Archaeology of Parking in the Contemporary World

This weekend, when I should have been doing some more pressing, I read Eran Ben-Joseph’s Rethinking a Lot: The Design and Culture of Parking (MIT 2015). It’s a fun and vividly illustrated book which considers parking over time as well as a contemporary design challenge for architects and planners.

It’s a short book and fairly affordable as a paperback, so there’s not much sense in reviewing it. If you want to get a sense for the book, MIT Press has made a section available for free here

The book gave me a few thoughts (which seems like the most we can hope for at this point of 2020):

1. Parking Lot Stratigraphy. My wife and I have been working on a few projects that involve the history of the mid-century growth in Grand Forks and the history of transportation in and through the city. In both projects parking plays a key role as car become a ubiquitous concern for planners in the post-War city and reshape the city’s landscape from a reasonably compact grid of the downtown to the more sprawling later-20th century city defined by its four-lane arterial roads. 

In the mid-20th century the first shopping centers appeared in town on Washington Street which was a major arterial road in the city. Parking lots fronted these shopping centers and surrounded the newly constructed South Forks Plaza (now Grand Cities Mall) the first indoor shopping mall in North Dakota. Today as then, the size of a parking lot is set in proportion to the interior space of the building that it is to serve. The ratio of parking to floor area, however, has shifted over the last 70 years as has the amount of room reserved for each parking spot. In general, lots are designed to balance between the need to accommodate the maximum number of cars on a peak shopping day and the need to avoid looking of empty and desolate. Ordinances dictating the design of lots, requirements for green spaces and trees, the need for drainage, and even barriers separating the lot from through roads further shape the form and density of parking in town. As a result, there should be some rough correspondence between the parking ratio (lot size: building floor area) and the date of the lot (if we allow for other variables). It would be intriguing to map this across mid-century commercial building and lots in town.

2. Parking Lot Innovation. Ben-Joseph argues that, when compared to other areas of architecture and design, parking lots not seen their share of innovation. His book made clear how dreadful most of Grand Forks’s surface parking lots really are.

North Dakota is the kind of town where parking is important. This is not only because we’ve well and truly embraced sprawl but also because for four months of the year it’s punishingly cold. Moreover the need for spaces to allow for snow removal (and the incredible persistence of snow over the course of the winter) create the need for a generous attitude toward surface parking. We’re also a growing town and parking lots (and shopping centers) often appear to be aspirational in the number of cars and shoppers that they can accommodate.

Even so, a recent survey on the University of North Dakota’s campus showed that we are significantly over supplied with parking. Moreover the recent number of high visibility store closures suggesting that some of their aspirations for shoppers and parking were miscalibrated. While UND continues to work to strategically eliminate excess parking (with the predictable hue and cry from students and staff), commercial parking – particularly along the Washington Street and 32nd Avenue corridors – continues to offer bleak vistas of empty lots surrounding closed (or closing) big box retailers. 

I can’t help but think that these lots are an under-utilized resource for our community especially during the six, non-winter months. Parking lots have long served as sites for informal commercial activities like flea markets, farmers markets, and “car boot sales” as well as various food and beer festivals. While Grand Forks has a fair number of these kinds of events, they tend to be concentrated downtown in the alleys and open spaces there. I wonder if our community might be well served by more events in the under-utilized parking lots of big box stores south of town? 

I also wonder whether the struggles of the community’s two shopping malls and various big box retailers might lead planners to think about lots with more flexible designs that allowed them to be repurposed in different ways as needs invariably change. Parking lots do have the advantage of being particularly well suited for informal activities and events and in an age where public spaces seem always to be at risk, parking lots do have the potential to be a kind of community commons.     

2. Parking Lots and Pandemics. It’s been pretty amazing how the humble parking lot has emerged as a key element in how we’re negotiating the current pandemic. Even here in the antipodes, parking lots have become the scene for drive-in movies and concerts. Parking lots are a requirement for the drive-through COVID testing that 

While I’ve not heard of it in Grand Forks, I know that several communities have used parking lots for drive-in churches (and since so many of our churches have generously aspirational parking lots, this would seem to be an ideal opportunity!). I’ve also not heard of parking lots being used as places for the community to gather to watch sporting events (presumably on a large screen!) or to share in other forms of community-building activities usually reserved for face-to-face gatherings. I keep thinking of a drive up food festival (which I recognize would expose servers to greater risk than patrons).

The great think about parking lots is that they are essentially blank canvases and represent the potential even in the desert of our car-focused culture.

