https://patiopublication.cargo.site Patio Sun, 06 Jun 2021 17:41:45 +0000 https://patiopublication.cargo.site en https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Feed Fri, 29 Jan 2021 22:23:18 +0000 Patio https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Feed <img width="1920" height="1080" width_o="1920" height_o="1080" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/788a12ff0bf68d4b7bd70a734710b2e12ab80c653cb994d59384bb3ff87d9824/Alterity-Collage.png" data-mid="97212653" border="0" data-no-zoom="true" data-marker-id="2" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/788a12ff0bf68d4b7bd70a734710b2e12ab80c653cb994d59384bb3ff87d9824/Alterity-Collage.png" /> https://patiopublication.cargo.site/El-Patio-by-Jean-Pierre-Villafane Fri, 09 Apr 2021 04:39:06 +0000 Patio https://patiopublication.cargo.site/El-Patio-by-Jean-Pierre-Villafane El Patio by jEAN-PIERRE VILLAFAÑE La obra de Jean-Pierre explora, de manera satírica y macabra, cómo se disponen los ambientes sociales según nuestras nociones de intimidad, sexualidad y autoconcepto. Mediante figuras entremezcladas y carnavalescas, sus pinturas develan una mirada empática pero mordaz hacia la ineludible performatividad del ser. Pese a los referentes decadentes y el tono corrosivo de su obra, hallamos un aliento optimista. Puesto que las figuras que componen estos óleos sugieren, siempre vigorosas y desbordadas, un sinnúmero de escenarios llenos de posibilidades. Capaces no sólo de coexistir, sino también de complementarse. Inscritos en interiores domésticos semejantes a barras, museos, plazas públicas o centros culturales, los personajes bailan, beben y cantan. Superpuestos e hiperconectados. En un mundo donde las nociones de lo público y lo doméstico han sido obliteradas súbitamente. Deseosos no de retener los fragmentos de una vieja realidad, sino de reconfigurar las relaciones interpersonales y la manera en que los cuerpos se desplazan por espacios funestos. Las sátiras de Jean-Pierre, rebosantes de ritmos y colores llamativos, suscitan estados ambivalentes, ricos en ironía, alegría, ternura y desprecio. Jean-Pierre’s work examines satyric, and sometimes macabre, social settings that underlie self-concept, intimacy, and sensual experiences. Representing intermingling carnivalesque figures, his paintings direct an incisive but empathetic gaze towards the self-conscious performativity of being, expressing striking rhythms and improvisational techniques that manifest as acts of deviation. In his play, the human body becomes a stage: sensuous, lyrical lines and dense figures of luminous color act as linguistic elements, each directing its own physical weight and affect on the bodily subjects. <img width="2189" height="2199" width_o="2189" height_o="2199" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/93001ae5262213446e92662aa52e827e498507b005e4344d1f8592f21098a17a/El-Patio_JPV.png" data-mid="104707481" border="0" data-scale="83" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/93001ae5262213446e92662aa52e827e498507b005e4344d1f8592f21098a17a/El-Patio_JPV.png" /> ”El Patio” 72 in x 72 in (Oil and Graphite on Canvas) Currently exhibited at Embajada San Juan, Puerto Rico. Jean-Pierre Villafañe (San Juan, Puerto Rico, 1992) es arquitecto y pintor. Recientemente completó estudios de maestría en Arquitectura en Columbia University y anteriormente un bachillerato en Arquitectura y Diseño Industrial en SCAD. Su obra pictórica explora la intersección entre la pintura figurativa y la arquitectura, con el propósito de cuestionar las suposiciones gestadas por nuestras subjetividades escindidas pero complementarias Su obra ha sido expuesta en The Shanghai Art Fair, Shangai, CN (2020); Batofar, Paris, FR (2018); The Living Gallery, Manhattan, NY (2018); Deep Space, NY (2017); The Chicago Biennial, IL (2017) y Gensler, Washington, DC (2017), entre otros. Como arquitecto, ha participado en investigaciones y talleres en São Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, la República de Maldivas y los Emiratos Árabes Unidos. Durante su último año de bachillerato, completó sus estudios en Hong Kong, donde investigó los efectos del entorno urbano en las movilizaciones sociales. Actualmente reside y trabaja entre San Juan y Nueva York. https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Kitchen-Parliament-by-Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji Fri, 09 Apr 2021 01:49:07 +0000 Patio https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Kitchen-Parliament-by-Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji Kitchen Parliament by Azul Klix &amp; Ibrahim Kombarji Kitchen Parliament aims to empower marginalized social actors through the act of cooking. The project feeds on the network of ‘comedores populares’ that dot the Latin American continent. These community-led kitchens perform as open parliaments, foregrounding marginalized actors by placing them back into the heart of political discussion. <img width="1647" height="2000" width_o="1647" height_o="2000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/1e16fbd5d4c3e11db3aa88a8ee7cf6fb431125bd837a921770d158956872bea8/Kitchen-Parliament--Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji-context.jpg" data-mid="104699595" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/1e16fbd5d4c3e11db3aa88a8ee7cf6fb431125bd837a921770d158956872bea8/Kitchen-Parliament--Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji-context.jpg" /> <img width="2000" height="2000" width_o="2000" height_o="2000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/685607f4e413fcf3d94331c2be629d6948b005c52448a5278085a3b448320a82/Kitchen-Parliament--Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji--plan.jpg" data-mid="104699594" border="0" data-scale="75" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/685607f4e413fcf3d94331c2be629d6948b005c52448a5278085a3b448320a82/Kitchen-Parliament--Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji--plan.jpg" /> Inspired by the idea that “things” shape the domestic subject, the project incorporates common household objects and relocates them into new orientations. The displacement of objects allows us to study the impact of a simple daily device on its user. Moreover, the redistribution of functions highlights the notion of monumentality within the context of the mundane. The project results in a network of radially-oriented exchange areas. The lavatory, storage area, dining surfaces and entrance/pick-up counters are organized around a central stage. This new kitchen no longer serves simply as a nutritious environment. Instead, it loses its traditional character in order to open discussions and foster new forms of dialogue. <img width="2000" height="1322" width_o="2000" height_o="1322" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f343f38eb1d2f657eda93bbe4d2b787f33f6dbd114746920a0c8a2fea063d388/Kitchen-Parliament--Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji-model-03.jpg" data-mid="104699597" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/f343f38eb1d2f657eda93bbe4d2b787f33f6dbd114746920a0c8a2fea063d388/Kitchen-Parliament--Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji-model-03.jpg" /> <img width="1582" height="2000" width_o="1582" height_o="2000" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/a1006ca2055c3fba3ff1b532226ec07193997fce61bb9519d22232291a8d9e2c/Kitchen-Parliament--Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji-section.jpg" data-mid="104699598" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/a1006ca2055c3fba3ff1b532226ec07193997fce61bb9519d22232291a8d9e2c/Kitchen-Parliament--Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji-section.jpg" /> In rendering visible the existing architecture of the site, this new system of spatial governance addresses the critical social components that form a neighborhood, including its political agencies and local actors. Thus, ‘Kitchen Parliament’ becomes a space for the promotion and visibility of key issues that reshuffle the political power-play in the neighborhood and Peru at-large. <img width="1398" height="1080" width_o="1398" height_o="1080" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/30394109f39d317f6bad06a836f411a4764b07a60c339c99504b1fe426a35613/Table-GIF.gif" data-mid="104699919" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/30394109f39d317f6bad06a836f411a4764b07a60c339c99504b1fe426a35613/Table-GIF.gif" /> <img width="2000" height="1338" width_o="2000" height_o="1338" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/2d83accbd0026dbc5f9f4abf5c6525a66d41dbf5b6db51552c466f3db9ec2c3a/Kitchen-Parliament--Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji-image.jpg" data-mid="104699596" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/2d83accbd0026dbc5f9f4abf5c6525a66d41dbf5b6db51552c466f3db9ec2c3a/Kitchen-Parliament--Azul-Klix-Ibrahim-Kombarji-image.jpg" /> <img width="691" height="461" width_o="691" height_o="461" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ff252a9f3d46efe1f45d36c70c87eac35456eb2a0f98cce8fde7f8f419fba8c3/Dropbox-Gif.gif" data-mid="104700394" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/691/i/ff252a9f3d46efe1f45d36c70c87eac35456eb2a0f98cce8fde7f8f419fba8c3/Dropbox-Gif.gif" /> https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Villaisolation-by-Candelaria-Mas-Pohmajevic Fri, 09 Apr 2021 04:14:44 +0000 Patio https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Villaisolation-by-Candelaria-Mas-Pohmajevic Villaisolation by Candelaria Mas Pohmajevic At the peak of the pandemic, Buenos Aires (BA) was the epicenter of coronavirus cases and deaths in Argentina. In mid-March, the government imposed a two-month nationwide mandatory lockdown enforced by the police that would eventually become one of the world's longest quarantines, lasting five months. Yet the situation is more complex. By the end of May, as Buenos Aires city (the “Autonomous City of Buenos Aires” or CABA) prepared to loosen the original lockdown, the COVID-19 cases worsened in the approximately 2,000 slum districts in the Buenos Aires Metropolitan Area –located just 10 miles away from CABA. Residents of Villa Azul and Villa Itatí, two of the country's poorest slums, were cordoned off due to a spike in cases. Such formal closure merely confirmed the historical stigmatization of the villas.1 The derelict living conditions and the lack of a dignified public realm in the slums accelerated the spread of the virus which soon escalated into a city-wide sanitary emergency. In response to that, the government decided to police the villa's entrances in an attempt to prevent a disaster by impeding people from crossing the borders. Nevertheless, the slums lived in isolation long before the pandemic. Rather than proposing alternate solutions to containing the spread of the virus in the city, this article will describe the living conditions that led to the sanitary emergency in Itatí and Azul and will make the case for advancing a public space agenda for the future equitable development of the slums. Background and the Pandemic Villa Azul and Villa Itatí are just two of the many shantytowns or "villas miseria" that emerged under the military regimes of the 1950s and 1970s in the outskirts of the Greater Buenos Aires area. Originally, they were a single settlement, but the Southeast Access Highway construction in 1971 split them in two and hardened their segregation from the 'formal city fabric.'2 The original settlers of the villas, looking for better opportunities in BA, came from the impoverished northern cities in Argentina, Paraguay, and other bordering countries. This migration pattern persists. There are almost 20,000 people in both settlements, approximately 5,000 households living in precarious conditions.3 Urban neglect reigned throughout the years and divided the “formal city fabric” from what it is not. The 2010 census reported that both settlements were far more impoverished than adjacent urban areas, with unemployment rates higher than the country's median and hazardous living conditions and approximately 20% of houses overcrowded–or more than three people per room. In a 2018 survey carried out by the former administration, almost 70% or 3,383 households were deemed unstable or precarious–indicating that in eight years, the generalized living conditions had not improved. What is more, public space infrastructure is minimal–the muddy and dirty streets are difficult to walk, and the insufficient parks and plazas are dirty, prone to floods, unsafe, and the epicenter of drug and alcohol abuse.4&nbsp; <img width="462" height="252" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/0_ylcuvxb89SIud8nJI-bnC4Jq6zvwHziitRbE6ciDiYgRCvU071rLVbcs3X5tjoBS7icOAaD2DIJ5UDNqOwaMFWmNnH4gzMQz7zFsxMe5m-mZ57pNM6TTddvJXwMzmG-AHZx_Q"> <img width="380" height="252" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/3Pr-oDWtdieCLdnWHAuGJLJ5HEIusjmwP5VR4teTRK6XhEdM-jQJ3OPudxoaXpB_Wa97B2rMFzrF8u7cwmTIW-UyzNaUiLQE3iQNwLyA6umtmfuj3dkucx68o4EPvtVsP7jEGzI"> Satellite image of the slum divided by