Walls and de/territorialization

Lima is a city of walls. Walls which impose incredible lines of demarcation, drawn with the cement and stone that is erected throughout the city’s topography. They carve apart districts, properties, schools, roads, and recreational areas and shout to the passerby, “here is a separated land, here is a place where you cannot go”. When I walked along a road, la Avenida la Republica de Panama, there was only road. I glanced to my sides to catch sights of what is surrounding me, and I was enveloped by bright lights and dark spaces. The bright lights tempted me; they beckoned for me to peer inside and enter their warmth, but to do so, I would have had to cross through a gate and open a wrought iron door. The dark spaces are less inviting, yet their mysteriousness allures me. Perhaps the spaces are not truly dark, perhaps people have faint lights glimmering inside their rooms, or a shopkeeper is cleaning the floors under the florescent shimmer of a work lamp. Regardless, it is impossible to tell, as the iron door in front of these dark spaces are firmly shut, completing the circuit of concrete wall that surrounds the home/shop/restaurant.

IMG_3951Living in Miraflores/Surquillo, the walls in front of dark and bright spaces display how segmented this part of the city is. Fences carve through the district’s neighborhoods, as the beautiful colors and independent designs of houses are further separated by tall borders. Bright, or dark, the presumed residents behind these walls go through great lengths to protect their lands and possessions by employing increasingly terrifying methods of deterrence by constructing intimidating borders. Some residents purchase iron fences with sharp spear points on the top to deter robbers and passersbys from climbing above the wall. Other walls have malevolent hooks that provide an even greater threat to the miserable thief, crooked, fear-inducing shapes of violent iron that curve into a sharp blade. Still other walls are more inventive, with high velocity electrical cords wrapped around coils of barbed wire. However, deterrence can be accomplished through much less extravagant means. Several structures are surrounded by a basic concrete wall, rather thick, but seemingly innocuous. Above these walls, though, are shards of glass implanted into concrete adhesive, which viciously glimmer in the sunlight. With this extensive variety of walls displayed throughout Lima, it is easy to assume that the entire functionality of walls (what walls do) are for the “protection” and “security” of those who reside behind them. Why else would such malicious designs be incorporated into a relatively simple structure (the wall after all is one of the simplest of structures to design)? However, the question of “what walls do” is far more complex than to promote security.

In front of one dark property, I noticed that the door is slightly open. I peered inside, able to look past the thick walls that kept me at a distance. I saw that the yard appeaed overgrown with weeds breaking through the interstices of the stone path that winded its way further inwards. Overcome with curiosity, I pushed the door open and stepped into the yard to find that the entire property had been abandoned. The windows were shattered, the shards of glass scattered in front of the house’s façade. To my surprise, the front door was also slightly opened and I debated whether or not I should proceed into this part of the home as well. Before I could make my decision, a police car slowed down behind me and I quickly backed out of the yard and closed the door. Had the gate door been shut like the others I passed by while walking through the neighborhood I would have assumed the home behind the concrete walls was occupied, that people enjoyed the privacy of their well-guarded property. Instead, the structure housed the insects and animals that crossed through the ajar front door. In this description, it becomes more evident that walls are not simply designed to keep one-person docile outside, and another person safe inside, but that they have lasting impressions on the urban geography long after their designed “protective”, or “security” purpose has dissipated.

IMG_4320This can be observed in many parts of Lima, where concrete or brick walls remain while the structures behind these borders are demolished, fallen into disrepair, and abandoned. Directly in front of the Pontificia Universidad Catolica del Peru and across a narrow bridge that extends over a busy highway below, there is an abandoned lot with scattered pieces of wooden planks, furniture, concrete blocks, and a cement platform. However, when passing along the sidewalk below the bridge, the everyday pedestrian would be shadowed by the towering, graffitied wall surrounding the lot, without any means to see the haphazardly discarded contents within. Similarly, as I was walking down a decline in Pueblo Libre, I was able to see above the neighborhood walls that aligned the streets. Between two homes I noticed an empty space with the ruins of what was once a brick structure. Whereas along the walls, the neighborhood appeared homogenous and structured, the barriers obscured what was, in reality, a heterogenous display of construction and disrepair. In light of these observations, what, then, do walls do? To begin to answer this, we may need to look at how walls are typically treated, as demarcations of property.

