I wish ATL had an observation deck


Screen Shot 2015-05-07 at 8.58.23 PM

I wish there was a good place to watch airplanes land and take off at Hartsfield-Jackson. My kids would love it, but really, I would love it.

It would be noisy and smelly, sure, but also mesmerizing. At 4,700 acres, HJ-AIA delivers the kind of vast vista that Atlanta sorely lacks. We don’t have waterfront views, or any kind of vantage point for the city. What we do have is a massive airport. It's our city's biggest asset, and we should leverage it for cultural, not just economic opportunity.

Whenever I get a glimpse of Hartsfield-Jackson, I'm impressed by the scale of it, and I'm not even an aviation buff. I find it kind of soothing to watch the relentless pace and precision of all those well-choreographed takeoffs and landings, one every few seconds. It’s an enormous operation, the world's busiest, apparently, but it's hard to get a sense of the whole.

I’ve tried to watch planes from the upper floors of the Airport Hilton, restaurants on Virginia Avenue, spots along Main Street in College Park, and from the elevated MARTA train. I often see people pulled over on the side of Loop Road to watch and take photos. These people get the cops called on them.

All these ad hoc observation decks feel risky, like I’m trespassing. And none of them provide a very good view.

We need a public space for this. Not just for “post-security” passengers, the Delta Elite SkyClub members and such, but open to all and free of admission. 

This observation deck would be a great place to take my kids, to meet people on their way to or from the airport, to dine, stroll, shop and people-watch. Picture a boardwalk, or promenade. Something as sweeping and grand as the airport itself. Picture the BeltLine, and its re-orienting effect on businesses nearby. Or just picture Frankfurt's recently re-opened "Visitors Terrace." 




Yes, lots of major airports have still observation decks, particularly overseas. There's a free, public "Panorama Terrace" at Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport and a long, open air public deck at Tokyo's Narita Airport.

Here in the U.S., SFO is planning to build 2 new observation decks: one in a hotel development and one that's entirely open to the public. At DFW, there's a public observation "plaza," with a memorial. Raleigh-Durham has an observation “area” which seems like a good post-911 compromise. It’s more like a park with a playground and coin-operated telescopes to view the overall airport operations. It also features “air traffic communications broadcast via a loudspeaker for the curious public.” 

(There’s a nice list of worldwide observation decks here, plus a whole rabbit hole of plane-spotting resources.)

Why do these airports do it? Why invest in an amenity that does not directly move passengers, or benefit airlines? 

Airports used to have observation decks.

Here’s Toronto’s Malton Airport around 1960:


in the jet age, when aircraft were even noisier and nastier than they are now, people lined up to watch the action at airports. Anytime I talk to a pilot, they have an origin story about spending time at an observation deck as a child, watching the airplanes for hours. The curious public was not so weary of air travel; airports were not so hostile towards the general public out of security concerns.

So observation decks satisfied an early PR need of the aviation industry, and along the way, became really interesting communal spaces that inspired a generation of pilots, flight attendants, and air traffic controllers. But they also served as a friendly link between the community and the airports themselves. 

Currently, the Atlanta Airport doesn't have anything like this, and it has only recently begun thinking in terms of community connectivity. For decades, the surrounding cities have been hunkered down, trying to protect themselves from airport noise and expansion. What if they turned their faces (and storefronts and parks) back towards the runways? When’s the last time the southside celebrated the opening of a new park?

This should happen, and the airport should do it. As a symbolic gesture to the community. As an amenity worthy of a world class airport.

I wish ATL had an observation deck. But more than that, I wish ATL had an observation deck mentality. More open, civic, and fun.



Cartoon Airplanes


I bought this framed poster, a print of an illustration called Plane Crazy, at a flea market in Monteagle, Tennessee for $10. This was not the giant, roadside I-24 Flea Market that greets interstate travellers at the peak of Monteagle Mountain every weekend. It was the other flea market, the one happening simultaneously, further down Highway 41, where locals go to buy and sell melons and tomatoes, chickens and ducks, camo and boots (new and used), taxidermied deer heads and scabby-tailed puppies, and strange collections of VHS tapes, glass ashtrays, and framed art. It’s the thrift store for a town without a thrift store, a yard sale for a community without yards.

