Drifting and striding, in Hollywood and elsewhere, with Geoff Nicholson - author of The Lost Art of Walking, and Walking in Ruins withcholson, author of Toff Nidrifting and stomping withcholson, author of The Lost Art of Walking, considers the narrower and wider shores of obsessive pedestrianism.
Showing posts with label suburbia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suburbia. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

SUBURBAN STRAINS


It being a Sunday afternoon, I combined my afternoon drift with a visit to Skylight Books to see Lynell George read from her book After/Image.  And to get a signed copy, of course. Lynell George is a flâneuse, a pedestrienne, and above all a woman who walks and looks and takes photographs and writes about it.  Also an Emmy winner.  Cool.  



As is the way of these things, I opened the book at random and found a reference to Dorothy Parker describing Los Angeles as “seventy-two suburbs in search of a city.”  This is apparently a well-known sneer but I’d never heard it before.  You’d think I would have.  And, as Lynell says in her book, some of us don’t think that’s such a terrible thing.  One of the 57 books I regularly think about writing but probably never will is titled In Defense of Suburbia.

I’ve been trying to find the source of that Dorothy Parker quotation, and as far as I can tell there isn’t one.  Adrienne Crew president of the LA Chapter of the Dorothy Parker Society and a tour guide says in a blog post, “I am asked on a regular basis if Dorothy Parker actually said that Los Angeles is ‘72  suburbs in search of a city.’  The answer is...probably not. 
“The quote has been attributed to Dorothy Parker but it's really a paraphrase of Aldous Huxley's bon mots found his 1925 book, Americana. He wrote that Los Angeles was "nineteen suburbs in search of a metropolis" and he was probably quoting someone else who initially said Los Angeles was seven or six suburbs in search of a city. The witticism expanded from there. At times it was attributed to H.L. Menken, Robert Benchley, Alexander Woollcott and Dorothy Parker.  Most likely it was Mencken who used the phrase in an essay published in the April 1927 issue of Photoplay magazine after visiting Los Angeles for three weeks in 1926.” 
         And yes, it does sound like the kind of thing you might say after three weeks.
        

I don’t know if Dorothy Parker got around much when she worked in LA but the only places she lived were Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, thereby leaving her some 70 suburbs short.  This is her, perfectly nice suburban bungalow on Norma Place.


But I did wonder about the basic premise:  just how many suburbs are there in LA?  Wikipedia has a “List of districts and neighborhoods of Los Angeles” which numbers just under 200, but by no means all of them are suburbs. “The Old Bank Distrct” for instance is just the area where the banks are in downtown, and therefore part of the “urb.”  And some of the places I’ve never heard of such as  the “Platinum Triangle.”

As a local, I could probably tell you the difference between Hollywood, East Hollywood, Hollywood Hills, Hollywood Hills West, and Hollywood Dell, though I’m sure you wouldn’t thank me for it, and suburban though they may all be, I’m pretty sure they don’t constiture four separate suburbs.  Still, with bit of casuistry, I think you probably could identify 72 distinct and separate suburbs in LA, if that’s your pleasure.

 

While I was in the bookstore I saw this intruiguing volume by Ed and Deanna Templeton titled  Contemporary Suburbium.   The suburb in question is Huntington Beach, and the book is one of those concertina jobs and I was tempted to but a copy, but I had already spent my book dollars for the day.  Next time.

 




Some of the suburban stuff I saw on my walk looked like this:

 


And this – Jesus and the Gnomes (which could easily be the name of a band from Huntington Beach):

 


And I couldn’t help thinking they were raising expectations a little too high at the Dresden:

 


 

 

 

 

 



Tuesday, June 16, 2015

A SORT OF SUBURBAN RAMBLE



I’ve been thinking about suburbs.  It’s one of those words, and indeed concepts, that tends to slip away and lose its meaning the more you think about it.   The word has its origins in ancient Rome – sub for lower, urbs for walled city, so the suburb was lower than the city, but that works because Rome was built on seven hills.  The same doesn’t apply everywhere.