the highway in the middle of the "formal city fabric" Source: Google Earth. The communities live in a permanent state of emergency in make-shift homes of low-quality, unstable materials and construction techniques. Source: La Nación Newspaper It came as no surprise that the inhabitants of Itatí and Azul were going to be the hardest hit by the coronavirus pandemic. Apart from the lack of access to basic sanitation and healthcare services, they suffer from chronic illnesses like obesity, hypertension, and diabetes at higher rates. The built environment in the slums accelerated the spread of the virus. Furthermore, just as if living in the fringes of society was not exclusionary enough, in the peak of the virus outbreak the authorities decided to further segregate Itatí and Azul by cordoning them off, curtailing their freedom.5 <img width="407" height="315" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/gOUbaodjoqQWtipf21GK8WB6KPXsFzS3ut8h3Y5i2oFDGyxbb11-8KQz1LZqWwZsKHtndW8uzB2Xd0yGyy2SedbnhSgpLRilozctGZuDPeDeWMaGCYvbFGdZ_jzk22AmhbwYHt0"> <img width="394" height="305" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/z2ZsMDqgczOePX0xW6jMwADzSw7nu9Wh_2hVsDpUrb5WMPZmSz8De-ugFteiJZJhQczYyxjqDJwSJGsaydmYN3GP9mAZlpz6tmw8x01r1QcGxxS5C7mPme8mHxAcaYc0uM-Bjcw"> <img width="413" height="319" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/xT495eHOwjVuY0JbcOKxzNC24KK037XleJUBFSIhnPepdGcdkhVgDdL7RZVPpusVCCnEAVXWPO6byB_vBWswBMoxDJPOyQeOiuiOIWTWLhsUsfdiVTv0n5XigaFtIrY21BnHYMU"> (Left) Correlation between high vulnerability areas and the location of slums in Buenos Aires. (Center) Correlation between slums and COVID-19 cases in Buenos Aires (right)A threat to the “formal city”, Itatí and Azul slums are highly vulnerable and the center of COVID-19 infections. <img width="393" height="304" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/YGn9s_1-LnREN7s5dIOdFVFI1Fcr267EzE3sXA9LSz6N10Qbags5F9997l6wDZHFM4gxLjcDXf1xQxsGm9gM2OlD6mH7b7-cIQDULaq_CQO8-CpQ41rSeY-zQmpu5B9jrk_4x6Y"> <img width="397" height="307" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/YGn9s_1-LnREN7s5dIOdFVFI1Fcr267EzE3sXA9LSz6N10Qbags5F9997l6wDZHFM4gxLjcDXf1xQxsGm9gM2OlD6mH7b7-cIQDULaq_CQO8-CpQ41rSeY-zQmpu5B9jrk_4x6Y"> (Left) Households in Itatí and Azul are severely overcrowded with more than 3 people per room. (Right) 70% of households in the slums don't have access to the sewage system. The Importance of Public Space The pandemic exposed the obvious: health–or the lack thereof–is intrinsically tied to the quality of the built environment and public space. Many studies show that communities like Itatí and Azul, which are exposed to environmental pollution and have less access to community services, are more prone to suffer from mental and physical health diseases ranging from stress and anxiety to asthma, diabetes, obesity and heart conditions. Access to quality public space can reduce environment-led conditions and diseases as it provides clean areas for recreation, exercise, and socialization free of harmful noise, in contact with the ecology and fresh air. In turn, communities with access to open spaces are happier, suffer reduced obesity and diabetes rates, and have longer life expectancy rates.6 Apart from the health benefits, public spaces are powerful catalysts for building democracy and advancing communities' sense of belonging through participatory placemaking. Participatory placemaking is the combined top-down and bottom-up approach to regenerating neighborhoods affected by social or economic segregation by nurturing "the capacity of a community to continue improving its space after the 'experts' have left." Socialization is the fuel of placemaking, and public space is the platform where participation happens. These vital urban spaces that range from public libraries to urban parks are places of "encounter and collective meaningful negotiation" where people co-create their own city. Public spaces are essential in vulnerable neighborhoods where houses are precarious, small, and crowded because they usually fulfill basic needs in the community. Streets, playgrounds, and community facilities are beloved points of reunion that encourage playing and exercising, or provide areas to have nutritious meals, or for participation in educational activities. This way, the public realm nurtures social capital, strengthening community relationships, increasing sense of belonging, ownership, and identity.7 For a long time residents of Itatí and Azul have not dared to visit their "Pope Francis" park because –as stated on an intercept survey in 2019– the flooded and dark streets, the high levels of crime, and the presence of the police made life outdoors uninviting. During the pandemic the outcome proved lethal –not only was their soccer field the focal coronavirus point where most of the infections happened leaving 1,067 COVID-19 confirmed cases in Itatí alone– but it also rapidly turned into a seized ground in the middle of the city.8 <img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/fH4JNQj_CAiT973_g6I_ACw792tqQD0GCyHvPmqT4DVdSZTbPhpG_Z3083b6vucouECYnSdISNgfhXakfwtkNNWhmgYSzjE4oOjEXtoegu1CsOyK4WTX0mc64FDAHXqK-YlKYBc" width="333" height="221" style="width: 333px; height: 221px;" data-scale="100"> Police cordoning off the Itatí and Azul settlements. Source: La Nación Newspaper. Public space is not a silver bullet and should not be regarded as an idyllic solution to the structural challenges in the slums. Still, it could be a lifeline that offers access to safe spaces and a platform for social infrastructure that elevates and dignifies its residents.9 A future with participatory public space-making It is time to change the usual top-down social housing building approach that Buenos Aires has been following and is programmed to resume soon. Solving the inequality and poverty in Itatí and Azul requires a fast and sustainable strategy that engages the residents as co-creators of space. Long before the pandemic, many cities upgraded substandard living conditions in “informal settlements” by advancing creative placemaking, collaboration, and community strengthening systems. Truly impactful urban projects do not simply erect brick and mortar housing units in a neighborhood. These complex, cross-sector, and multiple stakeholder initiatives are focused in the final product as much as in the making process involving the local community in the construction. Many successful hybrid urban projects exist. These examples could start informing future inclusive development in the Itatí and Azul slums. One of the most notable public space strategies is the 'social urbanism' program that Medellín started in 2003 in response to the increased violence and crime present in the city's steep informal settlements.The former Medellín mayor Fajardo's political strategy was based in advancing public spaces as catalysts for better opportunities and upward social mobility in vulnerable neighborhoods. A series of public interventions —that included parks, plazas, and high-quality schools, and a new metro-cable system– enhanced access to city-wide amenities from the relegated parts of the city. Several community workshops and programs were key parts of the plan enabling neighbors to participate in the urban regeneration program, solidifying relationships with other residents and integrating them in the iterative design. Elevating the value of public space repositioned and improved Medellín's informal barrios reputation. The coordinated effort of residents and the government through the social urbanism program not only built new amenities but also preserved, repurposed, and re-envisioned obsolete infrastructures, such as the Medellín River, transforming it into an urban park for people to enjoy nature and the ecology amidst the bustling city.10 <img width="366" height="203" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/9ek9Nc5VMVm2S1VWbbLw8vsbGQKDHlIy78h6CeWk7EnNTy1kX15VbNZBJeboGqfgyX7GrLJHIZWG7MkAuhIosqm6KFRMIvWYt9PMcbTGSZ-5M8umdioWxZ7PxWh6wWZOz50IzAk"> Medellin's school Santo Domingo Savio integrates a generous plaza for the students and locals to socialize and mingle in public space.11 The coordinated effort of top-down and bottom-up actors has the power to transform the most challenged neighborhoods into platforms for community resilience. The Extended Public Works Program in South Africa illustrates this approach. Born out of the need to reduce fire and flood hazards with minimal disruptions to the villagers in slums in Cape Town, it proposed to reconfigure their shacks by maximizing open space through the 'reblocking' strategy. The program – led by community organizations, NGOs, and the government – leveraged the community's construction abilities to rebuild a healthier neighborhood, encouraging debate and consensus, teaching new skills and creating new jobs for the locals. According to the users, the open spaces that resulted from the participatory process increased engagement and the sense of ownership in the villages.12 &nbsp; <img width="287" height="215" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/WNWveRe_mPHSGXmgXrIqeInwwZB1RVvULCPvDE4rvi6XzfvmtnKQRu4OIo6PrFYXqxMElyECP3Z4L1Io2mcvpFSv65S9Y2Zeq4nwKvGpZAu89SdEg9qP60SUpYdGJ_qqdlmGBMw"> <img width="287" height="203" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/9-CLMq3YzIpdwe6wLBCssiPxn0Vi4aRax7mmnPtSTEH4k9iqnn8A-JydbCZBvjw9MTqGfLnZbQ5CIQHFEWPz4yoKmsCpf1Y9Sy1ZaAil60rZzCFHaVfq2bpWK2IeaC_5W5s9L0c"> Reblocking, a participatory process that engages local residents in the reconfiguration of their shacks. ETH Zurich and Urban-Think Tank partnered with local NGOs to develop four new shacks through reblocking13 By integrating participatory placemaking strategies like those in Medellin and Cape Town, Buenos Aires could achieve a much powerful impact for the slums and the overall city in the post-pandemic recovery. A recovery that includes residents and neighbors from Itatí and Azul in the design and decision-making processes will lead to a dignified and empowering outcome that celebrates the community's existing achievements and identity. Contrary to the usual unilateral process of public housing that washes away local idiosyncrasies, participatory placemaking could elevate the existing social capital to create inclusive, healthy spaces. Participation is not magic; it is a collective process that brings locals and neighbors together to re-imagine a collective, changing future. Adopting and sustaining it in Itatí and Azul will not be easy or fast. Placemaking should be understood as a manifesto — a tool that guides and encourages slum dwellers to be active city-makers to positively transform spaces, minds, and bodies, offering the opportunity to destigmatize the villas for good. Just like freedom, participation is a right — it should be granted and respected. Bibliography &nbsp; 1. Uki Goñi, "Argentina cordons off virus-hit slum as critics decry 'ghettoes for poor people'," The Guardian, May 27, 2020. The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/may/27/argentina-cordons-off-coronavirus-slum-ghettoes-for-poor-people 2.&nbsp; Fernando Soriano, "La Villa Azul desde adentro: un barrio cercado y una cancha de fútbol como posible foco de los primeros contagios de coronavirus" May 25, 2020. Infobae https://www.infobae.com/sociedad/2020/05/25/la-villa-azul-desde-adentro-un-barrio-cercado-y-una-cancha-de-futbol-como-posible-foco-de-los-53-contagios-de-coronavirus/ 3.&nbsp; "Proyecto de Transformación Urbana del Área Metropolitana de Buenos Aires (AMBA)", World Bank, February 2019 http://documents1.worldbank.org/curated/en/778971550482375521/pdf/Evaluaci-n-Social.pdf 4.&nbsp; "Informe Censo Villa Itatí - Villa Azul", June, 2018 http://www.estadistica.ec.gba.gov.ar/dpe/images/Informe_Censo_Villa_Itat%C3%AD_-_Villa_Azul_1.pdf, "Í ndice de Vulnerabilidad por Radio Censal" June 2019, http://datosabiertos.aeroterra.com/datasets/8ecd8e8d4703446781fcf8703473a56b_0?showData=true. The census deems "unstable or precarious" conditions when dwellings' floor and ceiling construction materials are of low-quality, fragile, and unstable. 5.&nbsp; &nbsp; Samuel Berlinski, Jessica Gagete-Miranda, Marcos Vera-Hernández. "Poor Health, Poverty and the Challenges of COVID-19 in Latin America and the Caribbean." May 25, 2020. IADB Blog. https://blogs.iadb.org/ideas-matter/en/poor-health-poverty-and-the-challenges-of-covid-19-in-latin-america-and-the-caribbean/ 6.&nbsp; Gehl Institute, Inclusive Healthy Places, 2018, 23, accessed online https://gehlinstitute.org/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/Inclusive-Healthy-Places_Gehl-Institute.pdf7. Mark Purcell, "The right to the city: the struggle for democracy in the urban public realm." Policy and Politics 43, Ermacora, Thomas, and Lucy Bullivant. 2016. "Recoded City. London: Routledge 03, 07. In Villa Itatí and Azul, it is believed that the most visited public space, a soccer field, was where most of the residents were exposed to the virus. From Alejandro Horvat, "Coronavirus en la Argentina. "Todo explotó en la canchita de fútbol", coinciden en Villa Azul, el barrio aislado con vallas y patrulleros" May 25, 2020. La Nación Newspaper. And idem note 6. 