#sennett

[noosphe-re]

Craftsmen take pride most in skills that mature. This is why simple imitation is not a sustaining satisfaction; the skill has to evolve. The slowness of craft time serves as a source of satisfaction; practice beds in, making the skill one's own. Slow craft time also enables the work of reflection and imagination–which the push for quick results cannot. Mature means long; one takes lasting ownership of the skill.

Richard Sennett, The Craftsman

[bloopstill]

Sennet quienes son tus amigos?

✧⁠◝~°Quienes son los amigos de Sennett?°~◜⁠✧

Extra/Bonus:

Aquí una versión alterna dónde salen las personitas que menciona Sennett, está iba a ser como la original pero no me terminó de convencer mucho aún así no la quise desechar

Translation:

Question: Sennett, who are your friends?

Answer:

Sennett: well... I have my friend, Steff and then there are my dads and brother but I'm not sure if they count.

Sennett: Something that I am sure is that-

Sennett: That son of a b#tch is not my friend!

Extra/Bonus but si just the text:

Here is an alternate version where of the people mentioned by Sennett, this was going to be like the original but I was not very convinced even so I did not want to discard it

[ma1up891186]

STUDIO W2 "THE ONE AND ONLY VILLAIN"

Practice Exploration of The Open City by Richard Sennett

The head of Corbusier sits on the body of Rishi Sunak, the wealthiest man in charge of the UK as of today (2023). Bills have been passed in government which overtly only benefit the Bourgeoisie and the corporations (e.g. his overt lies about Net Zero.) at the cost of the people and the environment. A real world example of the disconnect between Democracy/Government & the people. The Public realm & Natural world is at threat due to capitalist greed.

Sennett talked about the disconnect between the people and democracy, speaking about democracy not just as a place, but also as a concept lost in time through over determination.

The buildings in the background are hailed by modern architectural enthusiasts as feats of architectural design + engineering, but Sennett posits that they are fundamentally separate from the 'street', and therefore the 'people' (see concept: urban canyon). Of course, he talks about how some buildings, when they are not porous as historic ones are, become 'self referential objects X', like St Pauls Cathedral, but the stimulation of urban growth around this building is a result of function, not just as a result of good design. This can also be called the Autopoiesis of Architecture.

Focal Point of the text:

Making the case for 'the open city', setting the architectural & socio-economic context of existing cities (New York, London etc.)

Key Ideas:

+ economics (Keynesian - demand drives supply.)

Over-determination

Over specification of form and function

State socialism + democracy as a concept. Democracy (Politicians) has been removed from its original function. How can we create spaces with the same sense of relatedness among strangers? How can we open up spaces?

"process of growth as a continual struggle between equilibrium and disequilibrium; an environment rigid in form, static in programme, is doomed in time."

He infers that what we have forced onto the city is unnatural, creating the symptom that is the Brittle City, by comparing cities to Darwin's evolution.

Primary themes wanted to express in artefact:

The socio-economic role of urban design in architecture: idealism versus historic reality

Concepts like:

CIAM movement of Le Corbusier, affectionately dubbed “the one and only Villain.” Ancient Polis (Democracy) 'Light Architecture' removed from the person Keynesian economics Garden cities as the ideal form Self referential objects Louis Sullivan Norman Foster Mies Van Der Rohe (Seagram Building) The Shard Dead spaces Rigid fixed

Specific medium selected:

//Collage Since there is a lot of ideas floating about, it was the best way to translate the different elements without putting it in a spatial capacity.

Quotes from the text:

//Collage

Quotes Direct from the text:

"Corbusier's intended destruction of vibrant street life was realised in suburban growth for the middle class"

"Frozen the city in time"

"over determination"

"Over specification of form and function."

"Dystopia became reality in various ways."

"Modern Urban environments decay much more quickly than urban fabric inherited from the past."

"The brittle city is a symptom"

"State socialism"

"The closed city betrays the twentieth-century beurocrat's horror of disorder."

