São Paulo - Demonstrations: 1970

Thirty-six hours into my first visit to lớn Brazil I sit down in my São Paulo khách sạn room and thumb through my notebook, puzzling over a stream of non sequiturs, observations & lists. I begin khổng lồ realize I may be the latest in a long line of gringos who, having ventured south of ‘the line’, unsuspectingly freighted with received ideas about the exotic tropics, have been overwhelmed by a far richer reality: a land dogged by its own messily beautiful và disturbing paradoxes. Later, at São Paulo’s oldest museum, the Pinacoteca vị Estado, I would see an exhibition about how foreign mariner-artists & naturalist-explorers had variously interpreted the ‘marvellous possessions’ of this alien land & would recall the truism that you can catalogue all the flora và fauna in the world and still have no idea about what it is you are looking at.

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Megacites, as defined by the National Geographic Society, are population centres with more than 10 million inhabitants; the hitherto hypothetical entities known as hypercities (more than trăng tròn million) are no longer the stuff of futurist speculation. São Paulo, an urban behemoth lurching into the 21st century, is thought lớn have recently crossed that threshold, although accurate census data are scarce.

Piranesian in its entangled turmoil, São Paulo is defined by movement, sulphurous congestion và a brutal & denatured topo-graphy. Private helicopters dart and buzz lượt thích dragonflies, alighting on cantilevered helipads perched precariously on skyscrapers, while down below bulletproof sedans ferry the city’s anxious élite from place to place. Even 80 years ago Le Corbusier, flying over the thành phố during his famous visit in 1929, ‘discovered the chaos of its streets – crossing above and below each other – and the quite unbelievable diameter of the đô thị <…> It rises <…> & is built on vị trí cao nhất of itself due to the irresistible pressures of business.’ Seemingly dumbfounded, he declared: ‘You have a real traffic crisis here!’1 One wonders what Le Corbusier would make of the city’s sprawling favelas, its slums và shantytowns: vast quadrants of the thành phố that are bureaucratically and politically invisible. According khổng lồ Forbes magazine, São Paulo, the financial and industrial juggernaut of Brazil và the largest middle-class consumer market in Latin America, accounts for 40 percent of the county’s GDP – in a thành phố where 20 percent of the metropolis is composed of favelas.

In a xe taxi on the main route from the airport I passed one such example of mass ‘auto-construction’ spilling down a hillside like a huge lava flow of dispossessed tenaciousness. Taking advantage of São Paulo’s apocalyptic traffic jams, local men gingerly made their way through the cars, selling everything and anything: children’s kites, batteries, plastic pinwheels, brightly coloured sweets, mesh baskets and mobile phone chargers. It was the first of many examples I would come across of the peculiarly Brazilian concept of gambiarra, a Portuguese term for ‘making do’ with on-the-fly grace và resourcefulness.

One paulista I spoke lớn likened this dexterity in living to lớn a certain limberness in the hips, a resilience as vital in samba as in life. In a society long accustomed to lớn minimal assistance from the state, operating outside officialdom has become a characteristic not only of the poor but of art and popular culture at large. It was visible in Brazilian avant-garde practices from the start – most obviously in the work of 1960s’ and ’70s’ artists such as Lygia Clark and Hélio Oiticica, & in successive generations of artists influenced by the Neo-Concretists & Tropicálists, including Marepe, Jarbas Lopes và Paulo Nenflídio. Inspired by the ability of the country’s disenfranchised to fashion useful contraptions from what others throw away, Nenflídio, for example, has cobbled devices together from wood & metal scraps to lớn make things – usually musical – that shouldn’t work but do: a hand-cranked Heavy Metal barrel organ, a wooden shortwave radio, a piano-like contraption that not only runs on wind nguồn generated by weathervanes but which also translates the random gusts powering it into electric signals that become musical notes.

