Why are the Toynbee Tiles back?

At least two new Toynbee Tiles appeared on the streets of Philadelphia last month, and given the length of their original creator's arm, those aren't the only new ones and they won't be the last. 

If you're unfamiliar, take a look at the 2011 documentary, Resurrect Dead. The Toynbee Tiles, which became a global mystery spanning continents and decades, are allegedly the work of a lone South Philadelphian obsessed with death and a harsh disdain for the media. If you live in Philadelphia, you've seen them before, linoleum plaques embedded in the streets and crosswalks usually mentioning some variation of a Toynbee idea, Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, and resurrecting the dead on planet Jupiter.

They could easily be mistaken for the work of a street artist or a hipster trolling pedestrians with weird words senselessly tethered together. But Resurrect Dead digs into the phenomenon few others bothered to question, and found that truth is much stranger than fiction...especially in Philadelphia.

A lot of the lore behind these tiles - pigeons preserved in concrete, padlocked doors, and a South Philadelphia street littered in linoleum letters - could easily be chalked up to tinfoil hats and conspiracy theories were it not for the research documented in Resurrect Dead conducted by Justin Duerr, Steve Weinik, and Colin Smith. 

Unraveling the history behind the tiles revealed a peculiar resident who longed for immortality, was convinced he discovered a Fountain of Youth in the works of Arnold J. Toynbee and Stanley Kubrick, and turned his sights towards the media when his ideas were scoffed at by the press.

Without a thorough analysis of something so quirky - and no X-Files department in the Philadelphia Police Department - we'll never know if the tiles laid down last month were the work of the same South Philadelphia curiosity. However, the new tiles don't bare the markings of the copycats that followed throughout the '90s and early 2000s, rather they share the style and simple message of the originals, as if they were carved out of a large stack under the many tiles fading beneath our feet.

That's not to say the original tiles didn't vary. While most were small and easily missed, a few notable examples deviated from his stock of cryptic messages. Those exceptions were often more lengthy, literal, and grim. While Resurrect Dead's diligence reveals the origin of the tiles, few have tried to tackle the motivations of someone so seemingly troubled. There is little to gather from the vast majority of the tiler's messages, but one pair of tiles stands out and offers the greatest insight into the mind of a potential madman, a pair buffed from 16th and Chestnut a few years ago.

JOHN KNIGHT, OWNER OF "THE PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER" - HELLION JEW - WHOSE HATED THIS MOVEMENTS GUTS - FOR YEARS - TAKES MONEY FROM THE MAFIA TO MAKE THE MAFIA LOOK GOOD IN HIS NEWSPAPERS SO HE HAS THE MAFIA BACK IN HIS POCKET.

JOHN KNIGHT SENT THE MAFIA TO MURDER ME IN MAY 1991. (unreadable) JOURNALIST ALL OF THEM GLOATED TO MY FACE ABOUT MY DEATH AND KNIGHT-RIDER GREAT POWER TO DESTROY. IN FACT JOHN KNIGHT WENT INTO HELLION BINGE OF JOY OVER KNIGHT-RIDDERS GREAT POWER TO DESTROY. I SECURED HOUSE WITH BLAST DOORS AND FLED THE COUNTRY IN JUNE 1991. N.B.C. ATTORNEYS, JOURNALISTS AND SECURITY OFFICIALS AT ROCKERFELLER CENTER FRADULAENTLY (unreadable) UNDER THE "FREEDOM OF INFORMATION ACT" ALL ORDERS OF N.B.C. EXECUTIVES GOT THE U.S. FEDERAL DISTRICT ATTORNEYS OFFICE AND GOT THE F.B.I. TO GET INTERPOL TO ESTABLISH TASK FORCE THAT LOCATED ME IN DOVER ENGLAND.

