How
air conditioning remade modern America
Would it surprise you to learn just how
revolutionary that A/C unit of yours really is?
By Henry Grabar in Salon Magazine
A
friend of mine, visiting Brooklyn, drove down to Coney Island on a recent
summer weekend. He remarked with some surprise that kids in Kings County still
played in the spray of fire hydrants, “like they do in the old photos.” It’s
true: Crossing the borough on the muggiest days of summer vacation, it’s not
unusual to see a popped valve spurt cool water across the asphalt, transforming
a street into a jury-rigged Splish Splash for neighborhood kids.
Yet
such impromptu playgrounds seem to belong firmly to another era. Mid-century
Greenwich Village, immortalized by Jane Jacobs in “The Death and Life of Great
American Cities,” teemed with children every afternoon. “This is the time of
roller skates and stilts and tricycles, and games in the lee of the stoop with
bottletops and plastic cowboys,” she wrote in 1961. “They slop in puddles,
write with chalk, jump rope, roller skate, shoot marbles, trot out their
possessions, converse, trade cards, play stoop ball, walk stilts, decorate
soap-box scooters, dismember old baby carriages, climb on railings, run up and
down.”
As
Alex Marshall, a fellow at the Regional Plan Association in New York, noted in
a recent Daily
News piece, that description far surpasses
anything you can find on Hudson Street today, or most other places in America.
Our culture has changed. Childhood is now zealously supervised; in July, a
South Carolina woman was arrested for letting her 9-year-old play in a park
while she was at work.
The
environment has changed too: Summer in the city isn’t as hot as it used to be,
thanks to air conditioning. When Jane Jacobs described the “sidewalk ballet,”
fewer than 14 percent of households in urban America had air conditioning.
Today, it’s over 87 percent.
It’s
almost impossible to imagine, dashing from the house A/C to the car A/C to the
office A/C to the restaurant A/C, how hot and different the American summer
once was.
One
evocative recollection of the un-air-conditioned American city is Arthur
Miller’s vignette “Before
Air-Conditioning,” which describes New York in
the summer of 1927. The street in those days was repurposed nightly as an
outdoor dormitory; mattress-laden fire escapes lined the block like iron bunk
beds.
Lacking
that option, there was always Central Park, where Miller would “walk among the
hundreds of people, singles and families, who slept on the grass, next to their
big alarm clocks, which set up a mild cacophony of the seconds passing, one
clock’s ticks syncopating with another’s. Babies cried in the darkness, men’s
deep voices murmured, and a woman let out an occasional high laugh beside the
lake.”
That
was the year Babe Ruth hit 60 home runs; then came air conditioning and the
reinvention of American life.
The
National Academy of Engineering ranked air conditioning the tenth-most
important achievement of the 20th century. By 1980, the U.S. consumed more A/C than the rest of the world put together. The
annual cost of air conditioning Houston ($666 million) exceeded the GNP of
several countries. Air conditioning helped spark the Sun Belt movement,
reversing decades of Southern emigration. The population of the Gulf
Coast grew from fewer than 500,000 people in 1950 to 20 million
today.
There’s
a lot of good to say about this progress. Air conditioning makes us more
productive, and it might be better, on balance, for the environment than
heating. It’s good for your health, and it might even save your life. In
Europe, where A/C is far less common, the 2003 heat
wave killed more than 70,000
(mostly elderly) people. Critics of air conditioning largely point to its
enormous environmental and electrical cost, which makes sense if you consider
it an indulgence rather than a necessity. But that’s not the way people in
Houston (or even Washington, D.C.) see it.
Its
effect on American urban culture is now taken for granted, to the point of
being nearly invisible. We can conjure Arthur Miller’s world only as a jittery
16-millimeter newsreel. But in the mid-century decades, a number of American
intellectuals greeted the new climate with cynicism. It was, they felt, a
technology that flattened not just temperature differentials but the nuances of
American life as well.
Henry
Miller, returning to the States in 1941 for a road trip, recounted his caustic
appraisal in a book he titled “The Air-Conditioned Nightmare.” “Nowhere else in
the world is the divorce between man and nature so complete,” Miller wrote,
“Nowhere have I encountered such a dull, monotonous fabric of life as here in
America.”
