racial segregation, those communities affirm an injustice and perpetuate all the attendant social ills that racial hegemony entails. Flint used restrictive covenants not to block the construction of back decks and room additions, as in Sunnyside Gardens, but to prevent Blacks from buying, leasing, or otherwise living in homes. By the time Flint reluctantly acceded to fair housing policies in the 1970s, block busting and White flight hollowed out much of the city’s middle class. Because African Americans do so much of the heavy lifting in efforts to revive Civic Park, Young confronts the role that racism played in Flint’s development and demise much more frankly than Kroessler does for Sunnyside Gardens. Both Kroessler and Young offer richly detailed histories of the struggles that groups or individuals face when seeking to revive communities through rehabilitating or preserving buildings. One might reasonably be deemed a success, though its conception in racial injustice must temper any celebration. The other highlights the limitations to what both one person with limited resources and a marginalized and politically weak community can accomplish.
{"title":"The End of the Village: Planning the Urbanization of Rural China by Nick R. Smith (review)","authors":"Weiju Zhao","doi":"10.1353/bdl.2022.0018","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/bdl.2022.0018","url":null,"abstract":"racial segregation, those communities affirm an injustice and perpetuate all the attendant social ills that racial hegemony entails. Flint used restrictive covenants not to block the construction of back decks and room additions, as in Sunnyside Gardens, but to prevent Blacks from buying, leasing, or otherwise living in homes. By the time Flint reluctantly acceded to fair housing policies in the 1970s, block busting and White flight hollowed out much of the city’s middle class. Because African Americans do so much of the heavy lifting in efforts to revive Civic Park, Young confronts the role that racism played in Flint’s development and demise much more frankly than Kroessler does for Sunnyside Gardens. Both Kroessler and Young offer richly detailed histories of the struggles that groups or individuals face when seeking to revive communities through rehabilitating or preserving buildings. One might reasonably be deemed a success, though its conception in racial injustice must temper any celebration. The other highlights the limitations to what both one person with limited resources and a marginalized and politically weak community can accomplish.","PeriodicalId":41826,"journal":{"name":"Buildings & Landscapes-Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum","volume":"1 1","pages":"123 - 126"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2022-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"79910993","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"艺术学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
abstract:In the years following the Civil War, a radical congressman conspired with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to undertake a massive levee project that would have created the largest freedpeople’s colony of the Reconstruction era. The project was never built, but the rhetoric around the federal infrastructure project illustrates the complex motivations behind attempts to redesign the American landscape after emancipation. Engineers and politicians channeled strongly felt political emotions into changes in the land, instrumentalizing complex feelings about the war and the injustices of slavery into physical and symbolic acts. Freedpeople navigated the notions of order that White military and civil officials tried to impose on the defeated South, forming communities according to their own priorities and finding opportunities where possible in a landscape of conflict that continued well after the official cessation of hostilities. The article concludes that an examination of the emotional motivations of both designers and the various “publics” that designed landscapes serve can illuminate the relationship between design and the desire for justice, and what role postwar actors imagined that the built environment could play in support of constructing a multiracial democracy.
