The Blue Snow

Another Visit

2009-05-04T12:27:00.000-07:00

Twenty + hand made books will be produced and sent to selected locations around PDX...be sure to keep a look out in the coming months. Be sure to pass the book on to someone else and stop back to add your comments.

I will also be updating this site with a formation of a building through hand drawings and 3D computer graphic images.

The Book: A continuing story

2008-05-04T22:08:00.000-07:00

The walking story of The Blue Snow has been made into twenty original hand made books. On Feburary 4th, 2008 they were sent out to those on my list (throughout the country) who I feel would enjoy the experience and write their feedback here in this blog. After each person has read the book, they are asked to pass it along to another person who would then passed it on again. The object here is to see how one relates to the story in a setting that is not known to the reader. How does this story translate? What story in it's own right it will create. What I ask from the readers is to answer a few questions.

How did the book find you?
Where do you live?
Could you follow along?
Any connections?
Something random about you.
General comments.

For easy identification here are a few photos:

Enter answers by clicking the comments link below. Since the overall response has been great I have decided to do a second version with an entirely different site and object.

2008-04-05T15:44:00.000-07:00

2008-04-05T15:39:00.000-07:00

2008-04-05T15:27:00.000-07:00

Sketch Model III

2008-03-09T10:47:00.000-07:00

Narratorium Design Intent

2008-02-21T09:26:00.000-08:00

The civic institution will tell a story about those of the city. It contributes by allowing the voice of the individual to be heard and recorded into storytelling events. The individual voice is offered in a form of a letter. These letters are compiled inside the building forming a sculpture in itself. Displayed on the walls in a continuous stream, these letters can be read by anyone who visits. Storytellers will be the core group that inhabits the building taking those stories from the individual and giving it back to the social collective. Stories will be told each day and at different times with events and themes spun around them. On occasion the large doors on the North side of the building will slide open to reveal the storytelling event that is taking place inside. These doors also open towards the former court house.

The intent of the building is to create another level of the city’s myths, idea and thoughts. This opportunity to develop a place where one’s own voice can be heard, either anonymously or not, through the interpretation of a storyteller to the public enriches ones self to think beyond self and give back. For others this may be a place of therapy by allowing ones letter to be read by someone who is not known to you, thus giving both the reader and writer a chance to connect in written form. Allowing oneself to be heard and bringing forth a creative channel. The idea is that we are all connected and by tuning in to what is going on around oneself in the community, one feels that connection fully.

Storytelling involves action. This action of the storyteller(s) conveys messages in a more intimate communication style. The attention is through listening, which listener to their previous experiences, thus generating another story. The voice of the storyteller creates action in tones and volume, emphasizing words or thoughts.

Workshops on creative writing, narrative therapy and storytelling will also be included to further add a support for the community; these will range again with themes and events. These services provide a backbone to the creative process of both the individual and community. By understanding stories we come to understand ourselves on multiple levels.

The space for these happenings includes three areas of action. Upon entering your senses change as you pass the tunnel entrance. A large space is revealed and designed for the interaction between written letters and viewer. The open forum of the letters is expressed by a collection that have been received and ones that hang on the wall which have been chosen to be turned into stories, read by the public and archived. This stream of the collective contains a more intimate discussion and direct link between two individuals’ reader and viewer. There are various levels for reading the letters and intimate seating provided. A info area will be provided next to the pile of letters and a cafe at the far end (making you pass through the collective) adding a space for more intimate conversation.

Towards the south side of the building group interaction and production is played out by workshops, administrative offices and storyteller residency. This space connects and converges by bridge to the north area of the structure.

The third area of action is the north side of the building, which is a place for oral stories to occur. A central stage for the story to take place. The central stage can adjust from an smaller capacity to a larger capacity depending on the need, holding up to 200 people. Large doors open right into the street. Viewers will be able to watch from two levels.

Attendance:

Those that would enter the narratorium would be teachers, students, psychologists, historians, architects, senior citizens, the curious, writers, artists, those looking for information, research, inspiration. Coffee drinkers, tea drinkers, those in the neighborhood, the random person walking by, members of the narratorium, general public.

Activities:

Storytelling events will be based on rotating stories and themes. Storytellers will work closely with curator and director on details and when event will be held. Larger events will take place on the weekends. The space on the north side of the building will open up to the sidewalk and allow onlookers passing by to experience the stories as well. Storytellers will work closely with outside artists as well, those from the performing arts, visual arts and outside music vendors. Workshops will be coordinated by the educational program staff. These will consist of workshops for creative writing, storytelling, poetry, narrative writing. Classes will be charged and free depending on program.

