Module Title: History and Theory

Lecturer: Dr Anna Ryan

Word Count: 2018

Upon arriving in the bustling, bubbling, utopia of New York City, one is immediately

swept away into the endless vortex of its dazzling lights and busy streets. A sense of

powerlessness is inevitable when stuck in a sandwich of the concrete sidewalk and the 300

metre high, steel frame towers. Yet to stroll for two and a half kilometres on a platform nine

metres above street level, the city surrenders itself to the individual; one can finally feel in

command of this immense metropolis in an exhilarating experience of the landscape. The

High Line Park is an incredibly interesting project which can be viewed as an illustration of a

contemporary architectural premise of 'the manipulation of junkspace'.

The High Line was built in the 1930s, as part of a massive public-private

infrastructure project in New York City called the West Side Improvement. The steel

structure lifted freight traffic above street level, removing dangerous trains from the streets of

Manhattan's largest industrial district. Seeing as the last train on the High Line ran in 1980,

the historic structure was under serious threat of demolition. Friends of the High Line, a

community-based non-profit group, formed in 1999. The organisation works in partnership

with the City of New York to preserve and maintain the structure as an elevated public park.

The project gained the city's support in 2002. The High Line south of 30th Street was donated

to the city by CSX Transportation Inc. in 2005. The design team of landscape architects

James Corner Field Operations, with architects Diller Scofidio and Renfro, created the High

Line's public landscape with guidance from a diverse community of High Line supporters.

Construction on the park began in 2006. The first section, from Gansevoort Street to West

20th Street, opened June 9, 2009, the second was opened in the spring of 2011, while the

third is still under construction. The design team is constantly expanding, with the recent

additions of Zaha Hadid and Steven Holl lending their contributions to the scheme.1

I was completely in awe of the project from the first time I heard of it, not to mention

set foot on it. Through my second, third and countless other visits to the park, I developed

more and more of an attachment to not only the High Line, but to the city as a whole. The

Park is, as Corner wished it to be, a unique journey through Manhattan's West side, with

'several episodes'.2 Respectful of the city's ever changing manner, as one wanders through

Chelsea and the Meatpacking District down towards the vibrant, trendsetting Greenwich

Village, the atmosphere of the newly constructed landscape ebbs and flows with the

surrounding scenery.

Subtle references to the High Line's historical context are made by the inclusion of

some of the original railroad lines in the scheme, while the planting references the overgrown

nature of the track in its derelict state. At no point does the architecture distract the attention

from the overall landscape. Corner's 'episodes' consist of unusual resting bays featuring an

array of humble timber benches, which selflessly volunteer themselves as servants to various

particular vantage points of the city or the Hudson river.

The overall design is very simple. The original black steel structure has been restored

and now stands as boldly as it ever did. The major altercations to the original structure, such

as the viewing bays and entrances (stairs and elevators), have been treated delicately by the

1 Behind the Scenes, Inc., Oct2011, Vol. 33 Issue 8, p18-19

2 Architectural Record, Jul2011, Vol. 199 Issue 7, p16-16

architect, and all blend agreeably with the linear structure. The surface is mainly made up of

slender pre-cast concrete elements which, placed side by side, revive the sense of movement

as they compliment the remains of the old railway track.

One can pay fifty dollars to view the city from the inaccessible, surreal heights of the

Rockefeller Centre observation deck. Seventy storeys below on the sidewalk, a constant

stream of people, each moving faster than the other, contribute to the exaltation of the New

York Experience, while also making it next to impossible to stop for a moment to take in the

surrounding area. Public spaces such as Central Park, Washington Square and Bryant Park

offer a break from the tumult of the streets, yet they also emit a distinctly stubborn aura of

being a park. Such parks are as old as the city itself, and therefore are designed to contrast

conclusively with, whilst also acting as an evasion of, the density of the rest of the city. To

stand in the middle of the Great Lawn for example, the largest open space in Manhattan, one

is still at the mercy of the city and it's absolute authority, as if on a pedestrian crossing on

42nd Street.

By contrast, on the High Line, the congestion characterising the city's streets is an

instantly noticeable (not to mention favourable) absence. Nonetheless, there still exists a great

consciousness of the dust and grit of the streets below. To glide through the districts whilst

soaking up an array of atmospheres from surrounding shops, restaurants factories and

apartments that radiate so much activity is like being given the power to breathe underwater;

to exist in a manner you only ever dreamed of; to move in slow motion through the world's

fastest highway. It is this sense of empowerment that finally reduces the great city to within

your control, in a fashion unparalleled by any other architectural operation on the island.

An abandoned railway line cutting through the world's most famous city would

(rightly) be seen by many as a wasted space; either a ragged structure to demolish or an

integral part of the city's history to be cherished and refined.

Take a step back however, and the High Line, whether in an abandoned or developed

state, highlights many of the issues that Koolhaas raises in 'Junkspace' and his 1978 manifesto

'Delirious New York'; 'Beyond a certain critical mass each structure becomes a monument.

