User:Mania/Thesis - working document

Steve's notes

[What a GREAT START! there is a really rich mix here: your diaristic style works very well, the visual material you draw on is germane, and the references are there, without being didactic. My suggested edits are in bold and my comments are green. On Thursday let's discuss how you can bring in material from proposal, public moments, fake assessment, into the thesis (to describe project &c).]

Intro - draft

In [title] 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 - draft

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.

[S notes:<< you are describing a methodology for reading a city]

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 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. 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. [How so, it would be interesting to describe the experience of seeing anew through this new "lens". Please describe a particular moment. What is happening? The reader can then share the immediacy of that experience] 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.

I built 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 every day? 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. [where did you make this?]

I continued observing my surroundings. For 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? [The other question is: what do you gain from using such tools? Why is it satisfying for you to frame? What happens when you crop? What happens when you frame?] 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. And thats also what I mean by a tool.

cropped image from footage of Scheveningen -

cropped image from footage of Scheveningen -

cropped image from footage of Scheveningen -

cropped image from footage of Scheveningen - https://archive.org/details/de-oldify-scheveningen-in-the-roaring-twenties-2-audio-c.-1922-1920x-1080-prob-3

I decided to narrow my focus, choose a fragment, and frame it for closer examination. Inspired by Alison Knowles's 1967 poem The House of Dust, [<describe that text in a sentence or so] 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. [Note: With the script, you are creating another technology for looking (like the camera obscura, binoculars and tube). It seems to be different to mapping a space. It is about apprehension of a space, more than about its relation to other spaces. Are these devise about providing an encounter with a particular space? It is interesting how the aesthetic that is developing mirrors early film and photography. What do you think the relation is, for you? (there are no wrong answers here).]

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

(I searched for photographs in archives and video materials from early cinema because I wanted to work with these fragments. I wanted to use cropped images to illustrate the choices in how we move, and I got lost in a sea of colorful frames from Scheveningen in the Twenties.)

Suggested texts

Intro

With this paper I dedicate time to move through different places and look at them with curious eyes. This text is written in between places, in trains, on park benches, in the coffeshop on my street. It brings fragments from my notebook. So the writing is in a dialogue with walking, collecting fragments and rearranging them. Ten tekst jest otwarciem na niespodziewane, na przypadkowe odkrycia i obserwacje. I aim to uncover other ways of seeing and relating to our cities. I’m looking for ways to open up for different experiences. I’m very much looking for unpredictability and surprises in the city, exciting connections, and connections with other people in the space.

Chapter 1. What does it mean to read the city? - Part 1

Reading the city isn’t just about observing it from a distance. 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. The language of the city lies in the situations and unexpected opportunities that arise. We read it with our eyes, ears, and feet

IN unfamiliar streets,

IN shadowed corners,

IN familiar spaces,

IN chaotic streets,

IN the spaces in-between,

IN spaces of certainty,

IN neighborhood parks,

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,

PEOPLE speaking many languages,

shaping the spaces we inhabit.

We often take these spaces for granted, moving through them daily without much thought. But what if we could learn to look at 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 start to look at them differentky, nothing will stop us from reimagining these spaces anew and other possible ways of navigating them.

In cities, there are far more unexpected connections than one might think. But sometimes, noticing them takes time. Waiting for the unexpected to happen might seem boring to some people. When we set out to find it but fail to see it, it can frustrate us. However, waiting in this context is important. Waiting is a part of reading the city. By waiting, we allow ourselves to get bored—and that boredom can lead to unexpected, creative ideas. Waiting is a resistance against efficiency at all costs. Reading the city isn’t always equally exciting. Reading the city requires time and attention. It involves getting lost, observing in the rain, or taking the long way home. Not everything has to be productive, smooth, or predictable—and that’s what makes reading the city so fascinating.

René Boer’s concept of the “Smooth City” ties into this idea. He describes the growing tendency in urban environments where experiences become increasingly seamless. We have services that deliver groceries to our doors, dating apps, and smart solutions that provide us with comfort, but they also create a frictionless environment. While everyone deserves a safe and clean environment, such conditions gradually eliminate opportunities for serendipity, potential, encounters, and all those unexpected events that cannot be planned in advance. This raises an important question: what kind of cities do we really want? Do we prefer a predictable, frictionless environment, or do we want to embrace random chances? Personally, I long for a city where I can be myself, where I enjoy conversations with strangers, where I discover new paths, where not everything is reduced to the same ideal, polished appearance—a city created by people and therefore full of potential.

This magazine may seem a bit messy, but this messiness in unpredictability can bring unexpected connections. And this is what the act of making this magazine public and publishing it outdoors call for. It seeks to decode the language of the city and by actively existing in public space, it becomes a tool for that, knowing that this act is an unfinished process. The image of the city is ever changing, its never complete.

To focus this exploration, I decided to narrow my scope: choose a fragment and frame it for closer examination. Inspired by Alison Knowles’s project The House of Dust, in which she used code to generate short poems that she later translated into physical houses, I developed a script, listing various locations, people one might encounter there, and observations. It then randomly combines 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

I think that limitation and a certain imposed boundary can be very creative. Through the script, which selected and combined three entries from a wealth of street observations, a relationship between them emerges. And in a way, this automatically opens up new possibilities. This was initiated by the computer, but what happens next depends entirely on my interpretation.

Tools for reading the city - Part 2

As much as I am captivated by the moving image, cities are not only visual. Like Lawrence Halprin wrote: “Architecture alone does not make a great street anymore than a fine stage set makes great theatre. The two depend, finally, on what happens and what interactions occur; what they generate in the human experience” (‘Creative Processes in the Human Environment’). In this context I'm interested in how even the simplest tools, which impose certain limitations, can open us up to unexpected opportunities.

I’m curious about translating what film works with into a system for exploring physical space. Film deals with scripts, continuity, speed, time, rhythm, and frames. They use cutting and rearranging pieces. I’m curious to use these elements as tools for decoding the language of the city. I want to allow an interplay between what is perceived and what can arise and come into view.

This fascination with framing 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. With a newfound interest, I scanned buildings, gliding along their lines. They made me notice houses that look like they are hugging the one in the middle. Passersbys entered and exited my frame, suddenly, the city became full of surprises. 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.

The camera obscura flips the image, and much like binoculars, it allows me to see it with a renewed sense of interest. I read the city upside down. It reminds me of my summer Sunday tradition that I used to have when I was living in a room with access to the garden. I would go out into the garden, lie down on a bench and look at my Dutch house upside down. It brought me such joy that when my friends came over and we had dinner in the garden, we’d do it together. We’d lie on the two benches of the picnic table, simply observing, passing a cigarette under the tabletop.

I continued observing my surroundings. For 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.

The most important function of these framing tools is that they open possibilities but don’t determine what exactly will emerge. I became intrested in scoring devices, that have simmilar function. For example, the score that accompanied Charles Amirkhanian's performance did not dictate how exactly it should be interpreted. It consisted of drawings that could be freely interpreted by the musicians, thereby fueling the performance. This was not limited to professional musicians; anyone could participate as long as they interpreted the images in any chosen way. This example illustrates how playing with chance and control can energize the performance of participants.

“These kinds of scores have the built-in possibilities for interaction between what is perceived beforehand and what emerges during the act. They allow the activity itself to generate its own results in process. They communicate but do not control. They energize and guide, they encourage, they evoke responses, they do not impose.” (‘Creative Processes in the Human Environment’p.19)