{"title":"Hope, Anger, and Engineering in a Reconstruction Landscape","authors":"John D. Davis","doi":"10.1353/bdl.2022.0013","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/bdl.2022.0013","url":null,"abstract":"abstract:In the years following the Civil War, a radical congressman conspired with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to undertake a massive levee project that would have created the largest freedpeople’s colony of the Reconstruction era. The project was never built, but the rhetoric around the federal infrastructure project illustrates the complex motivations behind attempts to redesign the American landscape after emancipation. Engineers and politicians channeled strongly felt political emotions into changes in the land, instrumentalizing complex feelings about the war and the injustices of slavery into physical and symbolic acts. Freedpeople navigated the notions of order that White military and civil officials tried to impose on the defeated South, forming communities according to their own priorities and finding opportunities where possible in a landscape of conflict that continued well after the official cessation of hostilities. The article concludes that an examination of the emotional motivations of both designers and the various “publics” that designed landscapes serve can illuminate the relationship between design and the desire for justice, and what role postwar actors imagined that the built environment could play in support of constructing a multiracial democracy.","PeriodicalId":41826,"journal":{"name":"Buildings & Landscapes-Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum","volume":"27 1","pages":"51 - 73"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2022-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"83790156","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"艺术学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Few American places have been so conspicuously shaped by the politics of class and race over the long twentieth century as Pullman, Illinois, making it an important location for studying the role of placebased heritage practice in today’s fight for social justice and equality. This model company town, built in 1883 by luxurytrain producer George Pullman as the ultimate test of corporate paternalism, gained high praise at first, but became the poster child for company overreach when an 1894 strike highlighted worker frustration with Pullman’s control over both wages and rents (Figure 1). The company was ordered to divest itself from the town by 1907, but Pullman retained a distinctive identity on the south side of Chicago throughout the twentieth century, largely because of its recognizable architecture. When President Barack Obama created Pullman National Monument in 2015, he called for intersecting stories of race, class, labor, and place that would use the site’s history to “tell rich, layered stories of American opportunity and discrimination, industrial engineering, corporate power and factory workers, new immigrants to this country and formerly enslaved people and their descendants, strikes and collective bargaining.”1 Obama’s directive, however, set up a challenge for National Park Service (NPS) staff because the active heritage community in Pullman was deeply divided— spatially and racially— in ways that undermined the president’s holistic vision. In Pullman’s residential area south of the factory site and clock tower, the famous Florence Hotel and Greenstone Church punctuate about twentyfive blocks of red brick row houses. Starting in the 1960s, several community groups of middleclass, mostly White, residents developed a popular narrative about Pullman’s significance as the nation’s first professionally designed model town. Led by the Historic Pullman Foundation and the Pullman Civic Organization, these groups successfully listed the Pullman Historic District on the National Register of Historic Places and gained state and local designations in the 1970s. They have been active in historic preservation ever since. On the northern side of Pullman, however, a different history and preservation story prevailed. The National A. Philip Randolph Pullman Porter Museum, founded in 1995 and housed in one of SARAh fAyEN ScARLET T AND LAURA WALIK AINEN ROULEAU
在漫长的20世纪里，美国很少有地方像伊利诺伊州的普尔曼那样受阶级和种族政治的影响如此明显，这使它成为研究基于位置的遗产实践在当今争取社会正义和平等的斗争中所起作用的重要地点。1883年，豪华火车制造商乔治·普尔曼(George Pullman)建造了这个模范公司城，作为企业家长式作风的终极考验，起初获得了很高的赞誉，但1894年的罢工突显了工人对普尔曼对工资和租金的控制的不满，成为了公司过度扩张的典型代表(图1)。1907年，公司被命令从该镇剥离出去，但普尔曼在整个20世纪都保留了在芝加哥南部的独特身份。很大程度上是因为其可识别的建筑。2015年，贝拉克·奥巴马(Barack Obama)总统创建了普尔曼国家纪念碑(Pullman National Monument)，他呼吁将种族、阶级、劳工和地点的故事交织在一起，利用该遗址的历史“讲述美国的机会和歧视、工业工程、企业权力和工厂工人、新移民和以前被奴役的人及其后代、罢工和集体谈判等丰富而多层次的故事”。然而，奥巴马的指令给国家公园管理局(NPS)的工作人员带来了挑战，因为普尔曼活跃的遗产社区在空间和种族上都存在严重分歧，这破坏了总统的整体愿景。在厂区和钟楼以南的普尔曼住宅区，著名的佛罗伦萨酒店和绿石教堂点缀着大约25个街区的红砖排屋。从20世纪60年代开始，几个中产阶级社区团体(主要是白人)形成了一种流行的说法，认为普尔曼是美国第一个专业设计的样板城镇。在普尔曼历史基金会和普尔曼公民组织的领导下，这些组织在20世纪70年代成功地将普尔曼历史街区列入了国家史迹名录，并获得了州和地方的指定。从那时起，他们一直积极参与历史保护工作。然而，在普尔曼的北部，一个不同的历史和保护故事盛行。国家A.菲利普·伦道夫·普尔曼·波特博物馆，成立于1995年，坐落在莎拉·费恩·斯卡利特和劳拉·沃克·艾宁·鲁洛的家中
