To install click the Add extension button. That's it.

The source code for the WIKI 2 extension is being checked by specialists of the Mozilla Foundation, Google, and Apple. You could also do it yourself at any point in time.

4,5
Kelly Slayton
Congratulations on this excellent venture… what a great idea!
Alexander Grigorievskiy
I use WIKI 2 every day and almost forgot how the original Wikipedia looks like.
Live Statistics
English Articles
Improved in 24 Hours
Added in 24 Hours
What we do. Every page goes through several hundred of perfecting techniques; in live mode. Quite the same Wikipedia. Just better.
.
Leo
Newton
Brights
Milds

1887 Chicago mayoral election

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

1887 Chicago mayoral election
← 1885 April 5, 1887[1] 1889 →
 
200px200px
3x4.svg
Nominee John A. Roche Robert S. Nelson
Party Republican Socialist Labor
Popular vote 51,249 23,490
Percentage 68.23% 31.27%

Mayor before election

Carter Harrison Sr.
Democratic

Elected Mayor

John A. Roche
Republican

The Chicago mayoral election of 1887 saw Republican John A. Roche win by a landslide, receiving more than a two-thirds majority of the vote, defeating Socialist Robert S. Nelson by more than 36 points (a margin of victory which was itself greater than Nelson's vote share).

YouTube Encyclopedic

  • 1/5
    Views:
    2 088
    609
    1 926
    1 940
    511
  • ✪ Wheelwright Prize Lecture: Erik L’Heureux, “Hot & Wet”
  • ✪ The 122nd Commencement Convocation, May 10, 2014 - Benedictine University
  • ✪ Partnering for Prosperity: A Discussion on Economic Enhancement (Part 1)
  • ✪ WILLIAM RANDOLPH HEARST - WikiVidi Documentary
  • ✪ United States presidential election, 1960

