Now imagine this: You are at a pedestrian crossing. You are waiting for the green light to cross the street.
As soon as the light turns green, you step down from a height difference of just a few centimeters without even noticing it. If you have a stroller with you, you instinctively lift its front wheels slightly.
You do not do this consciously. But you know there is a change in level there.

This is exactly what I want to talk about:
Are these small differences in grade really necessary in public spaces?

At this point, let us take a look at the effects that changes in level have on us as users.

What Is a Change in Grade, and Why Is It Created?

A change in grade refers to the height difference of one surface in relation to another. Sometimes it appears as a barely noticeable variation, and at other times as a step that directly affects movement. While walking during the day, stepping down from a sidewalk, or moving from one area to another, we actually encounter this difference constantly. In general, it is not accidental; it is created in response to certain needs. It directly affects how a space is perceived, how it is used, and even how people move within it. From a design perspective, levels give depth to a place. A single-level area often creates a monotonous perception, while the use of different levels together offers the user a sense of discovery. People experience space not only by seeing it, but by moving through it. For example, a rise of just a few steps can separate a seating area from a walking axis while also giving the space a natural rhythm. Boundaries that are not felt on a flat surface begin to form almost by themselves through level play.

However, when these necessities are not interpreted correctly, they can create outcomes that negatively affect the user experience.

The main reasons for creating changes in grade in spaces can be summarized as follows:

• Drainage and Water Management: I think this is one of the most invisible benefits of level differences in our daily lives. Grade changes are created to prevent water accumulation and to direct water movement. If they are not resolved correctly, however, this situation can reverse itself and lead to puddles and surface deterioration.
• Separation of Circulation: Today, we frequently encounter the concept of level difference in separating pedestrian, vehicle, and bicycle routes. However, because such differences can create barriers in terms of accessibility, we will discuss in the following sections how these changes are increasingly being eliminated in new design approaches.
• Safety and Boundary Definition: In dense urban areas, this method is often used as a control mechanism. It helps make different use areas more legible and guides the user through the space.
• Separating Spaces from One Another: We use changes in grade to define spaces and boundaries belonging to different use scenarios. Step differences created between seating areas and green spaces, or between circulation routes and green areas, can be given as examples. However, defining such separation through sharp level differences may create problems in terms of accessibility and continuity, especially in public spaces. In current design approaches, these kinds of distinctions have begun to be defined through material changes or surface language rather than changes in grade. We will examine this issue in more detail in the following sections.

What Has Modern Design Changed?

In the traditional design approach we are familiar with, spaces serving different uses were separated from one another by sharp boundaries. Sidewalks, curbs, and visible grade changes were seen as the most basic ways of defining space.

Over time, however, this approach began to be questioned in terms of user experience. Accessibility, in particular, became an issue concerning everyone in public spaces, from people with disabilities and users with strollers to children aged three or four and people over the age of sixty-five.

The emergence of all these issues created the need for a new design approach. Differences between surfaces were softened and made more fluid, reducing changes in grade to a minimum. In this way, the main aim became to guide user movement without interrupting its flow.

In this newly shaped approach, the goal is not to restrict the user, but to create a natural flow within the space.

Minimizing grade differences in this way does not mean leaving the space undefined. On the contrary, it increases the importance of details such as texture and color in material selection. In this changing design language, these details now enter our lives as tools of navigation.

In more traditional designs, hardscape materials were often handled in a visual and commercial manner. In the new approach, however, aesthetic perception gains importance, and the harmony between materials becomes more central. The perception of the space as a whole has led to the emergence of new strategies.

This design evolution is not only a technical solution; it also brings an ethical stance into the present day. The ability of a wheelchair user and an athlete to move on the same plane with the same level of comfort increases the inclusive power of public space. The success of design at this point lies in removing physical barriers while also making social barriers invisible.

The point where aesthetics meets function, and function meets social justice, is, I must say with pride, a real victory of modern landscape architecture.

The Blending of Surfaces

The disappearance of sharp boundaries allows space to break free from its rigid form and take on a more flexible identity. In traditional design, an area defined only as a passageway can, in a modern approach, become a meeting point, an exhibition area, or a resting corner through the blending of surfaces. The disappearance of boundaries can also be understood as the user redefining the space according to their own initiative or needs. In this respect, modern design does not draw strict limits around the function of a space; instead, it opens a field of experience for it.

The physical boundaries and curbs we are used to seeing in daily life have a guiding effect on users, telling them where to stop, where to pass, or how to move. In the spatial logic developed by modern design, however, users enter a more intuitive process of wayfinding. This turns movement into a strategy in which the user draws their own route.

When design begins to manage possibilities instead of drawing boundaries, landscape becomes not just a place to look at, but a process to be lived.

The most concrete and functional expression of the principle of blending surfaces is the meeting of bicycle paths and pedestrian axes on a single flush surface. The high sidewalks and curbstones that sharply separate these routes in traditional urban planning are giving way, in modern landscape design, to a smooth continuity.

In this approach, the distinction between bicycle paths and pedestrian routes is defined not by a physical barrier, but by the character of the material itself. By material character, we can understand differences such as color, texture, size, and joint pattern.

These clean surfaces, where people do not encounter any step or noticeable slope difference while crossing from one side to another, minimize visual clutter in spaces while also highlighting the clarity of the design.

This design language developed on a single plane does not divide the space into fragments; instead, it brings all parts together on a common ground.

The result is a holistic landscape in which design is freed from unnecessary complexity and movement continues in flow without interruption.

Examples of Modern Landscape Approaches from Around the World

1- Road Design Examples from Budapest and Prague

These are photographs I took in Budapest and Prague. Although the roads in question serve both vehicle and pedestrian circulation, they are separated without creating any change in grade, through differences in paving and various guiding elements. Stormwater management is provided through slopes that are almost imperceptible on the surface, preventing water from accumulating above ground.

2- Queens Plaza North, Long Island City, New York

This image shows the Queens Plaza North (Dutch Kills Green) project, a modern and functional example of urban landscape architecture. Planned in 2003 by a team led by Margie Ruddick, the project aimed to resolve complex infrastructure on a single, step-free ground plane for pedestrians and cyclists, transforming it into a corridor that also includes greenery. As can be seen in the photograph, everything is accessible and barrier-free.

The large slabs used in pedestrian paths and resting areas were designed with permeable concrete and stone materials that allow rainwater to move into the ground. Asphalt was preferred for the bicycle paths, while bicycle icons and pedestrian crossing lines were marked in white paint. We can say that the design clarifies visual guidance by creating a strong contrast.

The plants resembling Carex on the right side of the bicycle path, moving with the wind, can also be interpreted from the photograph as adding dynamism to the concrete texture.

3- Street and Road Designs in Hoogeveen, the Netherlands

The unusual and creative sidewalk design in the image is part of the Netherlands’ urban planning approach, especially the concept of the “woonerf” or “living street.” These designs, which are quite common in the Netherlands, transform the identity of the street through geometric shapes and contrasting colors, unlike conventional paving. At the same time, from a sustainability perspective, bricks made from 100% natural clay are used, and products resistant to wear and color fading are preferred.

4- Bancroft Way, Berkeley, California

Designed by Peter Walker and Partners, this project carries highly characteristic qualities in terms of detail resolution, especially for us as landscape architects. The joints between concrete slabs were strategically designed for stormwater management. Channels filled with river stones were used as an aesthetic drainage solution that allows water to filter down into the lower layer. This project can be considered a successful example of how aesthetics and technique, such as water management and durability, can be brought together, especially for university campuses or plazas with intense pedestrian circulation.

Is it enough to design a city together with nature by reducing nature only to green spaces allocated at ground level? Does the limited availability of land for creating green areas in cities mean that the possibilities of planting design have been exhausted? In today’s cities, where dense urban development dominates, it has become almost inevitable to consider architectural surfaces as part of planting design. In this context, the espalier technique stands out as an alternative and effective design approach that integrates nature with architecture in limited spaces.

Theoretical and Spatial Framework of the Espalier Technique

The espalier technique is a traditional cultivation method based on guiding plants along a specific plane, with its origins extending back to European garden art. Historically developed especially for fruit trees to make more efficient use of sunlight and increase yield, this technique has today moved beyond being merely an aesthetic garden practice. It has become a contemporary design approach that establishes spatial continuity between architecture and landscape. Particularly in narrow and limited areas, turning vertical planes into active components of landscape design offers significant advantages in softening façade effects, improving microclimatic conditions, and supporting fruit production potential.

Historical Development of the Espalier Technique

The origins of espalier practices date back to medieval Europe. First used in palace gardens in France and Italy to increase the productivity of fruit trees, this technique provided microclimatic advantages by benefiting from the heat-retaining properties of stone wall surfaces. In the 17th century, with the development of geometric order in French garden art, espalier systems gained an aesthetic character and were widely used in the gardens of the Palace of Versailles.

Today, the espalier technique is gaining renewed importance as a planting approach reconsidered both in the conservation of historic gardens and in contemporary urban landscape design.

Spatial and Design Characteristics of the Espalier Technique

Espalier practices represent an important design approach that contributes to spatial organization by integrating plant elements with architectural surfaces. Through this technique:

• the capacity of plantable surfaces can be increased by incorporating vertical planes into landscape design in limited spaces, thereby supporting green continuity in urban areas,
• the dominant visual effect of hard-surfaced urban fabric can be reduced, while spatial comfort and environmental perception quality can be improved,
• the perceived scale of building façades can be balanced, allowing a more integrated spatial relationship between architectural mass and landscape elements,
• spatial continuity can be strengthened through a planting organization that is not limited to the horizontal plane, increasing the layered legibility of the urban landscape,
• microclimatic conditions can be improved by playing a regulating role on solar radiation, wind effect, and surface temperatures,
• vertical greening can contribute to reducing the urban heat island effect, improving the thermal performance of façade surfaces, and supporting urban ecology,
• opportunities can be created to increase biodiversity in limited areas by forming alternative habitats for birds and pollinator species.

In this respect, the espalier technique is not merely a method of guiding plant growth; it is also regarded as a multilayered design tool that establishes an integrated relationship between architecture and landscape while supporting the ecological, visual, and microclimatic performance of urban space.

Classification of Espalier Form Types

The form types used in espalier practices show different geometric organizations depending on the growth direction of the plant, the arrangement of the support system, and the design objective. These forms not only guide plant development but also act as important design tools that define the aesthetic character of the spatial composition.

Among the most commonly used espalier systems in the literature are cordon, palmette Verrier, candelabra, fan, Belgian fence, and informal form types.

Cordon Form

This form is based on guiding the main trunk horizontally as a single line, known as a single cordon, or as multiple parallel layers, known as double or multiple cordon. It is especially preferred in narrow spaces to create linear planting. By providing horizontal continuity along the façade, it strengthens spatial orientation and offers efficient surface use in limited areas.