In the favelas that surround São Paulo ingenuity is also a political act. Homesteading with scavenged cinderblocks & corrugated tin in the vacuum opened up by government inaction is one thing. Illegally tapping into the local power nguồn grid and water supply is another: it is an act of defiance và of self-empowerment. When artist Rubens Mano was invited khổng lồ create a number of installations for the Oficina Cultural Oswald de Andrade, the centrepiece of the series was Calçada (Pavement, 1999), in which he ran a live electrical line from inside the 19th-century building lớn outlets on the pavement. No explanation was given, & none was needed – Mano was offering the cultural institution’s electrical power to the people for free. Unsurprisingly, the work was an immediate hit. A new provisional economy sprang up, with one enterprising record salesman using the conduit to lớn power his portable record-player so that customers could better enjoy his Pop, Tropicália và Samba discs. More than merely a neat conceptual exchange, Mano was facilitating ‘autophagia’ (self-devouring): a way for the thành phố to feed itself by feeding on itself, consuming and producing at the same time.

Mano’s interventions are part of a discernible thread running through the contemporary history of Sampa (as São Paulo is nick-named), where what is public and what is private are always a matter of contention. For many artists the street is where much that is unresolved & contradictory in Brazilian society plays itself out. In Sampa the streetscape is a mutable material. This was true for the artist-activists known as Grupo 3NÓS3, who, in defiance of the US-backed military regime that seized nguồn in 1964, infamously ‘bagged’ the heads of nearly all the city’s public statues on the morning of 27 April 1979. Lớn the junta’s embarrassment the overnight transformation was covered in the morning press as a news item. ‘Seja marginal; seja herói’ (‘Be an outlaw; be a hero’), Oiticica had declared, & many artists seemed khổng lồ agree.

Echoes of this legacy of dissatisfaction are perceptible in the acti-vities of younger artists such as Renata Lucas & Marcelo Cidade, whose work unfolds as a series of experiments with the characteristics of a city unsure of its spatial & social boundaries. For one intervention, In/Out (2001), Cidade (whose last name translates as ‘city’) carefully excavated the mosaic tiles from sidewalks in the city. Reinstalled in a gallery, they seemed to lớn revel in the quaint absurdity of reducing something as unintelligible as the surrounding urban labyrinth to lớn a simple geometric glyph, a decorative symbolic map reproduced ad infinitum mile after mile along the city’s main arteries.

A more socially empowering khung of artistic engagement shows itself in the projects of Mônica Nador, who helped khung the Jardim Míriam Arte Clube (JAMAC), a non-profit associations that works with community groups in the city’s impoverished peripheries khổng lồ foster new public art forms (some using a repertoire of traditional motifs borrowed from the rural regions from which many of the poor migrate) on the walls of slum dwellings. Last year JAMAC was invited khổng lồ extend the reach of the 27th São Paulo Biennial to lớn the edges of the city, but rather than ‘decorate’ the houses Nador encouraged residents to claim art as one instrument among many available for mobilization và communal self-invention.

In a city where public space is so neglected,the underground metro system is a puzzling aberration, infinitely better cared for than the bedlam under which it burrows. One sign of the complex contradictions of Sampa culture is that the vending machines on the train platforms that are used in the US to dispense sweets and drinks also sell serious literature – I spied books by bít Guevara, Friedrich Nietzsche’s On the Genealogy of Morals (1887), a copy of the Brazilian Civil Code and, appropriately, a neatly bound edition of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s The Social Contract (1762).

Few people outside Brazil realize that São Paulo served as an incubator for the more progressive instincts of the country’s Modernist artists, writers, architects, urbanists & city planners. In the pros-perous years before and after World War II, a Utopian vision of a tropical Modernist city rising out of a confused colonial past seemed a realizable goal, one advanced by architects such as Oscar Niemeyer & Lina Bo Bardi, Lucio Costa and João Vilanova Artigas, and landscape designers such as Roberto Burle Marx, whose lush geometric gardens were studies in the balance between control and chaos. Sampa was a testing ground for various strains of free-thinking Modernism, reconstituted khổng lồ suit a distinctly Brazilian sense of space and way of living rather than merely being transplanted: free-form and organic, often embracing nature và natural principles rather than the machine as a model. Far from importing European Modernism, Brazilian avant-gardists adopted the strategy of ‘cannibalization’, consuming the influence of the colonizer before the colonizer consumed the colonized.

