I invite my girls to the mall.
Four of us meet up on a bench outside the new Westfield World Trade Center
and trade stories about mall awe, being ’90s kids hitting milestones in
consumer culture. I don’t make a habit of asking “What mall did you go
to growing up?” but the answers contain signifiers akin to “Where did
you go to school?” (with more narrative sparkle). We go into this new
mall, at the site of an old mall. It’s opening day.
The central promenade of the World Trade Center Transportation Hub is called the Oculus.
Inside, columns extend skyward, linked by a thin spine of skylights. In
Classical architecture, oculi were left open to the elements, and these
skylights can open, too. It’s easy to compare the stunning, sun-blasted
space to a cathedral. The high windows feel like clerestories; the
vaulted ceiling clarifies what people mean when they say “heavenward.”
All
four of us — Carrie, Juli, Lucia and I — are looking up. In front of
us, the police stand on a marble perch, looking down. Carrie makes the
surest architectural comparison for the space: the panopticon. The
panopticon was an 18th-century design that called for open cells with a
central tower, those observed never knowing exactly when they were seen.
The plans inspired Foucault, who in “Discipline and Punish” probed the
ways panopticism regulates behavior.
From way across the mall, we can see through the
glass storefront into Stuart Weitzman, where they’re serving wine. In
front of the wine tray, we play at “Are you?” “Should we?” “Yeah?”
Outside, we all said that we were going into Stuart Weitzman for the
wine. What would Foucault say about our performed reluctance? We can’t
escape, so we try on shoes.
Lucia, who grew up
shopping in the mall that was here before this one, spots thigh-high
aubergine boots ($798). She fishes deep inside to pull out tissue paper,
as if someone who lost a piece of jewelry in a pool. After extracting,
she slips them on — they’re almost pants — and does a turn. Next she
tries glittery-heeled sandals ($398). We remain on the gray suede couch
longer than we should. Curved white shelves line the walls, sweeping to
the back of the room.
From outside, the shelves
look like extensions of the space’s white painted steel columns. Many
stores showcase design that’s meant to be in dialogue with the Oculus
and its columns of light: John Varvatos lights its ceiling with hanging
bulbs, Vince Camuto has a white pyramidal installation, Cole Haan has
long white shelves that dip into the window.
We walk around on the promenade’s shiny marble floor.
The mall as a commuter hub in New York contains a conflict of pace:
There is mall walking, and then there is New York walking. Mall walking
trails the gaze; it requires unplanned pauses. New York walking is fast;
it is purposeful. When you make New Yorkers commute through a mall, you
get New York walking in a space full of mall walking.
Across
the Oculus, the Apple store takes up a third of the wall. It’s the only
store with two floors. There is no department store anchoring this
mall, but Apple feels close. Juli imagines Apple’s response to a bid to
be included in the space: “Is it a new space? Is it white? All right,
we’ll be there.”
We can’t decide where to go next.
“There should be a directory,” I say. That instant, a human directory
appears holding an iPad and maps. The timing is so eerie, we all look
around. The directory’s name tag says only “Ambassador” with the
Westfield logo.
We note a man in a Queen’s Guard costume standing
outside the Penhaligon perfume shop. It’s odd to see a costume guard
when so many real guards are on patrol. Historically, what’s militarily
necessary, what’s part of defense, finds its way to fashion: bomber
jackets, trench coats, cargo pants. Looking at the counterterrorism
guards, I wonder if their uniforms, their vests or badges will
eventually find their way into these stores, for sale.
We
go into COS and graze. The clothes here are cut wide, floaty: a series
of button-up shirts ($89) and baggy trousers ($115) in pastels and soft
grays. Nearby at Kit and Ace, we find swathes of washable cashmere, a
revolution. With these clothes, you don’t have to think or really be
careful. No dry-cleaning necessary. I wonder when revolution turned from
what one could do to what one needn’t do.
At
MAC, the brand’s collaborative collection with Good Luck Trolls, the
‘90s plastic toy line with tufts of rainbow hair and gems stuck in their
bellies, is on display. Juli puts on matte blue lipstick ($18), noting
that there is another blue in MAC’s standard line ($17). She turns
earnestly to the saleswoman: “Did MAC approach Troll or did Troll
approach MAC?” But she’s just trolling.
We are
appreciative of this one coat of ’90s nostalgia, however. Isn’t that why
I brought girls to the mall? But even with blue lipstick and instant
Foucault references, my friends feel flat in here. I can’t quite get a
read. Guys? Guys?
In an act of pure suburban habit, we decide to walk to the other mall, Brookfield Place, for dinner. It’s a six-minute walk.
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