Palmette Verrier Form

This is a classical French espalier form characterized by a symmetrical and layered branch organization. Lateral branches emerging from the main trunk are regularly guided at specific angles, creating a geometric structure. It produces a strong axial effect in formal garden arrangements and provides an integrated composition with architectural façades.

Candelabra Form

This form is created by directing vertical branches emerging from the main trunk upward at regular intervals. Through its repeated vertical branch structure, it forms a rhythmic and orderly plant composition on façade surfaces. It is especially preferred on broad wall surfaces and in the spatial definition of public areas.

Fan Form

This form is based on the radial spreading of branches emerging from the main trunk. It supports plant development by creating a balanced distribution of light and produces an aesthetic transition effect in semi-formal garden arrangements. It is frequently used in small-scale gardens and courtyard walls.

Belgian Fence Form

This is a woven system formed by connecting the diagonally guided branches of multiple trees. It is used to create a semi-permeable plant boundary element and provides spatial separation, direction, and visual continuity. It is widely applied in parks, pedestrian axes, and garden boundaries.

Informal Form

This is a flexible espalier system based on guiding the plant in a controlled way without completely suppressing its natural growth character. Since it creates a more organic and natural appearance, it is preferred in contemporary urban landscape designs. Its maintenance requirements are lower than those of other formal systems, and it adapts well to sustainable design approaches.

The Effect of Espalier Form Types on Spatial Perception and Façade Organization

Espalier form types should not be considered merely as technical pruning methods that determine the direction of plant growth. They also function as design tools that play a decisive role in shaping spatial perception and defining the character of the relationship established with architectural surfaces. The geometric order, rhythm of repetition, and orientation pattern of the selected form influence the way façade surfaces are perceived and allow visual continuity to be established between architectural mass and plant elements. For example, cordon and palmette Verrier systems, which show linear and layered organization, create horizontal continuity and a sense of order along the façade, while candelabra and fan forms generate stronger vertical emphasis and contribute to redefining the scale of the surface. The Belgian fence system, on the other hand, can function as a semi-permeable spatial boundary, acting as both a separating and guiding landscape element. In this context, the choice of espalier form should not be treated only as a botanical preference related to the growth character of the plant, but as an integrated design decision that directly affects the perceptual impact of the architectural surface, spatial organization, and user experience.

Plant Species Used in Espalier Practices

The plant species to be used in espalier practices should have flexible branches, be tolerant of pruning, and possess a growth habit suitable for training. In addition, having a high shoot-producing capacity, being suitable for form development, and being able to adapt to regular long-term maintenance interventions are among the main criteria that directly affect the success of the application. Species selection should also be evaluated together with the scale of the space, façade orientation, climatic conditions, and design objective. In this context, the most commonly preferred species in espalier practices are listed below:

• Malus domestica apple
• Pyrus communis pear
• Prunus domestica plum
• Ficus carica fig
• Carpinus betulus common hornbeam
• Tilia cordata small-leaved linden
• Photinia × fraseri photinia
• Pyracantha coccinea firethorn
• Ligustrum vulgare common privet

These species allow balanced aesthetic, functional, and ecological solutions to be produced in espalier systems thanks to their formability and flexibility of use at different spatial scales.

Application and Pruning Principles in Espalier Plants

Espalier application is a planned process based on the controlled direction of plant growth. In the first stage of implementation, an appropriate species should be selected, and the sunlight exposure, wind effect, and spatial conditions of the surface where the plant will be placed should be evaluated. Then, a support system consisting of wires, anchors, and connection elements should be installed to support the plant’s development, and the young sapling should be planted in a position suitable for this system. Regular training interventions carried out in the first years play a decisive role in forming the desired shape by enabling the main structural branches to develop in the intended direction.

Regular maintenance practices are of great importance for espalier plants to maintain healthy growth and preserve the established form. The foundation of this maintenance process is periodic pruning, in which the main structural branches are preserved while side shoots that disrupt the form are brought under control. Summer pruning supports the continuity of the form, while winter pruning strengthens the plant’s structural framework. In addition, guiding shoots according to the support systems, regular irrigation, balanced fertilization, and periodic inspection of support elements are among the basic maintenance steps that determine the long-term success of the application.

Use of Espalier in Urban Landscape Design

Espalier practices stand out as an alternative planting strategy, especially in urban areas dominated by dense development. Narrow sidewalk sections, building façades, courtyard walls, boundary elements, and semi-permeable spatial dividers are among the most common areas of use for this technique. In addition, it allows vertical surfaces to be incorporated into landscape design in interior courtyards, public pedestrian axes, square surroundings, school gardens, and semi-public transition spaces of residential settlements, contributing to the strengthening of spatial continuity. It is also regarded as an effective design tool for reducing the visual impact of technical infrastructure elements, spatially defining service areas, and creating controlled plant organization in urban open spaces with limited plot depth. In this respect, espalier systems gain importance as part of a green infrastructure approach integrated with architectural surfaces and supporting landscape continuity in hard-surfaced urban environments.

Microclimatic Contributions

Espalier practices are regarded as an effective landscape strategy that contributes to improving the urban microclimate through the controlled relationship established between building surfaces and plant elements. Plant layers guided along vertical surfaces reduce the direct effect of solar radiation on building façades, help balance surface temperatures, and contribute to limiting excessive heating, especially during the summer months. At the same time, they allow more comfortable microclimatic conditions to form around buildings by regulating wind movement, preserving surface moisture balance, and increasing the shading effect.

Espalier applications, especially on south-facing façades, support the controlled use of solar energy, accelerating plant growth and contributing to earlier flowering and increased yield in fruit trees. In addition, plant surfaces created along façades help reduce the urban heat island effect; they also provide environmental benefits such as improving air quality, capturing dust, and reducing surface reflections. In this sense, espalier systems stand out as one of the important components of climate-sensitive urban landscape design, beyond their aesthetic and spatial contributions.

Nature Limited by Surface, Integrated with Space

In increasingly dense cities, the designer’s relationship with plants is also changing. The issue is no longer only about placing trees in empty spaces; it is about transforming limited surfaces into living infrastructure. In my view, the espalier technique emerges precisely at this point as an important design tool. This approach makes it possible to turn nature from an element gradually pushed away from the city into an active part of architectural surfaces.

Today, in cities, it is possible to rethink the trees for which we often cannot find enough space by considering them on surfaces. On a façade, in a courtyard, along a narrow street, or on a boundary wall… Espalier gives us the opportunity to treat a tree not merely as a landscape element, but as a design component that creates space. Therefore, espalier is not only a technical cultivation method; it is a powerful approach carrying clues for a more integrated, more sensitive, and more contemporary urban aesthetic between architecture and landscape.

References

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While scrolling through X, I came across a sentence by Ali Kaan: “Turks deserve to live not in cramped apartment flats, but in real Turkish houses with courtyards.” At first glance, the sentence may sound a bit romantic, even a bit assertive… Yet there are some sentences that, before proving their truth, awaken a desire to imagine. That’s what it did for me. Suddenly, I found myself in that stone-paved courtyard from the image, standing beside a flowering tree whose shadow fell softly onto the ground, in front of a house whose wooden windows filtered the morning light gently inside. Then I added a garden behind that vision. A well, a divan, a faint sound of water, vines leaning against a stone wall, a bay window above, a hayat in between, a sofa inside… And then I realized: I wasn’t just thinking about a house; I was imagining a way of life.

Then I decided to prepare a detailed article so that everyone could understand the features of Turkish houses. Of course, I started with research. I encountered drawings, terminology, interpretations of old urban fabrics, and a spatial worldview stretching from Safranbolu to Bukhara. And in the end, I saw this more clearly: the Turkish house is not merely an architectural heritage of the past. It is also a thought written into space about how we might live together, how we should perceive, and perhaps even how we can remain human.

In most modern cities today, buildings rise within their parcels with individual ambitions. Each stands independent, sometimes even in rivalry with the others. In the traditional Turkish city, however, the relationship is different. A house considers not only its own comfort but also its neighbor’s light, the street’s shade, and the neighborhood’s air. That is why, in traditional horizontally developed Turkish neighborhoods, there is said to be a sensitivity that can be summarized as: “one house’s shadow should not block another’s sunlight.”

Today, we often discuss housing in terms of square meters, façade, view, number of rooms, kitchen type, and site amenities. Yet the traditional Turkish house asked this question differently. Rather than “how big should a house be,” it focused on what kind of life a house should carry. This small difference actually transforms the entire architectural approach. Because then the structure ceases to be a shell enclosing a person and becomes an organism that accompanies daily rhythms, shapes the relationship with nature, and invisibly preserves the ethics of neighborliness.

When one thinks of a Turkish house, the bay window usually comes to mind first. White plastered walls, wooden beams, deep shadows under the eaves, stone-paved streets, and sometimes high courtyard walls… Yet trying to understand the Turkish house only through its appearance remains incomplete. Because its strength lies partly in an internal logic not immediately visible from the outside. At the center of that logic is a sense of measure. But this measure is not merely mathematical or geometric. It is also about propriety, rights, climate knowledge, and the subtlety of living.

For this reason, when discussing the Turkish house, one must also discuss the city. Because the Turkish house is rarely independent from the street. It is an organic extension of the urban fabric it belongs to. In most modern cities today, buildings rise within their parcels with individual ambitions. Each stands independent, sometimes even in rivalry. In the traditional Turkish city, however, the relationship is different. A house considers not only its own comfort but also its neighbor’s light, the street’s shade, and the neighborhood’s air. That is why, in traditional horizontally developed Turkish neighborhoods, there exists a sensitivity summarized as: “one house’s shadow should not block another’s sunlight.”

When thinking of Turkish houses, one of the first cities that comes to mind is undoubtedly Safranbolu. Interestingly, while writing this piece, I went back to my own photo archive and revisited the day I first saw Safranbolu. I realized that I first visited this city exactly 14 years ago, on April 21, 2012. Despite the time that has passed, the feeling of that first encounter remains vivid. Even in times when the buildings were not presented as spectacularly as today, Safranbolu evoked deep admiration. Because what was impressive was not just the beauty of individual houses, but the measure, calmness, and elegance of the entire fabric.

Looking at settlements like Safranbolu, this becomes even more concrete. As houses settle on slopes, they do not simply compete to capture the best view. Instead of an aggressive logic that blocks each other completely, there is a composition that steps back, layers, and breathes. That is why these houses do not only look beautiful; they also feel fair.

At this point, it is possible to speak of a silent connection between urbanism and morality. Because the Turkish understanding of the city is not merely a physical arrangement to meet housing needs, but the spatial manifestation of the relationship between people and nature.

