Mrs. Blonder’s Existence Space

The following lengthy passage—in variously edited forms—appeared in every version of Bill Kleinsasser’s self-published textbook Synthesis. In it he spoke of Mrs. Blonder, an elderly woman who chided Bill for being a member of a profession seemingly incapable of designing places with the well-being of users in mind. I was immediately struck by the apocryphal tone of Bill’s recounting of his conversation with her. Was she a real person? Or was she a made-up character, a stand-in for the many people whose life experiences are impoverished because the “existence space” they regularly occupy fails to support their necessary, predictable, and repeating activities well? Whether she was real or not was not the point. The insights Mrs. Blonder shared with Bill and in turn his students are timeless and pertinent for anyone charged with designing real spaces for breathing, thinking, and feeling people. 

Several years ago, I met a 76-year-old woman who lived on the 21st floor of one of Portland’s most acclaimed new apartment buildings. She invited me to visit her place so that I could hear her opinion about living there. As soon as I arrived she asked: 

“. . . tell me Mr. Architect, what on earth do architects think about if they don’t think about the well-being of the people who live in the places they design?” 

For two hours she described the things that were unsatisfactory for her about her apartment, her building, the space around her building, her community, her city. 

Her two main rooms were alike except that the bedroom was slightly smaller. Both were box-like with plaster walls, plaster ceilings of equal height, and carpeted floors. Both faced the hills west of the city and overlooked commercial buildings, streets, parking lots, and parking garages. There was an entry, a kitchen alcove, a bathroom, two closets, a small storage room in the basement, and a balcony. There was also a heater, an air conditioner (with a condenser on the balcony), a garbage disposal, a dishwasher, a refrigerator, a range, two exhaust fans, and the usual set of plumbing fixtures. 

She told me that her apartment did not feel “cozy” or “homey;” rather, it felt “cold” and “dull.” She said that she soon became bored there each day. The windows faced only one way, the walls were hard to put pictures on, the balcony was too noisy and windy to be comfortable (she had planted flowers there, but they died). She felt a lack of privacy—anyone could easily come to her door from the street. She felt isolated—there was no easy way to meet other people. She had sold her prized piano because “. . . there wasn’t enough room for it and the neighbors would probably object if I played it. I always hear their noises.” 

At each floor in her building, an 8’ wide x 8’ tall corridor passed by each apartment door as it looped around the central elevator and stair core. It had no sitting place or public room to casually meet friends for coffee, to chat, to watch passers-by, or to pass the time of day. There was no sunlight or view to the outside. 

On the ground floor, next to the entry, a 20’ x 20’ lobby contained a wall full of mail boxes and seating for eight. A locked “recreation room” (so titled on the door) did not relieve the need for a gathering place, nor did an undeveloped garden on the roof. 

Outside, a paved open space stretched from building to building, and several rectangular areas (elevated) contained flowers, ground cover, and a tree. The space was windy and empty when I was there and not inviting. I was told that the flowers were maintained by the management, not the residents. 

Mrs. Blonder described her habit of leaving her apartment and building as early as possible each day and staying away as long as she could; however, after expenses there was little she could afford to do. She missed being able to dress up and go out for dinner, to have special times and favorite places (like those she remembered from her earlier life). She did eat out occasionally, but the places she could reach made her feel uncomfortable. 

It was clear that Mrs. Blonder’s surroundings contained very little that she could enjoy and control Her walking trips and bus trips were often more frightening and tiring than enjoyable—their destinations often uneventful and psychologically inaccessible. There were few places she like to go to, few friends to share things with, few things to share. And she felt surrounded constantly by machines: she had to look at them from her windows, dodge them, pass them, and smell them in the streets, listen to them at night (both the tinkling of the exhaust fan on the roof and the elevator outside her door kept her awake). In the summer, the sound of the condenser on the balcony (and all the other balconies) was almost unbearable. She enjoyed automobile excursions into the country most, when her environment could be comfortable, private, and changing—her experience diversified and ordered. 

Of course, by many standards Mrs. Blonder is very well off. She is safe, dry, warm (or cool). She has all the conventional apartment-living equipment. She is physically and economically secure. But her comments to me seem to describe extensive, special need: her environment is both incomplete and experientially impoverished, and she is unable to do anything about it. 

As I thought about this, I realized that there is a tendency in Portland, as in many American cities, to separate people who live in places from those who make design decisions about them. It is usually hard, if not impossible, for people to make their needs known, and it is equally hard for decision-makers to find out what is needed. To make matters worse, methods of development tend to prevent the accommodation of needs when they are known: people are seldom given a chance to participate in design and places are not evaluated after they are built (the are usually promoted instead). 

And projects tend to be separated from one another in both time and concept. They do not benefit from each other and they do not take enough responsibility for the spaces between buildings, which is especially unfortunate because most of the quality of great cities comes from the richness, diversity, and accessibility of their “in-betweens.” 

Excellent buildings contribute much to cities, but a humane, supportive environment comes mainly from a continuum of opportunities and good experiences, and these cannot be provided by buildings alone, even great ones. People like to have good places to go to, good things to do, many choices from which to select. They like to be able to linger when they wish, to join others casually, to be able to withdraw and rest. They like to feel that they are a part of life and events, not cut off from them by impersonal systems. They like to live among things and in places that were made with them in mind. They like to pass through different kinds of places, to go by different paths when they choose, to be always among things and in places that support their needs, their actions, and their ever-changing states of mind. When these opportunities do not exist—as they did not for Mrs. Blonder—the environment is experientially empty and the people in it deprived. 

There are many cities in the world from which we can learn. One is Geneva, Switzerland, my home many years ago. Geneva is a city of half the population of Portland that occupies only one-tenth as much space. Living in six- and seven-story apartment buildings, nearly everyone is within walking distance of the city center. The density has generated a pervasive fabric of small, interesting, diversified public places. There are scores of small parks (some no more than a space, a bench or two, a fountain, and several trees) and good, inexpensive restaurants where people are welcome to linger without buying more than a few cups of coffee. Walkways, street lights, walls, gates, stairs, ramps, fountains, chairs and benches abound, and there are always many people around doing many kinds of things. 

Geneva, Switzerland. Photo by Alexey M. [CC BY-SA 4.0  (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], from Wikimedia Commons

The whole city focuses on the lake and the water is accessible, clean, and used. There are boats of many kinds constantly moving in and out, water’s-edge cafes, places to swim, low bridges that do not block the water view or break the continuity of the lake edge, islands and places for walkers to pause and watch the swans and ducks, and a perfect expression of it all: a jet of white water (the Jet d’Eau) shooting its billowing spray four hundred feet high at a point which can be seen from almost everywhere. 

It is possible for everyone to do many things in Geneva. It is possible to experience many kinds of places and to feel that they are for you. It is possible to reach any point by trolley or bus in minutes. And because of the variety and support provided by the cafes, the transit system, the density, the short distances, the many orientation points, and the clear differentiation of parts, walking and exploring in this city is a joy. 

In contrast, the trouble with Mrs. Blonder’s environment is that she cannot go out and find what she wants and needs, and she cannot go in and find it either. She cannot get far enough away from those machines and those divisive, isolating, impersonal systems. That’s just it—she cannot. 

It is no doubt true that many people find great satisfaction and meaning in Portland, but Mrs. Blonder’s needs are not unique, and the city should support everyone well, should it not? 

WK/1970