{"title":"Object Lesson: Architecture at Pullman National Monument as Both an Agent of Division and Collective Identity","authors":"Sarah Fayen Scarlett, Laura Walikainen Rouleau","doi":"10.1353/bdl.2022.0015","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/bdl.2022.0015","url":null,"abstract":"Few American places have been so conspicuously shaped by the politics of class and race over the long twentieth century as Pullman, Illinois, making it an important location for studying the role of placebased heritage practice in today’s fight for social justice and equality. This model company town, built in 1883 by luxurytrain producer George Pullman as the ultimate test of corporate paternalism, gained high praise at first, but became the poster child for company overreach when an 1894 strike highlighted worker frustration with Pullman’s control over both wages and rents (Figure 1). The company was ordered to divest itself from the town by 1907, but Pullman retained a distinctive identity on the south side of Chicago throughout the twentieth century, largely because of its recognizable architecture. When President Barack Obama created Pullman National Monument in 2015, he called for intersecting stories of race, class, labor, and place that would use the site’s history to “tell rich, layered stories of American opportunity and discrimination, industrial engineering, corporate power and factory workers, new immigrants to this country and formerly enslaved people and their descendants, strikes and collective bargaining.”1 Obama’s directive, however, set up a challenge for National Park Service (NPS) staff because the active heritage community in Pullman was deeply divided— spatially and racially— in ways that undermined the president’s holistic vision. In Pullman’s residential area south of the factory site and clock tower, the famous Florence Hotel and Greenstone Church punctuate about twentyfive blocks of red brick row houses. Starting in the 1960s, several community groups of middleclass, mostly White, residents developed a popular narrative about Pullman’s significance as the nation’s first professionally designed model town. Led by the Historic Pullman Foundation and the Pullman Civic Organization, these groups successfully listed the Pullman Historic District on the National Register of Historic Places and gained state and local designations in the 1970s. They have been active in historic preservation ever since. On the northern side of Pullman, however, a different history and preservation story prevailed. The National A. Philip Randolph Pullman Porter Museum, founded in 1995 and housed in one of SARAh fAyEN ScARLET T AND LAURA WALIK AINEN ROULEAU","PeriodicalId":41826,"journal":{"name":"Buildings & Landscapes-Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum","volume":"19 1","pages":"117 - 99"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2022-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"80858422","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"艺术学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
In 2000, the City of Berkeley, California designated a parking lot adjacent to a kitschy local seafood restaurant just off Interstates 80 and 580 a local landmark (Figure 1). The now parking lot was the site of an Ohlone shell mound, middens of shellfish shells and bones also used as burial sites. Destroyed in stages between the late nineteenth century and the 1950s, the shell mound was one of two major mounds associated with a settlement in Huichin, the ancestral and unceded territory of the Chochenyospeaking Ohlone people on the eastern shores of the San Francisco Bay, which they occupied for thousands of years. The landmarking of the West Berkeley Shell Mound was spurred by a proposal to construct a largescale mixeduse project on the site with commercial spaces and market and affordable housing units. The parking lot parcel was singled out by the Confederated Villages of Lisjan (Ohlone) as the last remaining piece of open space in the vicinity of their ancestral village, and although a site of erasure, one of extreme importance. Tribal leaders wished to see the land used as a site of recognition, observance, and spiritual use, presenting a visible sign for their members and the public of their long tenure in what we now call Berkeley. After a series of lawsuits and appeals, the Lisjan Ohlone and their allies lost their fight to prevent development on the site in the summer of 2021.1 Across the country and more than a dozen years later in Richmond, Virginia, another preservation ELAINE B. STILES
{"title":"Fieldwork Futures: Historic Preservation","authors":"E. Stiles","doi":"10.1353/bdl.2022.0010","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/bdl.2022.0010","url":null,"abstract":"In 2000, the City of Berkeley, California designated a parking lot adjacent to a kitschy local seafood restaurant just off Interstates 80 and 580 a local landmark (Figure 1). The now parking lot was the site of an Ohlone shell mound, middens of shellfish shells and bones also used as burial sites. Destroyed in stages between the late nineteenth century and the 1950s, the shell mound was one of two major mounds associated with a settlement in Huichin, the ancestral and unceded territory of the Chochenyospeaking Ohlone people on the eastern shores of the San Francisco Bay, which they occupied for thousands of years. The landmarking of the West Berkeley Shell Mound was spurred by a proposal to construct a largescale mixeduse project