Nashville City View
© Martyn Smith, 2021, 2024
Published in the United States
© Martyn Smith, 2021, 2024
Published in the United States
This is a portrait of the city of Nashville in June 2021. Travelers notice things that people who live there have learned to screen from consciousness, and so they represent an opportunity to break out of that law of perception.
Successful modern cities that draw visitors tell a story about themselves—that’s the starting point for this essay. Nashville is meticulous about its storytelling. It promotes itself as the home of country music. It repeatedly returns to the visual symbol of the guitar, and commemorates country music greats in as many venues as possible. Visitors to the city will be pointed to the Ryman Auditorium and the Country Music Hall of Fame. These and other places are featured in every online list of “must-see” sites in Nashville. My goal in this visual essay wasn’t to replicate a travel guide that dutifully runs through those sites—“Yes, they are still here!” My goal is to examine how these sites work together to present a coherent story about Nashville. I bring curiosity about questions like, “What defines a Hall of Fame as an institution?” They are springing up everywhere, but why are they important to cities? I try to think about what we should make of the deep patriotism of country music in general and Johnny Cash in particular in our post-Trump era? These questions make this an interpretive essay about Nashville
rather than a guidebook.
Many visitors come to Nashville for the music scene, which includes more or less continuous live music in the honky tonks along Broadway. The party buses for bachelorette parties were a constant visual feature, and they extended the aural range of the honky tonks onto city streets. But there were other stories here, and as this visual essay proceeds I move on to those stories as well. In the course of the essay I locate four separate stories embedded in Nashville. The first I’ve already mentioned, and that’s country music. The second story expressed by this city is that of the contemporary corporate world that’s busy constructing glass skyscrapers and residential developments aiming to attract young professionals. For corporations the lively music culture of the city does part of their work in attracting employees. The third story is represented by the neoclassical architecture of state government and old Nashville. The Tennessee State Capitol and the Parthenon in Centennial Park are key examples of this story. Toward the end of this visual essay, I arrive at the mirror world of the Gaylord Opryland Resort and Convention Center some ways outside the city. This resort proposes itself as an alternative that saves tourists from having to visit the actual Nashville.
Successful cities tell a story about themselves. In the case of Nashville that story is all about country music. As visitors arrive at the airport, and head down the escalators to baggage claim, they find this display of Gibson guitars. Such displays, even small ones like this, make it impossible to forget the big story here of country music. I wouldn’t suggest that a sprawling city like Nashville, with almost 2 million people in its metro area, has the means to coordinate and dictate the telling of this story, but as civic committees gather to consider what would be “fitting” for the design of an airport, hotel, or park, they land on ways to express the shared story of their city. We got our bags and ordered a Lyft to
our Airbnb apartment in the Gulch. We knew our apartment was close enough to downtown that we’d be able to walk there, but we didn’t realize there was anything distinctive about the Gulch. This new development was located in a literal gulch between Nashville’s downtown and music row. For a time this area along the railway had been mostly abandoned, but in the 2000s it was turned into a paradise for young professionals. The area has become crowded with upscale lofts and condos, and the lower floors house restaurants and trendy retail outlets. The units looked generic on the outside, and had a tendency to sport names like “Infinity Lofts” that lended a tech coolness to the area. In the evenings I’d sit out on
our small two-chair balcony. I found myself wondering about the compositional elements of the units below. Was any sort of Zen beauty meant to be expressed by that lone rock, or was it a pragmatic obstacle for large vehicles? Why were there four large planters placed next to one another? The corrugated look of the walls hinted at contemporary design experimentation. There was no look backward to any tradition here. In many settings the country music story was obvious, but here in the residential areas of the Gulch it was nowhere to be found. These contemporary residential developments weren’t meant to appeal to longtime Nashville residents, but to young professionals who could just as well
have chosen to live in Atlanta or Charlotte. The Gulch website listed over 100 distinct businesses in this densely constructed area. To begin with there was that new Wyndham Hotel and the residential structures surrounding it. There were plenty of restaurants, fitness centers, an organic grocery store, clothing stores such as a Patagonia outlet, a prominent Starbucks, and high-end liquor stores. Large and colorful murals (such as one on the bottom right) reassured residents that this is a perfect space for creatives like themselves. Lacking was any sort of church or place of worship. The Gulch provided for every modern need, but had nothing for someone trying to maintain connection to a religious tradition. (So
maybe that’s not a modern need?) If there was any motion toward the spiritual dimension of life in the Gulch it would be this wings mural that seemed to always have a line of people waiting to take a photo. There wasn’t anything particularly “Nashville” about the wings, unless you count the guitars drawn into the lower part of both wings. Photo-ready wings are sprouting on walls everywhere now, but why are they so popular? Such wings make people feel like they are manifesting an unseen power that resides in the Self. Walking down the street in a crowd individuals feel ordinary and faceless, but for a moment in front of these wings (and afterwards on social media) they claim a unique radiance. These wings are a
manifestation of our modern religion of the Self. From the Gulch it was possible to walk to Broadway in about 15 minutes. The AT&T Building (completed in 1994) stood sentinel over all goings-on down here. At 33 storeys the building isn’t so tall, but with a slight turn against the grain of the blocks it faces onto the heart of Nashville, and so appears to greet visitors. Many people have seen a comic book reference and so designate it the “Batman building,” but its twin spires are more clearly an attempt to pick up on Gothic motifs present around Nashville. The six unbroken vertical lines down its center recall guitar strings, and so this is a rare corporation-built skyscraper that overtly engages the culture around it.