The idea is traceable lớn the radical declarations of Brazilian poet Oswald de Andrade, whose Manifesto da Poesia Pau-Brasil (Manifesto of Brazilwood Poetry, 1924) proposed a ‘poetry for export’, a strategy for artistic decolonization upending the hierarchies of the powerful và powerless. In his Manifesto Antropófago (Cannibalist Manifesto, 1928) Andrade suggested that Brazil could avoid cultural bondage by ingesting external cultures as a way of gaining their power nguồn without diluting its own. (Latin-American Modernists were fascinated by tales of tribal cannibalism, both real and fantastic.) The idea of constructive cannibalization was one that persisted in leftist cultural strategies during the military repression of the 1960s & ’70s: in fact, the musician-activist Caetano Veloso, speaking for a generation of pop renegades that included Os Mutantes và Gilberto Gil, wrote that ‘the idea of cultural cannibalism fitted us, the Tropicálists, lượt thích a glove. We were “eating” The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix.’2

But while the thành phố of enlightened tropical urbanism – housing blocks with masses suspended over open breezeways, free-form plantings, walls of vertical wood blinds, beautiful decorative ceramic brises-soleil và elaborate mosaics – is occasionally visible, it was overtaken by incremental failures to lớn live up khổng lồ the promise. The sunny future imagined in the 1950s succumbed to the repression of the 1960s and ’70s and the economic disasters & neo-liberalism that followed. Today the disparity between inconceivably rich and unimaginably poor is creating a new cityscape. A simmering low-grade siege mentality has become an everyday fact of life, & as a result the city is gradually obscuring its confidence behind multiple layers of improvised urban fortification & strategies of avoidance. Sampa is increasingly segmented, festooned with surveillance cameras và a boggling variety of gates, barriers, photoelectric tripwires và enclosures defended by an army of private security guards. If left unchecked, warns Brazilian anthropologist Teresa P.R. Caldeira, this metastasizing de facto topography of exclusion and suspicion will lead inevitably to the implosion of modern public life & the values of civil society.3

This evolving mess, which nobody planned and no one wants, is the crux of Angela Detanico and Rafael Lain’s Utopia font. Trained as graphic designers và practising as artists, the duo have created a pictographic alphabet (which can be downloaded from their website4) in which the upper case is represented by silhouetted glyphs of Niemeyer or Niemeyeresque architectural icons & the lower case by some of the more grimly prosaic elements of contemporary Sampa. Using the font, typing even the most harmless text can become an exercise in creating unintended disorder and blight. In the end, the reality of the street scrimmage between public và private trumps the best intentions of any planner.

All this has exacerbated what Ivo Mesquita, the former director of the Museu de Arte Moderna (MAM) & now curator of contemporary projects at the revitalized Pinocateca vày Estado, refers khổng lồ as a persistent lack of usable public space in urban Brazil. When I met Mesquita in the museum’s lush outdoor patio, he said that ‘the idea of a “common” is alien to lớn Brazil’, admitting that the closest thing that Sampa has is the Parque vị Ibirapuera, the gardens designed by Burle Marx in 1954 for Niemeyer’s complex of cultural pavilions which is trang chủ to the world’s second-oldest international art biennial, & one of the few places where people from across the social spectrum can mingle, stroll, lie on the grass và gather as citizens. The deficit in flexible space (and its democratizing effect) is mirrored by a general lack of obligation among the country’s wealthiest to tư vấn the arts or foster a home-grown tradition of private cultural initiatives. Instead of creating foundations or invigorating the city’s most important art institutions, one frustrated critic tells me, the élite prefer lớn jockey for slots on the trustee boards of internationally prestigious North American or European institutions. While the vitality of Brazilian art has been long recognized internationally, the affluent seem less interested in giving anything back khổng lồ the public at home. It’s part, laments this same critic, of ‘the same old New World inferiority complex’. Recently it was announced that the Adolpho Leirner Collection of Brazilian Art, regarded as one of the country’s most im-portant private collections of Brazilian Geometric Abstraction, had been sold khổng lồ the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston.

