Last month, an “immersive” Willy Wonka event took over my news feed.

Normally, I’d keep scrolling.

Promoters market these voguish multisensory experiences—which are supposed to literally immerse you in an environment through projection mapping technology, virtual and augmented reality, sound, physical sets, and sometimes even actors—as “transformative,” “out-of-this-world,” and “sublime.”

I haven’t understood the appeal. The few I’ve tried out have fallen short of those ambitious statements. Far from offering a transcendent experience, they seemed gimmicky, not to mention overpriced.

But Willy’s Chocolate Experience got my attention, largely because the event, a debacle that reportedly ended in tears, could, in no credible way, pretend to sell awe by the $44 ticket price.

The company behind the production, House of Illuminati, had used generative AI to advertise a show where “dreams become reality.” But the projection equipment, the linchpin of these fantasyscapes that use light to turn any physical object or surface into a life-like display screen, didn’t arrive in time. That meant the kids who showed up for the event didn’t get to see “giant mushrooms filled with sweets,” “colossal lollipops,” or “candy canes that seem to touch the sky”—just a warehouse in Glasgow, Scotland, filled with a few props. Any illusion that they were taking a jaunt through Roald Dahl’s candy factory (or even its off-brand cousin) was shattered. Within hours, angry parents got the whole thing shut down.

The internet ate it up. For the next few days, visuals from the Wonkapocalypse, like a lonely plastic prop rainbow that resembled a Jeff Koons sculpture and an exhausted-looking actress hunched above a candy laboratory, were inescapable on my social media.

I watched as these posts about the breakdown of a constructed reality mingled alongside real news stories about the world we live in, at a historical moment where our shared sense of actual reality has catastrophically broken down. As all of this blurred together, it helped me to finally see what it is that people seek out in immersive entertainment.

I don’t think they believe they’ll find wonder there. But they know they’ll find a carefully curated escape from the present.

Our current immersive era, in this way, can be understood as the 21st century’s answer to the pleasure gardens of the past.

Commercialized pleasure gardens, seemingly natural spaces of leisure drenched in artifice, emerged in the 17th century as entrepreneurial English aristocrats opened up their private gardens to the public for the price of admission. Inside the walls of these manufactured Edens, artists created complex trompe l’oeil, which made two-dimensional surfaces on elaborate walking paths appear three-dimensional. Musicians played “fairy music” to establish a fantasy atmosphere, and over at Vauxhall, one of England’s grandest pleasure gardens, workers even imitated nightingale calls after the birds left the grounds in 1730. The ultimate act of fiction, of course, was that pleasure gardens created a space where commoners could brush elbows with the gentry.

Scottish author Tobias Smollett captured the feeling of entering one in his 1771 travel novel The Expedition of Humphry Clinker:

I was dazzled and confounded with the variety of beauties that rushed all at once on my eye. Imagine … a spacious garden, part laid out in delightful walks, bounded with high hedges and trees, and paved with gravel part exhibiting a wonderful assemblage of the most picturesque and striking objects, pavilions, lodges, groves, grottoes, lawns, temples, and cascades, porticoes, colonnades, and rotundas, adorned with pillars, statues, and paintings; the whole illuminated with an infinite number of lamps, disposed in different figures of suns, stars, and constellations.

Like today’s high-definition floor-to-ceiling projections, light, as Smollett observed, played a crucial role in creating the mirage.

Pleasure gardens boasted thousands of colored lamps, called illuminations, as well as painted linen canvases backlit by candle or lamp light, and endless fireworks of all shapes and designs, according to Anne Beamish, a scholar of pleasure gardens. I was struck by how modern the stylish pyrotechnic displays feel in Beamish’s descriptions. “Some involved attaching fireworks to structures or devices that moved,” she writes. “Others relied on sheets of paper that were pricked and backlit. As the paper moved, an optical illusion gave the appearance of movement, such as falling water.”

In the 18th century, pleasure gardens hit their peak popularity worldwide. They attracted a new, rising middle class with expendable time and income, eager to trade the smog and stench of industrializing city life for a few hours of gilded fantasy. Working people could enter these walls of pretend, roam curated pastoral grounds, and experience the latest technological wonders of the day, like the hot air balloon.

Not everyone could buy a ticket inside, however. In the U.S., pleasure gardens were predominantly white-only. Still, there are records of Black pleasure gardens in New York, such as the African Grove, established in 1821. Two hundred years later, for a 2021 MOMA exhibition, the artist Tourmaline characterized the Black pleasure gardens as “spaces where people dreamed up and then practiced versions of freedom during slavery.”