Transcription

Thanks for coming out. I know it's a very busy time and a lot of mid-term reviews and assignments and things. So thanks for coming out. We're here to celebrate the Wheelwright Prize of 2015. The Wheelwright Prize actually has a very long tradition at the GSD. It was established in 1935 in the memory of author Wheelwright, who was a class at Harvard of 1887. So this has quite a history. And it was established as a traveling fellowship and by now we've done a lot of research on it. We've consulted a lot of lawyers. And the way that the Wheelwright Prize was written, the only thing we couldn't change-- well, two things we couldn't change-- you have to travel, it has to be a traveling prize. And you cannot ask for any deliverables. Now, we didn't tell that to Eric before but we actually cannot ask for any deliverables. And those were the two things. And what it did-- it was started at a time, conceived at a time, when for Americans foreign travel was almost out of reach. Financially but also just-- how do you get there? And the prize-- its whole intent was to enable American architects to make the grand tour like the European architects. So at the Ecole de Beaux-Arts, you couldn't really be an architect until you had done the grand tour of Rome and Greece and then come back to France, for example. So it enabled Americans to do that. And some of the Americans just to put the gravity to it: Paul Rudolph, 1937, Eliot Noyes, 1939, William Worcester who was eventually the dean at MIT, 1942, I.M. Pei, 1950. So it-- as I said-- has a deep tradition. In 2013 the Endowment had grown to the point that we were able-- or Mohsen the dean was able-- to propose that we-- Sorry, from the beginning it was only for GSD students. Since its inception it was only for GSD students. But in 2013, Mohsen decided he would open it up to an international competition with awards of $100,000. And what we kept was that you have to travel, but also we made it that it would support travel-related research. This was a time when the GSD was entering into-- or had entered into-- a real interest in design as research. So travel-related research. And the 2015 Prize winner was Erik L'Heureux, who will share his travels tonight. Erik studied at Princeton. And then after a short time in New York, actually migrated from New York to Singapore, where he started his office called Pencil Office and where he teaches at the National University of Singapore. Actually, he just got tenure. He's associate professor at the National University. We would like to think that winning the Wheel Prize helped a little bit-- that's going to be our claim. But what won him the Wheel Prize on the other hand-- Wheelwright Prize-- was this thing about design and research. A lot of applicants will have some topic they would like to research and then they say, oh, and by the way, here's my portfolio. And they'll have nothing to do with each other. And the ones that have won, and the ones that we think capture the spirit of the prize-- and Eric's really did this. Eric had done-- in his office, which has a kind of R&D component even if a small one-- a lot of work on buildings in the tropics. And on building in the tropics. And he already had work from his office that was a demonstration of that kind of research and his proposal was basically to develop, continue, and and intensify that search. Mostly works on mid-scale buildings that combine challenges of density in Singapore-- you can imagine-- and urbanization. But also the particularities of the equatorial city, not least of which is heat and humidity. And his proposal was called Hot & Wet. Each project is motivated by architectural techniques-- not supplements to architecture but architectural techniques-- of ventilation, day lighting, thermal comfort. And in tonight's lecture he'll present his tour-- his grand tour-- which actually was defined by the equator and looking at cities along the equator. Five dense cities across the equator from the kind of megacities of Asia and South America, to the smaller cities in India and America. And we look forward to this. Welcome, Erik. [applause] Thank you, Michael. So I'm delighted to be here at Harvard on a somewhat cold November evening. And I hope I brought a little equatorial air to warm the auditorium for those of you still longing for summer. A very sincere thank you goes to the Graduate School of Design at Harvard University for funding the past two years of travel and research through the Wheelwright Prize. I want to give a special thanks to Dean Mohsen Mostafavi, K. Michael Hayes, Preston Scott Cohen, Jorge Silvetti, Cathy Ho. As well as the entire 2015 jury panel who had faith in my affectionately-termed grand tour of the equator. It's been an exciting, challenging, and inspiring research project that began-- as Michael said-- as an extension of my design practice, having moved from the temperate to the equatorial about 14 years ago. I'm going to show a few examples of the outcomes of the travel research-- I would say in a very much beta state. It's more of a sharing rather than a conclusion. A sampling rather than a composition. So I'm going to begin Hot & Wet: The Equatorial City and the Architectures of Atmosphere as I did in the original 2015 presentation, with a 1956 quote from Maxwell Fry and Jane Drew: "The rapid increase in population over the area of the tropics presents itself to the world as a problem of utmost gravity." What was a pressing concern over 60 years ago in that quote has become an issue of critical-- if not dire-- importance today. As a large portion of the world's growing population occurs in the tropical belt, the resulting urbanization, dramatic territorial transformation, and rising temperatures are altering the equator in substantial and unforeseen ways. When I conceived Hot & Wet, I looked to other architects whose own grand tours seemed instrumental in shaping their design sensibilities. Of course, Le Corbusier traveled through Europe between 1907 and 1911. His outcomes being published as his Journey to the East. Or Luke Hahn's own trajectory taking a linear path terminating in Karnak in southern Egypt. As Michael said, the Wheelwright in its original incarnation encouraged these temperate-centric arcs of travel-- enabling Paul Rudolph, I.M. Pei, and others whose own parallel trajectory largely orbited around the Mediterranean. For me, I saw this as a kind of deeply indebted temperate prejudice built into the grand tour. And by extension rooted in a latitude of European and American architectural discourse. And being that I now call the equator home, I started to look to others for guides. The amazing travels of Alfred Russell Wallace and his specimen collecting across the Malay Archipelago suggested another arc of travel looking about the equator. Not for architecture, in his case, but for the natural world. We could say eyes wide open. Or Alexander Humboldt with the equator in his horizon in his five year expedition to the equatorial regions of South America. The outcomes of his research as isothermal classifications locate and make distinct the hot and wet areas of the world. And define the area of where I practice today. What's interesting in Humboldt's original conception is that the area of the temperate are relatively striated to a fine degree. Understood maybe in great detail. Yet, in contrast, we can see the equatorial region remains a large pink zone. It's a crude understanding of the equator as a single climate. It's a temperate narcissism even for Humboldt-- a holdover from pejorative understandings from Aristotle onward. From the temperate vantage point, the equatorial has always been negatively described. Perimedes divided the earth into five zones-- two arctic, ones two temperate ones, and a single burned zone. To Pliny the Elder, a Greek geographer, describing the tropics as a ring of fire. To Aristotle in his text Meteoralogica-- claiming the tropics as a torrid zone-- asserting that the area was just too hot for inhabitation. Or to Mark [? rebullious' ?] drawings from the fifth century, where the red fire-like center is later reincarnated in Humboldt's iteration now as pink. Temperate ideas about climate and the resulting architecture and urban configurations I would say are largely self-referential, reinforcing one's own climactic particularities as ideal. And if you think this history of temperate prejudice is an old problem, we can find built-in partialities in contemporary writing about the equator. For example, in the 2016 Climates: Architecture in the Planetary Imaginary-- reviewing the climate of the equator is a problem to be rectified. In Eva Horn's interesting essay-- Air Conditioning: Taming the Climate as a Dream of Civilisation-- she begins, and I quote, "I had no idea the tropics were that hot. When I first exited the sliding glass doors at Changi Airport Singapore--" that's where I live, by the way "--I stepped into something I had never quite experienced before. This was not air as I knew it. It was more like a semi-liquid medium-- a gel, moist, hot, suffocating. Something you inhale but that envelops your body like a mass. Impatiently dragging my luggage through that mass toward the taxi, I started panting. My head, my hands, swollen from heat. The driver opened the door and I tumbled in to the refrigerated inside of the car. For a moment I felt relief as my body escaped the suffocating atmosphere." Living in the suffocating hot and wet as I do, I've tried to look at atmosphere not as a problem to be rectified, or tempered, or turned into a northern climate through techno science or air conditioning, but rather as a kind of potential. To use another lens that considers atmosphere-- the hot air, the thick, the gel, the moist, the wet, the semi-liquid, the moldy, the stained-- all as mediums to work with just as architects normatively work with space, material, and light. The torrid has also been traditionally understood by tempered eyes as a place of pestilence and fear. Or a territory of abundance and exuberant resources ready for extraction. Think colonialism or even tropical tourism. Could we refigure a way to conceive architecture and the equatorial city-- maybe in a more robust and mature way? My lens for my travels focused on a moment when modernism confronted the tropical right before the onset of air conditioning. When the friction of the equator rubbed into architecture. When cities were using urban artifacts as symbols of independence for the crafting of new societies and new nations. This moment-- we could say from the late 1930s to the end of the 1970s-- is a tremendously rich and complex. period. A golden moment of sorts. And clearly the ghosts of Maxwell Fry, Jane Drew, Otto Koenigsberger, among many others are present in the research. My travel looks upon this moment not as a historian but as an architect peering into the near past to project a future-- for maybe selfishly my design practice-- looking at artifacts as vessels that embed the contestation between city, space, material, atmosphere, maybe even politics and capital wrapped together. My torrid tour took me not only to five cities, but eventually to eight across the equator. Four in Southeast Asia, one in India, one in Africa, and two in South America. I traveled close to 100,000 kilometers, sweating probably the entire time and enjoying it all the way. My travel began as a series of small arcs from Singapore emanating outward. Each one gaining in distance following the winds of the Northeast Monsoon east to west, returning to Singapore after each tour. Semarang to Jakarta and Yogyakarta and Bandung in between. To Palembang and to KL and then Pondicherry, Accra, and then Sao Paulo and Joao. I traveled back multiple times to cities maybe nearer than far. I would also say the hot and wet implies a climactic specificity. Typically with temperatures above 80 degrees Fahrenheit, usually in the mid 90s in the afternoon. With humidity exceeding 80%, an annual rainfall of a meter or more per year, with some cities exceeding 2.5 meters-- that's eight feet-- of rain. Numerical quantification gives only a partial sense of this atmosphere for it really needs to be felt, walked through, inhaled, experienced. Not simply understood as data. So I was interested not in a strict maybe climactic geography-- Sao Paulo was really kind of an outlier-- but a range of hot and wet climes that contained a spectrum of architectural ideas suited to their specific urban and atmospheric environments. I also want to say this isn't a solo project. Numerous individuals impacted the research. From colleagues and friends met along the way, to architects and students assisting directly and indirectly. Allowing me to navigate, gain access or simply converse about ideas that I've had over the past two years. I produced a-- maybe we could say-- ridiculous amount of data, documentation, photographs, and footage. All of which I'm still digesting, editing, and curating. Hence