<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?><criticalsections><annotation id="48"><name><![CDATA[48]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>16</cluster_id><x>50</x><y>125</y><text><![CDATA[A very advanced form of lie detector that measures contractions of the iris muscle and the presence of invisible airborne particles emitted from the body. The bellows were designed for the latter function and give the machine the menacing air of a sinister insect. The VK is used primarily by Blade Runners to determine if a suspect is truly human by measuring the degree of his empathic response through carefully worded questions and statements.
-description of the Voight-Kampff machine, <i>Blade Runner</i> press kit.]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="2"><name><![CDATA[2]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>23</cluster_id><x>200</x><y>225</y><text><![CDATA[The home is a place where things can go wrong.
-David Lynch, <i><a href="event:workId=3">Lynch on Lynch.</a></i>  p. 226.]]></text><work_id>3</work_id></annotation><annotation id="3"><name><![CDATA[3]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>11</cluster_id><x>400</x><y>200</y><text><![CDATA[To me a mystery is like a magnet. Whenever there is something that's unknown, it has a pull to it. For instance, if you were in a room and there was a doorway open and stairs going down and the light just fell away, you didn't even see the bottom, where the stairs ended; you'd be very much tempted to go down there.
–David Lynch, <i><a href="event:workId=3">Lynch on Lynch.</a></i> p. 231.]]></text><work_id>3</work_id></annotation><annotation id="6"><name><![CDATA[6]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>4</cluster_id><x>400</x><y>50</y><text><![CDATA[I finally had found simple mechanical means to produce a complete building that looks the way the machine made it, as much as any fabric need look. Tough, light, but not 'thin;' imperishable; plastic; no necessary lie about it anywhere and yet machine-made, mechanically perfect. Standardization as the soul of the machine here for the first time may be seen in the hand of the architect, put squarely up to imagination, the limits of imagination the only limitation of the building.
-Frank Lloyd Wright, <i><a href="event:workId=17">Frank Lloyd Wright: Writings and Buildings.</a></i> p. 225.]]></text><work_id>17</work_id></annotation><annotation id="15"><name><![CDATA[15]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>2</cluster_id><x>178</x><y>27</y><text><![CDATA[..Gehry's strongest suit may simply be his straightforward exploitation of rough urban environments, and his blatant incorporation of their harshest edges and detritus as powerful representational elements in his work.
-Mike Davis, <i><a href="event:workId=2">City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles.</a></i>  p. 238.]]></text><work_id>2</work_id></annotation><annotation id="9"><name><![CDATA[9]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>25</cluster_id><x>250</x><y>270</y><text><![CDATA[The purpose of Architecture is to improve life.
-John Lautner, Notes for a lecture (undated).]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="8"><name><![CDATA[8]]></name><annotationType_id>3</annotationType_id><cluster_id>25</cluster_id><x>300</x><y>120</y><text><![CDATA[The Sheats-Goldstein house has a lengthy filmography. Beyond traditional Hollywood fare the home has also been featured as the backdrop to a number of adult films produced by Andrew Blake during the 1990s and was also the setting for Helmut Newton's  <i>Cyberwoman 4</i> in 2000.]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="10"><name><![CDATA[10]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>3</cluster_id><x>195</x><y>80</y><text><![CDATA[I was just thinking what an interesting concept it is to eliminate the writer from the artistic process.
-Griffin Mill, <i>The Player</i>.]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="11"><name><![CDATA[11]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>9</cluster_id><x>200</x><y>50</y><text><![CDATA[You see, the final result is going to stand on that hill a hundred years or more. Long after we are gone it will be pointed out as the Ennis House and pilgrimages will be made to it by lovers of the beautiful from everywhere.
-Frank Lloyd Wright, 1924 letter to Mr. & Mrs. Charles Ennis.]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="78"><name><![CDATA[78]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>9</cluster_id><x>150</x><y>75</y><text><![CDATA[Dry stone walls have sometimes been held up as examples of deeply rooted human artifacts, close to natural process: they follow the contours of the land and their coursing adopts a wave of rhythm which resembles geological strata. But the real purpose of these dry stone walls, like the earliest human writing, is to establish accurate property lines. They mark out what belongs to whom without the necessity of a human presence to enforce it, and like most birdsong are attractive ways of saying "this is mine; don't come in."
-Robert Harbison, <i><a href="event:workId=25">Thirteen Ways.</a></i> p.65.]]></text><work_id>25</work_id></annotation><annotation id="47"><name><![CDATA[47]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>6</cluster_id><x>325</x><y>200</y><text><![CDATA[...Who doesn't enjoy a slapstick apocalypse now and then? - Los Angeles's reigning status as Doom City is a phenomenon that demands clarification. The city's propensity for spectacular disaster - its "chief product" according to some postmodernists - obviously provides a quasi-realist context for its literary destruction, but environmental exceptionalism only takes us part way toward an explanation of why Los Angeles is the city we love to destroy. 
-Mike Davis, <a href="event:workId=15">Ecology of Fear: Los Angeles and the Imagination of Disaster.</a></i> p. 278.]]></text><work_id>15</work_id></annotation><annotation id="14"><name><![CDATA[14]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>18</cluster_id><x>100</x><y>50</y><text><![CDATA[Death is the only ending I know. A movie doesn't end, it has a stopping place.
-Robert Altman, <i><a href="event:workId=18">Altman on Altman.</a></i> p. 160.]]></text><work_id>18</work_id></annotation><annotation id="16"><name><![CDATA[16]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>34</cluster_id><x>40</x><y>150</y><text><![CDATA[Film wants to be linear. In orderly procesion, one frame follows another into the gate of the projector or onto the head of the VCR,forming a timeline of images with a definite beginning, before which there is nothing, and a precise end, when the images stop. The very topology of film or video, a long narrow ribbon, suggests a shape for its content. To match the form of the filmstrip, the events depicted should start at one point in time and continue without break to another, always one and only one thing occurring on the screen at any given moment. Then everything should culminate and conclude in such a way that the viewer understands and accepts an ending. No loose threads. No unresolved issues.
-Graham Weinbren "Ocean, Database, Recut" in <i><a href="event:workId=1">Database Aesthetics.</a></i> p. 64-65.]]></text><work_id>1</work_id></annotation><annotation id="29"><name><![CDATA[29]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>1</cluster_id><x>115</x><y>220</y><text><![CDATA[If the contemporary search for bourgeois security can be read in the design of bus benches and mega-structures, it is also visible at the level of the auteur. No recent architect has so ingeniously elaborated the urban security function or so brazenly embraced the resulting frisson as Los Angeles's Pritzker Prize laureate, Frank Gehry. 
-Mike Davis, <i><a href="event:workId=2">City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles.</a></i>  p. 236.]]></text><work_id>2</work_id></annotation><annotation id="46"><name><![CDATA[46]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>7</cluster_id><x>175</x><y>75</y><text><![CDATA[You bastard! You have disgraced the industry that made you and fed you. You should be tarred and feathered and run out of Hollywood.
-Louis B. Mayer (head of MGM studios) to Billy Wilder at the Hollywood premiere of <i>Sunset Boulevard</i>.]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="30"><name><![CDATA[30]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>3</cluster_id><x>234</x><y>275</y><text><![CDATA[Architecture is defined by the actions it witnesses as much as by the enclosure of its walls. Murder in the Street differs from Murder in the Cathedral.
-Bernard Tschumi, <i><a href="event:workId=8">Architecture and Disjunction.</a></i> p. 100.]]></text><work_id>8</work_id></annotation><annotation id="31"><name><![CDATA[31]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>36</cluster_id><x>210</x><y>150</y><text><![CDATA[This is the Picture Room. This is a hidden compartment. This wall swings out. Behind it is another that swings out. On the other side of this swinging wall, there is a recess.. At the back of the recess is a large window receiving light from the interior court...
-Jennifer Bloomer, <i><a href="event:workId=9">Architecture and the Text: The (S)crypts of Joyce and Piranesi.</a></i> p. 136.]]></text><work_id>9</work_id></annotation><annotation id="64"><name><![CDATA[64]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>4</cluster_id><x>275</x><y>200</y><text><![CDATA[The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lighting rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.
-Italo Calvino, <i><a href="event:workId=21">Invisible Cities.</a></i> p. 11.]]></text><work_id>21</work_id></annotation><annotation id="45"><name><![CDATA[45]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>3</cluster_id><x>175</x><y>35</y><text><![CDATA[Yes, this is Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles, California. It's about 5 0'clock in the morning. That's the homicide squad, complete with detectives and newspaper men. 
-Joe Gillis' narration of the opening of <i>Sunset Boulevard</i>]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="22"><name><![CDATA[22]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>12</cluster_id><x>175</x><y>50</y><text><![CDATA["The California Model Architect Kit", designed and produced in the late 1950s, attempted to bring the modular and flexible system of design and construction to the general public. Pre-cut modular pieces of cardboard "wall sections" in two-foot increments are provided with a grooved, gridded board, on which the consumer can design their customized dream house.
-Dung Ngo and Adi Shamir Zion, <a href="event:workId=22">Open House: Unbound Space and the Modern Dwelling.</a></i> p. 63.]]></text><work_id>22</work_id></annotation><annotation id="23"><name><![CDATA[23]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>19</cluster_id><x>50</x><y>120</y><text><![CDATA[When we speak of eagles, the others think of a bird. We, however are talking about the wing span.
-Coop Himmelb(l)au. <a href="event:workId=6">Coop Himmelblau: 6 Projects for 4 Cities.</a></i> p. 30.]]></text><work_id>6</work_id></annotation><annotation id="24"><name><![CDATA[24]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>13</cluster_id><x>150</x><y>150</y><text><![CDATA[[The Open House].. was created from an explosive-like sketch. The first sketch was drawn eyes closed, with undistracted concentration on the feelings created by the imagined space, using the hand as seismograph.
-Coop Himmelb(l)au. <a href="event:workId=6">Coop Himmelblau: 6 Projects for 4 Cities.</a></i> p. 32.]]></text><work_id>6</work_id></annotation><annotation id="25"><name><![CDATA[25]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>26</cluster_id><x>400</x><y>100</y><text><![CDATA[Many Morphosis projects are built, with the role played by the white sheet of paper transferred to the open, three-dimensional space. The architects' spaces are obsessively filled with pieces, fragments, old mechanisms, broken objects, and so on, which would all be meaningless without the architect's efforts to capture them in a net of subtle relationships.
-Jose Rafael Moneo. <i><a href="event:workId=7">Thom Mayne Sixth Street House.</a></i> p. 5.]]></text><work_id>7</work_id></annotation><annotation id="26"><name><![CDATA[26]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>24</cluster_id><x>400</x><y>200</y><text><![CDATA[...the fireplace stove appears to have fortefied its hereditary associations with the hearth (heart), yanking its flue askew along with many traditional notions of center.
-George Wagner. <i><a href="event:workId=7">Thom Mayne Sixth Street House.</a></i> p. 7.]]></text><work_id>7</work_id></annotation><annotation id="28"><name><![CDATA[28]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>34</cluster_id><x>250</x><y>70</y><text><![CDATA[Building, drawing and model parallel one another, not just in common reference to some finished state but also in the meditation of technique, material and content towards the realization of formal autonomy. Aesthetically, each format stands alone in its intensity while conceptually the pieces are interlocked.
-George Wagner. <i><a href="event:workId=7">Thom Mayne Sixth Street House.</a></i> p. 12.]]></text><work_id>7</work_id></annotation><annotation id="32"><name><![CDATA[32]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>22</cluster_id><x>500</x><y>150</y><text><![CDATA[In the Garden of Eden there was no architecture. The necessity for architecture arose with the ordination of sin and shame, with dirty bodies. The fig leaf was a natural first impulse toward architecture, accustomed as it was to shading its grotesque fruit. Was it the fig tree that was hacked up to build the primitive hut?
-Jennifer Bloomer, <i><a href="event:workId=9">Architecture and the Text: The (S)crypts of Joyce and Piranesi.</a></i> p. 166.]]></text><work_id>9</work_id></annotation><annotation id="33"><name><![CDATA[33]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>2</cluster_id><x>198</x><y>278</y><text><![CDATA[The incomplete project defies authority... The incomplete house is invalid, a sick body in the system, an uncomfortable blockage of the system's ability to consume what threatens.
-Jennifer Bloomer, <i><a href="event:workId=9">Architecture and the Text: The (S)crypts of Joyce and Piranesi.</a></i> p. 175.]]></text><work_id>9</work_id></annotation><annotation id="34"><name><![CDATA[34]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>27</cluster_id><x>300</x><y>50</y><text><![CDATA[Tracers inspire, and are often themselves copycats. Most serial killers are dedicated students of previous murderers. They learn their craft through precedent and transformation, and are in dialogue as if they were in a disciplinary field. They are aware of the power of history and the fact there crimes will continue to inspire reading, analysis and speculation.
-Greg Lynn]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="35"><name><![CDATA[35]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>8</cluster_id><x>300</x><y>50</y><text><![CDATA[On location here since the 1920s the multitude of "dream factories" that comprise what is still called "the Industry," mass-producing moving pictures of Los Angeles that insistently substitute reel stories for real histories and geographies. Camera crews "shooting" scenes depicting practically every place on earth (and often off-earth) are a familiar sight on the streets of the city, and a constant local reminder of the confusing interplay between fantasy and reality that pervades everyday urban life in the City of Angeles. 
-Edward Soja, <i><a href="event:workId=11">Postmetropolis: Critical Studies of Cities and Regions.</a></i>  p. 136.]]></text><work_id>11</work_id></annotation><annotation id="36"><name><![CDATA[36]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>5</cluster_id><x>258</x><y>224</y><text><![CDATA[...these spaces can be "stealthy" (hidden or camouflaged behind view impediments, intervening objects, or grade changes); "slippery" (unreachable or seemingly inaccessible due to missing or contorted approach paths); "crusty" (protected by harder obstructions such as walls, gates, and checkpoints); "prickly" (difficult or uncomfortable to occupy because of sprinkler systems, bum-proof resting surfaces, and other repellent design features); or "jittery" (monitored by roving patrols and/or remote sensing technologies connected to security stations).
-Edward Soja (quoting Steven Flusty), <i><a href="event:workId=11">Postmetropolis: Critical Studies of Cities and Regions.</a></i>  p. 306.]]></text><work_id>11</work_id></annotation><annotation id="37"><name><![CDATA[37]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>8</cluster_id><x>65</x><y>100</y><text><![CDATA[Perhaps we will cling to the symbol of "house" as we have known it, or perhaps we will realize that in accommodating ourselves to a new world the most important step in avoiding retrogression into the old, is a willingness to understand and to accept contemporary ideas in the creation of environment that is responsible for shaping the largest part of our living and thinking.
-announcement of the Case Study House Program.  <i><a href="event:workId=12">Arts and Architecture Magazine.</a></i> January, 1945.]]></text><work_id>12</work_id></annotation><annotation id="38"><name><![CDATA[38]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>17</cluster_id><x>50</x><y>75</y><text><![CDATA[What man has learned about himself in the last five years will, we are sure, express itself in the way in which we will want to be housed in the future. Only one thing will stop the realization of that wish and that is the tenacity with which man clings to old forms because he does not yet understand the new.
-announcement of the Case Study House Program, <i><a href="event:workId=12">Arts and Architecture Magazine.</a></i> January, 1945.]]></text><work_id>12</work_id></annotation><annotation id="39"><name><![CDATA[39]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>21</cluster_id><x>475</x><y>70</y><text><![CDATA[Because, in a certain sense, editing is cutting out the bad bits, the tough question is, <em>What makes a bad bit?</em> When you are shooting a home movie and the camera wanders, that's obviously a bad bit, and it's clear that you want to cut it out. The goal of a home movie is usually pretty simple: an unrestructured record of events in continuous time.
-Walter Murch. <i><a href="event:workId=13">In the Blink of an Eye: A Perspective on Film Editing.</a></i> p. 10.]]></text><work_id>13</work_id></annotation><annotation id="40"><name><![CDATA[40]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>39</cluster_id><x>200</x><y>24</y><text><![CDATA[The difference (the miraculous difference) is that out of this apparent butchery our creation can sometimes gain not only a  life but a soul as well. It is all the more amazing because the instantaneous displacement achieved by the cut is not anything that we experience in ordinary life.
-Walter Murch. <i><a href="event:workId=13">In the Blink of an Eye: A Perspective on Film Editing.</a></i> p. 57.]]></text><work_id>13</work_id></annotation><annotation id="41"><name><![CDATA[41]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>14</cluster_id><x>50</x><y>120</y><text><![CDATA[In choosing a representative frame, what you're looking for is an image that distills the essence of the thousands of frames that make up the shot in question, what Cartier-Bresson.. called the "decisive moment."
-Walter Murch. <i><a href="event:workId=13">In the Blink of an Eye: A Perspective on Film Editing.</a></i> p. 41.]]></text><work_id>13</work_id></annotation><annotation id="43"><name><![CDATA[43]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>31</cluster_id><x>115</x><y>150</y><text><![CDATA[Tragedy is a close up; comedy a long shot.
- Buster Keaton]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="44"><name><![CDATA[44]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>1</cluster_id><x>100</x><y>200</y><text><![CDATA[No other comedian could do as much with the dead-pan. He used this great, sad, motionless face to suggest various related things; a one track mind near the track's end of pure insanity; mulish imperturbability under the wildest of circumstances; how dead a human being can get and still be alive; an awe-inspiring sort of patience and power to endure, proper to granite but uncanny in flesh and blood.
-James Agee, <i>LIFE magazine</i>. (September 5th 1949).]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="49"><name><![CDATA[49]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>13</cluster_id><x>175</x><y>80</y><text><![CDATA[The head of Medusa. That's what's in the box, and who looks on her will be changed not into stone but into brimstone and ashes. But of course you wouldn't believe me, you'd have to see for yourself, wouldn't you?
-Dr. G.E. Soberin, <i>Kiss Me Deadly</i>]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="50"><name><![CDATA[50]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>23</cluster_id><x>400</x><y>200</y><text><![CDATA[Ralph. You know, you can ball my wife if she wants you to. You can lounge around here on her sofa, in her ex-husband's dead-tech, post-modernistic bullshit house if you want to. But you do not get to watch my fucking television set!
-Vincent Hanna, <i>Heat</i>]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="51"><name><![CDATA[51]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>21</cluster_id><x>35</x><y>150</y><text><![CDATA[The dread of doors that won't close is something everyone knows from dreams. Stated more precisely: these are doors that appear closed without being so. It was with heightened senses that I learned of this phenomenon in a dream in which, while I was in the company of a friend, a ghost appeared to me in the window of the ground floor of a house to our right. And as we walked on, the ghost accompanied us from inside all the houses.
-Walter Benjamin, <i><a href="event:workId=4">The Arcades Project.</a></i> p. 409.]]></text><work_id>4</work_id></annotation><annotation id="52"><name><![CDATA[52]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>15</cluster_id><x>200</x><y>150</y><text><![CDATA[The wax museum <i>panoptikum</i> a manifestation of the total work of art. The universalism of the nineteenth century has its monument in the waxworks. Panopticon: not only does one see everything, but one sees in all ways. 
-Walter Benjamin, <i><a href="event:workId=4">The Arcades Project.</a></i>  p. 531.]]></text><work_id>4</work_id></annotation><annotation id="53"><name><![CDATA[53]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>26</cluster_id><x>130</x><y>200</y><text><![CDATA[Los Angeles is the most beautiful city in the world... provided it's seen by night and from a distance.
-Roman Polanski]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="54"><name><![CDATA[54]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>16</cluster_id><x>120</x><y>160</y><text><![CDATA[Los Angeles makes the rest of California seem authentic.
-Jonathan Culler]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="55"><name><![CDATA[55]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>6</cluster_id><x>100</x><y>50</y><text><![CDATA[Cities are distinguished by the catastrophic forms they presuppose and which are a vital part of their essential charm. New York is King Kong, or the blackout, or vertical bombardment: Towering Inferno. Los Angeles is the horizontal fault, California breaking off and sliding into the Pacific: Earthquake.
-Jean Baudrillard, <i><a href="event:workId=28">Fatal Strategies.</a></i> p. 20-21.]]></text><work_id>28</work_id></annotation><annotation id="56"><name><![CDATA[56]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>20</cluster_id><x>40</x><y>60</y><text><![CDATA[The city is big, the image is small. Movies are vertical, at least when they are projected on a screen. The city is horizontal, except for what we call downtown.
-Thom Anderson, <i><a href="event:workId=19">Los Angeles Plays Itself.</a></i>]]></text><work_id>19</work_id></annotation><annotation id="57"><name><![CDATA[57]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>37</cluster_id><x>200</x><y>185</y><text><![CDATA[But movies have some advantages over us. They can fly through the air, we must travel by land. They exist in space, we live and die in time. So why should I be generous? Of course I know movies aren't about places, they are about stories. If we notice the location, we are not really watching the movie.
-Thom Anderson, <i><a href="event:workId=19">Los Angeles Plays Itself.</a></i>]]></text><work_id>19</work_id></annotation><annotation id="58"><name><![CDATA[58]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>10</cluster_id><x>125</x><y>135</y><text><![CDATA[A place can become a historic landmark because it was once a movie location. As it is for people, so it is for places. Getting into the movies becomes a substitute for achievement. Actors have headshots, buildings get architectural photographs. 
-Thom Anderson, <a href="event:workId=19">Los Angeles Plays Itself.</a></i>]]></text><work_id>19</work_id></annotation><annotation id="59"><name><![CDATA[59]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>40</cluster_id><x>85</x><y>50</y><text><![CDATA[Los Angeles may be the most photographed city in the world, but it is one of the least photogenic. Its not Paris or New York. In New York everything is sharp and in focus, as if seen through a wide angle lens. In smoggy cities like Los Angeles everything dissolves into the distance and even stuff that is close up seems far off.
-Thom Anderson, <a href="event:workId=19">Los Angeles Plays Itself.</a></i>]]></text><work_id>19</work_id></annotation><annotation id="60"><name><![CDATA[60]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>14</cluster_id><x>40</x><y>40</y><text><![CDATA[People tend to hate me / 'Cause I never smile / As I ransack their homes / They want to shake my hand.
-The Who, <i>The Seeker</i>]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="61"><name><![CDATA[61]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>20</cluster_id><x>125</x><y>230</y><text><![CDATA[The place of the body might be marked by tape and chalk on the ground to which it had fallen, the alleged site of the crime might be gridded with painstaking care in order to provide a coordinate system by which to situate the evidence, carefully collected in labeled bags for presentation in court; the tracks of the criminal, the traces of blood, the dispersed weapons, and their hastily jettisoned ammunition might all be gathered together and plotted on the special kind of map that criminologists have defined as appropriate to fix the "scene" of the crime in legally tenable terms. But all this precision, as fictional and real defenders have demonstrated since Edgar Allan Poe, falls apart at the slightest questioning of the spatial kind. 
-Anthony Vidler, <i><a href="event:workId=20">Warped Space: Art, Architecture and Anxiety in Modern Culture.</a></i> p. 123.]]></text><work_id>20</work_id></annotation><annotation id="62"><name><![CDATA[62]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>19</cluster_id><x>450</x><y>65</y><text><![CDATA[Suspended as it were between Paul Klee's <i>Angelus Novus</i> and Walter Benjamin's Angel of History, these giant wingspans, like so many grounded pterodactyls, shelter a population estranged from their once comfortable houses and seeking shelter beneath less historically determined roofs. Roof that enfold and gently offer space for a moment's respite from the storm wind of progress...
-Anthony Vidler, <i><a href="event:workId=20">Warped Space: Art, Architecture and Anxiety in Modern Culture.</a></i> p. 189.]]></text><work_id>20</work_id></annotation><annotation id="63"><name><![CDATA[63]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>22</cluster_id><x>250</x><y>100</y><text><![CDATA[It is tempting, for example, to raise the possibility of a "California" modernism, forged by Neutra and now transformed and permutated a half-century later; this might well be an exilic practice, driven to geometry in its search for stability in movement.
-Anthony Vidler, <i><a href="event:workId=20">Warped Space: Art, Architecture and Anxiety in Modern Culture.</a></i> p. 197.]]></text><work_id>20</work_id></annotation><annotation id="65"><name><![CDATA[65]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>18</cluster_id><x>325</x><y>75</y><text><![CDATA[Thus the city repeats its life, identical, shifting up and down on its empty chessboard. The inhabitants repeat the same scenes, with the actors changed; they repeat the same speeches with various combined accents...
-Italo Calvino, <i><a href="event:workId=21">Invisible Cities.</a></i> p. 65.]]></text><work_id>21</work_id></annotation><annotation id="86"><name><![CDATA[86]]></name><annotationType_id>3</annotationType_id><cluster_id>7</cluster_id><x>250</x><y>200</y><text><![CDATA[Given the iconic quality of the Hollywood sign, it is interesting that Billy Wilder opted to utilize a gutter to demarcate the location of <i>Sunset Boulevard</i>  in the film's opening credit sequence. The film is explicitly <i>about</i> Hollywood yet the moniker that the narrative operates under is tied to a specific, innocuous roadway. One can only assume that the symbolism of this "base" signage speaks to Wilder's bleak depiction of the film industry. The gutter is only a hop, skip and jump(cut) away from the swimming pool, another iconic symbol of "California living" that Wilder savages at the beginning of his film.]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="66"><name><![CDATA[66]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>32</cluster_id><x>120</x><y>150</y><text><![CDATA[The subject of the open house, when raised today, elicits consistent, nearly predictable reaction. Elation is the usual response, followed by typical associations of streaming light, unconstricted movement, and free space. The open house is an ideal social and spatial construction and, as such, is deceptively transparent... The modern infatuation with the notion of openness has in fact be predicated on a number of polarities: expansion and reduction, lucidity and opacity, indeterminacy and efficiency, economy and extra. 
-Dung Ngo and Adi Shamir Zion, <a href="event:workId=22">Open House: Unbound Space and the Modern Dwelling.</a></i> p. 11.]]></text><work_id>22</work_id></annotation><annotation id="67"><name><![CDATA[67]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>37</cluster_id><x>175</x><y>30</y><text><![CDATA[Enhance 224 to 176. Enhance, stop. Move in, stop. Pull out, track right, stop. Center in, pull back. Stop. Track 45 right. Stop. Center and stop. Enhance 34 to 36. Pan right and pull back. Stop. Enhance 34 to 46. Pull back. Wait a minute, go right, stop. Enhance 57 to 19. Track 45 left. Stop. Enhance 15 to 23. Give me a hard copy right there.
-Rick Deckard, <i>Blade Runner</i>.]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="68"><name><![CDATA[68]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>36</cluster_id><x>40</x><y>70</y><text><![CDATA[On the one hand, an architectural "work" that is theorized, created and interpreted according to all the monumental deals of the classical tradition is closed, a suitable object for nostalgia or consumption but nothing more. It does not enter into play. In Barthe's terms it is something already distant from us, an object that can never be recreated. 
-Anthony Vidler,<i><a href="event:workId=23">The Architectural Uncanny: Essays in the Modern Unhomely.</a></i> p. 105.]]></text><work_id>23</work_id></annotation><annotation id="76"><name><![CDATA[76]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>38</cluster_id><x>175</x><y>100</y><text><![CDATA[In any case, the <i>Transcripts</i> always display at least two conflicting fields: first, the framing device - square, healthy, conformist, normal and predictable, regular and comforting, correct. Second, the framed material, a place that only questions, distorts, compresses, displaces. Both are necessary. Neither is inherently special; neither communicates by itself. It is the play between them that does - their distance and its occasional transgression, when the frame itself becomes the object of distortions.
-Bernard Tschumi, <i><a href="event:workId=24">The Manhattan Transcripts.</a></i> p.11.]]></text><work_id>24</work_id></annotation><annotation id="70"><name><![CDATA[70]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>5</cluster_id><x>300</x><y>125</y><text><![CDATA[A comedian does funny things. A good comedian does things funny.
