"The relationship between man and space is none other than dwelling, strictly thought and spoken.  For building is not merely a means and a way toward dwelling - to build is in itself already to dwell, to be." - Martin Heidegger

Drawing. Seeing. Perceiving. Dwelling. Living.  What is the relationship between pictorial representations of the world and the world itself? What is the connection between the author of a drawing and his subject matter?

The following drawings are explicative of my affair with Kennedy Plaza, the central transit hub of the city of Providence, Rhode Island.  I spent four months observing, recording, deconstructing, and reconstructing both the material space of the plaza and its potentiality for promenade, performance, and event—phenomena that are critical to the definition of public place.  The final drawings paint a portrait of a free, open, egalitarian arena for the citizens of Providence to play out the stories of their everyday lives and witness the stories of others.

I postulate that Place requires participation for its construction and evolution, and that Public Place should be effectively ripe for that participation.  My final conclusion: The drawing of Place is an act of participation in its construction.  Drawing is an analog to experiencing the space, being there, taking part in the events and phenomena.  As I draw those paths, I walk those paths.  I encounter those strangers.  I sit on those benches and hop down those steps.  I am there.  In being there, I take on the right and the responsibility to re-envision it and imagine it as it should or could be—through the eyes of its common participants, people like you and me.

The following collection of drawings attempt to illustrate a particular narrative of Kennedy Plaza, one that exists today and one that might exist in the future.  All drawings are composed completely of photographs of the existing plaza, layered with my interpretation and invention of the story.  They lie somewhere between then, now, and what may be.  They are a kind of connection between this author and its subject matter, binding the representation of a world to the world itself.  They are my truth of this place, and perhaps can become yours.

    That train ride felt longer than it usually does.  The bus will be busy this time of day, early evening in springtime.   Good thing the D goes straight to my block on the west side.  The commuter rail slows to a screeching halt, eager to release the passengers and get on its way.  I lumber with my bag down the steps to the platform, meandering around cumbersome trashcans and human obstacles.  One older gentleman, standing up very straight and tall like a political figurehead of some kind, posts himself directly in my path and I am forced to go around him, sending an eyebrow in his direction in case he notices.  Ah, entitlement.

    Sometimes I feel like this commute is my life, but it does pay the bills.  I never minded the train so much.  I have time to read poetry and steal the newspapers left behind by other travelers.  An old friend of mine just bought me a pair of headphones for the holidays, so I listen to music if I like.
    Fresh air streams into my lungs as the sliding doors open and I step onto the street.  Finally, the weather is beginning to warm up after a long winter of shuffling down the hill in the snow.  It is not easy traversing that bridge by the state house.  Much of this city is difficult to navigate, and that blustery wind coming off the Providence river!  I momentarily fantasize about taking a taxicab from the station to the plaza where I catch the bus.  Do not be absurd.  It is three blocks and five dollars away.  
    I cross the river, swept up in a cool breeze that knocks me off the curb and almost throws my hat into the water below.  Other people brush against me, moving faster and slower towards the train that just landed.  I hope they make it, pity them if they miss it.
    Coming around the corner and looking to my right, I catch a glance of the people waiting for the F-J buses.  I wonder where those buses go, I have never taken any of them.  A little guy is goofing off at the stop nearest to me, jumping on nearby planters and running up and down the bus lane in serious danger of a bus collision.  Father gently scolds him, but does not actually seem to be bothered, even though the onlookers are getting more and more annoyed as he barrels into them and almost knocked a woman’s very full purse off her shoulder.  Sometimes I forget that children live by a different rulebook than I do.  
    I finally cross traffic and arrive at the threshold of the plaza, marked by an old monument that must have been there for years, even though the plaza has changed many times since I have been here.  They keep digging it up, putting up fences, tearing them down, and building new places for people to sit and eat and sell things, put on shows, and generally loiter around doing nothing at all.  Funny, the idea of doing nothing at all is both comforting and scary in a life of movement and responsibility.  There are always so many people doing nothing at all in this place.  I decide to walk along a path through one of the wide, shady lawns of the plaza.  To my left and my right there are people doing 