Streets are also an important part of this system. Narrow streets are often perceived negatively today. Yet in traditional contexts, narrowness does not necessarily mean congestion. On the contrary, narrow streets create shade, protect pedestrians, and establish a human-scale relationship between buildings and people.

Among the most striking façade elements is undoubtedly the bay window. The bay window is the face of the Turkish house extending into the street. Yet this extension is not aggressive; it is measured. It establishes a relationship with the street, expands the view, and enriches spatial perception, while maintaining a delicate balance between public and private life.

The Turkish house is not merely an architectural heritage of the past. It is also a thought written into space about how we might live together, how we should perceive, and perhaps even how we can remain human.

When we step inside, we encounter another world. The Turkish house does not abruptly throw us into its center; it slows us down. This is why the taşlık (entrance hall) is important. It is a transitional layer between outside and inside—neither fully exterior nor interior.

One of the most important concepts of the Turkish house is the “hayat.” Even its name reveals the intention of this architecture. It is not merely an empty space, but a lived space—a semi-open interface where house, courtyard, and daily life meet.

Connected to the hayat, the sofa forms the backbone of the house. It is not just a circulation space but a shared center where family life converges.

In some regions, the eyvan joins this richness of transitional spaces. It plays a crucial role in climate adaptation, providing shade and airflow, while adding rhythm and ceremony to spatial experience.

The arrangement of rooms continues this philosophy. Rooms are not rigidly fixed to single functions but remain flexible, adapting to different uses throughout the day.

The courtyard and garden are where the Turkish house meets landscape. The courtyard is not a decorative addition but an essential part of life—sometimes even its heart.

Material language reflects the same simplicity. Stone provides solidity and coolness on the lower levels, while wood offers flexibility and warmth above.

Perhaps this is why thinking about the Turkish house is not merely historical curiosity. It also raises serious questions about today’s cities: why do we produce so many buildings, yet so few living environments?

Maybe we cannot recreate the exact houses of the past. But we can reinterpret their principles: transitional spaces, semi-open areas, neighborly rights, climate sensitivity, and the integration of landscape.

For me, this is where the Turkish house becomes valuable. It is not a nostalgic object, but a quiet teacher reminding us that another way of living is possible.

• Perhaps we cannot rebuild the same houses, but we can rebuild the same refinement.
• Perhaps we won’t walk the same streets, but we can help streets remember people again.
• Perhaps not every home will have a courtyard, but every life needs a bit of sky, shade, greenery, and a spatial ethic that considers others.

This is what the Turkish house tells me. And perhaps that is why it belongs not only to the past, but also to the future.

We’ve moved on to another project review piece; this time our focus is not a school building, but a play landscape embedded right in the heart of the city, tucked into a residential fabric: Wired Scape. What makes projects like this interesting is that they stop being “just a playground for children” and start turning into a neighborhood-scale public magnet. In a way, they set up a small urban stage—one where children, parents, teenagers, and older residents all end up sharing the same ground, even if only briefly, throughout the day. Wired Scape seems to aim exactly for that: by bringing together nature metaphors, fluid geometries, and the idea of open-ended play, it tries to establish a public destination that speaks to users of all ages.

Wired Scape is located within a residential district of Guangzhou, China, and is presented as a designed and built project by 100architects (Shanghai). The site area is 1,550 square meters. The documentation is also shared transparently—down to the design team and project management team—which makes it easier to read the project not merely as a “visual show,” but as a real practice of construction and coordination.

Project Focus and Significance

Wired Scape’s main agenda is clearly to break away from conventional playground templates (a few standard swings, a slide, rubber surfacing, fenced around the edges). Here, play is not treated as the sum of individual pieces of equipment; it is approached more like a topography-adjacent “field composition.” Two primary sources of inspiration are highlighted: forest and stream. These themes are not recreated through literal landscape imitation; instead, they are reinterpreted through abstract geometries and sculptural forms. The sense of “forest” is built through the tree-like structures gathered at the center, while the sense of “water” is expressed through the curving, colorful flow lines embedded in the ground plane.

The urban value of this approach becomes clearer at a specific point: children’s play areas often end up either overly controlled or overly sterile. Yet a child’s ability to “read” a space, generate their own routes, and make small decisions while moving from one place to another (height, bridges, shade, openness, movement) can be developmentally meaningful. Wired Scape’s emphasis on open-ended play suggests an intention to shape an environment that triggers motor and cognitive skills at the same time; actions like climbing, exploring, jumping, and sliding are deliberately foregrounded.

Design Features and Spatial Composition

The most iconic element of the project is the set of four sculptural “tree” structures gathered at the heart of the site. These structures are described as being formed by pipes spiraling around a central core, producing tactile, woven spheres—volumes that also resemble (almost delicious) candies. What’s compelling here is that the structure functions both as play equipment and as a canopy. In other words, it is not a single-purpose object; it generates vertical play, shade, and a strong spatial “focus” at once. Moreover, by connecting these four structures with suspension bridges, the project creates layers—shifting the experience from a flat park surface into a multi-level landscape of exploration.

The ground plane, meanwhile, works like a large pattern system that holds the project together: curving lines “stitch” different zones into one another. These lines are not only a visual graphic; they also act as a wayfinding language, offering hints about circulation and pauses. In some places, the lines open into a small plaza; in others, they lead to a resting platform; in others, they intensify as you approach a play element. This kind of “spatial storytelling through the ground” is especially powerful for children, because a child often reads space not through signage but through surface cues and the feeling of edges.

Right in front of this central composition, there is a lowered “sunken plaza” definition—described in the text through metaphors like a “playful amphitheater” or a “depressed lake.” This move introduces something we rarely see in the city: a small social bowl inside a playground, with potential for gathering and performance. For children, this bowl becomes a micro-topography where even simple movements like running and rolling feel more exciting; for adults, it offers a place to sit, observe, wait, and strike up a short conversation.

User Experience: The Idea of Multi-Generational Play

Wired Scape’s ambition is not aimed only at children; it tries to produce a multi-generational environment. For children, an active play repertoire is considered: climbing, jumping, sliding, and exploration. For parents and caregivers, the narrative mentions shaded seating areas and clear sightlines—valuable in terms of “comfortable supervision,” an issue often neglected in playgrounds. Because in a park where the adult is not physically comfortable, supervision tends to swing either toward over-intervention or toward complete detachment; neither outcome is ideal for the child.

The project’s more “urban” side appears in the way it also attracts young adults: sculptural aesthetics, photogenic details, and social appeal. There are two edges to this. On one hand, it can increase a sense of ownership over the public space and give the neighborhood an identity. On the other hand, crowds drawn purely by visual attraction may reduce children’s play comfort. The balance here is shaped by zoning and the relationship between seating and circulation. The project text highlights multiple entry points, generous shading, and different functional islands; this can function as a strategy that makes it easier for people to disperse even during busy moments.

Amenity Diversity and the Play Repertoire

The site also includes classic play elements: swings, see-saws, spring riders, carousel-like spinning components, and even a round table-tennis table. This diversity matters because not every child is drawn to the same type of play. Some children love climbing; some seek rhythmic motion (swings); some enjoy social competition (table tennis); and some participate in play simply by watching. It is also noted that sculptural seating elements are treated not just as “benches,” but as part of the play experience; I find this valuable, because seating is not merely passive furniture—sometimes for a child it becomes a boundary, sometimes a stage, sometimes a surface to hide behind.

At this point, a small caveat is worth adding: a large number of amenities can make maintenance and safety management more difficult. Each new element adds another line to the periodic inspection checklist. Still, the fact that 100architects frames this project at the scale of a “neighborhood intervention” likely implies that management capacity is also considered as part of the design. In projects like this, real sustainability is often hidden not only in materials, but in the operational routine.

Night Use and Transformation Through Light

One of the striking aspects of Wired Scape is its night scenario. The narrative describes decorative lighting embedded into surfaces and the ground, following selected lines and turning the site into a “glowing landscape.” This is not only an aesthetic gesture; it also becomes a layer that shapes perceptions of safety in the evening. Where the light concentrates and where it falls quiet directly changes how children and adults use the space after dark. Of course, the critical city-scale question here is: has the lighting been resolved without producing light pollution or disturbing nearby housing? It is hard to read this definitively from the text, but the emphasis on “embedded, decorative lighting that follows selected lines” suggests an intention toward a more controlled lighting language.

Ecological Integration and the Question of “Naturalness”

This project calls nature not through plant density, but mostly through nature metaphor and biomorphic composition. Here, the forest is not the trees themselves so much as a sculptural re-production of the idea of “tree.” Flowing water is represented without an actual water element, through the language of movement on the ground. The strength of this approach may be a reduced maintenance burden and a more stable, four-season spatial performance. The weakness is that children’s contact with real ecological processes can remain limited. If there is a real canopy of shade trees nearby, small biological islands where soil contact is possible, or at least a “nature observation” corner, the project could establish a much more balanced child–nature relationship. The 100architects text includes expressions suggesting that the structures wrap around existing trees and create tactile volumes, which hints that existing trees have been incorporated into the design.

In my own reading practice, I like to move discussions of projects like this beyond the “hard surface vs. soft surface” binary and instead talk through “how a child perceives nature.” Sometimes a child’s sense of nature does not come only from stepping on soil; it can also come from hearing how wind produces sound in a void, noticing how shadows shift through the day, and touching different textures. Since Wired Scape strongly emphasizes tactile richness, it carries a powerful potential for multi-sensory experience.

In this article, I want to introduce the book Designing Streets for Kids—a bedside reference I benefited from repeatedly in my PhD thesis—without stopping at the level of “what does it say?” I aim to explain in some depth which problem field it touches, what kind of methodological language it builds, and how it can be used in the field. Throughout the text, I take the book’s own framework and emphases as my basis.

What kind of book is Designing Streets for Kids?

The book approaches streets not merely as an infrastructure scheme that regulates vehicle flow, but as a public space that carries—and sometimes compresses—the everyday lives of children and caregivers. The critical shift here is not to completely reject the discourse of “transport efficiency,” but to force transport to be considered together with children’s safety, comfort, curiosity, and right to development. The book states that streets can offer children and caregivers opportunities for play, inspiration, personal growth, and social interaction.

This approach moves street design away from being only a debate about an “engineering standard” and brings it closer to a discussion of quality of life and rights. The book clearly describes that a city’s physical infrastructure, as well as its policies and programs, need to align with principles for creating streets that are safe, healthy, comfortable, and usable, as well as inspiring and educational. This sentence is almost like the book’s backbone: not only design detail, but governance and implementation intelligence sit at the same table.

Urban95 and the Istanbul connection: where the book touches Türkiye

As part of the 2019 guide prepared by NACTO GDCI, the book makes the Urban95 program and the implementations in Istanbul visible. It specifically notes that between 2016–2019, the municipalities of Beyoğlu, Maltepe, Sarıyer, and Sultanbeyli took a leading role; universities, private research initiatives, and civil society provided support; and the Bernard van Leer Foundation brought together more than 100 people and more than 20 institutions through active collaboration.

