A Field Journal
Posted on February 2, 2011 | posted by:
Hunts Point: A Field Journal, Kiersten Nash
…The sudden change of ambiance in a street within the space of a few meters; the evident division of a city into zones of distinct psychic atmospheres; the path of least resistance that is automatically followed in aimless strolls (and which has no relation to the physical contour of the terrain); the appealing or repelling character of certain places — these phenomena all seem to be neglected. In any case they are never envisaged as depending on causes that can be uncovered by careful analysis and turned to account.
Guy Debord, Introduction to a Critique of Urban Geography
As instructed by Debord, I relinquished responsibility and devoted the entire afternoon to embracing whatever Hunts Point cared to share. I was equipped with a camera, a notebook, the obligatory sharpie, and a bag. From Harlem, I headed north on the 6.
163rd st/Hunts Point Ave.
I had no idea what to expect upon my arrival. Worst fear? A vacant street. The reality? A bustling intersection. Ok, clearly my expectations needed to be adjusted. I headed north passing a bodega and restaurant. Followed by another restaurant. And a restaurant. A cell phone retailer. Another bodega. Dollar Store. Restaurant. Restaurant. Restaurant. And then, I was confronted with a wall of people-20 individuals huddled at the corner of Faile and Broadway. Heads bowed, they mourned the portrait of a man painted in black and white toner, enshrined in a cardboard box with tulips and candles. An uninvited guest, I paused momentarily to pay respect…and then carried on.
A few steps down the road, the gates doors of Fan Fare extended an automated invitation to enter. As customary, I picked up the weekly circular. Unimpressed-this week’s specials did little to live up to their name. Actually prices were comparable to those offered at my neighborhood market. But it seemed like good documentation nonetheless, so I shoved the newsprint into my bag and wandered through the aisles.
The selection of food was decent. And yes, there was produce – a considerable amount actually. Sale items closer to eye level or positioned on the end caps. Signage was adequate. It was 3pm and there are several shoppers. Mostly women with kiddos that looked like they had just come from elementary school.
“…but Mom.”
“I said no.”
“But why?”
“It’s 98 cents, that’s why.”
My heart sank.
Further down the block I stumbled upon the source of all the youngings scattered about the streets – Bronx PS 75. Parked out front was a hot dog stand where several parents convened. I continued walk.
And then I noticed the sidewalks. Litter. Everywhere. But not just a random assortment of trash, there was actually a pattern. Ruffles, doritos, tositos, cheetos, puffed corn, popped corn.
Sustenance?
No. But I had a means of documenting my journey. And documentation mounted quickly. At least every tenth step presented another opportunity for mining data. More chips. Doritos. The occasional cookie. A granola bar. One empty cigarette pack. All gleaned from the sidewalks of Hunts Point.