-Buster Keaton]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="71"><name><![CDATA[71]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>15</cluster_id><x>100</x><y>50</y><text><![CDATA[The older Keaton got, the more one could see eternity in his look.
-Robert Benayoun]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="72"><name><![CDATA[72]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>32</cluster_id><x>60</x><y>120</y><text><![CDATA[By far the most popular topos of the nineteenth-century uncanny was the haunted house. A pervasive leitmotiv of literary fantasy and architectural revival alike, its depiction in fairy tales, horror stories, and Gothic novels gave rise to a unique genre of writing that, by the end of the century, stood for romanticism itself. The house provided an especially favored site for uncanny disturbances; its apparent domesticity, its residue of family history and nostalgia, its role as the last and most intimate shelter of private comfort sharpened by contrast the terror of invasion by alien spirits. 
-Anthony Vidler,<i><a href="event:workId=23">The Architectural Uncanny: Essays in the Modern Unhomely.</a></i> p. 17.]]></text><work_id>23</work_id></annotation><annotation id="73"><name><![CDATA[73]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>24</cluster_id><x>175</x><y>175</y><text><![CDATA[I secretly understood: the primitive appeal of the hearth. Television is-its irresistible charm-a fire.
-John Updike]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="74"><name><![CDATA[74]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>27</cluster_id><x>200</x><y>200</y><text><![CDATA[What for? To recover that knife you stuck in my back? 
-Joe Gillis, <i>Sunset Boulevard</i>]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="75"><name><![CDATA[75]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>33</cluster_id><x>110</x><y>130</y><text><![CDATA[The original purpose of the tripartite mode of notation (events, movements, spaces) was to introduce the order of experience, the order of time - moments, intervals, sequences - for all inevitably intervene in the reading of the city. It is also proceeded from the need to question the modes of representation generally used by architects: plans, sections, axonometrics, perspectives. However precise and generative they have been, each implies a logical reduction of architectural thought to what can be shown, at the exclusion of other concerns.
-Bernard Tschumi, <i><a href="event:workId=24">The Manhattan Transcripts.</a></i> p. 9.]]></text><work_id>24</work_id></annotation><annotation id="77"><name><![CDATA[77]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>28</cluster_id><x>45</x><y>125</y><text><![CDATA[These combinations are nothing but a form of editing, of montage, where stage and audience space are ultimately reversed, and action becomes its own representation... Since each frame is isolated from the next, architecture can begin to act as a series of surprises, a form of architectural <i>jump-cut</i>, where space is carefully broken apart and then reassembled 'at the limits'.
-Bernard Tschumi, <i><a href="event:workId=24">The Manhattan Transcripts.</a></i> p.12.]]></text><work_id>24</work_id></annotation><annotation id="79"><name><![CDATA[79]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>10</cluster_id><x>400</x><y>125</y><text><![CDATA[Machines are many things - linked sequences of moving parts which perform work, externalizations of human action in stylized form, resulting in alien sorts of existence which move in organic ways; concentrations of ingenuity, device piled on device, until they defeat easy comprehension; and of course an escape from feeling into an objective realm. It is hard if not impossible to separate the dreams we have about them from the useful functions they perform.
-Robert Harbison, <i><a href="event:workId=25">Thirteen Ways.</a></i> p.26.]]></text><work_id>25</work_id></annotation><annotation id="80"><name><![CDATA[80]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>38</cluster_id><x>140</x><y>200</y><text><![CDATA[How does one recognize an idea, in reality and then in architecture. An idea is a kind of ordering or pattern-making which can be appreciated most easily in architecture through extreme and concentrated instances where the concept is not recessive, taking its place quietly, but obtrusive. Some would call such foreign implants, not fully digested into architecture, conceits. Many of them still smack of the other modes from which they partly derive, mathematical, literary, or philosophical.
-Robert Harbison, <i><a href="event:workId=25">Thirteen Ways.</a></i> p.102.]]></text><work_id>25</work_id></annotation><annotation id="89"><name><![CDATA[89]]></name><annotationType_id>1</annotationType_id><cluster_id>31</cluster_id><x>220</x><y>25</y><text><![CDATA[I am big. It's the pictures that got small!
-Norma Desmond, <i>Sunset Boulevard</i>]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="90"><name><![CDATA[90]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>28</cluster_id><x>210</x><y>30</y><text><![CDATA[The first radical step toward the creation of an ideal cinema is the abolition of the proscenium and all other stage platform's resemblance to the theatre... The interior lines of the theatre must focalize to the screen compelling unbroken attention on the spectator.
-Frederick Kieseler, quoted in <i><a href="event:workId=29">The Virtual Window: From Alberti to Microsoft.</a></i> pg. 169.]]></text><work_id>29</work_id></annotation><annotation id="82"><name><![CDATA[82]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>11</cluster_id><x>200</x><y>250</y><text><![CDATA[But this freedom is two-sided: if the form of the space as a perceptive given can modify our behavior, the opposite can also happen, that the use of one of the spaces is modified by the new relationships which our body establishes with it. For example, in hide-and-seek, when the player discovers and invents space for hiding in within the domestic labyrinth: a table becomes a roof, the space between two open doors becomes a room, a closet becomes a place to lie down and curl up in as though it were a recessed bed.
-Alberto Iacovoni, <i><a href="event:workId=26">Game Zone.</a></i> p.31.]]></text><work_id>26</work_id></annotation><annotation id="83"><name><![CDATA[83]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>12</cluster_id><x>200</x><y>45</y><text><![CDATA[Therefore: let's enter the game, let's leave reality behind, we look back and measure the distance that separates a temporary illusion from a permanent one, the great parlor game whose rules can only be questioned at a high price. And after eras of geological settling... we achieve a "freedom to play" that allows us to cross over behavioral categories and discover new roles.
-Alberto Iacovoni, <i><a href="event:workId=26">Game Zone.</a></i> p.12.]]></text><work_id>26</work_id></annotation><annotation id="84"><name><![CDATA[84]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>33</cluster_id><x>200</x><y>100</y><text><![CDATA[If architecture wants to be that field, far from the sterile self-referencing of the rigid and simplified game of the discipline and the dogmatic amplification of productive dynamics, remaining within reality without dissolving into the simulation of an inexistent spontaneity, it must become a continuous <i>play</i>, around and against its own rules. It must extend itself to the multiple layers of man's space, cross them and produce illusions of possible worlds...
-Alberto Iacovoni, <i><a href="event:workId=26">Game Zone.</a></i> p.14.]]></text><work_id>26</work_id></annotation><annotation id="85"><name><![CDATA[85]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>17</cluster_id><x>75</x><y>130</y><text><![CDATA[Los Angeles is where you confront the objective fact that you mean nothing; the desert, the ocean, the tectonic plates, the clear skies, the sun itself, the Hollywood Walk of Fame - even the parking lots: everything there somehow precedes you, even new construction sites, and it's bigger than you and more abstract than you and indifferent to you. You don't matter. You're free.
-Geoff Manaugh, <i><a href="event:workId=27">Greater Los Angeles.</a></i>]]></text><work_id>27</work_id></annotation><annotation id="87"><name><![CDATA[87]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>31</cluster_id><x>75</x><y>150</y><text><![CDATA[In such pageantry an allegorical conceit often went hand in hand with mechanical intricacy. A theater stage was perhaps the most highly elaborate venue of all, where the concentration of devices was matched by their extremely ephemeral nature; a vast preparation leading to a transient result.
-Robert Harbison, <i><a href="event:workId=25">Thirteen Ways.</a></i> p.27.]]></text><work_id>25</work_id></annotation><annotation id="88"><name><![CDATA[88]]></name><annotationType_id>3</annotationType_id><cluster_id>39</cluster_id><x>100</x><y>100</y><text><![CDATA[An alternate ending is a term used to describe the conclusion of a story that was not used. In film, alternate endings are often inspired by hostile reactions from test audiences who are utilized to determine the marketability of a title in advance of release. In these instances, the original ending is often shelved because it breaks from narrative convention, leaves loose ends dangling, or, perhaps, is simply depressing. A cynic might only see "deleted scenes," or view their favorite moments as being "left on the cutting room floor", but when considered in a positive light, alternate endings speak to possibility in narrative. They suggest each narrative has its own plasticity, a roadmap of routes and trajectories on which to move through the work.]]></text><work_id></work_id></annotation><annotation id="91"><name><![CDATA[91]]></name><annotationType_id>2</annotationType_id><cluster_id>40</cluster_id><x>50</x><y>30</y><text><![CDATA[Theatres for live performance (opera, convert, dramatic theatre) developed according to their differing requirements for acoustics, stage size, seating, orchestral space, and backstage needs. The basic building type was a skeletal frame with cantilevers and trussed girders to support balconies for the audience. 
-Anne Friedberg, <i><a href="event:workId=29">The Virtual Window: From Alberti to Microsoft.</a></i> pg. 163.]]></text><work_id>29</work_id></annotation><annotationType id="1"><name><![CDATA[Quotation]]></name></annotationType><annotationType id="2"><name><![CDATA[Reference]]></name></annotationType><annotationType id="3"><name><![CDATA[Commentary]]></name></annotationType><building id="1"><name><![CDATA[Lawson-Weston House]]></name><architect>Eric Owen Moss</architect><year>1993</year><description><![CDATA[This Brentwood residence is one of architect Eric Owen Moss' most dynamic projects. The house could be most succinctly described as a sprawling, idiosyncratic bunker. Inspired by numerous conversations about ideal space with the clients, the interior of the house features a dramatic atrium that feeds into a dramatic spiral staircase at the center of the house. It features a monumental concrete portal that acts as frontage to a clunky stucco mass into which numerous incisions have been carved. Each of these voids serves as a playground for dynamic fenestration, circulation and means of egress.]]></description></building><building id="2"><name><![CDATA[Gehry House]]></name><architect>Frank Gehry</architect><year>1978</year><description><![CDATA[Colloquially described as "cheapskate" architecture, Frank Gehry's Santa Monica House challenged the banal Santa Monica neighbourhood into which it was inserted. A renovation of a two storey tract house, the original structure is pierced by a series of non-orthogonal volumes that are constructed of wood, corrugated steel and chain link fencing. The resulting mass sprawls across the site, offering playful views into the residence and at the same time providing a certain degree of fortification.]]></description></building><building id="3"><name><![CDATA[Open House]]></name><architect>Coop Himmelb(l)au</architect><year>1983</year><description><![CDATA[This was a hypothetical house to be built for a wealthy client in Malibu in the early 1980s. The project was designed by the Austria based design cooperative Coop Himmelb(l)au, a studio who has always had one foot in Los Angeles and the other firmly planted in the Valhalla of utopian architectural thought. The house is planless and completely free of demarcation between spaces. Beyond that, the form is neither open nor closed, and anything but recognizable. The plate and frame construction of this structure suggests a complete disorder but serves to bound the almost entirely open front façade. The project also served to critique modernist residential ideals and the clichéd California Beach house typology.]]></description></building><building id="4"><name><![CDATA[Sixth Street House]]></name><architect>Thom Mayne</architect><year>1988</year><description><![CDATA[The houses architects build for themselves are profoundly personal statements about domesticity and the art of building. Thom Mayne's Sixth Street House emerged from an extended exploration of the drawing board by Mayne and collaborator Andrew Zago in the 1980s. The project is a complex aggregation of mechanical detritus arranged in space through experiments in orthographic projection. Space, program and building assembly interlock around this collection of found objects and the resulting residence is a sophisticated, late 20th century urban upgrade of the modernist villa.]]></description></building><building id="5"><name><![CDATA[Stahl House]]></name><architect>Pierre Koenig</architect><year>1960</year><description><![CDATA[One of the most austere of the Case Study projects, the Stahl House reads as a series of sublime geometric profiles rendered in glass and steel. The house and accompanying pavilion enclose pristine volumes of space while framing expansive views of the distant cityscape. In this structure, glass is more than a transparent material – it acts as a membrane inviting the city into the space to act as decoration and ornament where there is none. The accompanying patio is an integral component of the design, as it nestles a pool within the L-shaped building and creates a sublime spatial composition that echoes Mies van der Rohe's Barcelona Pavilion.]]></description></building><building id="6"><name><![CDATA[Ennis House]]></name><architect>Frank Lloyd Wright</architect><year>1924</year><description><![CDATA[The Ennis House was the last of Frank Lloyd Wright's Los Angeles "textile block" residences. Rather than embrace the industrial qualities of concrete, Wright imported it into his palette as another tool to use in developing his comprehensive design vision. The home crowns a Los Feliz hilltop echoing the form and stature of a Mayan temple. The modular brickwork is imprinted with a decorative pattern that resonates with the treatments applied to Wright's trademarked stained glass windows. The mass and fortification of this structure creates a timeless and secure interior space, one that feels a world apart from the city outside.]]></description></building><building id="7"><name><![CDATA[Hunt House]]></name><architect>Craig Ellwood</architect><year>1955</year><description><![CDATA[The Hunt House is a choice example of the California Modernism popularized during the 1950s. Ellwood's genius was his ability to fuse the minimalism of the European avant garde with a west-coast sensibility. The Hunt residence is characterized by a H-shaped plan with a pair of garages bissected by a walkway which leads to the house proper, a separate volume. The streetside facade is immaculate and understated, comprised of nothing more than two sheer  connected by a pane of frosted glass. This sterile frontage is misleading as approaching the structure from the sides reveals a far less precious architecture, one that playful cascades across the landscape.]]></description></building><building id="8"><name><![CDATA[Sheats-Goldstein Residence]]></name><architect>John Lautner</architect><year>1963</year><description><![CDATA[The Sheats-Goldstein residence is a shining example of John Lautner's dynamic sense of form and material. The wedge-like residence expresses the possibility of non-orthogonal geometry in plan and elevation. The signature façade of the structure is an expansive window-wall which defines the space between the ground plane and the angular roof. This pristine view is offset by the grain and texture of the massive concrete waffle slab that encloses this space. Lautner's "viewing machine" has recently been complemented by the addition of one of James Turrell's "Sky Spaces."]]></description></building><clip id="3"><name><![CDATA[GH-S1]]></name><clipType_id>1</clipType_id><film_id>2</film_id><filename>GH-S1.jpg</filename></clip><clip id="4"><name><![CDATA[GH-S3]]></name><clipType_id>1</clipType_id><film_id>2</film_id><filename>GH-S3.jpg</filename></clip><clip id="5"><name><![CDATA[LW-S1]]></name><clipType_id>1</clipType_id><film_id>3</film_id><filename>LW-S1.jpg</filename></clip><clip id="6"><name><![CDATA[EB-03]]></name><clipType_id>1</clipType_id><film_id>8</film_id><filename>EB-03.jpg</filename></clip><clip id="7"><name><![CDATA[GH-S4]]></name><clipType_id>1</clipType_id><film_id>2</film_id><filename>GH-S4.jpg</filename></clip><clip id="8"><name><![CDATA[GH-S5]]></name><clipType_id>1</clipType_id><film_id>2</film_id><filename>GH-S5.jpg</filename></clip><clip 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id="20"><name><![CDATA[drawing18]]></name><building_id>3</building_id><filename>18.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="21"><name><![CDATA[drawing19]]></name><building_id>3</building_id><filename>19.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="22"><name><![CDATA[drawing20]]></name><building_id>3</building_id><filename>20.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="23"><name><![CDATA[drawing21]]></name><building_id>7</building_id><filename>21.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="24"><name><![CDATA[drawing22]]></name><building_id>5</building_id><filename>22.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="25"><name><![CDATA[drawing23]]></name><building_id>4</building_id><filename>23.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="26"><name><![CDATA[drawing24]]></name><building_id>4</building_id><filename>24.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="27"><name><![CDATA[drawing25]]></name><building_id>4</building_id><filename>25.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="28"><name><![CDATA[drawing26]]></name><building_id>4</building_id><filename>26.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="29"><name><![CDATA[drawing27]]></name><building_id>8</building_id><filename>27.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="30"><name><![CDATA[drawing28]]></name><building_id>4</building_id><filename>28.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="31"><name><![CDATA[drawingA01]]></name><building_id>1</building_id><filename>A01.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="32"><name><![CDATA[drawingA02]]></name><building_id>7</building_id><filename>A02.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="33"><name><![CDATA[drawingA03]]></name><building_id>5</building_id><filename>A03.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="34"><name><![CDATA[drawingA04]]></name><building_id>8</building_id><filename>A04.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="35"><name><![CDATA[drawingA05]]></name><building_id>2</building_id><filename>A05.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="36"><name><![CDATA[drawingA06]]></name><building_id>6</building_id><filename>A06.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="38"><name><![CDATA[drawingA08]]></name><building_id>3</building_id><filename>A08.svg</filename></drawing><drawing id="39"><name><![CDATA[drawing29]]></name><building_id>5</building_id><filename>29.svg</filename></drawing><film id="1"><title>Lost Highway</title><director>David Lynch</director><year>1997</year><description><![CDATA[The first film in David Lynch's Los Angeles trilogy, <i>Lost Highway</i> is an exploration in split-protagonists and circular storytelling. In Lynch's noir, narratives and characterization melt into one another creating a plastic environment in which to stage nightmarish experiments. <i>Lost Highway</i> starts in the uneasy domestic space of Fred and Renee Madison. An apparent home invasion, suspicions about Renee's past and a chance encounter with a "mystery man" set in motion the rapid disintegration of the marriage. An ambiguous violent act triggers Fred Madison's transformation into the younger Peter Raymond Dayton and Lynch uses this new character to fold his original narrative back on itself.]]></description></film><film id="2"><title>One Week</title><director>Buster Keaton</director><year>1920</year><description><![CDATA[The breakthrough film of Buster Keaton, <i>One Week</i> was the first project that Keaton wrote and directed (alongside Edward F. Cline). The plot centers around a newlywed Keaton and his young bride who receive a house as a wedding gift. However, yhe house is not assembled and a jealous ex-suitor of Keaton's wife sabotages the labeling on the boxes which contain the components from which the house would be built. The resulting narrative documents the perils of (mis)construction and no sooner than the house is complete it is ravaged by slapstick catastrophe.]]></description></film><film id="3"><title>Sunset Boulevard</title><director>Billly Wilder</director><year>1950</year><description><![CDATA[Billy Wilder's mid-century masterpiece ranks among the crowning achievements of American cinema. It is also one of the original films condemning the inner workings of Hollywood. On Sunset Boulevard, the film industry is a wasteland of broken dreams, false hope and forgotten stars. This noir tale of the "story behind the pictures" deals with the downfall of Joe Gillis, a hack screenwriter who falls in love with the aging screen icon Norma Desmond. Gillis becomes entrapped in Norma Desmond's self-loathing, and is ultimately destroyed by her delusions. The narrative of <i>Sunset Boulevard</i> documents the obsolescence of the original era of American cinema.]]></description></film><film id="4"><title>Kiss Me Deadly</title><director>Robert Aldrich</director><year>1955</year><description><![CDATA[One of the gems of b-film noir, <i>Kiss Me Deadly</i> follows the sadistic private eye Mike Hammer as he delves into a world of betrayal and espionage. Hammer becomes ensnared in the circumstances surrounding the death of a beautiful hitchhiker that leads him into a plot involving stolen radionuclide. Thinking that he is on to "something big", the detective investigates the death of this woman and eventually comes face to face with the stolen hazardous materials and a pair of villains who will do anything to possess it. The drama escalates into a gruesome endgame, the exact significance of which is debated to this day.]]></description></film><film id="5"><title>The Player</title><director>Robert Altman</director><year>1992</year><description><![CDATA[In the tradition of <i>Sunset Boulevard</i>, this Robert Altman picture conducts a scathing examination of the film industry and reveals it to be superficial and devoid of integrity. The film follows the downward spiral of Griffin Mills, a morally bankrupt film executive who murders a would-be screenwriter named David Kahain, whom he believes to be stalking him. Mills ends up falling for David Kahain's wife, and attempts to dodge the detectives on his tail while saving his faltering career. The film is rife with cameos, irony and self-reference and ends with an elaborate inside joke when Mills approves a script written by his blackmailer that mirrors the plot of <i>The Player</i>.]]></description></film><film id="6"><title>Heat</title><director>Michael Mann</director><year>1995</year><description><![CDATA[<i>Heat</i> is a character-driven crime drama that tracks the lead-up to a daring bank robbery. Michael Mann devotes equal attention to the crew planning the heist and the detectives that would apprehend them. The film climaxes in an raging gun battle that spills out into the streets of downtown Los Angeles. The sprawling narrative portrays a sophisticated network of underground economies all rendered in a gritty, realist Los Angeles. The film also delineates the domestic space of the various characters in light of their intense lifestyle choices.]]></description></film><film id="7"><title>The Limey</title><director>Steven Soderbergh</director><year>1999</year><description><![CDATA[Englishman and career criminal Wilson goes to Los Angeles with the intent of avenging his daughter's suspicious death. This twist on the generic fish-out-of-water plot device puts jail-hardened Wilson on the trail of celebrated record producer Terry Valentine. Wilson infiltrates Valentine's illegal business enterprises as well as his social circles in a determined bid to destroy the man. The film employs a fragmented narrative that speaks to Wilson's memory as well as the psychological landscape of contemporary Los Angeles.]]></description></film><film id="8"><title>Blade Runner</title><director>Ridley Scott</director><year>1982</year><description><![CDATA[One of the greatest science fiction movies ever made, <i>Blade Runner</i> schematizes a dark, dystopian vision of Los Angeles in 2019. In this hard-boiled future, humanity has enlisted the service of android "replicants" to assist with space exploration, military activity and prostitution. The film follows police detective Rick Deckard as he searches for a collective of rogue replicants. These synthetics are searching for information about their origin at Tyrell Corporation, a company on the cutting edge of replicant design and development. The film provides an intimate look at Rick Deckard's personal (and domestic) space as he moves through the dreary postmetropolis.]]></description></film><shape id="1"><name><![CDATA[construction]]></name><building_id>0</building_id><filename>construction.svg</filename></shape><shape id="2"><name><![CDATA[mischief]]></name><building_id>0</building_id><filename>mischief.svg</filename></shape><shape id="3"><name><![CDATA[poolfloat]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>poolfloat.svg</filename></shape><shape id="4"><name><![CDATA[test4]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>test4.svg</filename></shape><shape id="5"><name><![CDATA[test5]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>test5.svg</filename></shape><shape id="6"><name><![CDATA[test6]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>test6.svg</filename></shape><shape id="7"><name><![CDATA[test7]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>test7.svg</filename></shape><shape id="8"><name><![CDATA[test8]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>test8.svg</filename></shape><shape id="9"><name><![CDATA[shape9]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>9shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="10"><name><![CDATA[shape10]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>10shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="11"><name><![CDATA[shape11]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>11shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="12"><name><![CDATA[shape12]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>12shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="13"><name><![CDATA[shape13]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>13shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="14"><name><![CDATA[shape14]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>14shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="15"><name><![CDATA[shape15]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>15shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="16"><name><![CDATA[shape16]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>16shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="17"><name><![CDATA[shape17]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>17shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="18"><name><![CDATA[shape18]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>18shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="19"><name><![CDATA[shape19]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>19shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="20"><name><![CDATA[shape20]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>20shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="21"><name><![CDATA[shape21]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>21shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="22"><name><![CDATA[shape22]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>22shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="23"><name><![CDATA[shape23]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>23shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="24"><name><![CDATA[shape24]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>24shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="25"><name><![CDATA[shape25]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>25shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="26"><name><![CDATA[shape26]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>26shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="27"><name><![CDATA[shape27]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>27shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="28"><name><![CDATA[shape28]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>28shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="29"><name><![CDATA[shapeA01]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>A01shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="30"><name><![CDATA[shapeA02]]></name><building_id></building_id><filename>A02shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="31"><name><![CDATA[shapeA03]]></name><building_id>5</building_id><filename>A03shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="32"><name><![CDATA[shapeA04]]></name><building_id>8</building_id><filename>A04shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="33"><name><![CDATA[shapeA05]]></name><building_id>2</building_id><filename>A05shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="34"><name><![CDATA[shapeA06]]></name><building_id>6</building_id><filename>A06shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="35"><name><![CDATA[shapeA07]]></name><building_id>4</building_id><filename>A07shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="36"><name><![CDATA[shapeA08]]></name><building_id>3</building_id><filename>A08shape.svg</filename></shape><shape id="37"><name><![CDATA[shape29]]></name><building_id>5</building_id><filename>29shape.svg</filename></shape><statement id="7"><name><![CDATA[prototype culture]]></name><text><![CDATA[Los Angeles has a history of nurturing innovation in film and architecture. In the first quarter of the 20th century, the city served as a test bed for the development of the motion picture as a format and as an industry. Decades later, <i>Arts and Architecture</i> magazine would host an ambitious forum for experimental residential design called the Case Study House Program. Given these examples, and the importance of film and architecture to 20th century aesthetics, no other North American city can be said to have been as influential in driving thought about space and moving images.]]></text></statement><statement id="11"><name><![CDATA[protectionism]]></name><text><![CDATA[The <i>not in my backyard</i> sentiment has always been a driving force in California social organization. This is ironic given that the West was originally a frontier, a land of opportunity as defined by windfalls like the Gold Rush and the ascent of the aerospace and entertainment industries. Despite these good fortunes, a vibrant economy and a seemingly utopian climate, Angelenos have always exhibited a paranoid protectionism in defining and regulating urban and personal space.]]></text></statement><statement id="12"><name><![CDATA[false-positive]]></name><text><![CDATA[Los Angeles is a city that yearns for the past. Ironically, it is also a metropolis obsessed with forgetting. The term "Golden Age" is often used to describe a mythical high-water mark in American cinema, but it could just as easily be applied to the broader history of the city. Given its implausible political, economic and social history perhaps Los Angeles makes the most sense when considered after the fact.