Since I was standing in a gravel lot on a mountaintop in Tennessee, it took me a minute to recognize the airport. The airlines are now mostly defunct: Eastern, Pan Am, Piedmont. But the orange terminals caught my eye. Then the details: the Hapeville Ford plant, I-75 and I-85, and a MARTA train the size of a caterpillar. I have never seen such a wacky, colorful, loving representation of the gargantuan airport in my backyard.

The old man selling this drawing took my cash and I told him it was the Atlanta Airport. He didn’t know anything about the poster or where it came from. A tiny signature at the bottom says Alex Black (Psalm 139) and a tiny bus on I-75 is labeled “Convention ‘88” with a donkey. Maybe this poster was commissioned for the Democratic National Convention in 1988. Or some celebration surrounding a milestone at the new Midfield Terminal, which opened in 1981.

Whatever the occasion, this poster is evidence of an interesting moment in the history of aviation, of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, and of the southside of Atlanta. It is a celebration of the Atlanta Airport. With all those big-nosed, cartoon airplanes, all its Where’s Waldo activity, in its goofy and specific attention to detail, it makes the airport look fun, or even beloved. 


I wrote this post on an airplane. 

The next day, Mug spotted another Alex Black creation hanging on the wall at Delta Community Credit Union. This one looks like a playful, Delta-commisioned tribute to its fleet and employees created, maybe, around the 1996 Centennial Olympic games.

This one feels like an ad, where the first was more like a tool for placemaking. If I commissioned an illustration of the airport now, what would be celebrated?  

The Last House on South West Street


This part is so predictable, it’s almost boring. Like death. I dread writing it and, in fact, have been putting it off for months.


Last fall, a friend sent me some photos from Mountain View. They showed a freshly cleared demolition site: a yellow backhoe parked beside a bulldozer, a plane of combed red dirt, and a tidy stack of broken concrete slab.


I knew right away it was the lot at the corner of South West Street and Old Dixie Highway. I could tell by the angle of a jet aiming up and over the blank backside of a low warehouse. I’ve spent a lot of time with that one ivy-eaten oak tree, its top branches honeyed by the sunset. It was the site of the last remaining house on the last remaining corner of the street where I used to live.


The back of my neck felt hot as I flipped through the photos. It felt like a particularly large bill had finally arrived in the mail. You stand there in the street for a little too long, vaguely wishing you could mend the torn envelope, close the mailbox, return to sender. It was a dirty shock, but it could hardly be called a surprise.


They tore down Dell Air.


I have been observing the steady erasure of this block over the last decade. I’ve been to this spot many times, always in search of some clue about what happened to my house. What began in the early ‘80s with residential buyouts continues today with the clearing of commercial properties. It’s a slow process, imperceptible to the average passerby. The demolition seems to happen in slow motion, or in the night. I never actually witness the backhoes in action. I just cruise through and another Mountain View artifact is missing, fresh asphalt in its place.


Aside from that clawed up, unsettled feeling, it’s no surprise because the plans are out there; they’re public record. Mountain View has been at the top of Clayton County’s list of redevelopment projects for over a decade. While it may look like a good place to dump tires, in the eyes of a planner, Mountain View has a lot going for it. Clayton County’s Economic Development Director called it “the last great green, developable area inside the perimeter.”


It’s a delicate pitch. Mountain View is not a blank slate. There are still a few businesses, homes, and stragglers that need to be cleared. The only “green” swaths fall between the rows of warehouses, when summer kudzu unfolds across the ruins of the old neighborhoods.