This section prevents the book from feeling like an “imported text of good intentions” and places it within a framework that has counterparts in Türkiye, has been tried, and has real actors. For readers, this matters; because what we struggle with most in the field is usually not finding a technical solution, but making the solution compatible with local institutional language and opening it to implementation.

Thinking from 95 cm: the book’s strongest metaphor

The book’s most memorable call is “thinking from 95 cm”. It may look like a slogan, but it is actually a methodological proposal that re-tests design decisions at a child’s scale. Indeed, under the heading “ten steps you can take,” the book positions thinking from 95 cm directly as an action item for improving streets in a child-friendly way.

Here, 95 cm is not merely a measurement; it is the sum of things like eye level, risk perception, the balance of fear and curiosity, patience for waiting, and the ability to step over a curb edge. What an adult passes off as a “small detail” (a broken paver, accumulated trash, sign clutter) can turn into a barrier that changes a child’s route. The book’s emphasis that neglect produces a more direct problem for children—who are closer to the ground—also supports this scale discussion.

The book’s backbone: Street Design Strategies

The book proposes a “strategy set” for redesigning streets and groups it under five main headings: Improve, Protect, Reclaim, Activate, Expand. The value of this approach is that it does not suggest a single magic intervention; on the contrary, it argues that effective design often requires multiple strategies to be applied together, and that interventions can range in scale from low-cost measures to major investment projects.

I read this as a logic of “incremental improvement and compound solutions.” Especially because municipalities’ budget, tender, and maintenance capacity fluctuate, a design intelligence that starts small, grows, rehearses, and learns tends to work more sustainably in the field.

1) Improve: basic needs and everyday comfort

The foundation of the Improve strategy is that pedestrian infrastructure should be “usable and continuous.” The book is clear about sidewalk construction and improvement: it states that sidewalks should be made safe and accessible; built where they do not exist; widened if they are too narrow; and old, broken sections that undermine accessibility should be renewed.

The emphasis here is not only on moving, but on being able to stay on the street. It explains in detail that comfortable and usable streets should include seating, wayfinding, reliable public transport, climate-appropriate shade and sheltered areas, and facilities such as toilets and drinking fountains. These items are often thought of as a “park amenities list”; the book turns them into everyday design components of the street.

2) Protect: speed management and safe speed

Protect is where the book states the safety side most directly. “Speed kills” is positioned not as a claim, but almost as a starting principle of design. There are two critical tools here: lowering the speed limit and building the design to match that speed. The book recommends lowering speed limits to 30 km/h and aligning the design with a 30 km/h speed, stating that higher speeds narrow the field of view and affect reaction times.

At the same time, speed does not drop just with signs; physical and visual narrowing is needed. It notes that traffic lanes should not be wider than 3 meters, and that urban elements that create visual narrowing—trees, street furniture, rows of buildings—can increase driver attention. These recommendations are a strong example of the “soft-looking” side of landscape and urban design that nevertheless affects behavior directly.

3) Reclaim: making room for people

Reclaim is about redistributing street space. The book suggests reclaiming streets in full: pedestrianizing streets by closing them to vehicles and opening them to people, or designing them as shared streets for low speeds of 10–15 km/h. It also builds a redistribution language that aims to move more people using less space, through solutions such as bus lanes, protected bike lanes, or sidewalks rather than mixed traffic lanes.

This section is especially useful for cities where objections like “loss of parking” rise sharply; because it moves the discussion from a comfort dispute to the public value of space and the efficiency of mobility. It also clearly states that reclaimed space can be designed for “pause and play.”

4) Activate: inviting play and learning onto the street

Activate is the part that distinguishes the book from an ordinary traffic safety guide. It explains that child-friendly streets are interesting, joyful, and educational; and that streets can be attractions in themselves, not only corridors to get from one point to another.

This “attraction” idea finds its counterpart in street furniture and material decisions. It offers concrete hints such as patterns on ground surfaces; using vertical surfaces as a canvas for murals; and handling fences and walls in ways that can draw children’s interest through color, planting, and drawings. It also emphasizes that street furniture is not only for sitting, but can provide opportunities—especially at transit stops—to combine play and learning.

There is also a subtle critique here against confining “play” only to playgrounds; when play seeps into everyday routes, children’s relationship with the city becomes more natural and more continuous.

5) Expand: integrating adjacent spaces

Expand means thinking of the street not as an isolated section but together with its surroundings. The book frames this strategy as integrating adjacent spaces. This is an approach that allows impact to grow through small joints at “break points” such as school surroundings, pocket parks, building entrances, vacant lots, and areas in front of stops. In practice, the fastest gains often come from here; because without changing major infrastructure, spatial continuity and program continuity can still be established.

Nature and landscape: green infrastructure is not decoration, it is a performance component

One of the book’s strongest aspects from a landscape perspective is that it treats green infrastructure not as an aesthetic “add-on,” but as a component that produces performance in terms of health, climate, and water management. In the section on nature and landscape arrangements, it states that green infrastructure forms a buffer against pollutants, reduces stormwater runoff and heat island effects, and provides diverse opportunities for children and caregivers.

At a more micro scale, it says that landscape elements such as planters and tree pits give children a chance to connect with nature. This sentence may look simple, but it actually points to something important: establishing contact with nature not as “once in the park,” but as an everyday contact on the street strengthens children’s environmental perception and spatial memory. Landscape architecture has argued this for years; the book places it inside street design.

Temporary interventions: opening streets to children and rehearsing

The book recommends testing through pilots and rehearsal applications before permanent investment; it specifically notes that street solutions can be tried before investing in permanent implementation. This approach fits the “risk-averse” nature of local governments: measure first, see, improve; then make it permanent.

Under the heading of temporarily opening streets to children, it states that closing streets to traffic and opening them to people creates opportunities for play and social interaction, strengthens intergenerational ties, reduces air and noise pollution, and increases safety. It also emphasizes that play streets, without requiring additional programming, allow neighborhood residents to use streets spontaneously.

There are practical details as well: seasonal permits and facilitation such as fee waivers should be considered; closures are recommended to be planned six to eight weeks in advance. The suggestion of “loose parts” (cardboard boxes, fabric, balls, chalk) as unstructured play materials is a reminder that design can be strong without depending on expensive equipment.

Participation, transparency, and ethics: the book’s governance language

One of the reasons this book is valuable is that it frames participation not as a “presentation meeting,” but as a partnership spread across every step of the process. It clearly states that children and caregivers should be included in all stages, including planning, design, and policy updates; and it emphasizes that involving parents and neighborhood residents from the very beginning builds ownership. The call to include, depending on local context, children with disabilities, migrants, and marginalized communities also strengthens the book’s inclusivity.

On the ethical side, it draws attention to establishing children’s participation through voluntariness and consent, and to issues such as photo and sensitive data security. This is a practical reminder especially for academics and municipal teams doing fieldwork.

What does the book promise in practice?

Short answer: it helps you decide. It builds a kind of “design logic” for questions like which street to intervene in, where to start, what impact a given intervention might create, and how to scale it at a neighborhood level. The ten-step recommendation set is a good example: improving crosswalks, building wide and accessible sidewalks, adding trees and landscape arrangements, reducing speed through design, prioritizing children in policies, and thinking from 95 cm—bringing multiple layers together under the same framework.

I read this approach as connecting the “piece-by-piece works” we often see in urban management through a single backbone. A sidewalk renewal, a speed reduction, adding shade—each looks like a small job when viewed alone. But when they are tied to the same goal on the same street, a change of identity emerges.

Who should especially read it?

The target audience of this book is broad; but for some groups it is almost a resource that “should stay on the table”:

• Transportation, zoning, and parks and gardens units in municipalities; because the book builds design, policy, and operations into the same sentence.
• Landscape architects and urban designers; because it treats green infrastructure as part of street performance.
• Teams working on school area safety; because tools like speed management and temporary closures are highly implementable.
• Academics and students; because its language of participation, ethics, inclusivity, and criteria naturally connects with field research.

A small method suggestion while reading this book

Rather than consuming the book in one go, reading it in parallel with the field tends to be more efficient. First, treat the ten steps like a checklist and walk along a street, marking them. Then choose which of the five strategy headings will work together on that street. After that, if possible, test it with a temporary rehearsal application; observe whether it produces play and social interaction. This reading style turns the book from “shelf knowledge” into a design decision.

Bibliographic note and a remark

Designing Streets for Kids is a design guide that brings NACTO GDCI’s 2019 framework to Turkish readers through the Urban95 approach and with traces of implementation experience in Istanbul. The language of the text is technical but not dry; by following small details from time to time, it reminds us how a street grows inside a child’s world.

To read and download the book, click here.

We’re wedged between enormous slabs of concrete. Between facades that are tall, glossy, perfectly smooth… Even the sound of children sometimes disappears without an echo—because there’s no void left to carry that echo. There was a time when we thought what we called “the city” was the street, and what we called the street was life itself. Now the city feels more like a corridor we simply pass through; a circulation diagram that links enclosed parking garages to elevators, to security gates. So where do children fit into this diagram? At the edge of the map—off to the side, in a corner that has been “deemed suitable.” And of course on signs as well: “Children’s Park.” How easily we say it. Park. Play. Child. Three words, and we soothe our conscience.

There’s little greenery left for us. If any remains, it’s only a tiny trace at the edge of our sight. If it remains, it remains in a pot on the windowsill. Sometimes it survives as the make-up of a housing complex landscape: two strips of lawn, three stunted trees, and, in the middle, a noble olive tree… a layout that looks “well-kept,” yet feels like plastic the moment you touch it. Children touching soil, getting to know mud, being able to bend and twist a branch without snapping it, feeling the weight of stones in their hands, standing at the edge of a pit and saying “if water filled this, it would become a lake”… These have turned into luxuries of the city. And what I call a luxury is, in fact, the most basic human state: to make contact, to explore, to try, to fall, to get back up. For a child, play is exactly that. Yet we sterilized play. We packaged play. We delivered play like a product that comes with a warranty certificate (See Figure 1).

Worse still: as we reduced green space, we narrowed play as well. Cities grew, childhood shrank. I could phrase that sentence like a poet, but this is not about poetry; it’s about a choice we repeat every single day. Huge projects, huge roads, huge interchanges. “Crazy projects” everywhere, and it’s as if we’ve all gone a little mad, becoming fanatics of capitalism… And what’s set aside for children in our cities is usually “leftover pieces.” A gap is found on the plan; into it go two swings, a slide, and a brightly colored surface… Then comes the line: “We did it for the children.” It gets marketed as a prestige project. Is the child’s right only as large as whatever is left over after our own comfort? While the city’s most expensive square meters are reserved for cars, billboards, and shopfronts, the place that falls to children is often a patch with no shade, no protection from the wind; a space that turns to ice in winter and burns in summer.