on the site with commercial spaces and market and affordable housing units. The parking lot parcel was singled out by the Confederated Villages of Lisjan (Ohlone) as the last remaining piece of open space in the vicinity of their ancestral village, and although a site of erasure, one of extreme importance. Tribal leaders wished to see the land used as a site of recognition, observance, and spiritual use, presenting a visible sign for their members and the public of their long tenure in what we now call Berkeley. After a series of lawsuits and appeals, the Lisjan Ohlone and their allies lost their fight to prevent development on the site in the summer of 2021.1 Across the country and more than a dozen years later in Richmond, Virginia, another preservation ELAINE B. STILES","PeriodicalId":41826,"journal":{"name":"Buildings & Landscapes-Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum","volume":"3 1","pages":"15 - 24"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2022-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"79692013","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"艺术学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
“Why don’t you just use a technician?” Posed at a recent conference of the Southeast Chapter of the Society of Architectural Historians, this question was puzzling and, admittedly, a bit exasperating. Nonetheless, this is not the first encounter with skepticism concerning digi tal documentation techniques for architectural research. The conference session “The Digital Lens on the Past” centered on the use of digital technologies to record and represent aspects of built heritage, with emphasis on indicating a fourth dimension: time. This included the visualization of ruined or lost elements, unrealized interiors (e.g., Longwood in Natchez, Mississippi), rates of decay at heritage sites in severe peril, and seasonal changes in constructed landscapes.1 If formulated differently, it is not difficult to imagine that the attendee’s question would have instantly perplexed the room of architectural historians, cultural resource managers, and preservation professionals: why not hire someone to autonomously complete an analog survey of a building or site? That person could pass along the information, and the scholar would then advance all subsequent study and analysis. Between the two parties, there would be a linear and sequential project path, albeit entirely independent: technical data input and output from research professionals. In short, the conference attendee’s question placed elements of documentation practice and architectural scholarship at odds. If it is difficult for most professionals in the built environment to envision the success of a project in which analog survey and onsite experience are divorced from research and analysis, why has a hierarchical divide emerged with reference to digital documentation? This essay argues that when fully integrated into the discovery and analy sis phases of a project, digital documentation is a valuable, reliable, and exploratory practice that can combine information about the physical aspects of the built environment with additional archival, experiential, and technical layers. The incorporation of reality capture— the use of technical means to record and visualize elements from the physical world— offers new veins of exploration and analysis for the built environment, and it has been used in architectural history for decades. Yet there are ongoing hesitations and misinterpretations about the use of digital technology for documentation in the built environment. Foremost, digital documentation is viewed as a tool rather than a methodology, and some view its products solely as visualizations. Examples of digital documentation include 3D scanning, photogrammetry, and 360 imagery captures; each offers a different way of docu menting, visualizing, and studying a site, but they all require additional tools and software (Figures 1– 3). Architects, architectural historians, and DANIELLE S . WILLKENS
“你为什么不找个技术人员呢?”在建筑历史学会东南分会最近的一次会议上，这个问题令人困惑，而且，不可否认，有点令人恼火。尽管如此，这并不是第一次遇到关于建筑研究的数字文档技术的质疑。会议主题为“过去的数字镜头”(The Digital Lens on The Past)，聚焦于使用数字技术来记录和呈现建筑遗产的各个方面，并强调了第四个维度:时间。这包括对毁坏或丢失的元素的可视化，未实现的内部(例如，密西西比州纳奇兹的朗伍德)，严重危险的遗产遗址的腐烂率，以及建筑景观的季节性变化如果以不同的方式表述，不难想象，与会者的问题会立即让建筑历史学家、文化资源管理者和保护专业人士感到困惑:为什么不雇人自主完成对建筑物或遗址的模拟调查?这个人可以传递信息，然后学者将推进所有后续的研究和分析。在双方之间，将有一个线性和顺序的项目路径，尽管完全独立:技术数据输入和研究专业人员的输出。简而言之，会议参与者的问题将文档实践和建筑学术的元素放在了一起。如果建筑环境中的大多数专业人士很难想象一个项目的成功，在这个项目中，模拟调查和现场经验与研究和分析相分离，那么为什么在参考数字文档时出现了等级划分?本文认为，当完全集成到项目的发现和分析阶段时，数字文档是一种有价值的、可靠的和探索性的实践，它可以将关于建筑环境的物理方面的信息与额外的档案、经验和技术层结合起来。现实捕捉的结合-使用技术手段记录和可视化来自物理世界的元素-为建筑环境提供了探索和分析的新脉络，它已经在建筑史上使用了几十年。然而，对于在建筑环境中使用数字技术进行记录，仍然存在着犹豫和误解。最重要的是，数字文档被视为一种工具，而不是一种方法，有些人将其产品仅仅视为可视化。数字文档的示例包括3D扫描、摄影测量和360图像捕获;每一种都提供了不同的记录、可视化和研究网站的方式，但它们都需要额外的工具和软件(图1 - 3)。WILLKENS