The Chandler family, the Aqueduct drama, the Ambassador Hotel and the Los Angeles Riots – these and numerous other implausible events have shaped our perception of this "non-place" urban field. Despite the weight of all this history the experience of moving through the city is actually quite vacant and alienating. Sometimes one can't help but wonder if these alleged grand civic-narratives ever even happened.]]></text></statement><statement id="13"><name><![CDATA[drowning by screenplays]]></name><text><![CDATA[The death of David Kahane in <i>The Player</i> echoes the fate of Joe Gillis in <i>Sunset Boulevard</i>. Both of these hack screenwriters serve as messianic figures who are beaten down and snuffed out by characters emblematic of the worst of commercial cinema. Buried in the subtext of these two homicides is not only a warning to would-be screenwriters, but acknowledgment of key transitional periods in the history of cinema: the death of the Golden Age and the birth of independent filmmaking in America.]]></text></statement><statement id="18"><name><![CDATA[build by numbers]]></name><text><![CDATA[In the late 1950s Jack Fletcher created the <i>California Model Architect Kit</i>, a cardboard maquette set consisting of a variety of modular parts and an "assembly grid" for easy, rectilinear dream home construction. For better and worse, Los Angeles was an ideal setting for continued experiments in Modernist design. The temperate climate and informal lifestyle would inspire a new "relaxed" modernism, that resonates with design aficionados and the general public to this day. While this legacy put the city on the map as a global design hub, it was also the historical dead-weight that the architects like Frank Gehry, Thom Mayne, Frank Israel and Eric Owen Moss (known collectively as the Santa Monica School) would so desperately try to shed in the 1970s and 80s.]]></text></statement><statement id="19"><name><![CDATA[doesn't like video]]></name><text><![CDATA[Fred Madison, the brooding lead character of <i>Lost Highway</i>, does not like video cameras. His perspective on memory is that he'd rather "remember things in his own way, not necessarily how they happened". This ambivalence towards exactitude eventually catches up with Fred when he forgets if he killed his wife, and then, shortly thereafter, altogether forgets himself. 

