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TRANSCRIPT
What Does It Mean to ‘Occupy’ A Public Space?--Or, How Chicago’s Design Frustrates Participatory Democracy.
Teach-In Talk11/19/11
John Casey, PhD (University of Illinois at Chicago)
I’d like to begin my talk today with a quote, “Social relations, which are concrete abstractions,
have no real existence save in and through space. Their underpinning is spatial. In each particular case,
the connection between this underpinning and the relations it supports calls for analysis. Such an
analysis must imply and explain a genesis and constitute a critique of those institutions…that have
transformed the space under consideration” (Lefebvre, 404). This passage comes from The Production
of Space (1974), which represented the culmination of French philosopher and sociologist Henri
Lefebvre’s thoughts on the relationship between people, environment, and ideology. Lefebvre argues
throughout the book for a process he calls “transduction.” Using transduction the analyst of space, and
most often that space is the city in Lefebvre’s writings, would turn to the physical world as if to a text.
Reading the physical world would yield lessons about the structures of power as they exist in a given
place and time as well as reveal fissures or cracks within the dominant ideology, which could be
exploited to initiate change. That change would be led, Lefebvre argued, by ordinary inhabits of the city
who in the process of using its spaces in ways that met their needs rather than those of urban planners
and businesses would reclaim their “right to the city.” Lefebvre’s call for a “right to the city” or droit à la
ville held as its central premise the belief that cities were not products or objects but composed of a
series of processes. The ideal city was dynamic, a work, or as Lefebvre called it an oeuvre. It never really
existed but was always being made by its inhabitants.
Lefebvre readily acknowledged in his extensive body of writing on cities that such a city did not
to the best of his knowledge yet exist, but its ethos could be found in specific locations within the city.
One such location was that of social or public space. There are nearly as many ways of defining public
space as there are types of public space. From a purely legal perspective, public space is real estate
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owned by the citizens of a city or town. Public spaces are paid for and maintained using tax dollars. In
its collective ownership, public space thus bears within it the status of the “commons,” a trope more
often associated with rural life than with that of the city. Moving beyond the question of ownership to
that of use, public space is unique within the urban plan in that it remains a locus of spontaneity. Not as
heavily zoned as the business or residential districts of the urban environment, public spaces are (at
least in theory) open to a multiplicity of uses. The limit to these uses is typically defined by the type of
urban space under consideration (a park, plaza, boulevard, or walkway) and also by its location.
A sidewalk is a public space but its size and placement dictates that motion is encouraged rather
than stasis. The same is true of the median in a boulevard although there the flow of traffic determines
when and how a person may move. Parks and plazas provide move options for use but when such sites
are high visibility or are close to centers of power, both political and economic, they are commonly
subject to strict regulation. Consequently these public spaces present to the user a mixed message—
you are open to experience this piece of land as you will but in doing so you become subject to
surveillance and perhaps arrest.
Chicago possesses a wide variety of public spaces, most of them in or near the Loop, the city’s
urban core. Today I would like to focus specifically on four that are of immediate relevance to the
Occupy Chicago movement—Grant Park, Federal Plaza, the sidewalk on LaSalle Street near Jackson
Street, and Daley Plaza. Through examining the origin of these spaces, their design, and what that
design signifies for the user, I hope to spark a fruitful discussion about the structural obstacles presented
in Chicago for the supporter of participatory democracy and (more importantly) how those obstacles
might be overcome as the Occupy movement enters its crucial third month of existence.
The first of these public spaces, Grant Park, is also the oldest as it has existed in some form since
Chicago incorporated as a city in 1837. Originally known as Lake Park, the area along the lakefront was
in the city’s early years largely commercial in nature. With Michigan Avenue marking the natural
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shoreline of the city, a small strip of land between Michigan Avenue and the Illinois Central Rail Road
tracks was all the city had at that time to claim as its “front yard.” It was not until 1890, when landfill
thrown into the lake had expanded the park east of the railroad tracks, that attention was drawn
towards the poor condition of Lake Park. Aaron Montgomery Ward, who vied with Sears Roebuck and
Company for the patronage of the middle class consumer, sued the city of Chicago. Ward demanded
that the city clean up Lake Park and make the space available for public recreational use. Initially the
city demurred and began plans to develop the park for commercial use, a process which began with the
construction of what is now the Art Institute of Chicago’s main building. Ward again sued the city in
1896 and this time the South Park Commission was created to manage the space under the new name
of Grant Park. They hired the Olmstead Brothers firm, famous for their work in New York City, to create
parkland similar in design to that found in France.