Nearly all the artists, curators, dealers and writers I spoke lớn be-moaned the dearth of funding, whether in the form of state support, corporate sponsorship or private endowments. The gradual disappointment with the reform-minded Lula government & its lack of cultural reorganization is reflected in the appointment of musician Gilberto Gil – who was gaoled và exiled by the military in the 1970s – as minister of culture, seen by some as a fitting symbolic move và by others as an empty gesture: under Gil’s well-intentioned guidance the government has funded sectors of the culture industry that hardly need any help (such as the healthy Brazilian Pop-music sector) to the exclusion of the visual arts. While big commercial entities such as Banco vì Brasil have created their own corporate spaces for art exhibitions around the city, their programmes are as uneven as their leadership. Meanwhile, financial support for non-profit and alternative spaces is harder to come by. Instead, commercial galleries such as Galeria Vermelho, housed in a complex of small buildings around a courtyard in Higienópolis (a verdant high-rise district, whose name translates as ‘city of hygiene’), are acting as unconventional art spaces, hosting performances, lectures, screenings and serious curated shows, creating convivial meeting grounds for artists & the general public.

Paradoxically, though, the problems that bedevil the art world in Brazil also foster its attributes, such as the sense of adaptive improvisation in the face of uncertainty; perhaps the jaded professionalism of thủ đô new york or London can blunt creativity as well as nurture it. Aware of what is happening around the globe, the citizens of Sampa are still happy to lớn cannibalize and hybridize, continually to lớn redefine their own experience of Brazilian-ness without being consumed by the outside world & its expectations. Paulistanos will continue to lớn ‘botanize the asphalt’ in ways Walter Benjamin never would have dreamt. One night, before returning khổng lồ New York, I stood on a São Paulo roof-top, beneath a hazy vault of unfamiliar stars, & gazed with bewilderment at this fathomless urban universe. ‘This is the đô thị of the future,’ I blurted with a stoner’s awe. ‘No,’ I was politely corrected by one native Paulista, ‘this is the đô thị of now.’

Ana Paula Cohen

A writer and co-founder of the project ‘istmo-flexible archive’, và co-curator of the Encuentro Internacional de Medellín 2007. She was born và lives in São Paulo.

‘From now on, I’ll describe the cities lớn you, <…> in your journeys you will see if they exist.’ <...> ‘And yet I have constructed in my mind a mã sản phẩm city from which all possible cities can be deduced,’ Kublai said. ‘It contains everything corresponding to the norm. Since the cities that exist diverge in varying degree from the norm, I need only foresee the exceptions to the norm and calculate the most probable combinations.’

‘I have also thought of a mã sản phẩm city from which I deduce all the others,’ Marco answered. ‘It is a city made only of exceptions, exclusions, incongruities, contradictions. If such a city is the most improbable, by reducing the number of abnormal elements, we increase the probability that the thành phố really exists. So I have only lớn subtract exceptions from my model, and in whatever direction I proceed, I will arrive at one of the cities which, always as an exception, exist. But I cannot force my operation beyond a certain limit: I would achieve cities too probable to lớn be real.’

-Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities, 1974

São Paulo is a megalopolis in a constant state of transformation. As the paulista urban historian Benedito Lima de Toledo has written, the city’s present-day chaos – its complex, intertwining structures và accretions & disjointed aggregate layers – are the result of its having been completely demolished và rebuilt twice within 100 years. This process resulted in three different cities. The colonial thành phố of the late 19th century, with 20,000 inhabitants, was transformed into a modern European-style metropolis in the 1910s and 1920s, with a population of 580,000. Then, when the urban emphasis changed to lớn a progressive ‘technicist’ project in the 1930s (population 1.6 million), the oto quickly took precedence over the pedestrian, a trend that continues khổng lồ shape the expansion of the đô thị today (population 21 million). From the 1930s on, gardens and open spaces were systematically sacrificed to traffic flow và parking.

While the majority of South American capitals were founded on the mã sản phẩm of European urbanization practised by Spanish colonials, with a plaza mayor at their nucleus, comprising town hall, church and other fixed architectural elements, the Portuguese colonists in Brazil demonstrated no such inclination for planning. São Paulo’s relation khổng lồ its past is therefore quite different from that of the major European or North American capitals, as well as those in Spanish-speaking Latin America. On the one hand, there is no real centre or identifiable public area out of which the city can be said to lớn have grown & around which it could continue to lớn orient itself. On the other hand, its expansion has always been motivated by disparate and competing private interests, thereby creating a poorly defined notion of whatis public.