WHEN BACK HOME INQUIRER GOT UNION GOONS FROM THEIR OWN EMPLOYEES UNION TO SEND DOWN A "SPORTS JOURNALIST" - WHO - WITH BASEBALL BAT BASHED IN LIGHTS AND WINDOWS OF NEIGHBORHOOD CARS - AS WELL AS MEN OUTSIDE MY HOUSE. THEY ARE STATIONED THERE STILL. WAITING FOR ME. N.B.C., C.B.S., GROUP "W" WESTINGHOUSE. TIME. TIME-WARNER. FOX. UNIVERSAL - ALL OF THE "CULT OF THE HELLION" EACH WERE MUCH WORSE THAN KNIGHT RIDDER EVER WAS. (MOSTLY HELLION JEWS). WHEN K.Y.W. AND N.B.C. EXECUTIVES TOLD JOHN KNIGHT THE WHOLE COVEN GLOATED ON HOW THEIR SOVIET PALS HAD FOUND A WAY TO TURN IT INTO A.....

Cozy bedtime reading, right? The tiles don't elicit the same funky, homegrown nostalgia when paired with the paranoid rantings of an anti-Semite convinced he's under surveillance by the FBI. Couple that with another tile begging the public to "Murder every journalist," and it's very possible that the tiler is in fact on a few government watch-lists. 

If he is back, his relentless hatred for the media could explain exactly why. In less than a month, the DNC will be in Philadelphia, with thousands of journalists in tow. And since his first run-in with the press, the mainstream media has ballooned into a caricature of the fact-finders he once loathed. An aging man obsessed with mortality, probably well into his 80s, is now faced with the reality that he never found death's cure, and that all of those who walk on top of his tiles have been looking at them through the winking eye of irony. A very serious message to one disturbed man - the secret to eternal life on planet Jupiter - has turned into a pop-culture fad, available for sale on t-shirts and lapel pins. 

He's probably pissed off.

If the tiler is still alive, someone so paranoid is undoubtedly scouring the web. He knows we're reading and writing about him, and he knows we haven't heeded his message. In less than a month, the world's eyes will be on Philadelphia to kick off the most divisive presidential election in modern history, all brought to us by thousands upon thousands of those the tiler hates most.

July could prove to be a very interesting month. Stay tuned. 

Mother Divine

To all those who love the Divine Lorraine, here's your Friday treat. In 2003, Temple senior Jeff Elstone was allowed to film his short, Mother Divine, in the North Broad relic then maintained by International Peace Movement Mission caretaker David Peace.

Set in an unknown era, the neo-noir film offers a glimpse into the Divine Lorraine that few ever witnessed, and even less experienced. It's dark, beautiful, and austere. 

I rarely know what to think of art films, but one thing I do appreciate is their production - beyond the confines of product placement, executive notes, and test audiences - of something that they perceive to be absolute perfection. 

And this one is perfect in its simplicity.

On its surface, Mother Divine may appear to be another story about love, life, and the impact of the decisions we make. But dig a little deeper, and it's a story that couldn't be set anywhere else. It's a story about us, what we chose to be, what's to come, and how the Divine Lorraine embodies all of that. 


Mother Divine from Jeff Elstone on Vimeo.

They just wanted to dance...

I want to laugh.

I want to cry.

I want to be angry.

I want to be sad.

I am trapped in a thousand-yard stare.

Their's is a million.

Because all they wanted to do, was dance.

I have so many words, but so little to say.

I am tired.

I am hoarse.

I am weak.

But all they wanted to do, was dance.

Two Men Dancing by Robert Mapplethorpe

------

I am tired of reading about guns and terrorists and stories of dead women and men, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters.

I am tired of the media. I am tired of the preachers. I am tired of the politicians. 

I am tired because I am enraged. 

And I am enraged, because of Orlando.

The fanatically devout have hijacked the Orlando massacre to suggest this senseless tragedy is somehow a threat to their distorted morality. The NRA thinks more AR-15s will stop more AR-15s. And the media - CNN, MSNBC, Fox News - purveyors of 21st Century Yellow Journalism, have called this an attack on "humanity."

Yes, this was an attack on humanity, a very marginalized piece of it. A community too few journalists are willing to mention, because ads don't sell well when minorities die. A very specific piece of humanity that hypocritical preachers and politicians are using to wage war, incite hate, push guns, ban guns, and claim themselves the victims.