Creativity Needs Uncertainty

The presence of a park doesn’t prove that everything has been done right. As the number increases, justice doesn’t necessarily increase. In fact, sometimes as the number goes up, the content becomes even more uniform. The same play set, the same color, the same plastic… One almost wishes the system produced the children in factories too: copy-and-paste children… as if the same childhood is being lived in every neighborhood. Yet what we call play is the child rebuilding the world in their own language. A stick becomes a sword, stones become “money,” a slope is declared a “mountain,” a shrub is named a “forest.” Creativity needs a bit of uncertainty. It needs a bit of emptiness. It needs flexibility, so the child can write their own scenario. But when we build “play areas” for children, we often impose the “play scenario” as well. Slide here, swing there, spin here, get off there… And that’s it. The play ends. The child doesn’t end, but the play ends.

We can talk about this as a “design” issue. Yes, a design issue. But the real issue is where our heart and our mind choose to stand in the city. Who are we building the city for? For the car, or for the human? And when we say “human,” do we also mean the child, the most fragile form of being human? How does a child take part in the city? How does a child read the city? A city designed at an adult’s eye level turns into a huge sense of unfamiliarity in a child’s world. The curb feels too high, speed frightens, noise drowns things out, the crowd crushes.The child becomes a guest in the city. And even being a guest has a time limit. After a while, the feeling of “home” fades. That’s when the street stops being the child’s street; the street becomes only a line you pass through.

We lost the streets. And as we lost the streets, we lost play as well. That’s why we took refuge in children’s parks. We replaced the street with the park. But the park was never the same thing as the street; it only made sense together with the street. Going to the park used to be a ritual; something would happen on the way. Now the park is not a destination, but a compensation. A place we take a child just so “they can get outside.” In winter, we can’t take them anyway. In the rain, we can’t take them anyway. In the evening, we can’t take them anyway. The child becomes like a being whose life in the city is restricted according to the seasons. Yet what we call a season is, for a child, a learning ground: the sound of the wind, the scent of a flower, the texture of a leaf, the warmth of the sun. We brought the seasons indoors too. We handed the child’s relationship with nature over to the light of screens. And then we complain that “the new generation is too digital.” We gave them the digital. We took the soil away.

Defending children’s rights in the city is, in many ways, defending a right to place. The child’s right to belong to the city… And that doesn’t end with building a park. It also means safe streets a child can walk on, routes they can cycle, the possibility of going to school alone, the courage to knock on a friend’s door, a small pocket of “spatial freedom” in the neighborhood that feels like it’s theirs. If these are missing, a park on its own becomes nothing more than consolation. And if a park exists but its content is monotonous and it suffocates creativity, then the park still isn’t enough. Because a child is not only releasing energy; a child is also building meaning. Play is as much a way of thinking as it is physical movement.

When we say that today’s playgrounds kill creativity, some people think we’re exaggerating. “Come on,” they say, “a slide is a slide.” No. A slide is not just a slide. A slide can be an object, yes, but play is not the object itself. Play is the relationship built with the object. If you reduce that relationship to a single template, you narrow the child’s capacity to imagine. In places where everything is predetermined, the child becomes a “user,” not a “maker.” And if they can’t be a maker, they can’t be a maker in the city either. They can’t claim the city as their own. They can’t negotiate with it.They can’t even imagine that a place might change according to them. Yet the city, in essence, is the product of exactly this negotiation: different needs, different speeds, different ages, being able to live together.

Perhaps the heaviest issue is this: we don’t place the child at the center of urban planning; we turn the child into an “afterthought” of urban planning. And then we hang posters that say “child-friendly city.” But a child-friendly city cannot be built with symbols alone. A child-friendly city lives in the language of decisions. It shows up in the lines of the budget. It sits in the priorities of the zoning plan. It is present in the width of a sidewalk, in the placement of a crosswalk, in whether a speed limit can actually be enforced. A child-friendly city allows a child to make mistakes, because a child learns by making mistakes. We, on the other hand, lock the child indoors to bring mistakes down to zero. Yes, mistakes drop to zero; but learning drops to zero as well.

We imagine what is good. A beautiful landscape, good air, a clean environment, and humane people… But we stop at imagining. That is the part that wounds me the most. We don’t call what we imagine a “right.” We don’t call it a “demand.” We don’t call it a “struggle.” As if what is good will come to us on its own. Yet the city doesn’t become better on its own. The city leans toward where the powerful choose to stand. A child is powerless. A child doesn’t vote. A child doesn’t generate rent. A child doesn’t increase the value of a plot of land; in fact, to some, a child “produces noise.” That’s why defending children’s rights is also, in a way, speaking against “power.” It means unsettling things a little. It means being able to say, “Just because it has always been this way doesn’t mean it has to stay this way.”

As Mehmet Emin Daş, I don’t think this is only an aesthetic debate. Landscape architecture is not simply about planting trees; landscape architecture should also be a representative of spatial justice that organizes life. A child’s right in the city should be one of the most fundamental concerns of landscape. Because landscape builds what is public, and what is public is the place where a child ties themselves to the future. If the child becomes invisible in public space, then an adult who will defend the public in the future doesn’t really grow up either. A society whose childhood has been narrowed ends up narrowing its tomorrows too.

So what are we going to do? Will we talk about the number of parks again? About square meters again? Of course we have to measure; what we don’t measure can’t be managed. But alongside measurement, we also need a scale of conscience. In every neighborhood, a high-quality green space that a child can reach within five minutes… I’m choosing the word “quality” very deliberately. Quality means shade, safety, maintenance, seasonal usability, material variety, the presence of natural elements, opportunities for free play, contact with water and soil, and the pedagogical ability to manage small risks. Quality means allowing a child to build themselves. A play space shouldn’t offer only equipment; it should also offer elements that generate scenarios: loose materials (stones, sticks, pinecones), topography, small mounds, hiding corners, vegetative texture, and surfaces that change with the seasons. Spaces that are too sterile, too smooth, too “disciplined” don’t make the child safer; they make the child more fragile.

Increasing green space is not only a matter of “how many trees” either. Green space should be imagined as a network, like a living web. Parks shouldn’t be islands; they should be life corridors that connect to one another. A child should be able to walk from one place to another.

And there is also the language of playgrounds… We often give children brightly colored equipment, yet we offer them a world that is intellectually grey. A play space should invite a child’s imagination; it shouldn’t say, “Here, you can only do this.” Design should increase the child’s questions: “What is this?”, “Where does this lead?”, “How do I use this?”, “What happens if I flip it over?” These questions are the first lessons of urban literacy in a child’s mind. Yet we take urban literacy away from the child from the very beginning (See Figure 4).

Perhaps the simplest, yet most effective starting point is this: listening to the child. Learning what play is from children themselves. Letting go of the adult habit of declaring, “This is what play is.” Trying a play street in the neighborhood. Lowering traffic speed during certain hours of the week. Reconfiguring a street according to the child’s body and imagination. Play shouldn’t be confined to the park. Play should spill out into the street. Because the street is the heart of the city. A city without a heart is nothing but an order of concrete.

Sometimes I find myself thinking: when we imagine what is good… maybe what is good is actually something we remember. It existed before. Autumn existed, summer existed, orange existed. Children’s knees were scraped, but their eyes were bright. Now the knees are clean, and the eyes are tired. Somewhere along the way, we did something wrong. Can we still fix it? Maybe. But first, we need to say one sentence honestly: we, with our own hands, narrowed children’s right to the city. And what we narrowed, we will have to widen again. No one will do it in our place.

Like good bread… a good city also takes labor. A good city is a future earned honestly. A city built with children in mind is not only better for children; it is better for everyone. Because traffic slowed down for a child is safer for an older person too. Shade increased for a child is cooler for an adult as well. Greenery multiplied for a child is everyone’s breath. Defending a child’s right to the city is, in the end, defending the right to life itself.

And I don’t want to leave this right to “one day.” Because childhood doesn’t wait. Childhood can’t be postponed. Childhood is lived today. If it is taken from us today, it won’t come back tomorrow.

(All photographs were taken by the author.)

A symphony cannot be made with a single note. Spring does not arrive with a single flower. You cannot claim that “public life” has been saved with one well-designed square. This question of repetition can look like a technical “scaling up” problem; yet in truth, it leans on something sociological: Collective behavior is shaped not by isolated examples, but by patterns that multiply. People see something once and call it “interesting”; by the third time, they begin to “get used to it”; by the tenth encounter, they internalize it as “this is how this city is.” Cities work a bit like that: a single project is a story; multiplying projects become culture.

Architects, landscape architects, urban planners… From time to time, all of us carry the weight of good ideas that remain in the “minority.” A bold project gets built, the visuals are splashed everywhere, it’s talked about intensely for a while—and then everyday life returns to its own rhythm. At that point, you can’t help thinking, “What did I fail to do?” Yet in most cases, what’s missing is not the quality of the design, but the power of repetition. The absence of repetition is the city’s greatest forgetfulness. And that forgetfulness comes back to the designer as “failure,” even though a city does not learn by seeing something only once.

Why Is the Majority a Design Material?

One of the most valuable reminders from the field known as the sociology of architecture is this: Space is not only designed; it is lived, imitated, and sometimes quietly rejected. People learn how to walk on a sidewalk, how to sit in a park, where a parent positions themselves in a playground—less from “written rules” and more from repeated practices. If the designer does not align with these practices, design eventually remains as mere decoration.

That is why thinking about the majority in design is not “trying to please the majority”; it is about building a language that can touch the majority’s repetitive behaviors. The mere existence of a bike lane does not create a cycling culture in a city. But a network that connects neighborhood to neighborhood—repeatedly establishing the school–park–market axis—eventually produces the perception of a “cycling city.” The same is true for children’s playgrounds: a single outstanding playground looks great on Instagram and makes for good political material; but for a child, the feeling of a safe city emerges when all playgrounds work with “similar qualities.” Trust is not a singular object; it is a repeated experience.

Let’s think of it this way: Snow that falls once is a “view.” But snow that keeps falling for days, layering on top of itself, is “winter.” A city’s character works the same way; a single implementation creates a view, while repetition creates a season. If we want design to become a “season,” we have to take the majority into account: multiple repetitions, continuity, a maintenance routine, institutional ownership—and even a bit of stubbornness.

Here, the designer’s field of empathy expands. Because many designers want to convince everyone that they have saved the world with “a single powerful project.” Yet the city is not persuaded; the city slowly gets used to things. And getting used to something is, for the most part, a product of repetition.