{"title":"The Craft and Care of Reality Capture","authors":"D. Willkens","doi":"10.1353/bdl.2022.0009","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/bdl.2022.0009","url":null,"abstract":"“Why don’t you just use a technician?” Posed at a recent conference of the Southeast Chapter of the Society of Architectural Historians, this question was puzzling and, admittedly, a bit exasperating. Nonetheless, this is not the first encounter with skepticism concerning digi tal documentation techniques for architectural research. The conference session “The Digital Lens on the Past” centered on the use of digital technologies to record and represent aspects of built heritage, with emphasis on indicating a fourth dimension: time. This included the visualization of ruined or lost elements, unrealized interiors (e.g., Longwood in Natchez, Mississippi), rates of decay at heritage sites in severe peril, and seasonal changes in constructed landscapes.1 If formulated differently, it is not difficult to imagine that the attendee’s question would have instantly perplexed the room of architectural historians, cultural resource managers, and preservation professionals: why not hire someone to autonomously complete an analog survey of a building or site? That person could pass along the information, and the scholar would then advance all subsequent study and analysis. Between the two parties, there would be a linear and sequential project path, albeit entirely independent: technical data input and output from research professionals. In short, the conference attendee’s question placed elements of documentation practice and architectural scholarship at odds. If it is difficult for most professionals in the built environment to envision the success of a project in which analog survey and onsite experience are divorced from research and analysis, why has a hierarchical divide emerged with reference to digital documentation? This essay argues that when fully integrated into the discovery and analy sis phases of a project, digital documentation is a valuable, reliable, and exploratory practice that can combine information about the physical aspects of the built environment with additional archival, experiential, and technical layers. The incorporation of reality capture— the use of technical means to record and visualize elements from the physical world— offers new veins of exploration and analysis for the built environment, and it has been used in architectural history for decades. Yet there are ongoing hesitations and misinterpretations about the use of digital technology for documentation in the built environment. Foremost, digital documentation is viewed as a tool rather than a methodology, and some view its products solely as visualizations. Examples of digital documentation include 3D scanning, photogrammetry, and 360 imagery captures; each offers a different way of docu menting, visualizing, and studying a site, but they all require additional tools and software (Figures 1– 3). Architects, architectural historians, and DANIELLE S . WILLKENS","PeriodicalId":41826,"journal":{"name":"Buildings & Landscapes-Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum","volume":"69 1","pages":"14 - 2"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2022-09-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"72522234","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"艺术学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
study of the ethnic houses of south St. Louis), and more specific examples would contribute further to our understanding of the forces, structures, and personalities that effected the transformation at the center of the book. Remodeling and adaptive reuse, multifamily dwellings, rental housing, and boarding are included in this account, but still remain on the periphery of the study. More work needs to be done on these aspects of the workingclass home, especially the experiences of the boarders. The total focus on the question of class— and the limited analysis of the issues of race, public housing, and factory towns within this examination— needs further attention. As the author himself acknowledges, the study neglects whole regions of the United States, particularly the South and Texas, weakening the national claims so central to his thesis. These will be issues to be taken up by future scholars. Studies that pick up the work Hubka has done could also enlarge the scope of the field research by using digital sources and data scraping, including fire insurance maps, newspapers, water and sewer records, and even nomination forms. The field of digital humanities is one which vernacularists, focused on mass production and largescale studies, should investigate. This thoughtprovoking book challenges received wisdom in several fields and provides an important foundation for further, more nuanced investigation of the intertwined relationships of everyday houses, people, material goods, and technology during this transformational period. It not only does yeoman’s work in addressing an important and understudied field in the histories of housing and domestic architecture, but it also raises larger issues in the field of vernacular studies and architectural history, bringing them into relation with each other, drawing from the best of both. AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Paula Lupkin is an associate professor of art and design history at the University of North Texas. Her research explores the interactions between capital flows, technology, and building cultures in the early twentieth century. Recent publications include “The Telegraphic Interior: Networking Space for Capital Flows in the 1920s” (2020) and “Standard Vernacular: Processes and Practices Beyond the Plan Factory” (2018).
