Taped to the wall above my desk is a promotional postcard from Poetry Magazine. A quote from the editor, Christian Wiman, reads: “Let us remember that in the end we go to poetry [or art] for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both. “ It feels increasingly challenging to fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them. Robert Pogue Harrison argues that Western civilization promotes ‘institutions of dislocation [I would add disconnection] in every dimension of both social and cultural existence’, and this has led to an ‘aggravated confusion about what it means to dwell on the earth’(198-9). In attempts to negotiate this confusion, I am exploring ways of knowing, documenting, sensitizing, and measuring to enrich my understanding of the space between myself and what we have come to accept as ‘the natural.’ To “more fully inhabit” seems to necessitate firsthand experience and a heightened sensory awareness of surroundings. This idea of full inhabitation is something I am exploring in my work. I would like to consider, speculate, and reflect on larger issues using my particular relationship to the natural world as a point at which to begin. I am grounding my investigations in two sites, which comprise one place for me. One site is my backyard from ages three to eighteen, and resides in my memory. The other site is a few blocks away from my current San Francisco apartment and is also functioning as a surrogate for that initial stomping ground, and the site for my project field research.

Wednesday, April 4

UTM 10 545730E 4179893N

The Inhabited Garden: Finding Home in the Outside Lands



In an effort to investigate the place of my connection to land, I chose a site within Golden Gate Park to function as a surrogate for that initial stomping ground: a territory for identity formation, development of the senses, and exposure to a conflation of the natural and cultural.

The area of the park west of 19th avenue, away from tourist destinations functions more as a local backyard, and a kind of illegal urban commons that some call home. The specific areas I am focusing on are the undefined spaces, the liminal zones that have grown their own histories and definitions through use and inhabitation. These are small stands of trees, areas off jogging paths where there is no defined way to enter or experience the area. For most, these areas function as scenery, and are rarely penetrated.

The Park has served as San Francisco’s collective backyard since its inception in 1866. With a boom in business and population, American society sought a balance between the urban and natural worlds, and felt a yearning for the simpler past. There was clearly a need for a remote space to provide an escape from work lives, and industrialization. The park soon became an antidote to the citizens’ materialistic ambitions.

The land that makes up the park is part of what was originally called the Outside Lands, an expanse of wind blown sand dunes considered undesirable and uninhabitable. What made the park the green expanse it is now was largely water, lots of topsoil, human labor, and a plant from every country in the world, except Bolivia (Pollock). Like most backyards, the verdant park we now know is a fantastical human construct, a natural fiction.

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