They don't get this one. Like like this.

This was not an attack on a sanctuary for religious fundamentalists. It was an attack on a sanctuary for those persecuted by religious fundamentalism. To those in the media, the pulpit, or the congressional podium telling me to pray, and not politicize. You made this political.

You spent billions fighting my God given right to love. You used my community as online click-bait. You told me I needed to pray for my salvation, and now you dare ask me to pray beside you? How dare you? How fucking dare you?! Fear mongers and politicians don't want our prayers. They want our silence, while they figure out how to weave this into their own agendas. 

Make no mistake. This is not about them. This was an attack on the LGBT community, and all of those who have come to embrace the very notion of a love worth fighting for.

------

In case you didn't know, I want it to be clear:

I AM A GAY MAN.

Today, more than any since I came out 22 years ago, I think it is so important to say that. I am gay. I refuse to hide. I refuse to live in fear.

To me, this was not "another shooting," albeit how sad anyone should ever have to write those words? This was not something that "could have happened anywhere" or "to anyone." Whether Omar Mateen was a closeted homosexual disgusted with his own orientation, or a card-carrying terrorist disgusted with mine, this was an attack that happened in one place, to one group of people.

The pious preachers and career cronies who have called this an attack on "humanity," on "America," have spent their lives deeming that humanity inhuman, and their careers trying to legally shut me out of that America. If you're wondering for a moment why this is so personal to me, or any LGBT people you may know or read about, why I am so angry, distraught, and physically tired from thinking so much over the last seven days: think about how tight, and small, our community is, and how much that requires us to depend on one another.

Heterosexuals live in a detached world of Six Degrees of Separation. We, whatever letter in LGBT you want to pick, have about two. None of us can go on Facebook without reading a story about a friend or friend's friend who lost someone they knew in Orlando last weekend. When we read the news on Sunday morning, each of us was filled with dread, running through our mental list of friends and acquaintances, wondering who among them was in Orlando last weekend.

Pulse was a very popular nightclub, and Orlando is a very popular destination for the LGBT community. We always know someone who is there, and until Sunday, we always thought it was safe, at least in the relative terms that any member of the LGBT community can ever feel safe.

And yes, Pulse was a nightclub. Some people have brushed this off as a "nightclub shooting," something not as sacred to anyone as a church or school. But to the LGBT community, these are our sacred places. It's unfortunate it has to be like that, but the LGBT community is unique in that we are not a religion or a race, we don't have deeply rooted communities or churches to lean on. We are born to anyone, everywhere. Sometimes we are born to families and communities that abandon us. And those that don't, families that choose to love us, often don't completely understand. We lean on gay bars and gravitate to cities like Orlando because they are places where we can find people to relate to. Our nightclubs aren't just places to get drunk or get laid, they're places to make friends, and they build communities.

To have that torn open and violated is deeply personal, as personal as any disturbing attack on a church or a mosque or a synagogue or a school. Whoever Mateen was, and whatever his reason, this was an attack on a very specific and marginalized group of people. I can't even say "citizens" because too many of the preachers and politicians who have seized this massacre to serve their own agendas would have LGBT people deported if they knew how. 

------

I've watched many of my friends relate to heartbreaking stories about Sandy Hook, Aurora, Charleston, and too many instances where we should never have to utter the phrase "another shooting." I've read their requests for prayers when their loved ones are sick, and I've prayed. Some, even the most conservatively religious I count amongst my friends, have prayed for Orlando in the religious ways they know how. 

To those of you who have done the same, I thank you. From the bottom of my big gay heart, I truly thank you.

Social media can be obnoxious. I get that. It's a lot easier to talk about a dead gorilla than 49 children and their weeping parents. I get that too. It's hard. In fact, it's downright gut-wrenching. But I've seen others, some of the most outspokenly devout, I've seen them talk and pray across the walls of social media when the fallen are soldiers, Christians, children, teachers, or strangers in movie theaters. Yet this week, they've been silent.

Where is the rage now?