Iconoclasm and the Suburbs

I’ve been watching with rapt attention the destruction of various statues in the US (and abroad) as a part of the larger protest against racism in the wake of the George Floyd murder in Minneapolis. I went to college in Richmond, Virginia, my father grew up in Richmond and my parents were married at St. John’s on Stuart Circle where my grandmother played the organ and my uncle sang in the choir, and I remember even as a kid being fascinated by the monuments along Monument Avenue. 

Since my days in Richmond, I’ve thought a bit about the destruction of statues in antiquity. In fact, we included an article by Troels Myrup Kristensen in the Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Archaeology primarily because of Myrup Kristensen’s interest in the fate of pagan statues in Late Antiquity. Myrup Kristensen shows the various acts of iconoclasm directed toward pagan statues was part of the Christian tradition from as early as the 2nd century AD. Béatrice Caseu, for example, has shown that communities sometimes intentionally buried statues of both pagan gods and even emperors. There is ample evidence for the manipulation and mutilation of sculpture in the Late Roman period that reflects efforts to limit the power tied to the images of non-Christian deities, to convert them to Christianity, or to make them more palatable for Christian use. Finally, some of my favorite buildings in Greece and Cyprus are churches that either survived Byzantine iconoclasm (like the Panagia tis Angeloktistis at Kiti or Os. David in Thessaloniki) or show the signs of the process (especially Ay. Sophia in Thessaloniki). 

As a 21st century observer, then, I’ve been excited to follow examples of iconoclasm as it plays out weekly at sites across the US and recognize it not as a kind of historical aberration, but as part of a long tradition of symbolic violence directed at statues and monuments associated with despised, rejected, or dangerous ideas, groups, and history. Indeed, I’d argue that the ritualized destruction of the statues will likely leave a much greater mark in the historical and archaeological record than the far more common and less controversial removal or modification of monuments as part of the changing fashion and requirements in the urban landscape. Just as the mutilated examples of Late Roman statues and the spectral traces of Byzantine iconoclasm allow us to return to those ancient situations, so the images of the decorated and defaced statue of Lee in Richmond, Virginia will allow people to return to the events of 2020 and consider both the methods and motivations as well as the results of these protests. What’s happening to statues over the last few months is a kind of damnatio memoriae that intentionally leaves traces on the monument or on the landscape making the act of removing, defacing, or repurposing the statue visible as a reminder of the moment and the movement. To my mind, if preserved properly, the fate of the statues on Monument Avenue and elsewhere could preserve a genuinely democratic and popular moment in the carefully curated landscape of American urbanism.  

Over the last few months, I’ve also started to think more carefully and systematically about the changes in contemporary settlement and urbanism that have occurred since World War II. Among the most dramatic changes is the growth of suburbs and the changing demography and organization of American cities which endured various forms of “White Flight,” efforts at urban renewal, and the significant changes the urban landscape as it became dissected by interstate highways and reconfigured to accommodate the steep increase in vehicle traffic and commuters. The social, political, and economic landscape of cities also changed over this time with the gap between the rich and poor in many cities widening, the decline in urban manufacturing jobs and small businesses, and the uneven benefits and pressures experienced through 21st-century gentrification and renewal efforts inspired by the “new urbanism.” As a result many monuments erected in the early 20th century context stand in significantly different contexts in the 21st century as the communities who live with these statues seek to redefine their identities in response to new challenges and expectations. While each city is different, it is clear the 21st-century Richmond residents felt sufficiently empowered to challenge the relevance of white, male, Confederate, Civil War veterans as acceptable representatives of their identity.  

More importantly to me, however, is the growth of suburbs in second half of the 20th century. Few suburbs featured the kinds of public spaces where figural monuments would be appropriate. The common public areas in the suburbs were parks and green spaces designed to evoke more bucolic settings or as spaces organized around sports such as baseball, soccer, or golf. Developers arranged roads in suburban areas not as potential settings for monumental displays, but as efficient connectors linking home with work, shopping, worship, and play. Indeed, if any place in the suburbs provided a kind of public space as existed in 19th and early-20th century cities, it might be the suburban shopping mall where the engagement with consumer culture shaped identities rather than heroic statues and monuments. Of course, houses of worship, and churches in particular, also provided spaces for public gathering, but modernist, suburban churches tend to be rather aniconic as well. Schools also stand as public spaces in the suburbs, but like suburban churches, adaptable, functional architecture took priority over more rigid and monumental urban spaces. Moreover, efforts to preserve a sense of common scale mitigated against overt monumentality even in large buildings and certainly offered little space for the kind of figural monuments that have been the target of iconoclastic ire in recent years. As a result, the daily experience of middle and upper class white suburban dwellers was distinctly devoid of figural monuments and monumentality in general outside the odd shopping mall, office park, or church. 