On the outskirts of Lima, there are many small farming communities that spot the desert environment. Between dunes of sand, one can find sprawling walls that circle around hundreds of tiny concrete homes. However, when I explored these communities in the winter months of April-May 2019, these communities were entirely abandoned. The walls surrounding rising from the desert were painted with political slogans from 2016 or earlier, the paint cracking under the intense Peruvian coastal heat, indicating that political candidates had recently noticed the potential in converting these unoccupied spaces into campaign flyers. The concrete homes, little larger than 80 square feet, had straw roofs, and several appeared to be caving in. Unable to find a spot a living person in the area, I was struck by the complete silence that permeated the community. As opposed to the United States, where it is quite common to find “abandoned”, or “empty” spaces with an accompanying sign that displays property ownership along the lines of “Private Property, do not enter”, this community’s only public announcement was the 2016 Peruvian general election painted onto the walls. Doubtless, as it was explained to me later, this space was indeed private property rented out to seasonal migrants who occupy this town when they are required to harvest the cyclical yield. Although it is obviously true that walls in this case delineate private property, I believe that this observation must be taken further.

Property, popularized in the liberal tradition by John Locke in the 17th century is more than contracts, laws, signatures, and courts, although these factors in property are nevertheless important. In liberalism, property is the product of labor and investment. As Locke argues, property results from the appropriation of labor into a medium to create ownership. An object, a piece of land, or a technique becomes one’s property because that person has devoted labor into appropriating. In fact, property ownership directly relates to what Locke defines as “self-ownership” as a natural right given to humankind, and from this ownership of one’s self, one is able to possess objects outside of themselves by devoting their actions to those objects. From this description it becomes evident that, in liberalism, property is an extension of the self into the objects that the person interacts with. These items carry the subject’s essence. In terms of land ownership, modern theories on property derive from a similar understanding of the utilization of land, although the naturalistic object of Locke’s property (picking acorns, harvesting food from one’s own garden, etc.) is far from the highly alienated and corporate forms of land utilization today. Although property is often spoken about in legalistic terms, at its core, the liberal tradition of property is a theory of self and the extension of the self. Land, understood in these terms, is made social through labor.

Properties such as the abandoned seasonal work community on the outskirts of Lima are territorialized by land developers and large corporate farms because they are organized into sites for production. However, the walls surrounding these farms are not simply the passive markers of this territorialization, they are essential in the prerequisite act of deterritoralization as well. Walls are commonly employed to claim property because they are crucial symbols for deconstructing former relations and extensions that existed in a space. The seemingly arbitrary erection of a border wall to separate two identical pieces of land isn’t only to establish a legalistic entity, but to tear up the previously existing entity. The present-day farming communities outside of Lima are likely very different from the agricultural properties that existed prior to their purchase by large ag-corporations. It is also likely that the previous farmers that possessed property claims constructed their own walls in different geographical forms in order to deterritorialize the ownership of previous farmers, and they as well erected walls to deterritorialize what they viewed as the “natural setting” before their labor was introduced. Of course, walls also territorialize by otherwise declaring that a place is associated with a certain jurisdiction that is recognized by the state and utilized by corporate entities (often the two are inseparable in modern neoliberalism). This process is far more widely understood by political scientists and diplomats, and has been utilized to generate modern political theory centered on the nation-state. It is this interplay, between deterritorialization and the subsequent (possibly simultaneous) territorialization that interests me the most, and it appears that walls are a perfect starting point to understanding this juncture.

Walls epitomize statist logic. They are attempts at establishing permanence and regulated order, yet they are entirely constructed and are often arbitrary despite theirIMG_3949 intended durability. In my paper, “Cavalry and castles: mobile and stationary frontiers in 7th-8th century Libya and Tunisia” (2020), I sought to describe how mobile cavalry military organization —modeled off of nomadic desert warfare— interacted with the stationary fortresses and coastal states in North Africa. Wherever the Byzantine patricians would lead their troops, their walls would soon follow, serving to deterritorialize their desert environment and the pre-existing local relationships among Berber communities, and to re-territorialize these spaces as imperial holdings. As the mobile Arab armies advanced through North Africa, these imperial settlements relied on their walls as the bastion of their statehood. Just as the state occupies and repurposes land/space into its national territory, and likewise manages its population in a similar manner, walls serve as a tool, a mechanism for this territorialization.