If the massacre of 49 people has you morally conflicted because they were gay, you need to reevaluate your morality. If you're worried that the person next to you in church might judge you for speaking out against the massacre of 49 people because they were gay, you need to reevaluate your church.

"Gay" is not a curse word. Ever. We are your brother, your son, your cousin, your neighbor, and your friend. And all we want is the ultimate of human rights: to love.

But if you truly are ambivalent over the senseless deaths of 49 people - of any orientation - well, whatever heaven you think you have waiting for you, I strongly suggest you wear sunscreen.

------

Last Sunday I was angry at a madman who tore through more than 100 of my brothers and sisters. But today, politicians, preachers, and media pundits - on both sides of the political spectrum - have added insult to injury by using this massacre to push guns, ban guns, sell ads, and ask me for my moment of silence. Fuck silence! I am enraged, and anyone who has ever known or loved a member of the LGBT community, been to a gay bar, or claimed to be on our side as we've fought something as ingrained as the fallacy of "American normality" for our rights, should be enraged as well.

I don't have any answers, and right now, that's what gives me the slightest bit of relief. There are so many layers, complexities, divergent opinions and motivations following last weekend's massacre, none will be resolved by bickering online, from the pulpit, the news desk, or the spin room. None of it will be resolved in the character limit of political or religious or media Tweets. And none of it will be resolved in any of the Presidential debates to come.

It is just profoundly sad. Every bit of it. The deaths. The reactions. The abuse. The support. The anger. It's too much to make sense of, so much it can't even be described as confusing. I can't look at anymore pictures. I can't read anymore stories. I don't want to read about terrorists and ISIS and Islam and guns and politicians and preachers. It is just sad, and right now, that's all I want it to be. I want to stop crying because I'm angry. I just want to cry because I'm sad.

And all they wanted to do, was to dance.

------

If you have any LGBT friends or family out there, I strongly suggest picking up the phone or sending them a message. You have no idea what that will mean to them. Because this, all of this, is almost too much for any of us to bear.

OneOrlando

The Trevor Project

Parents, Family, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays

Pulse Employee Recovery

William Way Center

Twin Peaks: 25 Years

It might seem odd that I've written about David Lynch and Twin Peaks more than a few times on a blog about Philadelphia. But in addition to Peaks' characters Dale Cooper and Gordon Cole hailing from an FBI office in Philadelphia, Lynch credit's his years studying at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts as influencing him more than any filmmaker. Living in what's become Philadelphia's cushy Callowhill Loft District, in the early 1970s Lynch described Philadelphia as "the sickest, most corrupt, decaying, fear-ridden city imaginable."

Harsh, right? But to the master of modern day film noir, "it was fantastic at the same time."

Visually, the town of Twin Peaks is about as far removed from Philadelphia as you can get. Set in a fictional northeast Washington that looks more like the outskirts of Seattle than the high desert it is, the town is nestled in the picturesque mountains of the Pacific Northwest. To Philadelphia's explosive 1.5 million residents, Twin Peaks has little more than 5000 (the 51,201 printed on the sign is allegedly a mistake). On the surface, its denizens are those you'd expect to find in small townships throughout the Poconos and the Pine Barrens. Teenagers teeming with anxiety, bumbling police officers, and small-town big shots auctioning off pristine wilderness to the highest urban bidder.

But Twin Peaks has a seedy underbelly, and like everything Lynch aims a camera at, nothing is as it seems. From Blue Velvet to Mulholland Drive, Lynch has set the duality of nature - human and not so human - against the backdrop of an all-but-lost cinematography that delivered Vertigo and Sunset Boulevard. But he's more than just a neo-noir filmmaker: he weaves elements of daytime drama, horror, and comedy into his art; all of which when combined can make the most benign scenes far more disturbing than they really are.

Today is the 25th anniversary of the Twin Peaks season finale, a disturbing cliffhanger which left our hero, Dale Cooper, trapped in the Black Lodge, and his doppleganger possessed by the demon BOB. After bashing his head into a bathroom mirror, he chillingly echoed Cooper's own concern for his girlfriend, "How's Annie? How's Annie? How's Annie?" 25 years ago, Laura Palmer said we'd see her again in 25 years. And 25 years later, here we are with Lynch's production of a third series wrapping up. 