Shapeshifting protagonists are commonplace in David Lynch's films but even amongst the rogue's gallery of Lynchian characters Fred Madison stands out as an imposing, glacial presence. Madison is a man whose domestic and interpersonal space are so dysfunctional that he simply ceases to be.]]></text></statement><statement id="21"><name><![CDATA[case study houses]]></name><text><![CDATA[In 1948, <i>Arts and Architecture</i> magazine announced the Case Study House Program. The project was a challenge for leading architects to develop new models for post-war housing in America. The project was active for almost two decades and ended in 1966, having yielded 28 prototype homes which explored materials, domestic organization, and most importantly, space. These houses were by and large sited in the greater Los Angeles area and this fact is worth reflecting upon. 

The tradition of starting over, of forgetting history, was already well established in the Los Angeles architectural community by the 1940s. The city was a popular destination for European avant garde expats. Two such designers, Rudolf Schindler and Richard Neutra, played a definitive role in the reterritorialization of Modernism as a vernacular "Southern Californian" architecture. The influence of these designers and the Case Study program on American architecture cannot be understated.]]></text></statement><statement id="22"><name><![CDATA[alternate ending]]></name><text><![CDATA[The entire narrative of <i>Kiss Me Deadly</i> could be considered a meditation on the notion of death by architecture. The plot revolves around the pursuit of the "great whatsit", a mysterious box that contains the key to a dangerous and unstable source of energy. Once the seal is broken on this atomic-age retrofit of the myth of Pandora's Box it flares outwards and incinerates the space around it. As the box explodes it consumes another, the prototypical beach house that the final scene takes place in.