Of course, folks living in suburbs knew about figural monuments. They remained visible in urban areas, but rather than being part of everyday life, they became symbols of urban and historical otherness. They no longer represented the kind of ongoing negotiation of a shared identity and history. The city and its monuments were not a lived space, but a kind of museum. In fact, for most people, the idea of erecting a figural statue to a prominent pubic figure today seems absurd and more the domain of tin-pot dictators than civic minded individuals or groups.

Acknowledging this, many, but not all, of the most prominent new monuments on the National Mall, for example, eschew figural depictions all together. The World War II memorial, for example, uses its imposing size to communicate the scale of events. The more subtle Vietnam War memorial does the opposite by reducing the scale of monument to something more accessible to visitors, perhaps evoking the suburban, everyday, as a way both to stand out in the larger-than-life surroundings of the National Mall and to communicate the cost of the war on a more human scale. Even monuments to individuals, such as the FDR Memorial, which does feature figural depictions of Franklin Roosevelt, uses life-size scale to emphasize the President’s humanity. In short, the kind of monumental figural depictions that have so often have attracted the attention of protestors, activists, and iconoclasts, are perhaps less popular because so many of us live within a de-monumentalized modern world. In fact, these monuments stand outside of our conceptual universe even at times when we seek to memorialize prominent events and civic leaders. 

This is consistent, of course, with a wider view of history popular since the mid-20th century which has questioned the singular role of great individual in history and, instead, argued that events more often represent the confluence of social forces, economic systems, institutions, and various “structures” such as race, gender, class, and ethnicity. By de-emphasizing the heroic character of individuals in the past, we both succeed in making past individuals more human (as the Vietnam Memorial reflects in highly affective ways) and in understanding the great power of common attitudes, beliefs, and situations which compel us to act as individuals with often overwhelming force (as the massive scale of the World War II memorial suggests). Of course, this way of seeing the past is not separate from a view of the present that privileges the impersonal character of modern architecture, for example, that reflects flexibility, efficiency, and convenience as a response to larger social forces.

There are, of course, exceptions to rather monument-less experience of modern life. For example, the recent trend toward erecting statues of sports figures in the area around urban sports arenas marks these spaces serve to leverage the impact of statues as a way to connect visitors to their favorite teams. If statues in urban areas initially served to create a sense of shared experience, history, and identity with the viewer, the use of figural statues outside sports venues served to stir a sense of identification with the team. The team, of course, is a privately owned venture which depends on ticket paying attendees, public support for facilities, and, revenue from fans buying clothes and other personal objects as ways to demonstrate their loyalty. 

College and universities likewise occasionally erect figural statues, but universities often use anachronistic rituals, traditions, architectural forms, and landscapes to communicate a sense of gravity, persistence, and significance. Of course, like sports teams, many of these traditions, rituals, and monuments have as much to do with creating a special sense of attachment among students and alumni that warrants ever rising tuition costs and encourages continued support of the institution’s mission. Even public universities and colleges are increasingly becoming private ventures where appeals to potential donors and tuition payers plays a major role in how an institution represents its past.

Outside these exceptions, then, the post-war suburban world which has done so much to shape our politics, economy, and social life, is largely devoid of monumental, figural monuments. In fact, most of suburban life is spent in an endless series of historically indistinct, non-places consisting of gently contoured streets with rustic names, endlessly-modified and reconfigured modernist churches and schools, convenient and formless shopping centers surrounded by parking, and glass-walled offices and cubicles.

In this context, the response of many suburban dwellers to the attacks on largely urban monuments makes a kind of sense. If “white guilt” plays an important role in shaping race relations in the US, I would gently suggest that the negative response to the destruction of monumental statues in the US also reflects a kind of guilt. This guilt recognizes that with the emergence of modern suburbs, white suburban dwellers have lost the ability to assert a sense of the public past in their everyday life. This is not to suggest that the statues on Richmond’s Monument Avenue represent a view of the past that all members of the Richmond community embraced in the past or celebrate today. They obviously never did and do not now. They do reflect, however, the past efforts of a certain group of citizens to produce a sense of common heritage that reinforced their own right to speak for the community. Many Richmond residents and citizens, both then and now, find these monuments deeply offensive.

In this context, the monumental landscape of the first half of the 20th century takes on particular significance. White suburb-dwellers recognize that they have not been good stewards of their view of history. Between trends within the discipline that look beyond the influence of “great men” to larger social forces and the changing character of American society, the work to assert the importance of great white individuals ceased at the very moment when suburbs began to rapidly sprout around major urban areas. Punitive cuts to education and especially the humanities, ambivalence or even hostility toward cultural institutions, and the rise of a kind of fragmented and banal modernity speak to new forms of public and private life that privilege efficiency and economic advancement in a competitive market. 