Still, the location, wedged between the interstates and the airport, is ideal for logistics firms, freight-forwarders, and government agencies like the FAA. This proximity to the airport once made it an undesirable place to live. Now that’s the chief selling point. Clayton County is betting its economic future on these haunted acres.

A conceptual land use plan from 2003. 


(Portrait by John Kelso) 


The last house on South West Street wasn’t really a house anymore. It was the headquarters and sole location of Dell Air, a heating and air conditioning shop founded by Dell Thompson.


“My dad bought this house when I was 6 months old,” he told me. “In 1942. Back then, it had an outhouse.”


The house sits on a busy stretch of Old Dixie Highway facing the railroad tracks. As the only building left on the block, South West Street is essentially the driveway for Dell Air. The neighborhood of his childhood home sounds rural: chickens and goats, garden plots, a general store, and outhouses.


Thompson lived there until 1960, the year he graduated from Forest Park High School. That’s when his family moved out of Mountain View. Dell married, had kids, and came back in 1973 to set up his own business in the old house. He knew the location was ideal; he had learned the trade right down the street at his first job with Estes Heating & Air.


It should be no surprise that I had a family connection to Dell Thompson. His wife was my mother-in-law’s best friend and his son grew up with my husband. Now retired and living in Alabama, he met me at the office during one of his visits to Atlanta for medical appointments. I told him my parents lived on South West Street, it was my first childhood home too.


Thompson reminded me of that stoic uncle who’s a fixture at every cookout and holiday, maintaining his quiet post. A tall man in his 60s, I imagine he was a redhead before his mustache turned white. I recognized the heavy hands and shoulders of a long career in blue collar labor. Thompson’s measured, quiet demeanor could be a form of shyness. Or maybe it was the natural reticence of any interviewee. He kept his hands in his pockets and directed his words not really to me, but to the spaces off to the side. It was hard to get him to talk, so I asked for a tour.


The house had survived many conversions and additions over the years. The bricked-in porch was converted to the company vault. A 2-storey addition off the back of the house  more than doubled its square footage and gave the place a decidedly commercial entrance off Old Dixie Highway. This architectural hodge podge was cemented, literally, by a wraparound parking lot that connected the office to a long storage warehouse.


Even so, the heart of Dell Air was a lovely old bungalow. For me, it was an obvious model for my lost house down the block.


Inside, the domestic touches gave me flutters. The arched doorways and heavy glass knobs. The glossy tile indicating an otherwise hidden fireplace. Look past the traffic jam of filing cabinets and a service map rudely stapled to the wall, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine living there.


Except for the airplane noise. Due to the constant roar, business was conducted down the hall, in the unfortunately wood-paneled, but better-insulated addition to the office. The whole time we were talking, we were also lip reading. It’s a skill, he joked, that was part of growing up in Mountain View.


I asked if he remembered when the jet noise started to become a problem.


“In the ’40s, I guess,” he said. “But before that it was the trains.”


The Nancy Hank line, which ran mail for the U.S. Postal Service, was a regular presence in the neighborhood. It came through every morning at 9am, made the trip to Macon, Savannah and passed through again by 6pm. There were 3 crossings in Mountain View, each one a dangerous intersection.


“The trains were always billowing black smoke,” he said. “In the ‘50s, they tried to make the trains slow down.”


He shook his head. Another lost cause. Before the trouble with the airport, he told me, it was the trains. This was never a great place to live.


We stepped outside and I snapped some photos. He casually mentioned that the house was going to be torn down soon. He already had a deal with the County to sell the property, it was just a matter of timing.


I kept digging for some trace of sentimentality. Wasn’t there anything about the place he would miss? Not really, he said, amused that I would suggest it.


Thompson was pragmatic, but he did show me one thing. We searched for spot where the back stoop used to be where his initials and his brothers’ were etched in the concrete. He kicked aside the clumped weeds to find it: D.T. E.T. 1955.


Small fingers in wet cement. He made his own tiny memorial as a child. 


Road Realignment Phasing Plan, GDOT 2010.