The basic design structure created by the Olmstead firm can still be seen today. An aerial view
of the park shows the Buckingham Fountain (added in 1927) at the center of Grant Park with the grand
boulevard entry of Congress Parkway leading straight to the fountain and behind it Queen’s Landing and
Lake Michigan. To either side of the fountain are a series of squares, crisscrossed by walking paths,
which divide the park into zones or regions. On the northern end of the park, near Monroe Street, are
the Petrillo band shell and an open field designated for musical events and festivals. The southern end
contains open fields whose use is primarily that of summer sports such as softball or tennis. The park is
further subdivided by multiple roads. To the east, Lakeshore Drive cuts off the park from the
waterfront, where a small strip of parkland lies adjacent to the sea wall. On the western edge of the
park, Columbus Drive and the Illinois Central Railroad tracks divide the eastern portion of the park (built
on landfill) from its point of origin. All that remains of the original Lake Park, in fact, is a thin strip of
trees and grass that begins at the edge of the Art Institute’s southern boundary and extends south along
Michigan Avenue to Magdalena Abakanowicz’s sculpture garden Agora at Roosevelt and Michigan.
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In attempting to add classical grandeur to what was perceived by many outsiders as a gritty,
industrial city, Chicago’s urban planners created a “pleasure grid” to mimic that of the city’s street
system. Residents would be welcomed to enjoy this space along the lakefront—the city’s now
beautified “front yard”—but would only be allowed to use that space in certain ways. It was also
understood from the beginning that Grant Park was as much a showcase of the city to outsiders as it
was a locus of leisure for urban residents. Tourists would see Grant Park in its neoclassical grandeur and
realize that Chicago was not a cultureless city but rather the jewel of the Midwest. This meaning
adheres to the park to the present day. Even though the city has long since turned its commerce and
primary modes of transportation away from the water, making the waterfront more of a side door to
the city, it nonetheless insists that Grant Park be viewed as the main entrance to Chicago. Since adding
Millennium Park to the lakefront park system, a space that is a testament not simply to former Mayor
Richard M. Daley’s ego, but also to the power of neo-liberalism in Chicago in the guise of the
“public/private partnership,” this symbolic function of Grant Park has only been underscored. On the
surface, consequently, a space crafted for the people instead is best understood as a playground for
tourists, a revenue generator for a cash-strapped city.
Moving west away from Grant Park, we soon pass through the city’s “sky wall” and into the
canyon-like streets of the loop. Located at Addams and Dearborn Street is the next public space that I’d
like to consider—a small wind-swept plot of stone, steel, and concrete known as the Federal Plaza.
Completed in 1974, this grim and tiny space is home to a sculpture, Alexander Calder’s Flamingo, and a
farmer’s market. With only a small plot of trees and shrubs near its northeast corner, Federal Plaza
attempts to create the illusion of openness in the otherwise claustrophobic confines of the Federal
Government complex. This openness, however, is mocked by the modernist high rises (designed by
Mies Van Der Rohe) that overlook the plaza. The Kluczynski Federal Building and the Dirksen Federal
Courthouse across the street not only block natural light from entering Federal Plaza but also foster a
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sense of paranoia in the person brave enough to stand for any length of time in this public space. Each
building is made of black glass and steel that reflects back the viewer’s gaze and illustrates the truism
that federal government is not open, as the plaza asserts, but rather closed to the gaze of the ordinary
inhabitant. All that moderates this inhospitable space is the presence of the post office, another
laughable tribute to the access Federal Plaza appears to provide but ultimately makes impossible to
utilize. Taken together, the elements of design in this plaza clearly indicate that the pedestrian might
pause for a moment to regard the view but must certainly move on lest their presence disturb the
paranoid symmetry of the modernist plaza and wake the sleeping machine of federal power.
Due west of the Federal Plaza is a site that many of my audience today knows quite well. That is
the sidewalk located across from the Board of Trade and next to the Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago.
Here I must pause in my journey of spatial analysis for a moment to comment on how astute Occupy
Chicago’s organizers were in their choice of site. For at this intersection is situated the true heart of
power in the city—the central bank and the commodity exchange. Yet, as we might expect, this nexus
of power does not advertise itself as such. The Loop’s canyons are here is at their narrowest and most
stark with buildings severely close to the sidewalk. There are few places to pause individually to admire
the scenery let alone gather together a group of people. One of the few open spaces in the area is the
privately owned courtyard that leads back from the Jackson Street entrance of the Board of Trade
Building to the Chicago Board Options Exchange, the Chicago Stock Market, and the LaSalle Street Metra
station. Consequently, the motionless spectator or potential protestor is forced to choose between
moving close to the buildings and risking a charge of trespass or shifting out towards the street and
colliding with passersby. The sidewalk thus represents a tightrope that the inhabitant of the city,
dwarfed by their surroundings, must navigate with care. At night the threat of collision with other
pedestrians fades, but the quandary of balance remains as police may arrest those that they perceive to
be in “the public way.”
