The formation of place through its natural, built, social and cultural moments can be likened to a performance by one of John Coltrane's classic quartets from the 1960s, four instrumentalists who produced some of the most richly textured jazz ever recorded.
Let's get into my DeLorean Time Machine and travel back to the band's glory days at the Half Note Club in the Village. Bring a couple of your friends, and don't worry, the tab is on me. When we get there, the club is packed and seating is first come, first served. Our party has to split up. You end up seated a few inches from Coltrane on sax, your friend is alongside Elvin Jones on drums, your other friend is practically sitting in the lap of keyboardist McCoy Tyner, I am squeezed up against Jimmy Garrison on bass.
Afterwards, we go out for a drink and compare notes. It soon becomes clear that each of us has heard something slightly different. You think Coltrane killed it, your two friends lobby for Jones and Tyner, I'm ready to anoint Garrison the new king of jazz. It slowly becomes clear that while one and the same music filled the room, what each of us actually heard was dominated by the sound of the instrument and instrumentalist closest to us. We should have played musical chairs, changing seats after each set rather than sticking to one place. That way, each of us would have had a total listening experience.
Just as multiple listening points enable us to grasp the organic wholeness of a Coltrane performance, so multiple viewing points enable us to grasp the organic wholeness of place. And in the same way that the band needs a leader to meld the virtuosos into a harmonious whole, so place needs some coordinating force to bring the four moments together in a bounded and coherent spatial configuration. Who or what, then, is the Coltrane of place?