8.&nbsp; Soledad Bustos , Fernando Buey, Gabriela L'Arco, et al. "Abordaje comunitario de la pandemia de COVID en Quilmes: la experiencia de Villa Itatí." Scielo Preprint. October 6, 2020. https://preprints.scielo.org/index.php/scielo/preprint/download/1294/2055/2163 9.&nbsp; Interview with a neighbor in Villa Itatí about the use and appropriation of public space. Neighbor 13 mentioned that the poor street quality and the crime activity around the Pope Francis ballpark didn't allow them to visit that public space.&nbsp; "Proyecto de Transformación Urbana del Área Metropolitana de Buenos Aires (AMBA)", World Bank, February 2019. 113. http://documents1.worldbank.org/curated/en/778971550482375521/pdf/Evaluaci-n-Social.pdf 10. Jared Green, "Medellín Is Healing Itself with Social Urbanism" The Dirt, Uniting the Built and Natural Environments, November 28, 2018. https://dirt.asla.org/2018/11/28/medellin-is-healing-itself-with-social-urbanism/. Ermacora, Thomas, and Lucy Bullivant. 2016. "Recoded City. London: Routledge 03, 142-147. 11.&nbsp; "Antonio Derka School / Obranegra Arquitectos" September 28, 2014. ArchDaily. Accessed 4 Apr 2021. https://www.archdaily.com/550567/colegio-antonio-derka-santo-domingo-savio-obranegra-arquitectos&nbsp; ISSN 0719-8884 12.&nbsp; Ermacora, Thomas, and Lucy Bullivant. 2016. "Recoded City. London: Routledge 03, 267-269. And "Supporting Reblocking and Community Development in Mtshini Wam" 2012. https://cpb-us-w2.wpmucdn.com/wp.wpi.edu/dist/f/266/files/2012/11/Final-Project-Executive-Summary-for-Mtshini-Wam.pdf 13.&nbsp; Iain Low, "Family business: Empower Shack in Khayelitsha near Cape Town, South Africa by Urban-Think Tank and ETH Zurich," May 14, 2018, https://www.architectural-review.com/buildings/family-business-empower-shack-in-khayelitsha-near-cape-town-south-africa-by-urban-think-tank-and-eth-zurich Candelaria Mas Pohmajevic is an Architect and Urban Designer from Columbia GSAPP. https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Tablecity Sun, 06 Jun 2021 17:41:45 +0000 Patio https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Tablecity Tablecity&nbsp; by Alice Fang , Begum Karaoglu, Joel McCullough, Oliver Bradley, and Chengliang Li <img width="4800" height="2700" width_o="4800" height_o="2700" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/96dff5bf71c9bfce036090a78c353908914e566579ee1f8acb77468e8b373820/Before.jpg" data-mid="110591539" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/96dff5bf71c9bfce036090a78c353908914e566579ee1f8acb77468e8b373820/Before.jpg" /> <img width="4800" height="2700" width_o="4800" height_o="2700" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/11a496323f55a5401428e6b5f1096c0918c2a7dab3c36a005383f1af730201fe/After.jpg" data-mid="110591543" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/11a496323f55a5401428e6b5f1096c0918c2a7dab3c36a005383f1af730201fe/After.jpg" /> With a haunting history of political reappropriation, the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development (UNCTAD III) in Santiago, Chile, exemplifies how futile good intentions in architecture can be. Built in 1972 as a socialist symbol under Allende for the third session of the UN Conference, the building was co-opted into the military headquarters of Pinochet's military dictatorship. With minimal architectural intervention, the building's socialist ambitions were entirely erased, entering the Chilean imagination as a symbol of the repressive government dictatorship. In 2006, a fire partially destroyed the building. Our project extends beyond the site and reuses what is left to create a new cultural institution in conversation with UNCTAD's history.&nbsp; Given this political history, we question how we can design for a democratic future without being naïve and acknowledging the imprecision of architecture as a political tool. Monumentalizing architecture is no longer enough since those in power can easily change that definition. <img width="4796" height="2535" width_o="4796" height_o="2535" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c15e94575e10b4d067a3d826e8a2f054ef4dc448e5cc62a5595aae9b07c2928e/3_History.gif" data-mid="110520975" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/c15e94575e10b4d067a3d826e8a2f054ef4dc448e5cc62a5595aae9b07c2928e/3_History.gif" /> We utilize four tools. Ground that extends to the city through different patches. Roofs that reorganize the block through covering. A datum of roof that transforms the tower into a progremeless totem of the city. And liminal space between roof and ground that is activated by props. The project builds ten structurally independent tables. Due to the consistent effort to maintain the datum above and below the roof, the lifted archipelago becomes a unity of parts. The specificity of the tables cancels out individual authorship for the collective whole integrating into the cityscape. <img width="4800" height="2700" width_o="4800" height_o="2700" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3621196cf9cf8c6862f29fc2426f1576194962e9741adff34b29beaa7e060997/4_Concept.gif" data-mid="110521012" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3621196cf9cf8c6862f29fc2426f1576194962e9741adff34b29beaa7e060997/4_Concept.gif" /> Our goal is to redefine the current cultural institution. By freeing the ground and allowing for crisscrossing, the site becomes a public square for cultural exchanges allowing for friction with the city. We introduce props that utilize the logic of the theatre to provide a framework without creating enclosures between the ground and roof. This allows for cultural engagement to happen through events instead of fixed programs. The events occur under or above different roofs, depending on their structural capacity and seasonality.&nbsp; <img width="4829" height="2733" width_o="4829" height_o="2733" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/2d8c577c20c6d0cfc32b22858f2a27945bbcc9925624464559684a62ee4bf57e/5_Tables.jpg" data-mid="110521026" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/2d8c577c20c6d0cfc32b22858f2a27945bbcc9925624464559684a62ee4bf57e/5_Tables.jpg" /> <img width="2400" height="1350" width_o="2400" height_o="1350" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/43e1d6c9975257f0da393835992766a452f6913b4459d28a0c6e6b4fdf960175/6_SectionPerspectives.png" data-mid="110521353" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/43e1d6c9975257f0da393835992766a452f6913b4459d28a0c6e6b4fdf960175/6_SectionPerspectives.png" /> The new cultural institution becomes an open framework and cultural condenser. Simultaneously, the project produces a moment of pause and self-consciousness of preconceived ideas of space. Our architecture is an actor that instigates political friction, and therefore societal change. Is this a roof, a block, a building, or the city? Our project is the product of collective work. <img width="4800" height="2701" width_o="4800" height_o="2701" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6a0fd04048dde76d629fd2c448d6b402e8f91e3d7cc62de052ac62b21844b2b8/7_Ground1.jpg" data-mid="110521170" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6a0fd04048dde76d629fd2c448d6b402e8f91e3d7cc62de052ac62b21844b2b8/7_Ground1.jpg" /> <img width="4800" height="2701" width_o="4800" height_o="2701" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/aac67a754f85fb7a7690d7950db7a01f3344683cd3e254980df4c62167b94c25/8_Ground2.jpg" data-mid="110521174" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/aac67a754f85fb7a7690d7950db7a01f3344683cd3e254980df4c62167b94c25/8_Ground2.jpg" /> <img width="4800" height="2700" width_o="4800" height_o="2700" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3cbe71718378f1782c3bb25c942eceaa2b32d0bd43f85716d31d269b40ef9fe1/9_Props.jpg" data-mid="110521178" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3cbe71718378f1782c3bb25c942eceaa2b32d0bd43f85716d31d269b40ef9fe1/9_Props.jpg" /> <img width="4800" height="2700" width_o="4800" height_o="2700" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/0b4a02efd0a7ddecea6fccaff959cd898e6faee1ee07083b4b11b573053a6af3/10_Events.jpg" data-mid="110521183" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/0b4a02efd0a7ddecea6fccaff959cd898e6faee1ee07083b4b11b573053a6af3/10_Events.jpg" /> <img width="4829" height="2717" width_o="4829" height_o="2717" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5060a5dcfdb374c3f23363ac72c063b9df17abc5f83b25fc4d92e496becb2460/11_TableCity.jpg" data-mid="110521187" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5060a5dcfdb374c3f23363ac72c063b9df17abc5f83b25fc4d92e496becb2460/11_TableCity.jpg" /> https://patiopublication.cargo.site/QSAPP-on-Alterity Sun, 06 Jun 2021 14:40:35 +0000 Patio https://patiopublication.cargo.site/QSAPP-on-Alterity QSAPP on Alterity Alterity is... recognizing that the identities that people hold intersect with each other, creating different lived experiences and new perspectives. QSAPP explores Alterity and otherness through Disappearing Queer(s), an investigation of individuals and spaces in New York City that embraced the label of “otherness” to foster queer activism and highlight lived experiences. Drawing on our group’s expertise as students of architecture, planning and preservation, QSAPP aims to explore Alterity and questions about “otherness.” We aim to spatially visualize and recount the impact of the built environment on the activism and identity of New York’s queer communities - specifically highlighting those that made them exceptional and are underrepresented in histories of the city. The Paradise Garage, one of the most important and prominent clubs in New York City between 1977 and 1987, hosted a devoted patronage of sexual and ethnic minorities in SoHo. While the club has closed and the building has since been demolished, its legacy lives on through the sounds and cultural influence of its resident DJ, Larry Levan. <img width="4500" height="4500" width_o="4500" height_o="4500" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/9b491e68da9bc9f9b95e6d0e1766e208b19c4ed3c67c2340b9aa641e234122b8/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_1.jpg" data-mid="110506536" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/9b491e68da9bc9f9b95e6d0e1766e208b19c4ed3c67c2340b9aa641e234122b8/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_1.jpg" /> <img width="4500" height="4500" width_o="4500" height_o="4500" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6c093fdc9c73aaa425d6f1749c9c7eede117af2e8e43f3a6cc1b1ee94803d217/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_2.jpg" data-mid="110506537" border="0" data-scale="63" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6c093fdc9c73aaa425d6f1749c9c7eede117af2e8e43f3a6cc1b1ee94803d217/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_2.jpg" /> <img width="4500" height="4500" width_o="4500" height_o="4500" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/523658854a32251649f9039c754df291be2ed95fd2d41f4f7042b766812c0096/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_3.jpg" data-mid="110506539" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/523658854a32251649f9039c754df291be2ed95fd2d41f4f7042b766812c0096/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_3.jpg" /> <img width="4500" height="4500" width_o="4500" height_o="4500" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5ffad9d1bb263159c72e092aada90605024c0a2121579ceb3b32dc4f44c33c44/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_5.jpg" data-mid="110506542" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5ffad9d1bb263159c72e092aada90605024c0a2121579ceb3b32dc4f44c33c44/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_5.jpg" /> <img width="4500" height="4500" width_o="4500" height_o="4500" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7a9ab6d4772af77bd67b70a363c0bffc61dc7e55928f1a5903a3a365fb2e2c04/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_6.jpg" data-mid="110506543" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/7a9ab6d4772af77bd67b70a363c0bffc61dc7e55928f1a5903a3a365fb2e2c04/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_6.jpg" /> <img width="4500" height="4500" width_o="4500" height_o="4500" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6a1f656c1408e03fe9f94b0d1f53daa9dc44f25df72d58cbc83974939e3221ad/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_7.jpg" data-mid="110506544" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6a1f656c1408e03fe9f94b0d1f53daa9dc44f25df72d58cbc83974939e3221ad/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_7.jpg" /> <img width="4500" height="4500" width_o="4500" height_o="4500" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/a905c44e3c26701c6b6df12a89779cf17966bc077f56accbc04483203645cffa/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_8.jpg" data-mid="110506545" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/a905c44e3c26701c6b6df12a89779cf17966bc077f56accbc04483203645cffa/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_8.jpg" /> <img width="4500" height="4500" width_o="4500" height_o="4500" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5eff203592995386dbbe61fafd4f0578e09a149e509ab630725593f881bc83a0/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_4.jpg" data-mid="110506674" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5eff203592995386dbbe61fafd4f0578e09a149e509ab630725593f881bc83a0/QSAPP_PatioSubmission_4.jpg" /> Levan, openly gay, was a Brooklyn native who is credited with creating the modern dance club experience through his mixing style and attention to the atmosphere of the floor. Deeply interested in the Harlem drag ballroom scene and the voguing culture that emerged from it, Levan constantly introduced his audience to new beats and audio intensities that combined multiple soundtracks, with records that were not typically heard within the dance music genre. More than a functional DJ, Levan became the main attraction at Paradise Garage through his Saturday sets, which became known as “Saturday Mass.” His ability to work the crowd and the embrace of his passion to make music created a space that celebrated queerness and Alterity through sound and dance. mihaidl · Larry Levan - Paradise Garage - 1979 Bibliography: Barna, Ben. “Memories of the Paradise Garage, From Those Who Danced There.