I found a Georgia DOT map that shows how Mountain View will be transformed into the hub of a vast transportation network, connecting the new Maynard H. Jackson Jr. International Terminal (“Atlanta’s Front Door to the World”) on the west with I-285 to the east. At the center of these plans is the new Southern Crescent Multi-modal Transportation Center, a proposed commuter rail line that would connect Atlanta to Macon.


Even when you know the plans are out there, it’s jarring when it happens. A decade is a long time to wait, for rumors to drift, for people to protest, then dream, to be converted, then forget what the planners pitched. Planners can study and propose ideas, but they have no authority to build. It could take decades for market conditions to align. In 10 years, a baby becomes a fifth grader. In ten more, that kid is gone, his childhood home fixed in memory. Meanwhile, the eraser is a lumbering thing.


According to the map, Mountain View’s main streets, Old Dixie and Conley Road, will be relocated. A constellation of red dots mark structures for demolition, including Dell Air. Many of the buildings pictured in the base map are already gone. There will be nothing left of the original Mountain View community, except the name.


The red dots are precise and final--a glaring period that puts an end to all my words. 



Trick or Trunk-or-Treat


When did "Trunk-or-Treating" start to catch on? Here on the south side, I first noticed these events about 5 years ago. I drove by one last weekend on a trip through McDonough. Located in a church parking lot after Sunday services, it looked like a typical fall carnival, except that the cars and trucks were parked in the middle of the festivities instead of on the outer fringes. 


It got me thinking about this suburban phenomenon, what it is and what it means. "Trunk-or-Treat" events are promoted as "a safe, fun halloween alternative for families" where kids can "walk a well-lit parking lot and pick up treats from car trunks." People go all out decorating their car trunks and truck beds with fall themes. It's kind of like tailgating, but for kids.


So what exactly is "safe" about this "alternative" to old fashioned door-to-door trick-or-treating? Most trunk-or-treats are private events with a few ground rules: no demons or gore; no sex offenders or razors-loaded apples. And unlike sending your kids off to roam the public streets, there are no bad neighborhoods, no surprises. Just wholesome people who look like you. 


(Here in the Bible Belt, folks have always struggled with Halloween traditions. "What are you doing for Halloween?" is asked among parents with the same strategic gravitas as one might ask, "What are you going to do about the schools?")


While Trunk-or-Treat events may have started as religious secession, they are now popping up in school parking lots, town squares, and even hospitals and car dealerships. I think this new tradition has been embraced not because it offers an alternative to heathen Halloween activities, but for more obvious reasons: walkability. 


I grew up trick-or-treating in many different neighborhoods, not always my own. I guess we targeted a street based on a formula of density, convenience, and affluence to calculate its ability to provide the most free candy in the least amount of time. One year we ditched the streets altogether and went trick-or-treating at Southlake Mall.


In communities like McDonough--recently rural and rapidly transformed by suburban sprawl--traditional door-to-door trick-or-treating is nearly impossible. With houses spread out on 2 acre parcels, no sidewalks, and no street lighting, it would not only be impractical, it would be dangerous to haul your kids around begging for candy. In sprawl conditions, I agree that trunk-or-treating is "safer," but is not really an "alternative." This simulation has replaced the original Halloween ritual. 


I guess we better get used to taking our kids to parking lots to collect candy from car trunks. Just another way the shape of the built environment modifies our culture. 



Not a Flight Attendant


"Hello. You have reached Hannah's phone and I am not a flight attendant." 

For a long time, this was the voicemail greeting on my mobile phone. Friends and family thought it was an odd joke, referring to my fascination with the Atlanta airport. But it wasn't a joke; it was a friendly warning to all the flight attendants who leave me long, detailed voicemails about switching flights. The screenshots above are two recent examples of the coded messages that mistakenly land in my phone on a regular, perhaps monthly basis. 

