On the outskirts of some of the world’s largest cities exists an informal way of life. It’s unlike any other. To most, these spaces are defined as slums, shantytowns, or favelas. The list of stigmatized words associated with these settlements is never ending. Regardless of their delineation, the sheer mention of their existence conjures up an endless sea of negative associations—rampant crime, dismal infrastructure, impoverished communities, filth, and a severe lack of education. Yet the reality is not as simple as all that. While our assumptions are not wholly dishonest, they are wildly deceptive.

Heliopolis, the largest favela in Sao Paulo, grew out of a need for proximity to the amenities that the city had to offer. When this informal settlement was first established in the 1940s, the demand for it was low, thus the population was much smaller and much more spread out than it is today. Over time, as Sao Paulo expanded so did the desire to be situated within its reach. But housing within the urban area was not affordable to a large number of low-income residents. So they settled down on un-owned and non-delineated land areas, like Heliopolis. Today, the densely lined streets of this three-quarter square-mile favela, is home to roughly 100,000 inhabitants.

When we first see Heliopolis, all of the stereotypes we could imagine about an informal settlement are at play—the tin roofs are rusting, the streets are sprawling and unorganized, brick buildings are crumbling, and crime is rampant. There is no denying that these characteristics are a reality. What surprises us, however, is that an average home within the perimeter of Heliopolis costs $100,000 USD. As a matter of fact, one of the most prestigious hospitals in Sao Paulo sits along the edge of Heliopolis. Read more…

“Safe Harbor”
Joseph G. Brin © 2012

You may have already had an end of the world experience – and just didn’t know it. I’m not talking about a disaster by any means. Instead, this is about a soaring, heightened sense in nature, attaining a state of grace that is rare, brief and unpredictable. What accounts for this phenomenon? Does design have the power to create something equivalent? If so, what happens when architects and designers attempt to intervene?

Some time ago, I worked as an expedition photographer for an archaeological dig on the fabled island of Ithaca, Greece. We traveled, on a day off, to the village of Kioni. Above us, a pure, cobalt blue sky straight from the paint tube. Before us, rock outcroppings glowing in the afternoon amber of Greek sunlight. A small, quiet harbor and a luncheon feast as invited guests completed the visual spread.

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