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 9 May 2014, tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/05/09/flashback-memories-of-the-paradise-garage-larry-levan-street-party/. “Features.” Larry Levan's Paradise Garage | DJhistory.com, 10 Oct. 2010, web.archive.org/web/20141006214617/www.djhistory.com/features/larry-levans-paradise-garage. Shapiro, Peter. “Saturday Mass: Larry Levan and the Paradise Garage.” Red Bull Music Academy Daily, 22 Apr. 2014, daily.redbullmusicacademy.com/2014/04/larry-levan-feature. Image Credits: Bernstein, Bill. Larry Levan, Paradise Garage. 1979. Photograph. https://www. billbernstein.com. McKee, Paul. Ramp Leading Up To the Main Floor. 1986. Photograph. Bernstein, Bill. Paradise Garage, Dance Floor. 1979. Photograph. https://www. billbernstein.com. Llanos, Joey. Mark Riley, Gary Thornton, Joey Llanos and Larry Levan. Date Unknown. Photograph. <img width="620" height="620" width_o="620" height_o="620" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/8467b7a7733046ac8d5d6518b827d8628e83833cffffdaac75ec14fa37f453b2/Logo.jpg" data-mid="110506449" border="0" data-scale="21" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/620/i/8467b7a7733046ac8d5d6518b827d8628e83833cffffdaac75ec14fa37f453b2/Logo.jpg" /> https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Dios-en-cielo-Trujillo-bajo-tierra-y-la-imaginaria-Marica-Negra-by Fri, 09 Apr 2021 03:49:22 +0000 Patio https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Dios-en-cielo-Trujillo-bajo-tierra-y-la-imaginaria-Marica-Negra-by Dios en cielo, Trujillo bajo tierra, y la imaginaria Marica Negra by Ana Maria Reyes Ayiti, as the Taíno called the Caribbean island Hispaniola, remains a transcendental realm holding the key to new imaginaries. And still, as an island devastated and severed by colonialism and slavery, it grapples with a legacy of racial and cultural struggle. The Dominican Republic and Haiti have yet to find stability in identity as bitter chronic disputes have continued on the island in the quest for progress and relevance on the international stage. The urgency for a national identity can be attributed to the state’s instability and multiple iterations: cacicazgos, colonialist Spanish (re)conquistas, Haitian abolitionist integration, US imperialist invasion, the Trujillo dictatorship, and an anti-pluralist government. It was the land that once proclaimed “Dios en cielo, Trujillo en tierra” as it clutched to its European elitist heritage to redeem itself from its self perceived savagery and tainted black bodies. All the while, it is a nation where the majority self-identify as indio:1 an ethnic category for racially mixed persons that is disassociated from native indigenous peoples. The term, propagated by the Trujillo regime, simultaneously negates Dominican blackness and erases indigenous bodies to produce a homogeneous populace. An exploitative economy and the shadow of Trujillo’s politics of exclusion persist today. It manifests itself as institutionalized anti-Haitianism evidenced by the policies and architectures in place in the 21st century. Among these policies are migration laws, a new constitution, and court judgements that have methodically eroded the rights of Dominicans and Haitians alike.2 However, the persecution of Haitians, racialized and demonized, have managed to marginalize and oppress all nonconforming bodies. This has been the case for Dominicans of Haitian descent, some of whom, were it not for the darkness of their skin, would never have their Dominicanidad questioned. <img width="624" height="176" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/TMh7p66eG52_wGh7SKWfg0ZLrTqv6pQS7Wo-YBMogJk3sFx4mgv5u-Zks1KUtyvr3vBEtl4xYe7X1vXT0_zitJnkjAUgie3OxpJ2lQqp6ZQAnK3c0UVF7ijQtXZ6fEQTw8DqTt11" style="width: 624px; height: 176px;"> Fig. 1 (left)&nbsp; &nbsp; Fig. 2 (right) To be Dominican, therefore, is to be Hispanic: catholic, heterosexual, cis, fair-skinned, and criollo.3 Those that counter the hegemony exist in a constant limbo state — only occupying physical and social interstices. In the past decade, over 70,000 Dominicans of Haitian descent have been robbed of their citizenship and exiled into statelessness along the Dominican-Haitian border.4 The 20th century saw Haitians and Dominicans of Haitian descent corralled into bateyes, company owned enclaves, and perpetually indentured to the sugarcane plantations. Those Dominicans of Haitian descent that were denied access to identity documents are excluded from receiving benefits and utilizing resources and services available to citizens such as primary and secondary education. LGBTQIA+ individuals have historically been policed by the state and barred from occupying positions of power such as serving as part of the police force.5 How, then, does a nation begin to transcend the current political and cultural hegemony rooted in the Francoist myth of Hispanidad?6 Could we begin to consider black queer imaginaries that carve out new and alternative spaces in the calficied built environment? And will doing so, conceive identity, beyond geopolitics, in the form of a spatial ontology? Those marginalized show us that identity must not be delineated in colonial ontology but in the practice of spatial contestation. It does not matter if Dominican society wishes to make nonconforming bodies invisible because progress, wealth, and most importantly, the land, bears the mark of those that brought it to fruition. <img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/AgLcW4YVkWDpA2jBsS8CiKiY0kxRp7GupNilaqbo8tIZxRVHzRJEahIj7i-1BYulj91pMAl7NYks0C7PRHpwqEQ767f1-MEgQwQdfoODirp0QQDyzm7Vq3HuRO7S7U8rAMbdvPHM" width="624" height="176" style="width: 624px; height: 176px;"> Fig. 3 (left) Fig. 4 (right) Haiti, once the primary source of global sugar, saw international economic isolation upon independence and the abolition of slavery. The Dominican Republic filled it’s shoes and looked to the ostracized nation for labor. The modern sugar industry was fed state-sponsored Haitian labor yearly by the tens of thousands during Haiti’s Duvalier and the Dominican Republic’s Trujillo dictatorships. However, Trujillo was deliberate on what spaces Haitians were allowed to occupy within his borders. “El Corte” of 1937 saw the massacre of more than 12,000 Haitians across the Dominico-Haitian border, deliberately sparring those residing in bateyes. <img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/Kjv4MiWn06ZPwZeZSoPO1t0tvHOAfe6Cq4CDy0Xoo9EFklTcL1fGZMWmgHvVsYNJBRF-9U1FlPz3SY8fquSU1UNCqfoAUbIabjcn3zAOtnzuYrIoR00yE8vuK-toqyM2QFbxquu4" width="624" height="176" style="width: 624px; height: 176px;"> Fig. 5 (left) Fig. 6 (right) The 20th century saw bateyes emerge and grow to today’s staggering estimate of 435 settlements embedded into the rural landscape. These dilapidated camps were deliberately abandoned by the sugarcane companies and government, some without access to sanitation services or electricity. Workers and their families were forced to live in barracónes, long rectangular wooden or concrete barracks, often windowless and without latrines.7 The fall of the sugarcane industry at the end of the century further robbed these communities of maintenance and investment in infrastructure and education. <img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/jJuF_Uw5bNRA-ysuuPpjmx5p-2AraTFfRABtEzN-7BybprO4wMRr0phRz8jrUmwn0sFkQcirjI2XxQRvw34Gd-4LBIEn4vzXomVTo9JAeX7u_niTRK5vQFDABrvApDFb1xtmEo7R" width="624" height="176" style="width: 624px; height: 176px;"> Fig. 7 (left) Fig. 8 (right) Yet the rural landscape assembled for the exploitation of lands and bodies are being reclaimed; disenfranchised enclaves owned by private entities for profit gains are functionally transformed into the collective property of its inhabitants. This can be seen in the establishment across bateyes of colmados solidarios, mutual aid grocers that run on a social economy to ensure food security. Colmado profits go back to the community in the form of services, initiatives, and investment for colmados in other bateyes with the help and guidance of NGOs. The selection of administrators and the location are chosen democratically.8 These mediations reimagine plantations and colmados beyond the capitalist enterprise into strictly community spaces serving the population. <img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/VSPJaj0368QQLdghsPltfHQxZ4FRWmXPM5KniZwR8DOB7dQRdMvK97nPPTDwbryqOaAeYI6Ze6Y3tWluQryLO0Zo0TCvMxdBwBaW-oXsXtOM-mgGY74vTtVLnrvwiKA-pmvfuaPA" width="624" height="176" style="width: 624px; height: 176px;"> Fig. 9: (left) Fig. 10 (right) As industry changes on the island in the 21st century, Haitians and Dominicans of Haitian descent find themselves occupying urban space as labor transitions from the rural agricultural fields to the ever-developing city capital and tourist destinations. However, it is not an overwhelming acceptance these individuals experience but a perverted reinterpretation of their peripheral condition in the new millennium. In the construction industry alone, over 70 percent of jobs fall under the category of informal labor, performed by a workforce composed of companies with 10 or less workers.9 <img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/Ygx_KniUa7aY7SmQh9uvSTERkr1EgstaDCv8DejxA0s2bF4SCfmWB07EPZVI1ZLLGb-8G58HP9Pnru8PAYrD0KJIP5SwZQo-Js2CcxaP5i5gvaDxRcFe_bODN1W62x9CmKWijuKY" width="624" height="176" style="width: 624px; height: 176px;"> Fig. 11 (left) Fig. 12 (right) Without government oversight, the batey tale of limited worker rights and insufficient collective bargaining due to fear of termination or deportation repeats itself in the city. Urbanity and its development, built by and offensive to these individuals, reinforce the political hegemony. Nevertheless, like in the rural, marginalized people interrogate Dominicanidad via strategies of ownership and reprogramming of space through occupation and other architectural devices. “That’s why they call it la Feria. A Fair is where everything moves; turkeys, goats, dogs, everybody” reveals a gentleman in the film Una Mirada, Dos Realidades.10 “Everyone has to come here to hustle!” <img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/WKebGi6dscaI4oRkxGknIpSsRDWoyBWdokYarvqhrwgN9W4vVl0YbAiN12KizxgA-o6cpQwDH_Oyx-tocZwMdvXAB_J4f5QMOoJRSv8jgt46ZORoWrlxewN9X3YNpyI5IXR-6jAa" width="624" height="176" style="width: 624px; height: 176px;"> Fig. 13 (left) Fig. 14 (right) La Feria de la Paz y Confraternidad del Mundo Libre was an international exhibition that took place in 1955 in celebration of a quarter century of hispanic triumph under the Trujillo regime.11 La Feria, inspired by the despot's state visit to Francoist Spain the year before,12 was a hastened attempt to appease international criticisms of Trujillo’s atrocities against human rights and attract investments in the hopes to revitalize the country’s declining economy in a post-WWII reality.13 <img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/XODsidqI6ZHL9MCR95ESE77DaE_iBkJ3CyFvMnckaQOhUBk7L9PBVz4fI5UO5GKxJHafq_DwVcrYrNV2Nva2lrSwWEATJDHcFFrdhl-iO1_c3DYpxhVVS6mZm_2uUIvNMNnpcQU3" width="624" height="176" style="width: 624px; height: 176px;"> Fig. 15 The monumental complex, Trujillo’s populist hispanic agenda made manifest, now lives an alternative queer existence. During the day, government business is conducted indoors and informal commerce carries on outside. By night, its structures are home to the marginalized and outside sex workers partake in the cladestine.14 The film depicts another scenario in the complex: a youth declares “Aqui estamos,” laying claim to the place, a self-acknowledgement that rings victorious against the backdrop of the