The City Likes “Series”

Cities live through collective memory. A city comes to accept as “natural” the things it has done again and again in the past. In our cities, the problem is often this: something is done once, and then it remains the “first and only.” Being first and only can carry a kind of romantic pride, but it does not build a sustainable language. There is a big difference between saying “we have it too” and saying “we have this culture.”

Sometimes, the design world also falls into a kind of “novelty fetish.” Every project wants to act as if it has never been done before. That flatters the designer’s ego, but the city’s learning mechanism asks for the opposite: encountering something familiar again, in a different place. The city likes “series.” And that is not a bad thing. Just as a chorus repeats in a piece of music and we catch the emotion in that repetition, cities also need certain choruses. Pedestrian priority, shading, seating-and-rest bands, child-scale details… These are the chorus. When the chorus repeats, it doesn’t simplify the song; it makes the song something people can claim as their own—something they can memorize.

We can see this most clearly in something very simple: wayfinding behavior. If, in a city, directional signage, the lighting language, and sidewalk materials keep changing, people have to “relearn” each time—and they get tired. But if the language is consistent, people move faster, feel more at ease, and the city becomes “familiar” to them. This is how design relates to the majority: producing trust through familiarity.

My Claim: “Let There Be Ornamental Crabapples Everywhere”

Years ago, after seeing the Ornamental Crabapple and ornamental pear trees planted opposite each other along Cumhuriyet Avenue, an idea came to my mind. With that idea, I repeatedly posted the following sentence—quite boldly—on Twitter to the Erzurum Metropolitan Municipality mayor of the time (Ahmet Küçükler): “Ornamental crabapple trees should be planted everywhere in this city.” When I say this in a conversation, some people smile; some say “you’re exaggerating”; and some ask a fair question: “why a single species?” My concern is not to reduce botanical diversity; it is to weave a city’s visual–scent–seasonal memory through one strong motif. In a place like Erzurum—where the climate is harsh, winter lasts long, and the color palette hovers for months between grey and white—having spring felt through a sudden burst of red blossoms is genuinely valuable. Ornamental crabapples (Malus species) can stage that burst; at a small scale, yet with a large effect, they can function almost like an “urban signature.”

Ornamental crabapple stays on stage not only with its blossoms, but also with its fruit. Even after flowering ends, the small fruits provide visual continuity; they attract birds; and with fruits that can remain on the branches even in winter, they leave a “trace of life.” On Cumhuriyet Avenue, it has already been planted together with ornamental pear trees. Now imagine starting to see this plant again and again—along Erzurum’s wide boulevards, in neighborhood streets, around schools, near playgrounds, and within mass-housing landscapes. Not for one year, but for five years, ten years… That is when the ornamental crabapple becomes not just a tree, but an “urban memory.”

The core of my claim is this: the character of cities is often built not through a single good idea, but through that idea multiplying. In Erzurum, the ornamental crabapple repeats—again and again and again. After a while, people start describing spring as “ornamental crabapple season.” Children memorize those blossoms on their way to school. Photographers choose locations around them. Café names, boutique brand packaging, and municipal posters borrow the motif. This is a kind of “urban imitation economy.” Here, imitation is not negative; it is the engine of cultural production.

Looking with Empathy at the Question: “Why Don’t We Have Something Like Japan’s Cherry Blossom Festival?”

When people talk about Japan’s cherry blossom festivals (hanami), they tend to swing between two extremes: either we romanticize it (“they do it so beautifully”), or we dismiss it altogether (“it wouldn’t work here”). Both are easy sentences. The harder thing is to build empathy and see the mechanism.

In Japan, cherry blossom is not merely an aesthetic event; it is a public ritual repeated for years. That ritual is sustained by a finely woven network of understandings—between government and residents, between local businesses and park management, between the media and everyday life. For a festival to “exist,” it is not enough simply to plant trees; regular maintenance of those trees, tracking the flowering period, a more flexible approach to public-space management, the organization of safety and cleanliness, and even people considering it normal to “be there” during that time are all required. And that normalization, again, is a product of repetition.

In our cities, however, the situation is often this: something gets done, but ownership across institutions is not clearly established. The rhythm of the parks department, the culture department, the transport unit, and the security unit does not really meet. For a festival to be continuous, it needs to be held “every year on the same dates, with the same seriousness”; here, we often have to start from scratch each year. Starting over is exhausting. And where exhaustion sets in, the festival becomes “a one-off event.”

There is also the issue of climate, maintenance, and spatial continuity. Cherry blossom season is brief, but it is a brief period people expect. Here, flowering can sometimes be a surprise; sometimes frost hits; sometimes maintenance is delayed; sometimes pruning is done incorrectly. When people do not develop the confidence that “it will happen this year as well,” the ritual breaks. When the ritual breaks, the festival remains at the level of a poster. And a poster does not build a city; a poster only announces something.

Right here, a more realistic question emerges for our cities: “Instead of imitating the culture of cherry blossoms, can we derive a repeatable flowering ritual from within our own climate and urban memory?” My insistence on ornamental crabapples in Erzurum is nourished, in part, by this question. Because ornamental crabapple can speak with Erzurum’s reality—not with the romance of cherry blossoms, but with Erzurum’s wind, cold, wide avenues, long winter, and strong sun.

Positioning the Flowering Crabapple as an Element of Urban Character

Cities are sometimes remembered by a scent. Sometimes by a color. Sometimes by a taste. Designers usually focus on the visual language; yet urban character is something multi-sensory. What the ornamental crabapple offers here is not merely a “flower”; it can function like a package—given a bit of intent, a bit of organization, and a bit of repetition._

The scent of ornamental crabapple blossoms (yes—that lightly sweet scent that sometimes feels almost like “clean air”) could become an urban signature. Small-scale initiatives inspired by this scent could be imagined: cologne, soap, candles, room fragrances… These need not be designed as tourist trinkets, but rather as more refined “city mementos.” Just as Oltu stone carries an identity in Erzurum, ornamental crabapple could carry identity from a softer angle. Moreover, products like these bring local producers and designers to the same table; this is exactly where the sociology of design comes to life.

The question of a mascot is often underestimated, but I think it is a very “public” tool. When a city has a child-oriented face—one that makes people smile—it softens urban belonging. Creating a character based on the ornamental crabapple fruit (for instance, a small red apple figure—wearing a scarf in winter, a hat in summer…) may sound simple; yet as it is repeated in school activities, municipal children’s festivals, and playground wayfinding, it gradually turns into a symbol. A symbol keeps memory alive.

The festival dimension is the most critical part: a festival should not be a one-off celebration; it should be a fixed knot point in the city’s calendar. Imagine something like an “Ornamental Crabapple Month.” Not only concerts, but also walking routes, photo frames, jewelry, perfumes, drawing workshops for children, guided photobotanical tours led by landscape professionals, gastronomy workshops… A program that repeats every year gradually becomes “the ritual of our spring.” At that point, the role of designers is not only to draw spaces, but to design programs, to design experiences, and even to stage a kind of urban scenography.

I think the gastronomy part could be the most enjoyable section… The fruit of the ornamental crabapple may not be directly suitable for the table, but it is powerful as inspiration: apple-themed flavors, experiments with apple vinegar, local reinterpretations with an ornamental-crabapple theme, even trials like “ornamental crabapple pickles”… The aim here is not to eat the biological material as it is, but to help the motif spread throughout the city. If the motif spreads, the city gains character. That character is more lasting than a tourism brochure, because it seeps into everyday life.

And let me emphasize again: none of this “happens” within a single year. That is the point. The point is to multiply the same idea—to repeat the same language. To have design, governance, civil society, and local businesses play the same melody, each with different instruments.

To Be Effective Is, in Part, a Matter of Patience—and of Working in Series

Sometimes we want to define ourselves through a single “icon project.” We want that project to stand like a sculpture—seen by everyone, applauded by all… But cities are less like sculptures and more like walks. In a walk, rhythm matters. And what builds rhythm is repetition. A city being child-friendly, a city being pedestrian-friendly, a city’s “spring” being remembered… These are not built through singular miracles, but through small truths that multiply.

That is why I like the ornamental crabapple idea in Erzurum. A little romantic, yes. A little like a dream, yes. But also very realistic: choosing one tree and stitching it into the city’s veins again and again simplifies and strengthens the city’s language. Rather than copying a cherry blossom festival one-to-one, it feels more genuine to draw a flowering culture from within our own climate. In our cities—or in our lives—many of the things we say “don’t work” often don’t work simply because they were tried only once. They don’t work because they weren’t repeated. They don’t work because they never reached the majority.

Perhaps the quietest yet strongest question in design is this: How many more times am I willing to say this idea? Across how many more streets am I willing to repeat it? For how many more years can I keep walking after the same small sentence?

The city takes that answer seriously—whether we notice it or not…

Spot: Mycelium composites are a family of materials that doesn’t fit into the easy shortcut of “everything natural is good.” In the right place they can be genuinely promising; in the wrong place they can turn into something you keep wrestling with.

At a fair once, I picked up a small panel sitting at the edge of a booth. At first touch it felt like “plastic foam”: light, firm, with a matte surface. Then I ran my finger along the edge and the feeling shifted; the cross-section had a tiny fibrous weave, like compressed straw held together not by glue but by… something else. When I brought it closer, there was a faint trace in the smell too—something like damp soil mixed with mushroom. When I pressed the edge it didn’t snap with a “click.” It compressed and came back, yet it also left a thin crack line at the same time. A strange question landed in my head: “Is this alive?” “Alive” might be a little romantic, but it clearly wasn’t behaving like a completely dead material either. It looked like plastic, but it wasn’t plastic; more like biology that had learned how to resemble plastic.

What we call a mycelium-based composite is, in short, using the underground network of fungi (mycelium) as a kind of natural binder to stitch agricultural waste and fibrous residual materials together. Mycelium plays the role of an “adhesive” here: straw, sawdust, hemp shives, coffee grounds—whatever you have—mycelium grows through them and weaves a network. Then that growth is stopped, typically by drying, heating, or a similar process. In everyday language: the material seems to “weave itself” inside a mold.

Until a few years ago, this story mostly circulated in pavilions and design fairs. Visually it is strong; it carries a “natural yet futuristic” aesthetic, and it is easy to narrate: a material born from waste, compostable surface, low energy… But over the last two years, the tone feels like it has shifted. The fair-object vibe still exists, yet it no longer feels sufficient on its own; people are asking for more “performance.” What does it do in fire? Does it absorb sound? Does it change when it sees humidity? Can production be standardized? That question set pushes the material from being a trendy keyword toward real project tables. The literature shows a similar drift: production parameters, inspection and standardization, and building physics (heat–moisture behavior, strength, fire, and acoustics) are being discussed more intensely.

Where does mycelium work, and where does it not?

