Around 10AM on Saturday morning, my friend and I rise from our chairs in the bustling Cafe Bonjour near Boston’s Haymarket neighborhood and wander into the brisk December air. I note the sad state of my dry, crackled knuckles clasped around a to-go coffee cup, but my preoccupation with my drab winter appearance is quickly overtaken by the need to focus on my hectic surroundings. Cars whiz down the street before us, their undersides caked with salt from the recent snowfall, and passerby rush past with a air of intensity and purpose that must only be rivaled by New Yorkers. We cross Tremont street in a jaywalking frenzy; I stumble to keep up with my much taller companion. We cross into the Boston Common, and the concrete softens to a carefully-curated landscape of grass, shrubs, and tall trees. Finally, I can pause to take a breath.
I’ve been thinking quite a bit about city squares recently—their form, their function, and their meaning to both the individual and the collective. It’s due in no small part to the book I recently checked out from the Cambridge Public Library—Catie Marron’s City Squares: Eighteen Writers on the Spirit and Significance of Squares Around the World. As I work my way through this essay collection, wherein writers revel in the social, cultural, and political power of these spaces within cities dear to them, I am becoming more and more convinced that urbanity without a physical niche carved into it for reflection, relaxation, and rallying is little more than an amalgam of different forms of chaos and powerlessness. Pauses and gaps of all kinds are essential to our emotional wellbeing; city architecture is no different. We need a city square just as we need a stretch or brief walk in the midst of a workday. We need a city square just as we need a rest after a period of physical exertion or a warm shot of espresso on a blurry morning.
In his introduction to Part I of City Squares, which focuses on the square as an embodiment of cultural values, Michael Kimmelman writes, “the physical virtue of occupying a square is rarely about any one building; its beauty derives from the nature of the void between buildings: the harmony of vertical and horizontal elements, architecture with open space, ground and sky, human scale.” This observation resonates with me as I wander through the Common, which is framed on all sides by dense city spaces ranging from Chinatown’s dumpling restaurants to the elegant, cobblestoned Beacon Hill neighborhood. By themselves, each of these urban spaces offers up their own eclectic energy and whimsical charm, but with the Common in the midst of them, they harmonize and take on a purpose not just as gathering places or hubs of activity, but as a powerful backdrop for the city’s most prominent meeting space. Just as the Common is little without the vibrant city surrounding it, the city is not fully itself without the Common to centralize and stabilize it.
For all the action and liveliness that a city offers, a city square can energize a person through movement of a different kind. As my friend and I crisscross the Common, I find that my thoughts come more easily and our dialogue runs more smoothly. We are meandering contentedly along paths neatly carved amidst manicured grass, statues, and bridges, even as buildings loom on the square’s outskirts and the din of horns continues in the distance. I find this to be a time when I can focus on my friend’s witty commentary and confidently-expressed ambitions even more intensely than I could in the café we were at previously.
In Marron’s book, George Packer remarks that unlike a city park, which “already has a definition (grass, trees, paths) which tells you how it’s to be used,” a city square’s emptiness leaves it “full of possibility.” While I’m in the Boston Common with my enthusiastic companion, I can’t help but disagree slightly with Packer’s commentary—the Common is full of nooks and niches encouraging passerby to engage in leisure, quiet self-reflection, or recreational activities. It is a refreshing pause within the clamor of the city, yes, but its designers did intend for it to be used for specific purposes. I often love to settle down within a city square and cherish a book or observe others, but in this moment, the Common has invited me to continue my walk with my friend. It seems to recognize that many people want to use it not just to stop and collect their thoughts, but to progress along their respective journeys with just a bit more tranquility than the urban chaos that engulfs them outside.
I think about all the city squares whose merits and pitfalls are contemplated, described, and discussed in Marron’s book—the melancholia of Paris’ Place de Vosges, which encourages deep introspection within those who wander through; Marrakech’s Djemaa el-Fnaa, constructed to guide the movements of the shoppers, sellers, and performers who frequent it; Beijing’s Tiananmen Square, whose vast emptiness and minimalism leave room only for quiet, obedient reverence of the state. As I think about how the Boston Common compares to these different places, I see an inviting space that is colored by the historic city around it, yet also adapted perfectly to suit the individual passerby’s needs, whether we want to relax in solitude in the midst of our commute or chatter with an old friend while on a brisk walk. The square’s multi-functionality and presence in the city—a perfectly-planned pause—is something I am grateful for. Even in winter, the Boston Common maintains its appeal.