the kind of beta state of this lecture. So I'm going to begin with a little preview of my travels. [rain] [thunder] [faint singing] [thunder] [city sounds] OK, I will begin now. My travels commenced in the eastern city of Semarang in Indonesia. A relatively small southeast Asian locale of 1.7 million people. Seven degrees south of the equator on the southern edge of the Java Sea. Semarang is really two cities. A northern flat city, a coastal city with it's southern city as a tail-- that you can see here-- is one of topography class and contrasting status. The flat city runs out as a blanket of roofs, streets, and courtyards. A desakota in visible terms, were landscape, roof, and object blend together in a continuous field of urbanism and vegetation, motorbike and shop, house and school, Mosque and factory. The topographic city folds in on itself-- filling valley and hill alike, making visible the class differences by elevation and section rather than by planned proximity. Large volumes dominate the volcanic hills as they look to the growing city through the heavy atmosphere of the afternoon sun. Semarang is also a city of trade and markets. Its access to the hinterlands of central Java link it to the trade routes of Asia. Historically, this has been reflected in the large Chinese diaspora and its own Chinatown. As is its demographic mix combining Malay, Javanese, Arabic, and Indian ethnicities throughout the city's fabric. Here we can see the edges of Chinatown in a series of middle class party wall shop houses-- located just adjacent to the Dutch Kota which was an important VOC and colonial trading port during colonialism. Jewelry and gold markets are adjacent to food and dry good markets. And here in this original district now in decline, the city moves further and further inland-- retreating from the floods of a rising sea. The buildings here have been largely abandoned except for the perimeter shops on the ground floor and a lively street level daytime trading. The developmental pressures of Semarang are great as this city continues to grow outward and upward. The density of the shop houses are being transformed into the rise of mid-scale towers that have begun to make their mark in the distance-- transforming the continuous large roof into the city of elevations. As an extension of this trading fabric-- and central to Semarang's identity as the role of the market-- a typological big roof that aggregates and condenses the diversity of smaller traders, shopkeepers, and merchants under a single and identifiable surface. In Semarang there are over 20 large markets, each one serving a neighborhood at the district scale. The largest and most dramatic big roof is the Pasar Johar, built in 1932 by the Dutch-Indonesian, Herman Thomas Karsten-- an engineer and planner by profession. At the time of its opening, the Pasar Johar was claimed to be the largest covered market in all of Southeast Asia. And like all good torrid grand tours-- a little drama begins my research. After receiving Michael's call sometime in April, I think it was, of 2015-- and before I could even get on a plane to Semarang-- this vessel of study suffered a horrible fire. Fire ripped through the architecture in May 9, 2015, rendering the market to ashes. It was a great way to begin my research-- all going up in smoke. But I was determined to go, and when I arrived the market was still smoldering with ash, soot, and the remains of livestock and livelihoods strewn about the floor. The fire caused over 4,000 traders to lose their venues, with many more informal kiosks being erased in the fire's wake. Because of this programmatic erasure, the architecture was rendered as foreground rather than background, and its role as a dramatic atmospheric framework became even more self-evident. The market is composed of three sections oriented on a north-south axis. Rectangular in plan with a slight chamfer for the open air market at the most southern of the squares. While the market scale is vast compared to the small scale aggregation of the Chinatown fabric just adjacent. In the large open courtyard-- having just burned-- contained a series of steel structures of pitched and flat roofs with small dry good merchants beneath. You can see Raman here-- digging through the remains of the market on the lower right, his stall having been incinerated just weeks before. The central square extends the roof across the square, covering it with four large concrete planes all in equal size. The market that had just been before under the concrete roof quickly re-established itself exactly around the perimeter of Pasar Johar, encasing the embers in a ring of trading. The burned market is to the left-- which is here-- and the newly established market was established under a series of orange and blue tarpaulins. We could say a symbol of resilience if there ever was one. The displaced merchants rebuilt their networks as quickly as the market burned. For their livelihood is intricately linked to the central trading area of Semarang. Back under the burned canopy, traces of each merchant store littered the plan-- ceramic, pottery, and dishware are all visible as though it was an archaeological site. Flanking ramps on the north and south elevations allowed goods to move easily-- vertically-- for Karsten had a deeply embedded social agenda in the architecture. The market was, as I understand it, designed for the small-scale local and largely female merchant class even from its incarnation in 1932. A series of cast-raised plinths allowed merchants to place their goods off from the contaminated floor. The large two story columns march across the double volume from veranda to volume alike. The central square was once the wet market-- where we can imagine smells of raw meat, fish, and vegetables percolating through the space requiring the most ventilation. Each wing contains 24 columns rising above the floor about 8 and 1/2 meters. The volume of contained air is grand in proportion. A large swimming pool of thick Javanese air and moisture slowly moving from street inward and upward. One cannot help but make parallels between the Johnson Wax headquarters designed by Frank Lloyd Wright from 1939. Only that Karsten's Pasar Johar was completed some seven years earlier. The similarities are shockingly close-- interior veranda, double height space, and marching capitals alike. We could also trace the work to Robert Maillart's first mushroom slab structure in the warehouse Giesshubel in Zurich from 1910. Or his grain storage of the Swiss Confederation in Altdorf from 1912. Karsten clearly appears to have adopted Maillart's techniques-- articulating column to capital in a smooth arc, while capital to slab interfaces contain a series of stepped transition planes. Karsten also removed the continuous perimeter to allow for a full ventilation of the interior space laterally. Inside the light oscillates between the intensity and the bleaching quality of the equatorial sun, and the dark undersides of the lower market. Sound of the nearby mosque, roaring motorbikes, and street-side merchants-- rooster caws included-- percolate through this roof assemblage. Traces of the rattan formwork are imprinted into the underside surface of the concrete between the oculi, which illuminate and ventilate simultaneously. So you can see the rattan was part of the original formwork. The big roof is layered-- stacked upon stack slipping over one another-- bunker-like as a series of layers evacuating hot air and smell. Side vents suck in air, light, and sound penetrating deep into the underside of the market. This architecture works with pressure in a figural sense to squeeze and open, push and pull, shade and illuminate in a calibration of air itself. For the Pasar Johar, air and all of its contaminants are as mediums and fundamental components of the architecture. I've worked with other devices of capture from thermal imaging-- where traces of the columns shown in green are contrasted to a surprisingly cool roof-- and developed a language of drawing to document the equator's spatial and climactic impacts on architecture. Especially at the detail. For much of equatorial architecture, the deployment of the overhang and roof conceals the elevational complexity. And can only be understood by looking up through the worm's eye as a primary device of understanding. Karsten used the layering of planes of concrete horizontals to make up the roof. But it is also the thick massive assembly of air captured by the perimeter veranda and oculi that layer up to construct the architecture. The volume of air between the roof and ground-- I'm thinking of a large maybe pillow here being compressed-- under pressure that pushes air out. It's an exhalation. An architecture that gasps and breathes. The Pasar Johar is the most dramatic and formal of the Karsten markets. I visited four of them in my travels. Even in its derelict state, it creates a very real sense of inhalation and exhaust. As though the building moves air in and out, pumping through a gigantic architectural lung. It's also a lung for the city. A center of positive friction and a pole of gravity for trading and business and livelihood that anchors the city. Of course, this isn't just a story about atmosphere within the market, but also about power struggle for the market. The frictions at the city center and the political agency of the merchant class as older artifacts confront developmental pressures. Throughout my travels to Semarang, rumors persisted that the fire in May of 2015 was started by the usual suspects-- developers, the city officials, whomever. But it was clear that most laypersons believe power was at play to evict. As a means to clear out land and open up prime area of the city for future development. Even if the official explanation was an electrical short. It took a second fire also started by dubious circumstances in February of 2016, almost a year later-- and here I'm standing in this photograph where that second fire occurred-- to displace the ring of street-side merchants shown in those previous images. The relocated market-- designed as a sponge to absorb this dislocation-- is positioned at the edge of the city some three and 1/2 kilometers away. Though it was almost entirely rejected by the Pasar Johar merchants-- the obvious isolation, its shoppers dislocated, its supply chains rerouted, its agricultural perimeter that doesn't align with trading, selling, and buying for merchants whose livelihood depended on the market's central proximity. The story doesn't look like it's ending well-- a displaced merchant class, a miserable relocaci--. Though civic society has rallied to preserve in some form the original Karsten vesse, a recent trip now shows a perimeter of hoarding plastered with photos of the market's earlier and largely colonial days. It's an interesting comment on the nostalgia for the market as Indonesia reinterprets and reincorporates her historical legacies. Even if they were part colonial. Official word has it that the market will be resurrected by 2020, though that's a long time for these small-scale merchants to wait. And rumors persist that it is really a land grab. For the plans of the rehabilitated market and its intended use are very hard to come by. My interest in Karsten continued to grow as I traveled. And I visited the Pasar Randusari and the Pasar Jatingaleh and the Pasar Cinde, all of which deployed the big roof as a means to aggregate the small scale merchant class. Karsten's worked as a planner and architectist throughout Indonesia. And I traced his influence like a detective to the Pasar Cinde, in the city of Palembang on the grand island of Sumatra. My interest was to see the large two-story market in operation-- to view the convergence of the architectural, the atmosphere, and the inhabitational that I was denied in Semarang. As I caught onto the winds that traced westward to Pasar Cinde, it to-- as I was soon to find out-- was to suffer a similar fate. Palembang, a growing city of 1.5 million, is a city of export. A city of moving hinterland resources to river to ocean ship. It's a [? map ?] urbanism of roofs with tremendous traffic and an upward middle class made visible by its automobile ownership and the under-construction elevated metro train system above. The Pasar Cinde, dwarfed by the coming infrastructure is a vessel for the contestation of population growth, developmentalism, and the legacies of modernism. This is the Pasar Cinde on the bottom here. I arrived just in time in 2016 to find a reductive Karsten-- understood to be an adapted design by Abu [? cousonno ?] [inaudible],, the head of Public Works Departments of Independent Indonesia. Skylights as simple rectangles, fluted columns, perimeter verandas, all speak with a Pasar Johar sensibility. The market was full of smell and sound, lively in the trade of the day. The tropes of Karsten are throughout-- column capitals that merge slab to vertical in an almost