Black pleasure gardens show that these grounds of amusement held the potential to be revolutionary. But more often than not, pleasure gardens ended up bound by self-imposed limitations. As cultural anthropologist Deborah Philips reminds us in Fairground Attractions: A Genealogy of the Pleasure Ground, they were created for profit. Because of this, she argues, they were constructed as “unthreatening and contained” spaces meant to “reassure rather than challenge.”

This is worth remembering as we enter a new age of immersion today.

Our modern inheritors of commercialized pleasure gardens can offer a dreamy respite to people eager to leave behind their worries for a few hours. But though they will continue to promise the world—or at least sights out-of-this-world—they are not set up to achieve such feats.

The Wonka experience’s empty warehouse is a good reminder that, by design, these new pleasure gardens can offer us little more than a trick of the light.

The post What the Wonkapocalypse Can Teach Us appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

In our search for inspiring new ideas for solving California’s housing crisis, we must dig deeper. We must take our cues from Archimedes, “Give me a place on which to stand, and I will move the earth.”

How deep must we dig? At least to the depths plumbed by Baldassare Forestiere.

If you’ve never heard of Forestiere, you’re not alone. He’s never become the household name he should be in California. He deserves far more recognition for being the creator of Fresno’s greatest structure, which is also one of our state’s most enduring artistic achievements.

California’s collective ignorance about Forestiere and the underground wonderland he built is understandable, since his seven-acre subterranean development of gardens, tunnels, and rooms is hidden under a lot on Shaw Avenue, between Highway 99 and a Carl’s Jr.

Forestiere died in 1946, after he’d been digging for 40 years, but we must revive him now, not because of his skill with a pickax but because of his spirit. Our state is not responding to its housing shortage with invention and pluck, but with rules, regulations, and mandates.

Forestiere’s story points us to another path. We must free Californians to create housing in new and unexpected ways, so that we all might do what he once did: turn a terrible situation into something new and beautiful.

Baldassare Forestiere was born in 1879, in a hamlet in Sicily. As a young man, he fled his country and domineering father, a fruit grower, for the U.S. Arriving on the East Coast, he learned about underground construction while toiling on the Croton Aqueduct and the Holland Tunnel. In 1904, eager to farm his own land, he purchased a 70-acre plot in Fresno, with the goal of growing citrus on it.

Then he dug into the ground and—disaster—he struck hardpan, the rock-like soil that is impermeable to water and impossible to cultivate.

He might have surrendered, but he didn’t. Instead, he began carving a home for himself out of that rocky soil structure, using the displaced rocks as building material to reinforce arched doorways and other architectural details.

He also discovered, when he dug underneath the hardpan, rich soil in which he could plant citrus trees, grapevines, and other plants—more than 10 feet below the surface. Planted underground, these plants grew more slowly, but also better—so much so that today many of his original trees are still producing fruit.

It took him eight years to complete his residence—a sitting room, courts, a library chapel, a fish pond, and different bedrooms for winter and summer weather. But he couldn’t stop digging; eventually, over 40 years he hand-built more than 65 rooms and grottos, spread across three distinct levels, extending 25 feet underground. He may have wanted to turn the place into a resort, but he never did. (He made money digging irrigation ditches and building other things for neighboring farmers).

Forestiere’s house reflects an untutored genius. He did not write down designs, plans or drawings, or seek a building permit. (In fact, he did not read or write English). Instead, he followed his instincts, and they were good. Even though it’s underground, the place feels open and airy. There is a Sunrise Patio and a Sunset Patio, a banquet hall, a chapel courtyard, and, like the White House, a West Wing. He even carved out an auto tunnel that allowed him to drive into his own house.

Forestiere was ahead of his time in designing a sustainable home. He created skylights and tunnels to bring both breezes and sunlight into the space. He positioned his underground planters to catch rainwater, and he built a drainage system with a cistern to minimize flooding. He grew his own food—not just fruit, but also herbs. He had a pool (with a bridge) and an aquarium stocked with fish taken from the San Joaquin River. He even achieved a cool escape from the brutal Fresno summers. On my recent midday visit, the temperature was 99 degrees in Fresno, but it was just 80 underground.

What drove him? Some accounts say he was preparing for a bride from Italy, who never arrived. Others suggest a profound divine inspiration—Forestiere was a Catholic, and his underground home and gardens are full of spaces for prayer and religious devotion.

In 1923, he told an inquiring Fresno Bee reporter, “The visions in my mind almost overwhelm me.” In his terrific pictorial history of the underground gardens, Silvio Manno, another Italian immigrant to Fresno, quotes Forestiere as saying: “To make something with a lot of money, that is easy, but to make something out of nothing—now that is really something.”

