I think it was in 2016 that I first began thinking of “cities”—by then I had lived in and briefly visited multiple, very different ones. What made a city useful? What was an ideal city? Why did one city elicit a certain emotion and another a dissimilar one? What kind of feeling did I find myself enjoying?
I was pulled to different directions—one side loved the classic styles of Venice and Paris. Another, the modern designs of Hong Kong and New York. I liked the organisation, the decorative forms, the sense of history displayed by the first category. I was also drawn to the rapidity, the shadowiness and neon lights of the second group.
I wanted to spend time in both the types. It seemed I actually did not have a fixed and ultimate preference. Even though there was clearly less beauty in the second category, I did want some experience with it because of the thrill it promised. My impressions made me want to read on cities.
Researching on the subject, I discovered the book The Language of Cities (2016) by Deyan Sudjic, former director of the Design Museum in London. The author lays out many ways in which the city could be defined. The one point that stood out to me was this: “The possibility of anonymity is one of the most important qualities that differentiates a city from a village. The city at its best allows for difference, and tolerance.
To walk into a bar or a store, to rent a room or buy a book or log in to the web without having to account for who you are, or where you have come from, is a precious quality.”
So the city is an area which is meant to be egalitarian, with respect for one’s personal space and identity. This seems like a good starting point—and it is a considerably expansive feature which applies to all types of cities—old or new, Eastern or Western, Paris-type or Hong Kong-type.
Next, if we consider the older European city in which beauty was essential—with roots in the Middle Ages—we get important insights in the book City and Cosmos: The Medieval World in Urban Form by Professor Keith D. Lilley from Queen’s University Belfast. He argues that “the medieval mind considered the city truly a microcosm: much more than a collection of houses, a city also represented a scaled-down version of the very order and organisation of the cosmos.” The city is an entity with theological and mythological connotations. The view of the cosmos as a grace-filled and hospitable place was translated into pleasing facades and welcoming lanes.
Cities that are more modern in history, on the other hand, may be regarded as machines for wealth creation. This is why, after all, people move to it from smaller communities, for material prosperity, and possibly with it, a widening of intellectual horizons.
The money-making aspect of the city—although inviting—has to it a dark side. The attractive towers of the elite are often erected by the workers underground, hidden from usual view, abused and exhausted. This has been explored in the German sci-fi masterpiece of 1927 Metropolis (director: Fritz Lang). We continue to hear of the same issue in news stories today related to places like Dubai or Doha. The concrete jungle carries within it an aesthetic (and ethical) tension. Its surface-level order, neatness and supposed sophistication can be fully understood only by regarding this subterranean or marginal facet of dirt, exploitation and poverty.
Other features by which we can understand a city and determine whether it is useful or not is by its availability of products or services needed, safety measures and level of community cohesion. A lot of cities in contemporary democracies are massive successes when it comes to the first characteristic. With technologies like Amazon and Google Maps, deliverables can be searched and ordered, or checked through reviews. Regarding safety measures—we can say that much of the current developed world, and touristic parts of the developing world are reasonable enough—if we are able to regard knife and gun attacks as unpredictable exceptions.
But regarding community cohesion, we can easily say that the modern city may not always succeed. In her worldwide bestseller The Lonely City (2016), British author Olivia Laing poetically describes how present-day architecture increases isolation. The city reveals itself as a “set of cells, a hundred thousand windows, some darkened and some flooded with green or white or golden light” where you can see strangers but not reach them—creating an uneasy combination of separation and exposure. “You can be lonely anywhere,” writes Laing, “but there is a particular flavour to the loneliness that comes from living in a city, surrounded by millions of people.”
The urban environment today isn’t by default designed to facilitate meaningful interactions and connections. Its primary purpose is to somehow give shelter to residents who are involved within the capitalistic machine. Apartment blocks, office buildings keep people away from each other for long periods. The individuals we meet during commute on buses and trains cannot be turned into friends. If there are open spaces at all where people could gather—a park here, a ground there—within these conurbations of skyscrapers, they may look like ungenerous concessions. I contrast this with older public squares of Europe. When we look at Piazza San Marco in Venice, it seems like a natural area where people could walk and talk, and celebrate special occasions. It is not an out-of-place anomaly, it “fits” in the surroundings, indicating that socialisation is a normal aim of the city.
I would conclude by saying that I’d take from the modern city its commercial efficiency and assurance of safety, and from the pre-modern its attributes of beauty, room to breathe and community formation. Where the modern falls short, it must innovate in a way that is practical, responding to pressures, renewing over time with just the right speed (to take a concept from the 2017 book Slow Burn City by British architecture critic Rowan Moore). It should not be destroyed by change; it should be transformed gradually without stagnating or being uprooted.
A development of this kind that I see happening (already popular in several European cities) tackling major existing problems is that of co-living projects that intentionally create spaces for shared activities (dining, co-working, entertainment) in housing units—reducing both costs and isolation. Many more such careful corrective steps may be taken to rid the contemporary city of its flaws, while retaining what’s advantageous about it.
Written by: Tulika Bahadur