stalactite configuration. The business was brisk, the architecture crude, layered, simple, and direct. Basements had little of the ventilation of Pasar Johar or the natural illumination, though the scale and size of the columns were robust. A burly physicality to the transfer of load. The clear story layering accommodated ventilation about the veranda, yet the market foreshadowed the coming realities of developmental forces. Just two months ago the market is now not only abandoned, but in the process of being destroyed. It is as though the fate of Pasar Johar has percolated westward to Palembang, as another city transforms from the horizontal to the vertical. Where the logics of walkable stories, small-scale merchants, and the big roof are replaced by boxes, sealed envelopes, and large-scale capital seeking rental income on a return on investment. The ruining of Pasar Cinde happened without fire. Believed to be due to its smaller internal population and thus diminutive political force. But it's ruined no less-- an eviction in spatial economic in historical terms. In Palembang-- like Semarang-- the market was seen as a pole of social, cultural, economic, and architectural value. With protests outside the Mayor's office, posters of resistance, and articles in the newspaper all illustrating a robust, we could say, civil society engaged in the politics of architecture, modernism, and the city's future. Just weeks ago, I was provided photos from on-the-ground activists. The market subjected to a complete demolition. Only the capitals seem to remain as a resistance to full erasure. The proposed replacement in a token historicism applies a ring of Karsten columns to the Aldiron Plaza Cinde's entryway-- which you can see here. An applique that raises the questions of preservation, history, developmental pressure, and the shift from the horizontal and naturally ventilated to the massive and artificially conditioned. Jakarta, in many ways, is further along this transformational path from the horizontal to the vertical. And the ventilated to the conditioned. The city defies easy categorization being the largest in Indonesia-- the capital of the nation. It is the center of political and financial power for the vast archipelago. Jakarta's larger region is a rolling environment-- a village, dense city, land form, and agriculture. The origin of Terry McGee's text as the original Desakota-- that traces in plan from Java's northern coastline along a series of 14 rivers percolating southward to the volcanoes of Mount Sorak and Mount Gede. The city has grown in bands of expansion southward and its current form is a collision of informal settlements, kampungs, urban villages, middle class aggregations, highways, commercial towers, and super-scaled shopping complexes all in close proximity. Here growth occurs in sprouts and volcanoes, erupting side-by-side to small singular homes. The kampungs largely penetrated by motorbike, bicycle, or foot produce the consistent ground of Jakarta punctuated by larger figures of modernisation-- national monuments, transportation, infrastructure, and object buildings. For the vast majority of the residential-- architecture opens to pedestrian streets of one to two meters in width. Front terraces merge with passageways. Inhabitants bound from another interior to another across the ground plane of political and spatial porosity. And when it floods-- a liquid porosity, all the more dramatic. This foamy-like space coats Jakarta as a field of inhabitation. The contemporary city which emerges from this foam is not a model of integration in interpenetrability but of large scale bubbles. Towers and blocks of massive proportion contain a plethora of uses in inhabitational practices. They are self-contained climates unto themselves, accessible by air conditioned automobiles. Searched and sanctified by security guards and gates, perimeter private roads, and large-scale parking decks, only after traversing Jakarta's infamous traffic where even president Jokowi walks in the sun for two hours to reach his meetings. Just happened a few months ago. The scale of such bubbles can be massive. For example, in the grand Indonesia shopping town that spans almost 7 million square feet a single building. It's about a million more than the United States Pentagon. The adjacent kampung of the streets of Mata Pura just to the south rise only a story or two or three. Crossing from one spatial experience to another is a radical transformation of scale, density, porosity, and organization. My interest in Jakarta was not in this shocking spectrum, nor in the informal settlement to occupy the horizontal. But rather in the mid-rise building known as the Sequis Center located south of Jalan Sudirman. It was completed in 1978, designed by the architect Hassan Roland Vogel-- supposedly of Swiss origin. Located in the bottom right of this photograph, the diminutive 12-story middle scale block sits on a northwest orientation over the large boulevard. To the left, the large civic park and national stadiums of independence-- built for the 4th Asian games from 1962 under [? serkarno ?] and financed by the Soviet Union-- dot the landscape. The Sequis Center has been dwarfed by its larger neighbors as capital has aggregated in the area, and towers have grown larger and more massive. The building's distinctive feature is a perimeter envelope of parabolic fiber-reinforced concrete, whose deep spatial envelope serves as a thermal buffer separating heat gained from the building proper. The fiber panels protrude outward, also shedding the interior from the ubiquitous monsoon downpour. The mass barely protrudes from the large-scale vegetation along Jalan Sudirman, yet suggests an alternative vision of architecture from its neighbors-- a hairy, opaque aesthetic that works with atmosphere expressively. From above the building reads as a solid mass, an assemblage of the pointed and pitched roof. A common trope of Indonesian vernacular architecture that in this case had been miniaturized, multiplied, and arrayed across the building in elevation. From below the building's porosity is revealed a window wall glazed without coatings or reflective films, as the role of shading is done through solidity itself. The building and elevation reads as a series of subtle slits-- a strong equatorial aesthetic of opacity and materiality-- across the vertical plane that is a resistance to the temperate and the transparent immediately adjacent. The dramatics of the equatorial sun play across the envelope. Looking out through the eye-like profiles, the view peers down to the vegetated ground. By doing so the windows shed the normative requirements of expensive embedded technologies, shifting the role of technoscience and performance to a simple material with expressive architectural agency. The building stands as a vessel. An urban artifact symbolizing-- and maybe even monumentalizing-- an alternative vision for the equatorial city. Dark rather than light. Deep rather than thick. Perforated rather than closed. Material rather than transparent. But growing in the background-- the new Sequis Center Tower by the same developer speaks of another more common narrative in the equatorial city. The new building designed by KPF is a glass-enclosed block with all the trappings of global fluidity. A symbol that context is universal rather than local in a city of proliferating bubbles admiring New York, London, or Singapore. Such manifestations indicate an entire mindset of the eradication of the equatorial and architecture decapitated from its own atmospheric context. A neo-internationalism of displaced aspiration. This narrative has continued northward across the equator to Kuala Lumpur-- a parallel city to Jakarta-- where we find more of these traces of global networks and ambitions. KL is a city of mini cities-- a city of clusters-- situated between the resource extractions of an earlier time in tin mining and rubber production along this Selangor River. The city today oscillates in folds across this topography-- known as the Klang River-- as a collage of shoots with tremendous density contrasting with compact low-rise buildings and jungle. The high-density aggregations have led to a series of podium blocks-- towers and volumes-- set in extreme tight juxtaposition. Clad in symbols of contemporaneity with an equatorial amnesia via the curtain wall as a system of enclosure. The ubiquitous of the temperate corporate towers throughout KL-- as many Southeast Asian cities-- as they race to assert their symbols of wealth even in the most background-like in uninspired buildings. Indeed the spectacularity of glass symbolizes not only an aspiration of New York or Chicago, but a potent signification that we too have a robust infrastructure that provides excess energy to cool the buildings. There was a counter history here, of course, where the modern project in the equatorial produced friction between the aesthetic aspirations of modernism and climactic context. Two projects, the Federal building of Petaling Jaya and the Kuala Lumpur Hospital-- these are really two among many in KL-- speak of this earlier moment at the confluence of global networks of modernism, the end of colonialism, and the impacts of equatorial calibration. The Federal building shown here-- designed by H.I. Ashley and S.P. Merer of the Colonial Public Works Department in 1958-- in the new town of Petaling Jaya. It's a suburban model about 10 kilometers south of KL proper. The building known as the National Registration Department is a long horizontal bar-- brawny in its opacity-- and it's positioned on an east-west axis following the arc of the equatorial sun. It's a six story rectangular block-- 10 meters by 100 meters-- with a double-loaded corridor down each of its floor plates. The northern elevation continues the grid-like checkerboard, though larger in scale than the south shown in the previous image. Composed of a perpendicular grid and vertical brise soleil, opaque to the west The thinness of the concrete breeze block, the simplicity of the pattern, and the opacity produced by a frontal orientation suggest an equal alternative aesthetic sensibility. While the west brise soleil more open erroneously receives the majority of the heat gain-- it's no wonder that the glass there is tinted black as compensation-- the northern perforated envelope speaks to a finer degree of orientation. The building was also designed, in this case, with air conditioning from the very beginning-- as did the Sequis Center-- and suggests a hybrid between the opaque envelope and the cooled interior. Both buildings-- here in KL and what I showed in Jakarta-- foreshadow the shift of atmospheric calibration to a symbolic rather than a performative one. To which architecture begins to relinquish its capacity to construct atmosphere, giving it slowly away to mechanical conditioning. The aesthetics of opacity find perforation in simple platonic forms, though still for me suggest a friction and a possible permeability with the city and its air. I see here a scaffolding that suggests both visual opacity yet atmospheric porosity. We see similar attempts in the KL hospital-- the most Le Corbusien -inspired of projects throughout my travels. Designed by Wells and Joyce, to which Maxwell Fry was the competition judge who selected this scheme in 1961. Maxwell Fry and Jane Drew, it should be noted, worked with Corbusier to enable Chandigarh and later established their practices in Ghana-- which I'll show a little bit in a few minutes. The hospital must be seen in this lineage and was built from 1962 to 1968. The largest building is the General Operations and Surgery Center being a composition of bars and blocks, overhead linkways, and pilotis. Corbusien touches are found throughout the egg crate envelope-- curve and linear light fittings on the bases, compositional arrangement, and the scale and depth of the brise soleil makes this building stylistically aligned with the larger movement of modernism as it confronted the tropical from the late '30s onward. But the scale of the envelope along with the relatively deep floor plates became repositories. Repositories for excess, for excess furniture, excess compressors, excess humidity, and excess hot air itself. The details maybe are somewhat generic by now-- deep elevations in screens proud of the building masses. But operating as a thick blanket of air evacuated from the interior rather than buffering the heat load of the sun. The [inaudible] building, just adjacent to this Le Corbusien manifestation, seemed more banal but suggests a more complex narrative of atmospheric calibration. A thin bar building-- one board deep, largely naturally ventilated-- even today suggests a tighter integration to atmosphere. The [inaudible] windows behind the concrete screen work in unison with the larger exoskeleton to ventilate and calibrate the atmosphere that moves across the narrow floor plate. The symmetry, narrow plan