In
1970, four years after Texas became the first state in which more than half the
population used air conditioning at home, the New York
Times editorial board echoed his sentiments. “Because the air conditioner,
the airplane and television have smoothed out harsh differences in climate,
nearly abolished distance and homogenized popular taste, Americans are become
much less regionally diverse.”
The
historian Raymond Arsenault, in a famous
1984 essay, threw the book at air conditioning
for its culturally deleterious effects on the American South. ”Air
conditioning has changed the southern way of life,” he wrote,
…influencing everything from architecture to sleeping habits.
Most important, it has contributed to the erosion of several regional traditions:
cultural isolation, agrarianism, poverty, romanticism, historical
consciousness, an orientation towards non-technological folk culture, a
preoccupation with kinship, neighborliness, a strong sense of place, and a
relatively slow pace of life.
The
most striking, immediate impact of air conditioning on America was
architectural. Glass boxes with permanently sealed windows, like Mies van der
Rohe’s Seagram
Building, replaced the E-, U- and H-shaped
towers of the previous generation. Vernacular architecture, like the Texas
dog-run house or the wrap-around verandas of Louisiana, was rendered obsolete.
Through the contemporary invention of the mall, windowless walls, hitherto
employed only in mausoleums and theaters, became the dominant style of the
American-built environment.
Those
same air-conditioned spaces were conducive to both consumerism and, relatedly,
a kind of cultural conformity. Americans flocked to movie theaters for
Hollywood’s Golden Age, wrapping their legs in newspaper to stay warm. They
bought well-known brands at department stores, whose sales floors stood in
frigid contrast to the open-air markets of the urban poor. They ate at the same
fast-food joints, which adopted air conditioning more readily and thoroughly
than their mom-and-pop rivals. (By the ’60s, Arsenault reports, many
Southerners had begun to “refuse to patronize non-air-conditioned stores.”)
By
the 1970s, when home A/C was commonplace, Americans spent the summer cooling on
the couch, watching the same television channels as their compatriots in New
York, Atlanta or Los Angeles. We abandoned the dialect of parks and bars and
began, quite literally, to speak the same language.
Public
space, whose importance and vibrancy bloomed in the heat, suffered from the
competition. The great urban amusement parks went out of business. Streets
ceased to function as de facto playgrounds; stoops lost their social function.
Major League Baseball attendance hit a peak in 1960 that it would not surpass
for 20 years. Weegee’s Coney Island beach panoramas, from the 1940s, portray an urban society beyond our
collective memory.
To
take a summer stroll down a New York street today is to bake in the exhaust of
air-conditioned cars and stores. It neatly sums up the message of the
air-conditioned city: If you want to keep cool, you need to keep shopping. But
then, at least New York still has great public spaces; many Sun Belt
settlements and modern-day exurbs do not.
At
this point, the cultural cooling of the United States may be little more than a
history lesson. But as the Global South takes up its affair with air
conditioning, we shouldn’t let the environmental consequences (serious though
they are) deflect our attention from the potentially massive cultural
transformations underway.
To
be air-conditioned, in many countries, is to be modern. And to be Modern. The
advent of cooling is often incompatible with traditional architecture — like
the lattice walls of northern India, the courtyard homes of the Mediterranean,
the narrow windows of the M’Zab, or the stilt houses of Thailand — developed to
provide natural ventilation.
Less
obvious, and more important, will be the effect that air-conditioned
innovations like malls are already having on social life and cultural
practices, to say nothing of the development of widespread air conditioning in
homes.
One
such transformation is already underway in China, where the spread of
refrigeration has allowed mass-produced
frozen foods to upend home cooking, and cold storage has made traditional
preservation methods like salting and pickling unnecessary.
Don’t
believe that air conditioning can transform the bedrock of national culture?
Just remember 1965, when Houston’s Astrodome opened, and professional baseball
– a game to which breezes, sunshine and green grass are as vital as the bat and
ball – was transferred (with great acclaim) to an air-conditioned stadium whose
grass was made of plastic.
The
stadium itself is now a somber ruin, replaced by a modern iteration whose
retractable roof is usually open. But it was a symbolic achievement for the
air-conditioned city, and drew the American Society of Heating, Refrigerating
and Air Conditioning Engineers convention to Houston that year.
It
likewise marked the end of an era for urban America, one that Arthur Miller
evoked in speaking of that summer of his youth: “Every window in New York was
open.”
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