Broadway runs east-west and terminates at the Cumberland River. The blocks down near the river were crowded with honky tonks. Some of these are recent arrivals, but others have a long history. Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge is that lavender honky tonk, and over its entrance was a row of photos of famous country musicians. The website named Kris Kristofferson, Waylon Jennings, and Patsy Cline as regulars here some time after Tootsie’s opened in 1960. Places often make use of the claim that famous people have walked (or sat) in this very space. It’s not just celebrity culture at work, but a match between Nashville’s city story and the music that has shaped personal identities. Nashville offers itself as a pilgrimage
site that contains thick traces of the musicians whose songs make sense of American lives. The honky tonks and bars on Broadway almost without exception featured live music. On this warm day in early summer the windows were wide open and walking down the street we passed through zone after zone of music, one replacing the other as we advanced. Some bars had two (or three!) floors, and in that case each floor might have its own act. The music started in the afternoon and it continued long into the night. A walk along Broadway is an education in musical taste. The songs performed here were part of what I began to think of as the White “good time” canon. I saw few Black musicians, nor did I hear many songs
written by Black artists. Even the fast food chain Taco Bell had a stage for live music! The lighting wasn’t impressive, and with those tiny tables there was no opportunity for dancing as in the honky tonks. But it was possible to get a Crunchwrap Supreme or a pair of Chicken Chalupas and enjoy easygoing country music from a guy wearing a baseball cap. Not even a Taco Bell could get out of the implicit demand to offer a stage. What most impressed me was the massive number of jobs for musicians implied by all these venues. Many stages had musicians playing for 10-12 hours each day, which had to translate into hundreds of jobs for performers at all levels of experience. The result is that Nashville is a place that lots
of musicians call home. We ducked into the Tin Roof along Broadway. The band in this honky tonk offered a rock-inflected country sound. What caught my attention was the role of cell phones for both spectators and performers. That table of young women had their phones out non-stop, snapping photos of the musicians and each other. I knew these photos would quickly go up on social media. The performers had put up a sign with Venmo information to enable the audience to send tips through their phones. Then each musician on stage had a cell phone stationed in front of them so that they could find the lyrics and chord changes to songs requested by this audience. More people came into the Tin Roof and the
band gamely played a series of requests, but what really got the audience going was “Proud to Be an American.” Everyone in the bar sang along and pumped their fingers in the air like they were at a ball game. It’s such a strange song, with its opening imagination of total loss: “If tomorrow all the things were gone/ I worked for all my life/ And I had to start again...” In this situation being American isn’t a good thing because people would help you out, but because “the flag still stands for freedom/ And they can’t take that away.” So in loss we can take comfort in this one rock solid but abstract principle that no one can take away. That sentiment seemed a long way from the communal values at the origin of
country music. The movie Nashville from 1975 featured a bus that roamed around Nashville broadcasting outsider political views. That bus appears whenever there’s a need for a segue between scenes. In the experience of Nashville today this role is taken by party buses. As I waited to cross a street in the Gulch, this bus eased to a stop. The urge to party at some honky tonk is easy enough to understand, but these buses reflect a desire to be observed partying by complete strangers. I raised my camera for a photo, and one girl waved and whoo-hooed. This was an experience meant to catch the attention of others, and a true mark of success would be to show up on the social media accounts of complete
strangers. Nashville had clearly become a destination city for bachelorette parties (something we didn’t know before arriving). One website promoting Nashville calls it the “Vegas of the South” and claims that the city’s nickname has become “Nashvegas.” There are good reasons why Nashville holds more appeal as a site for bachelorette parties than for bachelor parties. To begin with, Nashville feels like a safe space for women. It isn’t known for its male-oriented strip clubs and high-rollers (like Las Vegas), but for its honky tonks that often feature good-looking male singers. It’s a city with a culture that allows women to relax yet also supports their partying, allowing bachelorettes to put on a show right on city
streets. The Ernest Tubb Record Shop is a staple on Broadway. The sign has always featured a prominent guitar. Ernest Tubb himself was born and raised in Texas, and so he became known as the Texas Troubador. His record store opened in 1947, and in the following years the Midnite Jamboree was broadcast live from a stage right inside the store. His band the Texas Troubadors played 150-200 shows a year through the 1960s and 70s. A record store in a city far from where he was born seems a fitting institution to be founded by a restless musician. The near disappearance of the physical trappings of recorded music (CDs, LPs, cassettes) in our time makes it hard to imagine this store lasting another 74 years, or even
another ten years, but for now it was still here. In my memory utility boxes were more or less invisible parts of the street. They were supposed to be inconspicuous, and so they disappeared from conscious perception. Only in the mid 2010s did it become common to paint and decorate these boxes. Cities saw in this practice a way to easily add public art and underline the desired narrative of a city. In Nashville the design of these utility boxes wasn’t left to locals, but was tied to a civic strategy to highlight the country music story. This box invoked both the experience of a concert and the “legendary music icon” Johnny Cash. The image adds yet another example of a guitar visually present in public space. Nashville
must hold some sort of record for most images of a guitar in a major city. At the lower end of Broadway was an upright guitar announcing the presence of a Hard Rock Cafe. There are about 185 of these cafes around the world, featuring a variety of guitar designs, but the Gibson guitar is fitting here since that corporation is headquartered in Nashville. Hard
Rock Cafes feature musical memorabilia on their interior walls (in Nashville, from country music stars), but these cafes aren’t the creators of successful public space, they seek to profit from already popular spaces. The Cumberland River flows past Nashville on its way to joining the Ohio River. On the other side of the river from Broadway was Nissan Stadium, home to the the NFL team the Tennessee Titans. A national sports franchise puts contemporary cities on our shared mental map and gives focus to regional identities. In the 1990s Nashville approved spending $144 million in public funds for this stadium. In 2015 Nissan purchased the naming rights and so got its name into the view of anyone walking along
the river. This is typical: corporations rarely invest in creating public space, but often spend heavily to be present in spaces that attract crowds. In the Country Music Hall of Fame I found an old photo of Broadway as it looked in the early 1970s. The image was printed on the doors of an emergency exit. On the far left is the lavender exterior of Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, and a record store is in the mix too, so there are points of continuity with Broadway today. But this older street isn’t one long line of honky tonks. Those furniture stores and even a joint showing “adult films” point to a Broadway that’s not yet mainly for tourists. Enough was here for Nashville to get a reputation for music, but in later decades that reputation
took over and everything got turned into a honky tonk (or an accessory to one). Oh, and here’s a story we forget: on Christmas morning in 2020 an RV drove down 2nd Ave, a commercial street that intersects with Broadway. Just before 6:30am a loud speaker broadcast a message for people to abandon the area, and minutes later a powerful bomb exploded. The bomber turned out to be a lifelong Nashville resident, whose motives remain unclear. No one was seriously injured (except the bomber), but considerable damage was done along the street. Walking down this street it looked like an ongoing construction project. No attempt was (or will be) made to memorialize the bizarre event that shredded the
street. In this photo the Ryman Auditorium is reflected in the clear windows of the Apple Store. If Nashville has an iconic structure, it would have to be this church building completed in 1892. One of the historical markers around the site notes that the Ryman was constructed in “Ruskinian Gothic,” which is another way of saying that it’s an example of the High Victorian taste of the late 19th century. It was constructed as a church, but from early on it became a stage for popular speakers and performers, and eventually that secular use won out as it became the home for the Grand Ole Opry from 1943-1974. From here country music was broadcast to a national audience. The Ryman Auditorium is referred to as the
“Mother Church of Country Music.” That’s easy enough to understand: it was once a church and it hosted for 30+ years a radio program that defined the genre of country music. Visiting now it was clear that no one was trying to play down the religious connections. The wooden pews spoke unmistakably of a sacred use in the past, as did those pointed Gothic windows with a hint of stained glass. Some other genre of music might have inherited a space that was first a church, and that would then have become an ironic part of the story, but there’s no irony here. The sacred has been folded into the story of country music. Just outside the entrance to the Ryman Auditorium was a statue of Thomas Ryman, the Nashville
businessman who owned saloons and riverboats. In 1885 he attended a revival meeting where he intended to make fun of the anti-alcohol and anti-misspent-wealth evangelist Sam Jones. But Ryman ended up getting converted, and so he put up money for a large structure to house even more such revival meetings. The story of his conversion is colorfully
related to everyone taking a tour of the Ryman Auditorium. Walking toward downtown along Demonbreun Street I walked over to the entrance of a new building. I got a view of the empty lobby through the clear glass. Later I learned that this 20-story building offers 330,000 square feet of office and retail space. It was LEED certified, so it sees itself in the vanguard of green design. But my eye was caught by the abstract art on the wall. At the Ryman Auditorium the realistic statues of Thomas Ryman (or Bill Monroe or Loretta Lynn) called for a story: “this person was here and this happened.” Works of abstract art are pleasing, but they sidestep the very idea of a story. This was blank space not meant to tell a story.