I have been receiving these calls, voicemails, and now text messages, for as long as I have had this phone number. Now that I think about it, it's been 10 years.

I don't know why they call me. My best guess is that my phone number is one digit away from that of a veteran flight attendant named Collette. As I listen to their mysterious jargon, it feels like I accidentally tuned into this frequency just by living so close to the airport.

Wrong numbers are kind of funny. Repeated wrong numbers are annoying. But these calls have been going on for a decade now. They have become a tiny part of my life. My own peripheral peek into the aviation industry. I might even miss them if they stopped.

Planespotting in College Park



I can't argue with the hateful comments in response to my iReport on CNN.com, especially this one:

"Truthfully your kids would probably rather just go watch the planes at the airport than see your old houses."

It's true! My little guy is fascinated and freaked out by the up-close force of airplanes. We found the perfect spot to watch them land. Just beyond the south end of Main Street in College Park, the runway guide lights begin. It feels like the airplanes are close enough snap the treetops. Look west, and you can see the jets grow larger as they descend, focusing from a warbly light in the distance to an enormous, juddering shell of steel, blacking out the sky.

My toddler leaps into my arms as the noise washes over us. Then, seeing that we have survived, he cheers, "Bye airplane!" and studies the horizon for the next arrival.

The perfect portrait for this story



John Kelso's photos of Mountain View got picked up by The Oxford American photo blog, Eyes on the South! Also included is the audio that Mug recorded in our garage studio one evening last summer after we put the baby to bed. It was stuffy and hot, but we didn't want the noise from the AC buzzing in the background. We had to keep pausing the recording because my neighbor's dog was barking and, of course, the airplanes are much more noticeable out back.

John's photos capture a fleeting moment in Mountain View's continuing transformation. The spot where he made the picture above overlooks the former site of the Ford Assembly Plant, which, from 1947 to 2006, was a major employer for southside communities like Mountain View. Shortly after our visit, Henry Ford Avenue was renamed Porsche Avenue, and by November, Porsche broke ground on their new world headquarters here. It's too late for Mountain View, but Hapeville is poised for a comeback.

City Hall Revisited: Who are the buildings in your neighborhood?


City Hall Wannabes, by Richie Gunn

from left to right: Atlanta City Hall (1930), One Atlantic Center (1987), Two Atlantic Center (2001), Some Condo Tower on Spring Street, The Four Seasons Hotel/GLG Grand (1992).


Now that I’ve discovered City Hall, I see it everywhere. It’s easy to spot the tower as I cruise north on I-75/85 or west on Memorial Drive. Its green top stands deferentially next to the gleaming Capitol dome, rising above the downtown federal buildings that form a cliff overlooking the river of traffic below.

I also see it in Midtown. That pointy green roof and gothic flourishes appear to be the inspiration for a whole crop of late ‘80s skyscrapers. One and Two Atlantic Center (a.k.a. the IBM Building and Mini-me) and the Four Seasons Hotel have the same stately ambitions. Today I spotted two high-rise condos on Spring Street wearing the watered-down ideas of City Hall.

I might not have noticed this resemblance without playing ask-an-architect. My office is swarming with them. I cornered one by the microwave one day in the middle of nuking his lunch.

“At what point is a building considered ‘historic’?” I asked.

“It’s typically the 50 year mark,” he said. As he stirred his potatoes with a plastic fork, he grew thoughtful. “But just because it’s old, it doesn’t mean it’s historic.”

From our kitchen window, we looked down on the shiny High Musuem of Art and an assortment of skyscrapers arranged down Peachtree Street. “And just because we’re sentimental about a building, it doesn’t mean it’s good.”

As he darted off with his steaming plate of leftovers, I felt even more puzzled about Atlanta’s bad eighties buildings – the landscape of my childhood. Who gets to decide their value?

My ad hoc research on Atlanta City Hall presented another curiosity: Why is it so hard to get any information about the buildings that surround us?