With this new understanding of walls, we can see how on the outskirts of Lima, as well as within the urban space itself, walls are indeed utilized for a variety of purposes. Security, and the maintenance of property are indeed clear intents for the concrete barriers that split apart the city, but these are only surface answers to a much more nuanced discussion about permanence, deterritorialization, territorialization, and the state. Although many walls in Lima protect only abandoned and “empty” lots, they do not lose their function in this regard because they nevertheless still reproduce the essence of stability that they are designed to uphold, and they fragment previous relations and extensions-of-the-self that existed before.

 

 

I feel transient

My decomposition.jpg

I feel transient. It’s likely that I have always felt this way, and it is only in the jaws of existential questions and issues that I feel fully how transient I am, but it is certainly true that right now, I do indeed, feel transient. Perhaps it is best to describe what transience is when I am describing it for myself (which isn’t an attempt to define transience in general, which is one of the seemingly impossible goals of this research project). I stake the claim that I FEEL AS IF I AM DISAPPEARING. My life is discontinuity, or is it continuity: where the only continuous thing is the cursed embrace of a bed mattress? Is my bed the only continuous strand that I can grasp?

I never realized how disabling pancreatitis could be before I arrived in Lima. When I first encountered the enraging disease six years ago, I handled the experience as any 15-year-old would, with paralyzing fear, followed by a subsequent blanket of relief when finally, at long last, I was released from my hospital bed and wheeled out into the sunlight in my wheelchair. I can still remember the joyous rays of sun that resurrected my sick body. It wasn’t the medicine, the opioids, or the extensive medical care from nurses and doctors that resurrected me, it was the sunlight, which told me that I was once again a part of this world. My days would no longer glide by unnoticeably as I stared at the white ceiling or walls, too drowsy with the opioids to even read a book. I slept my days away that week, even though I wasn’t tired. The only distinctive event that I could recognize were the random doctor’s/nurse’s visits that interrupted my solitude.

That hospital experience replaced all my memories of the extreme pain that pancreatitis brought with it. Yes, there was excruciating pain, but there were also white walls and hopelessness. No one knew what it was. No one knew if it would remain. No one knew how to treat it. We could only wait as my enzyme levels gradually decreased to a manageable level. It was the most painful thing I had ever experienced, but what shattered my world at that age, was just how much my experience could change in the face of this disease- just how much I could lose. When the doctor informed me that it was likely a freak event, a “one-in-a-million infection”, I truly felt rejuvenated. This illness wouldn’t conquer my life. I could return to familiarity and the continuity of family, classes, music etc.

Now, however, I have learned that that experience six years ago was a false glimmer of continuity. My life progressed for six years, day after day, teasing me with the expectation that the next day, and the next day, I would be myself and my world would be the same.

I had my second episode of pancreatitis two weeks after I arrived in Lima. I took the bus to the university in the morning, as per usual, but as I sat upon the bus seat, I suddenly felt as if I was impaled through my abdomen. Throughout that ride, I uncomfortably shifted in my seat, to the annoyance of the other packed passengers in the Micro as they waddled to be free from my squirming. At the university I attempted to eat, which only aggravated what I believed to be a stomach flu. Seeing no alternative at the time, I found a bench to lie down and wish away the pain. I stared at the blue sky and watched the clouds fly past. Ever so slightly, I became colder, as if the intense rays of sun of Lima’s midday could no longer penetrate through my skin. I could see the heat in the light, but I felt nothing save for the intensifying cold. I shivered and gasped and stared at the clouds and realized instantly, that my pancreatitis had returned.

sad jojoiv

The next few hours were lethargic torturers, as I was passed from the university clinic to an ambulance, to an emergency room, and finally, by nightfall, into a hospital room. I wish I could describe each experience as I could with my earlier realization that I had pancreatitis, but I had officially lost control of my life. I was whisked from a wheeled stretcher to a cold metal examination room, to an even colder wheelchair, and then to a frigid hospital bed. Doctors strapped my arms into blood pressure monitors and shoved thermometers into my mouth. They spoke above me to the university directors who had accompanied me, occasionally asking what level of pain I was experiencing. Writhing on the examination table, I shouted that it “fucking hurts”, forgetting briefly that I was being spoken to in Spanish. Upon hearing this, the doctors left for what seemed like an eternity. I gasped and moaned and punched my bed as I waited. I wanted nothing else but relief. Only release. I knew that the directors were concerned, but they didn’t know what else to do other than to soothe me as best as they could. Their conversations, their jokes, were the only things that kept me from collapsing into hysteria. Somehow, despite the raging inferno within my body, I could offer up a few quips and a hangman’s humor. The door flew open and doctors wheeled in an IV. They chose an arm and a vein to drive their needle. I waited in desperate anticipation as they attached a syringe of opioids and emptied the vial into my bloodstream. Release.