City in Transit

The consecutive waves of unplanned demolition and reconstruction, never subordinated lớn an overarching urban vision, contributed to lớn the development of a thành phố without xuất hiện spaces such as parks, promenades, playgrounds, gardens & squares. As a result, the city has evolved a lifestyle that is led, for the most part, behind closed doors. São Paulo is an indoor city, with its inhabitants spending their time inside houses, apartments, restaurants, clubs, cars, bars, cinemas, museums and galleries; on the streets thousands of people can be seen, at any time of day or night, but always in transit. They go from one place khổng lồ another, concentrating on their journey, focusing on their final destination. So the city can be seen mainly as a passage way – an infinite number of routes taken daily, connecting the different points that together biến hóa the mental map of São Paulo carried within each inhabitant.

The topography of the undulating valley in which São Paulo lies has also militated against the creation of landmarks that are visible from every part of the đô thị – there is no large monument, cathedral or tower that can situate the passer-by. The main reference points are on the high ground, two large rivers (which once defined the city’s limits), as well as the major avenues, many of them built on đứng top of rivers, which serve khổng lồ orientate drivers traversing long distances. The fact that there are no conspicuous, dominant architectural elements has perhaps served khổng lồ create a more flexible city, recognizable by its smaller constituent parts – bars, bakeries, signs – which are part of the day-to-day life of every inhabitant. It is common for the residents of São Paulo to mention now-vanished points of reference: ‘It’s near the old Banespa building, where the prefecture is now’; ‘Do you remember that quarter with residential houses near the park, where there’s now an enormous office block? Well, the shop’s right there.’

Architecture/Memory

The short life of architecture in the đô thị is also a disorienting force. Lượt thích friends or relatives who die prematurely or suddenly, fragments of the built environment of São Paulo are increasingly disappearing; its population of familiar buildings, houses & neighbourhoods has suffered through a process of rapid transformation, with a turnover time of less than a generation. In contrast khổng lồ those who have survived a war – & witnessed the total destruction of a thành phố to live with the lasting memory of an immense emptiness – we in São Paulo have lived through continual demolition và construction as part of our everyday lives. A house is knocked down khổng lồ make way for a block of apartments; a 15-storey residential building becomes a block of 40 offices; gardens and squares become viaducts, road junctions and busy avenues; landmark historical structures are destroyed overnight by owners in need of money và used as car parks until the land is sold.

The architecture of the city interweaves a recent past with an unstable present – all over town, buildings representing every decade from the 1910s khổng lồ today sit uneasily side by side. It is difficult khổng lồ identify a signature architectural style from any particular decade; if any one style seems to dominate, there is always an older building close by that bucks the trend or another that is brand new (‘I don’t remember seeing this building the last time I passed by here’). As a result the đô thị can be understood as a selective, private and subjective collection of memories, a landscape of isolated, forgotten parts & of others that have been preserved for arbitrary reasons amid buildings from other eras & architectural styles. As with our more subjective & transient memories (for example, about the colours of the clothes people wore in the 1970s, which get confused in our minds with the hues of the photographs of that decade, leaving us wondering about their real colour), it is impossible khổng lồ re-enter the house where our grandparents lived or even the house where we grew up. In relation to architecture, access & allegiance are confused – like the reproductions of works of art in books to lớn which we once felt so closely attached that, when we cross the ocean and finally visit the museums where they are kept, we feel disappointed by the originals. There is a subjective memory that will always be linked with the image of photographs, videos of family, stories about people who shared the same space.

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Tropical Forest

Among the innumerable layers superimposed on the đô thị there is one that is almost forgotten by those who live here, perhaps because of the natural abundance that surrounds us. The streets of São Paulo, for example, are in constant need of renovation and repaving, destroyed by tree roots that insist on growing & retaking the city. Tough grass sprouts up between paving slabs. If there is no control over the growth of the city, there is also none over what remains of our ancestral city: the forest. Overhead, buzzards with enormous wingspans spiral over the buildings on hot air currents, while underfoot greenery breaks through the minutest cracks and fissures, in places where one would assume there could be no more life, buried under cement, stone và steel.