Lynch is nothing if not a man of many mediums. To call him an outsider artist would simplistically undermine the breadth of his art. His works range from paintings recently displayed at PAFA, cinematic shorts like Rabbits, original television shows, feature films, and even a regular voice role on Seth MacFarlane's The Cleveland Show. But more than any of his outlets, the ways in which he's managed to tether so many together may be his greatest, and most unique, masterpiece. 

One can watch Mullholland Drive and assume Betty is actually Audrey Horne, a young woman destined for bigger and better places than Twin Peaks, but lost in a grim Hollywood few outside Los Angeles ever see. After all, the idea for Mullholland Drive began as a spinoff of Twin Peaks, with Audrey's Sherilyn Fenn in the lead role. 

Over the last 25 years, speculations of a revived Twin Peaks have run amok. Whenever fans were ready to resign themselves to their own imaginations, a new rumor would emerge. Not long before the Twin Tweets from David Lynch and Mark Frost - Twin Peaks' co-creators - that announced Showtime's interest in a third season, it had become seemingly apparent that David Lynch not only had no interest in returning to Twin Peaks, but that the show itself might have been a burdensome bore to the man. 

But when those Twin Tweets came, Lynch did what Lynch does best. He made something so incredible banal - Twitter, the internet, social media - into an art form no one had ever known before. Suddenly, we the Tweeters, the Facebookers, the Instargrammers, were interacting with veterans of the cast. Some had moved on from acting, some were still working in minor roles, others were big. But for a brief moment before the resurgence of Peaks Mania broke out, we were speaking with Sherilyn Fenn, Madchen Amick, and Dana Ashbrook as if we were rekindling a long dormant high school relationship through social media. 

To those of us who grew up with Twin Peaks, we felt as thought we were part of their world. And the cast of Twin Peaks told us they felt the same way. The world Lynch created in Twin Peaks, WA was more than a television show, it was a work of art his actors and fans have carried with them throughout their lives.

Since its finale, and its under-appreciated prequel, Twin Peaks has had a wide array of fans. Cop drama fanatics were drawn to the procedural elements brought to Twin Peaks by Hill Street Blues' Mark Frost. Fans of Blue Velvet, Dune, and Eraserhead were curious about Lynch's foray into television. Throughout its various DVD releases, new audiences have come to appreciate the world of Twin Peaks.

Today, the biggest divide between Peaks fans seems to be between those who regard it as a work of art and those who view it as nostalgic '90s kitsch. While there is ample arrogance in the former camp that says you had to live in the '90s to "get it," there is a frustrating level of exploitation in the latter that has used a story about incest, rape, and murder to peddle hipster fashions and ironic photo-shoots. 

How Season 3 will be received is likely more predictable than many think, and those who view Twin Peaks and its inhabitants as quirky caricatures of a bygone era will likely be disappointed. Much of the show's most superficially campy episodes came from Season 2, when Lynch and Frost were all but absent. It had devolved into the Spelling produced soap opera that it was, with Lynch returning for the series finale that brought it back to its roots. 

Lynch has directed every episode of its revival for Showtime, so don't expect any of the shallow drama from Season 2 to rear its ugly head. Those who don't get its prequel, Fire Walk With Me, likely won't get Season 3, and they'll likely find themselves frustrated. There is more to the town of Twin Peaks than a murder and the decadently reckless behaviors of its inhabitants. 

There is something greater, something that has to do with the darkness within all of us, the BOB all of our dopplegangers carry with them. Twin Peaks was never meant to end with the revelation of Laura Palmer's killer, the questions answered in its prequel, and I doubt Season 3 will wrap much up. The lives of those who live in Twin Peaks, detached as they may seem, are our lives. And ours' are never neatly wrapped up in a bow and concluded. They carry on, in and out of the dark recesses of humanity...in and out of the Black and White Lodges. That's Twin Peaks. That's us. 