"If density and diversity give life, the life they breed is disorderly... the arts result from overcrowding"

"People live into these places, like nesting, time breeds attachment into place."

Three systematic elements of an open city:

Passage territories

Incomplete form

Development narratives

Self referential objects

Glass walls versus porous stone ones.

Evolution (Darwin) in reference to cities.

[funeral]

As a character disorder, narcissism is the very opposite of strong self-love. Self-absorption does not produce gratification, it produces injury to the self; erasing the line between self and other means that nothing new, nothing “other,” ever enters the self; it is devoured and transformed until one thinks one can see oneself in the other—and then it becomes meaningless. This is why the clinical profile of narcissism is not of a state of activity, but of a state of being. There are erased the demarcations, limits, and forms of time as well as relationship. The narcissist is not hungry for experiences, he is hungry for Experience. Looking always for an expression or reflection of himself in Experience, he devalues each particular interaction or scene, because it is never enough to encompass who he is.

Richard Sennett, The Fall of Public Man

[pureanonofficial]

But I can feel my heartbeat Beat a little stronger And I can swiftly shed the strain of the years The very moment her first footstep appears The very moment I see Mabel

MACK & MABEL | ENCORES! (2020)

[thepopculturearchivist]

MOVING PICTURE WORLD, January 10, 1925

[shawn-meets-world]

[fizziedoodle]

My Girl

directed by Howard Zieff

starring Anna Chlumsky, Dan Aykroyd, Macaulay Culkin, & Jamie Lee Curtis

[thesesixseeds]

Marion McDonald (1904-1956) photographed on a beach holding a skull in 1925

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @iobsessoverfictionalmen, @illiana-mystery, @lulusplaycorner, @psychokinetic-ectoplasm, @coffee-n-bagels-comic-universe

warnings: smut, thigh riding, swearing

Mack slid his suspenders back on after discarding his shirt. I looked up at him from the couch, marking my place in my script as he walked over. Mack leaned over the back of the couch to kiss me as I put the script on the table next to me.

“hey.” I breathed out as he broke away, walking around the couch and picking up my legs to sit down next to me. He put my legs back down over his as his head fell back against the couch. “Long day?”

“Long isn’t the word for it.” Mack breathed out. “First it rained most of the day.” I nodded, scooting closer to him to rub his shoulder. “Rollie ran out of film too. Which sent chaplin into a riot. He threw paint.” Mack groaned as I worked on a knot in his arm.

“at you?” I asked, glancing back at the shirt that was laying on the floor in the bathroom.

“close to me. Destroyed the set. I just so happened to be standing next to the target.” Mack closed his eyes as I leaned forward to hug him. “That shirt is ruined by the way. There is no saving it.” I kissed his shoulder and Mack squeezed my leg.

“and you can’t fire him?” I asked, looking up at him. Mack shook his head.

“no. Not if I want to keep making money.” Mack sighed. I leaned closer and cupped his cheeks. I drew him into a kiss. Mack hummed against my lips as his hands made their way to my hips. He gently kneaded the flesh under my shirt before pulling me into his lap. "Not if I want to keep you living comfortably." I hummed as he rubbed my thighs.

"I was happy in the tiny apartment on 5th avenue." I breathed out as Mack kissed along my neck. He chuckled as I carded my fingers through his hair. “I didn’t need all this. You wanted to come out here and build this. I just supported you.” Mack hummed as he pulled back, cupping my cheek and rubbing his thumb close to my eye.

“supported me in every way possible.” He breathed out. “I’ve never really thanked you for that.” I opened my mouth to respond as Mack made me stand up. He slowly undressed me, kissing every new piece of skin that was uncovered. I ran my fingers through his hair as he got down on his knees, lips against my stomach. He propped his chin there and gazed up at me. His mismatched eyes shone with the love and admiration he held for me. I smiled softly at him as he wrapped his arms around my thighs. “I’m so thankful for everything. All of it. Following me out here, putting up with the strange hours, the fits, the anxiety, the stress, the chaos…” Mack kissed my stomach again. “For loving me.” I leaned down and kissed Mack’s forehead.