At the front of the Ryman Auditorium is (of course) the stage. Nothing was historic about the stage itself, which had been completely remade in 2012. Still this represented the exact coordinates in space where great performers and speakers had stood in the past. The sign behind the stage includes images of Harry Houdini, Dolly Parton, Hank Williams, and others. Visitors are encouraged to get their photo taken at that microphone in the front, and these photos are then printed and available at the gift shop. The stage itself is nothing, but the past presence here of charismatic artists allows for a kind of magnification of the meaning of this recently installed stage. Ryman Auditorium exhibits historical material related to
the site. This piece of the original balcony was in one display case. It was plenty beat up, so it serves as an explanation for why so much has had to be re-built. It also preserves an early layer of decoration, a ribbon and flower design. This design had been faithfully re-created along the border of the current balcony. This is the second part of sacred space. First comes a story about the presence of charismatic figures on these spatial coordinates. Second, there’s a need for a show of preservation so that visitors see “pretty much” what those charismatic figures saw. If that view is changed, the sacred feeling dims. The Ryman Auditorium was built in 1892 (and known at first as the Full Gospel Tabernacle). Today it’s a
gem set down into the modern Nashville skyline, which is growing around it and over it. In its first context the Ryman would’ve been just one of several brick Gothic constructions. A few blocks up the way on Broadway were two imposing structures, both visible in this old Nashville postcard. That light-colored building is the old US Customs House, completed in 1882. This was always a government building, but it nevertheless got the Victorian Gothic treatment. It serves now as home to the bankruptcy court, which is another way of saying it struggles to find relevance in the new Nashville. The second significant Gothic building in the postcard is the red First Baptist Church (on the left). This church preceded the
Ryman Auditorium by only six years, and it was designed by the same people. It was torn down in 1967, and only that imposing steeple was preserved. That steeple has become a standalone icon, given prominence by posters right outside the church. Even as the Nashville skyline is filled in with glass-covered modern buildings, such pieces of Gothic brick design functioned as relics of an imagined past. The clean brick walls of the 1970 replacement church were as bland as possible, and now seem meant only to frame this magnificent spire. The Country Music Hall of Fame opened in 1967— pretty early so far as Hall of Fames go. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland didn’t open until 1995. The Country
Music Hall of Fame is now surrounded by buildings that represent modern Nashville, each featuring the name of their corporate builder up near the top (Bridgestone, Pinnacle). The most prominent visual feature of these new buildings is the insistence on the use of highly reflective surfaces. This corporate architecture represents an abandonment of the work of contextual meaning and narrative, and relies instead on surrounding institutions (and the sky!) to create aesthetic pleasure. If we wonder what has made it possible to fill all those new apartments for young professionals in the Gulch, we should no doubt look to this glass-covered corporate landscape. The exterior of the Country Music Hall of Fame is
decorated with massive images of contemporary performers. This follows the lead of sports venues around the US that display larger-than-life images of players. In the case of a Hall of Fame this reliance on images of individuals is ironic since the institution is nominally about preserving a tradition that rises above individuals. A Hall of Fame is a collective enterprise, which is why it’s an “honor” to be inducted into a Hall of Fame—not something for which artists are paid. It doesn’t appear that an institutionalist view is viable now since more and more the only basis for attracting visitors is the enlarged presence of charismatic individuals. Buildings can be thought of as falling into genres, and that includes the
Hall of Fame. Genres encode a set of expectations. When I open up a book labelled as a novel I cue up expectations. Part of reading a book is to engage with the way an author fulfills or creatively side-steps genre expectations. In a similar way we walk into a church or a museum or a monument with a set of expectations about the coming experience. A Hall of Fame is a genre dedicated to preserving the history of an informal social institution (this or that music style, this or that sport, this or that pastime). Its challenge is to skirt the line between an institutional story and the praise of star individuals. It’s easy to sense a growing lean toward the presentation of individuals over the institution of country music. A Hall of
Fame strives to include more than enlarged photographs. It’s inevitably crowded with items that have little value in themselves, but given their documented connection to a person or performance, they make visitors feel the connection to the past. In a Catholic context such things would be called first- or second-class relics. In the Country Music Hall of Fame we came across this white hat, worn by Bob Wills. It wasn’t just a hat that he typically wore, but the hat he was wearing in his final recording session before a career-ending stroke. The best things for any Hall of Fame combine typicality (he always wore this) and specificity (he wore it at this moment). It’s possible that many young visitors to the
Country Music Hall of Fame were enticed to come by the presence of the Taylor Swift Education Center. This space asked young visitors to interact with the displays (not just stare at past stars). The heart of the matter, according to Taylor Swift, is songwriting, a practice that (she claimed here) has stayed the same as it was when she was 12 years old, sitting in her room. Songwriting is something everyone can do, so young visitors can take down a magnetic grid and develop a song idea. The ones posted weren’t too promising, such as a fast temp song: “Cats are cute and fluffy and I love them.” I wondered whether the responses here ever move far past that? The Taylor Swift Education Center asked young people to
think of themselves as artistic creators, but it couldn’t break free of the worship of celebrity. A bus from a Taylor Swift tour is lovingly re-created so that young fans not only thought about writing songs, but imagined going on tour as a star. There’s a disconnect between the discourse of creativity and the reality of stardom. Pretty much anyone could become a proficient musician or basketball player with practice, but it’s not true that anyone could become Taylor Swift or Giannis Antetokounmpo. American culture rewards the improbable, spectacular talent that most people can’t possibly reach. I’d love to be a part of a society that emphasized the common success that everyone could have as a proficient local musician
and basketball player. This rotunda functioned as the inner sanctum of the Country Music Hall of Fame. Brass plates representing the inductees since 1961 were fitted to the curving wall. After walking through the hall of fame, crowded with videos, photos, and relics, this circular room had a meditative quality to it. The plaques were all the same size and presented together, without a hierarchy of accomplishment or role. Around the top of the room ran the title of the Carter
Family song: “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” This, finally, was the expression of an institution that was larger than individual stars, and which supplied a framework for the creative work of these individuals. The plaques contained
names I recognized, and some that I’d hardly even heard of.