The Next Divine Lorraine

EB Realty Management has released renderings for North Broad's Metropolitan Opera House and, well, it looks like the Met we know with purple lights and a "Box Office" sign.

Without it's pediment and crown restored, it gives of an Eastern State Penitentiary vibe, a preserved state of decay. In some ways, like Eastern State, that's quite beautiful. And on an Avenue that hasn't quite figured out what it wants to be, it could be incredibly unique. 

Considering developers Eric Blumenfeld and Billy Procida have been teasing us with the notion that the Met will host one of the "nation's biggest concert promoters," it seems they'd have the prospective funds to completely restore the Met to it's original grandeur. But Blumenfeld and Procida have proven themselves unconventional developers with an admiration for beleaguered brick and mortar. 

We know the Met won't be showing operas, at least not conventional ones. Those venturing up North Broad for a concert won't be looking for a classical venue, but something unique. The Met's current facade offers just that, and perhaps that's why Blumenfeld and Procida chose to leave it as-found. 

Not that anyone cares, but I'd offer only two changes: track down it's rooftop and sidewalk signage. 

There's a scene in the movie Twelve Monkeys where a homeless preacher (from the future) is prophesying outside of the abandoned opera house, and it's deteriorating sign hangs in the background. 

Find it, and reinstall it. In the 1990s, the Met sign was every bit a part of North Broad's cultural legacy as the Divine Lorraine's, and you know someone has it stored in a barn somewhere. 

That said, as Philadelphia's historic theater's go, we've had some losses. But the preservation of the Met exponentially outweighs the loss of places like the Boyd. The Boyd was a cinematic, Art Deco beauty. Not the best, but the best - and only - we had left. But the Met was and is something else. Something iconic from it's inception. It's salvation, even in it's current state, is a win for preservation in this city. 

When Hidden City Philadelphia posted a collection of photographs from 1981, they blew up the internet. News of the story spread so fast that their servers literally crashed, and were down for an entire day.

Hidden City contributor Rachel Hildebrandt stumbled upon a collection of 193 photographs on eBay taken by an unknown artist. Evident in the internet's reaction, these images reflect an era for which we have a profound fascination. And it's not just in Philadelphia. From New York to Los Angeles, collections have been curated across the internet showcasing what are arguably the bleakest moments in America's urban history. 

Baz Lurhmann's upcoming Netflix Original, The Get Down, is even set in a grimy New York when CBGB and 54 were household names. The Get Down's trailer is full of the same yellows and oranges we've come to associate with those decades, images we attempt to recreate with Instagram filters. 

So why are we so fascinated, almost obsessed with this dark era? Why, when we have endless collections sourced from city archives showcasing feats of engineering and lifestyles long since laid to rest, are we so intrigued by a collection of snapshots featuring the mundane lives of everyday Philadelphians, New Yorkers, and Los Angeleans during an era many of us remember, and even more would like to forget?

In some ways it's to be expected. Those in the '70s and '80s delved heavily into the nostalgia of the '50s and '60s with shows like Happy Days, musicals like Grease, and a resurgence of midcentury themed diners. People are interested in their history, seemingly more so when we're not so far removed from it. But those in the '70s and '80s were also living in an era of long gas lines, economic uncertainty, and the very lives we see in the photographs discovered by Hildebrandt. For those people, looking to the past was an escape. The '50s and '60s were fraught with flaws and fights, but many today still look at Levittown images of the happy homemaker, martini in hand, awaiting her husband as the ideal of a simpler place and time.

Hidden City Philadelphia

What is it about the discourse and poverty of an era so many desperately wanted to escape that intrigues us so much today? And why, if we are so enamored by these nostalgic yellow and orange images, are we still trying to eradicate every lingering shred left through gentrification, popup beer gardens, and sidewalk brunch? Do we have it so good today that we are beginning to long for the muck?

Probably. The fallacy of a utopia is that humans thrive when forced to struggle. But today's cushy Center City lives are plagued by urban guilt. These photographs stand out because those in them are much better people than we've become. We want to be like them, but only if we can keep our stuff. 