Between Google and Wikipedia, IMDB, Yelp, and Amazon, I have become accustomed, or spoiled, to think that I am 3 clicks away from an infinite stream instant, free data and opinions about practically any subject that springs to mind. But buildings are an exception. In order to identify the architect of record for a major downtown structure like City Hall, it’s hard to believe I must either a) buy an AIA Guide to Atlanta or b) buy access to the AJC archives.

I finally chose the latter, coughed up the $5.95 for a day pass and found a couple articles from 1989 that addressed my questions:

1. Who designed this place? The team included members of Atlanta firms Muldawer & Moultrie, Jova/Daniels/Busby and Harris & Partners. (Knowing their names opens the floodgate of online trivia. Jova/Daniels/Busby was responsible for the Carter Center, Atlanta Botanical Gardens, and Colony Square, Atlanta's first "mixed-use" development.)

2. Was it a success in 1989? Some teenagers interviewed at the opening festivities gave it an enthusiastic appraisal. But the nicest thing critic Cathy Fox could say was the annex “skillfully communicates an ideal of city government in the plan.” In other words, it looked good on paper. She went on to compare it to the original, 1930 tower next door:

The “Neo-Neo-Gothic of the new is less graceful than Mr. Preacher's detailing, and applying it to a building of these proportions doesn't quite work. One is reminded of seeing hand-me-downs from a tall, elder sibling on a chubby little sister.”

Likewise, Preacher's detailing, which was so elegant at the 11-story scale, looks cartoonish when applied to 50 story skyscrapers and repeated across Midtown.

3. As for my last question – Should it be preserved? – I guess it’s too early to say. Reading Maria Saporta’s recent editorial “As historic buildings disappear, Atlanta losing its sense of place,” I thought more about that “historic” designation and the anonymity of Atlanta’s places.

To those of us who are not planners or developers, critics or reporters, who don’t own an AIA guidebook or have a registered architect nearby to pester, our environment is a mystery. I’m not talking about the signature parks or skyscrapers – the places you can google, but ordinary roads and strip malls, the intersections and bridges, the grocery stores, fast food joints, gated subdivisions and apartment complexes… they were all designed by somebody. A first step towards understanding, valuing and eventually preserving these places may be simply claiming responsibility for them. A free, online platform for sharing information about buildings (like this) would be a first step towards better knowing our own city.

Atlanta City Hall Annex (1989)


I visited 55 Trinity Avenue this week, also known as Atlanta City Hall. I thought maybe I had been to City Hall before, but I somehow fudged that assumption, even to myself. The place is unmistakable, and this was definitely my first trip.

The City Hall complex fills the entire block between Mitchell, Central, Washington and Trinity at the southern edge of downtown Atlanta. “City Hall Tower” on Mitchell Street has that churchy, marble-carved, gilded look of pre-war government buildings. It rises 11 stories right between the the gold-domed state capitol, which I toured as a giddy elementary schooler, and the Fulton County Courthouse, where I report for jury duty every 18 months or so. You can’t miss it, yet I have missed it all these years. 

I paid the parking meter, climbed the stairs, emptied my pockets for the security scanner, and rode a claustrophobic little elevator up to the 3rd floor before I realized that this was not the right City Hall. I later learned that this 1930 neo-gothic landmark –  the 4th of Atlanta's many city halls –  was replaced by a new annex in March of 1989. The office I needed was on the other side of the block.

Opting for the ornate marble staircase this time, I pushed through the heavy oak doors and walked back outside. This is the dumb argument I had in my head as I made my way around the block: I can’t believe you’ve never been to City Hall. You’ve lived in Atlanta almost your whole life. You write about it, talk about it, call yourself a native. Wait, I thought, let’s be honest. I’ve never actually lived inside the city limits. I’ve lived in Forest Park, Decatur, and East Point. Why would I ever need to visit Atlanta City Hall? Technically, I’m not an Atlantan!