depth, and relatively deep screen illustrate an elevational building confronting its context. Imagining a hospital of natural integration rather than mechanical conditioning. All with a nice shade of pink to top it all off. The campus is slowly being aggregated together into larger building volumes, as a continuous interior is demanded by doctor and patient expectations of modern-- a.k.a. temperate-- sensibilities. By doing so, architecture is rendered in this case as a purveyor of increased real estate, floor plate capacity, and fire egress compliance, rather than enabling friction between people, atmosphere, and architecture. The traces of modernism and the brise soleil that we find in the elevations of Jakarta and KL are picked up again in one of the most delicately preserved and thoughtful artifacts that I discovered during my travels. Located four hours south of Chennai on the east coast of India, facing the Bay of Bengal and the city of Pondicherry. The small city of 3/4 of a million was a colony of the French East India Company from 1674 onward. The legacies of French colonial rule are imprinted deep into the city's formal structure. A grid plan running perpendicular to the sea with an oblong ring road marks the separation between the formal French corridor and its expanding Tamil periphery. The city is split between this visible French influence and the higher densities of aggregation to the west. Between neoclassical buildings with generous courtyards and the party wall construction of density where the majority of the residential and business areas are located. The city is not a city of roofs as we found in Semarang or Palembang, nor elevations as in Jakarta or KL, but a series of mid-scale masses. Three to five stories in height, a tightly-compacted high-density arrangement. The gridded city has a strange emptied feeling. For over 100 buildings are now owned by the Sri Aurobindo Ashram-- one of the most important ashrams in India. Imagine a city of whispering yogis-- this is Pondicherry. The Golconde dormitory designed by Antonin Raymond, Francoise Sommer, George Nakashima between 1935 and 1942, marks the first modern cast-in-place building in India. The design deploys a series of tropical modern motifs that we found in KL, though they were developed here almost 20 years earlier. A bar building displaced about a vertical stair core, situated precisely along a east-west axis in alignment to the tropical sun path. The collision of the building against a tilting city grid appears object-like, yet a perimeter wall with a single entry door camouflages the intelligence behind. The superimposition of the two orientations creates three courtyards-- two northern hot courtyards and a southern cool courtyard. The northern courtyard heats up in the afternoon creating a low pressure, while the southern courtyard as shaded creates a high pressure because of his lower temperature. The differential between these volumes creates a velocity of air moving laterally across the architecture. The building still operates as a dormitory to the ashram and getting access was extremely cumbersome. With profuse self-chastisement in the basement as a prerequisite for my entry, I ended up bowing for forgiveness to a sin I wasn't quite aware of to a very large rotund Indian woman named Suman. It was really hard to get into this building. The asbestos cement screen set in a grid form is all in off-white concrete. Surprisingly thin and easy to move by cast brass hardware. Two gaps on the ground floor allow air to move between the bar at relatively high speeds, making it the ideal foyer for resting in the hot afternoon. So there's a gap there and there and everyone sits there to cool off. Ventilation is throughout, providing shade even for the casual street-side rest. Within the architecture proper, a lamination of screen, veranda, corridor, a sliding panel, dormitory room, and window bay all function holistically. The finishes are largely natural allowing the thermal mass of each material to comfort the interior. Exposed slabs modulate air temperature while dark floors minimize glare. The furniture within the room is constructed in teak and rattan, speaking of a language of moving air around and about the body. Designed by George Nakashima, it directly foreshadows his future as a furniture maker in Pennsylvania. The staircase-- open in the center and ventilated on both sides-- drives air and light deep into the architecture. Details are expressive and subtle simultaneously. Even brass inlays-- you can see them in the plaster here-- allow the wall to breathe between it's hot outside and cooler inside, mitigating thermal expansion of the plaster itself. Screens when adjusted allow light or view and can be closed for the tropical rain. The roof likewise a doubling-- an enlarged tile roof with integrated drainage and perforated ends to cross-ventilate the main building mass. The details are exquisite in their execution and the superb upkeep thanks to Amra Nemenberry, who inherited the custodianship from her father-- the original caretaker of the building as part of the early ashram. When I visited only two other guests were staying in the dormitory with a contingent staff keeping the operation running. The roof washing area-- elevated, shown here-- to catch the thermals off the ocean in the afternoon, drying clothes on a series of cables with integrated drainage below. The solidity of the architecture camouflages a perforated envelope outside and in. But it is also the integration of the components from the RC slabs-- the reinforced concrete slabs-- to the doubling of the roof as a cushioned thermal buffer, to the dynamics of pressure differentials across the courtyard that embolden the atmosphere and architecture alike. The building speaks of another important narrative of contemporary equatorial urbanization discussed during my travels. The exquisite construction of this building in the late 1930s sits in contrast to the relatively crude fabrication recently underway in nearby Pondi. Or in Chennai from where I landed. The narrative is that as craftsmen became replaceable labor, as they saw higher laborers wages in Dubai, Saudi Arabia, or Singapore from the '70s onward. The result has been that in this part of Tamil, India, construction knowledge has been emptied out by the global flows of capital and labor alike. And the transference of expertise through apprenticeship ruptured. Today local architects claim that the Golconde would be near impossible. For the basic building intelligence has been shipped elsewhere, and the knowledge and care of building exported across the equator without return. This is a photograph in Singapore of labor coming from India. We pick up the traces of the Golconde dormitory in the city of Accra, Ghana-- on the north of the Gulf of Guinea, five degrees north of the equator. The city has a population of 2.5 million in the sprawling metropolis of mid-scale architecture with Ghanaian, colonial, and now Chinese influences. The city is pregnant with mid-century experiments that decorate and sheathe big roof and deep elevation buildings, with a variety of brise soleils, breeze blocks, overhangs, and patterns. From mid-scale towers to academic campuses-- from government compounds to the single family home-- the city was a laboratory for tropical exuberance during its hangover from colonialism. When Kwame Knrumah, Ghana's his first prime minister, recruited architects to construct an identity in physical form for his scientific socialism. A making of a country through architecture and making of the city. The traces are everywhere in Accra. From Nixon [inaudible] and partners National Archives building from 1959, to the delicate breeze blocks of the Accra Central Library-- financed by the British Council in 1954 by the same firm. For the naturally ventilated reading rooms and bookcases along the perimeters allow hot air to move across its elevation, illustrating invention and adaptation even if wall-mounted fan coils seem a new contemporary addition. Even if they don't work when you visit. So ventilation occurs really here and these are the new additions. The legacies of Maxwell Fry and Jane Drew-- like many other largely expatriate architects are throughout Ghana, both from British, American, and Eastern Bloc countries. Here in Cape Coast, by Fry and Drew, where a road slips under academic block as we saw in the KL General Hospital half a world away built a decade earlier. Or the generic screened mid-century apartment buildings, where the aesthetics of concrete, modernism, and climate merge together. Even if it's coated in a fine shade of weathered mold. Two projects represent this intertwining of international networks colonialism and independence, with the politics of the Cold War played out in spatial and architectural terms. The first project is the International Trade Fair building from '62 to '67-- designed by Vic [? agabi, ?] a Ghanaian, Jacek Chyrosz and Stanislaw Rymaszewski. The later both being Polish. Built through the Ghana National Construction Corporation as a statement of Ghana's shift to the Eastern Bloc as it tried to balance its influencers in a Pan-African sensibility. The large modernist compositional plan located on the northeast of the city near the airport flanks Labadi road to the west. So we're going to look-- Archival images from the Trade Fair illustrate a composition of modernism, foregrounded by an indigenous hut and a Bucky Fuller geodesic dome with a glowing USA sign included. The current fairgrounds reflect the traces of these legacies and the embedded confidence of independence shown in large bold letters: "Buy made in Ghana goods." The fairground entryways, ramps, and bridges speak of a moment of optimism, paralleled in the architectural milieu of the time. Maxwell Fry stated, and I quote, "I have practiced architecture at a time when architects were full of hope and optimism. At a time when we felt that the changes in planning and in architecture would change living conditions and improve the world. A time when there was great hope for the future." Today the buildings remain as traces of their formal selves, though still used for political and religious gatherings. Or for the banality of storage. The trade hall building is composed of a large-span reinforced concrete structure that holds up a lightweight corrugated metal roof exaggerating by its doubling. Similar to what we saw in the Golconde dormitory. The diamond shaped profile of corrugated metal sheet-- itself a ubiquitous equatorial material-- works here as a double. Top for thermal, bottom for rain. Between the layers the hot air is exhausted out the diamond profile, as though architecture is placing the thrusted hot air onto a pedestal. The dramatics of the cantilever and strong visual identity are throughout the architecture, extending and pushing air as though it's a cushion to be squeezed and pulled. The seven meter long cantilevers extend toward the edges of the podium on both sides, ejecting rainwater from the double roof to the perimeter beyond. The mediums of atmosphere-- rain, air, and breeze-- suggest a palette of elements working together with material to construct the architecture. The open-ended profile implies that the roof system could continue onward, covering the fairground in its totality. While the emptiness of the grounds and the westward neighborhood bake in the hot afternoon, for architecture and vegetation is belittled to the scale of sky. The heat is in contrast to the relative comfort of shade provided by the big roof. The podium is highly opaque yet perforated at its base-- pressurizing air to create a continuous cross-ventilation within the hall. Traces of Ghana's optimism and independence remain throughout the architecture, as though sign and symbol. As architecture imagined as a positive force and an ambitious future. It's a dramatic language of atmosphere through a pillowed roof, expressive drainage, and the ambitions of a nation. The second building-- located within the political dynamics of Ghana-- is the Ministry of Women and Children in the former US Embassy building, designed by Harry Weese and Associates. The building is a big roof type-- overhanging and protecting a second story office set back from the street in the tropically calibrated low-rise aggregation of the center city. The building's square form is set on a series of cruciform concrete legs, the second story mahogany enclosure perforated by a screen of timber. The blue roof is a new addition. The large pilotis veranda sits as a thick pad of air-- performing as a vestibule to the ministry above. The large overhanging roof insulates the building in shadow, while traces of the temperate in the original design have been compensated for by a canopy that was added above the stair. Drainage by that thick blue roof-- which you can see on the edges here. A plexiglass parapet protecting the interior veranda from wind-driven rain is also