El teatro Agua y Luz Angelita Trujillo. On a daily basis, these unmaintained structures are occupied and constantly prescribed new programs thereby imbuing them with value and new meaning. <img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/fb1spcEqDfFyH-c7ZFGbu6zas5--G4ltWa_YJNps8lZ9_F2_RHnSA_8uO64zZWQKfFD3k1NpCvHVUmsIJQMxbTJk_LOkfpduI6oXsLBUmKsMfGCmCXoMfrX5ueRfrF7XoIDTOnfc" width="624" height="176" style="width: 624px; height: 176px;"> Fig. 16 (left) Fig. 17 (right) Extraordinarily, identity began to transmogrify via the revolutionary practice of spatial negotiation and alterations enacted by all inhabitants. In rural areas, collective space in private sugar cane plantations was introduced as a way to ensure the wellbeing of batey residents, and to secure land in defiance of the institutions that denied it. In the city, places of inclusion hitherto inexistent were carved out by means of temporary interventions of informal commerce and the domestication of the abandoned fair structures. <img src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/7yK5ahx8z_VLpQB9agSJb_sUXlfkBY_IUrNjt5VAdN0sV5f6aytB61_uqx0rOwWhg0u-PAo6WcbB4f3D7v-S-WPDExHVIZK_qHnx4y1vxCsPqpGl5wxdh1bDOPY_2DHR6IyNNzpn" width="624" height="176" style="width: 624px; height: 176px;" data-scale="100"> Fig. 18 (left) Fig. 19 (right) These alternative spaces of the black queer imaginary forge citizenship, demand attention, and defy Dominican hegemony. Not only does it firmly cement the Dominican Republic as patrimony of the populace, but it sets the infrastructure that supports an equitable, just, and pluralist society — no longer defined by the social constructs of failed political ideologies. Through a collective participation in spatial dialogue Dominican society will transcend binaries and come closer to a more faithful iteration of Dominicanidad. <img src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/oASRgXE7ZHMJOl33xxcSzQK_ytvPDM_mQasDw1414onf3FKRbasRGvlZaJhqSirYd8SoDfP61FalmhUMyjga7571wMFl4DA9LdgeaVffd6GCy83WCi0qf0FeybjeaP-OzYRvAMFc" width="624" height="176" style="width: 624px; height: 176px;"> Fig. 20 Bibliography 1. David Howard, Coloring the Nation: Race and Ethnicity in the Dominican Republic (Oxford: Signal Books, 2001), 41. 2. Charlotte Wiener, “Migración forzada: Deportaciones por vía terrestre de la República Dominicana hacia la República de Haití” (Dominican Republic: OBMICA, 2019). 3.&nbsp; Alejandro Raya, The Idea of Hispanidad in the Relationship of Francisco Franco and Rafael L. Trujillo (Massachusetts, 2004), 367. 4. Jonathan M Katz, “In Exile.” The New York Times, January 13, 2016 5.&nbsp; “LGBT Issues in the Dominican Republic” (New York: Human Rights First)&nbsp; http://www.humanrightsfirst.org/sites/default/files/HRFReportLGBTinDR.pdf 6.&nbsp; Raya, The Idea of Hispanidad, 315. 7. Patrick Gavigan, Beyond the Bateyes (New York: National Coalition of Haitian Rights, 1995), 34-36. 8.&nbsp; ASCALA, “Colmados Solidarios: Seguridad Alimentaria, Empoderamiento y Desarrollo” (Dominican Republic: ASCALA, 2016). 9.&nbsp; Analytica, Economía Dominicana y Sector Construcción (Santo Domingo: ACOPROVI, September 2019), 36-37. 10.&nbsp; Corinne van der Borch, Una Mirada, Dos Realidades (One Gaze, Two Realities) (The Venice Architecture Biennale, 2014) https://vimeo.com/128309869. 11. Album de Oro de La Feria de La Paz y Confraternidad Del Mundo Libre, Vol. 1 (Santo Domingo: El Mirador, 1956). 12. Raya, The Idea of Hispanidad, 351. 13. Robert Crassweller, Trujillo: The Life and Times of a Caribbean Dictator (New York: Macmillan, 1966), 293-299. 14.&nbsp; Ruddy German Perez, Teatro de Agua y Luz, nido de prostitutas y delincuentes (Dominican Republic: El Nacional, 2015). Image Credit Fig. 1. Corinne van der Borch, [Family squatting at El teatro Agua y Luz Angelita Trujillo,] 2014, in Una Mirada, Dos Realidades (One Gaze, Two Realities) (The Venice Architecture Biennale, 2014). Fig. 2. Fefe Jean and his family, Parc Cadeau 1, in “Where are we going to live?” Migration and Statelessness in Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Amnesty International, April 1, 2016. Fig. 3. A worker passes a rail car filled with cane stalk, in “Blood, Sweat and Sugar: Trade Deal Fails Haitian Workers on DR Plantations.” Aljazeera America, July 16, 2015. Fig. 4. A worker cuts sugar cane at Batey Las Papita, in “Blood, Sweat and Sugar: Trade Deal Fails Haitian Workers on DR Plantations.” Aljazeera America, July 16, 2015. Fig. 5. Batey Las Papita, in “Blood, Sweat and Sugar: Trade Deal Fails Haitian Workers on DR Plantations.” Aljazeera America, July 16, 2015. Fig. 7. Francesco Spotorno, [Batey Lecheria flooded due to clogged sewage system] in “Bateyes del Gran Santo Domingo: La metamorfosis 4/4.” Diario Libre, August 7, 2019. Fig. 8. Francesco Spotorno, [Woman washes clothes] in “Bateyes del Gran Santo Domingo: La metamorfosis 4/4.” Diario Libre, August 7, 2019. Fig. 9. [Stocked shelves at the colmado solidario] “Colmados Solidarios: Seguridad Alimentaria, Empoderamiento y Desarrollo.” ASCALA (blog), January 23, 2016. Fig. 10. [The front of the colmado solidario intervention] in “Seguridad alimentaria a través de la implantación de colmados solidarios en los bateyes de San Pedro de Macorís.” Justalegría. Fig. 11. Lindsay Erin Lough, Laborers work on constructing a new apartment complex in downtown Santo Domingo, in “Illegal Haitian Workers in Demand.” Cronkite Borderlands Initiative. Fig. 12. Francesco Spotorno, Vista actual del batey Estrella y su cercanía a la ciudad, in “Bateyes del Gran Santo Domingo: La metamorfosis 3/4.” Diario Libre, August 5, 2019. Fig. 13. [Street vendors selling fruit from a temporary stall at the Fair complex] 2014, in Una Mirada, Dos Realidades (One Gaze, Two Realities) (The Venice Architecture Biennale, 2014). Fig. 14. [The facade of a fair structure, now the Consejo Estatal Del Azúcar] 2014, in Una Mirada, Dos Realidades (One Gaze, Two Realities) (The Venice Architecture Biennale, 2014). Fig. 15. [La Feria de la Paz y Confraternidad del Mundo Libre complex with La Bolita to the left and El teatro Agua y Luz to the right] Album de Oro de La Feria de La Paz y Confraternidad Del Mundo Libre (1956-1957 : Santo Domingo. Vol. no. 1 and no. 2,) Available from: Una Mirada, Dos Realidades (One Gaze, Two Realities) (The Venice Architecture Biennale, 2014). Fig. 16. [The fair’s opening ceremony at La Bolita] Album de Oro de La Feria de La Paz y Confraternidad Del Mundo Libre (1956-1957 : Santo Domingo. Vol. no. 1 and no. 2,) Available from: Una Mirada, Dos Realidades (One Gaze, Two Realities) (The Venice Architecture Biennale, 2014). Fig. 17. Corinne van der Borch, [Sex workers stand adjacent to La Bolita] in Una Mirada, Dos Realidades (One Gaze, Two Realities) (The Venice Architecture Biennale, 2014). Fig. 18. [Fair opening ceremony at El teatro Agua y Luz Angelita Trujillo] Album de Oro de La Feria de La Paz y Confraternidad Del Mundo Libre (1956-1957 : Santo Domingo. Vol. no. 1 and no. 2,) Available from: Una Mirada, Dos Realidades (One Gaze, Two Realities) (The Venice Architecture Biennale, 2014). Fig. 19. Corinne van der Borch, [Children and teens swim and hang out at El teatro Agua y Luz Angelita Trujillo] 2014, in Una Mirada, Dos Realidades (One Gaze, Two Realities) (The Venice Architecture Biennale, 2014). Fig 20. Corinne van der Borch, [Stills of activity at La Feria de la Paz y Confraternidad del Mundo Libre.] 2014, in Una Mirada, Dos Realidades (One Gaze, Two Realities) (The Venice Architecture Biennale, 2014). https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Ginzburg-Legarreta-by-Tianyu-Yang Sun, 06 Jun 2021 15:05:04 +0000 Patio https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Ginzburg-Legarreta-by-Tianyu-Yang Ginzburg &amp; Legarreta by Tianyu yang A SHORT STUDY ON MOISEI GINZBURG’S NARKOMFIN &amp; JUAN LEGARRETA’S CASA OBRERA MINIMA In the aftermath of World War I, architects worldwide faced an unprecedented housing shortage that impacted all sectors of society. Throughout the 1920s, Modernist architects feverishly explored housing typologies that could satisfy the contemporary needs of the working class. In Western Europe, the theory and practice of “minimum dwelling” emerged — a response that was absorbed and canonized through subsequent architectural scholarship. By contrast, experimental solutions for worker’s housing in other parts of the world were unfairly overlooked. This was the case for the seminal Narkomfin project, designed by Moisei Ginzburg in the U.S.S.R., and Casa Obrera Minima by Mexican architect Juan Legarreta. Unlike their Western European counterparts - who focused on rethinking and improving everyday life in the urban commons through architecture - Ginzburg and Legarreta aimed to catalyze greater change through their work, designing radical spaces for the social and political transformation of their respective societies. CONTEXT I: USSR’S KOMMUNALKA IN THE 20S In the 1920s, the U.S.S.R. faced a major housing crisis. In part, this shortage was produced by the First Five Year Plan, the agenda of which promoted rapid industrialization and pushed peasants from the countryside to factories in the country’s major cities. The cities’ new workers instantly overcrowded the limited pre-revolution rental family houses. At times, multiple families had to occupy the same apartment. Following the Russian Revolution, a number of classical mansions had been adapted into multifamily houses. When subdivisions for smaller rooms were put in, the narrow central corridor would lack access to air and daylight. Families from completely different backgrounds were crammed together in these “Kommunalka” apartments. No one could ever be “alone.” <img width="5100" height="3300" width_o="5100" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6e80409c3630dfc0e29c32e532bded55fe7f7b017c283677f8c2f6c1b61ab694/Tianyu_2.png" data-mid="110520342" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6e80409c3630dfc0e29c32e532bded55fe7f7b017c283677f8c2f6c1b61ab694/Tianyu_2.png" /> “Kommunalka – a term of endearment and deprecation – was a result of the post-revolutionary expropriation and resettlement of private apartments in the urban centers; it consists of the individual or family rooms (neither living rooms, bedrooms, nor studies, but all-purpose rooms that can perform any function) and ‘places of communal use’, a euphemistic expression for a shared bathroom, corridor and kitchen that usually serves as the neighbors’ battleground. Here one encounters endless schedules of ‘communal duties’, and endless scolding from fellow neighbors.” -Svetlana Boym, The Archaeology of Banality: A Soviet Home, 1994 VISION I: GINZBURG’S F UNIT Designed by Moisei Ginzburg and Ignaty Milinis in 1928, Narkomfin is a transitional project in a series of social housing experiments initiated by the OSA Group (Organization of Contemporary Architects). Among the unit types developed in Narkomfin, F Unit was particularly significant, as it successfully represented the social concepts formulated by OSA and Ginzburg in the specific historic moment. Ginzburg’s F Unit in Narkomfin uses a smart scissor section to maximize the floor-to-volume ratio. The shared, single-loaded corridor occurs on every other level, providing a landing to either the apartment above (A), or the apartment below (B). Not only did this architectural gesture maximize the number of units that could fit vertically into the building, but also did it guarantee sufficient lighting and cross-ventilation for all of the units. As the diagram shows, the unit above F-a, has three levels whereas F-b has two levels. The toilet is located by the entrance (the same level as corridor), and the shower is located next to the bedroom. All the auxiliary spaces have decreased ceiling heights, while the living rooms are always 1.5 level high, allowing more sunlight to come in. Both F-a and F-b have cross ventilation, thanks to the single-loaded organization of the building. <img width="5100" height="3300" width_o="5100" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/a7a2a72b4c1b83761f0743c42b7add79d0e2567b44975971aeada05561164051/Tianyu_6.png" data-mid="110520334" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/a7a2a72b4c1b83761f0743c42b7add79d0e2567b44975971aeada05561164051/Tianyu_6.png" /> The “new way of life” or “byt” points to the belief that “the working class will not accept the realities as they are, it rejects the old forms of culture and the old domestic order.” Ginzburg wrote in the critique of the “minimum habitation,” “...this enormous amount of work… the point of which is to preserve the primitive individual household and to preserve and cultivate the bourgeois family as an economic unit where some members of the family are economically dependent on others.” The underlying agenda, in this case, was the emancipation of women from the domestic household, so as to encourage women to join the general workforce. By replacing the individual housekeeping with a “socialized housekeeping,” Ginzburg proposed the theoretical grounds for the