Duration:

Events will be ever changing. These events will be linked to the collection of letter from those of the city and the storytellers. These stories are then documented and given to the historian then archived. Th e archive system will be able to be accessed by the public for further reading while the building is open.

Staff:

The programs will be run by the entire staff.
Executive Director - Will be facilitating duties and making sure the entire institution runs accordingly.
Accountant - record keeping and over looks budget.
Storytellers - 3 full time positions ongoing.
Storyteller residency - 2 rotating with six month duration, 2 rotating with 1 year duration.
Grant writers + Membership - 2 full time grant writers for additional funding and one membership coordinator.
Educational Staff- 2 individuals will include those to teach storytelling, creative writing, therapy writing etc. Curator and assistant - selecting the rotating exhibit of stories and themes. They will work closely with storytellers.
Security
Cafe employees.
Writers.
Historians + Archivist.
Building Manager.
AV + Lighting + Stage Crew.
Volunteers

Spaces + Systems:

Storytelling space
Ramps + Elevators
Archives
Cafe
Workshops
Info desk
Residency
Administrative area
Steps
Entrance
Outside garden
Bridge
Elevators
Chute to collect letters
Slot to collect letters from those passing by on Broadway.
Bathrooms

Email

2008-02-21T09:24:00.000-08:00

Dear Juliet,

Thank you for contacting me about your 'plotting the city' project through storytelling. Although,
I have little time to read all of your references, the concept of knowing a city, its existing markets,
public spaces and people! is so very important.

Architectural history was one of my university courses (1962!) and I was impressed particularly
with Chandigarh, Punjab designed by planner/architect Le Corbousier. As a young city of concrete,
it seemed stark, hot and impersonal. Natives who moved into the concrete houses hung their hammocks
and brought in their animals. However, reading recent accounts it seems to be a model city with thousands
of trees, parks and ponds. Still, the concrete needs cleaning and this material looks dirty after a few years.

My passion is preserving historic structures and cityscapes. I love your discussion about the glass facade of
the bookstore in Portland! One of my favorite 'updated' historical homes used glass to enclose a 2 story outer wall
with balcony and staircase to become more living space with protected patio.

Thank you for your work,

Guerry McConnell

Quote II

2008-02-17T13:03:00.000-08:00

"Individuals construct new knowledge from their experiences...when assimilation happens, they incorporate the new experience into an already existing framework." (Jean Piaget, 1967)

Narrative Therapy = Learning Theory

Quote I

2008-02-17T12:59:00.000-08:00

"Conversation is by its very nature, empheral. After a particularly meaningful conversation a person walks out aglow with some provocative thought, but a few blocks away, the exact words that had struck home so profoundly may be hard to recall...but the words in a letter don't fade and disappear the way a conversation does; they endure time + space..." (David Epston, 1994)

Sketch Model I

2008-02-16T10:39:00.001-08:00

Forming A Space: Sketches

2008-02-16T10:32:00.001-08:00

entry

writing letters space viewing a stream of letters
levels

Narratorium Defined:

2008-02-06T16:40:00.000-08:00

A place in a community setting that tells the story about those of the city, which functions as a civil institution. It contributes by allowing the voice of the individual to be heard and weaved into storytelling form to be told and offered in return back to the public. In doing so, this "Narra-forum" of individuals and the group as a whole, are joined as a collective to create the cities myths, ideas, thoughts and layers of creations. These "Letters of a City" further gives us the enriching life of place, time and people, which are then displayed, then archived and retold again.

The Story: Part I & II

2008-01-28T02:06:00.000-08:00

The Calling: Part I

She stared at them for awhile, unaware of time, tracing her fingers over the pair of worn blue vessels. These vessels have travelled with the entity of her essence, inside for years. Every bright, white stitch running after the next one, holding every layer together in a well suited match. Now, they were lifeless without their true owner. Gloria put the shoes in a large, brown box marked Goodwill. She then took them out again, and thought about how her sister considered them her lucky shoes.

They helped her out of many close situations and felt like she could walk over anything. Ashley always had her snowshoes attached to her, whether she was on a journey to Mount Hood or to any other adventure. Gloria looked around at the small cottage which seemed empty and different from her last visit from New York. It was now five weeks after a late evening phone call explaining the accident of her sister. There was a failure in her equipment when climbing the Durrand Glacier and she suffered a fatal fall.