This category of monument presents a radical, morally traumatic break with the conventions

of symbolism. It merely is itself.'3

Manhattan's grid system, inanimate yet totally functional, is the rich soil that allowed

this complex jungle to grow and flourish into the Elysium that we know today. The

skyscraper, a skyward extrusion of the grid system, is presented by Koolhaas as 'a utopian

formula for the unlimited creation of virgin sites on a single urban location.'4 Therein lies

Manhattan's greatest appeal; any given floor of any building can achieve architectural

perfection, while the same floor of another building directly across the street can reference a

completely different style or ideology, yet still epitomise an equally refined spatial or social

experience.

This, however, can also be seen as the city's greatest dilemma. What is it that links the

two opposing buildings, only air conditioning? What fills the void between one building's

twelfth floor window and that of the next?

Junkspace.

3 Rem Koolhaas: Delerious New York (New York: The Monacelli Press, 1994) pp. 81

4 Rem Koolhaas: Delerious New York (New York: The Monacelli Press, 1994) pp. 87

Koolhaas coined the phenomenon 'junkspace' in 2001, describing it as a 'low grade

purgatory', a 'residue' that mankind, through modernisation, has left on the planet. Put simply,

Koolhaas was expressing a frustration with the state in which the world has found itself; the

sum of all of modern architecture's works of genius and flawless concepts, he argues, spells

'the end of Enlightenment'.5

By looking at a plan of the High Line, seeing this unique structure weave its way

fluidly through the abysses left by the myriad of buildings rooted in the rigidity of the grid

system, one sees an example (albeit a literal one) of what junkspace really is. One also begins

to notice the sheer amount of such junkspace that coexists with the wonders of this

metropolis. From this view point, the once inspiring, rich city, becomes a cold, dry

'archipelago of blocks'.6

Crudely speaking, American culture lends itself as a credible metaphor for

'junkspace'. The American way of life has forever been at the forefront of modernisation, a

new world built on melting pot of influences rising at an astonishing level to world

domination. If we compare the founding of America from 1492 onwards to the Modern

movement, we find many similarities; two blank canvasses upon which were painted a fresh

way of life, rational programmes oriented around an obsession for perfection and utmost

functionality, or 'the pursuit of happiness', as some like to call it. The many advancements

made in both instances seem to add up to something rather flimsy. As Koolhaas puts it: 'We

do not register on the same scale. We do not leave pyramids.'7

5 Rem Koolhaas: Junkspace, October, Vol. 100, Obsolescence (Spring, 2002), pp. 175

6 Rem Koolhaas: Delerious New York (New York: The Monacelli Press, 1994)

7 Rem Koolhaas: Junkspace, October, Vol. 100, Obsolescence (Spring, 2002), pp. 176

America is at the helm of every improvement to the global society, yet the way of life

that Americans boast seems to be built around distorted moral ideals. The 'perfect' society

seems to not be able to keep up with itself. Time is money. Money is boss.

Back to New York City then, the epicentre of the 'American Dream'; a mythical world

completely fabricated by man. Though mind-boggling as a whole, every individual element is

measured and tactically placed in accordance with the scales and units known to man. The

'apparent limitless'8 of a natural, landscape is such that it is beyond comprehension of the

human imagination. The great forests and oceans can never be truly recorded or understood

by an individual, which is what makes an experience of a rural landscape so inexplicably

refreshing to an individual. The plans for the Empire State Building, on the other hand, can

still be obtained or even reproduced; the figures for traffic congestion, population etc. in the

city are easily accessible, and to great accuracy.

Can man ever be truly satisfied by a man-made landscape? Or will that ominous cloud

of junkspace always linger above his head?

The High Line project bites back viscously at any such suggestions. It represents a

bold and brave response to the sinister emanation of junkspace. To demolish an old relic that

was obstructing the possibility of making money takes considerably less courage than to

found a non-profit organisation to nourish a unique structure into an idiosyncratic landscape

for the cultural benefit of a whole city. To have given society the opportunity to experience

one of the modern wonders of the world from a completely new level is a truly commendable

feat.

The scheme's most decisive move against junkspace, however, is that it is the only

way to experience Manhattan in a three dimensional fashion. The sensation of everyday

8 James Corner: Representation and Landscape (Philadelphia, University of Pennslyvania Press, 1992) pp.147

traffic passing underfoot with an array of buildings of different styles and functions towering

overhead is incredibly rich. The individual undergoes a most complete immersion into the

landscape. The High Line asserts itself as vein in the city's circulatory system, graduating to a

more distinguished and beneficial level than even the most famous streets and avenues.

The High Line symbolises a type of architecture that is very specific to its location.

Notwithstanding, the manner in which it turns a simple improvisation/ restoration project into

a total manipulation and even exploration of junkspace is an achievement of utmost relevance

to the contemporary architect

Figure 1: The High Line and its integration with the city

2 A viewing bay overlooking 14th street

3 The High Line before restoration

4 Frank Ghery's IAC Headquarters building is an example of the diverse architecture of the West Side that the High Line strives to link

5 Park benches accentuate the movement of the rail line