a new addition. And as the original clear story seemed perfectly dimensioned to hide a series of fan coils-- along with a lovely Merry Christmas sign blazing in the hot afternoon-- suggests a curious mix of climactic visions. But like the International Trade Fair building-- air, sun, and material are the main mediums that produce the architecture. The detailing is expressive and considered throughout with tapered stair treads picking up the sensibility of the folded plate profile we see in the Trade Fair building. Accra, because of its historical trajectory, is in many way a collection of these mid-century modernist pieces. At a particular confluence between Africa, the Cold War, where architecture became a device to construct identity in the production of symbols of nationalism, independence, and political agency. The critique, of course, is that the resulting architecture is a form of cultural and global imperialism-- largely from the temperate-- given that the vast majority of these architects were not from Ghana. Were male, largely white, maybe with the exceptions of Max Bond and Jane Drew. All of these stories, though, are intimately intertwined, I would say in this playground the tropical. I just have two more, I'll be done in a few minutes. My travels continued to Sao Paulo as my interest in the deep envelope and transformation of the city from the horizontal to the vertical. Sao Paulo is a city of infinite towers, a field of points seemingly undifferentiated across this geological plateau. The city defies easy categorization. A city of massive proportions-- economic disparity of immense range-- yet the city is a treasure trove of the modern, thick, heavy architecture exploring density, climate, and context. The legacies of which percolate from west to east across the tropical in countless ways. Where undulations of density are almost imperceptible due to the continuous extent of the city. In Brazil I travel to more known projects in my desire to understand the Brazilian experience with the tropical. The Edificio Copan from '51 to '57-- designed by Oscar Niemeyer and recently published in The New York Times-- marks a resurgence of the city. Not just as an artistic artifact that we may say was glorified by Andreas Gursky and his well-known composition from 2002, but really as a socioeconomic marker of a newly cleaned up center city. In my own experience, cleaned up is a relative word. And as though I wasn't mugged, it was clear that the neighborhood was still highly challenged and my camera was really an object of envy. The building is dramatic, though, not just for its curvilinear profile or its size, but architecturally at the depth and scale of its envelope. A two meter deep by one meter high band of horizontal louvers-- three high per apartment-- coat the northwest elevation. These are enormous-- as space itself. As a separate element the brise soleil does not transmit heat load into the slabs proper. And it's relatively light color acts has both a sunshade, light shelf, and wind funnels simultaneously. This blue netting is a new addition. The building is currently veiled to contain the falling ceramic tiles that were originally deployed on the concrete to resist the mold and algae. Though now is a kind of hazard to passerbys, as you can imagine the tiles falling off. The apartments of a variety of one and two units deep, allow air to move from one elevation to another. From the unified deep elevation we saw with the blue, to the melange of the compositional of the southeastern facade shown here. The building as a vertical city works as a pole of population-- a barometric vessel of the downward or upward trajectories of the city's fortune. Aggregating and spilling populations into the nearby neighborhoods. In contrasting context from the Edificio Copan building-- the faculty of architecture and urbanism at the University of Sao Paulo is situated in a garden campus setting. Designed by Joao Vilanova Artigas from '61, it's located in the western side of the city in a canopy of large rain trees. Which ironically have been imported to Singapore where I live, and populate the majority of the campus at the National University of Singapore where I teach. The building is stunning not for its large commons as a social space or the dramatic ramps that provide for vertical circulation. These are all well known in architectural circles. Nor from the big roof that operates as a structure, drainage, and lighting device. It's really a super studio imagination if there ever was one. But for the subtle details of the thick big roof as a device to plunge air vertically rather than horizontally. The big roof selectively isolates and modifies atmosphere filtering through the architecture. It's a subtle performance largely overlooked in published descriptions. The large studio space is really two double trays. One is a kind of roof and exterior wall, the second has an interior tray-- an internal wall-- that squeeze hot air between the two. And I'll give you a clue of this little trough that you see along the length. This trough gives rise to the performance as a gap runs along both the elevations. And you can see it again here. Air plunges downward and upward through this gap between those two walls-- an exhausting of moving air and sound and smell alike. The [inaudible] high inner wall of the slippage, which is here, dampens the sound to a whisper-- so basically air is moving up and down across these two walls-- while traces of the interior gives clues to the inhabitation above. It's as though the architecture is a lung that breathes. Inhaling and exhaling on a 24 hour student cycle. A subtle puckering of exterior wall to interior kiss-- imagining merging the two trays together. And the porosity of the entry operates not just for circulation, but rather as a large-scale plunger that pushes air within. Exhausting through those slots along its perimeter. The final location I visited on this long arc of travel is Joao. A small city 400 kilometers northwest of San Paulo. A city of 150,000 people. An agricultural town reminiscent of the Midwest in the United States. And like the slow emptiness of a Jim Jarmusch film, we find in Joao's center another big roof project by Artigas from '73. The draw bus depot fits into the [? overa ?] of Artigas' work as the big roof-- as an urban bus exchange-- navigating a sloped site and connecting one block to another by architecture. One city to another by transportation. The large roof of Artigas' depot contrast against the surrounding smaller scale aggregate fabric and the horizontality of the geography. The city has grown both laterally as well as vertically. But it's the large big roof that has a compelling presence, reinforcing an almost Wrightean vision of a broad acre city. Within the perforation of the horizontal plane by skylights and the formal and structural gymnastics of the column, capital, and slab intersect with the broad and long ramps-- speak of a parallel sensibility with the FAU building. Air moves laterally while sunlight is diffused vertically. The bus depot is a doubling. A deep occupiable volume of ramps and circulation as a second story. Perforated by two large flanking entries. One for pedestrian, bus, and air alike. The top roof-- layered above and set proud with torque columns-- squeeze air and light between a kind of tight 2.7 meter space. The ramps and openings between these layers operate as a thermal and circulatory straw-- moving air and people across the topography and mixing them in a dynamic zone of interference. Pedestrians, cars, streets, sidewalks, and busways all intermingle in this space of congestion in compression. Where people in circulation, ticketing and selling, air and large buses criss-crossing the vast agricultural hinterland of Brazil-- all mix together. It's a big roof typology. Not for the buying and selling of goods, but the moving of bodies and things. I see the legacies of Karsten in Semarang-- traveling to Joao across the equator-- in an interplay of air, atmosphere, architecture, in the city. As bookends to my grand tour of the equator, I was impressed by the simplicity and robust physicality of the large roofs of Karsten and Artigas alike. The reductive quality of the big roof as a public and social project, the integration of architecture, the economy of material, and the mixing of architecture, the city, and atmosphere simultaneously suggest a theory of equatorial porosity and maybe contamination. A friction with the expansive mediums of architecture and urbanism alike. In both Karsten and Artigas I find an atmospheric [? poshay ?] of sorts. A viscous, almost aquatic, presence to the air. Heavy and full of physicality that is netted by the architecture of the big roof or between the deep elevation. Whereas the temperate thickens with stone, masonry, concrete, or insulation-- or utilizes technology to make separate and distinct the atmospheres of interior and exterior-- the equatorial medium is the hot and wet air. A vocabulary for designing architecture and refiguring the city as permeable rather than separated. Perforated rather than sealed. In the cities that I traveled to I found a great and often very intense struggle. Rapid demographic pressures, impacts of climate change, and capital aggregation are creating immense pressures across the equator. And it's easy to see these places at sites of temperate fantasy. For easy importation of construction systems, mechanical and infrastructural implants, and transformations into visions of the global north. But by resisting climactic replacement and working where architecture confronts the issues of density growth and permeability, another vision for the equatorial city is possible. I've painted through this arc of travel as though there is a kind of large meta narrative here. Maybe in some ways there is-- a narrative of the interplay between modernism, internationalism, atmosphere, and developmental pressure. This sets the foundation for urbanism across the equator. But it's also a collage of the micro narratives-- of friction and struggle, of interference intelligence, of the equatorial which rubs up against the flows of global homogenisation. The long histories of colonialism and the contemporary challenges of rapid growing cities. Mid 20th century architecture on the equator offers a complex-- sometimes inspiring and often conflicted-- history lesson. All of which are being still played out today despite its rapid erasure. My travels have in many ways just begun, as there are so many fascinating projects in cities that I have yet to extend my research to. From [? pompen ?] to Colombo to [? dar el ?] Salam to Lagos. To Belem and Manos. I look forward to a deeper investigations of the hot and wet. If atmosphere is the glue that permeates both the city and architecture-- that in equatorial urbanization it's imperative to think of this city architecture and atmosphere together. As a climactic and cultural medium that impacts both the aggregation of building and maybe the architectural envelope. This research for me has just started. My practice is still wrestling with these concerns in each of my projects. But this amazing grand tour of the torrid, enabled by the Wheelwright Prize, has laid a foundation for a life of future work. Thank you. [applause] That was beautiful. It's an enormous amount of material. You took most of the photographs? Oh, do we have runners? Yeah, we do. You took most of the photographs. Did you take all of the photographs? Not all of them. Some of them were taken also by some students that I travelled with. You mentioned one Gursky, but that's not the Gursky-- No, no, that one-- He took the photograph of the building. Yes, yeah. So that photograph-- those are taken by drones. Some of these shots are taken by drones. I would take some of the photographs myself, sometimes students would help me. Also, especially to get access that was very helpful. But the photographs of the Edificio Copan are all taken by a drone. That way I was able to get with people in Sao Paulo, so we were able to fly it around. The photographs of the markets, for example, are now invaluable it seems. And that was just luck of timing? Yeah, it was kind of an amazing story. I could probably give a whole lecture just on the Semarang market or the Pasar Cinde. Because it just happened that the timing was like this. I mean, literally, in the original proposal I wanted to go see the market in its kind of operation. And I'd just heard about it and literally a few weeks after we spoke on the phone there was a huge fire and totally kind of changed maybe the lens in which I went. But yet it opened up so many questions because of it. Because it became such a site of contestation in the city. Some of the buildings-- the architects are known if not famous. But in the existing literature, are the climatic issues talked about at all? Like in Artigas-- does existing literature treat it purely as a sort of Brazilian