MASP

In the 1960s the Museu de Arte de São Paulo, designed by the architect Lina Bo Bardi, displayed a radical idea for an exhibition thiết kế in which different periods of art history were superimposed và conflated, as they are in the surrounding city. Modernist European và Latin-American paintings mingled with other older works in the museum’s permanent collection with no defined order or itinerary for visitors, inundated by the light and noise of the city outside. Bo Bardi’s innovative open-plan installation has now been completely revamped, but many people who lived in São Paulo in the 1970s and 1980s have embedded in their memories this collection of paintings floating together in a disorganized and suspended field. Khổng lồ ascend into the building via a transparent lift & arrive at a wall of glass fronting the exhibition hall was to lớn witness, all at once, multiple times, stories & languages – all compressed within a two-dimensional image of art history. For the visitor, khổng lồ walk through this one vast room was khổng lồ define your own path, to determine your own pictorial narrative & chain of associations.

Like the paintings inside, the MASP building itself was suspen-ded in the void, supported by four enormous columns over a ground-level terrace and belvedere, mở cửa to the public who pass along Avenida Paulista. The museum & its contents hovered overhead, approximating in volume the inviting vacuum left below in the street.

visible Cities

São Paulo seems to display more evidently a characteristic that it shares with all big cities: the impossibility of grasping it all at once, of understanding it as a whole, of travelling through every part of it, of applying any system of measurement or logic. It is a city made up of infinite temporary cities, superimposed and criss-crossed by a disorganized and expanding terrain, composed of the ‘exceptions, exclusions, incongruities, contradictions’ of which Calvino writes.

Its inhabitants negotiate its different times & spaces on a daily basis; the memory of the city is within each person who lives and moves through it, not in the ruins or buildings they (should) preserve; this makes São Paulo a city that remains alive and intense, in a state of constant flux. ‘Like language, which flows from mind khổng lồ mind, carrying images, feelings, thoughts. Through its flow, it draws mental landscapes that change the way we relate khổng lồ each other & to the world. It is about movement & change. It shows how our perspectives and horizons are changed by its incessant flow, how we do và do not step into the same river twice’.5

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Professor Emeritus of Political Science at Queens College, New York. Tác giả of Brazil: Culture và Politics in a New Industrial Powerhouse; Order và Progress: A Political History of Brazil; Latin...
President of the São Paulo Historical and Geographical Institute. Member of the São Paulo Academy of Letters. Member of the Brazilian Historical and Geographical Institute. Tác giả of História domain authority Civilização...
Encyclopaedia muabanvali.com"s editors oversee subject areas in which they have extensive knowledge, whether from years of experience gained by working on that content or via study for an advanced degree. They write new content and verify & edit content received from contributors.
Directly south of Sé Square is Liberdade, São Paulo’s large & colourful Asian (largely Japanese) district, with a great variety of restaurants & stores và a square that hosts folk festivals và a weekly open-air market. The Museum of Japanese Immigration is also in this district. West of Liberdade is the city’s Italian district, Bixiga. Well lớn Liberdade’s southeast is Independence Park, housing the Paulista and Zoological museums of the University of São Paulo. To its south are the districts of Jabaquara và Santo Amaro, site of the Empresarial Centre office complex (home khổng lồ branches of many U.S. Companies), which merge into the southwestern district of Campo Limpo, one of São Paulo’s larger industrial districts. Its expansion has spilled over into its southeastern neighbour Socorro, where the Interlagos Autodrome is the venue for Brazil’s Formula 1 Grand Prix competition races as well as other major tự động races.

North of the centre


São Paulo: Luz train station
Train station in Luz, São Paulo.(more)

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North of São Paulo’s centre are working-class neighbourhoods dotted with pockets of favelas, similar to those of other areas east và south of the centre. The run-down Luz district has been undergoing renovation since the early 2000s. The Jardim domain authority Luz, a large park just above Luz Railway Station (1901), offers performance spaces & houses the Museum of Sacred Art (formerly the church và convent of Luz <1579>), a short distance farther north.