The European version of <i>Kiss Me Deadly</i> ends with a shot of the burning house, alluding to the death of the protagonists inside. This stands in stark contrast to the North American version of the film, which ends with Mike Hammer and Velda escaping the inferno to the safety of the Pacific Ocean.]]></text></statement><statement id="23"><name><![CDATA[close up]]></name><text><![CDATA[<i>Sunset Boulevard</i> ends with a magnificent descent. As the corpse of freshly murdered Joe Gillis is fished out of the pool, Norma Desmond primps for her return to the spotlight and the gaze of the camera. Her manservant, Max von Mayerling, coaxes her into police custody by speaking directly to her delusion and states that her return to fame is at last at hand. She elegantly cuts through a throng of photographers and glides down the staircase to lights, cameras and an awaiting police escort. It should be noted that this scene features a one-to-one correlation between architectural and psychological descent. Norma's sinking into an irrevocable state of delusion is both a performance and an architectural event.]]></text></statement><statement id="24"><name><![CDATA[tracking shot]]></name><text><![CDATA[Robert Altman's <i>The Player</i> is a venomous send-up of the commercial film industry in the late 20th century. The movie continues the legacy of <i>Sunset Boulevard</i> through the construction of a complex scaffolding of references and nods to important film-about-film precedents. Perhaps the most architectural moment in <i>The Player</i> is the incredible opening, a homage to the infamous tracking shot of Orson Welles' <i>Touch of Evil</i>. This elaborate shot surveys the grounds of a huge film studio while introducing and eavesdropping on the activities of a number of the central characters. Laying bare the intent of the narrative, two characters discuss Welles' shot, while unknowingly participating in an equally sophisticated act of construction.]]></text></statement><statement id="25"><name><![CDATA[roads merge ahead]]></name><text><![CDATA[One of the most distinguishing features of <i>Lost Highway</i> is the manner in which the trajectories of protagonists merge as characters join, overlap and fade into one another. An equally convoluted reading of identity can also be found when one peels back the veneer over the illustrious career of the architect Craig Ellwood.