 nothing, sitting on the grass and occupying the loose chairs, climbing on sculpture and peering into the second floor windows of the tall buildings across the square.  I am quite sure the artist of that thing did not intend for it to be a perch for public delinquency.  Or perhaps he or she did intend such things.  Maybe I will sit on it someday soon, when the weather is nicer.  The smell of the food stands wafts up into my breath.  My goodness, I am hungry.   I look up for a brief moment at the scene before me to see where I am going.  There are actually quite a number of people here today.  My daughter calls this place “the circus,” and rightfully so.  If a zebra galloped through here I would not be surprised.  And she would walk right up to him and ask about his stripes.  I’ve seen it all.   Beautiful, ugly, big, small, awake, less awake.   Markets, terribly tacky and godless weddings, political protests against the state of the economy, dance recitals, bizarre festivals about trees or technology or ethnicity or the harvest, or nothing at all.  A few months ago the Cake Boss came to Providence and gave out free cakes from the main stage.  The line for a free cake wrapped around in a circle, 3 hours long!  I have to say, it was mildly exciting, and the thing was delicious.  Is the word “free” at the root of delicious?
    With the main stage in the distance to my right, I descend a slow ramp down around the bowl towards my stop.  I think I’ll walk around the perimeter that they just built a few months back.  There is a roof overhead for people sitting at the top row, during concerts and such, and it is easier on my knees to go around this way.  I run the fingers of my left hand along the steel posts that dance rhythmically alongside me.  Sometimes it is nice to remember how things feel, especially when the setting sun peeks out from behind the tall buildings.
    I finally circle around to one of the major paths that sends me along the edge of a terrace.  I notice a few people are sitting below an awning, probably drinking coffee from the new Dunkin Donuts.  How it survives when there are two exact replicas within a 5 block radius I will never know.  A young woman (BRISK WALKER CHARACTER?) walks briskly by me like she is on a mission from the government.  Rush, hustle, all the time through this place.
    Arriving at the bus loop along the edge of the park, I see my stop and immediately take a seat on the steel grated benches.  A moment to relax.  Breath.  It feels like rush hour in the early summer, not yet dark so people do not appear to be as forlorn and slow-moving as usual.  I can actually glance across the landscape at the open theater, the government buildings across the way shining a brilliant orange.  It seems like 2 new tall apartment buildings are going up behind them, I can barely see the sky above from under the awning.  

    I glance over to my left and see the bus to South Providence coming down the loop.  To my surprise, I see the man who I thought was waiting for the train just a few moments ago.  He appears to be waiting for a different bus.  Strange.  Perhaps he works in Attleboro.

    It is 12 oclock, noontime.  I decide to take lunch a bit early, as the weather has been warming up recently and I’d like to catch a glimpse of spring.  I grab my sandwich from the refrigerator in the basement.  Peanut butter and jelly again.  There is so much crap in this fridge, I wish someone would have the common decency to throw away the leftovers they do not plan on eating.  I imagine the bacteria from that intern’s old coffee leaping with joy into my lunch bag.  Oh, stop it.  I almost prance down the echoing stair shaft, I cannot wait to get out of there.  A light breeze rushes in as a woman opens the door to the exit.  I have never seen her before in the building.  This smelly old historic thing.  The electricity barely works and the boss decided to replace the only microwave we had with a Xerox machine.  Hm. I wonder who she is.  
    The air outside feels fantastic, even though it is a little more chilly than I would have hoped.  Not quite spring yet.  People are out, though.  They finally have emerged from behind the closed blinds.  Poor souls we are, cramped up in perpetual hibernation like polar bears, without the perks of a long dreamless sleep to comfort us.  I think I am going to eat my lunch in the plaza, I am sure there will be some space to sit in the open.  I turn the corner to the right to stay in the sun, rather than going down that alley next to the old spiderman building.  Damn that thing is old.  
    I walk past the CVS where there are almost always people sitting on the sidewalk.  The tight street opens up to the plaza.  Again, I feel a blast of fresh air coming from the north, whipping the billboard that cantelevers off the posts framing my view down the terraces ahead.  I swear, they should not have made that banner out of vinyl.  But hey, I am glad someone decided to start advertising.  I can never remember when Waterfire occurs until I am staring down the the blunt end of the car horn of the local suburbanites trying to park on south main street.  I peer quickly down the alley of trees and bus vestibules, glancing at the people waiting for their ride.  My goodness, where are all of these people going?  This state is much bigger than you think.  Oh, I see that woman from before, in my building, waiting for the B bus.  I guess she is going to Lincoln.   
    I decide to walk down the ramp through the terraces, alongside the new Subway they recently built.   Eat Fresh, Providence.   I think there was a Subway somewhere here before, but it was blocking the entrance to the skating rink, so no one ever went to it.  No one ever went to the skating rink, for that matter.  Actually, I think people do take their kids to the skating rink, but in summers past, it was traditionally useless and a bit hidden.  I suppose when they moved the Subway, they wanted to eliminate all bastions of teenaged mischief by opening up the entrance.  There was a fantastic Caribbean dance festival here once last summer that I stumbled upon.  That was a great summer.
    There is a long line of people under the overhang waiting for greyhound tickets.  I guess it is Friday, people are flitting off to New York or Boston or Connecticut or Florida on Fridays.  A little kid is goofing off in line, jumping on nearby planters and running up and down the stage steps around the corner.  Father gently scolds him, but does not actually seem to be bothered, even though the onlookers are getting more and more pissed as he barrels into them, almost knocking a woman’s very full purse off her shoulder.  Sometimes I forget that children live by a different rulebook than I do.  