“Mack…” I breathed out as he stood up, my hands sliding down to toy with his suspenders. “You don’t have to thank me for that.” He cupped my cheeks as he kissed me softly. “My heart is mine to give. And I want you to have it.” Mack flushed as he pulled me back with him as he sat back down on the couch. He pulled me over his thigh, hands palming at my hips.

“and you have me, mind body and soul.” Mack whispered as he kissed me again. “My heart was yours from the beginning. Even if you stole it.” I giggled into the kiss as Mack pressed me down on his thigh.

“Mack…” I breathed out, hands settling on his shoulders and toying with the suspenders. “You’re…Ah!” I gasped as he moved my hips, the coarse fabric of his pants rubbing against me. I bit my lip, eyes falling closed as the pleasure started to build.

“I’m what?” Mack asked, kissing along my chest as I arched into him.

“you’re incorrigible.” I breathed out, mouth falling open in a moan. “Oh fuck.” I whimpered as his pants caught against me. “Mack.” He smiled against my sternum as he moved his hands to my ass, kneading the flesh as I continued to move my hips. I tugged on his suspenders, moaning again as Mack moved to mouth at my neck. I let go of one suspender to tangle my fingers in his chest hair. Mack hummed as I pressed my palm against his chest, feeling his heart beating underneath the skin.

“(Y/N). My darling. My sweetheart. My love.” Mack breathed out as he pulled back to look at me. I panted as we locked eyes.

“Mack…” I breathed out, hips stuttering as Mack leaned forward to lick the bead of sweat that had begun to roll down my neck. “Oh fuck. Mack. Didn’t know you could…”

“there’s a few things you don’t know about me.” He said, leaning up to kiss me with a wink. “Come on darling. Give in to me. Cum.” I moaned as I tugged on the suspender again. I pressed my hand against his chest, nearly pushing him away before reaching for the other suspender and pulling him into a kiss.

“Mack.” I breathed out as my hips stuttered against his thigh. “Mack. Oh god. Mack.” I panted. Mack smirked at me as he watched me come apart. “I love you. Fuck. I love you.” Mack let out a slow breath as I collapsed against him. “Mack…” he pressed a kiss to my neck and the side of my head as I fought for breath.

“I know.” He breathed out, hands rubbing over my back and sides as he waited for me to come down. “I know sweetheart.” I pressed a kiss to his shoulder as I finally composed myself enough to pull back.

“god Mack.” I breathed out before cupping his cheeks and kissing him. Mack gathered me in his arms and picked me up. “What are you doing?” I asked, curling against him as he started walking in the direction of the bathroom.

“drawing us a bath. And then we’re going to go to bed.” Mack said, kissing my head. I sighed as I laid against him, looking forward to what he had in mind.

[iexpectpastries]

[spockeye-fierce]

Mack Sennett Bathing Beauty Marion McDonald (1904-1956) ♥️

“Enacting a scene from Hamlet" on a California beach while photographed in 1926 by George Cannons.

[ma1up891186]

THE CLOSED CITY 02 OF 02

Sennett identifies three underlying motives for the emerge of Closed Cities:

Policy makers & urban designers aim to for control and order which results in the following: // Additivity "The parts always add up to a clear sum" // Homogeneity "the parts are directly interchangeable" // Repetition // Over-determination of the city's visual forms This results in hegemonic and internally closed buildings and city shapes.

Ruled by the obsession with equilibrium. Everything must be balanced, regular, and static. see: Palmanova (Italy), the ideals of the Garden city movement, and the utopian city of Brasilia.

The system is closed in time, providing a certain recognisability and security. see: Florida community masterplan.

