Ahhh. Your words are serendipitous, as I was thinking how to calm my nervous system in this world. I so appreciate the concept of looking for pockets of calmness in daylight, art and buildings… as I make my way to a Ruth Asawa show in NYC it feels so perfect. Thank you.
I love the idea of a museum space whose purpose is to encourage calm and a sense of safety. While I think most people find calm in nature, I personally find a deep sense of calm in built environments. I lived in Cambridge, MA for a summer in the 80s and the architecture and treed streets provided me with a deep sense of comfort and joy. To me the architecture represented a well oiled community that just worked well. I’ve tried forest bathing but to me it’s a foreign place where I can’t imagine living. The first and only time I visited Thoreau’s Walden Pond, I was deeply disappointed. But the neighborhood where Emerson’s concord house still stands was like visiting a holy land.
Absolutely. A well built and well designed urban environment can feel very welcoming. There’s a concept in architecture called ‘human scale’ which can naturally create that feeling.
It’s very difficult to design and build such a space. Very often the most best urban spaces are evolved and need a little time to ‘bed in’.
The residential neighborhood between Harvard square and central square was certainly that. Honestly it felt as if every stone on every apartment building was lovingly set and intended to be attractive and uplifting.
This very afternoon I read an essay by Alice Wong called "The Cripping of Time" in The People's Project, a wonderful collection complied by Saeed Jones and Maggie Smith. Wong is talking about what those who live with disabilities can teach the rest of us and she says, "Most, not all, of my activism is with other disabled people and the difference is palpable. There's an implicit understanding that we run at different speeds and modes, that there is no shame in not keeping up, dropping out of a project, or cancelling a meeting. Slowing down. Resting. Listening. These are acts against the tyranny of the clock and everything considered normal, valuable, and good. They allow us to fight the powers that be and love ourselves and one another at the same time."
Then you come along talking about calm. The universe is trying to get my attention. Because I love to cook, calm is sometimes kinesthetic for me. I spent the afternoon getting a big pot of poultry stock going (that will simmer until I go to bed) and making a soup for supper. All of it slow work, much of it thinking of imaginative and flavorful ways to use up leftovers. It was a good day.
I have to say after browsing all the share in chat this morning, I feel angry incredible sense of calm. This one month has made the subscription fee worth every penny. In truth it was worth it before this month. Your subscription Substack is one of two that I have and the only one I always read.
Of course libraries are built to be places that are quiet and reflective, and I always find this soft fascination when I’m there because of the combination of the intended calm of the architecture combined with a sense of smallness I get from being around all the books written across the ages.
I also find that I run to the very spot in your photograph when I’m in New Orleans— generally I’m there early in the morning and my awareness that there is busyness coming later in the day is a particular kind of quiet that I like.
Also I think a corner of a cozy café in a busy part of any city always gives this feeling and the soft fascination ends up happening through the people watching, like they’re on a carousel for me to view (they’re on motion and I’m still).
Good point about libraries, and also about time of day -- I'm there in the morning usually and maybe it would be different later. True for most places maybe now that you've made m e think about it!
There’s a peaceful place at a nearby park. It doesn’t have the best view of the river. The water is low and has gotten mucky. Trees have fallen, so there are some brown brush piles. But I’ve stood there for hours as wading birds and warblers flit and forage. Mostly, people walk in, see nothing and leave, but sometimes people stop and quietly ask what is keeping me there for so long. I point out the Common yellowthroat, the Pied-billed grebe pair, the Eastern phoebe, and most days a Belted kingfisher. Then I have quiet company for a while. It’s one of my favorite spots. It’s not urban, but just a little shelter just outside of Tampa.
Noticing where there is calm and being drawn to it, whether externally or internally; artwork calibrating our senses and giving us a break from perceptual noise, artists who experiment with engineered stillness and perception―absolutely yes.
