Ben Katchor's comics of bygone New York

I'm going to read a few strips.

These are, most of these are

from a monthly page I do

in and architecture and design magazine

called Metropolis.

And the first story is called

"The Faulty Switch."

Another beautifully designed new building

ruined by the sound of a common wall light switch.

It's fine during the day

when the main rooms are flooded with sunlight.

But at dusk

everything changes.

The architect spent hundreds of hours

designing the burnished brass switchplates

for his new office tower.

And then left it to a contractor

to install these 79-cent switches behind them.

We know instinctively where to reach

when we enter a dark room.

We automatically throw the little nub of plastic upward.

But the sound we are greeted with,

as the room is bathed in the simulated glow

of late-afternoon light,

recalls to mind

a dirty men's room

in the rear of a Greek coffee shop.

(Laughter)

This sound colors our first impression of any room;

it can't be helped.

But where does this sound,

commonly described as a click, come from?

Is it simply the byproduct of a

crude mechanical action?

Or is it an imitation

of one half the set of sounds we make

to express disappointment?

The often dental consonant

of no Indo-European language.

Or is it the amplified sound

of a synapse firing

in the brain of a cockroach?

In the 1950s they tried their best

to muffle this sound

with mercury switches

and silent knob controls.

But today these improvements

seem somehow inauthentic.

The click is the modern

triumphal clarion

proceeding us through life,

announcing our entry into every lightless room.

The sound made flicking a wall switch off

is of a completely different nature.

It has a deep melancholy ring.

Children don't like it.

It's why they leave lights on around the house. (Laughter)

Adults find it comforting.

But wouldn't it be an easy matter

to wire a wall switch

so that it triggers the muted horn of a steam ship?

Or the recorded crowing of a rooster?

Or the distant peel of thunder?

Thomas Edison went through

thousands of unlikely substances

before he came upon the right one

for the filament of his electric light bulb.

Why have we settled so quickly

for the sound of its switch?

That's the end of that.

(Applause)

The next story is called

"In Praise of the Taxpayer."

That so many of the city's most venerable taxpayers

have survived yet another commercial building boom,

is cause for celebration.

These one or two story structures,

designed to yield only enough income

to cover the taxes on the land

on which they stand,

were not meant to be permanent buildings.

Yet for one reason or another

they have confounded the efforts of developers

to be combined into lots

suitable for high-rise construction.

Although they make no claim to architectural beauty,

they are, in their perfect temporariness,

a delightful alternative

to the large-scale structures

that might someday take their place.

The most perfect examples

occupy corner lots.

They offer a pleasant respite

from the high-density development around them.

A break of light and air,

an architectural biding of time.

So buried in signage

are these structures,

that it often takes a moment

to distinguish the modern

specially constructed taxpayer

from its neighbor:

the small commercial building

from an earlier century,

whose upper floors have been sealed,

and whose groundfloor space

now functions as a taxpayer.

The few surfaces not covered by signs

are often clad in a distinctive, dark

green-gray, striated aluminum siding.

Take-out sandwich shops,

film processing drop-offs,

peep-shows and necktie stores.

Now these provisional structures have,

in some cases,

remained standing

for the better part of a human lifetime.

The temporary building

is a triumph of modern industrial organization,

a healthy sublimation

of the urge to build,

and proof that not every

architectural idea

need be set in stone.

That's the end.

(Laughter)

And the next story is called, "On the Human Lap."

For the ancient Egyptians

the lap was a platform

upon which to place

the earthly possessions of the dead --

30 cubits from foot to knee.

It was not until the 14th century

that an Italian painter

recognized the lap

as a Grecian temple,

upholstered in flesh and cloth.

Over the next 200 years

we see the infant Christ

go from a sitting to a standing position

on the Virgin's lap,

and then back again.

Every child recapitulates this ascension,

straddling one or both legs,

sitting sideways,

or leaning against the body.

From there, to the modern ventriloquist's dummy,

is but a brief moment in history.

You were late for school again this morning.

The ventriloquist must first make us believe

that a small boy is sitting on his lap.

The illusion of speech follows incidentally.

What have you got to say for yourself, Jimmy?

As adults we admire the lap

from a nostalgic distance.

We have fading memories

of that provisional temple,

erected each time an adult sat down.

On a crowded bus there was always a lap to sit on.

It is children and teenage girls

who are most keenly aware

of its architectural beauty.

They understand the structural integrity

of a deep avuncular lap,

as compared to the shaky arrangement

of a neurotic niece in high heels.

The relationship between the lap and its owner

is direct and intimate.

I envision a 36-story,

450-unit residential high-rise --

a reason to consider the mental health

of any architect before granting

an important commission.

The bathrooms and kitchens will,

of course, have no windows.

The lap of luxury

is an architectural construct of childhood,

which we seek, in vain,

as adults, to employ.

That's the end.

(Laughter)

The next story is called "The Haverpiece Collection"

A nondescript warehouse,

visible for a moment

from the northbound lanes of the Prykushko Expressway,

serves as the temporary resting place

for the Haverpiece collection

of European dried fruit.

The profound convolutions

on the surface of a dried cherry.

The foreboding sheen of an extra-large date.

Do you remember wandering as a child

through those dark wooden

storefront galleries?

Where everything was displayed

in poorly labeled roach-proof bins.

Pears dried in the form

of genital organs.

Apricot halves

like the ears of cherubim.

In 1962 the unsold stock

was purchased by Maurice Haverpiece,

a wealthy prune juice bottler,

and consolidated to form the core collection.

As an art form it lies somewhere between

still-life painting and plumbing.

Upon his death in 1967,

a quarter of the items were sold off for compote

to a high-class hotel restaurant.

(Laughter)

Unsuspecting guests were served

stewed turn-of-the-century

Turkish figs for breakfast.

(Laughter)

The rest of the collection remains here,

stored in plain brown paper bags

until funds can be raised

to build a permanent museum

and study center.

A shoe made of apricot leather

for the daughter of a czar.

That's the end. Thank you.

(Applause)