Born Jon Nelson Burke, Ellwood launched a general contracting firm in the early 1950s in partnership with three friends. The group named the company "Craig Ellwood" after a local liquor store on Beverly Boulevard. As the firm gained experience, they received residential commissions and Burke would assume the identity of Craig Ellwood in 1951 by legally changing his name.

These issues of identity don't stop with names, but also extend into questions of authorship. To this day, there are conflicting opinions about Ellwood's involvement in the design of his most recognized work, with varying degrees of credit being attributed to Ellwood's project architects Robert Theron Peters and James Tyler.]]></text></statement><statement id="34"><name><![CDATA[wayward protagonist]]></name><text><![CDATA[Is there any figure in the history of comedy with more gravitas than Buster Keaton? As a protagonist he consistently finds himself facing impossible situations and he routinely does battle with authorities, fate and even nature herself. In <i>One Week</i> Keaton's antagonist is a building, his house-to-be. This structure is bent on succumbing to the sabotage of rivals as well as the relentless elements, yet the architect Keaton, unfazed by these hardships, battles on in hopes of constructing some kind of order.]]></text></statement><statement id="35"><name><![CDATA[aesthetics of failure]]></name><text><![CDATA[The allure of <i>One Week</i> is wondering exactly what catastrophe will befall the architecture next. Try as he might, Buster Keaton never can "save" his project and live happily ever after in it. As Keaton and his bride are attempting to move it, the malconstructed house is smashed to bits by an oncoming train. This considered, <i>One Week</i> can be read as a kind of architectural snuff film, one which predated all the skyscraper exploding stupidity of the '80s and '90s by decades. Interestingly enough, Santa Monica legend has it that somebody actually fired a bullet at Frank Gehry's house in the 1980s. Perhaps the shot was filmed?]]></text></statement><statement id="36"><name><![CDATA[fame game]]></name><text><![CDATA[Eric Owen Moss, the designer of the Lawson-Weston house, was bequeathed the title  "the jeweler of junk" by architectural kingmaker Philip Johnson. This illustrious and somewhat dismissive moniker highlighted Moss' ability for hyper-complicated detailing with cheap materials and off-the-shelf components (a hallmark of California architecture in the 1980s). Moss' knack for reconsidering standard assemblies such as doors and windows as elaborate constructions had earned him a nod from one of architecture's most savvy elder statesmen.]]></text></statement><statement id="37"><name><![CDATA[the great whatsit]]></name><text><![CDATA[At the center of <i>Kiss Me Deadly</i> is a box. This vessel contained unidentified fissionable material, and the ramifications of opening this box were dangerous and absolute. As Dr. G.E. Soberin pointed out to the treacherous Velda, "what is in the box cannot be divided".

It should be noted that at the center of Modernism there was also a box. A pristine,  unsentimental machine for living, one which utilized new materials and technology and  symbolized progress. At a certain moment late in the 20th century, architects began to wonder what would happen if they opened it. What could result from taking the box apart and reassembling the various surfaces into new spatial and volumetric configurations?]]></text></statement><statement id="38"><name><![CDATA[waxworks]]></name><text><![CDATA[According to Joe Gillis, one of Norma Desmond's most irritating qualities was the fact that she regularly played cards with a motley crew of silent film has-beens. Gillis referred to this crowd as "the waxworks" and likened the ambiance of these bridge games to that of a mausoleum. Buster Keaton played himself as one of these moribund gamers and utters only two words in this very famous cameo. In considering a questionable hand, he mutters "pass" and then meekly passes again, giving up on any hope of coming out on top with the hand he'd been dealt.]]></text></statement><statement id="33"><name><![CDATA[death of a gigolo]]></name><text><![CDATA[The murder of Joe Gillis marked the conclusion of an unremarkable screenwriting career. It is interesting to note how tied to architecture Gillis' last days were. As Norma Desmond's resident gigolo he was confined to a virtual house arrest in order to appease her reclusive tendencies. He was murdered after confronting Norma in an attempt to leave the house. To add insult to the injury of being shot several times, Gillis toppled into Desmond's pool, exactly "the kind he had always wanted", and promptly drowned. It is quite likely that the spectacle of his death was received with far greater interest than any script he ever wrote.]]></text></statement><statement id="39"><name><![CDATA[production design]]></name><text><![CDATA[Amongst the numerous locations immortalized by <i>Blade Runner</i>, Rick Deckard's apartment is one of the most memorable. The look and feel of this space was inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright's Ennis House. The interior character of Wright's sprawling hillside house was reconstituted as a unit in a highrise building looming over Ridley Scott's dystopian vision of Los Angeles. Plaster casts were taken from the signature textile blocks, and new building blocks were produced to create a facsimile of the original space. This recontextualization of Wright's vision is ironic given that Deckard's apartment has probably eclipsed the original space in fame and recognition.]]></text></statement><statement id="40"><name><![CDATA[think modular]]></name><text><![CDATA[Frank Lloyd Wright considered textile blocks an exciting new frontier for further developing his design language. These structural units could be infinitely reproduced and provided another surface for Wright to inscribe with pattern and meaning. The unique spatial qualities of the Ennis house emerge from the creation of enclosure through stacking these modular units. An abstract counterpoint to this can be identified in <i>Blade Runner</i> when we consider Rick Deckard's photo-analysis of a crime scene early in the film. In this scene Deckard uses a imagining device to scrutinize a photograph of an apartment, and the source image is broken down by a grid overlay. In both of these instances modular units are used to construct, explore and articulate space.]]></text></statement><statement id="32"><name><![CDATA[the happy accident]]></name><text><![CDATA[Buster Keaton's <i>One Week</i> is an unintentional architectural treatise. The plot of the film revolves around the newlywed Keaton and his bride's attempt to construct a build-by-numbers home. This simple goal is complicated considerably when a rival of Keaton sabotages the project by switching the numbers on several boxes of supplies and materials. Slapstick construction ensues and the house that is produced is an uncanny, oblique monstrosity that predated Frank Gehry's deconstruction of domestic space by 60 years. It is not without irony that an architectural sight gag in a silent film would eventually resonate quite strongly with the playful deconstructivism exhibited by the Santa Monica School.]]></text></statement><statement id="41"><name><![CDATA[maximum security]]></name><text><![CDATA[David Lynch has always had a knack for creating warped representations of domestic space. In <i>Lost Highway</i>, the homelife of Fred and Renee Madison is characterized by silence, alienation and passive-aggressiveness. These qualities don't only color the strained relations between the couple, but register architecturally as the house they live in is stark and unfurnished. There are several shots of Fred staring out the window where he looks more like a prisoner than an occupant. This reminds us of the fact that there is a fine line between privacy and fortification.]]></text></statement><statement id="42"><name><![CDATA[picture in picture]]></name><text><![CDATA[Towards the beginning of Steven Soderbergh's <i>The Limey</i>, the protagonist Wilson infiltrates a house party hosted by music mogul Terry Valentine. Wilson slips away from the gathering and conducts a "character assessment" of Valentine by scanning his bedroom and personal belongings. The camera slides along behind him as he cautiously examines Valentine's private space. Wilson narrowly avoids being discovered by Valentine's girlfriend and is about to return to the gathering when he is stopped dead in his tracks by a photograph of his daughter hanging in a stairwell. Having come to Los Angeles to discover the truth behind her murder, Wilson is further convinced that Valentine was somehow involved.]]></text></statement><statement id="43"><name><![CDATA[simcity]]></name><text><![CDATA[One of the chapters in Edward Soja's sprawling urban studies text <i>Postmetropolis: Critical Studies of Cities and Regions</i>  explicitly deals with the notion of the city as a simulated phenomenon. Taking into consideration Will Wright as much as Baudrillard, Soja schematizes Los Angeles as "perhaps the ultimate urban simulation". Given the technological conundrum at the heart of <i>Blade Runner</i>, the idea of Los Angeles as an urban simulation is quite amusing. In <i>Blade Runner</i> there is no question about Los Angeles being simulated, rather its citizenry.]]></text></statement><statement id="44"><name><![CDATA[centerpiece]]></name><text><![CDATA[At the center of Coop Himmelb(l)au's unrealized Open House is an angular staircase. This staircase cuts down from the upper catwalk level of the residence and acts as an anchor to the dynamic, almost disintegrating form surrounding it. The act of ascent takes on an increased importance in a house that looks as if it might float away. 

A counterpoint to this observation is the staircase in the middle of Robert Aldrich's <i>Kiss Me Deadly</i>. In a sadistic display, protagonist Mike Hammer knocks a would-be assailant down a dramatic exterior staircase. The camera lingers on the ragdoll form tumbling down the stairs and Hammer smirks with self satisfaction. In this bleak noirscape the staircase does not symbolize transcendence, simply a weapon.]]></text></statement><statement id="45"><name><![CDATA[dick laurent is dead]]></name><text><![CDATA[<i>Lost Highway</i> starts where it ends, with a cryptic conversation mediated by an intercom. Fred Madison learns from a mysterious voice that "Dick Laurent is dead", and this simple statement calls into question the entire narrative of the film. It is after all Fred Madison (or some variant thereof) that murders Dick Laurent. Having Fred talk to himself through an architectural apparatus is a fitting start to a film with such a vested interest in structure, narrative and its own hermetic idiosyncracies.]]></text></statement><statement id="46"><name><![CDATA[becoming-animal]]></name><text><![CDATA[The early work of Coop Himmelb(l)au was fueled by a radical, anarcho-primitivist mania that broadly challenged the status quo of architectural production and consumption. This polemical body of work employed narrative, symbolism, raw materiality and oblique geometries to develop their own idiosyncratic dialect of architectural defamiliarization. Conventional forms such as the <i>house</i>, <i>truss</i> and <i>wall</i> became vehicles for transgression. One of the most distinguishing characteristics of projects like the Open House is an alien organicism in which structure reads as a skeletal assemblage - in what other house might you confuse a wall for a ribcage? 

