Disability, Space, Architecture: A Reader takes a groundbreaking approach to exploring the interconnections between disability, architecture and cities. The contributions come from architecture, geography, anthropology, health studies, English language and literature, rhetoric and composition, art history, disability studies and disability arts and cover personal, theoretical and innovative ideas and work.
Richer approaches to disability â beyond regulation and design guidance â remain fragmented and difficult to find for architectural and built environment students, educators and professionals. By bringing together in one place some seminal texts and projects, as well as newly commissioned writings, readers can engage with disability in unexpected and exciting ways that can vibrantly inform their understandings of architecture and urban design.
Most crucially, Disability, Space, Architecture: A Reader opens up not just disability but also ability â dis/ability â as a means of refusing the normalisation of only particular kinds of bodies in the design of built space. It reveals how our everyday social attitudes and practices about people, objects and spaces can be better understood through the lens of disability, and it suggests how thinking differently about dis/ability can enable innovative and new kinds of critical and creative architectural and urban design education and practice.
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In the photograph, Keller and Thomson stand side by side in front of a boutique window showcasing a selection of belted and embroidered dresses, patterned chemises with cravats, and form-fitting cloche hats in delicate, light fabrics, suggestive of the coming spring, which stand in enormous contrast to the textured, heavy winter coats worn by the two passers-by. Their apparent delight in and longing for the consumer goods that have captured their attention is marked not only by the message that Keller communicates directly into Thomsonâs hand, the paleness of which is centered against the backdrop of their black winter coats, but also by the reflections of both women mirrored in the windowâs glass that seem to haunt the shopâs interior and our reception of the event. Indeed, the sumptuous display behind glass serves as a kind of visual analogue for Keller herself, who experiences the clothing in the shop window not through tactile means but through virtual projection as mediated through Thomsonâs gaze and subsequent description. Keller, who was fifty-seven when the photograph was taken, clearly had more than a passing interest in clothes, which gave her the space to engage the tactile pleasures of the phenomenological world while simultaneously satisfying her own âfeminine vanity.â The day after posing for Le Soirâs photographer, for instance, Keller described in her diary a visit to the atelier of the grande couturieuse Elsa Schiaparelli, who was only too happy to have her material creations linked to the worldâs most famous deaf-blind person, a person who wanted to be recognized as disabled but also irreducibly female. âI was sorry that [one of Schiaparelliâs dresses] could not be made for me in a day,â she wrote disappointedly, âbut my hands were crammed with loveliness as one robe after another appearedâ (Keller 1938, 169).
One could also argue that, for all of its putative playfulness, the photographâs two mutually constitutive subjects â the two women on the one hand and the boutiqueâs goods on the other â are divided practically down the middle, suggesting a symbiosis of theme and form as well as a distinct separation, if not a potential gulf, between its two halves. Such a division is not an insignificant insight into Kellerâs own biography. As Kim E. Nielsen has argued, representations of Keller in the popular media during the course of her life tended to embody the dialectic between nineteenth-century gestures of sentimental womanhood and twentieth-century instantiations of the New Woman. Images of Keller equivocate between the âpublicly pitied deaf and blind young virginâ and âthe politically safe, but glorified, superblind saintly spinsterâ (Nielsen 2004, 50). Nielsen argues that, trapped within this gendered logic of comprehensibility, Keller frequently tempered her public persona by fulfilling expectations of what the public wanted her to be and, when necessary, taking the appropriate measures to distance herself from other disabled people in order to assert claims to a more normative subjectivity. Kellerâs desire to be seen as special and on her terms, however, was not incompatible with the editorial goals of a daily newspaper like Le Soir, which sought to present Keller and Thomson as special yet also infinitely capable of performing the predictable rituals of female conspicuous consumption. Is it not unseemly, then, to ask: for what audience(s) was this photograph intended, and for what purposes? If the photograph is simply a news item lifted from daily life in Paris during the late 1930s, then what, exactly, is newsworthy about it, and what elements of urban culture does it document?
Perhaps this is why, in the end, the photograph of Keller and Thomson remains so striking. It presents a gendered alternative to displays of bodily difference by forging connections between the public representation of disability and its heretofore-unrealized corollaries in the realms of paparazzi, fashion, and documentary photography that so characterized visual culture in Paris during the 1930s. The image of Keller and Thomson challenges the male-defined public culture of disability by invoking the kind of gendered images of consumption and urban pleasure with which the French public was well acquainted during the interwar years including the New Woman, the androgynous garçonne, and the single working girl (Roberts 1994; Stewart 2001; Chadwick and Ladimer 2003). Yet the photographâs deliberate blurring of the visual codes of window-shopping with the visual codes of public disability also has the effect, intentional or otherwise, of distinguishing Keller not only from disabled veterans but also from images of women that, historically, saturated the French popular imagination. Indeed, the photograph depicting a deaf-blind woman window-shopping may have been a point of ironic juxtaposition with the complex public iconography of the Parisienne, the single girl-about-town who inhabited fin-de-siĂšcle urban culture as memorialized in the graphic poster art of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, which combined coquettish playfulness and robust sexuality two decades before the emergence of the New Woman (Nesbit 1992).