The Dream Said: Part II

Gloria started a warm fire that evening and sat close in a sunken chair. Smoke from the chimney twisted and turned at the bottom of the hill over Canby Street, near The Commons. It was so quiet that her ears rang from the sound of nothingness. The blue boots were on the other side of the room. She watched as shadows danced off them, as she drifted to sleep. The next morning she was suddenly awakened by a loud knock at the door. She jolted up and looked out the window.

“The mailman,” she said as she opened the door. He said her name with a bright smile.

“Yes, that’s me?” she responded.

She thought, “why would something be mailed to Ashley’s home with my name on it?”

Confused she signed for the package.

The mailman said that he remembered her from her last visit and was sorry about the loss of Ashley as he knew her for years.

“Yes, thank you,” was all she could reply.

Saddened again to hear her sister’s name, she closed the door and sat back down next to the smoke and ashes.

“Someone in the neighborhood must have sent this to me,” she thought.

Gently she opened the package. Photos appeared of her and her sister when they both were children, sitting next to their mother and father. Both of her parents must have died not long after the photo was taken. Gloria was shocked to see them, she never knew they existed. The smell of musky perfume permeated from them, it seemed familiar. After a long moment she set them down, she needed some air and looked over at the shoes, then outside.

“Coffee,” she said grabbing the blue moons and putting them on.

They went on smoothly and molded to her feet perfectly. On the bottom she could feel the imprint of her sister’s toes and how the back of the shoe flexed to her heel. They seemed to fit Ashley’s style better then her own black, New York attire. Her feet heated up quickly. Outside walking up a steep hill towards the early morning light, she looked back at the log home that melted deeply into the ground and thought about how opposite their lives were.

Walking, she made a right on 37th to descend down again toward the center of the village, she rounded the corner to the left. Quickly and as fast as the shoes would permit, she nearly ran into a tall, older man with a vast smile and yellowing teeth.

“Oh hello”, he said and looked down at her shoes. “You must be Gloria.”

Shaking her head yes, she tried for a smile and wondered why so many people knew who she was. He left as quickly as he had appeared. From previous visits she knew only a few of the locals. She tried to slow down to not draw attention to herself. Everything about this place moved at a snail pace. Gloria spotted the Village Café and opened the front door. While the streets seemed silent the café was full of people and voices. It reminded her of a shabby café in Manhattan, except much cleaner and polite. A large family was sitting in the corner, drinking quietly while the father read the paper. Directly in the middle were three men in their fifties.

“He ran off with a younger woman,” one of them said. “Good for him,” with a chuckle the other one commented.

She looked over at the paintings hanging on the wall, they were portraits of women that seemed stiff and lifeless even they were full of color. Odd, she thought. The barista startled her and asked her what she would like.

“A latté with no foam, skim milk, a drop of vanilla and heated to 210 degrees,” was her response.

The young woman looked away quickly.

“Never mind, just a large house coffee.”

The sign on the machine said “No dishes today, the barista hurt her finger.”

She took her coffee outside where no one was sitting and watched the cars go by. Along the street she saw a sign that read, “antiques”, so with coffee in hand, she went in. It smelled liked varnish and oil. Brahms played softly behind the counter. She loved his piano concertos and the story of how he once fell asleep at one of Liszt’s performances. The two parted ways shortly after. The thought was interrupted by what she found, an old Underwood typewriter. It was from New York as well. She looked around then pressed the buttons, it still worked. Turning towards the person behind the counter, she asked how much it was.
“It is thirty five dollars, but it has been here so long though, I will give it to you for thirty, besides I have three of them,” the store clerk answered back.
Carefully, she looked it over and picked up the heavy piece of equipment and wiped off the dust. Just then, a book fell out from behind the wall and landed close to her feet. “Through the Woods – A little tale in which there is more than meets the eye, by Katherine M. Yates”.
It was from 1906 and in excellent condition. The inside cover said, “With love to Ashley from Geraldine!” Strange, Geraldine was her mother’s sister and with whom Ashley lived with when she was younger. Turning to the first page, it read, “Open your eyes and shut your mouth, said the little brown dream. It is a poor plan to start an argument unless you are positive that you are in just as good a position to hold an opinion at the fellow who has the other side of the questions. Otherwise you are beaten at the start.”