substitution of the individual kitchen with communal kitchen and dining halls, the children’s playroom with community kindergartens and daycares, the individual laundry facilities with communal laundry halls and drying rooms. Although the ultimate goal is to completely take out the individual kitchen from the household, Ginzburg soberly understood the danger of over-crowding. As a critique of the kommunalka houses and other extreme communal living proposals, Ginzburg kept a kitchen component in all the units as an “intermediate” solution. Additionally, he argued that by limiting the footprint of the units and the number of rooms within the units, it is possible to avoid the overcrowding since any further division of the unit is made impossible. CONTEXT II: MEXICO CITY’S LABOR INFLUX IN THE 30S Obregón Santacilia’s “Minimum Working House” competition was held in 1932, in the wake of the industrialization of Mexico, the Revolution, and the expansion of Mexico City. Industrialization brought about challenges and opportunities for the influx of laborers. Many were “reflexive,” as Alan Knight calls them, to the revolution. Their economic vulnerabilities and their strong urban links “rendered them dependent allies of the state,” and the state “had to make concessions and take note of working-class grievances.” Who comprised the working class addressed by these remarks? Conventionally speaking, it was the artisans and proletarians that made up the urban working class in Mexico in the 1910-20s. Alan Knight, however, introduced complexity and fluidity to the division. Country-wide speaking, according to him, there were four types of artisans: the village artisans (potters, weavers, carpenters), who survived the industrialization, but remained marginal to the urban working class; the declining artisans, who were struggling in direct competition against the factory production of textiles, shoes, hats and so on; the new urban artisans, who embraced the urban economy like public transit, utilities, and constructions, standing in between the rural migrants and the classic proletarians; and finally, the aspiring artisans, who were literate and politically aware, including the white collar workers and commercial middle class. Compared to the village artisans and the delicing artisans, the new urban artisans and aspiring artisans exhibited a higher level of compatibility to the new urban environment and proximity to the bourgeoisie. Such qualities rendered them visible to the bourgeoisie architects. For Obregón Santacilia, Alfonso Palleres, Juan Legarreta and other elite architects and scholars, the primary grievance of the working class in the urban context is the poor living conditions. “The poor, the workers and the middle-class need to be taught how to live (up to a modern standard),” Palleres advocated. Legarreta famously asserted: “People living in jacales and redondos cannot speak architecture. We will build the people’s houses. Rhetorical aesthetes—wish they were all dead—will make their speeches later.” <img width="3167" height="1539" width_o="3167" height_o="1539" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/9bea5f9d8d16aa1e0fbc97995871a65253444e36ae343320b2c00b3b14a2cb70/Tianyu1-cropped.png" data-mid="110523121" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/9bea5f9d8d16aa1e0fbc97995871a65253444e36ae343320b2c00b3b14a2cb70/Tianyu1-cropped.png" /> &nbsp; VISION II: LEGARRETA’S SOCIAL HOUSING EXPERIMENTS In discussing questions of “identity” and “style,” Alejandro Hernández-Gálvez concluded that “Legarreta thought of new architecture neither in aesthetic terms nor as a problem of identity—at least not an aesthetic identity—but in political and social terms.” If Legarreta had more time before his premature death in 1934, he would likely have invested more energy in designing social space on a larger scale, as he began to include communal facilities such as schools and sports fields in the Vaquita Housing complex. However, Legarreta was able to achieve his radical social vision for workers’ housing at the building scale. In his competition entry for “Minimum Working House” in 1932, he proposed four types of worker’s houses. <img width="5100" height="3300" width_o="5100" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/d114cf2efe13fc1932a10b60110e34a2435ff933e5bc5d22d9852b1f1db81113/Tianyu_3.png" data-mid="110520320" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/d114cf2efe13fc1932a10b60110e34a2435ff933e5bc5d22d9852b1f1db81113/Tianyu_3.png" /> <img width="5100" height="3300" width_o="5100" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c3db86f6c89a91a6dbdc13700bc259e125ea707316608fee585fdc494ce03aa7/Tianyu_5.png" data-mid="110520264" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/c3db86f6c89a91a6dbdc13700bc259e125ea707316608fee585fdc494ce03aa7/Tianyu_5.png" /> Unit Type 3 is an outstanding example of how Legarreta’s progressive social ideas are realized through reinvention of the social housing typology. Instead of making the ground level into living quarters, Legarreta transforms it into a commercial space. The “shop” allows the working-class family to gain additional income through small businesses. At the same time, the family shops formed a social space. People from the neighborhood could gather outside the storefronts, bringing conversations into the streets. Through this simple gesture, Legarreta designed a worker’s house that leaves room for the formation of community and blurs the boundary between domestic space, social space and commercial space. While Legarreta shortens the distance between these programs, he does not limit family privacy; upstairs, the living room, kitchen and bedroom can be accessed through a side entrance, which is undisturbed and uninterrupted by the “shop” space. Much like Type 3, Type 2 Unit is a duplex house. For this unit type, Legarreta designed a spacious double-height living room, which is illuminated by a large, industrial scale window that is uninterrupted between the two levels. This architectural gesture shows a clear influence by Le Corbusier. In Maison Ternisien, for example, Corbusier designed a double-height living room/workshop, which is connected to an open corridor on the second level and a bedroom with a flexible partition. A compressed single-level kitchen and dining area is located on the side, spatially differentiated from the living room/workshop. All of these features can be found in Legarreta’s Type 2. However, while Le Corbusier had designed a mansion for a bourgeois artist-musician couple, Legarreta wanted to give the same kind of double-height space, open plan, modern kitchen and bathroom, and flexible partition system to Mexican workers and artisans. Unfortunately, neither of Legarreta’s worker’s housing ideas were acknowledged on the “main stage” of international social housing experiments. The modernist architects, many of who participated in the CIAM conferences since 1928, went on to develop the modern “minimum dwelling” typology as we know it today: dense, highly functional, highly simplified domestic units that are stacked together. The commercial function was eliminated from the domestic units, as was the community-based social function (i.e. larger living room). Over time, the urban working class no longer had the agency to participate in the informal urban economy as small business owners, nor were they able to afford housing community functions within their private units. In this sense, Legarreta’s social experiments in worker’s housing is especially important, as he recognized that the workers were not passive productive subjects in the urban economy, but an active part of a society that could participate in different modes of production and political movements. When confronting the labor issue, Ginzburg and Legarreta were designing to change the workers’ living conditions, as well as their social and economic status. In both cases, the living rooms are given a primary importance which helps to bring the family members together. The bedrooms are treated as a secondary space — with a decreased footprint and a lowered ceiling height — in order to give more space to the social functions within the houses. Upon closer inspection, it is cear that Ginzburg and Legarreta aimed to create very different&nbsp;workers’ communities. For Ginzburg, Narkomfin challenged both the extremist’s tendency to erase private life and the post-revolution legacy of gender equality. Although Ginzburg’s project is by no means perfect, his role as the chief architect of OSA made him an important actor in the totalitarian state. The domestic woman who was liberated from the housework was quickly turned into a working woman, whose extended public life was put under a wider social surveillance. The community created in the name of collective living becomes a de facto centralized community. In turn, Legarreta’s project proposed an alternative model of collective living, which allows space for individualized economic growth and political discussions independent from the state’s agenda. Such a community is decentralized by nature and is formed by free will. Legaretta aimed to design a working class community with agency to choose,&nbsp; grow and self-organize. By this measure, Juan Legarreta’s radical stance is severely under-estimated, particulary under a contemporary lens. BIBLIOGRAPHY Juan Legarreta: vivienda obrera mexicana posrevolucionaria, Jorge Oscar Yepes Rodríguez, 2016 The Working Class and The Mexican Revolution, c. 1900-1920, Alan Knight, 1984 Beyond the Super Square, Identity as Style, Alejandro Hernández-Gálvez, 2014 The New Architecture in Mexico, Juan Fernandez and Ernest Born, 1937 Dwelling, Moisei Ginzburg, 1934 The Minimum Dwelling, Karel Teige, 1932 https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Coming-Back-From-Deaf-by-Daniela-Guarin Sun, 06 Jun 2021 14:59:32 +0000 Patio https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Coming-Back-From-Deaf-by-Daniela-Guarin Coming Back from Deaf&nbsp;By Daniela Guarín I have this theory: I believe we listen in a world where no one hears anymore. Did we become deaf? Was it a choice or did we become conditioned to it? I started to think about this after I learned about the “filter bubble,” a concept by Eli Pariser to describe the rise of personalization in the digital sphere as a bubble of information that constantly validates your experience and beliefs. Once you decide on a viewpoint, thanks to our current technology, you are less likely to change your mind. Everything you consume, and even the people you meet will agree with you. Yes, we live funneled lives, we thrive on validation. To find an opposing view, we must leave our bubbles. But who even dares to venture outside theirs? <img width="2550" height="3300" width_o="2550" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f65d99c460ddf1d0a5df32971e20bf6bf0b8096dc01fa73900d91bbeccc98d83/Guarin_Daniela_ComingBackfromDeaf2_rgb.jpg" data-mid="110507305" border="0" data-scale="68" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/f65d99c460ddf1d0a5df32971e20bf6bf0b8096dc01fa73900d91bbeccc98d83/Guarin_Daniela_ComingBackfromDeaf2_rgb.jpg" /> Do you ever feel triggered when you hear an argument that goes against your core beliefs? I do. My gut reaction is to raise my voice and talk over such arguments, fiercely debating my point of view. I know I am right, so why can’t this other person see what I am seeing? I am deaf. We are all collectively deaf. Our hearing problems have evolved into dialogue problems. We don’t know how to talk to one another. We prefer to scream, to go silent or to even choose violence. I come from a country that chose violence. We were silent for a long time, and soon enough that silence became rage. Colombia has one of the longest civil wars in the world, all because of our hearing problems (sprinkle some corruption in the mix, and you’ve created a winning combo). Today we are going through a social crisis, accentuated by the pandemic, but also by a government that actively chooses to ignore its people. And us, the citizens? Well, we choose also to not agree with each other, some of us grief for the lives lost and injustice, some for the material property, others for a failing democracy. What is true is that we seem unable to agree on what we are fighting for, what is worth our attention, and how it should be portrayed in the international media. We are deaf; we don’t think that there are spaces for all the above in our grief, because my grief is probably bigger than yours. I am an “optimistic pessimist.” I don’t know if that is an actual term, but I am going to coin it for myself. I see doom and despair before I can see the light. Right now, I don’t see any light. I can only see problems. They cut so deep that we can’t stop talking about them. But can we stop talking on top of each other? Can we for once validate the other’s experience, even if their experience invalidates yours? Can we sit with the discomfort of listening, even when you are dying to disagree? In psychotherapy, active