The anxiety that the removal of these monuments will result in the loss of history, which is almost certainly not the case, reflects the fears and guilt of two generations of largely white Americans who found a common experience in convenience, consumerism, and efficiency which allowed them to avoid the difficult task of negotiating, asserting, or memorializing a public view of the past. They viewed the urban monuments from the first half of the 20th century as adequate and invested their energies in celebrating the past of sports teams, universities and colleges, and private institutions.

Fortunately, others have stepped up and taken on the task of redefining public space, and the results have been spectacular. 

Suburbs Readings

This weekend I started to read a bit more seriously about the American suburbs. My reading list is a bit random, in part, because I’m having trouble doing anything that requires sustained efforts and, in part, because the bibliography surrounding the suburbs is genuinely huge. 

The first book that I read has the least, explicitly, to do with suburbs: Kathleen Stewart’s Ordinary Affects (2007). It had been recommended to me by several friends over the past few months, and is worth every minute of the few hours that it took me to read the book. Stewart writes short vignettes that seek to capture and communicate affect. These vignettes are almost always ordinary in their setting, situation, and even characters, and draw on her own experiences in hotels, Walmarts, restaurants, city streets, and suburbs. 

This book does not really offer a model (although I have to admit that I did borrow the model of “hundreds” from her work with Lauren Berlant) and presents no theoretical framework for understanding affect, but it did remind me that careful attention to the ordinary can offer a window into the affective life of our modern world. In fact, many of the backdrops to Stewart’s vignettes are the common features in the suburban landscape from the front yard to the convenience store, sidewalk, and neighborhood. These settings offer a compelling reminder to look, listen, and think carefully about how our spaces of interaction create the place for our emotional life.

Along similar lines I read D.J. Waldie’s Holy Land: A Suburban Memoir (1995) which is set in Waldie’s home town of Lakewood, California. Lakewood was one of the largest suburban developments in the country at the time of its founding in the 1950s and Waldie lived there his entire life. The book weaves together Waldie’s memories, his experiences as a city administrator, and the history of the development and its founders. Like Stewart’s affective prose, Waldie’s work is evocative, compelling, and both personal and public at the same time. The suburb is less of a backdrop and more of a participant in the ritual of everyday life that defined Waldie’s experiences as a child, an adult, an administrator, and a resident of the place. His hopes and fears mingle with the hopes and fears of the other residents and transforms the uniformity of the suburbs into a sometimes optimistic and often humiliating space filled with human drama.

His particular emphasis on the suburbs as a place filled with human pathos and suffering offers an affective jolt and a sharp contrast to the optimistic and aspirational language of developers. In Waldie’s work, the dream of homeownership did not produce landscape defined by a deep sense of accomplishment. Instead, in Waldie’s work Lakewood became a place defined by the tragedy of death, suffering, delusion, and despair which clung to the landscape subverting the bucolic expectations of suburban ideal. 

Finally, I read the chapters on suburbs from Holly Whyte’s The Organization Man (1956). The book argues that post-war corporate structure and the emphasis on the loyal, dutiful, and obedient employee stifled creativity and innovation. The creation of the “organization man” involved institutions that extended well-beyond the hallways and offices of major companies. The final section of Whyte’s book looked at the role of suburbs in creating the conformity that defined the organization man. In particular, he emphasized that many of the first-generation of suburban dwellers were transients who often moved from city to city at the whim of their national employers and seeking professional advancement. In this context, suburbs offered a kind of ready-made institutional space that allowed a new-comer to have a social network and to fall easily into a routine that is both new and familiar. The uniformity of suburban homes and apartments, their physical proximity, and the expectations that these community would provide most of what individuals need in terms of social, religious, political, educational, and consumer life created a context in which the organization man could develop various skills, relationships, and goals. These skills, relationships, and goals would, in turn, shape his professional life and aspirations. A newly wed couple who first lives in a tidy suburban apartment, aspires to a single family home like those in their development. Once they own a home, they aspire to larger more well appointed home in an adjoining neighborhood. They model their success at work and in life through their leadership positions in the community and the subtle signs of affluence shaped by their suburban context.

What was most interesting to me was that Whyte emphasized the transience of suburb dwellers. The contrast between the bucolic design of suburbs which sought to evoke more established rural housing and allude the rootedness of elite households and estates and the transience of suburban residents should have informed my reading of workforce housing in the Bakken. It did not.