{"title":"Is the Cemetery Dead? by David Charles Sloane (review)","authors":"L. Douglas","doi":"10.1353/bdl.2022.0005","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/bdl.2022.0005","url":null,"abstract":"study of the ethnic houses of south St. Louis), and more specific examples would contribute further to our understanding of the forces, structures, and personalities that effected the transformation at the center of the book. Remodeling and adaptive reuse, multifamily dwellings, rental housing, and boarding are included in this account, but still remain on the periphery of the study. More work needs to be done on these aspects of the workingclass home, especially the experiences of the boarders. The total focus on the question of class— and the limited analysis of the issues of race, public housing, and factory towns within this examination— needs further attention. As the author himself acknowledges, the study neglects whole regions of the United States, particularly the South and Texas, weakening the national claims so central to his thesis. These will be issues to be taken up by future scholars. Studies that pick up the work Hubka has done could also enlarge the scope of the field research by using digital sources and data scraping, including fire insurance maps, newspapers, water and sewer records, and even nomination forms. The field of digital humanities is one which vernacularists, focused on mass production and largescale studies, should investigate. This thoughtprovoking book challenges received wisdom in several fields and provides an important foundation for further, more nuanced investigation of the intertwined relationships of everyday houses, people, material goods, and technology during this transformational period. It not only does yeoman’s work in addressing an important and understudied field in the histories of housing and domestic architecture, but it also raises larger issues in the field of vernacular studies and architectural history, bringing them into relation with each other, drawing from the best of both. AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Paula Lupkin is an associate professor of art and design history at the University of North Texas. Her research explores the interactions between capital flows, technology, and building cultures in the early twentieth century. Recent publications include “The Telegraphic Interior: Networking Space for Capital Flows in the 1920s” (2020) and “Standard Vernacular: Processes and Practices Beyond the Plan Factory” (2018).","PeriodicalId":41826,"journal":{"name":"Buildings & Landscapes-Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum","volume":"20 1","pages":"109 - 111"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2022-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"84271095","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"艺术学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Abstract:Slaveholding families in the Atlantic and Gulf Coastal Plains desired mastery over their lucrative cotton, sugar, and rice plantations, but the nineteenth-century disease environment of these areas challenged their dominance. Easily accessible summer retreats in the nearby pine forests provided the health and social benefits slaveholders desired while allowing them to stay close to agricultural operations. As such, these retreats functioned as remote loci of slaveholder power, enabling planters to avoid the drawbacks of plantation life while maximizing its benefits. This essay illuminates the symbiotic relationship between plantations and summer retreats, using a Georgia case study of Burke County and Richmond Bath, the retreat developed by planter James Whitehead in nearby Richmond County. Agriculturally productive but often unhealthy due to the combination of its swampy grounds and mosquito-borne illnesses, Burke County enticed with the lure of wealth but threatened disease and death. The sandy soil of Richmond Bath could grow no cotton, but being high, dry, and only fifteen miles away, it provided a ready means for Whitehead, his friends, and family members to maneuver around the hazards of their home environment while maintaining a close eye on plantation operations. Through a careful analysis of architecture, agriculture, topography, geology, and demographics, this essay reveals how planters used summer retreats to create distinctive landscapes of slavery.