listening is used to validate the patients’ emotions. Active listening establishes trust between subjects and fosters a desire to both comprehend and create empathy among people. Above all, you must remain engaged, withheld judgement and even advise. When you actively listen, you are there to act as a sounding board, as an impartial entity. I don’t think active listening will solve all of our problems. We’ve been sick for a long time, we’ve been deaf. Coming back from such trauma won’t be easy, but at least we can start tackling it from the beginning; bringing back our hearing. We can start building trust from the ashes, and growing a garden of empathy. <img width="2550" height="3300" width_o="2550" height_o="3300" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/399fd35616e33feeb941df06a2693bc158aedf49e8922edc793c4a71290f2986/Guarin_Daniela_ComingBackfromDeaf1_rgb.jpg" data-mid="110507376" border="0" data-scale="70" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/399fd35616e33feeb941df06a2693bc158aedf49e8922edc793c4a71290f2986/Guarin_Daniela_ComingBackfromDeaf1_rgb.jpg" /> https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Atuacao-em-Arquitetura-na-Amazonia-Uma-Conversa-Sobre-Alteridades-by Fri, 09 Apr 2021 02:32:17 +0000 Patio https://patiopublication.cargo.site/Atuacao-em-Arquitetura-na-Amazonia-Uma-Conversa-Sobre-Alteridades-by Atuação em Arquitetura na Amazônia by Karoline Barros e Miguel Croce Karoline Barros e Miguel Croce são arquitetos e recentemente passaram a trabalhar em&nbsp; projetos na zona de Manaus e Novo Airão, no coração da Amazônia. Profissionais vindos do&nbsp; sudeste brasileiro, durante o processo de viagem e trabalho pelo Amazonas, buscaram e&nbsp; buscam a investigar o campo da arquitetura da região, os modos de construir, e as culturas&nbsp; diversas com o objetivo de realizar uma atuação profissional localmente pautada e respeitosa&nbsp; com as pessoas e territórios amazônicos. Karoline Barros: Amazonas ou Amazônia? Miguel Croce: Amazônia né? Porque estamos falando da floresta toda, não de um estado brasileiro. Floresta que tem este nome por conta do Rio Amazonas, o maior rio do planeta. Na verdade, já há aqui uma questão, afinal "amazonas" é uma palavra de raiz estrangeira.1 Uma lenda grega, ocidental, que dá o nome à maior floresta tropical do mundo. Esse fato já é curioso, pois revela a imposição do olhar estrangeiro sobre esse território. K: É importante fazer esta distinção, da Amazônia são amazônidas, já quem mora no estado brasileiro são amazonenses. Amazônidas não são necessariamente brasileiros, há peruanos, colombianos, bolivianos, venezuelanos, guianenses, equatorianos… isso se nos referirmos em termos dos estados modernos. Etnicamente então, tem Tikunas, Yanomami, Witoto, Barés... só para citar alguns povos. M: É uma das primeiras coisas a se dar conta. Em algum momento nos últimos dias que fiquei em Manaus e a minha volta a São Paulo, foi como se tivesse dado um "clic": o conceito de alteridade me ajudou a pensar, como uma ferramenta intelectual, as experiências recentes. A alteridade é mais radical do que a empatia, pois admite que não é possível se colocar no lugar do outro, mas o respeita. Me faz pensar no reconhecimento do outro enquanto outro, não como um inimigo, um estranho, mas apenas alguém diferente. Reconhece uma subjetividade completa e complexa do outro e não o vejo como a negação daquilo que eu conheço. Percebo que há uma outra subjetividade a qual eu não tenho acesso, mas que simultaneamente reconheço como equivalente. K: Sem uma visão exótica, né? M: Exato. Devo admitir que enxergava de forma exótica, com certeza ainda enxergo em certa medida. Descobri o quão fantasiosa e deformada era essa visão e como eu, mesmo sendo peruano e brasileiro, latino-americano, sequer concebia que pudesse haver alteridades como as que presenciei. Então fiquei perplexo, porque eu ainda enxergava a Amazônia dessa maneira mitificada, ultrapassada e percebi o quanto ainda preciso desconstruir. Quando se lê a carta de Pero Vaz de Caminha2, tem lá a construção do mito da "floresta que tudo dá", do "paraíso" — como o paraíso bíblico, do ser humano sem o pecado original, imagem que foi associada aos povos indígenas. Essa tradição de interpretação mitológica da floresta é um olhar de origem ocidental que permitiu, e permite até hoje, a exploração e a violência. A narrativa diz algo como "se tudo isso que vemos à nossa frente não é aquilo que conhecemos, então é algo que pode ser modificado, em última análise destruído". Sempre uma atitude colonialista de negação, pois tal espaço "ainda não é cidade", "ainda não é cultura", não é cultivado, é pura "natura", natureza intocada, um papel em branco, um território original. Essa atitude arrogante vê a região inteira como uma terra nullius/tabula rasa, que pode ser racionalmente "domesticada, planejada e repensada como um todo".3 Há esta ideia de oposição dialética que se repete: cidade / floresta; domesticado / selvagem; artificial / natural; cultivado / silvestre. Acho interessante como ponto de partida para esta conversa reconhecer como arquiteto — e agora falando de espaço — que a floresta é uma realidade de outra ordem, com outras lógicas, diferente da que vivemos ao sul do país. A "vida moderna" e do capital que é tida para nós como "natural" é uma realidade inventada, existe porque nós acreditamos no seu imaginário moral. Na Amazônia existem outros imaginários políticos que regem o espaço e reconhecer isso é só o primeiro passo. K: Sim, o espaço que nós dois estamos acostumados tem a paisagem de outra ordem. A floresta não é vista como um território, a floresta não é interpretada. É como se ela fosse um bloco único, chapado, opaco, quase bidimensional na visão generalizada, e ao conhecer a Amazônia você entende que não é isso. Que é complexo, que é um espaço ocupado, povoado e antropizado4. M: Outra coisa que você tocou e eu queria buscar é sobre a paisagem antropizada da&nbsp; Amazônia: falamos do sudoeste brasileiro como uma paisagem transformada, mas é&nbsp; necessário esse reconhecimento da Amazônia como uma paisagem transformada há muitos&nbsp; milênios por diversos povos. Uma floresta antropizada a qual nós, de fora, não possuímos&nbsp; os saberes adequados para enxergar tal transformação. Como disse Ailton Krenak5, "tem&nbsp; uma história tão profunda que pode ser atestada por sinais nos seus ecossistemas". A&nbsp; floresta não é um evento somente "natural", no sentido da palavra que designa&nbsp; "espontâneo", mas também uma totalidade melhorada constantemente pela ação dos&nbsp; povos. Muito diferente, por exemplo, do tipo de cultivo como o da soja, que é exploratório,&nbsp; pois ao cabo de alguns anos a terra fica pobre em minerais e a floresta não se regenera&nbsp; mais. A partir deste ponto de vista poderíamos supor que a floresta é resultado que no&nbsp; mundo ocidental chamamos de "produzida" de forma sustentável. K: Sim, ela é feita/produzida e nós não conseguimos perceber, pois o método de criação de&nbsp; espaços ocidental é justo a destruição do que é vivo. A lógica de um "espaço que foi&nbsp; modificado" e que houve "ação do ser humano" é a criação de casa, largo, rua, cidade e&nbsp; monumento, o construído e o desmatado. M: Penso que é um conceito muito baseado também na pedra, na argamassa, então essas&nbsp; pessoas que construíam com madeira, com bambu, com terra, vivem em outra lógica. Tive a&nbsp; oportunidade de estudar arquitectura em Portugal por um ano, país que colonizou o nosso, e&nbsp; pude ver como a geração de pensamento de projeto de arquitetura lá é diferente da nossa&nbsp; brasileira. Correndo o risco de ser raso, posso afirmar que lá se pensa o espaço construído&nbsp; como uma coleção de objetos fechados distribuídos no espaço. Algo bem diferente de como&nbsp; é feito no Brasil, por exemplo, em que se pensa mais através de uma chave moderna de&nbsp; intenção, por um partido, e nem tanto sobre o objeto. A pesquisadora Ana Luiza Nobre6 &nbsp;diferencia a arquitetura europeia tipo "rua-corredor", da brasileira, do "vão livre" do MASP7 que seria a "expressão arquitetônica do espaço público". Na Amazônia, o que vi nas construções tradicionais e no arranjo urbano acredito ser de outro princípio, nem europeu, nem brasileiro moderno, mas uma terceira raiz. O que se aproxima do conceito de terceira paisagem8, de Anna Dietzsch: a produção de espaço resultante da combinação de "dois sistemas de pensamento e prática", o natural indígena e a tecnologia do capital moderno. K: Há, por exemplo, o cuidado e a sabedoria da construção do solo na Amazônia: as terras pretas. Regiões onde populações tradicionais viveram por séculos gerindo resíduos, restos de comida, de peixe e de vegetais. Um tipo de agrofloresta refinado que melhora as condições com o passar do tempo, pois o solo original da Amazônia é muito pobre. O viver, o habitar, que melhora a terra a longo prazo e indica um excelente balanço entre ocupação humana e floresta. Isso é uma real sustentabilidade. Algo semelhante ocorre com as frutas amazônicas, nenhuma delas é "original" de toda a região no sentido estrito da palavra. A disseminação e as variações das espécies são conectadas com a ação humana, são passadas de geração em geração, selecionadas, melhoradas a partir do cultivo — é tudo antropofizado. M: Exato, devemos perceber que não é natural, pois já foi modificado pela ação humana em certa medida e segue lógicas diferentes das quais estamos acostumados na sociedade&nbsp; moderna. Da experiência que tive em Novo Airão9, fica claro que a ideia do chão não existe da mesma maneira que no ocidente. Por exemplo, muitas casas naquela região estão descoladas acima do chão. Então, o que chama-se de térreo nestas casas na Amazônia fica&nbsp; no mínimo a 1m de altura. Característica construtiva que vem da tradição ribeirinha. K: Esse “chão” pode inclusive ser o próprio rio e mudar seu nível o tempo todo, com as cheias e&nbsp; vazantes no caso das casas de palafita, ou, se pensarmos nas construções flutuantes, as relações chão-térreo são ainda mais dinâmicas e conectadas com o sistema hídrico. Anavilhanas é um dos maiores arquipélagos fluviais do mundo, com mais de 400 ilhas e é tema de&nbsp; inúmeras pesquisas em biologia, ecologia e geografia. Seja como for a tipologia em análise, como arquitetos atuantes devemos entender que ali&nbsp; não se constrói em cima de uma terra, se constrói dentro de uma floresta. É uma mudança&nbsp; de posição, não estamos “sobre” um plano, estamos “dentro” de um sistema. M: Sim, há outro universo funcional e simbólico de "chão-térreo" na Amazônia. Acredito que o&nbsp; desdobramento lógico dessa constatação é que os códigos e a linguagem arquitetônica que&nbsp; se aprende nas escolas não são adequados para representar o espaço da Amazônia ou&nbsp; servem muito pouco. Se quisermos avançar mais, especular, diria que é preciso inventar&nbsp; novos códigos, novos tipos de desenho para conseguir entender e representar aquele&nbsp; espaço e em consequência conseguir atuar dentro de sua própria ordem. Um novo&nbsp; vocabulário arquitetônico, novo vocabulário de representação. Primeiro seria entender o que&nbsp; já existe. No caso, entender como a floresta vive, como a floresta existe... K: Calma, temos que ter em mente que não inovamos em nada. Não somos "nós", já há&nbsp; pessoas que fazem, e fazem há tempos. Nós, no caso, é que somos ignorantes. As pessoas&nbsp; que vivem lá entendem. M: Então precisamos ir por um sentido de tradução... K: Certo, mas se percebemos a necessidade de uma tradução é porque lá há pessoas que&nbsp; produzem conosco, existe alteridade. Em qualquer interior amazônico existem locais que&nbsp; constroem com a sabedoria tradicional e com técnicas incríveis. Por exemplo: as janelas&nbsp; abrem para dentro, pois se abrissem para fora elas estariam sempre molhadas; os telhados&nbsp; das ocas são porosos para que a umidade ventile; a ordem dos espaços nas casas derivam&nbsp; das habitações indígenas. Perduram vários saberes deste tipo. Esta tradução não existe por diversas questões, um exemplo é a Faculdade de Arquitetura&nbsp; em Manaus ser bastante recente, apenas uma década de existência. Por enquanto quem&nbsp; interpreta estes códigos construtivos somos nós (brasileiros brancos do Sul, dada a&nbsp; realidade do acesso ao ensino superior brasileiro), porque quem está lá ainda não fez a passagem da codificação, nem do mundo simbólico dele para o nosso, nem do nosso para o&nbsp; dele. Esse descolamento histórico é muito presente. Mesmo um grande nome como o arquiteto Severiano Porto parece ter uma atuação&nbsp; oportuna: um profissional do Rio de Janeiro, que vai para Manaus como jovem profissional e&nbsp; lá faz inúmeras obras. M: Bom, ele virou o grande nome da arquitetura nortista do Brasil, da arquitetura moderna amazônica. Seu trabalho é incrível e deve ser estudado, tem uma alta qualidade de detalhes, com preocupações climáticas avançadas para sua época. Ele estudou e se inspirou no que é tradicional daquela área e criou dentro da chave moderna carioca, uma arquitetura