The first group of inductees in 1961 included Hank Williams, who died in 1953 at age 30. The lines of text sketched quickly his contribution to country music. They begin by noting that Williams “will live on in the memories of millions of Americans.”
Those words addressed the fans living eight years after his
death. 70 years later it’s an institution like the Hall of Fame that takes on the role of keeping alive the memory of this career. This 6 ft. x 10 ft. painting was prominently displayed in the rotunda. I assumed it was a reproduction, since I’d seen this painting by Thomas Hart Benton before and I associated his work with the 1930s and 40s. But this turned out to be the original painting, commissioned by the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1975 when Benton was 85 years old. In contrast to the blown-up star images that pulled visitors into the Hall of Fame, this painting emphasized the common life that produced the music. Benton presented country music as growing out of White experience, with that isolated banjo player
toward the back the sole example of Black influence. The background to “The Sources of Country Music” is as important as the figures in the forefront. The implication is that country music didn’t come from people untouched by civilization, but that the music came from a specific society. An idealized church sits up there on a hill, and provides a setting for the choir shown below. It wasn’t a generic Christian church that gave rise to country music, but Holiness and Pentecostal churches. That running train seems to burst into this musical garden, reminding us that Jimmie Rodgers worked on a train and was known as the “Singing Brakeman.” New technologies brought together the disparate strands cohere into
what we know now as country music. The Country Music Hall of Fame was complemented by smaller private museums. One building in downtown Nashville housed a museum for Johnny Cash on the first floor and another for Patsy Cline on the second. The Johnny Cash Museum began with this display of Cash and his two person backing band (“The Tennessee Two”). A tablet and some headphones allowed visitors to listen to the group performing in the mid 1950s. The emphasis here was on the simplicity of the enterprise. These were young guys that met each other while working at a car dealership in Memphis, yet the boom-chicka-boom rockabilly sound emerged from this group and became part of the sonic
background of America. Museums commonly include blown-up photos and blocks of text that guide visitors through a career or event. But what makes a museum a museum is the presence of objects that make visitors feel that direct connection to a story. A museum isn’t an illustrated book projected onto a wall, but a space to encounter physical objects. The Johnny Cash Museum narrates his career, but it also presented objects relating to his physical person. These include letters written by Cash, pieces of furniture from his house, or more often articles of clothing worn during a performance. Charisma seeks to associate itself with objects in this world. In the 1950s the US Army Corps of Engineers built a dam
along the Cumberland River. When the dam was complete, in 1957, a lake formed, which was given the name Old Hickory Lake. A modern house was built along the new lake, and in 1966 Johnny Cash bought this house. Its most notable feature was that circular living space at the center, which was lined with windows giving a perfect view of the new lake. After the death of Johnny Cash the house was bought, but as it was being refurbished a fire broke out and it burned to the ground.
A total loss. A stone wall from the original Cash house was excavated and “each stone... painstakingly placed here” in the Johnny Cash Museum. At the end of the museum, as visitors transition into the obligatory gift shop, we stopped to view
a corner devoted to the final stage of his career. His American Recordings with producer Rick Rubin were critically acclaimed, and no song better represents this late stage than Cash’s version of “Hurt,” released in 2002 (the year before his death). The video was set to play on repeat here, and after walking through the relics of his life, lovingly interpreted and laid out, it was jarring to hear it all dismissed by Cash as “my empire of dirt.” The video for the song had been filmed in that lakeside house, and though that house burned down, we could see here the chair in which he was sitting for the video and the bust of his younger self that featured in the video as well. No matter how meaningful an experience, there’s
always a t-shirt for sale afterwards. That’s one grand truth about American culture. If Medieval pilgrims could’ve bought a cheaply printed garment to wear home, then those might well have replaced all the popular pilgrim medals and flasks. The t-shirt is an underappreciated wonder of our time, enabling the body to broadcast an illustrated message. We were drawn to the Johnny Cash Museum to begin with because of the charisma of the man and his music, and then the relics from his life held us transfixed for an hour or so, and finally having experienced this sacred space we desired some object to memorialize that experience and publicize to other people our brush with the things of the Man in Black. As I walked
up to buy a t-shirt at the Johnny Cash Museum, this was the counter for that transaction. This little machine was linked to the ethersphere, which seems a good word for the financial infrastructure that exists on some higher plane than the “cloud” where people store and access ordinary information. When I inserted my chip-enabled credit card into this reader in seconds it accessed the electronic bits that proved I had sufficient funds to make this purchase. From these t-shirts, to the food at restaurants, to the entrance fees at museums, I never used cash in Nashville, but always touched or inserted a card into gadgets such as this, and later saw the exact amount deducted from online accounts. In 1974 Johnny
Cash released a spoken-word track that served as a patriotic declaration during Watergate. The Johnny Cash Museum had it playing in a darkened side room, where visitors could sit on benches and listen to the whole thing. The poem begins with a story about meeting an old man on a park bench near a courthouse. The flag is looking ragged, but the old man schools him on its history. The raggedness is acknowledged: “...she’s getting threadbare and wearing thin/ But she’s in good shape for the shape she’s in/ ‘Cause she’s been through the fire before...” This era of Covid and MAGA was a hell of a time to talk about patriotism, I know, but coming from Johnny Cash I felt some creative hope for our American
democracy. Johnny Cash struck me as a worthy messenger for the good in our system. Not far from the Johnny Cash Museum we walked past this scene of a man photographing a casually composed woman. I had no idea who she was, but I was certain she had an Instagram account with thousands of followers. She was busy pursuing the dream of life of a social media influencer. Broadway draws crowds of people on account of its musical heritage, but this vibrance is often packaged as a background for social media. The America that gave us Johnny Cash has morphed into something else. He’d know what I mean when I say that this social media way of being holds onto the outward form of creativity, but
denies its power. Avoid all that! Nashville was intent on multiplying the opportunities to stand next to a marker with the name of a favorite star. The Music City Walk of Fame was located in a public park sandwiched between the Country Music Hall of Fame and Bridgestone Arena (home of Nashville’s awkwardly named hockey team, the Predators). The squares each contained the name of an influential favorite musician. Of course it was the one dedicated to Elvis Presley that received a yellow flower! These stars were dedicated from the 2000s on with a big public ceremony. Their inspiration came from the Hollywood Walk of Fame that started up in the 1950s, and the result was yet another set of secondary relics