{"title":"Fine Airs in the Sand Hills: Richmond Bath, a Summer Retreat in a Landscape of Slavery","authors":"P. Herrington","doi":"10.1353/bdl.2022.0000","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/bdl.2022.0000","url":null,"abstract":"Abstract:Slaveholding families in the Atlantic and Gulf Coastal Plains desired mastery over their lucrative cotton, sugar, and rice plantations, but the nineteenth-century disease environment of these areas challenged their dominance. Easily accessible summer retreats in the nearby pine forests provided the health and social benefits slaveholders desired while allowing them to stay close to agricultural operations. As such, these retreats functioned as remote loci of slaveholder power, enabling planters to avoid the drawbacks of plantation life while maximizing its benefits. This essay illuminates the symbiotic relationship between plantations and summer retreats, using a Georgia case study of Burke County and Richmond Bath, the retreat developed by planter James Whitehead in nearby Richmond County. Agriculturally productive but often unhealthy due to the combination of its swampy grounds and mosquito-borne illnesses, Burke County enticed with the lure of wealth but threatened disease and death. The sandy soil of Richmond Bath could grow no cotton, but being high, dry, and only fifteen miles away, it provided a ready means for Whitehead, his friends, and family members to maneuver around the hazards of their home environment while maintaining a close eye on plantation operations. Through a careful analysis of architecture, agriculture, topography, geology, and demographics, this essay reveals how planters used summer retreats to create distinctive landscapes of slavery.","PeriodicalId":41826,"journal":{"name":"Buildings & Landscapes-Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum","volume":"1 1","pages":"1 - 32"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2022-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"89648958","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"艺术学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Abstract:Traditionally, and until recently, Venezuelan domestic workers lived in small bedrooms at the back of their employers' house, close to the kitchen and the laundry area. The room's location and austere material composition sought to divide the home into service and living areas and to limit the interaction between families and workers, leaving workers with deep feelings of isolation. For some domestic workers, praying for their families and for a better future helps mitigate feelings of loneliness. Thus, inside their assigned bedrooms, most workers set up sacred altars to channel and represent their faith and personalize their surroundings. Far from ornamentation or artistic pretension, each item in the altar is part of a meaningful composition meant to express the domestic worker's religious identity. Shrines act as a spiritual bridge connecting workers with their families and their gods, and ultimately easing their feelings of isolation.Once domestic workers move from the back of their employer's house into a home of their own, among their first actions is to erect one or more altars. Such material expression of religious belief assumes a predominant, unconstrained position in their new dwellings. This essay presents a comparative analysis that includes the altars in the workers' service bedrooms and later in their newly acquired homes. It seeks to understand how the material culture of the altars intersects with the built environment to dynamically represent the workers' yearnings, spiritual requests, goals, struggles, and dreams for the future.
{"title":"Altars of Hope: Venezuelan Domestic Workers and the Material Culture of the Divine","authors":"Valentina Dávila","doi":"10.1353/bdl.2022.0002","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/bdl.2022.0002","url":null,"abstract":"Abstract:Traditionally, and until recently, Venezuelan domestic workers lived in small bedrooms at the back of their employers' house, close to the kitchen and the laundry area. The room's location and austere material composition sought to divide the home into service and living areas and to limit the interaction between families and workers, leaving workers with deep feelings of isolation. For some domestic workers, praying for their families and for a better future helps mitigate feelings of loneliness. Thus, inside their assigned bedrooms, most workers set up sacred altars to channel and represent their faith and personalize their surroundings. Far from ornamentation or artistic pretension, each item in the altar is part of a meaningful composition meant to express the domestic worker's religious identity. Shrines act as a spiritual bridge connecting workers with their families and their gods, and ultimately easing their feelings of isolation.Once domestic workers move from the back of their employer's house into a home of their own, among their first actions is to erect one or more altars. Such material expression of religious belief assumes a predominant, unconstrained position in their new dwellings. This essay presents a comparative analysis that includes the altars in the workers' service bedrooms and later in their newly acquired homes. It seeks to understand how the material culture of the altars intersects with the built environment to dynamically represent the workers' yearnings, spiritual requests, goals, struggles, and dreams for the future.","PeriodicalId":41826,"journal":{"name":"Buildings & Landscapes-Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum","volume":"60 1","pages":"67 - 93"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2022-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"85839678","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"艺术学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"How the Working-Class Home Became Modern, 1900–1940 by Thomas C. Hubka (review)","authors":"Paula