The rest of the week, I remember little more than white walls, white ceilings, white sheets, and hopelessness. Once more, the only indication I received of the passage of time were the intermittent visits by nurses, directors, hospital staff, and doctors. The minute I caught the slightest recognition of a lab coat and a familiar voice, another vial of painkillers was emptied into my body and I became docile once more, staring at the ceiling. When, after eight days, I was released, I was told that it was likely an autoimmune infection just like six years ago. It was simply more bad luck.

Although I spent the better part of another week recovering at home in Miraflores, I was convinced that I had been struck by lightning twice. I returned to my normal behaviors, discontinued my recommended diet, and remained active. There was little indication that anything had changed once more. The sun shined, and I felt it again. In less than a month, however, I returned to the emergency room. This time I packed my own luggage for my stay in the hospital. I ordered my own Uber and checked myself into the emergency room. An issue with the insurance company condemned me to wait for an hour, slowly deteriorating in health before I could be attended to, but once I was inside through the emergency room doors the entire process repeated: blood pressure monitors, thermometers, cold examination tables, even colder wheelchairs. I accepted it. Hopelessness for another week, I believed. Then the sunlight. But this time wasn’t like the last. When I left the hospital that second time, I never felt healthy again.

hospital windows

Almost a month after my second emergency room visit, I cannot walk longer than a few kilometers. I spend half of my days in my bed, and the other half planning the most efficient route back to my bed. I cannot eat more than soup otherwise my abdomen erupts into new bouts of pain. Many mornings I wake up to great discomfort and have to debate whether I can survive the hour-long commute to the university. Each time it’s different. Sometimes I feel extremely heavy, as if my body will explode at any minute in a display of painful entropy. Other times, I feel weak enough to collapse onto the street, and when I finally arrive at a seat, I fall into its support and breathe heavily. Occasionally, I receive intense fevers, descending into cold shivers regardless of where I am. Honestly, everything feels cold. It may be just the gray Lima winter, but I haven’t felt sunlight in a while.

I am no longer synced to my body. It feels as if everyday is a new betrayal, as I lose “control” (or maybe I never had control over these things, and I am just realizing it) of a new function each week. Frequently, I feel like Camus’ Sisyphus, toiling away to push my boulder of pain off to another day, only to have it fall back the next day. This life feels arbitrary. It feels negatively chaotic, denying me health and choice, or at least the illusion of choice. Most noticeably, I feel as if my life has become a discontinuous array of experiences, as if I never left the hospital. I am at the mercy of enzymes. I am held captive in my own body. But once again, maybe this is how it has always been. There’s no mind/body, there is my existence, my being, and it has drastically changed. I am disabled.

For this reason, I say that I am transient. My body, my being, is noticeably transient as it withers away each day with no end in sight. It is decomposition. Unlike the healthy person, who experiences with permanence, I am all too aware of my impermanence. How quickly I can be sent back into a hospital, how arbitrarily I can be whisked away from my classes, from my friends. A telling sign of this difference is how I spend most of my nights wondering how my tomorrow will change. A healthy person would stay awake thinking about how to improve their yesterday and their today. My yesterday and my today are independent events that could become an absurdist reality. I look in my mirror and I don’t see who I used to be. I am far skinnier. I can see my bones. Dark circles under my eyes betray just how impossible it is to sleep when my pancreas jolts me awake with pain in the middle of the night. No one knows what is causing my pain, and this discontinuity makes me transient. No one seems to understand how long this malady has affected me and to what extent, and this discontinuity makes me transient. My absurdity doesn’t fit into the schedules, the plans, the structures that give people’s lives permanence and so they leave me behind. They leave what they do not understand and what doesn’t fit into their narrative. And this discontinuity makes me transient.

Overflow and Breaking; Fluidity and Structure in Migration

Overflow:

Overflow Finished

The image represents the interplay between mobility/fluidity, and structure in the urban city-space in respect to the formation of new migrant communities and how migration can break down, transcend, and reconstruct the general structure of the city. Direction, weight, and magnitude can be observed interacting with solid barriers and cells, as fluidity opposes and redesigns structure.