for fans to visit. While still at the Country Music Hall of Fame we bought tickets to tour RCA Studio B in Music Row (outside downtown Nashville and a step beyond the Gulch). A bus dropped us in front of the low, nondescript building that housed the studio. After a long windup from the tour guide, we entered the recording space. It still functioned as a working studio, so instruments and stands were off to the side, but we were encouraged to imagine this as the origin space for songs we knew. The guide played a clip from an Elvis song in which he knocked his head on a microphone, and it brought home that music comes from places, though we forget that when it’s piped out on speakers in some grocery
store or convention center. The Apple Store was located on Broadway, close to everything else in this walkable downtown. The glass exterior and Apple logo aligned it with the corporate highrises attracting young professionals to the city. But in its central placement on Broadway it asked to participate in the music scene. Apple had no stage for live music (not going so far as Taco Bell), but inside the doors we could catch a glimpse of a poster for the new AirPods, a reminder that Apple’s products were very much a part of every music scene. The live music in Nashville could even be heard as the froth that forms upon the thumping but private musical experience that’s delivered from our phones to our ear buds. Uphill from
Broadway was the older downtown. Walking in this direction (north) we saw an increase in structures and spaces dedicated to parking since this was within easy walking distance to Broadway and the Ryman Auditorium. Thanks to the Nashville Walls Project, begun in 2013, blank walls all around the city were gaining color and interest with murals, allowing for the extension of the city’s artistic brand onto otherwise run down urban spaces. The billboard for the iPhone 12, with its purple color and sleek design, fit right in with this civic spirit. Nashville is successful because bachelorette parties, murals, and honky-tonks make for great images that create a desire in others to come here. The lynchpin in this
whole system is the smart phone. Part of travel is cultivating an openness to unexpected scenes. Walking from Broadway to the State Capitol the last thing I expected was to pass a Presbyterian church composed of ancient Egyptian architectural motifs, including papyrus columns, a winged sun disk over the entrance, and an Egyptian-style cornice atop windows and entrances. This church was constructed in 1848-9 after an earlier church burned down. It was a prestigious church with a strong connection to two US presidents (Andrew Jackson and James K. Polk), so it’s not like this was an eccentric project. The Egypt-influenced Washington Monument was under construction at the same time as this church,
demonstrating an association of power with this Egyptian design trend. Gothic motifs had dominated the music scene on Broadway, but the seat of Tennessee state government presented itself in Classical terms. This War Memorial Auditorium was built in 1925 to honor the soldiers of Tennessee who died in World War I. The names of the dead (and their rank and division) were inscribed on bronze plaques fixed to the interior walls of the courtyard. There was an oldfashioned formality here that’s been replaced by more visitor-friendly sites like the Vietnam Memorial. This architecture— inspired by ancient Athens—was complemented by words of Woodrow Wilson that could’ve been spoken by Pericles:
“America is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth...” Turning from the War Memorial Auditorium we had a clear view of the Tennessee State Capitol. This Greek Revival building was under construction from 1845-59, and it was designed by Philadelphia architect William Strickland (who also designed the nearby Egyptian Revival church). The capitol was composed of elements inspired by the architectural remains of ancient Athens. That tower on top, for example, is a version of the Choragic Monument of Lysicrates from the 4th century BC. That ancient monument was built on the ground, but its design was abstracted and put to use as a cupola for structures
that needed something to complete them on top. The front of the twenty dollar bill released by the Confederate States of America in 1863 featured the Tennessee State Capitol. Off to one side was the vice president of the Confederacy, Alexander H. Stephens. The Greek Revival capitol of Tennessee had been designed by a northern architect, but the South was already permeated with Classical design. Whatever the Greeks have come to mean to us now, our memories mixing hazy memories of Plato and the birth of Democracy, this state capitol building held no challenge to the values of the Confederacy. It was a perfect example of the look they wished to nurture, which they hoped would build confidence in
war efforts. Austerity seemed to rule in the capitol’s interior. The walls were constructed out of limestone quarried nearby.
No attempt was made to liven the gray with colorful varieties of marble, or to present a highly ornamental program. That’s not to say there weren’t portraits and busts framed throughout the interior, but the walls themselves had a kind of polished
grayness that was content to communicate nothing regarding the future, but simply to exist as an abstract Classicism. Most state legislatures took a page from the federal system and adopted a bicameral system for passing their laws. Under a variety of names, a large House chamber is complemented by a smaller Senate one. The Tennessee Senate was housed here in this gray room that continues the Classicism of the capitol as a whole. It was a cozy room, and I was surprised at how few desks there were. The Tennessee Senate has 33 members, of which a large majority are Republicans. The six Democrats are from either Nashville or Memphis. Such formal spaces of governance now served to hide the radicalism
of much Republican legislation, giving it an appearance of timelessness. It’s hard to miss Andrew Jackson in and around the capitol. His Hermitage mansion is located just outside Nashville, and is a popular tourist site. Within the capitol are two prominently displayed busts of the seventh president, who remains on our $20 bills. Below the capitol building is the famous statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback gallantly doffing his cap while remaining in firm control of his horse. The original for this equestrian statue stands in front of the White House. Any single figure that makes repeat appearances must have a lead role in a shared story, but as a zealous slave holder and the causer of immense suffering for Native
Americans, I question the longterm value of that story. This bronze bust of Nathan Bedford Forrest in the capitol stopped us in our tracks. He was labelled as “Lieutenant General in the Confederate States Army.” A quick Google search on my cell phone reminded us that prior to the Civil War he’d been a slave trader and that afterwards he became the first Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. During the Civil War he was responsible for a massacre in which hundreds of surrendered Black soldiers were killed. It felt strange to stand in front of a calm, composed bust of this man who embodies the worst impulses of our nation. We didn’t know then that a vote had recently taken place to remove this bust, which had gone up
in 1977. Just a month later it’d be gone, offering one small correction to the overall story. Standing on a porch of the capitol I looked up at refined Ionic capitals. These weren’t the original columns, but ones re-made in the style of earlier ones during renovations from 1953-55. Those 19th century columns were themselves copies of the ancient ones constructed for the Erechtheum on the Acropolis in Athens. All this tender care for a Greek order in the midst of a green landscape called to mind “Anecdote of the Jar” by Wallace Stevens. This poem described the capitol perfectly: “I placed a jar in Tennessee,/ And round it was, upon a hill./ It made the slovenly wilderness/ Surround that hill.” The “gray and
bare” jar becomes a beachhead for an unnatural dominion over the green world all around. The gray capitol kept the country music spilling out of the honky tonks on Broadway at a comfortable distance, but the party buses seemed programmed on neverending loops. These partyers were happy to attract some eyeballs near the capitol too. Architecture displays the ideal versions of a city, but the actual trend line of lived culture often makes a mockery of set-in-stone ideals.
