(All photos by Allen Quiles, “Changes. Something old something new.”)
Fast links to my Allen Quiles Photo Review Series:
The Streets of Mosholu
So I have told you about the charming character of Allen Quiles. You have also seen a few photos from Allen Quiles, and hopefully I have shown you how his photographs are tied to Mosholu. But what is the neighborhood of Mosholu?
Mosholu is a display of unresolved histories, and the mush of history does not come in a simple pattern convenient for the brain to discern. It is a juggle of new and old, of the groomed and the deteriorating, of competing property ownership and heritage ownership.
The most theatrical feature of this mush of history appears in the mix of architectural styles of major landmarks. As previously mentioned, the eclectic architecture is hastily superimposed on the pre-civil war architectures, and the newly raised international style stood amidst a sea of structures of a different era. And, somewhere in between them, stood the Art Deco style that migrated from Manhattan to the Bronx in the 1930s as the white collar worker sought for a combination of space and fashion outside of Manhattan.
But the chaos of history does not stop at a joggling of architectural styles whose clash originated in the late 19th century when the Eclectic style started to expand from Manhattan to the Bronx. Besides the unresolved historical conflict that appears on the standing of big things, buildings, streets, landmarks etc. there is also a much present tension that appears on newer and smaller things, window bars, surveillance cameras, building upkeep etc.
(“Spot Lights”)
When the history that was the great depression of the 1930s expelled the white collar workers from Manhattan and locked the bigger things into a stalemate of conflicting architectures, the present conflicts bleed into the smaller things. The smaller things do not assume the theatrical effect of conflicting landscapes, but spike from the micro-aggression that appears in day to day life when one walks on the street. The windows of the Bavarian townhouses are barred with anti-burglary devices. Turning around a corner, you will find a wall that is populated with an overgrowth of surveillance cameras pointing towards the pedestrian walk.
Besides the lack of trust among the community of Mosholu that transpired on the home security devices, there is also a confusing reversal of time and age in terms of building upkeep. While the townhouses are consistently well groomed and cleaned, the newer eclectic buildings are often draped with rusted water stains, stained windows, and dusty walls. While upkeeping one’s building with care is nothing to be shunned upon, the contrast between care and deterioration, between townhouse and the low-riser eclectic style, expresses the discrepancy between the lasting aspiration of Mosholu to be an suburban haven, and the reality of Mosholu where various classes and culture coexists in a compressed capsule of another time.
Another discernible pattern when walking around Mosholu seems to be the separation of people. Crossing from street to street, the skin color changes distinctively from white to a mix of brown and black. But even the conspicuous separation of people does not offer a sufficient narrative to the confusion that is the streets of Mosholu. When Allen took me through the Bavarian section of the neighborhood, he said to me with a trace of complaint: “here is where the white people lived, people from Manhattan.” But a minute later, he added a note: “they are not bad people. They are mostly doctors and nurses who really just wanted to help others.” And it is true. The Montefiore Hospital has a long standing reputation of providing world class health care services to everyone regardless of economic and social standing. The medical community of Montefiore Hospital are the people who live the institutional commitment of saving lives.
While the conspicuous segregation of people is sad, it does not mean that the distrust between people is not well warranted. The long standing crime issue is not just a statistic on paper. It shows in the alerting sensitivity of the resident and their casual acclimation to the possibility of violence. When Allen and I were walking from Bainbridge Ave to Williamsbridge Park, Allen said to me in a discrete but casual manner: “you gotta watch out when two of them check you like that. Sometimes they will catch up with you with their scooters and snatch your bag,” alluding to two youngsters who loiter around a blue scooter. As we were entering Williamsbridge Park through its arched tunnel, Allen showed me his pen. The pen looked very sturdy, much too sturdy for writing, sturdily enough to poke through papers and books. Allen said to me, “I carry this pen with me all the time. You can’t arrest me for it because it's a pen. But it can come in handy from time to time,” demonstrating its sharp butt that is designed as a windshield shatterer.
The stalemate of architecture marks the various changing hands of history; there were people who once lived here and erected a building, but somehow their buildings were abruptly replaced by something else that erased the trace of their once being here. The present distrust among the community suggests the possible reclamation/continuation of rupture; who knows how much/little it will take to transform the current skirmishing over small things into something bigger? “Gentrification” has been the big word in the narrative of the Bronx. But before we get into who is “gentrifying” who, there is a legitimate fear that goes beyond the immediate suffering of ruptured lives: living in the urban fusion of the Bronx means someone is waiting to swoop in and replace the material signature of your existence with something that is completely not you.
July 1st, 2023
Kado
Photo by Allen Quiles// @goinpeacecapturetheworld