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Forced by our metaphorical policeman to move on from Jackson and LaSalle, a street that is
literally obstructed by capital I might add—the Chicago Board of Trade sits on top of it—we now move
north on LaSalle Street to City Hall. Bearing a strong resemblance to Union Station, Chicago’s City Hall
suggests permanence. Its exterior also baffles public access. One must search closely on the exterior
walls of the building for points of entry. Were it not for the Daley Plaza on the Clark Street side of the
building, one might be forgiven for assuming the City Hall had no front door at all. While the City Hall
was completed in 1911, Daley Plaza on its eastern side is of more recent vintage—finished in 1965.
When Richard J. Daley died in office in 1976, the plaza was named in his honor. This municipal plaza
receives more natural light than the Federal Plaza to the south. It also has more greenery as planter
boxes of trees and shrubs are located on both the east and west sides of the plaza. Towards the center
of the plaza is a sculpture known simply as “the Picasso.” Added in 1967, its subject matter and status
as art have long been in dispute. Perhaps Chicago journalist Mike Royko put it best when he referred to
the statue as a symbol of the “I will get you before you get me spirit” (Royko, 16). On the southwest
corner of the plaza is a fountain, close to the trees, and to the northeast is a flame commemorating
Chicago area veterans of the Vietnam War.
In an attempt to encourage visitors to stay in this relatively open location and treat it as a public
space rather than simply a short cut, events are frequently scheduled at the Daley Plaza. Santa’s house
is already up, next to the city’s Christmas tree, and the annual Holiday market will soon open. During
the warmer months metal tables and chairs are placed in the plaza and a farmer’s market appears on
Thursdays. Yet in spite of these attempts to be welcoming, the plaza remains somehow inhospitable
and sends a conflicting message to those pausing inside it. Several semesters ago one of my students
conducted ethnographic research on Chicago’s City Hall. While sitting in the hallway of the building
itself, he was arrested by the Cook County Sheriff’s police. Later released with no charges filed against
him, he then crossed the street to observe City Hall via the plaza. This time sitting on one of the metal
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chairs, he noticed a lone figure circling the plaza out of the corner of his eye. That figure turned out to
be a security guard who approached him and asked if “he needed any help.” Saying no, the security
guard moved on and continued his circle around the plaza’s perimeter. Not arrested this time, he
instead found himself vigorously surveilled. Here in the plaza, it would seem, the Mayor is content to
allow the peasants to play. But in this space devoted to a dead King, all eyes are turned on the
potentially threatening inhabitant lest a group form and things get out of hand.
Ending our tour of four “public spaces” at this site, it is worth pausing to consider what we have
learned about Chicago from their design. First let’s consider again what each site represents. Grant
Park is the locus of tourism in Chicago, the face that the city shows off to the world. Federal Plaza is a
dot on the map suggesting both the inaccessibility of national government to the local resident and its
small footprint in Chicago’s iconography of power. The lack of extensive public space on Jackson and
LaSalle highlights the ability of financial power to mask its true influence on city life. A blank wall and a
wall of humanity encourage motion rather than observation and contemplation. Pay no attention to the
man behind the curtain. And finally, Daley Plaza advertises itself not only as a public space but also as
the true seat of power. All blessings flow from the Mayor who gives his loyal subjects a space to play
under his protective gaze. Yet like any father, this one can grow stern at a moment’s notice, chastising
his unruly children for their foolish whining. As different as the meanings of each space are, they
nonetheless present the same basic message to the resident of the city—you should keep moving.
Power understands that motion discourages thought at the same time that it promotes commerce.
Motion also fosters self-absorption. One is intent to get where they are going without delay and the
city’s grid is happy to oblige. Bounded by this “economic geography” residents become not only
carriers of cargo but cargo themselves. Living freight to be moved about the city.
This depressing insight leads me to the heart of the matter, my answer to the question that
serves as the title of this talk: What does it mean to “occupy” a public space? Since none of the four
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spaces examined earlier fit Lefebvre’s model of a public space, any activity that goes against the norm,
that violates the stated design intentions of the technocrats who manage the city, could potentially be
viewed as a transgressive act. But is transgression of the rules of public space the same thing as an
occupation? Yes and no. Transgression is a tactical move. What Michel De Certeau, the French
ethnologist referred to as “making do.” In describing how this process operates in urban space,
De Certeau uses the example of jaywalking or taking shortcuts, which operate as a “pedestrian speech
act.” We violate the grid by cutting across it at an angle. Our act is small, an individual statement. Its
legacy, however, might take on greater import. An example of this can be found on the UIC campus.