Dictionaries are only partially helpful.  Merriam Webster tell us:  a) an outlying part of a city or town, b) a smaller community adjacent to or within commuting distance of a city.  Which only raises question of how we define outlying, adjacent and commuting distance.  London’s Hampstead Garden Suburb, for instance, is only about 5 and a half miles from Marble Arch, which counts as pretty darn central by any London standard I know.


Of course suburbs get a lot of bad press for being too tame, too pleasant, too conformist, which of course is why a lot of people move there.  I grew up in various suburbs in Sheffield, in England, and at the time I’m sure I thought they were evil and constricting, but in retrospect I think it may have been the life of a teenager, going to school, living at home with my parents, that was getting me down, rather than the suburb itself.

Equally, although I think of myself as an urban walker, a fair proportion of my walking has been done (depending on your definition) in suburbs.  I definitely don’t hate the suburbs or suburban walking but obviously when you walk the there you don’t see much of people’s lives.  Suburbanites tend to present a clean, orderly facade to the world, and what goes on behind it is anybody’s guess; though it can be fun guessing.  See the novels John Updike, more or less passim.


And now I live in Los Angeles which by some accounts (though not all) is one of the most suburban cities in the world.  Some people say that’s changing or at least that’s want they want to believe.  The main evidence seems to be that developers are building stonking great developments in the middle of borderline suburban areas, (Hollywood is the place I know most about, but it’s happening all over the city).  This extra density will allegedly make more people walk, and it may well do, in the sense that traffic around these developments may get so bad that using a car will become simply not viable.

Another possibility of course is that people will move out to more thoroughly suburban areas where they can again have their own house and plot of land, and actually use their cars.  As for whether people actually walk any less in the suburbs than in cities, well I’m not sure, I’d like to see some research.


Before I lived in LA I lived in Brooklyn – where I (and everybody else) did a fair amount of walking.  I certainly didn’t have a car.  There seems to be some argument about whether Brooklyn is a suburb or not.  Is it sub to the urb of Manhattan, or is it an urb in its own right?  I have no dog in that fight, although if space, plots of land, and single-family homes are defining features of suburbia, much of Brooklyn comes up short.


In 2001 I was living in Brooklyn’s Park Slope, in an apartment at the top of a fifth floor walk-up.  There was access to the flat roof, and although I went up there once in a while it was kind of scary – a low parapet and I wasn’t sure that the roof was actually very strong.  You got a clear view of the twin towers from up there, but you could see them almost as well from our living room window.


One man we do who know spent some time on his Brooklyn roof is the composer William Basinski.  He writes in the liner notes to his majestic Disintegration Loops.  “On September 11th I was on my roof in Brooklyn, less than one nautical mile from the World Trade Center: our beacon, our compass … my nightlight.”  On the previous day he’d created his masterwork while archiving loops of decaying magnetic tape, and he played the piece as the ruins of the towers burned, and he set up a borrowed video camera to film the rising smoke.  The results can be seen on YouTube, though it’s a video that thoroughly shows the limitations of YouTube.


I never exactly thought of the twin tours as a beacon or compass.  I found them hard to love, and I think most New Yorkers felt the same way until they became a symbol in their absence, but I certainly looked at them out of my window and every morning – although in certain weather conditions you couldn’t see them at all.


It would be some time before I, and the world, discovered Basinski and Disintegration Loops,  before that work became the necessary, the required, in some ways the only musical response to that moment in New York history.  But I do remember, after 9/11, wanting to listen to music and having trouble finding the “right” thing.  I listened to Talking Heads’ “Life During Wartime” quite a lot.