The concept of 'soft fascination' is perfecly on point. I find these pockets of calm in the oddest places - like a specific bench at the bus stop where light filters through trees in a partiular way. Your piece makes me realize I've been seeking engineered stillness without even knowing what to call it, which is pretty cool.
The best places are the ones you happen upon. You can’t always plan these things. There’s also an element of time, that’s down to luck. Your bus stop will only have this light at certain times depending on the weather or time of year.
I'm a curious painter, often loud, bold, imperfect abstractions, landscapes are a sort of diving board for me. I've been trying to pinpoint my latest interest in words, calm, this is it. The antidote. The stillness of a humming bird in the chaos. Thank you for these words. ✌️
Yes, it’s weird how places originally designed for industry can now be strangely relaxing and beautiful. Living in the UK, we have an absolute sh*t ton of these places.
It seems that they need to have been ‘dead’ for a certain length of time to work. A closed down industrial estate from ten years ago can just feel hostile or depressing.
In Britain, a lot of Victorian industrial places have also been restored and turned into museums and tourist attractions. Steam railways and canals restored and reopened by volunteers. These too (when not too busy) can have an incredibly calming effect.
This reminds me of another question. When Im in rural Vermont (or rural anywhere, really), I'll often see rusted farm machinery or tools, displayed for their visual interest. Or drive by sort of beautiful but decrepit barns. Or haunting abandoned factories. Some of these things are gorgeous and provocative, and some look like trash that someone irresponsibly left to litter the landscape. I can never tell exactly what the feature is (how much other crap is nearby? what the object was in its useful life?) or where it is (is it in my mood? my own thoughts as context?) that turns trash into art or nostalgia. But there is some factor or feature which does this magic. In other words, how long does it have to be dead before its beautiful and what else has to happen to it or not happen to it?
Ahhh. Your words are serendipitous, as I was thinking how to calm my nervous system in this world. I so appreciate the concept of looking for pockets of calmness in daylight, art and buildings… as I make my way to a Ruth Asawa show in NYC it feels so perfect. Thank you.
I love the idea of a museum space whose purpose is to encourage calm and a sense of safety. While I think most people find calm in nature, I personally find a deep sense of calm in built environments. I lived in Cambridge, MA for a summer in the 80s and the architecture and treed streets provided me with a deep sense of comfort and joy. To me the architecture represented a well oiled community that just worked well. I’ve tried forest bathing but to me it’s a foreign place where I can’t imagine living. The first and only time I visited Thoreau’s Walden Pond, I was deeply disappointed. But the neighborhood where Emerson’s concord house still stands was like visiting a holy land.
Absolutely. A well built and well designed urban environment can feel very welcoming. There’s a concept in architecture called ‘human scale’ which can naturally create that feeling.
It’s very difficult to design and build such a space. Very often the most best urban spaces are evolved and need a little time to ‘bed in’.
The residential neighborhood between Harvard square and central square was certainly that. Honestly it felt as if every stone on every apartment building was lovingly set and intended to be attractive and uplifting.
This very afternoon I read an essay by Alice Wong called "The Cripping of Time" in The People's Project, a wonderful collection complied by Saeed Jones and Maggie Smith. Wong is talking about what those who live with disabilities can teach the rest of us and she says, "Most, not all, of my activism is with other disabled people and the difference is palpable. There's an implicit understanding that we run at different speeds and modes, that there is no shame in not keeping up, dropping out of a project, or cancelling a meeting. Slowing down. Resting. Listening. These are acts against the tyranny of the clock and everything considered normal, valuable, and good. They allow us to fight the powers that be and love ourselves and one another at the same time."
Then you come along talking about calm. The universe is trying to get my attention. Because I love to cook, calm is sometimes kinesthetic for me. I spent the afternoon getting a big pot of poultry stock going (that will simmer until I go to bed) and making a soup for supper. All of it slow work, much of it thinking of imaginative and flavorful ways to use up leftovers. It was a good day.
Very interesting, thanks f or that Alice Wong quote!