While this aesthetic is severe, the manner in which it frames and defines space is actually quite liberating. The Open House is one continuous space rather than a string of prescribed zones. The activities of this radical residence were to be proudly displayed to the outside world. This home was to be transparent (without conservatism) and dynamic (without motion) as it reached up, pierced into and interlocked with the sky.]]></text></statement><statement id="47"><name><![CDATA[private dick]]></name><text><![CDATA[Mike Hammer is the ruthless private detective protagonist in Robert Aldrich's <i>Kiss Me Deadly</i>. Hammer's effectiveness as an investigator stems from the fact he is only marginally less brutal and corrupt than the populace of the underworld through which he moves. A small time operator, Hammer generally earns his keep by fabricating adulterous evidence for would be divorcees. His business is other peoples business, and he routinely pries and spies his way into the domestic space and relationships of others to make a buck. This ruthless demeanor make him the perfect candidate for scouring the shadowy Los Angeles underworld in search of information.]]></text></statement><statement id="48"><name><![CDATA[gang oft agley]]></name><text><![CDATA[A particularly tense moment in <i>Heat</i> occurs when Lt. Vincent Hanna returns home to find his wife Justine entertaining a man she has just slept with. Vincent is completely caught off guard by this betrayal and it forces him to address his wife as a husband instead of his usual role of frazzled careerist. This all plays out in front of Ralph, the bewildered interloper who sits, petrified, on the sofa while Hanna launches into a manic diatribe about his marriage to Justine, their sham life and even their sham architecture. 

Justine's "dead-tech, post-modernistic bullshit house" is none other than Thom Mayne's Sixth Street House. It is worth noting that this monograph worthy "house for an architect" is repurposed towards miserable ends in <i>Heat</i> - something has gone horribly wrong in translating this home onto celluloid. This noble prototype, which radiates ingenuity and authenticity has been reduced to sterile cliche, high design as the backdrop for a disintegrating marriage.]]></text></statement><statement id="49"><name><![CDATA[home invasion]]></name><text><![CDATA[One of the central themes of Michael Mann's <i>Heat</i> is the manner in which the vocations of the protagonists infect and damages their home lives. Both Lt. Vincent Hanna and seasoned heist-man Neil McCauley find themselves in complicated domestic arrangements brought on by their obsessive, non-standard lifestyles. Vincent Hanna is helpless to watch as his third marriage disintegrates, he knows too well that his dedication to his police work has made him emotionally aloof. The career criminal Neil McCauley has trained himself to be a monk-like isolationist who abstains from interpersonal relationships in hopes to remain focused on his scores.

Despite the explosive midtown Los Angeles gun battle that acts as the climax to this film, the undercurrents that permeate the narrative suggests that the "real" conflict does not take place on the battlefield, as that is simply the place where instincts play out. The real battle lies in abandoning domestic space. When the time comes you must be prepared to turn your back, walk away and never look back.]]></text></statement><statement id="50"><name><![CDATA[the hollow man]]></name><text><![CDATA[The bitter reading of Hollywood communicated in Robert Altman's <i>The Player</i> orbits around the misadventures of Griffin Mill, a self-absorbed film executive. Mill works in the upper echelons of a fictional Hollywood studio and is charged with screening incoming pitches by writers and directors. Mill's career hinges on recognizing potential blockbusters amongst a neverending flow of scripts. More dubiously, Mill is responsible for "adjusting" the vision of screenwriters and directors and homogenizing this work in light of the market. 

While Mill makes a career of bleeding the life and originality out of the art around him, he unintentionally inspires a masterpieces when he murders hack screenwriter David Kahane. The slippery Mill emerges from a criminal investigation unscathed, becomes romantically involved with Kahane's wife and the film ends with the suggestion that he will produce a film documenting his own misdeeds.]]></text></statement><statement id="51"><name><![CDATA[the end]]></name><text><![CDATA[The great irony of some projects is their capacity to remain terminally incomplete. <i>The Player</i> certainly provides a cliched "Hollywood ending" to the saga of Griffin Mills, but on closer inspection this conclusion is quite troubling. The entire trajectory of the film documents the disintegration of the artistic integrity of <i>Habeas Corpus</i> (originally an incredibly moving screenplay) into Oscar-pandering studio fodder. As that project dies, another develops as Griffin Mills writes his own screenplay of homicide and paranoia, careerism and cover up. Both of these unresolved stories have ironic endings tacked on and both play to different results with distinct audiences. The studio executives watching <i>Habeas Corpus</i>, the film-within-a-film, receive the ending of the film with applause and exaltation as they know their interference has created an idealized narrative. The audience viewing <i>The Player</i>, namely us, watch with horror as Griffin Mills drives up to an impossibly pristine suburban California mansion, greets his pregnant wife and utters the same one-liner that concludes <i>Habeas Corpus</i>. These layered, sardonic endings provide no resolution and leave the viewer with no choice but to revel in the intertextuality of the combined narratives.]]></text></statement><statement id="53"><name><![CDATA[hearth]]></name><text><![CDATA[The hearth is traditionally understood as the floor of a fireplace, a surface which sits at the core of a home and emanates warmth, familiarity and comfort. One of Thom Mayne's early drawings schematizing the Sixth Street House speaks directly to a complex understanding of this architectural element. This axonometric projection depicts the fireplace as a sophisticated assemblage of stairs, an entrance and "found" industrial objects. These volumes effortlessly flow into one another as if a continuous circuit or perhaps the base genetic code for a modular, self-replicating superstructure.]]></text></statement><statement id="60"><name><![CDATA[doesn't like video]]></name><text><![CDATA[Fred Madison, the brooding lead character of <i>Lost Highway</i>, does not like video cameras. His perspective on memory is that he'd rather "remember things in his own way, not necessarily how they happened". This ambivalence towards exactitude eventually catches up with Fred when he forgets if he killed his wife, and then, shortly thereafter, altogether forgets himself. 

Shapeshifting protagonists are commonplace in David Lynch's films but even amongst the rogue's gallery of Lynchian characters Fred Madison stands out as an imposing, glacial presence. Madison is a man whose domestic and interpersonal space are so dysfunctional that he simply ceases to be.]]></text></statement><statement id="56"><name><![CDATA[the seeker]]></name><text><![CDATA[The first song heard in Steven Soderbergh's <i>The Limey</i> is "The Seeker" by The Who. It is an ideal title track for the films central character Wilson and his relentless investigatory demeanor. Wilson is a man who moves in straight lines and has not the time nor disposition for social grace. He cuts through buildings, across the street and into people, always gliding towards the next relevant piece of information in his quest to understand the circumstances surrounding his daughters death. Watching him explore Terry Valentine's room and personal effects, it is clear that Wilson is "reading" the interior of this home as if it were a text. Wilson doesn't move through space, he interrogates it.]]></text></statement><statement id="57"><name><![CDATA[inside/out]]></name><text><![CDATA[The architecture of Buster Keaton is characterized by operability, chance and transformation. Architecture is traditionally viewed as the construction of shelter, refuge and comfort. That said, residential architecture could be considered a minor fortification from the perils of modern times. Keaton's savant-garde structures contain a key element, one that is all too often missing from domestic space, <i>possibility</i>. Surfaces flip, components disassemble, and key structural members dislocate. Shift, shear, spin, flex - Keaton radiates an intangible aura of disorder that causes the fixity of structure and space to melt away, leaving behind a vacuum in which true play is possible.]]></text></statement><statement id="58"><name><![CDATA[anatomy of a crime scene]]></name><text><![CDATA[There is a long-standing tradition of diagramming crime scenes as part of criminal investigations and, on occasion, one of these illustrations enters public consciousness. One of the more infamous mediated crime scene investigations in the history of cinema occurs in <i>Blade Runner</i> when Rick Deckard utilizes the ESPER machine to comb through the grainy details of a piece of photographic evidence. In a scene reminiscent of Antonioni's <i>Blow-Up</i>, Deckard zooms further and further into the image he is scrutinizing and eventually uncovers a reflection of a replicant and a crucial lead. This scene plays out rather self-referentially, as if Deckard was directing the camera in the scene in which he was participating. It is also worth noting the manner in which the grid is superimposed over domestic space, breaking it down into discrete parcels, each with their own secrets.]]></text></statement><statement id="61"><name><![CDATA[drowning by screenplays]]></name><text><![CDATA[The death of David Kahane in <i>The Player</i> echoes the fate of Joe Gillis in <i>Sunset Boulevard</i>. Both of these hack screenwriters serve as messianic figures who are beaten down and snuffed out by characters emblematic of the worst of commercial cinema. Buried in the subtext of these two homicides is not only a warning to would-be screenwriters, but acknowledgment of key transitional periods in the history of cinema: the death of the Golden Age and the birth of independent filmmaking in America.]]></text></statement><statement id="62"><name><![CDATA[reverse engineering]]></name><text><![CDATA[After being imprisoned for the murder of his wife, Fred Madison's psychological state continues to deteriorate. A crippling series of headaches climaxes in a mysterious seizure which is accompanied by a vision of a house burning in the desert. This episode marks the transmigration of Fred Madison into the younger but similarly conflicted Pete Dayton and the burning house from the vision is the setting of the conclusion of the film.

Lynch's nightmarish architectural rendering is powerful because, much like the narrative of <i>Lost Highway</i>, it undermines our understanding of the passage of time. This inferno does not expand outwards, but contracts in on itself into some impossibly minute point of origin. A magnificent cloud of debris, charred splinters of wood, and thick billowing smoke all violently compress inwards into a perfectly intact structure. Above and beyond sinister lighting, what makes this house so dark and foreboding is the stored potential energy that it contains. Since doppelgangers figure so prominently into characterization in <i>Lost Highway</i>, is it any surprise that architecture is also subject to the otherness of the double? As one house is shattered, another is spontaneously assembled out of a constellation of detritus.]]></text></statement><statement id="63"><name><![CDATA[dead man walking]]></name><text><![CDATA[One of the recurring discussions in <i>Heat</i> is the machismo ideal that a renegade lifestyle is predicated on the ability to walk away from attachments and familiarity. Throughout the film both the police and heist-crew talk openly about the importance of being able to walk away from it all. The biggest advocate of this mentality is Neil McCauley, the mastermind behind the crew that Lt. Vincent Hanna is so aggressively pursuing. Ironically, McCauley violates his own moral code when in the midst of leaving town with his girlfriend, he decides to go settle a score with an informant who had ratted him out. The resulting scene plays out with McCauley gliding down a hotel hallway towards the room his prey is holed up in. There is a strange self-referential nature to this shot as while McCauley is deserting his lover, he is not deserting the viewer. The camera is towed along by McCauley's momentum as he hurries towards the very fate he forecasted for himself earlier in the film.]]></text></statement><statement id="64"><name><![CDATA[a view like this]]></name><text><![CDATA[Early in <i>The Limey</i>, Wilson crashes a party at the home of famed record producer Terry Valentine. Valentine resides in a gorgeous contemporary California house, perched on the side of the Hollywood Hills. The most distinguishing feature of this hillside house is a pool and balcony which aggressively juts out from the terrain providing a viewing platform that seems to defy gravity and float in space. While gazing towards the horizon, Wilson wonders aloud exactly what he is standing on, his companion Ed answers "trust" and then glibly adds that "you could see the sea out there, if you could see it.."