She could have used that advice discussing her career with her editor four months ago. She purchased the book for five dollars. As she was leaving the owner said he would drop off the typewriter to her later in the afternoon. While walking west she crossed to the other side of the road. A small local bookstore appeared and she went in to browse. It was small with dark green carpet. The only place to sit was an old, orange chair in the spirituality section. One older woman with a red coat and large bag asked a quick question and left.

“You’re new in town,” said the cashier.

“Yeah,” I said. “Multnomah Village is quaint little town."

She turned and walked to the back. Gloria walked out of the stuffy bookstore. She turned west again towards the old capitol bridge and Multnomah, then south. It is so different here without Ashley. Looking down at her shoes Gloria tried to not to become emotional. She was never going to see her again and now only this place and these shoes kept Ashley alive.

Her attention was now on the empty parking lot behind the store fronts at 3535 SW Multnomah Blvd. This is where it all started. She remembered the story that her sister told her. How the electric train made its first stop at this location. Now ignored or forgotten. With a village into so much history you would think that someone could have made it a point to do something else instead of asphalt on dirt.

Disappointment set in as she set off north for Gabriel Park. The road down Nevada proved to be challenging but finally she sat on the bench near trail 7 and opened to a new book she purchased. The first line read, “Don’t you ever believe anything just because it sounds pretty and rhymes; and don’t you ever believe that you’ll get anything to make you wise while you have your mental eyes shut.” A hard read for a children’s book, she wondered if that was why her sister gave it away. The clouds parted for a second to allow the sun to fall through over the top of pine trees and on the ground a glimpse of something shiny. A remembrance plaque that said, “Her art reflects her love of nature.”
Inside her purse was a notepad and pen. She wrote a quick letter to her editor telling him exactly what she wanted over the next three years.
She walked out of the park south towards 38th. She dropped off the small note at the local post office. It looked more like a correctional facility with an abundance of mail trucks on the side behind a tall metal fence. Tired, she walked east back towards Ashley’s home near Canby. On the front step was a large box. Inside was the typewriter from the antique store. Gently, she placed it on the desk and decided to clean it tomorrow. Cold again as the previous evening, she lit a fire in the fireplace.

Taking the boots off, Gloria placed them beside her on the floor. She stared for a long while into the orange glow.
“What should I do now?” she thought. Asking the question again and again, she eventually fell asleep. A sudden knock at the door woke her. It was day again and the fire was out. Opening up the door it was the mailman.

“Hi, are you Gloria?”

Not awake she answered, “yes?”

“Package, sign here,” he stated in a low tone.

Taking the package and closing the door, she opened it. Inside there was a note that had the word “deed” written in large print. Ashley had left the home and everything else to her. She now owned the house? Glancing over to the coffee table there was no sign of the photos from yesterday. She went to grab her shoes to run after the mailman but noticed they were not where she left them. Instead, they were still sitting in the corner.
Smoke with ash lingered in the room. Her senses were returning to her. Picking up the blue shoes, she tried them on again only to realize that they would not fit her feet. She grabbed her jacket and searched for her keys, which was next to the typewriter. A piece of paper was inside. Slowly she walked over and read the few typed words.

Gloria,
Start here…

The Spirit and Voice of Place

2008-01-27T11:02:00.000-08:00

You get the feeling that time stands still. The movement and energy feels pressed down, with low buildings, low clouds and empty parks. Not even the churches reach for the sky. Heaviness sets in making me want to drink coffee, read a book and curl up by the fireplace. There was no adventure of spirit. Here it felt like a place of reflections and refuge. I walked through the park and a couple in their later 40s conversed on a bench, both with heads low looking towards the grown, not each other. A few others were walking by themselves lost in thought. As I sat outside the Village Café I watched those who passed by. One woman with salt and pepper hair had a basset hound that she was walking. She was curious to know what I was writing, and then looked away. I smiled and asked her what her dogs name was. She said Hannabit, with a long face just like her dogs. Not wanting to talk further she walked away. When I entered the local book shop I asked the woman what store was it before and she said a pharmacy (she thought), I went on to ask her what she thought of Multnomah Village, she said, it is a nice place. It was not convincing to me when she said it. Browsing, I took note of what books they actually did sell. The largest section was spirituality. You even get your own nice comfy chair to sit in. Another large section on Oregon, gardening and children’s books was also not surprising. I looked for books that dealt with anything risky or perhaps immoral to some, nothing but how to parent your gay child (maybe they keep the other books in the back).