When the walkways were redesigned, no straight path was created between University Hall (the main
campus offices) and the Library. Thus you could see the library a few hundred feet away but could not
walk to it without going across the grass. Hundreds of faculty, staff, and students did just that. Soon the
grass was dead in a straight line leading towards the library. Not long after, a walkway was laid in that
direction. A shortcut had metamorphosed from an individual decision into a group statement. Space
was reclaimed from the designer by those who used it every day.
This act of reclamation (small though it is) is at the heart of what it means to demand “the right
to the city.” But it is simply a beginning. As soon as these would be short-cutters view themselves as
collective actors in making the city and not simply making do, then and only then do they become
occupiers. Moreover, in their act of occupation these collective actors make palpable the irony (noted
earlier) that Chicago’s public spaces are not public at all. Perhaps this irony helps to explain (at least in
part) the local media’s attempt to ignore the Occupy Chicago movement or subject it to ridicule. As the
lawyer in Melville’s masterful tale, “Bartleby the Scrivener: A Tale of Wall Street,” who is confronted by
the unfixable and unfathomable suffering of his employee, the inhabitant of Chicago is reminded by the
occupiers of the thing they wished they did not know. “I prefer not,” becomes the public refrain even as
the Bartleby-like Occupy movement uses this same refrain to remind Chicagoans that their city does not
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belong to them but to the tourists and the businesses who under the euphemism of public/private
partnership have gradually begun to purchase its ground from under their feet.
Having found the weak link in the city’s rationale, it is now imperative to decide how that
message might best be conveyed and to whom it must be brought. By way of a conclusion, I have an
immodest proposal that I hope might spark a fruitful discussion following my remarks. That proposal
involves the suggestion that Occupy Chicago adopt and adapt tactics outlined by Mao Tse Tung in his
struggle with Japan and then later the Nationalist forces of Chiang Kai-shek. What Mao referred to as
“revolutionary war” or a “people’s war” depended on acknowledging the reality of unequal forces. Not
able to confront power directly, Mao shaped his force into a mosquito that would slowly drain his
opponent not only of blood but also of the will to fight. Now, let me be clear, I am not suggesting that
Occupy Chicago engage in violence. Rather I am imagining occupation as not a static phenomenon but a
rolling series of occupations. Static occupations such as those occurring across the United States
operate best when there is strength in numbers. It is much harder to evict several thousand people
from a public square than a few hundred. However, in Chicago where the number of static occupiers
has remained fairly small, such tactics not only fail to achieve the desired result but add to the
impression that the movement lacks strength to survive. A rolling occupation would challenge that
perception by allowing small groups of anywhere from 10 to 100 occupiers to appear seemingly at
random at different points within the city. One day at LaSalle and Jackson, the next at Daley Plaza,
following that the Water Tower, and perhaps even the shopping sanctuaries of Lincoln Park.
These rolling occupations need only have two recurring aspects to them. First, they should
whenever possible target the weak underbelly of the city’s power—the outsiders. It is no accident that
Mayor Daley allowed Oprah Winfrey to tape a show on Michigan Avenue but would not let Anti-War
protestors march on the same street. A good middle class home owner, and Chicago clearly sees itself
in that light, keeps discord off the front lawn. Always show a good face to the neighbors. If you bring
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dissent to the city’s front yard, you not only highlight the fact that the beauties of the city are only a gift
from those in power to the city’s residents rather than an inheritance but also draw the undivided
attention of City Hall and the currently recumbent Chicago media.
Fully aware that this is the political equivalent of teasing the bears, it is important to know the
right moment to back off. Attention provoked, move to a new public space. But do not stop. This is the
second attribute necessary to make rolling occupations succeed. Mayor Emmanuel must be confronted
with the specter of near constant annoyance popping up unpredictably all over the city. Then he will be
forced to choose, bargain or engage in a crackdown.
Unfortunately, constant motion is inevitable for Occupy Chicago. Our city’s design as well as the
movement’s still modest numbers determines this reality. However, targeted protests rolling from one
public space to another will create an affective movement to redefine the collective narrative of the city.
Occupation done in a dynamic rather than a static way will be Chicago’s surest path to reclaiming the
“right to the city.”