modernism and talk about it in typical art history terms? I'm definitely not an expert. Let's say that. I don't come at it from a historical point of view. There might be techs who talk about it, but in my kind of cursory reading-- it's talked more about the social space, the kind of muscularity to the concrete. And rarely is those slots and the way that it kind of performs atmospherically really discussed. And I thought that was such an important part of the project. In the readings-- when I was doing some kind of preliminary research and also actually started drawing it-- there's no real discussion on that. And it was only by looking at other photographs-- I said, hey, that looks kind of weird. I'm curious what that was. And then by going there it kind of revealed itself to the kind of inherent performance that is going on inside. So your description of the way the buildings breathe-- this is all through just observation then? Yes. And how did you-- are those measured drawings? Or those are guess drawings from photographs? Because the drawings are also extraordinary, almost as extraordinary as the photographs. Some of it's measured. The ones that I could take quick dimensions. But it wasn't like I was going around doing an accurate survey. Just from photographs-- It's from photographs. From my own experience of going there, taking quick dimensions, getting a general sense and kind of reconstructing it. I had a bit of a hard time at first reading the drawings. I thought they were-- and were they-- sometimes multiple folded? Or were they always-- So I think the details always have two-- one is a worm's eye and one's at an ax in the metric. Especially on the roof projects because-- to see the top of the roof is also really important as to see the underside. So those kind of oscillate. The other drawings are typically worm's-eye. Some of them are obliques. I keep working with different projections to try to foreground the way the architecture is kind of integrating with atmosphere. And taking the projection which shows that the most compelling way. So let's have some comments and questions right here. Yeah. Thanks. And thanks for that really nice trip around the globe. That was really fun. And I agree the photographs and the drawings were really amazing and really brought you there. I think my question is-- as you mentioned and it was just discussed. It's a collection of buildings by northern hemisphere architects, by and large, in this particular post-colonial mid-century moment. And that made me wonder-- first of all, if they were universally successful. Or if there was a little bit of an element of a North American or European architect coming and doing a tropical project, and maybe making a mistake because he's not familiar with that atmosphere? The other part of my question is about looking at this very specific point in time, where all these buildings came into being. And what were some of the antecedents and where did that go afterwards? Is there a second generation of perhaps indigenous architects who adopted some modernism, who were influenced by these buildings locally? Did you see any of that? And are you expanding this sort of time horizon of the entire research to look at before and look at after? So the first part of your question is whether there were some kind of failures, let's say. And obviously there were-- for instance, the kind of most obvious is the Harry Weese USA embassy, where all of a sudden these new canopies go on because you had rains and they only stair up. If it doesn't have a cover, it kind of doesn't work. I think there are those kind of frictions between the kind of modern aesthetics, let's say, that come from the temperate. And when they hit the tropical, that's not always a logical combination. And so where that struggle happens is actually for me very interesting. Predominantly, I think more as a kind of personal reflection on myself. I grew up in the temperate, I was educated in the temperate. My kind of architectural vocabulary was largely temperate centric. And that in a way I've had to kind of unlearn certain languages as I've practiced on the equator. Definitely some of my colleagues in Singapore would say that I still haven't unlearned enough. But maybe that's an ongoing thing. The second question was-- what is the larger context? So, yes, most of these projects are done at that moment where modernism confronts. And I think that that was something very interesting for me. Rather than going into the vernacular or the very local architecture which has a long and robust history, and I would say two things. One is maybe just as a kind of mode of research-- is a little bit more difficult and more inaccessible. Either due to language or not enough research on it. Or it's really not my area of expertise. And I also thought that those maybe more indigenous projects are-- at least let's say pre- this period-- deal with architecture not so much in an urban way. That might be in the kind of village and don't offer a kind of a language, let's say, that works with the contemporary issues of the city. So I was kind of really trying to be selfish in a way. Maybe it's also retrospectively a kind of reflection on myself having moved now to the tropical. So I was maybe looking at some of these as more of lessons-- positive and negative. There is, of course, a whole robust conversation after this period. Done by-- let's say more, I would say local architects. Or architects who kind of came out of colonialism and develop their own architectural languages. It's a huge field onto its own and goes in many different trajectories depending on what nation you were in. And each one kind of went in their own way. For this kind of research-- I haven't talked about that. I think there's tons of research being done on that kind of later period. And I think this period is-- at least from maybe my own generation or at least in my own education, I would say-- not so discussed. And I think it was discussed because in post-colonialism there was-- in a way, this was a kind of still caught up in colonialism. And so people didn't want to talk about it because they were trying to construct a kind of new sense of identity. So they looked to their own architects or other sources of inspiration. So I'm kind of maybe going back and reflecting on this period a little bit more intensely. Is there a question here? Oh, oh, you have mic. Sorry, sorry, I thought-- Thank you so much for sharing your wonderful work. My question is whether you were able to perceive noticeable differences within the concrete from country to country? I'd like to think of concrete as a sort of native material because it has the potential to be produced within each country, and sort of transcend the global economic supply chain. Definitely. I think the whole way that it's cast, the way that it's dealt with is all done in a very different way in each country. So for instance, in the Pasar Johar literally you see the rattan formwork and the imprint of all of that patterning into the underside of the slabs. Where in Brazil you see kind of wide plank board form concrete because of the kind of accessibility to timber that is there. So there is a kind of-- let's say local vernacular-- embedded into the concrete, depending on where and how it was done. And it's probably a research project all on its own. Probably, yeah, maybe if I went back as a second tour I could look more closely at that but it's definitely evident. Here we know because this building has just been-- some of the concrete had to be replaced, along with the reinforcing steel. That this climate, I think, is not great for pour-in-place concrete. But the tropics you don't have the same kind of-- the steel doesn't seem to rust so quickly. Is that true? It seems like a very good material for the tropics. I've never heard of the rebar rusting. I always say that-- this is my own little thing-- I always say like Paul Rudolph is really a tropicalist at heart. And the Boston government center building-- you know, it's horrible in Boston but it would be amazing in Singapore. And actually the irony is that he's started to do some of his-- after being lambasted by Venturi, kind of had a second career in Southeast Asia. And did some amazing projects in Singapore and in Indonesia, where the kind of language in which he was working in was so-- it just makes total sense. I was even walking this morning to the Carpenter Center and it makes total sense on the equator. It doesn't make total sense here. All those underside plazas would be occupied all the time on the equator, but here maybe they're occupied in August if that. Yeah, yeah, if that. Another? Thank you, Erik, for your really amazing research. And I just have a quick question about whether you have sort of research on the on the local level. Have you done any survey on the people? For example, not just their opinions on those sort of alien language of architecture but also they're sort of types of behavior, the sort of the change? Or whether it's a good or bad kind of thing brought into the vernacular? Because it is like a very alien language and I am wondering if that vernacular-- when we talk about vernacular architecture-- is it just dealing with the atmosphere? Is it just dealing with the climate? And how do people or the locals sort of respond to that on a experiential or mental level? I know you talked about the Semarang market a lot-- the type of rendering that's going on there. For other projects, have you done? Of course I had a lot of conversations during my travels. And each location has their own kind of take. The Karsten projects are very conflicted because they were built at the time of colonialism-- this is pre- World War 2. And for me what I thought was the most interesting thing was that they are now being seen is kind of important vestiges to hold onto. I almost sense that probably the generation before would probably have been fine to erase it. To erase those legacies of colonialism. Now they look back almost-- at least the people I've talked to-- almost in a nostalgic way. And want to preserve. So the Semarang market will be preserved. Well, we saw what happened in Pasar Cinde, that's not being preserved. In KL-- that kind of mid-century modernism is also being looked at by local architects and people in a kind of celebratory way. The Malaysian Institute of architects actually did a exhibition just recently on some of these projects and has a kind of wonderful book-- I think it's called Living Machines. So clearly they are also looking back at this moment with a kind of fondness. In Accra, I think there's the beginning of that. Pondicherry-- that building is just so wonderful. I think it's really celebrated, but because it still operates as an ashram it doesn't have that kind of public accessibility. So it's seen a little bit from a distance. In Brazil, of course, there's a long legacy of the celebration of the [? polis ?] [? de ?] [? school ?] and the work there. So it's looked on quite favorably. Again, we come back to this question of even like this building-- was seen as brutalism as a kind of problem. In the tropics it's not a problem. They work so well. So it's never seen in those kind of pejorative terms. And also I think because it is-- let's say contemporary-- there is a kind of, let's say, legacy of the contemporary meaning the country is modernizing. I think where it gets conflicted is when predominantly-- maybe more like in the Ghanaian experience, where the architects were predominantly from Europe-- either from the Eastern Bloc or the Western. Which maybe the volume of those projects is a little too much. Like there wasn't enough-- let's say Ghanaian voice-- in the work. Of course that changed later. I know in the case in Chandigarh with Le Corbusier-- in Chandigarh or with Le Corbusier-- not just the capital but the whole city was designed. Or [? khan ?] in Dhaka Bangladesh. In both those cases, I know too there's real pride about that architecture. Because they call it: Chandigarh is our planned city. As opposed to sort of what we would call informal. And I think the fact-- and this is a case in the market too-- that it was built by locals, even though it was designed by Europeans or America, it was built by locals. I think that probably makes a huge difference too in the acceptance, no? Yeah and I think also-- definitely in the Semarang-- case because it housed so many small-scale merchants. It was the center. And it served that way all the way up until 2015. And it was such a robust economic engine-- like as a kind of scaffolding. That people really-- despite in photographs I saw-- even in a worn down state was still seen in a very positive way. And to develop it into a mall or some version of that is seen as a kind of horror by the local merchants. They just want their damn market back. Eric, thank you so much. This was really great. I hope you can come again and share this again. Thank you. [applause]