As I rounded Washington Street, past a half dozen local news vans parked and chugging on generators, I caught my first glimpse of 55 Trinity. After my ten minute detour in the wrong building, a place that resembled the "fabulous" Fox Theatre, I could hardly believe this was right. Atlanta’s new and improved City Hall hovered before me, a space-age stone bunker, flanked by walls of green mirrored glass. The flagpoles out front suggested that this might be a government building, but it was the stream of visitors – moving briskly in suits and uniforms, dangling credentials and briefcases – that confirmed that I had indeed found the city seat. That, and the sign out front. The brass letters said ATLANTA CITY HALL in the same terribly dated typeface that dominated banners and signage and t-shirts during the Olympics.

Oh wow, I laughed. I’ve never seen this before in my life.

Inside, my sense of wonder and unease bloomed into a near panic attack. I sent my bag down another conveyor belt and stepped through a metal detector into a bright, soaring atrium. It was an overcast afternoon, and white daylight flooded the hollow, glass-topped heart of the multi-story atrium. Dozens of conversations drifted through the hall, drowned out by the busy splashing of a central fountain. The heads of city officials bobbed along the glass rim of each floor. The effect supposed to be jaw-dropping and downright heavenly – there could’ve been a harpist on the mezzanine. But I was left flipping through a set of stale suburban references in my head: it’s a hotel, a shopping mall, it’s the bridge of the USS Enterprise. A cluster of middle-aged ladies in white suits posed for a photo in front of a conference room.

With the parking meter in mind, I completed my errand quickly. I couldn’t help but critique the brassy brass fixtures, the gaudy layers of green and rose marble. It looked like nothing had been updated in 20 years. All the décor choices that communicated stability, refinement, and luxury in the early ‘90s, now simply said one thing: 1996. We are stuck in 1996. The year I graduated from high school.

I left this time warp with a swirl of questions. Who designed this place? Was it a success in 1989? Are there plans to update it? Or should it be preserved, along with dozens of other downtown buildings, as an icon of Atlanta's pre-Olympic glory? The fact that there's virtually no information about this building on the internet, and no images, leads me to believe that we are not yet to the point of "celebrating" late '80s and early '90s architecture in this city. 

2 minutes in Mountain View


Krog Street promo mural via Slideluck Atlanta


I'm excited that Johnathon Kelso's Mountain View photo series will be featured in Slideshow Potluck, an international slideshow salon presented as part of Atlanta Celebrates Photography. John fell in love with Mountain View after reading my essay "Walking Tours of Lost Cities," and started his own airport-area expeditions. We collaborated to produce the multimedia slideshow that debuts October 28 at Ambient+ Studio.

Here's our exhibition proposal:

"Mountain View, GA" is a photo series that attempts to document the rapidly disappearing remains of what was once a thriving community near the Atlanta airport. From 1956 until it was dissolved by an act of the state legislature in 1978, the small town of Mountain View--so named for its clear view of Stone Mountain--was home to 3000 people. Though it was negatively impacted by jet noise from "the world's busiest airport," residents remember it as a quiet "Mayberry," where neighbors knew each other, kids played ball in the streets until dusk, and no one felt the need to lock their doors.
Plagued by allegations of corruption in the city government, Mountain View was ultimately doomed by the opening of the airport's new "Midfield" terminal in 1980. By then, The City of Atlanta's Department of Aviation completed is massive acquisition of Mountain View properties and relocation of the residents. The houses  were moved, sold, and demolished and an entire community was displaced.
Today, the city is scarcely remembered or discussed. The area is now part of unincorporated Clayton County, occupied by warehouses and airport-related industrial facilities. But the remains of Mountain View's neighborhoods, churches and storefronts are still visible beyond the blocked-off streets and kudzu-covered wreckage. Johnathon Kelso revisited Mountain View to chronicle what's left and what has grown in the ruins, from airplane-spotters and small congregations, to a roaming population of squatters and feral cats. These glimpses begin to trace the story of a lost and unmourned landscape.