At the Canadian Centre for Architecture, a look at what toys can
tell us about cities.
by Gavin Affleck
There is nothing, the axiom has it, as serious as play, and few
institutions take play (and everything else) as seriously as Montreal's
Canadian Centre for Architecture. For six years the CCA has held
an exhibition of architectural toys to mark the holiday season.
This year's display, entitled "Toy Town," adds a new dimension
to the annual event. Curated by Cammie McAtee of the CCA and designed
by Peter Smithson, the distinguished British architect and urban
theorist, the exhibition focuses on toys that create imaginary
towns, presenting more than two dozen fully assembled toy villages,
puzzles, and games from Europe and the United States. It's a fascinating
look at how toys communicate basic ideas about urban life.
A bucolic German village set up in the middle of the emphatically
symmetrical Octagonal Gallery serves as the centerpiece of the
exhibit, and argues for a healthy combination of the urban and
the rural. The work of a nineteenth-century toy maker in Seiffen,
the village creates direct material and functional relationships
between the woolly backs of sheep, the carefully tended hedgerows
and arbors, and the thatched roofs of cottages and barns. As an
integration of animal, vegetable, and mineral, this toy is unique
in the exhibit and deserving of its prominent position. And for
those who would limit architecture to the making of buildings,
the village is the least architectural toy on view.
Forming a loop around this central display are a great variety
of toy towns, most of which concentrate attention on the impact
of individual buildings on townscapes. We travel from Urbania,
a Parisian vision of ordered civic spaces, circa 1935, to Plasticville,
U.S.A., a gas station fantasyland of 1952. Along the way, there
are stops in a Russian monastery, a Belgian garden city, an interactive
computer-generated town, and Fairy City, a nineteenth-century
industrial town that is home to the Giants of Lilliputania. Although
none of the toys on display were designed by architects or urbanists,
they present a compelling architectural history: the great clarity
with which "Toy Town" chronicles the evolution of town planning
from the early nineteenth to the late twentieth century is the
most intriguing aspect of the show. Animals, vegetation, and domesticity
progressively disappear from the townscape, and as Smithson points
out in the accompanying catalogue, American "object-space" gradually
replaces European conceptions of spatially mediated urban form.
This story is not new in itself: What is new is its telling through
toys.
Like cartoons, toys simplify, abbreviate, and reinterpret in bright
colors and simple shapes the essence of complex forms. The success
of "Toy Town" is closely related to the power of the cartoon in
the 1990s: from Roger Rabbit to the Simpsons, popular culture
has been reshaped through a potent and ubiquitous mix of childlike
delivery and adult content. The great attraction of both toys
and cartoons is their ability to sustain an idealism inaccessible
to other media. The scale of intervention particular to town planning
further reinforces this idealism: by necessity, planning tends
toward utopian visions. As the common thread between widely divergent
conceptions of the city, the idealism that suffuses "Toy Town"
creates some provocative images. We discover, for instance, that
some of the places that architects love to hate are in fact quite
beautiful in their ideal form. Like a three-dimensional David
Hockney painting, Plasticville's roadside motel, swimming pool,
snack bar, and gas station exude the character and object integrity
so completely lacking in contemporary suburbia. Apparently, plasticity
had noble beginnings as a democratic paradigm of flexibility,
and only degenerated into its ersatz condition through misinterpretation
and unfulfilled promises.
If the ability of toys to sustain ideals in a cynical world is
a central theme of this exhibition, so too is another somewhat
neglected pursuit, humanism. In his preface to the catalog, CCA
chief curator Nicholas Olsberg Describes Smithson's humanist approach
to architecture: "Smithson remains faithful to a belief that gentle
and orderly design strategies, respectful of people's habits of
life and of the specific character of the place itself, can make
any community... lighter, freer, and more responsive to its
users." Given such a bias, "Toy Town" is a perfect opportunity
for Smithson to play the cuddly old British uncle part to the
hilt. A lecture he gave to accompany the opening was devoted almost
entirely to an extremely comfortable domestic environment he had
designed for a cat (located, like the centerpiece of the exhibition,
in the German countryside). While it was easy to suppose that
Smithson is in his dotage, his positing of a relationship between
a comfortable old age and children's toys has a much greater resonance
if we recall the work of his youth. More than 30 years ago, as
a member of Team X, the influential architecture group, he was
instrumental in reintroducing humanism (and playfulness) to the
deadly serious Modernist establishment of the time.
"Toy Town" is refreshingly undogmatic, taking pleasure in a plurality
of approaches to the city and in an abiding faith in the creation
of a better future through our children. Each of the toys on display
is at once a beautiful plaything and a repository for very adult
ideas about what the city should be. Truly successful toys, like
successful towns, must create interest for both children and adults,
blurring the distinction between ages. Barney the Dinosaur reaches
new heights of banality precisely because he communicates by strictly
childish means, precluding any adult appeal. Happily, as "Toy
Town" shows us, he is not the only option.
Gavin Affleck is a partner in the Montreal-based firm Affleck + de la Riva
Architectes. |
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