The Nashville writer Donald Davidson took up just this contrast in a poem: “And where the willows crowd the pure/ Expanse of clouds and blue that stood/ Around the gables Athens wrought,/ Shop-girIs embrace a plaster thought,/ And
eye Poseidon’s loins ungirt...” The poem stands as a high-minded put down of Nashville’s Athenian pretensions. From its hilltop perch the capitol looks out onto the older Nashville downtown. That central gray building is the Andrew Jackson State Office Building, completed in 1969. The darker building to its right is the upper portion of the James K. Polk State Office Building, completed in 1981. Today these buildings rightly earn the adjective “nondescript.” When these buildings went up they were among the earliest tall buildings in Nashville. A true sense of the modern arrived with these buildings that were intent on stripping away personality and reference to the past (except in their names!). The result is that they
cede to earlier buildings the ability to tell a civic story. The best known sites related to the civil rights struggles of the 1960s are located deeper in the South, in cities like Atlanta and Birmingham. But Nashville played a role in the civil rights movement, and brought an early victory for desegregation. In the first months of 1960 Black students walked into popular lunch counters and waited to be served. These sit-ins didn’t happen down on Broadway, but here in the district next to the capitol. Memory of these events is especially attached to the sit-in at a Woolworths store, so under that old sign the windows were plastered with black and white photos of this struggle, transporting us to a different city. Centennial Park
was over two miles from the capitol building, so we took another Lyft to get here. The main attraction was a full scale replica of the Parthenon of Athens. Since Athens is 5,500 miles from Nashville, and inhabits a rocky Mediterranean landscape, it seemed random to encounter the Parthenon. But it wasn’t surprising in the way it would be to encounter, say, a model of the Bamiyan Buddhas from Afghanistan. We’ve noted how thoroughly Classical design was embraced by this state. This Parthenon replica was built for the state’s 1897 Centennial Exposition, and while most structures for that event were dismantled, this one was granted a permanent place. The visitor experience of Nashville’s Parthenon begins
with a small museum about its construction. Photos in the exhibit allow visitors to re-imagine the structure not as the stand-alone center for a green park, but as one structure among many. A replica Egyptian pyramid even stood nearby. The model for Tennessee’s Centennial Exposition was Chicago’s Columbian Exposition of 1893. Lagoons with gondolas, light shows, and Egyptian belly dancing were all successful elements in Chicago, and they were reproduced here. But where that earlier White City was set on becoming a paradigm for the future, Nashville’s exposition was rooted in an idealization of the past. The original Nashville Parthenon was built to last only through the 1897 exposition, not several
decades into the coming century. It deteriorated badly until in 1915 the city decided to rebuild it out of a more durable material, and so make it permanent. The original Parthenon was constructed out of Pentelic marble, quarried not far from Athens. The excellence of that material is part of what makes it an architectural wonder today. In refurbishing its replica Nashville settled on a cement mix that incorporated small stones with a yellowish hue, mimicking the time-worn coloring of the Greek marble. But concrete and caulking detracted from our sense of wonder, leaving visitors to imagine “what if” such a grand structure had been built with marble. The interior of Nashville’s Parthenon features a replica of the
monumental statue of Athena that stood in the ancient structure in the 5th century BC. It’s hard to believe, but the original statue was constructed of gold and ivory. That much precious metal in one place didn’t last too long, and less than 150 years later the gold was stripped away to pay Greek soldiers. The image of the statue survived on coins and in small statues, so we have a sense of its original appearance. In 1990, after eight years of work, this full scale replica was complete.
The statue was shaped out of a mixture of gypsum and fiberglass, and fine gold leaf was used to cover Athena’s dress and shield. The Parthenon comes up on all the online “must see” lists for traveling to Nashville. Current interest focuses on the
building and the giant statue within. What doesn’t get mentioned so often is the collection of American art permanently housed on the lower level. This collection was donated by James M. Cowan in 1927 and was specifically meant to be housed within the renovated (and thus permanent) Parthenon. The art doesn’t take up ancient themes, nor are these paintings set on Mediterranean shores, rather they simply survey American landscape painting. Above, Impressionistinfluenced Edward Willis Redfield captures a winter scene in Pennsylvania. Why was it a pleasing fit to use this modern Parthenon for a collection of American art? It might be tempting to think that after so much effort and money spent
creating a replica of the Parthenon, this space would be used to interpret that ancient structure, or to present Greek art. But the Parthenon instead stood for an un-placed cultural ideal toward which American artists could work. Not just excellence, but a classical standard of beauty is on display in a painting like this that portrays an ideal (and Hellenized) woman. Our
Airbnb was located in this mid-rise property in the Gulch. After the classicism of Nashville’s civic institutions and the Gothic of its country music scene, the residential properties of the Gulch functioned as a bland tonic. Except for that brick facing and some standard landscaping there’s nothing attractive about the property. Its aim is to exist efficiently, and since Amazon runs on that same philosophy it was no surprise to often see their trucks parked outside. This style of construction has a name, they are a “one-plus-four” residential development. After some changes to the International Building Code in 2009, these became highly profitable, and once you learn about them you notice them everywhere. I
find the following basic division in modern space: 1) space that’s meant to be noticed (and so photographed), and 2) space that’s not meant to be noticed. Space that is meant to be noticed calls attention to itself through appeals to shared stories. In Nashville the presence of a statue or guitar or mural lets visitors know this is the first type of space. The second type of space expects no photography (and so it’s hard for people to understand why I’m there snapping photos). Such blank space might include a motion toward the aesthetic, but no one is truly meant to stop and take notice. In this sidewalk scene these planters are set here precisely to render this plot of land invisible to the gaze. We were set to leave
Nashville when we learned that our return flight had been cancelled. We found a room for another night at the Gaylord Opryland Resort and Convention Center. It has 2,888 rooms and so ranked at #30 on a list of the largest hotels in the world. Opryland is well outside the downtown, but easily reached from the airport. This is the Nashville that many visitors get to know best. The hotel is formed as a series of interconnected atriums, each with hotel rooms facing inside (the most desirable rooms). Above is a glass ceiling that lets in light from the outside. Not much else is allowed to intrude into this sanitized experience. The scale of Opryland takes time to communicate. To begin with there’s the massive hotel and
attached convention center. A large water park abuts the hotel. Anyone who wants more shopping can visit the nearby Opry Mills Mall. All this development got kicked off when the longrunning radio program “The Grand Ole Opry” was felt to have outgrown the Ryman Auditorium. A larger performance venue was then built outside Nashville, inheriting the name Grand Ole Opry House. Since 1974 this has been the home of the Grand Ole Opry radio program. The hotel, mall, and performance venue make for an integrated experience where everything real is hidden from sight. These purple stars seemed emblematic of the effort to keep visitors from longing for anything outside this space—even a real starry sky.