Rather than codifying â and, to some degree, essentializing â the differences between the masculine terrain traversed by protesting veterans and the feminine terrain traversed by Keller and Thomson, perhaps it would be more productive to see the two women and the parade of men as independent but dialectically linked actors within the complex and highly contested epistemological terrain of urban modernity. In other words, how might we make space for Helen Keller, veterans, and other disabled urbanites in the voluminous literature on the flĂąneur?
Scholarship devoted to the enduring significance of flĂąnerie, from its historical origins in early-nineteenth-century Paris to its most well-known iterations by Charles Baudelaire, Walter Benjamin, and a host of writers and critics throughout the twentieth century, is something of a cottage industry in contemporary visual and cultural studies as well as within historical studies of modern and postmodern urban cultures (Baudelaire 1972; Benjamin 1978; Buck-Morss 1991; Tester 1994; White 2001). Priscilla Parkhurst Ferguson, for instance, has argued that the flĂąneur is not a singular urban type but a multivalent urban icon, developing from the lazy, unproductive figure of the 1830s to the mid-century mock-artist to the famously perambulating gadfly-about-town of the 1870s to the anachronistic figure of urban modernity whose primary association with enclosed shopping arcades Benjamin so lovingly delineated in writings that overlapped chronologically with Kellerâs appearance on the streets of Paris (Ferguson 1994). Such shifting tides of meaning across a century and a half track a constant recalibration of the flĂąneur from aloof observation to conspicuous consumption. The phenomenological inspiration derived from flĂąnerie has played a central component in genealogies of modern experience that can be traced to late-nineteenth-century urban visual spectacles such as window displays, wax museums, and early cinema (Crary 2001; Charney and Schwartz 1996; Friedberg 1994; Schwartz 1999). In all of these scholarly explorations, however, there is a constant and, arguably, almost tacit commitment to the normative elements of the flĂąneurâs physical experience â betrayed implicitly by what some critics have rightly insisted as modernismâs tendency toward ocularcentrism or the âhegemony of visionâ â that is not factored into discussions of flĂąnerie nor, for that matter, the codes of urban modernity that are assumed to crystallize around certain kinds of acts (observing, shopping, collecting) or sensorial experiences (listening, moving, gazing) associated with the flĂąneurâs body (Levin 1993). Despite its adoption within a range of academic disciplines and theoretical approaches, scholars continue to preserve the notion of the flĂąneur as a paradigmatic example of the modern subject who takes the functions of his or her body for granted.
Certainly, there are more nuanced exceptions to this paradigmatic approach to flĂąnerie. As early as 1841, for example, Louis Hartâs Le Physiologie du flĂąneur implied that the flĂąneurâs foppish caprice carried all of the sexual (and, often, homosexual) connotations of physical and social difference found in nineteenth-century pseudoscientific tracts on physiognomy and phrenology (Ferguson 1994, 26). A century and a half later, in the 1980s and 1990s, feminist scholars in urban studies and visual culture studies carved out space for the flĂąneuse in order to problematize the male privilege implicit in discussions of flĂąnerie and inscribe womenâs place in the social etiologies of nineteenth- and twentieth-century urban modernity (Parsons 2000; Pollock 1988; Wilson 2001; Wolff 1985). Yet even within such groundbreaking studies, making claims for the flĂąneur or the flĂąneuse as agents of modern experience already presumes that the codes of urban modernity â what really counts as urban and/or modern â are organized around narratives of normative able-bodiedness. The shopping adventures of Keller and Thomson and the protest activities of disabled veterans on the streets of Paris in the mid-1930s may point to the different semiotic registers in which public definitions of disability were communicated and understood in the popular imagination, but they also point to the reasons why the liberal, autonomous subject of modernity must be able-bodied for canonical understandings of flĂąnerie to survive (Breckenridge and Vogler 2001). If we define modernity only through a recognizable set of compulsory able-bodied acts such as walking, looking, and hearing, then we exclude a sizeable proportion of the population, both in historical perspective as well as in contemporary experience. In the literature on urban modernity, disabled people â regarded by dominant discourses as tragic and dependent upon paternalistic forms of care and attention â hardly ever get to drink absinthe, let alone relish the opportunity to hold the crystal goblet.
Such limited interpretations of the urban subject clearly had little or no lasting effect on Keller...