In landscape practice—especially in the public realm—this question strips away romance quickly. Because landscape has “real-life criteria” that can be unforgiving: vandalism, maintenance budgets (or the lack of them), freeze–thaw cycles, UV, rain, warranties, procurement units, supply chains. Good intentions don’t carry a material on site by themselves.

Plastic feel, organic reality

Mycelium composites can often have a lightness and texture reminiscent of “plastic foam.” Sometimes there is a velvety matte surface; in the cross-section, a fibrous porosity. That porosity looks like a good thing—because it opens doors to lightness and sound absorption—but the same porosity also likes water, holds dirt, and can carry a risk of “denting and staying dented” under impact.

A concrete detail: on one prototype, when I pressed my nail into the surface, a small mark remained. It wasn’t like plastic; it was more like the crust of dry bread—slightly yielding. On another piece, when I rubbed the edge as if sanding, a fine dust appeared; fibers broke and drifted away.

Mycelium composite can partially replace materials in scenarios like: low-load interior surfaces, exhibition elements, decorative partitions, acoustic panels, temporary pavilion skins, packaging-like protective parts… But replacing these is difficult: outdoor seating surfaces that take constant hits, façade claddings that will stay under sun and rain for years, and standardized public furnishings where we expect consistent performance for a long time.

Let’s put two clear sentences down. In an interior environment with controlled humidity, as a temporary exhibition or pavilion element, mycelium composite can make sense; because lightness and form freedom increase installation speed.
And another: if used as a bench surface in a heavily used urban park exposed to rain–sun cycles, it will likely cause headaches; because water, UV, and impact arrive at once, and the material’s “delicate” side becomes dominant.

Water, UV, impact: the material’s three-part exam

Water is one of the most critical topics. Mycelium composites can be prone to water absorption; this raises both the risk of swelling or deformation and the tendency for the surface to stain. Once, a few drops fell on a small sample: the drop darkened the surface instantly and left a mark when it dried. Even indoors, that creates the question “How will this be cleaned?” Outdoors, water is not just water; rain can be acidic, it carries mud, and freeze–thaw cycles can enlarge microcracks.

UV is more subtle. Sunlight changes the color of organic materials; with mycelium composites, the possibility of fading or turning into a chalky texture is often discussed. Meaning the material might lose its first-day beautiful matte look and become more “dusty.” In a landscape project, this transformation affects not only aesthetics but also perceived hygiene; municipal teams might look at it and ask, “Is this dirt, or is this just the material now?”

Impact and intensive use… here the material can oscillate between two behaviors: sometimes it dents and recovers; sometimes it forms a fibrous fracture line. A hard kick, a bicycle bump, a skateboard hit, children stepping on the same spot repeatedly—these are daily realities outdoors. If mycelium composite is not reinforced by high-density pressing, coatings, or similar processes, it can struggle to make peace with that daily life.

The “biodegradation” side is also double-edged. By definition, being able to break down under appropriate conditions is described as a positive feature; but in the public realm, this can sometimes mean “limited service life.” The material’s life cycle needs to match the project’s expected life. In landscape we often assume 10–15 years or more; in some scenarios, mycelium composite may not carry that expectation.

Is it suitable for outdoor furniture? The honest answer is: conditionally. In a semi-open space that is covered, does not receive rain, and is not in direct sun; supported with an appropriate protective layer (a bio-based coating, something water-repellent yet breathable), and with modular part replacement planned, limited use could be considered. But in open areas—especially where vandalism and intensive use risks are high—it usually remains an “experiment”; it struggles to become long-term, standardized urban furniture.

Third clear sentence: In an interior space with an acoustic problem (for example, an activity hall in a youth center), as a wall or ceiling surface that will not take impact, a mycelium-based panel can work; because its porous structure can “swallow” part of the sound energy.

Fire behavior: speaking without saying “non-combustible”

One claim we often hear about mycelium composites is “fire resistance.” Here we need to be careful with language: saying “non-combustible” is risky both technically and ethically. Fire behavior varies depending on the fungal species, substrate, density, production method, and especially the test standard. Some studies discuss results such as the surface charring and slowing flame spread, or heat release being relatively low under certain conditions; but that is not an automatic label for every product.

A landscape parenthesis: in public furnishings, fire risk often comes not as “accident” but as “intent.” A trash bin is set on fire, a bench is exposed to flame, a cigarette butt is left behind. So fire performance should be considered not only as flame spread, but also smoke production, dripping behavior, and whether repair is possible afterwards—more everyday questions, really. Some producers and researchers try fire-retardant approaches using mineral additives, different fiber mixes, or surface coatings; but there is also the “at what cost?” question. Added chemicals can weaken the environmental claim, or alter reuse and compostability scenarios.

Acoustics: the pleasant side of porosity

Acoustics is one of the areas where mycelium composites look like they have a “natural advantage.” With a simple analogy: sound hits a hard, flat surface and bounces back; but when it enters a porous surface, it loses part of its energy through friction in tiny cavities. The fibrous-porous structure of mycelium composites, with the right density and surface design, can support this absorption. So the answer to “Can it be an acoustic panel?” is often “it can.”

But there is a small contradiction. If you seal the surface against water and dirt, you also close pores, and acoustic performance may drop. If you leave the surface open, dust retention and cleaning problems increase. So in acoustic applications, you may need a thin layer that protects without fully sealing, or a secondary solution such as a permeable textile or grille carrier in front of the panel. These details can look minor; in a project, they can be the parts that consume the most time.

Production technique and scale: mold, grow, stop

The most critical difference in producing mycelium composites is this: the material is not merely “manufactured”; to a degree it is “grown.” A fibrous mix placed into a mold integrates as mycelium grows under suitable temperature and humidity. Then growth is stopped; steps like drying or sterilization stabilize the product. At workshop scale this process is flexible and creative—an excellent playground for a designer. In mass production, the same process becomes harder: contamination risk, keeping the same density batch to batch, dimensional tolerances, shrinkage and form loss during drying…

Once, on a piece taken out of a mold, the corners were not as sharp as we expected; it was as if the material had “rounded” them. This can even be aesthetically pleasing, but it creates trouble in connection details. You want to screw into it; the screw tears fibers. You think of anchors; holding strength can be weak. You try adhesive; the surface absorbency prevents uniform bonding. In other words, mycelium composite still tests the designer on “connections and detailing.” This is one reason why standardization talk has increased lately: the material has a beautiful story, but the “safe recipe that everyone can use the same way” is not fully settled yet.

Use scenarios: small scenes of “works / doesn’t work”

Imagine the time pressure of an exhibition build. It’s 22:00 and the pavilion skin has to be finished. The lightness of mycelium panels is gold here: two people carry them, no heavy crane, fast assembly. And the surface’s “mat organic” language absorbs light nicely; it photographs well. Under these conditions, mycelium composite works: short life, controlled indoor climate, low impact. And at the end, a “dismantle and recycle or compost” scenario can come onto the table—of course where it truly goes and how it is processed is a separate discussion.

Now take the same material outdoors. A municipal procurement team looks at a sample bench piece: “What is the warranty period? How is it cleaned? Does graffiti come off? If a part breaks, is there a spare?” These are the real questions of landscape. Mycelium composite struggles here, because answers often start with “under this condition.” If the climate is harsh (freeze–thaw), rainfall is high, sun is intense, vandalism is common… risk grows. In that situation it becomes a headache; because the project stops defining the material’s limits, and the material starts defining the project’s limits.

A third scene: an interior co-working space; high ceiling, reverberation is annoying. The budget for acoustic panels is limited, but there is also a search for a “material with a story.” Mycelium composite can be reasonable here. The panel is placed high on the wall so it won’t take impact; its surface is protected with a permeable layer that won’t trap dust; a certified product with suitable fire performance is selected. Under these conditions it works; because the problem (echo) and the solution (porosity) align well.

A fourth scene, less discussed: the maintenance crew. Spring cleaning, a habit of washing with a hose. Washing a mycelium composite surface with a hose can mean “insisting on water exposure.” The surface darkens, dries with stains, fibers lift at edges. The maintenance crew quite reasonably says, “I can’t deal with this.” And at that point, material selection becomes not only a design issue, but also an issue of maintenance culture. In landscape, a material lives in the hands of the municipality, not on the designer’s table.

The ethics of the material: sometimes good, sometimes just a story

The ethical side of mycelium composites is worth discussing: using agricultural waste streams, the possibility of local production, reducing dependence on chemical binders—these are genuinely hopeful. But the “carbon” narrative may not always be smooth because steps like sterilization and drying require energy; energy source, logistics, scale, and service life change the calculation. Sometimes the “green” look of the material can even become a stage for greenwashing: visually organic, narratively bright, yet with an unclear supply chain and uncertain lifespan. What is needed here is a gentle but clear line: not everything that looks natural is automatically good; what is good is good together with its conditions.

Source Notes

1. Camilleri, E.; Narayan, S.; Lingam, D.; Blundell, R. – 2025 – Mycelium-based composites: An updated comprehensive overview – Biotechnology Advances. L-Università ta’ Malta
2. Motamedi, S.; Rousse, D.R.; Promis, G. – 2025 – A Review of Mycelium Bio-Composites as Energy-Efficient Sustainable Building Materials – Energies. MDPI
3. Lewandowska, A.; Sydor, M.; Bonenberg, A. – 2025 – A Review of Mycelium-Based Composites in Architectural and Design Applications – Sustainability. MDPI
4. Aiduang, W.; Jinanukul, P.; Thamjaree, W.; Kiatsiriroat, T.; Waroonkun, T.; Lumyong, S. – 2024 – A Comprehensive Review on Studying and Developing Guidelines to Standardize the Inspection of Properties and Production Methods for Mycelium-Bound Composites in Bio-Based Building Material Applications – Biomimetics. PMC
5. Le Ferrand, H. – 2024 – Critical Review of Mycelium-Bound Product Development: Barriers to Entry and Paths to Overcome Them – Journal of Cleaner Production. ScienceDirect
6. Madusanka, C.; Udayanga, D.; Nilmini, R.; Rajapaksha, S.; Hewawasam, C.; Manamgoda, D.; Vasco-Correa, J. – 2024 – A review of recent advances in fungal mycelium based composites – Discover Materials. Springer Link
7. Alaneme, K.K.; Okafor, A.U.; Omotoyinbo, J.A.; Bodunrin, M.O. – 2023 – Mycelium based composites: A review of their material properties, biomedical applications and future perspectives – Ain Shams Engineering Journal. ScienceDirect
8. Majib, D. et al. – 2024 – Fungal Mycelium-Based Biofoam Composite: A Review on Growth, Properties, and Application – Progress in Rubber, Plastics and Recycling Technology. ScienceDirect
9. Verma, N.; Jujjavarapu, S.E.; Mahapatra, C. – 2023 – Green sustainable biocomposites substitute to plastics with innovative fungal mycelium based biomaterial – Journal of Environmental Chemical Engineering.