These wings stood at the ready for guests walking into the Cascades atrium (named for its built-in waterfall). Pretty much anyone will recognize the purpose of these wings: stand in front of them and take a photo of yourself. Opryland added a small, but unnecessary, sign that identified this as a “SelfieSpot.” I came across a number of these as I walked around this giant space—and no doubt I missed some. Each SelfieSpot offered a scene that created a background that could serve as a compelling social media post. The background of a selfie is important because it establishes personal presence in a desirable place. The textured wings become a theological statement as to the infinite value of the Self. Years ago I drove
through Tennessee and stopped at the Jack Daniels distillery for a tour. I was amazed then at the extent to which a booze making operation had been cast as family friendly. In the Opryland Convention Center I came across this SelfieSpot where it was clear that the makeover had continued apace. This statue prompted visitors to stop and pose for a photo with Jack as a casual friend. It’s a realistic statue, but it doesn’t commemorate the presence of any real Jack Daniels, and there’s no attempt to capture anything individualized about his appearance or personality. I could easily imagine a cornball lookalike in a TV commercial, more like Colonel Sanders than a historical personage. The Opryland Resort and
Convention Center trades on its proximity to Nashville, so the primary signifiers for the city needed to be present. In each atrium it was common to pass a decorative guitar like this hanging along a raised walkway. The feeling of music needed to be imported somehow into this generic space. But for all the guitar decorations, live music in these spaces was rare to nonexistent. In actual Nashville it was striking how many musicians would be able to make their living, but Opryland was no haven for musicians. I was far more likely to hear canned country hits coming over a sound system than to pass someone playing a guitar and singing. This space was dependent on country music to attract its visitors, but could only
make hollow motions toward the world of musicians. Souvenir stores were everywhere around Nashville, but they achieved a particular density in Opryland. The transition zones between atriums were filled with mall-friendly stores. The goods out in front were usually simple souvenirs like these t-shirts carrying the bare word “Nashville.” The appeal of such t-shirts is to simply and squarely claim personal presence in this place. Few people will wear a t-shirt for a place they’ve never visited, or to which they have no relationship. A disquieting thing about visiting countries in the developing world is that the t-shirts cease to signify, but are worn solely because of availability. But in Opryland the souvenir economy
of presence was fully activated. Banners throughout Opryland touted the slogan: “Everything in One Place.” The appeal of “everything” has clearly grown in this Age of Amazon. We should be able to shop on one website and vacation in one place. But much in life is enjoyable as fragments, and that’s the appeal of a complex city over an all-inclusive resort. I tried to imagine myself into a state of mind where “Everything in One Place” was appealing. The implication is that no one has to leave Opryland once they arrive, since the food, the waterpark, the sights, and the shopping (plus the room) is all under a series of atrium roofs. It must somehow dispell anxiety to think, “Well, everything we need is right here.” It’s
a good sign when people are taking selfies on the premises of your business. No one takes a selfie at a place they despise. We could even adopt a selfie theory along the lines of the facial feedback theory once proposed by William James: the practice of taking a selfie produces a feeling of satisfaction. Such images, as they are shared on social media, build a sense of having a stake in that moment and that place. It becomes an experience to be defended and promoted. We want life to be a growing set of good experiences, and a selfie becomes one moment in that set. Since the selfie nourishes a positive feeling for a place, it’s smart for businesses to goose the process by marking out excellent “selfie spots.” Opryland appeared
to harbor the ambition of becoming a botanical garden too. The stated ambition of Opryland is to have “everything in one place,” so it’s no surprise that it replicated as many popular tourist experiences as possible. A sign near this tree identified it as a dragon tree from Madagascar. It typically grows as a shrub or small tree, but it’s given full range here in the garden atrium. The same small sign offered a “fun fact” (a phrase we use to signal that this is no weighty teaching moment, simply a point of entertainment): this atrium “consists of 6,000 tropical plants representing more than 200 species.” One experience that was more difficult to offer than exotic plants is actual wildlife. You can’t easily combine a massive hotel
with an actual zoo. But through an app downloaded on a smartphone, kids were enabled to wander around Opryland and discover “a host of endangered animals.” At this point I’d come to feel that there was something nefarious about the way plants and animals were being used as a means to keep people inside the conditioned atriums. As the natural world recedes
from view, augmented reality will help us forget what once was. Opryland was a book desert. For all its souvenirs and experiences, there was no place for traditional books. So I was amused to find in one out of the way spot in the atrium gardens that faux-classical statues were taking the shape of young readers. It was almost like they were engaged in something that had become as quaint and cute as the very style of the statues. What is this strange attention-sucking object holding their attention? Perhaps the assurance is that youth have always gazed down at something like a screen. Or perhaps there’s something calming about finding a quiet place, and having this visual permission to take personal
time and do nothing important. Technically there were some books in the shops around Opryland. I say “technically” because they weren’t authored novels or non-fiction, but rather inspirational workbooks and lists. I note the books in places I visit since I assume there’s a connection between what’s on sale and what people actually want. The books at Opryland represented a soft Evangelicalism. There weren’t polemical books on Christianity or hot culture war topics.