Lack of Democratic nominee

The Democratic Party failed to field a candidate.

Incumbent Democrat Carter Harrison Sr. had opted to retire as mayor.[2][3] Harrison had lost the backing of his party. This came amid declining public support for Harrison. Among other reasons, Harrison had lost the Party’s backing were his handling of the Haymarket Riot and his failure to receive the endorsement of the United Labor Party.[4]

The Democratic Party nominated DeWitt Clinton Cregier, who refused their nomination.[3] After this, and despite his declared intent to retire, they attempted to nominate Harrison, who also refused their nomination.[3]

Results

1887 Chicago mayoral election[5][6]
Party Candidate Votes %
Republican John A. Roche 51,249 68.23
Socialist Labor Robert S. Nelson 23,490 31.27
Prohibition Joseph L. Whitlock 372 0.50
Turnout 75,111

References

  1. ^ https://books.google.com/books?id=7pQUAAAAYAAJ&pg=PA335&lpg=PA335
  2. ^ Kantowicz, Edward. “The Emergence of the Polish-Democratic Vote in Chicago.” Polish American Studies, vol. 29, no. 1/2, 1972, pp. 67–80. JSTOR, JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/20147849.
  3. ^ a b c History of Chicago, Illinois by John Moses page 233 (293 in Google's digitalized form)
  4. ^ http://www.wiu.edu/cas/history/wihr/pdfs/Buller-WIHRvol2.pdf
  5. ^ "RaceID=486010". Our Campaigns. Retrieved December 16, 2018.
  6. ^ The Chicago Daily News Almanac and Year Book. Chicago: Chicago Daily News. 1911. p. 538.
This page was last edited on 21 May 2019, at 22:51
Basis of this page is in Wikipedia. Text is available under the CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported License. Non-text media are available under their specified licenses. Wikipedia® is a registered trademark of the Wikimedia Foundation, Inc. WIKI 2 is an independent company and has no affiliation with Wikimedia Foundation.