s) 5, 21, 23, 216
mimicry 19 prepositions 54n78
minor architecture 324–5 Preston, Julieanna 7–8, 28
models 8 BLAZE 99–120
modernity 239–40 SHEAR 27
Moholy-Nagy, László 222–3 Probyn, Elspeth 29
Morris, Meaghan 158 projects, scales of 6–7
muf architecture 11, 24–6, 370 Props 224–6
Barking Town Square 337–44 prosopagnosia 218
multidisciplinarity 22 prostitution 328–9
index 377
psychoanalysis 28–9 tailoring 139, 141, 143 see also apparel

public sphere 277 construction
purdah 32–3 Taiwan 213–16, 214, 215
tango 31
Raffles Hotel, Singapore 155–63 Taylor, Mark 28
Rawes, Peg 39 teaching see pedagogy
redlining 236n10 theory 21
Rendell, Jane 317 Thomas, Katie Lloyd 39
Residuals 219–20, 221 tigers 155–6
rhizomes 201 Tiller, George 277
Rice, Charles 28, 157 Toronto-Dominion Centre 85–6
Richter, Dagmar 232–3 Torre, Susan 3
Rocha, Chico 206 trace paper 147–9
roda 202–3, 211 traffic control 24
Rohe, Mies van der 85–6 Turkey
Rose, Gillian 5, 370 Izmir 242–9, 243–4, 245, 246,
Rosner, Victoria 28 252–4, 255
Rüdiger, Hedwig 69 modernization 239–47
women 251
Said, Edward 31
Salvador, Brazil 204–7 UA (urban agriculture) 307
Sarah Wigglesworth Architecture 39 UK pavilion in Venice 334–5, 335,
Seler-Sachs, Caecilie 69 336–7
Semper, Gottfried 139–40 United States
Serres, Michel 219–20 East Harlem, New York 347–65
The Sewing Circles of Heart (Lamb) 32 food production 298
SHEAR (Julieanna Preston) 27 housing 239
Sheraton, Thomas 142–3 Kentucky 283, 283–6, 284, 285, 286,
Sister (Kyna Leski) 123–36 287
site-writing 35 urban agriculture 307
Solnit, Rebecca 99, 328 urban arboretum 334
sound and critical spatial practice Urban Threads 318–24, 319, 320, 321,
93–4 325, 329–31, 330
spatial power 318
spatial practices 20–24 van der Rohe, Mies 85–6
spatial processes 19 veil 32–3
Spivak, Gayatri 29, 31 Venice, UK pavilion in 334–5, 335,
St. Blaise, Paris 30 336–7
The stadium of close looking™ 334 ventilation 7, 86–92
Stead, Naomi 37 Victoria Studienhaus, Berlin 62, 63,
Steele, Kim 10–11 63–7, 64, 65, 66
Steirische Herbst 221–2 Villa Savoye 219
Stephens, Suzanne 2
Stock Orchard Street (Sarah Walker, Linda Maria 37
Wigglesworth and Jeremy Till) Walsh, Meghan 9–10
37 wandering in the city 328–9
streetwalking 328–9 water contamination 302–3
student housing 61–4 Weinthal, Lois 8
sustainability 356–7 Wexner Center for the Visual Arts
The Swallows of Kabul (Khadara) 32 235n6
what-if-not 197n28
tagging 236n10 White Papers, Black Marks: Architecture,
Tahrir Al-Mar’a (Amin) 32 Race, Culture (Lokko) 31–2
white space 217–23 public leadership 86

Whiteread, Rachel 222 Women in American Architecture:
WID (Women In Design) 2–3 A Historic and Contemporary
Wing Chair 143–6, 144, 145, 146, 147 Perspective 3
Winkelmann, Emilie 57–8, 59, 63–4, Women in Architecture A Centennial
66, 73 Exhibit 3–4
Wittgenstein, Ludwig 221 Women In Design 2–3
Wolin, Judith 3–4 writing 36–7
women Writing Architecture 36
capitalism 86
health 7, 86 Young, Iris Marion 277
hospitals 57–8
modernity 239–42 Zimm, Malin 35–6

