Turf War

We are often drawn to a place by the character of its buildings, streets, or open spaces. We have become familiar with the important dialogue about that “sense of place.” This story is different. It is about the continuing attachment we feel toward the places we claim as our “turf.” Appreciating a sense of place may be temporary. Knowing our own turf is not. We are enriched by place, but we possess turf. That is why we are willing to fight for it. ******** Architecture is the art of placemaking. For me, it is also the lens through which I examine the human presence and past cultures, focus on the existing built environment, and imagine its future. I had begun to see my role as an architect growing beyond the conventional areas of practice. Perhaps I could bring my architect’s perspective to the battle against Trump’s overwhelming Television City. I began to meet with a small band of neighbors. We were angry about the abuse of power enabled by Trump’s wealth and political influence; angry about the greed that seemed to drive his vision; angry that our community’s character would be transformed by this stranger who did not care about what residents valued; angry that this deal would be made behind closed doors; and resentful at being overpowered, ignored, and disrespected. We were motivated by personal knowledge and love of our neighborhood, our need to insist on healthy community growth, and a desire for transparency in the public arena. These emotional reactions became the durable core of our opposition. We felt an obligation to act, to fight for our turf. As our conversations continued, we were fueled by the belief that we just might be able to change the way large-scale real estate development decisions got made. There was a chance that we could prevail, and redefine “Highest and Best Use” to include social, cultural, historic, and environmental values. We also knew the need to be well organized. We would build a war chest for our new nonprofit in order to hire land-use attorneys and environmental engineers, as well as to inform and organize the community, and to craft and execute strategies to stop the impending juggernaut. We would be disciplined as well as flexible in order to become powerful adversaries. We would demand our right to be involved. This opposition could be fueled by thousands of concerned citizens. We would reach out to our natural allies. Families, friends, and neighbors talking in our homes, on the street, and in the shops might create a movement. We would carefully chart our course, playing to the advantages we might exploit. We would force our shoulders into the door to get a legitimate seat at the table. That inside table was the source of current, accurate information; outside of that room, all was rumor and conjecture. Throwing rocks from the outside rarely penetrated the established development review process. But strategically throwing well-crafted monkey wrenches might succeed in slowing it down or stopping it. We would become committed and formidable foes. Each previous struggle against excessive development had its own set of circumstances – the particular piece of land, the economic and political climate, and the cast of characters. Each struggle was waged in uncharted territory, never knowing what lay ahead. In this war, there were many intertwined layers of participants, including Trump and his staff, his architects, his attorneys, as well as city staff, politicians and the media. The forces arrayed against us would be formidable, experienced, well connected, and determined to have their way with our community. We knew this war would be a risk. We would be the underdogs. The seminal question was whether there was enough political and financial will in the community to join us. If not, the city’s review process would proceed and the governing authorities would likely approve some slightly reduced version of Television City to be inflicted upon us. ******** On a warm spring afternoon in 2007, I attended the opening of another section of the Riverside South park with Kent Barwick. He was a colleague who, had fought against Trump’s plans, pursued the Civic Alternative, and made the Riverside South Planning Corporation work as well as possible. Kent was a patrician gentleman. His genial, courteous manner could swiftly turn sober, thoughtful, and expressive. He was willing to speak his mind, often bursting with opinions and creative strategies; he enjoyed seeing where the conversation would lead. He had moved the Municipal Art Society into the leadership on major city land-use battles. I frequently thought of him as a fearless advocate. He understood the risks and rewards of our intervention and was keenly aware of its successes and failures. We walked west on 72nd Street toward the waterfront park. After crossing Riverside Drive, we passed the Eleanor Roosevelt memorial statue, the fenced-in dog park, the short underpass, and arrived at the top of the new monumental stone stairway which overlooked the Hudson River. We descended to the bottom of the stairway, where we saw our new park seamlessly meet Frederick Law Olmsted's historic Riverside Park. After the brief walk to the riverfront esplanade, we paused to observe people of all ages and backgrounds sitting at the river's edge, jogging, walking, biking, pushing baby strollers and wheelchairs. We watched a soccer game on the grass field, and beyond that, dozens of kids playing basketball and handball on the courts built under the elevated highway. The Riverside South apartment buildings beyond the highway appeared distant and innocuous. The surface of the river glowed with sunlight all the way to the New Jersey side. We joined the flow of people heading to the new recreational pier, extending 715 feet over the Hudson, lined with fishermen, refreshed by the river breeze. Youngsters in kayaks splashed around and ducks were paddling in the river’s natural edge. Further down along the waterfront, we could see pedestrians strolling along the curving wooden paths which meandered above the tidal wetlands. This was not only a vibrant public park on the waterfront, it was a crucial link in the Hudson River Greenway hike and bike trail. Kent and I knew that this park was a compromised public space. The Interim Park was the best we could achieve with the highway in place. The Final Park was supposed to have been the city’s largest waterfront public amenity built in this century. We looked back to the skyline of Riverside South, a row of undistinguished apartment buildings. We harbored the hope that when the time came for the governing authorities to once again spend public money to repair the elevated highway, someone would remember that there is an existing right of way under Riverside Boulevard and that sections of the tunnel to house a relocated highway had already been built. Perhaps then, the highway would be relocated and a world-class park could be built. Cities all across America have moved roads away from rivers to provide public recreation. Why not New York?