One book listed 100 Bible verses “for dealing with anxiety and fear,” and others were journals guiding readers toward writing about quality time spent with God. These were examples of the experience-driven heart of Evangelicalism, but
without the arguments. Convention centers are akin to airports in their need to move people with as little hesitation and confusion as possible. They rely on overhead signs and arrows to direct people to rooms and galleries. The need for people movement and size makes it hard to design passages where people are meant to linger and look at details. Any aesthetic qualities have to be signalled to people who are moving, and need to keep moving. So the carpet is given a pleasing design, the pillars have an appearance of old Southern quality, and large planters add splashes of green. But there’s no reason to stop and look at any of this. Few convention goers bring back photos of these halls. Since convention
centers host one group after another, they avoid specificity. They don’t signal outright allegiance to a single religious or political point of view, and so they move toward abstraction or bland regional motifs. One wide hall (opening onto a series of meeting rooms) featured paintings of Nashville’s architectural gems. The state capitol with the equestrian Andrew Jackson statue is visible on the left, while the Parthenon can be glimpsed at the back. Each section of the wall is accompanied by a small sign conveying basic information about the structures. For some convention goers this will no doubt be their best view of the city of Nashville. That phrase “Everything in One Place” makes the city itself dispensable.
One genre of travel writing expends its energy describing the culinary delights of this or that city. I wouldn’t argue with the idea that food is a valuable window into a place, but I leave restaurant reviews to others. Still, down in the Gulch, thick with contemporary (and boring) residential developments, there was an old BBQ joint that we loved: Peg Leg Porker. I ordered that half rack of ribs with mac and cheese and green beans. The place seemed pleasingly old, as signalled by this yellow menu board with push letters. Later as I looked into the place I found it had only opened in 2013, making it part of the general building boom in the Gulch. This was an old school BBQ look, that was all. I had been fooled, but the food
was good. In the heart of the Gulch, and now in the shadow of all the new development, is the Station Inn. This is a music venue set inside a low-roofed stone building. All the signs were nicked and old. We came here one night to hear bluegrass, and we weren’t disappointed. I only wish it was possible to hear music like that on a nightly basis where we live. It would almost be worth living in a faceless Gulch condo to be able to walk here whenever we liked. Unlike the BBQ joint, the Station Inn was indeed much older than the contemporary development. It’s been here for about 45 years, since 1978, when this area was a godforsaken industrial zone not far from the studios of Music Row. But no doubt it’s future is
brighter with thousands of young professionals living nearby. Returning to the airport for a flight home we were again in the midst of large scale design (much like the Opryland convention center). The art emphasized cheerful abstraction, with the addition of advertisements large enough (or repetitive enough) that they could be read while on the move. We tend to be drawn to the small and unique these days, but getting to such places depends on large scale people movement.
Though we’d been moving through Nashville without masks or much Covid precaution of any sort, in the airport masks came back on and there were hand sanitizer stations. At the start of the summer of 2021 Covid was receding, but by
summer’s end cases in Tennessee would be soaring to new highs. This was my view from the window as we flew from Nashville back home to Wisconsin. Airports are our modern gateway to the sky, and once in the sky we can get almost anywhere on earth. A portal to the air is expected for any city or metropolitan region. No city of any size could imagine itself without one. It’s one element that identifies an important city. All the land between city destinations comes to mean less and less as time passes, and it was the popularization of coast-to-coast air travel in the 1950s that led to the phrase “fly over country.” In another era rail travel meant travelers still had to see and feel the reality of space between cities.
This is one in a series of visual essays that interprets places in the US and around the world. Except for some historical images included for comparison, the photos were all taken by me in the process of travel. My goal as a photographer isn’t to capture a site from the perfect time of day and just the right angle, but rather to see the world from the common point of view of an embodied person. The typical look of a place is my starting point for critical interpretation (not a professional image as one might see in an architectural book). No photos in this collection have been made by guiding a drone up in the sky or making use of a telephoto lens for a close-up. This is the world as it presents itself to every eye. For the past years I’ve worked to discipline my mind by demanding that thought be generated by things I can see.
In his essay “Nature” Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote about becoming a transparent eyeball. I’ve long been drawn to that idea of becoming a pure perceiver, an interpreter. I like the feeling of arriving at a place and trying to empty my mind of expectations and becoming alert. Landscapes speak. They speak of the collective values of those who inhabit the space. They reveal more clearly than any written constitution the hierarchies of a
society. Group identities that give meaning to individual lives always find external expression in landscapes. These can be read if we become attentive. That’s not to say that landscapes speak with one voice. They are alive with competing values and identities. When I become most still in a place, most emptied of my Self, I hear a conversation taking place. The voices come from not only built structures but the natural features of a landscape too. With time the voices of a place gain clarity. There are the insistent voices of the present, as well as the fragmented and fading voices of past ways of being. The camera is my tool for taking note of these conversations.
I’ve called these collections of words and images “visual essays,” but together they become a photographic documentary. What I don’t like about film documentaries is that they are often composed around the voices of individuals. Documentaries need talking heads to hold the interest of a mass audience. I was drawn to a different documentary project: what if places were allowed to speak? That’s the goal here. Landscapes are ultimately a human creation, but they speak a collective, not an individual, story.
One detail that will help to explain my approach to place is Clifford Geertz’s definition of religion: “A system
of symbols which acts to establish powerful, pervasive, and long lasting moods and motivations, etc...” It’s the first phrase of that definition that I’d like to highlight— the “system of symbols.” The implication is that the study of religion isn’t about getting inside the consciousness of people, but about interpreting the external symbolic world created by each and every culture. Everything about the human landscape is part of this system of symbols, from the architecture of buildings, to the monuments, to the clothes people are wearing, to the signs and graffiti and murals. These are ways that people express a collective story about who they are. One further inspiration I’ve taken from Geertz is his view that the essay is the form that can best hold the work of interpretation.
Technology ought to bring about a shakeup in academic forms, especially in the Humanities.
Experimentation has marked other fields. 20th century poets struggled to find the literary forms that best expressed their thought. A.R. Ammons typed out poems on narrow strips of paper, finding that form of limitation helpful. I claim that same range of experimentation for my own work. After a season of visual experimentation I arrived at this system of using paired photos with running commentary to present the story of places where I’ve spent time. As these essays accumulate they will become an extended study of global places in a time when landscapes and cities (all spaces!) are threatened around the world.
I hasten to add that this is by no means a work of anthropology. The strong preference in academic work is to develop a single point of specialization. The goal is to burrow into a specific place and then report back to the wider community. A wealth of ethnographies and historical monographs have flowed from this system. One thing academics don’t often do is write travel narratives, which by definition means setting aside specialization and becoming a conduit for serial impressions about a place. Such writing is the opposite of focused expertise, but it nevertheless represents a type of expertise. It requires a feel for history and change, and a willingness to look not just at the postcard vistas, but at the signs and ephemeral things that build meaning into that vista. It means looking at what other visitors take for granted. Our global world needs academics who are skillful perceivers and connecters. We often underestimate the insight of travelers. We are grateful for the descriptions of a medieval traveller like Ibn Jubayr as he passes through the Islamic world on his way to complete the Hajj, but we forget that our own places need patient describers like him.