In Praise of Folly

Each day I've been here, the city has seemed less anodyne, and more like a copying error. The civic high points of your favorite cosmopolis can be found, but they'll have a flaw that almost defeats their purpose. The summer outdoor movie festival is held on the narrowest strip of the river's east bank, minimizing the number of decent sightlines. A concert series takes place in the shadow of the city's highest parking garage. The water sculpture that anchors downtown's civic plaza comprises four water bands that emerge abruptly from the brown brick piazza with the same diameter, the same flow rate, and the same languid arc of your elementary school's drinking fountain. The common fault in all these examples is modesty. The city fathers in New York, when they err, err greatly. Likewise, Princeton's pastiche of architectural styles has created a herd of white elephants, but it's dynamic. The Regents of the University have adopted a strict policy of awarding each major architectural commission to a different, Iowa-based architect, resulting in a tumblework of unambitious brick-and-concrete buildings that manage the improbable feat of being simultaneously incoherent and repetitive. Only today, when I eyed a filthy wino staggering up Washington St., did I flash back gratefully to city life in Brooklyn. He swept past me and veered wildly toward a chatting pack of young parents and strollered children. I stopped and braced for the confrontation. "Don't stop in the middle of the street!" he remonstrated in a clear voice. How discouraging it was, to find that in Iowa City, even the delinquents are conscientious upholders of the civic order.