Specifically, this artwork is inspired by the division between San Juan de Miraflores and Santiago de Sucre, known infamously as the “Wall of Shame”. The structure of the wall— a common sight throughout Lima around wealthy properties, company lands, and university campuses— divides the city into segments by socioeconomic status and prestige. In the image, I used wood barriers to delineate and segment grey cells, enclosed by the wooden walls. These cells are scattered around the image, and represent the constructed space within the city by displaying small glimpses into the city’s structure. These cells are the buildings and streets that form the city’s topography, depicted as a grey space that signifies Lima’s grey cityscape and matches the surrounding walls. However, I chose to separate these grey city cells to present how the city itself is constructed and impermanent, despite how solid its structures appear. The cells are suspended in a mysterious purple background to depict how communities like Santiago de Sucre were manufactured and that Lima is constituted of similar impermanence.

Interweaving throughout the cells is a moving and twisting image of fluidity. This form represents migration, which, much like water, flows wherever it is pressured or where it must. I painted this blue migratory water in a way that displays intense force and direction as it grows, dissipates, and repeats throughout the cells. Its presence in several cells presents how migration coexists with the city structure, interacting in the same space much as how migrant groups occupy the same areas, and participate in the same markets as “original” residents in “original” structures. However, the force of migration isn’t simply contained in these cells. Fluidity emerges above the walls as represented by the ceramic mix. I mixed ceramica en frio, talco, y pegamento to create a texture that fully displays the weight and movement of migration beyond established structure. The texture is made to look like both foaming water from the raging rapid of moving populations, as well as the mountainous cerro surrounding Lima, where San Juan de Miraflores is located. On top of this texture are new structures, the small homes of migrants that appear to be both lodged into the mountains, as well as carried into place by the sheer force of the migratory path, which affords their current space. In this way, fluid migration interacts with preexisting structure and restructures the city through its force.

Breaking:

Breaking

This work was the original. It was inspired by the same ideas and was supposed to include homes on top of the talco mixture, but I became dissatisfied with how continuous the image was, and how it seemed as if fluidity/migration, as represented by the water-like figures, was uninterrupted. I desired more discontinuity and interaction between what could be clearly defined as “structure”, and the interweaving intersections of fluidity. As well, I was still experimenting with the talco mixture and produced a very brittle texture. As I was trying to redesign the work, the talco shattered and fell apart (the beginning of this process could be seen in the picture). As well, I accidentally destroyed the image as I was cutting it into discontinuous pieces. Rather than starting over completely, I reused many of the materials from this first attempt. Many of the cells in “Overflow” were cut from this work. As well, I salvaged the wood grid to make the new walls around the cells and the houses on the ceramic.

Overall, “Breaking” should be juxtaposed to “Overflow” as different ways in which fluidity and structure can interact. Force of transience, as in migration, can overwhelm the established structure and reform into something entirely new, redesigning the structure (even if this new design takes the form of the terribly poor migrant communities of San Juan de Miraflores). As well, this force can simply break the structure, collapse, and reemerge as a blend of the same materials.

The Wall of Shame: Class Segregation of Santiago de Sucre and San Juan de Miraflores

Divide: Pictures show Peru's ten-foot high Wall of Shame topped with razor wire which divides the rich and poor to stop the less well-off stealing from the wealthyThe wall of shame, a concrete barrier between the informal neighborhoods of San Juan de Miraflores, and the affluent residents of Santiago de Surco, is a frequently cited example of segregation along class lines in Latin American cities. It stands at three meters tall and is topped with rings of barbed wire, stretching over ten kilometers of mountainous terrain to separate the two sharply distinct communities. Santiago de Surco, to the west, boasts vast green spaces and large two-story homes with personal swimming pools. Community security guards patrol the streets and close the neighborhood’s gates at night; their outposts are spread out throughout the area. On the other side of the wall is the sprawling assortment of informal homes in San Juan de Miraflores (not to be confused with the district of Miraflores closer to the center of Lima, a very affluent part of the city). These homes, built into the “Cerro”—the mountainous regions surrounding central Lima, as has been discussed in earlier posts and represented in my artwork—are often constructed of spare wood and concrete, and topped with slabs of sheet metal.