I have to say after browsing all the share in chat this morning, I feel angry incredible sense of calm. This one month has made the subscription fee worth every penny. In truth it was worth it before this month. Your subscription Substack is one of two that I have and the only one I always read.
Thanks so much, Sarah!
Of course libraries are built to be places that are quiet and reflective, and I always find this soft fascination when I’m there because of the combination of the intended calm of the architecture combined with a sense of smallness I get from being around all the books written across the ages.
I also find that I run to the very spot in your photograph when I’m in New Orleans— generally I’m there early in the morning and my awareness that there is busyness coming later in the day is a particular kind of quiet that I like.
Also I think a corner of a cozy café in a busy part of any city always gives this feeling and the soft fascination ends up happening through the people watching, like they’re on a carousel for me to view (they’re on motion and I’m still).
Good point about libraries, and also about time of day -- I'm there in the morning usually and maybe it would be different later. True for most places maybe now that you've made m e think about it!
There’s a peaceful place at a nearby park. It doesn’t have the best view of the river. The water is low and has gotten mucky. Trees have fallen, so there are some brown brush piles. But I’ve stood there for hours as wading birds and warblers flit and forage. Mostly, people walk in, see nothing and leave, but sometimes people stop and quietly ask what is keeping me there for so long. I point out the Common yellowthroat, the Pied-billed grebe pair, the Eastern phoebe, and most days a Belted kingfisher. Then I have quiet company for a while. It’s one of my favorite spots. It’s not urban, but just a little shelter just outside of Tampa.
Sometimes those are the very best spots!
Noticing where there is calm and being drawn to it, whether externally or internally; artwork calibrating our senses and giving us a break from perceptual noise, artists who experiment with engineered stillness and perception―absolutely yes.
The concept of 'soft fascination' is perfecly on point. I find these pockets of calm in the oddest places - like a specific bench at the bus stop where light filters through trees in a partiular way. Your piece makes me realize I've been seeking engineered stillness without even knowing what to call it, which is pretty cool.
The best places are the ones you happen upon. You can’t always plan these things. There’s also an element of time, that’s down to luck. Your bus stop will only have this light at certain times depending on the weather or time of year.
I agree, and they only have to "work" for you -- doesn't matter if others find it calm etc or not!
Yes, subjective, personal, but definitely a thing that most of us recognise. And I like that.
I'm a curious painter, often loud, bold, imperfect abstractions, landscapes are a sort of diving board for me. I've been trying to pinpoint my latest interest in words, calm, this is it. The antidote. The stillness of a humming bird in the chaos. Thank you for these words. ✌️
You words made me think of the artist David Hockney. In may ways his pool painting are bright and loud, but also calm and inviting.
CALM
compassionate
attentive
loving
meditative
Yes, it’s weird how places originally designed for industry can now be strangely relaxing and beautiful. Living in the UK, we have an absolute sh*t ton of these places.
It seems that they need to have been ‘dead’ for a certain length of time to work. A closed down industrial estate from ten years ago can just feel hostile or depressing.
In Britain, a lot of Victorian industrial places have also been restored and turned into museums and tourist attractions. Steam railways and canals restored and reopened by volunteers. These too (when not too busy) can have an incredibly calming effect.
Very interesting point about the length of time -- how long does a place have to be "dead" before it becomes "peaceful"? Worth a think!
This reminds me of another question. When Im in rural Vermont (or rural anywhere, really), I'll often see rusted farm machinery or tools, displayed for their visual interest. Or drive by sort of beautiful but decrepit barns. Or haunting abandoned factories. Some of these things are gorgeous and provocative, and some look like trash that someone irresponsibly left to litter the landscape. I can never tell exactly what the feature is (how much other crap is nearby? what the object was in its useful life?) or where it is (is it in my mood? my own thoughts as context?) that turns trash into art or nostalgia. But there is some factor or feature which does this magic. In other words, how long does it have to be dead before its beautiful and what else has to happen to it or not happen to it?
thank you :)