We often see the city “from above.” From maps, plans, screens… And then from within life itself: from behind the steering wheel, from the middle of the sidewalk, from an adult’s eye level. Everything has a name, a measurement, an explanation. But the truth is this: the city is understood through empathy. And a child’s body speaks an entirely different language inside it.

The first time I truly noticed this, I wasn’t preparing a presentation, and I wasn’t writing a thesis. I was walking with my son. My hand was holding his; I’m used to walking fast, he isn’t. I decide quickly, saying “we’ll go this way,” but he sees everything, one by one. While I was complaining about my son’s slowness as I grabbed his arm and pulled him along, his mother warned me. So I started watching him. His eyes catch on the height of a single curb stone. On a surface where the pavement has been torn up, he points at a puddle and says, “Dad, there’s a pool in front of us.” He hides behind the trunk of a tree. He listens carefully to the sound the wind makes in the branches. What is ordinary to me becomes, for him, sometimes a small adventure, sometimes a small fear.

“95 cm” stops being just a number for me here. It becomes the height from which a child looks at the world… around waist level. And when you look from there, the city changes all at once. What we call “narrow” can feel too wide and too exposed to them. What we call a “safe” sidewalk can make them feel as if they are walking on the roadway. What we call a “connector road” can feel like a river that is hard to cross. (See: Urban95)

The way children experience the city is fundamentally different from the way adults do; at the center of this difference lies a strong drive to explore. A child approaches first, touches, tries; they often learn the boundary not from a warning sign, but from lived experience. For this reason, in places where children spend time, safety should not be treated as a technical measure added later, but as a basic quality the space must carry from the very beginning. Because for a child, an unsafe detail a slippery surface, a dark corner, a loose part does not only create physical risk; it also interrupts curiosity and teaches withdrawal. Seen from 95 cm, the city stops being an open field for exploration and turns into a sequence of obstacles that must be crossed carefully. That is why, in child-oriented spaces, safety should not be read as the opposite of freedom; on the contrary, it should be read as a precondition for exploration and for participation in public life.

You come to realize something: a child reads the city not only with “logic,” but also with the senses. Through sound, vibration, light, slipperiness, smell, hardness… For example, when I cross a road, I mostly check whether traffic is flowing. My son sometimes says, “The cars are very angry.” It’s not a technical sentence, but it’s accurate. Because in his body, when speed and noise come together, they feel “angry.” In some places the light glares into his eyes; in others the wind hits like a slap. Especially in winter: the ground hardens, corners turn to ice, pits where water collects and freezes overnight… Things that don’t slow an adult down can cut off a child’s courage.

And there’s something else: we adults usually assume the city is something “finished.” A child doesn’t. For a child, a wall is not a boundary; it is the idea of climbing. A puddle is not a problem; it is an experiment. Curb stones are not a line; they are a balancing game. A child keeps testing the possibilities inside the city. Maybe that’s why, when you walk with a child, something in you feels unsettled. The city, on one hand, is alive, inviting, calling you in; on the other hand, it is strangely hard, constantly saying, “Don’t touch.”

In the end, it always comes back to the same question: For whom do we consider the city “normal”? Whose walking speed is normal? Whose stride length is normal? Whose field of view is normal? In plans, projects, and even in our everyday decisions, we often take our own body as the measure. And then we create a separate corner for children and soothe our conscience: “At least there’s a playground…” But the issue is not only the playground. It’s the sidewalk a child walks along during the day, the corner they turn, the bus stop they wait at, the space in front of the school, the route to the grocery store… That’s where the real stage of life is.

As I write this, one image keeps returning to my mind: we are waiting at a crosswalk. I check the road almost automatically, acting as if to say, “Okay, go.” My son, before anything else, looks for eye contact. He looks at the driver, trying to understand whether the driver has noticed him. For a child, safety is sometimes not in the sign on the pole, but in being seen. In that quiet message of “I noticed you.” It’s that simple, that human.

So are we going to talk about this 95 cm issue as if it were only a slogan? I don’t really have the heart for that. Because out in the field, you see something very clearly: sometimes it’s not the big projects, but the small adjustments that save lives. The gap in a drainage grate, the height of a curb, the sightline at a corner, the position of a sign… These get dismissed as “details,” but in a child’s walk they can become a massive obstacle.

When a designer looks “from below” at what they say, “I drew this”… some things start to feel unnecessarily harsh. Some forms look unnecessarily large. Some solutions, while trying to be “safe,” have turned into something intimidating. The adult mind sometimes loves big gestures: wide openings, hard edges, tall elements… A child, however, wants not a grand spectacle, but consistent small continuities. A sidewalk that keeps the same width, a corner that doesn’t surprise you, lighting that repeats in a predictable rhythm, a surface that isn’t slippery… And that repetition is not boredom, as we often assume. In a child’s language, it means “being able to predict.” And being able to predict means safety.

At this point, an objection usually appears: “If we design everything for children, won’t it feel too tight for adults?” I understand that, because the city is already a place where interests collide. But there is a simple reality: most of the things you improve for a child also benefit the adult. Calmer traffic, crossings that are easier to read, more shade, seating that is easier to reach, less noise… None of these diminish anyone. On the contrary, they make the city a little more livable. When you make room for the most fragile, everyone gets to breathe. It almost feels like a general rule of life.

When you talk with a child, you start to understand what we call “participation” in a different way. Showing a plan to a child and asking, “Do you like it?” is little more than a pointless effort, or a kind of performative gesture. But when you ask, “Where do you run on the way to school?”, “What scares you in the city?”, “When you stand next to this bench, what do you feel like doing?”, suddenly you get very clear answers. A child doesn’t describe space as a “drawing,” but as a “stage.” On that stage, where do they speed up, where do they hesitate, where does it turn into play… That is the real information.

All of this, for me, keeps circling back to a phrase I love in landscape architecture: “reading the site.” In this piece, I’m suggesting we do that reading a little lower, a little slower, and a little more from the heart. When you look from 95 cm, the city suddenly stops being only a child’s issue; it becomes an issue for all of us. Because a city truly grows when it makes room for its smallest user. And by growth, I don’t mean skyscrapers; I mean becoming finer, softer, more attentive… In a way, a city’s maturity shows itself here.

Have you ever noticed how playgrounds in cities are usually lively only in spring or on mild summer days, yet turn into abandoned spaces in winter or during extremely hot summer periods? With the climate crisis and accelerating urbanization, “play” one of our children’s most basic rights keeps getting blocked by weather conditions. So can children’s playgrounds truly be made usable in all four seasons?

In this article, by discussing season-responsive playground design and the idea of child-friendly cities, we will explore how parks can become living spaces 365 days a year.

Seasonality: Not Just a “Maintenance” Issue

The conventional perspective either treats the fact that playgrounds are not used in winter as something natural, or reduces it to a simple maintenance and cleaning issue. Yet studies suggest that climate data (wind, sun, precipitation) should be placed at the center of design when playgrounds are planned.

Based on observations, while park use can be 3–4 times a week in summer, this rate may drop to as little as once a week in winter. However, from the standpoint of urban resilience and children’s rights, the right to play cannot be suspended because of the weather; parks should remain accessible and safe throughout the year.

1. Safe play in scorching summer heat: UV protection and thermal comfort

Although summer means vacation and play for children, extreme heat carries serious risks. The lack of heat-resilient surfaces and adequate shading can make parks dangerous.

• Hot surface risk: Metal, rubber, and asphalt surfaces can reach hazardous temperatures under direct sun (over 60°C for metal, over 77°C for plastic), creating a risk of burns.

• Suggested Solutions:

  • UV-protected play area: Modular shade structures or canopy systems should be added above play equipment, especially slides and swings.

  • Natural shading: Deciduous trees should be used so that the area is shaded in summer while allowing sunlight to pass through in winter.

  • Light-colored materials: To reduce surface temperatures, light-colored ground materials that reflect sunlight should be preferred.

  • Thermal comfort for children: Children regulate body temperature more slowly than adults; therefore, clean drinking water fountains that allow frequent hydration should be integrated into the site.

2. Why do parks stay empty in winter?

In winter, parents often hesitate to take their children outside due to fear of illness. However, observations from cities with harsh continental climates such as Erzurum suggest that the issue is not only the cold, but also unsuitable design decisions.

• Windbreak Planting: By using dense plant barriers or panels that block northerly winds, the “perceived temperature” can be increased and the wind’s chilling effect can be reduced.

• Warm colors: Warm, vivid colors that contrast with winter’s gray-and-white atmosphere can create a psychological sense of warmth and invite children to play.

• Anti-icing measures: To prevent slips and falls, flexible surfaces that are resistant to freezing should be used, and regular snow clearing should be carried out.

• Lighting: With the shortening of days in winter, lighting levels should be increased to reduce growing safety concerns.

3. Spring and autumn: Rain, mud, and slippery surfaces

In transitional seasons, drainage problems are the biggest barrier in playgrounds. Snowmelt or spring rains can turn parks into mud baths.

• Drainage solutions: To prevent puddling, permeable surfaces should be used and subsurface drainage systems should be installed.

• Slip prevention: In autumn, fallen leaves combined with rain can turn surfaces into an ice rink. Textured surface finishes and regular cleaning reduce this risk.

• Mud management: In high-use areas, raised wooden walkways (boardwalks) can be used to limit contact with mud.

4. Climate-responsive landscape design and urban resilience

Four-season usable play space creation is not merely about selecting equipment; it is the art of crafting a microclimate. Urban planners should integrate macroclimate data (the region’s overall climate) with micro-scale data (the park’s wind direction, shaded areas).

Climate-sensitive landscape design; while protecting children’s health, offers a play experience that does not detach them from nature, but instead aligns with nature’s seasonal cycles. This approach not only enhances the quality of the play space, but also preserves the balance between urban climate and the right to play against the risks created by climate change.

Let’s Not Surrender Parks to the Seasons

Children’s playgrounds are an urban resilience issue as important as disaster preparedness. As municipalities, designers, and parents, we should stop seeing parks as spaces meant only for sunny days.

1. spaces that are shaded and cool in summer
2. sheltered from the wind and safe in winter
3. It is possible to create spaces that are mud-free and dry in spring. Let us not forget that play is not a luxury, but a children’s right that applies in every season.

This content was compiled from the book-chapter research titled “Designing Child-Friendly Urban Resilience: Seasonal Strategies for Public Playgrounds“, conducted by Mehmet Emin DAŞ and Prof. Dr. Mehmet Akif IRMAK, focusing on the climatic resilience and seasonal adaptation of children’s playgrounds within the book titled “Architectural Sciences and Sustainable Approaches: Urban Resilience“. For more detailed information on how this can be implemented, please read the original book chapter.