Residences in San Juan de Miraflores lack the basic services that are readily supplied to their affluent neighbors on the other side of the wall. Most homes do not have electricity, and 9 out of 10 residences do not have access to the public water supply, or a connection to any drainage system (TECHO 2018). Those that live in S.J. de Miraflores must pay for water to be independently shipped into their neighborhoods via water trucks, often shoveling out ten times as much money as the wealthier residents of Santiago de Surco, who have public access to water (OXFAM 2014). Approximately 92% of those that live in Nueva Rinconda (a subdistrict in Santiago de Surco) “compra agua a los camiones cisterna”, and pay three soles for 100 liters of water, which is subsequently poured into large blue canisters for residents’ use (OXFAM 2014). Residents must sometimes wait for hours for the water trucks to arrive, as their “erratic (routes) up the steep dirt tracks of the ‘slum’” are often unpredictable (Mervin 2015). Residents then pour and carry this water into their homes, but must be careful to clean and sanitize all buckets and pitchers in order to avoid water borne diseases that are also carried in by the trucks.

Also lacking for many residents, are property deeds. Most residents have purchased plots of land informally from the technical “landowner”, but hold no property ownership, and cannot legally point to any documents that support their claim to remaining in the Cerro. From 1950 to 1980, the population of Peru’s Lima district has grown to over 9 million, most of whom are living in the “conos” to the north and south of the city’s center. At the same time, Lima’s “hierarchical order was maintained, in which the rich occupied the center of the city, surrounded by the middle class, with the lower class inhabiting the peripheries” (Boano and Desmaison 2016). Since the 1980s, internal migration to Lima has soared as many Peruvians from the country’s Sierra and Selva regions fled their rural homes in search of security and opportunity in the city. The severe economic downturn during the 80s, alongside terrorism and internal conflicts throughout the country, pushed millions to concentrate in the districts surrounding central Lima in what is known as “the invasion”. Simultaneously, upper- and middle-class residents also moved outside of the city, which they felt were becoming too crowded. Thus, the lands surrounding central Lima were split between affluent residents, and incoming migrants.

“This meant that social groups, which traditionally occupied distanced geographical spaces, now shared the same territory: both the upper and lower social classes mingled in the city’s peripheries. To quell a growing fear of their poorer neighbours, affluent new residents built gated communities with heavy security installations which prevent people living outside those areas to pass through them. It’s not just a matter of security – living within a gated community also confers social status. The walls deter and immobilise: they are an expression of power and control over the lives of others” (Boano and Desmaison 2016).

These conditions have generated the current situation at the wall of shame. In the next post, I will discuss what these walls, their power, and their relationship with space entail, and how social class can be understood in terms of permanence and transience in a spatial setting.

 

TECHO presents their first report on the human settlements of the district of San Juan, Peru

https://peru.oxfam.org/participa-nuestras-campanas-iguales/sara-el-muro-y-el-agua

https://www.bbc.com/news/business-34451418

https://www.arte.tv/en/videos/078636-000-A/peru-wall-of-shame/

http://theconversation.com/limas-wall-of-shame-and-the-gated-communities-that-build-poverty-into-peru-53356

El Cerro y El Centro; Caos y Anomalia en Lima

Caos y Anomolia, Cerro y Centro

Las dos imagenes en contraposición representan lo que es una ciudad, una urbanización normal contra lo que se da en Lima, Perú, que es la invasión a la montaña como zona urbana; dando la anomalía de la vida cotidiana en un espacio anormal. El caos de Lima con su pobreza a llevado a la sobrepoblación a asentuarse en zonas peligrosas como son las montañas, los cerros. Se visualiza en el desorden de estos asentamientos improvisados que se volvieron parte de Lima, han sobrevivido al tiempo, volviendose parte de Lima sin que lo miremos dos veces.

Hemos usado como síntesis las ventanas de estas estructuras para representar a los mismos edificios y casas, destacando sus características de orden por un lado: verticales, planeadas, simétricas; contra el caos y desorden de la ubicación de las casas del cerro con sus respectivas ventanas, donde no tienen una lógica estricta, al igual que todas las construcciones de la zona.

