Modern Flânerie
Flânerie is a mode of experimenting and understanding the modern city. The flâneur is a man of leisure who spends his days “immersed in yet not absorbed by the city” (Ferguson). Flânerie emerged in the 1830’s parallel with the emergence of industrialism and modern cities. The image of the flâneur captures the spirit of 19th century Paris much like the hippies and bohemians of the 1960’s. Slightly subversive in the new industrial market economy, the flâneur produced nothing except occasional writings and observations about the evolution of the city.
“…the primary traits of the flâneur [are], namely, his detachment from the ordinary social world and his association with Paris… the flâneur is solitary by choice… he walks through the city alone and at random.” (Ferguson)
Why is the idea of the flâneur so compelling to artists and writers? Artists and writers are essentially observers who record their thoughts and epiphanies. There is something intriguing about idling about town having all the time in the world to think, reflect, introspect, and analyze. The flâneur has no deadlines, no pressure to please other people, nor ambition to gain acceptance or entry into a community. Every artist and writer has this desire, but their profession limits the freedom of their lifestyle.
Is there a modern day equivalent to the 19th century Parisian flâneur? Flâneur.org lists Walt Whitman and the Beastie Boys as literary flâneurs in its Flanifesto. Contributors to Flâneur.org, an online magazine of NYC observations, include illustrators, writers, photographers, poets, artists, musicians, and even policewomen. However, the true spirit of flânerie cannot be captured by people who have jobs and deadlines. A few of Flâneur.org’s contributors do not have jobs listed. Perhaps these are the real flâneurs of our modern day New York.
However, no one has yet considered the occupation of ‘student’ to be one of flânerie, particularly freshmen studying in or near a city. In the past two semesters, especially the second, I have found myself spending much of my time observing and exploring the city of Berkeley. I am reluctant to admit that I spend more of my time as a flâneur than I do as a student. Here is my short piece about Berkeley, written by a student flâneur.
Berkeley’s sidewalks are wide to accommodate students strolling or rushing to class while the Campanile’s carillon bells chime the hour. At the end of the year, the cement is covered with faded chalk letters spelling out the names and campaign numbers of ambitious young adults vying for student government positions, all of them thinking that they are on their way to careers in law or politics.
The sidewalks line streets that are crowded with apartments and cheap restaurants. Through the small windows covered in open blinds or hung with sheer cloth, a passerby sees rooms with cracks in the ceilings, rooms with checker painted walls, rooms with open fluorescent bulbs, and rooms with white Christmas lights. Students constantly come and go from these old apartment buildings with their slow creaking elevators.
In the evenings when the sun has just dipped below the golden bridge in the distance, the smells of dinner permeate the brisk air of Berkeley. The dining hall’s industrial steel kitchens built to serve thousands of students a day emit smells of grease and fast food. On the next block, flavorful smoke curls continually over the roof of Top Dog, a late night staple for semi-sober students. Across the street, students catch up with friends at the end of the day while the smells of coconut milk, barbeque beef, pasta, and doughnuts settle between the threads of their clothes. The smell of curry lies thick and heavy on Telegraph Avenue between Durant and Channing. Past Channing, Telegraph is a collage of smells; noodle stores, antiseptic seeping through the doors of piercing parlors, the drying grass in the overgrown parking lot, unwashed teenage rebels with their cigarettes and dogs.
Past midnight, the stores and restaurants close, the homeless find shelter for the night, and the cars are taken home to warm garages. A cold wind blows in from the Bay, and the smells are carried into the hills of Berkeley, off the empty silent streets. A streetlamp flickers. At 4 am, trucks break the silence with their whirring brushes sweeping the streets clean of litter. A few windows are still lit by dim lamps as students study behind computer screens, at desks covered with books and energy drinks. When the birds begin chirping an hour before sunrise at six o’clock, another day begins and the Berkeley streets begin to fill again.
“…the primary traits of the flâneur [are], namely, his detachment from the ordinary social world and his association with Paris… the flâneur is solitary by choice… he walks through the city alone and at random.” (Ferguson)
Why is the idea of the flâneur so compelling to artists and writers? Artists and writers are essentially observers who record their thoughts and epiphanies. There is something intriguing about idling about town having all the time in the world to think, reflect, introspect, and analyze. The flâneur has no deadlines, no pressure to please other people, nor ambition to gain acceptance or entry into a community. Every artist and writer has this desire, but their profession limits the freedom of their lifestyle.
Is there a modern day equivalent to the 19th century Parisian flâneur? Flâneur.org lists Walt Whitman and the Beastie Boys as literary flâneurs in its Flanifesto. Contributors to Flâneur.org, an online magazine of NYC observations, include illustrators, writers, photographers, poets, artists, musicians, and even policewomen. However, the true spirit of flânerie cannot be captured by people who have jobs and deadlines. A few of Flâneur.org’s contributors do not have jobs listed. Perhaps these are the real flâneurs of our modern day New York.
However, no one has yet considered the occupation of ‘student’ to be one of flânerie, particularly freshmen studying in or near a city. In the past two semesters, especially the second, I have found myself spending much of my time observing and exploring the city of Berkeley. I am reluctant to admit that I spend more of my time as a flâneur than I do as a student. Here is my short piece about Berkeley, written by a student flâneur.
Berkeley’s sidewalks are wide to accommodate students strolling or rushing to class while the Campanile’s carillon bells chime the hour. At the end of the year, the cement is covered with faded chalk letters spelling out the names and campaign numbers of ambitious young adults vying for student government positions, all of them thinking that they are on their way to careers in law or politics.
The sidewalks line streets that are crowded with apartments and cheap restaurants. Through the small windows covered in open blinds or hung with sheer cloth, a passerby sees rooms with cracks in the ceilings, rooms with checker painted walls, rooms with open fluorescent bulbs, and rooms with white Christmas lights. Students constantly come and go from these old apartment buildings with their slow creaking elevators.
In the evenings when the sun has just dipped below the golden bridge in the distance, the smells of dinner permeate the brisk air of Berkeley. The dining hall’s industrial steel kitchens built to serve thousands of students a day emit smells of grease and fast food. On the next block, flavorful smoke curls continually over the roof of Top Dog, a late night staple for semi-sober students. Across the street, students catch up with friends at the end of the day while the smells of coconut milk, barbeque beef, pasta, and doughnuts settle between the threads of their clothes. The smell of curry lies thick and heavy on Telegraph Avenue between Durant and Channing. Past Channing, Telegraph is a collage of smells; noodle stores, antiseptic seeping through the doors of piercing parlors, the drying grass in the overgrown parking lot, unwashed teenage rebels with their cigarettes and dogs.
Past midnight, the stores and restaurants close, the homeless find shelter for the night, and the cars are taken home to warm garages. A cold wind blows in from the Bay, and the smells are carried into the hills of Berkeley, off the empty silent streets. A streetlamp flickers. At 4 am, trucks break the silence with their whirring brushes sweeping the streets clean of litter. A few windows are still lit by dim lamps as students study behind computer screens, at desks covered with books and energy drinks. When the birds begin chirping an hour before sunrise at six o’clock, another day begins and the Berkeley streets begin to fill again.
- Cecelia Lau
May 2006
May 2006
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