The area’s past talks about a place that was of being self sufficient, hard working and for families. There were difficult times for the businesses as it suffered from the great depression, WWII and a few fires. Some families that settled in the beginning never moved away and their offspring are still living in the same house; however, half of the shops there today have completely different owners. As for the bars they survived.

If this neighborhood had a voice, what would it exactly sound like? I image it would be slow, direct and not wanting to say much with a low tone. A voice that said it has endured the elements, people and perhaps foreign places. Now it just wants to rest and think about who and what it is today.

The Life of Place

2008-01-25T18:18:00.000-08:00

Some walked in pairs or small groups while the other half walked detached and solitary. They carried backpacks with them, regardless of age, most wore hiking boots. They appeared to be older in their 40s or later, with a few young couples dotting in between. Time was slow-footed here. The center of the commercial street moved at an idle pace. From there the momentum barely stirred as it continued outward in to the residential area and at some points becoming lost. Inside the shops things moved faster with interaction and some dialogue. Entering the antique shop I was greeted with a large smile and a hello and the same from the local bookstore. At the Village Café they were attentive and worked diligently to serve me my cup of Americano. There were smiles, but the sincere connection was lacking. As I continued along Capitol Highway and passed by the small boutiques a few smiled to me but said nothing. At one point I said hi with no words returned. This neighborhood had it own rules of interrelation. Inside = Open, Outside = Closed and the further from the center the more intense this relationship.

The Body of Place

2008-01-25T12:54:00.000-08:00

When the city of Portland developed the electric train to Salem in 1908 it cut right through the middle of the areas dairy farms. Once established they named one of the stops Multnomah, which is now Multnomah Blvd. Later Multnomah Village was given to the business district. With the new means of transportation families from downtown Portland saw an opportunity to build their owe homes in a quiet, safe, family neighborhood. Even today it is still thought of as such.
So what makes up these spaces? My impressions are a tight community of individuals, united on raising a family and gathering for events. However, as I walked down paths of ambiguity I noticed: Dead ends, high fences, gardens and trees used as a blockade for privacy, old construction mixed with new, no sidewalks (only in the business district), common-walls, churches, a community center, therapy centers, coffee shops, a book shop, bus stops, a toy store, antique stores, health center, bars, hiking trails, dog parks, the army reserves, trinket shops, hand made this and that. Signs everywhere giving you information: Leash your dog, private driveway, private road, angled parking only, dead end, do not enter, no cell phones in store. The streets twist, turn, move up and down. I usually have a good sense of direction but this maze was not inviting. The roads were narrow with large potholes. The sounds were mainly from barking dogs or a speeding vehicle that past by. I heard birds of which I could not name. The homes themselves were of modest build with no bright colors. It was the kind of place where you go to get away from it all. All of what? Forms were of triangles, rectangles, low rising buildings.

Language of Place

2008-01-23T15:22:00.000-08:00

I was headed south again. This time it was a Sunday at 11:05am and a different route, down Barbur Blvd. I moved 30mph passing bridges intermingling between road and sky. I ventured through a short tunnel at 45mph that gave off a yellow hue. The threshold between downtown and the outer limits was immediately felt as green sprung from the other side of the tunnel. It was filled with growing trees and vines on high embankments. I noticed I was climbing higher and with a quick view to the left found a wide open picture of the east side and Mt. Hood. The overcast sky and the mix of rainy weather made it impossible to see further. I searched for Capitol Highway to my right, of which sounds like a wide expressway, but in fact it was nothing more but a small curvy road with solid yellow lines. Finally after looking I saw a small sign that said to Capital Highway and Salem. Salem? A tad confusing but with a right turn then another quick right I ended up making my way from the south into the village.
With good timing I happened across a bridge right down into Multnomah Village itself. At 11:19am I stepped out of my small pickup which was parked directly in front of the Framing Shop. I walked across the street and tried to take it all in. Parking was full and the street mixed with older couples, families and those walking their dogs. Hmm seems pleasant from afar. I walked uphill north of the business district and noticed myself right in the residential area and already at a dead end. Dead ends in the Multnomah neighborhood seem to be a common occurrence. Throughout my experience I ran into many along with roads that were gravel or were they drive ways? I could not tell. Gloria my character thought it was highly disorganized as she stepped along and I agreed. She did not feel exactly safe, not as much as I did. As I took in all of what I was viewing I decided to think about it in a different matter. As Christopher Day, who wrote The Spirit of Place, how he would examine it, along with Gloria: Body, life, spirit and voice.