También, hemos usado materiales diferentes para ambas imágenes. Las texturas de la imagen de la ciudad son inorgánicas, y hemos usado machinas para imprimir las ventanas en la madera. La madera es suave y ordenada, y el espacio entre las ventanas es igual. Las figuras de los edificios en la ciudad son claras. Por otro lado, la imagen de las casas en el cerro es desordenada. Los materiales son caóticos y incluyen pedazos de madera, papel, lija, y otras cosas ásperas. Primero, construye una obra con lija y papel, y las ventanas dibujadas con carbón. El uso de carbón significa que las ventanas/casas no son permanentes, porque las marcas del material pueden desaparecer fácilmente. Después, rompimos la imagen en pedazos y los pegue encima de una tableta de “chipwood”.

La imagen modela el caos y la anomalía en el espacio de la ciudad de Lima, y ​​decidimos realizar nuestro proyecto sobre áreas de vida al comparar el diseño del centro de la ciudad con las casas del cerro. Es entre el orden y el desorden, y cómo se desarrollan realmente las ciudades. La idea es comprender el espacio urbano y cómo la permanencia, la gestión y el orden, todo factor en las estructuras de las casas y las vidas de los residentes (representadas como ventanas).

Reflections on Moving Subjects within the City

Obelisco

Image result for obelisk painting abstract

 

En esta imagen, quería presentar una estructura con poder y peso en frente en un ángulo. Yo vi una foto de un obelisco en un parque a lado de la avenida Ejercito. El obelisco es una anomalía natural, esta construido para atraer atención. Es una memoria y una señal, y entonces su diseño rompe el cotidiano. Sin Embargo, muchas veces. Un monumento este combinado al fondo porque es viejo o los residentes están acostumbrados. En este proyecto quiero expandir el movimiento en el papel. Los bordes del obelisco son afilados como un cuchillo, y corta la comunidad al fondo. Mis acciones para utilizar las lecturas en esta clase van a usar carbón y construir un “imagen oscura y con peso”. https://www.loriharrisondesign.com/shop-art

Callao

Image result for callao lima airEn el aire, cuando veas la costa de Lima, una estructura corta la ciudad. El aeropuerto Callao, es un rectángulo entre los edificios de el norte y oeste y campos del sur. Por supuesto, Callao sirva como una anomalía en la forma normal de Lima, pero también corta la ciudad a la mitad. También, ¿qué es el movimiento? Las calles, y edificios en el centro de Lima, ¿o los campos y la tierra acerca de la costa? ¿Qué es la anomalía aquí? Callao representa el cambio internacional y global en Lima. La influencia exteral entra a través del aeropuerto. Extranjeros visitan Perú y Lima a través de los aviones, y también el comercio necesita el aeropuerto para funcionar. Al sur, los campos significan un Lima antigua, antes de la influencia. Los aviones en vuelo mueven arriba y adentro del aeropuerto.

La Marcha

El punto de partida de la marcha será en el parque Washington. Las calles en una ciudad corta el espacio entre los edificios. Pero, en el cotidiano, no son anomilias, son un parte de la ciudad para apoyar las estructuras. Las calles son las raíces de los arboles de los edificios. El comercio, los residentes, y todas las personas y cosas de la ciudad van a través de las calles para crecer y mantener el ritmo del Lima. Una marcha es un movimiento, físicamente, y también en la ideología. Interrupta el ritmo de la ciudad y cambia las calles. Se transforma en un mecanismo para la cambia. Las carreteras, en este caso, son ríos y raíces, pero las personas actúan como agua diferente de los carros y autobuses que conducen en las calles. https://rpp.pe/lima/actualidad/marcha-ni-una-menos-conoce-la-ruta-de-la-movilizacion-programada-para-este-sabado-noticia-1142616

La Inundación

Related imageLa imagen aquí significa el caos de una inundación. La textura de el agua sucia contrasta con las fachadas suaves de los edificios. En todo, una inundación es un movimiento con peso, pero en la imagen, el agua parece lo mismo de las montanas al fondo. Todo esta marrón y pardo en un ambiente total. En terreno ambas en las carreteras y las montanas encima, uñita la escena. Es cautico, pero el mismo color significa algo natural. Sin embargo, hay una anomalía en la imagen. Las personas, los edificios y el esfuerzo para escapar la situación induce un sentimiento de caos y miedo. Tambien los colores de azul, en el medio de las aguas oscuras y pardas significa una lucha de humanidad y cultura en una situación del medio ambiente. https://www.tcgnews.it/2017/03/nuevas-lluvias-amenazan-agravar-las-inundaciones-en-peru-75-muertos/