This short exchange captures the essence of the tension between architecture and landscape in Los Angeles. The hillside house, an idealized "California style" home, exists in direct opposition to the topography and the horizontal logic of the built environment. It represents not only refuge and shelter but suggests that, perhaps, nature (and even physics) can be overcome. Beyond this, the hillside house offers the rarest of commodities in Los Angeles, a view - albeit one tempered by the haze and texture of the Greater Los Angeles skyline.]]></text></statement><statement_tocluster id="10"><statement_id>11</statement_id><cluster_id>7</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="16"><statement_id>7</statement_id><cluster_id>1</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="27"><statement_id>39</statement_id><cluster_id>10</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="41"><statement_id>23</statement_id><cluster_id>31</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="17"><statement_id>33</statement_id><cluster_id>3</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="9"><statement_id>12</statement_id><cluster_id>9</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="18"><statement_id>34</statement_id><cluster_id>5</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="14"><statement_id>25</statement_id><cluster_id>12</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="15"><statement_id>32</statement_id><cluster_id>2</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="19"><statement_id>35</statement_id><cluster_id>6</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="20"><statement_id>36</statement_id><cluster_id>8</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="43"><statement_id>24</statement_id><cluster_id>34</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="22"><statement_id>37</statement_id><cluster_id>13</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="23"><statement_id>38</statement_id><cluster_id>15</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="28"><statement_id>40</statement_id><cluster_id>4</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="26"><statement_id>41</statement_id><cluster_id>11</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="29"><statement_id>42</statement_id><cluster_id>14</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="30"><statement_id>43</statement_id><cluster_id>16</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="31"><statement_id>44</statement_id><cluster_id>17</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="32"><statement_id>45</statement_id><cluster_id>18</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="33"><statement_id>46</statement_id><cluster_id>19</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="34"><statement_id>47</statement_id><cluster_id>20</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="35"><statement_id>48</statement_id><cluster_id>23</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="36"><statement_id>49</statement_id><cluster_id>26</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="37"><statement_id>50</statement_id><cluster_id>27</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="38"><statement_id>51</statement_id><cluster_id>28</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="39"><statement_id>53</statement_id><cluster_id>24</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="40"><statement_id>13</statement_id><cluster_id>25</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="42"><statement_id>19</statement_id><cluster_id>21</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="50"><statement_id>22</statement_id><cluster_id>39</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="46"><statement_id>56</statement_id><cluster_id>33</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="47"><statement_id>21</statement_id><cluster_id>22</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="48"><statement_id>58</statement_id><cluster_id>37</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="49"><statement_id>57</statement_id><cluster_id>36</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="51"><statement_id>62</statement_id><cluster_id>32</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="52"><statement_id>63</statement_id><cluster_id>38</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><statement_tocluster id="53"><statement_id>64</statement_id><cluster_id>40</cluster_id></statement_tocluster><theme id="4"><name><![CDATA[disassembly]]></name><description><![CDATA[Architecture is generally considered an "additive" discipline, one in which edifices are constructed piece by piece, component by component, and are eventually recognizable as a unified object. This is most certainly the case in film. Los Angeles has defined itself as a particularly prolific creative metropolis and contributed much to architectural and cinematic aesthetics. In tracking both of these mediums across the 20th century it is interesting to note a change of tone in a significant portion of work once the swan song of Modernism had faded. 

Los Angeles was a breeding ground for utopian visions of film and architecture at the beginning of the 20th century and the city served as a testbed for idealized homes (the architecture of Schindler, Neutra, etc.) at the same time the nascent motion picture industry struggled to define its own language. By mid-century these modes of production and related aesthetics were well established and universally recognized, and Los Angeles was not just a place but a style. By the 1970s both a cynicism and an adoration of the complexities of contemporary life began to creep into narrative film and architecture. Instead of "idealized" narratives and dwellings, work began to emerge that problematized typologies, reveled in contradiction and often laid bare the creative process itself. Through criss-crossing narratives and the deconstructed house, Los Angeles has served as a key site for experimentation and new thinking on cinematic and architectural space.]]></description></theme><theme id="5"><name><![CDATA[defense]]></name><description><![CDATA[In <i>City of Quartz</i>, Mike Davis outlined the fortification of downtown and suburban Los Angeles in great detail. With this polemic, Davis identified a distinctly "Angeleno" protectionist mentality that drives both the division and control of space in the city. While by no means an aesthetic treatise, he also produced a poignant reading of the earlier work of Frank Gehry, with a particular focus on the architect's celebration of urban texture and the rough-and-tumble materiality of the street. If Gehry serves as an entry point into the contemporary era of locked-down Southern California spatiality, what role can we surmise that architecture plays in providing domestic security? More importantly, what is the common ground between the Modernist villa and the postmodern safe house?

The theme of fortification provides us with a new lens through which to examine domestic architecture in Los Angeles. No longer strictly an idealized dwelling, the contemporary home can be interpreted as a street smart, contextually savvy structure that simultaneously emerges from, and walls off, the surrounding cityscape. This act of using architecture to shield oneself from the world is not only about property lines and tectonics, but speaks to the inherent asocial nature of demarcating living space through the construction of shelter.]]></description></theme><theme id="6"><name><![CDATA[violence]]></name><description><![CDATA[Thirty years ago, Bernard Tschumi quipped that to appreciate architecture, you may even need to commit murder. With this observation he suggested that the character of space can be defined by violence and vice versa. The balance of power in interpersonal relationships plays out across domestic space. When things go awry, encounters, arguments and altercations occur within or on the threshold of the shelters in which we reside. A home that witnesses a brutal act is forever transformed and stigmatized, its memory imprinted by the undesirable sequence of events.

While the houses being surveyed in this discussion have not been marked with a scarlet letter, they are sites of resistance against banality. That said, one should be careful to not confuse non-standard geometries and material palettes with aggression. It is the dynamic nature of these structures that suggest that, perhaps, wild and unconventional events may indeed take place within their walls. Conversely, as outright fiction, cinema provides us with an ideal laboratory for exploring a range of dysfunctional narratives and their architectural repercussions. A tragic lovers' quarrel, a home invasion, construction site mayhem and a blazing inferno are all examples of the types of narrative events that could occur in domestic space.]]></description></theme><theme id="7"><name><![CDATA[reflexivity]]></name><description><![CDATA[Los Angeles is a city whose primary cultural export is fiction. The city sits on an imagined epicenter of pop culture and often serves as a backdrop or stand-in for sites and cities the world over. These circumstances have created a contradictory understanding of Los Angeles as a city that is both everywhere and nowhere. Thom Anderson's 2003 documentary <i>Los Angeles Plays Itself</i> does an excellent job of cataloging the numerous instances in which the city is used as surrogate for alternate urban locations. This notion of "pervasive fiction" extends into the realm of design, as Los Angeles is recognized as a significant architectural hub, a city whose design vanguard is closely scrutinized by the global design community. The city has fostered an engaging climate of architectural innovation with an ingenuity and audacity that is perhaps only rivaled by the special effects and production design specialists operating in the film industry. The similarities between filmic and architectural production run deeper than this as many of the same manufacturing and prototyping techniques and digital modes of representation are engaged equally at the forefront of each discipline. 

This discussion does not stop at acknowledging the manner in which Los Angeles sits at the forefront of two creative disciplines. What is of interest to us, what emerges from this culture of advanced production and aesthetics is work that interrogates the creative process itself. In essence, the legacy of cinematic and architectural production in Los Angeles has inspired films about film and architecture about architecture. One only need look as far as the self-referential nature of <i>Sunset Boulevard</i> and <i>The Player</i> to see how these films move beyond "straight" narrative to address the process and economics of commercial cinema. In turn, dynamic domestic projects such as The Gehry House and The Sixth Street House are platforms for engaging materiality, typology and even the archaeological possibilities offered by architecture.]]></description></theme><theme id="8"><name><![CDATA[views / voyeurism]]></name><description><![CDATA[Los Angeles is a city that thrives on watching and being watched. Stage sets, film shoots, surveillance culture and product and lifestyle placements abound in this economy of attention. It is quite clear that if you peel back this veneer of mass media, there is a living, breathing city underneath but why do so? How many other cities in the world have been so thoroughly filmed, photographed and integrated into public fiction? Los Angeles is exceedingly comfortable in its subjectivity and completely at ease in front of the camera. How does the framed view and perspective inform the way that we can see and represent the city? More directly, how have these conditions informed filmic and architectural production?]]></description></theme><theme id="9"><name><![CDATA[landscape]]></name><description><![CDATA[On first glance, Los Angeles appears to have been sited on idyllic terrain. The tropical foliage, the temperate climate and the diverse range of nearby ecosystems suggest a perfect location for a city. This is not the case as the city's entire existence is contingent on the Los Angeles Aqueduct which reroutes much needed water from the Owens Valley. The California Water Wars were the basis for Roman Polanski's 1974 film <i>Chinatown</i>, which reconstructed these events as fiction. The truth is, the myth of a "utopian" Los Angeles, a <i>terra nova</i> of the west, is nothing more than wishful thinking. The aforementioned water wars, air pollution, urban sprawl and bushfires all foreground the tenuous relationship between Los Angeles and its expansive horizontal environs. Even the ground itself exists in a state of tension, with mudslides and the occasional earthquake laying waste to swaths of the built environment. The sardonically titled 2002 Museum of Contemporary Art (MoCA) show <i>What's Shakin': New Architecture in LA</i>  even went so far as to lightheartedly suggest a connection between plate tectonics and architectural aesthetics.

This friction between California dreaming and disaster urbanism has informed much of the architectural legacy of Los Angeles. The city has nurtured a number of distinct housing typologies from the hillside villa to the beach house to the artist's bunker. All of these residential prototypes are characterized by a nuanced attitude towards urban fabric, forces of nature and the horizontality of the landscape.]]></description></theme><theme id="10"><name><![CDATA[domesticity]]></name><description><![CDATA[Domesticity can be broadly defined as matters pertaining to household affairs and relations. The term entails the type of ambient intimacy that arises from people living life in close proximity. It could be considered an unspoken social contract that regulates the pace and color of everyday life, or as a tangible atmosphere that exists between people and in space. To put it in tectonic terms, domesticity is the foundation that undergirds the daily rhythm of couples, families and individuals as they go about their lives and make their way in the world.]]></description></theme><theme id="11"><name><![CDATA[nostalgia]]></name><description><![CDATA[If there is a genealogy of cities, Los Angeles has familial ties to both Venice and Detroit. Consider highway infrastructure in relation to the canals of Venice, and virtuality in lieu of Detroit's desolation, and you can clearly see Los Angeles' connection to these sibling cities. The cliched surface reading of the city often speaks of exoticism and glamor, but peel back this veneer and it is quite possible to become overwhelmed by an inexplicable sense of absence.  This is not to say there is nobody there, as the city is home to some 15 million people, rather, that there is something missing. This emotional vacuum exists despite the everyday life of the city, the fictional overlay that is mass-marketed to the rest of the world and in spite of the contentious civic history of the city. When thinking about Los Angeles one tends to do so in the past tense, always trying to recall what is now missing.]]></description></theme><theme_toannotation id="51"><theme_id>8</theme_id><annotation_id>48</annotation_id></theme_toannotation><theme_toannotation id="50"><theme_id>4</theme_id><annotation_id>24</annotation_id></theme_toannotation><theme_toannotation id="3"><theme_id>5</theme_id><annotation_id>2</annotation_id></theme_toannotation><theme_toannotation id="4"><theme_id>10</theme_id><annotation_id>2</annotation_id></theme_toannotation><theme_toannotation id="5"><theme_id>8</theme_id><annotation_id>3</annotation_id></theme_toannotation><theme_toannotation id="77"><theme_id>9</theme_id><annotation_id>59</annotation_id></theme_toannotation><theme_toannotation id="7"><theme_id>7</theme_id><annotation_id>6</annotation_id></theme_toannotation><theme_toannotation id="8"><theme_id>11</theme_id><annotation_id>11</annotation_id></theme_toannotation><theme_toannotation 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