Forestiere’s underground building merits more attention, and not just because underground homes, despite their costs and maintenance challenges, make more sense in an era of climate change (since living underground offers protection from extreme temperatures) and calamity (since earth-sheltered homes are cheaper to insure against winds, storms, and fire).

Forestiere’s place reminds us that ingenuity, in housing as well as in other things, rarely comes in expected places, or by following the rules.

Behind our housing shortage is a deficit of spirit. We have stopped following our housing whims and dreams. We live at a time where anyone can stop anything, when a project that is out of the ordinary is easily blocked by any number of legal tools. So is it any wonder that we don’t build much of anything at all?

Indeed, just repairing structures triggers so much scrutiny that our housing stock is some of the most rundown in the entire country. And even the tiniest housing opportunities for creativity are quickly closed. As soon as the state opened the door to the construction of “granny flats,” municipalities quickly imposed restrictions to discourage their construction.

Such intransigence and inaction in the face of crisis is really an invitation. Rather than lamenting what we don’t have, rather than limiting our imaginations, rather than building small amounts of the same eco-unfriendly housing, we need to start digging—literally and metaphorically.

And if you need any inspiration or ideas, pack up your car or board a bus to Fresno. The answers are lying there, deep in the rocks and dirt.

The post The Lessons of Fresno’s Ingenious Underground Gardens appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

“Cloud watching” is not just a data point for researchers like myself, it’s also a critical moment for Marlon, who had recently been “on vacation” (a local euphemism for being in prison) and had come to the park to gather his thoughts. Something about listening to the wind rustle tree leaves and staring at the clouds drew him to the park.

Many civic leaders and organizations are working to make more parks and community gardens in South Los Angeles, but in my sociological research, I’m trying to figure what actually brings people to these places. How do people use these sites to create a sense of place and belonging? What are some of the social benefits?

Los Angeles is said to be the most park-poor big city in the nation. But in reality, there is lots of beautiful open park space here—it’s just located far away from the neighborhoods where it’s needed most. Griffith Park, with over 4,000 acres of natural wilderness areas, hiking trails, shady picnic areas, and recreational facilities, remains distant from the low-income urban neighborhoods where most African Americans and Latinos live. The Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area is even more distantly located.

Of particular concern is South Los Angeles, a sprawling metropolis of its own, spanning across 45 square miles, much of it lacking tree canopy and green spaces where local residents may gather.

The City of Los Angeles and L.A. County, aided by non-profits and philanthropic efforts, have been trying to create more parks. Starting with Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa’s plan to add 50 parks and continuing with L.A. County’s current Parks Needs Assessment study, public agencies, sometimes assisted by non-profits and supported with private funding, are making progress—building new parks and improving the infrastructure, especially in poor communities where people of color live.

But what’s going on at the parks and community gardens that already exist in those neighborhoods?

For over a year now my students and I have been going to public parks and community gardens located in Watts, the historic South Central Avenue district, and the Vermont Square-Slauson neighborhoods. For months, we visited at different times of day, and different days of the week, recording our observations. Finally, I selected four sites where we are conducting conversational, audio-recorded interviews with park users and community gardeners.

So far, we’ve found that the men of South L.A. are going to the parks and community gardens, in part, for these meditative, therapeutic moments, for solace and sanctuary, to get healthy, to have fun with friends, and to enjoy close-up encounters with plant nature. We’ve also seen that there are far more men and boys than women and girls using the public parks and the largest community gardens.

Why? First, there’s still a fear factor. In the aftermath of deindustrialization in the 1980s and 1990s, public parks and streets in South LA became violent, dangerous spots. Crime is now down, gang violence has subsided, and today one is much less likely to come across gang fights than in the past. But fear remains. Growing up in South LA, many youth were explicitly instructed by their parents to avoid the parks, and this is especially true for women and girls.

In an ideal world, women and girls would feel free to be here too, but our gardens and parks reflect society, and we have a society where women face sexual harassment and unfair domestic burdens, restricting their activity at parks and community gardens. Many women also don’t think these parks are safe.

In another series of interviews conducted with community residents, a number of women told me they prefer to drive to parks in more affluent neighborhoods to jog, power walk, or take their kids to the playground.

When women and girls do come, it’s typically in the company of children and family. This is an extension of domestic duties—supervising young children on playgrounds, watching kids at soccer or baseball practice, or attending a family picnic. Some of the parks feature recently installed exercise equipment, and you might see a mother and daughter or two friends using the equipment. But the indoor Zumba classes that have proliferated in storefronts and rec centers around South L.A. seem to be more popular alternatives for women’s exercise.

Not only are the parks sites of conviviality and relaxation primarily for men and boys, but the big expansive community gardens in Watts—Stanford Avalon Community Garden and the Greater Watts Community Garden—are also predominantly male. At these sites, there are some women who are very dedicated, talented gardeners, but they are fewer in number, Men over age 55 predominate.

