Nolli maps (I’ve probably mentioned them before) were drawn by this Nolli fellow, an 18th century Italian architect. The absolute genius of these maps is that rather than distinguishing between interior and exterior space, they distinguish between civic and private space. So anywhere that anyone can go—the street, inside a cathedral,  the colonnades at St. Peters—is white, while private places (as well as walls, columns, etc.) are black. (You can, by the way, own a facsimile of the map portfolio for a mere $250, though I think I’ll stick to the interactive Nolli map website).

The accuracy and shear usefulness of this map is pretty astounding, considering it’s from 1748. But there are a few tweaks I’d make (of course) if I were making a Nolli-inspired map of New York, for example.

First of all, while I love the simplicity and elegance of black and white (and I understand the printing limitations Nolli was operating under), a little color could add new layers of meaning. The meaning I’d most like to add is the gradation between truly public space, like the street, and semi-public space, like a shop, which could maybe even be done in shades of grey, but color would probably be clearer.

A project for a rainy day—my own personal Nolli map…

That white space—the aggregation of all the places you can get without a key—is where civic life happens and where the character of the city is contained. I love the variations that distinguish the spectrum of this space. A slightly higher curb, a unique paving, a little shade, each can change the degree of publickness of a particular spot. A bench, an old school news stand, or an antique post box can all make an otherwise unremarkable place special by distinguishing it just a bit from the space around it. Eddies in the space time continuum, so to speak.

The cumulative interaction of all of these spaces—from the sidewalk to the corner stool at the corner bar—are pretty much the best thing ever. Being able to choose to sit down, to walk, to have a drink, or to watch the world go by instills a sense of freedom and engagement that no amount of politicking or Facebooking can ever replace.

(And, not coincidentally, these are the spaces I hope to one day get to design—cafes, street furniture, taverns, parks, shops: all the white spaces in my own personal Nolli map.)

I knew a bit about Emily’s story before (she’s a recovering architect, for starters), but ReadyMade just posted a great interview with her. It’s short and career-oriented, but it was like a mini studio visit.

Her story is particularly inspirational to me, not because she left architecture (not my plan, and she didn’t really go so far away—mapping is a big part of architecting, as is making things, shelter, art, etc.) but because she found this amazing niche, because she makes amazing things that are about home and place (and that grew out of her thesis project!), because she’s a crafter who doesn’t do bows and ruffles, and because she runs her business herself. All in all a really cool person.

For now, let me return to my map fetish with this fine example:

So far in this Very Busy Week I’ve spent a lot of time with plans, and I’ve been thinking about their relationship to maps… I hadn’t really thought about it before, but maps and plans are basically the same thing. (A plan, usually, is a section cutting through the world at about 3 feet off the ground and looking down at the result with no perspective. But a roof plan, for example, usually doesn’t cut through anything—it’s just a close-up map of a particular building.)

Maps, as I’m sure you’re well aware, are always trying to sell you an angle. They have a purpose—documenting a voyage, planning an invasion, selling someone’s view of the world as the right and proper view—but any map worth its salt can, of course, be repurposed. But regardless, maps imply action. Like, you know, a plan of action.

The above map, obviously, is a guide to avoiding treacherous shoals, namely coconut cremes. Blech.

Map quilts by Leah Evans. Nice!