The Concert for New York City at Madison Square Garden wasn’t much help.  David Bowie sang Paul Simon’s America and that seemed good and appropriate, but Bon Jovi sang “Livin on a Prayer” and “Wanted Dead or Alive”, McCartney sang “Yesterday” and “Let It Be”; which were no doubt well-meaning – and of course very moving, we were all emotionally naked at the time. but somehow they missed the point.  James Taylor, curiously enough, sang Goffin and King’s “Up On the Roof.” 


Even if the organizers had heard of William Basinksi and Disintegration Loops, it seems unlikely they’d have thought that a work of heart-breaking serial minimalism was quite the thing for the crowd at Madison Square Garden.


Will it surprise you that William Basinksi now lives in Los Angeles?  And if I have his address right (and I believe I do) it’s in the utterly suburban enclave of Mar Vista.
And so, like any good boulevardier, finding myself in Mar Vista, I went for a walk that took me past the great man’s house.  I found it easily enough: a small, neat, bungalow, offering a pleasant, unexceptional face to the world.  It didn’t have the kind of roof you could easily stand on.  Who would guess that a major American artist lived here?   


The sidewalk ran very close to the front of the house.  Even without trespassing I got the clear impression that somebody was in the house.  The front door was open, with a screen door in place.   I could see there was a light on in the kitchen – it was actually a lava lamp – on a table right by the window.  In fact the sidewalk was near enough to the house that I could hear voices inside, not “live” voices, but voices on a TV or radio, sounding a little distorted and repetitive.  Could this have been a sampled and looped piece of sound art in the making?  Nah, probably not.

I wasn’t intending to do much of anything.  If I’d happened to see Basinksi sitting in his front garden, or getting in his car, or setting off on a walk, I’d surely have said hello – but I didn’t intend to ring his front door bell, and yet, egged on slightly by my faithful companion, that’s exactly what I did.


It was perhaps inevitably, and perhaps for the best, a non-event.  The voices continued, nothing changed in the house, in fact nothing happened at all. And certainly nobody came to answer the door.  I am not a postman, I only rang once, and then I went on my way.

Since then I’ve struggled to find much hard evidence that Basinksi is much of a walker – but I did find this in an interview with Andrew Parks on the Self-Titled magazine website, about first arriving in New York with his boyfriend James Elaine:
We saved our money and moved there in 1980. We got there on April Fool’s Day, the first day of the legendary two-week transit strike…  I remember the first day–we both had on new cowboy boots and skinny black jeans, just ready to take over the minute we got to Grand Central Station. God, we ended up walking all over town, and by the time we got home, we had such blisters. I think we went and bought some Converse tennis shoes the next day.” 

Mr B, looking as though he might well be in his cowboy boots and skinny jeans phase.


Oh, and here’s a belated coda to the Basinksi/suburbia rumination.  In an interview with the website 20jazzfunkgreats.co.uk he says,
“Some of my earliest memories are of living in a brand new 60’s era planned utopian subdivision near NASA, watching the black and white television broadcasts of the rockets going up.  The wonder of men going to the moon! We moved to Florida around 1966 and Dad was working on the Lunar Module for a NASA contractor there.  We watched the rockets go up from the beach, visited Cape Canaveral. Once the launched an unmanned rocket at night.  We watched it from our yard.  It began to go off course and had to be destroyed.  The entire sky lit up orange!  There were always sonic booms and once I saw the strangest anomaly in the sky…it was a bizarre cloud but looked like a colored oil slick one might see in a puddle on the street.”
I guess life in suburbia isn’t always boring.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

UNDER THE PAVING STONES, MORE PAVING STONES


Two quotations for your consideration (as Mr. Rod Serling might say):


ONE: “If I do not walk I cannot make a work of art.  The physical involvement of walking creates a receptiveness to the landscape. I walk on the land to be woven into nature. A road walk can transform the everyday world and give a heightened sense of human history.”  Hamish Fulton.  That's him below, and yes, that's a map of Paris - stay with me on this.



TWO: “Under the paving-stones, the beach!” which is the translation of a graffito seen on the streets of Paris in May 1968, and I suppose for some time after that.  I wonder when they cleaned it off.  It also happens to be the epigraph of Pynchon’s Inherent Vice.