    Finally I traverse the subtle slope into this amphitheater-like space that my friends and I call “the circus.”  If an elephant wandered through here I would not be surprised.  I’ve seen it all in this place.   Beautiful, ugly, big, small, awake, less awake.  Flea markets, concerts, political protests against the notoriously corrupt mayor, fancy weddings, not so fancy weddings, dance recitals, bizarre festivals about trees or technology or ethnicity or the harvest, or festivals about nothing at all.  A few months ago the Cake Boss came to Providence and gave out free cakes from the main stage.  The line for a free cake wrapped around in a concentric ring, 3 hours long!  What an ass that man must be.  And a genius.  There are always people assuming various physical states of horizontality in this place.  Laying down, sitting cross-legged, slouching in despair, gracefully sitting with pride, waiting, wondering, wandering in thought, or so I would imagine.  
    I walk past the activity of the ticketing and visitor center and shuffle quickly through the center of the big plaza.  There are actually a good number of people sitting on the steps in front of me, staring at me.  An older gentleman catches my eye, and I immediately turn my glance away.  I think I’ll go sit up top under those trees near the sculpture garden, so I can watch the commotion.  I don’t think I will be comfortable today with the eyes of other bored onlookers staring at the back of my neck. I decide to traverse up the shallower steps and walk along the ramp to get up to the top.  It is only a story or two, but I have had a bum foot for a little while now and quick steps give me trouble.  This will do.  The brick is still cold from the morning weather when I sit on it, so I scoot back a little and sit on the strip of drying grass, resting my back against a stone bench.  
    Feels nice.  A small sigh of relief before opening my lunch bag.  I look out at the scene before me.  There is a group of people selling items beneath tents a few dozen yards away.  I wonder if they needed to have permission from the city to solicit money for dubiously handmade goods.  The food trucks are out and I shamefully long for something greasy.  Perhaps tomorrow I will indulge if the weather is nice.  Sometimes I think about how amazing it is that people do not run into one another in such a space as this.  They are moving so quickly, chasing a carrot dangling at the other end.  That carrot may even be bitter and starchy, but they grab for it nonetheless.  It shocks me that there isn’t a constant stream of street scuffles, fist fights, public slanderings over crossed paths and impositions.  I suppose they do exist, but simply do not occur as often when everyone is watching.  I do notice a police officer loitering nearby as if a common citizen, however.  Can one feel safe and threatened at the same time?
    The sun finally pokes its head out from behind a cloud, gifting me some warmth to pass the time of my brief lunch break.  Sometimes this place is little barren, frozen rain running towards the centermost point, settling in between the cracks on the pavement.  But there are always people coming and going, crossing to get to their bus stops.  There will always be the buses.  There will always be the in and out, the movement.  People have to work and be, here in this Place.  That somehow comforts me.  Eases the mind for a moment, appeases the everyday struggle.  In the very least, I am not alone.
    I notice that woman again passing by, walking towards the mall I suppose.  I thought she was waiting for the bus?  Perhaps she changed her mind. 