The upper reaches of the neighbourhood of Ifigênia, along with Campos Eliseos & Santa Cecilia lớn the northeast, became part of São Paulo at the beginning of the 20th century. To lớn the west is more-developed Bom Retiro, traditionally home to immigrants from the Middle East & a large Jewish community, but since the 1970s populated by Korean immigrants. Nearby, the former Julio Prestes grand Victorian railway terminal has been transformed into a concert hall—the São Paulo Concert Hall, home of the São Paulo State Symphonic Orchestra.

Farther north the canalized Tietê River, with its bordering highways, provides a buffer for massive Anhembi Complex (1970), the site of a convention centre and the well-known Sambódromo, used for samba school parades during Carnival & for musical presentations.

On the south side of the river is another of the city’s large football stadiums, Canindé, trang chủ to the Portuguesa team. In the Água Branca neighbourhood, a mile south of the Tietê River and two miles north of Pacaembu, where the even more famous Corinthians now play, is the Palmeiras sport Society’s Parque Antárctica. Across the railroad tracks khổng lồ the north lies the Thomas Edison Industrial Park, extending up to lớn the Tietê. While much of the northwest is largely poor, the northeast, stretching up to lớn suburban Guarulhos, contains middle- & upper-class neighbourhoods.

East of the centre

The eastern boundary of the centre is constituted by long Dom Pedro II Park, a recreational oasis for Paulistanos, which runs along both sides of the canal of the Tamanduateí River reaching down from near the Municipal Market to the Minhocão elevated highway at the cấp độ of Liberdade. East of the park are a host of chiefly residential neighbourhoods of widely varying socioeconomic status. Like most outlying districts, they are characterized by low, red-roofed houses interspersed with high-rise apartments and office complexes, singly or in clusters. Farther south, in the populous working-class Moóca district, directly east of the city centre, yet another of the city’s football teams, Juventus, plays in Rua Javari Stadium. Still farther out, in Tatuapé district, is São Jorge Park, the original venue for the Corinthians, who now play most of their games in much larger Pacaembu Stadium.

Surrounding areas

São Paulo is surrounded on all sides by nearly two scores of industrial suburbs officially part of its metropolitan region. The largest include Diadema, São Bernardo vày Campo, Santo André, São Caetano vị Sul Mauá, and Ribeirão Pires lớn the south; Moji das Cruzes & Suzano on the east; Guarulhos in the north; và Osasco, Barueri, Cotia, & Itapecerica da Serra khổng lồ the west. Guarulhos is the site of São Paulo’s international airport, while Santo Andre, São Bernardo bởi Campo, & São Caetano bởi Sul (locally referred lớn as the ABC suburbs) contain a high concentration of automobile and steel plants.

What most sets São Paulo apart from the world’s other large urban conglomerations is its quality proximity to other large metropolitan regions. The gap between São Paulo’s southern suburbs and the north edge of Greater Santos has all but disappeared except for the steep drop down the escarpment. Similarly, São Paulo’s northern suburbs reach out almost khổng lồ the environs of Jundiaí, which itself is close to becoming an adjunct of Greater Campinas, whose steadily creeping southward edge is a mere 15 to trăng tròn miles (25 to 30 km) away. Moreover, eastward toward Rio de Janeiro, the São Paulo suburb of Moji das Cruzes is about 20 miles from Jacareí, a satellite of São José dos Campos, which is fast becoming the hub of a metropolitan region that is not significantly smaller than Santos or Campinas, where Brazil’s aviation & aerospace industries are located. Khổng lồ the west, the São Paulo suburb of Cotia is only a little more than 30 miles (50 km) from Votorantim, an annex of fast-expanding Sorocaba.

At present rates of growth, São Paulo is at the centre of four metropolitan region “spokes.” With smaller but already populous projections filling in between these, an extended Greater São Paulo will embrace possibly millions more inhabitants. São Paulo’s planners and policy makers must confront this daunting prospect and at the same time attempt to maintain & improve infrastructure & services for the region’s several million favela inhabitants và hundreds of thousands more slum dwellers.

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