1.15.08 @ 9:32pm

2008-01-16T21:41:00.000-08:00

That was the date and time that my first step was taking inside the Multnomah neighborhood boundary. Riding in miscellaneous (what my friend Robbie calls his white car with tan interior) on I-5 away from the city center towards the south we came upon our exit in less time then any cinema trailer. With a click of the right turn signal we found ourselves upon Multnomah Boulevard. Venturing through the main artery into the heart of this boundary the fog started to set in and the temperature was dropping. I wanted to see the center of it all this towns place of happenings first. Granted it was a Tuesday and getting late, but what made this village tick? Why in the last week of asking those around me of what they thought of the neighborhood said that it is just like SE for being in the SW and it has great schools. The answers were all the same? Surely someone had a different opinion? So along with my little blues and the ghost of the person that inhabitant them before (Gloria) we took our first stroll down Capital Highway. Robbie came along as well and his recent laser eyes surgery with 20/15 vision. He asked me what I am looking for. I told him with a slight smile that I was looking for whatever wanted to find me, nothing specific just the sense of place, the phenomenology of it all. My shoes were not meant for moving fast so slowly we walked west from 30th street up towards Multnomah Village. It was very quiet. A few were wandering out of a couple establishments. Voices traveled far here. I heard one couple talk about the weather, and more specifically about ice, in front of Journeys a restaurant that takes place in an old home. The sign says Beer/Wine/Bites. Gloria felt a little foreign here and so did I. The closer I walked into the village the more it reminded me of my first visit to Astoria. I first stopped in Astoria in the middle of the night with a thunderstorm over the water. My senses keep telling me that there was water somewhere down the street. My character took it further with the image of a cabin overlooking it. Her sense of displacement was extreme since she is from NY. Walking past the small and sometimes delicate stores of happenings and signs of light I found: sidewalks poured around telephone poles, asphalt up to the edge another building, angled parking, bargain books for sale – including Prophesies, Christmas lights, a few bars that were still open past 10pm, Fat City Café with turquoises booths littered with all kinds of signs above them –Detour, the Ben Franklin Store, Fire House No. 8 etc., an old gas station, a music store with a paper doll of a blue man hunched over a small piano in the front window, a well lit alley. This center is the life of the community. Pumping out its vital economic center for the growth of the neighborhood, it looks like other small quaint town centers that I happened upon in my travels. So what makes this one different? Without the inhabitants of this community, in this time and place it would not be the same. Next would be to experience this quiet deserted village with people. The investigation and curiosity will continue to see how this place is transformed with a neighborhood of 7059 +/ -inhabitants.

City Limits

2008-01-16T21:35:00.001-08:00

Book: City Limits – Walking Portland’s Boundary
By David Oates

While my research continues to find all and any information on the Multnomah neighborhood, I found this most interesting book at the PSU library – (this means I can not mark up the pages or scribble notes on them sadly). David walked the entire Urban Growth Boundary, with interrupted steps, taking 2 years and two months. Helping me think further about what a boundary is exactly? What is occurring inside and what is going on outside of it? His writings were flowing with encouragement to my own inventory and investigations. This book has been now added to my list for permanent collection to indulge in scribbling notes and thoughts.

Entries from David Oates book City Limits:

“I wandered along the boundary sometimes inside, sometimes out, often lost in the gap between intentions and execution, utopia and realty. That’s what walking is for. Experience that closes the gap – or gets productively lost in it.”

“A boundary is a lie that reveals truths. Sharp edges – distinctions – are indispensable to clear thinking.”

“So ‘distance from the center’ is the physical and emotional yardstick of a place that is a place.”

Plotting the City

2008-01-11T23:35:00.000-08:00

This architectural narrative is about the telltale encounters with the mythic city. As part of my design studio requirements I will explore a neighborhood within Portland through walking, observing, participating, documenting, photographing, day-dreaming and imaging the curious setting around me in the Multnomah Neighborhood. Accompanying me along the way will be a pair of shoes that fit my feet but do not fit my sense of style. A discovery and investigation of the shoes will further develop into a character that would have inhabited them (please see mind map at the bottom of page). Together with the shoes, other character (whom I have named Gloria) and myself we will take a journey into a processed narrative that will end up becoming a book and finally a new cultural institution dedicated to the city itself.