Feminist Practices - Interdisciplinary Appr - Lori A. Brown

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For my mother and grandmother, the first feminists I knew

Edited by Lori A. Brown

Published 2016 by Routledge

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

Copyright © Lori A. Brown 2011

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

ISBN: 978-1-409-42117-7 (hbk)

List of Figures  vii

2 Critical Spatial Practices: Setting Out a Feminist Approach

3 Inventing Feminist Practices: Women and Building in

PART I FEMINIST PRACTICES IN DESIGN

4 Breathing Spaces: Whispering Walls, Feminist Spatial Practice  83

5 Blazing Inter Alia: Tropes of a Feminist Creative Practice  99

8 Materializing the Tiger in the Archive: Creative Research and

PART II FEMINIST PRACTICES IN PEDAGOGY

9 The Pedagogy and Practice of “Placing Space: Architecture,

10 Axis Mundi Brazil Studio  199

11 Fishing for Ghosts  213

PART III FEMINIST PRACTICES IN DESIGN RESEARCH

12 Gender Roles at the Intersection of Public and Private Spheres:

14 Politicizing the Female Body  277

15 Home Grown  295

PART IV FEMINIST PRACTICES IN COMMUNITIES

16 Urban Threads  317

17 Preparations for the Afterlife: Barking Town Square muf

18 La Marqueta Mile: East Harlem, New York  347

2 Critical Spatial Practices: Setting Out 4 Breathing Spaces: Whispering Walls,

3.8 Dining on the terrace, c. 1930. 6.3 Shadowed Space

7.6 Detail of the wing unfolded 9.10 Spatial variations

13.9 Section of a haveli in Phalodi, 17 Preparations for the Afterlife -

16.4 Ally’s chrysalis 18.12 Old steel beams to be reused in Steel

Meghal Arya is a graduate of the Centre for Environmental Planning and

Lori Brown received a Bachelor of Science from the Georgia Institute of

Lilian’s research focuses on domesticity. Her publications include “An

An Associate Professor at the University of Maryland School of Architecture,

Özlem Erdoğdu Erkarslan

Özlem Erdoğdu Erkarslan studied architecture at the Dokuz Eylül University in

After having a nine-year period of academic positions in different universities

Cynthia I. Hammond teaches architectural history in the Department of

Rebecca Krefting earned a BA in English and Psychology at the University of

and pedagogical studies. She is currently working on a monograph titled:

Janet McGaw is a Senior Lecturer in Architectural Design in the Faculty of

publications include essays in the Journal of Architectural Education (for

Margarita McGrath received a Masters of Architecture from the University of

muf architecture/art was established in London in 1995. The practice has an

Julieanna Preston’s practice as an academic and designer is grounded in her

Jane Rendell BA (Hons), Dip Arch, MSc, PhD is Professor of Architecture

Social Sciences and Humanities) at the University of Cambridge and received

Kim Steele received a Master of Architecture, a Master of Landscape Architecture

Meghan holds a Master of Architecture from the University of Michigan and

Architect at the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s Rural Development, Rural

In deep gratitude do I recognize and thank Val Rose, the commissioning

First conceived as a traveling exhibition and series of public talks, Feminist

How can an architectural education that continues to define professional

school as I was experiencing both in the profession and academia: architecture

The proportion of female faculty is … an issue. Only 9 of the 34 SOA faculty

hosted a series of regularly scheduled public events including brown bag

…vernacular building practice, attentive to its context of historical

Wolin’s critique urged me to question what exactly is the ‘professionalism’

Constructing the Feminist Practices Framework

example, several contributors are designing opportunities for community

List of Figures vii

4 Breathing Spaces: Whispering Walls, Feminist Spatial Practice 83

5 Blazing Inter Alia: Tropes of a Feminist Creative Practice 99

10 Axis Mundi Brazil Studio 199

11 Fishing for Ghosts 213

14 Politicizing the Female Body 277

15 Home Grown 295

16 Urban Threads 317

18 La Marqueta Mile: East Harlem, New York 347