com inspiração regional e adequada ao clima. Mas... isso foi há mais de meio século atrás, não podemos repetir esta atitude. K: Sim, e ainda não surgiu uma figura de lá, amazônide, ribeirinha ou ribeirinho que faz essa tradução simbólica como o Severiano pôde fazer e como nós agora podemos. Seria uma tradução a partir de dentro da alteridade para a nossa, acho que aí há um grande campo. Em outras áreas isso começa a mudar de algum jeito. Na antropologia surgiu nos últimos anos toda uma geração de antropólogos que são indígenas. Como disse Krenak: "a minha maneira de atuar (...) é uma maneira de me inserir no mundo dos brancos."10 É uma revolução. Só que no fundo, no fundo, é uma revolução dentro do sistema criado pelo outro (nós em relação a ele). M: Foi ele que saiu do mundo dele, digamos. K: É. Foi "ele", este personagem vindo de uma alteridade, que se dobrou aos métodos e maneiras de produzir e pensar do outro. Não existe ainda hoje uma universidade indígena. O que seria o equivalente? Que instituição seria essa de saberes indígenas? É neste sentido que a arquitetura é uma discussão latente. Então o que nós, arquitetos, vamos fazer? Vamos continuar a tentar impor nossos códigos simbólicos e nossas ferramentas técnicas sobre estas alteridades? Não me parece o caminho certo. M: Concordo, o ideal seria que houvesse pessoas vindas dessas alteridades no campo da geografia, do urbanismo e da arquitetura, da administração e produção do espaço. Arquitetas e arquitetos ainda têm uma voz tímida no debate amazônico. A experiência na Amazônia me trouxe questionamentos. Por que o desenho da representação de espaço precisa seguir a lógica cartesiana? Porque as representações tridimensionais precisam seguir as regras da perspectiva? K: E o que é o desenho, design, projeto? O que é esse modo de projetar? Porque estamos&nbsp; falando de alteridades, em que as pessoas não necessariamente desenham na linguagem&nbsp; que esperamos. O desenho pode ser o próprio fazer. Um dos métodos de se fazer a moradia&nbsp; indígena é a partir da reunião de um grande círculo de pessoas, e então começam a subir a&nbsp; estrutura. O design não é uma marcação no chão ou no papel. Decidem onde fazer de&nbsp; acordo com uma sabedoria da escolha do lugar: as distâncias, a proximidade exata da água,&nbsp; entendem os tempos de vazante e cheias, é tudo pensado. Isso é o projeto, nós não&nbsp; reconhecemos como tal por conta da maneira corrente de lidar com alteridade. Pensamos&nbsp; apenas no projeto que está no papel ou no software, nosso design é mediado por estas&nbsp; ferramentas. Desnaturalizar nossos próprios instrumentos é outra atitude necessária&nbsp; quando nos deparamos com alteridades. M: Todo esse processo é parte de como reconhecemos uma alteridade. K: Sim, não se reconhece de primeira. Chega-se sempre buscando dar ferramentas, com uma&nbsp; ideia de que para estas pessoas "faltam coisas", "faltam saberes". Do mesmo modo como&nbsp; um dia se achou que faltavam facas, espelhos ou roupas. É óbvio que ferramentas são úteis,&nbsp; mas elas não são objetos definitivos, existem dentro de um contexto social-produtivo.&nbsp; Depois quando tenta-se instrumentalizar ocorre algo diferente, acontecem as trocas, é tudo&nbsp; muito dinâmico. Isso me lembra o livro Os Historiadores e os Rios11, do Victor Leonardi. Há um episódio em&nbsp; que chegaram as missões dos reinados, supostamente pela primeira vez em certa região&nbsp; bastante dentro da floresta, em um local de difícil acesso e até então sem presença branca,&nbsp; e lá encontraram machados holandeses. Um nó na cabeça: "como raios chegou um machado&nbsp; holandês aqui neste fim de mundo?" As pessoas trocam, e as trocas são imensas e&nbsp; constantes. M: Não existe nada de "isolamento" de "mata profunda" da Amazônia. Essa ideia do "lugar&nbsp; inacessível" tem a mesma raiz de mitificação da alteridade amazônica, que deu origem a&nbsp; todos estes pressupostos equivocados. K: Não, não existe, e a pandemia mostrou isso. No interior da Amazônia, especialmente do Amazonas, o contágio de Covid-19 foi rápido. As trocas são imensas e constantes mesmo com as aparentes poucas conexões, barcos que fazem trajetos demorados, de dias, ou voos esporádicos, então o vírus se espalhou muito rápido. A Amazônia é toda ocupada e conectada — não em telecomunicações, mas em fluxos de pessoas e produtos e tudo o que pode chegar com isso. Voltando à questão do olhar de quem chega, há sempre uma tentativa de tentar instrumentalizar, mais do que ouvir. Em especial na arquitetura, que é uma área propositiva — diferente da etnografia, por exemplo — a especialidade não é ouvir para aprender, é fazer. Como arquiteta, um dos erros certamente é ler a Amazônia como um lugar onde não há pessoas que dominam técnicas do que entendemos como "fazer arquitetura". Depois, quando partimos para o caminho de buscar compreender, corremos o risco de fazer uma análise rasa e, como resultado, produzir sobre isso em um viés mais performático. Por exemplo, achamos o sistema de construção sobre palafitas incrível e também apreciamos muito os flutuantes12 com toda a engenharia complexa necessária para conseguir, com materiais locais, flutuar. Entretanto, apesar desse reconhecimento, raras vezes se gera um aprofundamento das técnicas e saberes junto àqueles que constroem. M: Sim. O erro inicial é sempre esse, a premissa de que nós conseguimos entender o outro, a alteridade, de forma completa através das nossas ciências e tradições. Mais honesto seria ter em mente que nós não vamos nunca entender. K: É! A conclusão é que não pode existir conclusão em tentar sintetizar o outro, mas voltemos ao início da conversa, quando falamos de alteridade como reconhecimento do outro enquanto outro. Quero lembrar da experiência em Novo Airão13, naquele pouco tempo tivemos uma demanda grande de projetos vinda de todos os lados e como ocorreu essa comunicação. Se tem um episódio emblemático para mim foi quando o Dani14 te procurou aquela tarde para pedir o projeto de uma casa. Ele fez um reconhecimento de nós vindo dele — de alguém que é amazônida, ribeirinho — um momento de uma parceria e um respeito muito grande, de relações complexas. Imagino que para ele deve haver questões em nos enxergar como "os arquitetos brancos do sul, que chegaram para projetar coisas a serem construídas por ele". Ao mesmo tempo, de uma forma muito espontânea, ele foi até você pedir ajuda para um projeto da casa de um amigo dele. No princípio pareceu uma conversa ocasional e de repente se desdobrou em um projeto, ainda com todas as dificuldades de comunicação. Aquela cena foi um reconhecimento, pois afinal é ele quem tem todas as técnicas, os saberes, ele quem sabe fazer e faz há muitos anos, independente de projetos elaborados. Um momento de reconhecimento mútuo de alteridades e penso que é sobre isso, ele também vê que nós dominamos saberes e linguagens diferentes, mas que podemos sentar e conversar, e produzir juntos. M:&nbsp; Acredito que o nosso exercício ao atuarmos na Amazônia é manter o reconhecimento do outro constantemente, comunicação e respeito sempre, pisar suavemente na terra15. Acho que é por aí. <img width="4032" height="3024" width_o="4032" height_o="3024" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5faeb41736c54abf7e2dc159b7494add503b04a7825c7af23c9f495b2003925f/Karoline-Barros.jpg" data-mid="104704946" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/5faeb41736c54abf7e2dc159b7494add503b04a7825c7af23c9f495b2003925f/Karoline-Barros.jpg" /> <img width="4608" height="2592" width_o="4608" height_o="2592" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/4e8f103fb072de4a1234c76bda0873bf03205aa14866d770524e44fe8d597fa6/Miguel-Croce.jpg" data-mid="104704952" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/4e8f103fb072de4a1234c76bda0873bf03205aa14866d770524e44fe8d597fa6/Miguel-Croce.jpg" /> Notes 1. O Frei espanhol chamado Gaspar de Carvajal que acompanhou a viagem de Francisco Orellana em 1542, escreveu em seus relatos que teriam encontrado e lutado com uma vila de supostas guerreiras indígenas. Talvez adicionou essa anedota para criar um clima mitológico à narrativa, mas o rio passou a se chamar assim desde então. 2. Um dos primeiros documentos oficiais que fala da terra que viria a ser o Brasil. É uma carta enviada ao Rei de Portugal em . A carta está presente na maioria das bibliografias da educação básica no Brasil, o que faz com que a maioria dos brasileiros tenha lido na escola algum trecho da carta, principalmente os trechos que falam da floresta e dos povos originais. 3. Paulo Tavares “In the forest ruins” E-Flux (Dec 2016) https://www.e-flux.com/architecture/superhumanity/68688/in-the-forest-ruins/&nbsp; 4. Na geografia e ecologia "antropização" significa a modificação do espaço e paisagem por ação humana. 5. Ailton Krenak, "Interview with Ailton Krenak" in 8 Reactions for Afterwards, ed. ENTRE (Coord. Ana Altberg, Mariana Meneguetti). Editora Rio Books, 2019. p21-49. 6. Ana Luiza Nobre, "The Ground as Project", in Access for all: São Paulo's architectural infrastructures , ed. Andres Lepik and Daniel Talesnik (Park Books, in cooperation with Architekturmuseum der TU München, 2019), 90-93. 7. A pesquisadora se refere ao edifício sede do MASP — Museu de Arte de São Paulo, localizado na&nbsp; Av. Paulista. Projetado entre 1957 – 1968 por Lina Bo Bardi. 8. Anna Dietzsch, “Third Landscape, Part I: for the design of an Amazon Forest City,” in The Nature of&nbsp; Cities, June 2, 2020. 9. Novo Airão é um município brasileiro localizado próximo a Manaus, a beira do Rio Negro. Conhecido&nbsp; por abrigar o Parque Nacional de Anavilhanas, unidade de conservação de proteção integral.&nbsp; Anavilhanas é um dos maiores arquipélagos fluviais do mundo, com mais de 400 ilhas e é tema de&nbsp; inúmeras pesquisas em biologia, ecologia e geografia.10. Ailton Krenak, "Interview with Ailton Krenak" in 8 Reactions for Afterwards, ed. ENTRE (Coord. Ana Altberg, Mariana Meneguetti). Editora Rio Books, 2019. p21-49.11 Victor Paes Leonardi. "Os Historiadores e os Rios — A Natureza e a Ruina na Amazônia Brasileira", Brasília: Edu-Paralelo, 2013.12. Na Amazônia, "Flutuante" é como são conhecidos qualquer tipo de construção sobre a água, de casas a mercados, restaurantes e até vias de pedestre. 13. Novo Airão é um município do estado do Amazonas, à margem do Rio Negro, dentro da zona metropolitana de Manaus. Famoso por abrigar o parque nacional de Anavilhanas, uma unidade de conservação brasileira de proteção integral. 14. Danny Freitas Pereira trabalha como um "mestre de obras", domina diversos saberes da construção e suas etapas, com diferentes matérias primas. 15. Em referência a fala do chefe indígena Stealth em 1857 citado por Ailton Krenak. Ailton Krenak, "Interview with Ailton Krenak" in 8 Reactions for Afterwards, ed. ENTRE (Coord. Ana Altberg, Mariana Meneguetti). Editora Rio Books, 2019. p21-49. response by Anna Dietzsch Adjunct Associate Professor, Columbia University’s Graduate School of Architecture, Planning, and Preservation and Principal of Studio ArC – Arquitetura da Convivência. A trip to the Amazon is a transformative journey. The greatness of the forest and rivers in itself is a humbling experience. The region crosses nine national borders and stretches over an area that is almost the size of the continental US. Amazônia, as Karoline and Miguel point out, should always be thought of, and referred to, in the plural, as different languages, smells, and colors invite us to drop our preconceptions of a top-down perspective and look from within. In reading the dialogue between the two young architects and the unrest brought by their attentive immersion into this world, I was brought back to my first trips and experiences into Amazônias: the magic and unsettling sensation of being in a different time and feeling the world around through altogether different senses. In this immersion, preconceived notions and oppositions of what is natural, civilized, indigenous, modern, wild, urban, traditional, right or wrong start to peel off, as one acknowledges the need to try to recognize an “altogether different subjectiveness,” as Miguel puts it. One that is hard to label because it is not static or one-directional and points back to our own subjectiveness and our (in)capacity to make it bloom. Starting from the perspective of a profession that is trained to be proactive and responsive by a proposition, Karoline and Miguel poise the intriguing question of how to deal with this “new reality”, where we don’t have the control or even the awareness of the physical and cultural elements we could use as our building blocks. If definitive answers are not given, it may be because they shouldn’t. Instead, they wisely tell us the lesson learned has to do with training our mind and senses to listen. Not as another, but as one, amid a myriad of other ones, from within the realities we (could) weave together. As they continue their journey through Amazônias, I will sharpen my ears to be able to listen to the “gentle footsteps” that will pave their way.