    My heart is slightly pounding from moving at a speed more rapid than I am accustomed to.  I feel slightly out of shape, huffing and puffing like I just jogged a few miles, exhaling loudly just as I pass an older gentleman who is meandering at a snail’s page in front of me, blocking the tight sidewalk.  He must be waiting for something to happen to him, some sort of event or puncture in the routine of everyday life.  I do not have time to wait today.
    I find myself staring at the sidewalk, hopping dramatically over trash bags and dodging blue boxes in my way.  Relax, you are on time.  The afternoon sun is gleaming and reflecting off of the glassy bank building storefront to my right, adding to the drama of the journey.  Finally, some nicer weather has arrived.  This city is getting tired of the ceaseless blanketing of snow.  I can actually walk downtown today without the wind whipping through my less than adequate winter coat.  I wish I had some better shoes with me.  It never hurts to have a decent pair of sneakers or boots if I am going to have to get myself across the city.   It feels like something my mother would say to me before I left the house.   Don’t forget bring along extraneous footware in case you have to go mudsliding or emergency cranberry bogging.  Or kick someone in the teeth, she would probably add.
    I pass by the place where a high-end furniture store used to be, and now it is a storefront where artists display some strange and offensive work.  I am sure it will be another bank in a few months, offering up reverse mortages to the desperate and derelict. 
    I turn the corner and come to a clearing in the urban rhythm.  Ah, I can breath for a moment.  Waiting for the pedestrian go ahead, I step off the curb, out of the shadow of a very tall office tower.   I peer quickly down the alley of trees and bus vestibules, glancing at the people waiting for their ride.  My goodness, where are all of these people going?  This state is much bigger than you think.  Oh, I notice the older gentleman that I passed on the street a bit earlier, sitting under the perforated overhang of the bus depot.  How did he beat me here? I am hauling ass.  He must have known a shortcut.  I see him turn to look at me and I hurry on my way, crossing the bus lanes with my eye on the open avenues ahead.
    The sun is actually starting to burn the blackness of my jacket on the left side.  I power through, finding some relief in the trellised, tree-lined hallways that open up to the plaza.  Vines, or something of that kind, actually are starting to grow on this structure.  Spring must be here.
    I look up for a brief moment at the scene before me to see where I am going.  There are actually quite a number of people here today.  I guess the city wanted to revitalize the plaza, so they built this giant amphitheater for big political music events.  I’ve never seen any such things, but I like to call this place “the circus” anyway.  If a couple of tigers pranced through here I would not be surprised.  In the time I have spent walking back and forth through this square, I’ve seen it all.   The people.  Beautiful, ugly, big, small, awake, less awake.  Flea markets, field trips, political protests against the notoriously corrupt mayor, fabulous weddings, not so fabulous weddings, dance recitals, bizarre festivals about trees or technology or ethnicity or the harvest, or festivals about nothing at all.  A few months ago the Cake Boss

came to Providence and gave out free cakes from the main stage.  The line for a free cake wrapped around in a circle, 4 hours long!  Never could I wait in such a line, though I bet the cake was deliciously saccharine.  
I walk past the rows of half-occupied tables that overflow from the terraced gardens.  That new Starbucks must be making a ton of money by the looks of the crowd.  Probably not harvesting their coffee crop from those garden beds though, I wonder who is responsible for the upkeep.  Someone grassrootsy, I’d wager.  Definitely offsets the smell of Diesel fuel 5 yards away.
    I plunge myself into the vast open space of the plaza, cross-cutting the concentric patterned paving with purpose.  Damn, I catch my toe on a little loose stone in the pavement and take a brief pause.  I look around.  There are a bunch of people sitting on the theater steps in front of me.  Some of them shamelessly watch me walk by.  I can feel their gaze burning the side of my face.  I never really noticed how many people do sit around, snacking or chatting on phones or simply waiting, in this place.  A small amount of insecurity courses through my veins for a moment, but I feel good today, so I admittedly do not mind.  
    I get back on my way, regaining previous pace, headed towards the other end of the plaza.   A woman almost brushes my shoulder as she dances past me in somewhat of a frenzy, with very little regard for the space I was intending to occupy in a second or so.  I wonder if I look as carelessly hurried as she does.  She almost takes up the entire square, even though she is quite small.  It is amazing how some people take up so much space, absorb it like a sponge, selfishly sucking it from a finite source of life that the rest of us need for our own nourishment.  I must say though, she, sort of, sparkles in a way.
    Bounding up the steep steps, I steer myself up and through the main stage where I suppose they host concerts and shows.  I think it mostly serves as a playground though for mischievous children.   A little kid is goofing off near one of the stair towers, climbing the scaffolding structure and prancing across the stage like a gymnast.  A father figure gently scolds him, but does not actually seem to be bothered, even though a few tourists stationed on the top step are getting more and more annoyed as he barrels into them, almost spilling a woman’s very full purse down the side of the stage.  Sometimes I forget that children live by a different rulebook than I do.
    I finally reach the street at the top of the hill, catching a glance at the concrete slabbed skating rink to my left and below.  Only two weeks ago, the masses were spinning themselves silly around that rink like Christmastime.  
    Hop, skip, jump, on my way.  Passed more eager bus waiters on the right, sun drenched for the first time in months even though they sit under cover.  A number of new banners, signs, advertising the “Creative Capital” tick by me, keeping pace with my steps.  Through a final threshold, and around a corner, my destination is imminent.  It is funny that as I leave the plaza, I think of the older gentleman who beat me to the bus stop a moment ago.  I felt that he was going to smile at me.  Perhaps next time I’ll let my eyes linger and smile back.

"Our lives may be described as a flux of events and places which combine to form an action which is both cumulative and oriented -- two crucial features any narrative and place."  - Richard Kearny