Lupkin","doi":"10.1353/bdl.2022.0004","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/bdl.2022.0004","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":41826,"journal":{"name":"Buildings & Landscapes-Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum","volume":"2 1","pages":"108 - 109"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2022-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"84121013","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"艺术学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Like so many of the endeavors associated with architect Fiske Kimball, the restoration of Moors End (1829– 1834), a federalstyle house on Nantucket, drew together notable individuals, garnered publicity, and included a dash of intrigue (Figure 1). The Moors End project offered an exceptional opportunity for Kimball: the restoration included not just the house but also the grounds, including a formal garden, and interiors that the client intended to fully furnish with period accessories. Additionally, Kimball took on the project in the spring of 1925, a pivotal moment in his professional career. In those same months he resigned from New York University to accept the position as director of the Pennsylvania Museum (now Philadelphia Museum of Art), where period rooms became a hallmark of his tenure. He was also intimately involved in shaping attitudes in American historic preservation: in 1925 he chaired committees for the American Institute of Architects and for the Virginia Art Commission; the previous year, 1924, he was appointed chairman of the restoration committee for Monticello. The work at Moors End therefore offers insight in microcosm into issues of presentation and preservation that preoccupied him for the following decades. But it also offers something else: Moors End was not a museum or tourist destination but a private home. Kimball had to include the modern amenities necessary for the daily life of his wealthy client. At Moors End we encounter Kimball not as a scholar but as an architect; granted, these two roles often intermingled for Kimball but the significance of the restoration rests not so much on his research into the federal era as with his contributions to the colonial revival in his own era. The restoration of Moors End allows us to draw together the threads of Kimball’s career as a scholar, preservationist, and museum director through the lens of his work as an architect. This article argues that the restoration was guided by a major theme of the colonial revival: the continuing relevance of the classical tradition as an architecture of order and refinement. Positioning himself as an architect, Kimball put his scholarly knowledge of highstyle federal architects such as Thomas Jefferson and Charles Bulfinch into the service of modern design. Further, the steps he took to publicize the project indicate his intention to promote it as a model of taste for contemporary viewers. As this case study demonstrates, MARIE FRANk
{"title":"Object Lesson: Fiske Kimball and the Restoration of Moors End, Nantucket","authors":"M. Frank","doi":"10.1353/bdl.2022.0003","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1353/bdl.2022.0003","url":null,"abstract":"Like so many of the endeavors associated with architect Fiske Kimball, the restoration of Moors End (1829– 1834), a federalstyle house on Nantucket, drew together notable individuals, garnered publicity, and included a dash of intrigue (Figure 1). The Moors End project offered an exceptional opportunity for Kimball: the restoration included not just the house but also the grounds, including a formal garden, and interiors that the client intended to fully furnish with period accessories. Additionally, Kimball took on the project in the spring of 1925, a pivotal moment in his professional career. In those same months he resigned from New York University to accept the position as director of the Pennsylvania Museum (now Philadelphia Museum of Art), where period rooms became a hallmark of his tenure. He was also intimately involved in shaping attitudes in American historic preservation: in 1925 he chaired committees for the American Institute of Architects and for the Virginia Art Commission; the previous year, 1924, he was appointed chairman of the restoration committee for Monticello. The work at Moors End therefore offers insight in microcosm into issues of presentation and preservation that preoccupied him for the following decades. But it also offers something else: Moors End was not a museum or tourist destination but a private home. Kimball had to include the modern amenities necessary for the daily life of his wealthy client. At Moors End we encounter Kimball not as a scholar but as an architect; granted, these two roles often intermingled for Kimball but the significance of the restoration rests not so much on his research into the federal era as with his contributions to the colonial revival in his own era. The restoration of Moors End allows us to draw together the threads of Kimball’s career as a scholar, preservationist, and museum director through the lens of his work as an architect. This article argues that the restoration was guided by a major theme of the colonial revival: the continuing relevance of the classical tradition as an architecture of order and refinement. Positioning himself as an architect, Kimball put his scholarly knowledge of highstyle federal architects such as Thomas Jefferson and Charles Bulfinch into the service of modern design. Further, the steps he took to publicize the project indicate his intention to promote it as a model of taste for contemporary viewers. As this case study demonstrates, MARIE FRANk","PeriodicalId":41826,"journal":{"name":"Buildings & Landscapes-Journal of the Vernacular Architecture Forum","volume":"22 1","pages":"107 - 94"},"PeriodicalIF":0.2,"publicationDate":"2022-03-01","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"74488418","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":4,"RegionCategory":"艺术学","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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