When I ask the male gardeners why there aren’t more women tilling the soil, they say the women are tied up with looking after kids, and cooking and cleaning, or that the women are lazy and don’t want to do the work. It does take substantial time and hard labor to cultivate here. Some of the garden plots span 1,500 square feet, and that takes lots of muscle, dedication, and time to do the work.

We were surprised to find that men are using these green spaces to create therapeutic moments of tranquility and time for reflection. One Sunday afternoon as I traipsed around Stanford Avalon Community Garden, I noticed Jose, whom I had interviewed several months before, sitting in silence by himself at the back of his plot, eyes-downcast. Now in his 40s, Jose was born in Mexico and started working in L.A. factories full-time at age 14. He now works in construction six days a week. On Sunday he dedicates all day to his garden, where he grows a spectacular array of vegetables including squash, chile, corn, Swiss chard, and strawberries. On this particular afternoon, he had finished with the hard labor of turning soil, and he sat in Zen-like solitude, intently and skillfully de-thorning nopale cactus paddles, preparing these as food gifts for relatives. Growing food here, he told me, allows him to express his “amor por la tierra,” his “love of the land,” and these quiet moments watering, weeding, or de-thorning nopales bring him peacefulness.

Just south of this garden, also below DWP power lines, African-American gardeners, the majority of them men over 60, are growing vegetables from heirloom tomatoes to a wide variety of collard greens, feeding themselves, family, and community members, and finding tranquility and connection in the process. As 63-year-old James explained to me, he enjoys the “freedom of mind,” he finds at the garden. “It’s like yoga, but it’s more physical,” he explained. “It gets me that sanctuary, that freedom of mind and free thought.” He said he takes pleasure in giving away about 95 percent of what he grows.

The public parks and community gardens of South L.A. are also places where men can experience themselves as responsible family men, a claim that can be tenuous for some. At the parks, fathers can take their kids to soccer games, baseball practice, or family picnics, and at the community gardens, they can grow food for their family members. There are many activities t hat draw men and boys together too, including sports, skate parks, drum circles, playing dominoes or cards, or just hanging out and enjoying one another’s company.

The right to congregate in public outdoor spaces in the city has not always been a given for African-American and Latino men in South L.A. neighborhoods. Many have faced danger on the street or police harassment. Relaxing at the park feels like an achievement, both for the individual and the community. The street violence and crime that ruled South L.A. a couple of decades ago has now declined. Sure, there is still danger, and men, especially younger men, need to negotiate threats and turf disputes at the public parks.

Even Crip-controlled parks can serve as healing sites. Charlie, a 55 year-old veteran of violence on mean streets, prison, and military service, found a comfort zone in such a park. “We all started outside,” he said. “I feel like everybody needs to have a space for green. If you can’t breathe, then it’s some place you don’t feel comfortable…That’s what we come out here for.”

Moments of chill and relajo—that’s what the men of South LA are finding in green spaces. This speaks to the power of plant nature, to the therapeutic aspects of being outside, where you can “blow off steam,” inhale fresh air, and touch soil with your hands, or like Marlon, hit the pause button to gaze as a cloud rolls by.

While urban planners, public health officials, and park advocates have publicized the role of parks and community gardens in combatting obesity and diabetes, maybe we also should recognize the parks and community gardens as assets for improving overall mental health and well-being too. After decades of divestment in parks and gardens, the people of South LA need the new and improved green spaces they are starting to get. Everyone does.

The post How South L.A.’s Parks Help Men Heal appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

Among the many offerings at A Place Called Home is an urban agriculture program. It’s popular with members—and fits well in South L.A., where residents have a long tradition of community gardens and locally grown food.

Two years ago, the young members of A Place Called Home took charge of a strip of land outside the Newton police station at 3400 South Central Avenue, a five-minute walk away. Their goals for the garden were twofold. First, create South L.A.’s first gateless, large-scale edible garden. Second, collaborate with the local community and the police in the process of creating and growing the garden, thus, helping to build trust and make South L.A. safer.

The photos show both the before and the happy after in the garden. For their most recent harvest, members in a number of A Place Called Home classes, including Edible Garden & Food, grew tomatoes, tomatillos, basil, artichokes, okra, lettuce, chard, kale, collard greens, edible flowers, and various other things.

The food from the garden was cooked as part of A Place Called Home’s culinary program. Students used harvest potatoes and basil to make healthy baked potato chips with a pesto dip. The garden’s bounty was also shared with local families who don’t have secure sources of healthy food, and distributed during large annual community events.

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