It's a common trope of the Millennial hipster to seek out neighborhoods and cities that beg to be called "real." Today, that realism is indicated by tokens of urban grit: bodegas with rusted signage, graffiti, Pabst Blue Ribbon, often in neighborhoods associated with poverty or crime. But today's nostalgic urbanites look for gestures the way we look at these photographs, at arm's length. It would be easy to have moved to Philadelphia in the late '90s or early 2000s and simply become part of its culture, and most did before 2004. But that would have meant sacrificing a consulting position at 50 on Red for a retail job at Sun Ray Drugs, and not being judged by our King of Prussia counterparts. 

If you look closely at these photographs, you see the deeper reason many are so fascinated. You see a humble sense of happiness in the collection's subjects. We see a smiling man sitting on his stoop reading the newspaper. We see women getting on a bus, talking to each other instead of staring at iPhones. We see abandoned buildings and retail signage probably painted by the business owner paired with passersby who aren't looking back in disgust. 

We see contentment. And we haven't been content in a very long time. 

Still, what we see in these photographs is no more real than the world we live in, and that's exactly why we continue to embrace the technologies that both compliment and consume our lives. It's just different, and unlike photographs from the 1890s or the Gilded Age, the people in these photographs are just different enough for us to relate to.

Even in today's world of limitless photography, snapshots fail to tell the entire story. What we see, and what we're so fascinated with, is a distortion of an era's reality. We project our own sense of the world on our past when we see a man patiently waiting in a traffic jam. Without a caption, we'll never know the stories behind these people. But there is still a sense of longing that forces us to make those projections.

Like our parents' affinity for the happy days amid office pools of humming fax machines and dot matrix printers, our fascination with these photographs speak to modernity's own conflicting disconnect between our quest for progress and convenience, and a longing for the past. We'll never have 1981's gritty reality paired with Starbucks and a 24 hour newsfeed in our pocket, and someday soon, the next generation will be scouring the archives of Instagram to curate the nostalgic world of the 2010s, longing for our own simpler times. 

Yarnbombing

I'm never going to come up with a title (or sentence) better than the one Philebrity attributed to the yarnbombing exhibit at Morris Arboretum, so I'll just repeat it. "This Morris Arboretum Yarnbombing Video Is Basically Everything That Is Wrong With Nice White People Right Now."

Is it true? Not really. Is it hilarious and timely? Of course so.

Yardbombing, which Philly.com referred to as "Granny vandalism," is what happens when your knitting hobby turns into an addiction. When your friends, family, and your clowder of cats say, "enough, already, I don't need anymore socks!" 

It's harmless, even kind of cute before it gets all soggy and gross. But Philebrity pointed out the one line in the video that stuck in my farm-raised crawl: "I really like...putting art in places where there isn't art." 

Like...nature?

This is a blog about architecture, one that often delves into art. Do you know the one and only thing I love more than architecture and art? A complete absence of any of it. The woods, a meadow of wildflowers, and in urban areas, places like Morris Arboretum that briefly take me back to the Shenandoah Valley.

Melissa Haims' Wrapped Up is whimsical, fun, and probably cathartic like most crafts. But the definition of art has become so abstract that literally anything not created by Mother Nature passes as art: strikers, tags, a menstrual cycle, barf. 

To quote Sir Gerald Moore take on art in the unappreciated movie adaptation of Bonfire of the Vanities, "in my house, when a turd appears, we throw it out. We dispose of it. We flush it away. We don't put it on the table and call it caviar." Or 30 Rock's Jack Donaghy, "We know what art is: it's paintings of horses!"

Yarnbomb all you want. If someone calls it art, it's art. Like the quilted pattern on a roll of paper towels or a 1992 Toyota Camry, someone designed it. But let's keep it in the arboretum, on lampposts, and bike racks; and not "where there isn't any art." Because there is art there, designed by someone more resilient than a thousand DiVinci's, and you'll see that resilience when Mother Nature reclaims herself, and the yarn begins to mold.