Designed on the principles of New Urbanism, Sennett summarises the closed city concept as "Ideally, every part of the system has a place in an overall design; the consequence of that ideal is to reject, to vomit out, experiences which stick out because they are contestatory or disorienting; things that 'don't fit' are diminished in value. The emphasis on integration puts an obvious bar on experiment."

[funeral]

Some sense of what the new concern with narcissism is about can be gained by going back to the ancient myth upon which it is based. Narcissus kneels over a pool of water, enraptured by his own beauty reflected on the surface. People call to him to be careful, but he pays no heed to anything or anyone else. One day he bends over to caress this image, falls, and drowns. The sense of the myth is something other than the evils of self-love. It is the danger of projection, of a reaction to the world as though reality could be comprehended through images of self. The myth of Narcissus has a double meaning: his self-absorption prevents knowledge about what he is and what he is not; this absorption also destroys the person who is so engaged. Narcissus, in seeing himself mirrored on the water’s surface, forgets that the water is other and outside himself and thus becomes blind to its dangers.

Richard Sennett, The Fall of Public Man

[creepynostalgy]

The Candy Snatchers (1973)

[novelties-and-notions]

From The Complete Works of Piers Q MacBean, volume 8, Despatches From a Dark Cupboard (or Closet)

I wonder whether the memories that I find in this dark cupboard (or closet) were left here and forgotten, like old rugs and broken ironing boards. Rummaging among them, I recall that I was at a dinner in honour of Mack Sennett, when a slightly built short man slipped into the seat next to me. In his immaculately cut evening clothes he looked quite dashing. His face was vaguely exotic, with full lips, a nose that seemed a little bit too big and intense blue eyes. His unlined face looked young, but his wavy hair, which was parted neatly in the middle, was white. He gave a friendly smile as he took his seat, revealing neat white teeth.

There was something familiar in that smile, and the way he moved as he sat down. I glanced surreptitiously at the place card in front of him. Was it…? "Are you really Charlie Chaplin?" I blurted out. He smiled once more, and for the first time I heard him speak in his own voice. "People are always asking me that." He sounded like a working class boy from South London, whose elocution lessons hadn't quite taken. The affected upper-class accent sounded incongruously pompous coming from such a man. This unexpected impression was confirmed as he continued "Yes, I am Charles Chaplin." He held out his hand, which I shook timidly.

"Charles?" I could not help asking. "But surely everybody…"

He leant back in his chair, causing it to overbalance so that he tumbled gracefully backwards to the floor, then rose and doffed an imaginary hat (I could almost see it) to the nearby guests.

Resuming his seat as if nothing had happened, he leant closer to me and, in a quiet voice, said "I believe, in time it may be Sir Charles Spencer Chaplin. Even… Lord Chaplin of Walworth."

He stiffened and stared fixedly at a bread roll on a plate in the middle of the table. Suddenly, he picked up his fork, his left hand darted out and he stabbed the roll. Retrieving it with a swift motion, he began to wave his haul around in a dainty dance, while his eyebrows worked up and down in time, and his eyes gleamed with mischief.

"You understand that Charles Chaplin is first and foremost a musician, a composer," he said, as he put down the bread. "I have begun by composing scores for Charlie's feature films, but that will only be the start. Soon, I intend to show my true talent. There will be symphonies and tone poems, also a concerto for violin. I will be the soloist in the first performance, of course. I must book Carnegie Hall. Mark my words, in a few years, people will have forgotten about Charlie Chaplin the clown, but the music of Charles Chaplin will live forever…" His voice faded and he picked up an imaginary violin and settled it under his chin. Then he raised his eyes to heaven and began to ply an imaginary bow, while his face showed a rapid succession of exaggerated expressions indicating the ecstatic effect of his music.

At a signal from the podium, the little man abruptly terminated his recital. "Time for me to go and give my speech," he said, as he rose. "Glad to have met you. Do leave me your autograph," with which he deposited a small red book on the table and made his way to the end of the long table, kicked his right foot out as he turned sharply left and waddled to the front of the room.

At that point, I thought it best to slip away.