Frankly I’ve never been very sure I understand all the nuances of what “sous les pavés, la plage” really means, and perhaps that very ambiguity is the reason it’s had such wide currency, why it’s become such a hit.


Certainly we all know that some of the paving stones of Paris were dug up and thrown during the events of 1968, but as images from the time show, there was no beach beneath them, which of course we all knew anyway.  Paris – believe it or  not - was not built on a beach.


The slogan does fit a little better with Pynchon’s novel set in the fictional Gordita Beach which bears a striking similarity to Manhattan Beach, just 2O miles down the road from Hollywood, and where Pynchon lived in the late sixties and early seventies while writing Gravity’s Rainbow.  I’ve walked there and it’s a good place to walk but I think very few, if any, early-career novelists can afford to live there these days.


As for the Fulton quotation, well, after you’ve read and thought about Hamish Fulton’s heroic walking activities, any walk you’re likely to do in your own daily life is likely to seem a bit trivial and timid.  At the weekend, for instance, the Loved One and I were in Yucca Valley, and we went up to Landers, driving, walking, poking around in ruins, including a walk partly up and partly around Goat Mountain.


Walking and poking around is what I do (it may even be my “art”) – but I’m always aware that certain walkers would turn it into something more thoroughly programmatic - maybe ten circular walks around Goat Mountain at different times of the day, at different phases of the moon, stopping and taking a photograph or picking up a rock every hundred yards.  Well, why not?


And something that occurred to me while I was in Landers: I like walking in cities and I like walking in “nature” but I actually think I may have done the majority of my walking in suburbs.  Now, I think that suburbia is surprisingly hard to define, but I know it when I see it, and I’ve seen plenty of it.  I grew up in various suburbs in Sheffield.  Vast swathes of London, where I lived for a long time, are by any measure suburban, and Los Angeles where I live now is, by many accounts, the most suburban city in the world.  You might think I’m attracted to suburbia.


And it so happened that the motel where we were staying in Yucca Valley was right next to a thoroughly suburban subdivision.  My knowledge of Yucca Valley is patchy, but as I remember it this suburbia scarcely existed even ten years ago: it was just naked desert.


And so these suburban bungalows and ranch houses have descended on the desert like alien presences.  I can’t say I found it especially horrible (though it would surely have been better left untouched), and as I walked around the sidewalk-free streets there was always something interesting to look at, some interesting architectural features, some quirky gardens, and what you see in most cases is a willingness to let the desert show through – to celebrate the desert, within the confines of a domestic plot.


Some of this, admittedly, seems less than authentic. I did see a few garden-bound saguaro cacti, and I think no saguaro ever got to Yucca Valley except on the back of a truck. 


The gardens with Joshua trees seemed a little more “natural” but even here I couldn’t shake the feeling that some of the trees had been, at least, moved around and transplanted for the sake of the picturesque (see John Ruskin, op cit).  The presence of desert quail and jackrabbits was far more convincing.



At the time I was walking, early morning, people were leaving home and going to work – some in very clean trucks, some in surprisingly fancy cars, and one or two of them seemed to slow down to take a good look at me to see if I was up to no good, but maybe that was just my paranoia: an honest enough Pynchonian trait.


Would I like to live in a desert suburbia?  Well no, not much, since in the case of Yucca Valley there’s no adjacent “urbia” where I could go to get my city-boy thrills.  The desert fantasy is to own 100 acres of sand and scrub, big enough that a couple of laps of the boundary would constitute a reasonable walking expedition, though I’m sure some would still find that trivial and timid.


On the other hand, I’d quite like to walk a few laps of this place, though I can’t tell you exactly where it is.  The photograph is by Christopher Gielen and is titled (as it were) “UNTITLED XXXI Arizona” from the book Ciphers.


Under the desert, another damn desert.