User:Mania/Thesis - working document

Intro

In this work I reflect on how we perceive our direct surroundings. Perhaps we take these spaces for granted. But maybe we can learn to look at them diffrently to see those spaces as something that we make rather than discover. Through the following chapters, I delve into the tools that shape our vision, the methods that encourage spontaneous encounters inspired by the Situationists, and the role of attentiveness. Drawing insights from documentaries and early cinema I aim to uncover ways of paying attention to our surroundings.

Chapter 1

Reading the city isn’t just about observing it from a distance. The more I observed, the more I realized how complex and multi-layered cities are, interwoven with countless stories. Reading a city means being genuinely curious about its people and surroundings. It means engaging with the world and continually evolving your perception of it. It involves being open to unexpected opportunities that arise IN unfamiliar streets, IN shadowed corners, IN familiar spaces, IN chaotic streets, IN the spaces in-between, IN spaces of certainty, IN neighborhood park, IN museum courtyards, IN crowded markets, IN city squares, IN quiet side streets, IN leisure spaces, IN shared spaces, IN spaces full of people, IN parking spaces, and open spaces. There are PEOPLE always in a hurry, PEOPLE who sing to themselves, PEOPLE who take detours, PEOPLE who carry notebooks, PEOPLE lost in their thoughts, PEOPLE who bike everywhere, PEOPLE who dream vividly, PEOPLE who miss their hometowns, PEOPLE who never stop questioning, PEOPLE walking alone, PEOPLE who adore symmetry, PEOPLE who enjoy getting lost, PEOPLE who love surprises, PEOPLE who stay up late, PEOPLE who speak with their hands, PEOPLE who feel out of place, PEOPLE walking slowly, and PEOPLE speaking many languages, shaping the spaces we inhabit. Perhaps we take these spaces for granted, moving through them daily withou t much thought. But maybe we can learn to see them differently: TO SEE the long way home, TO SEE the stories in gestures, TO SEE the endless possibilities, TO SEE the rhythm of the city, TO SEE the connections, TO SEE the hidden textures, TO SEE the passing time, TO SEE the absurdity, TO SEE the hidden shortcuts, TO SEE the unexpected, TO SEE the structures, TO SEE the stories, TO SEE the choices in how we move, TO SEE the city’s edges, TO SEE the city as a game, TO SEE hidden playgrounds, TO SEE new paths, TO SEE the extraordinary in the ordinary, TO SEE the absence, TO SEE with the greatest precision, TO SEE what’s written in the street. When we learn to see, nothing will stop us from reimagining these spaces anew—other uses, other functions, other possible ways of navigating them. I believe the first step is to pay attention. It all started this summer, with a pair of binoculars I bought at a market for three euros. Totally absorbed, I spent hours on Yana's balcony, observing the rooftops of Sofia—textures, antennas, and edges. Gradually, fragments of the city revealed themselves to me. Serendipity played a role in these observations, and I couldn’t have been happier, as I noticed things that usually go unnoticed. The binoculars became my tool for "reading" the city and found a permanent place in my routine. I became obsessed. Through them, I observed Sofia, Warsaw, Frankfurt-Oder and Słubice, Rotterdam, and Groningen. It fascinated me how even the simplest tool, with its inherent limitations, could open us to unexpected opportunities. How narrowing the field of vision, allows for looking at the city piece by piece and brings a specific fragment to the front. Inspired by that, I decided to build a camera obscura large enough to step inside and place it in public space. I was curious to see how our perception changes when we view an image upside down. Would we notice something extraordinary in what we see daily? Unfortunately, the costs of constructing such a device overwhelmed me. Instead, I realized this idea within the confines of my room. Using cardboard and the properties of light, I transformed my room, already positioned on the street, into a camera. I darkened the entire space, leaving a pinhole to create an inverted image. On my table, I saw a fragment of the bridge where train tracks once ran. At that moment, I knew I was inside the camera. The projection was smaller and blurrier than I expected, yet I observed the bridge fragment with a level of attention I’d never given it before. For two years, that view had been the first thing I saw when opening my door. It wasn’t until I saw it upside down that I truly paid attention. I continued observing my surroundings. For a series of days, I sat in a square, observing at specific times. I watched my street through the frame of my window. I observed the street corner framing it from a café. I built a device—a tube for reading the city. I watched the city through a paper frame, a camera, and a film camera lens. I became an expert observer. But do we really need tools for this? Isn’t curiosity and simply being in a space, observing what surrounds us, enough? Devoting time and attention seems sufficient, yet so much escapes us and remains unnoticed. We cannot take in the entire city at a glance; we need separation and pauses to interpret what we see. Otherwise, everything becomes a continuous stream of unprocessable information. What matters to me is how this observation can contribute to our active participation in a space. It is in this context that I want my magazine to become a frame for urban observations and situations. I decided to narrow my focus, choose a fragment, and frame it for closer examination. Inspired by Alison Knowles's The House of Dust, I developed a script to list various locations, people one might encounter there, and observations. The script randomly combined entries from each category, generating statements that I treated as prompts for further focused observation. Thus, the first issue of Fragments Magazine is dedicated:
FOR PEOPLE who always carry a notebook
TO SEE the choices in how we move
IN open spaces