Michael Rakowitz: The paraSITE project started when I recognized that I was only getting so far in the space of architectural critique in an architecture school. Design projects needed to at least receive the criticism or the voices of the people who would be using them. When I invited that group of homeless men-Bill Stone, George Livingston, all those guys-they came to the studio and listened to me talking to them, and after I'd been talking one of them said, "So you're an architect," in a very suspicious way, and I said, "Oh, no, no, I'm an artist." They just laughed and said, "This is fine; you're not so far from being like us." Suddenly I wasn't part of the problem: as an artist, I was close to being destitute myself. So they felt some kinship and also a sense that as art, this wouldn't have to fall within the confines of being legitimate and profitable.

From there it was clear that the project would become more alive and interesting the less I was visible in it. The only part that I design on my own is the most boring but also most critical part of the paraSITE structure: the attachment to the building. Its symbolism is important, since it's like some weird form of architectural CPR where one edifice is giving life to another by blowing life into lungs. It also serves a key technical function by recycling the wasted energy of the city. The homeless come up with the shapes for their shelters. They give form to this symbolic method of communicating what life is like on the streets to those who don't know.

Stephanie Smith: Because of this personalized, collaborative design process, the paraSITEs also function as portraits (or self-portraits) of their owners. Could you talk about some of the design features that the homeless requested for their shelters and how those functioned on both symbolic and practical levels?

MR: In one instance back in Cambridge, I had been introduced through George Livingston and Bill Stone to Freddie Flynn. During our first conversation, Freddie, a relatively shy man, said, "Bill and George told me you'd build me anything I want." I answered, "Yes, Freddie, that's right." He looked at me intensely. "Anything?" he asked to which I again answered "Yes." What I didn't know was that Freddie was an avid science fiction fan, and he came back to me with a torn out piece of a sci-fi magazine that had a picture of Jabba the Hutt printed on it and he said, "I want to live in this!" So for the next 10 days I very enthusiastically built this sculpture/shelter of Jabba the Hutt, by far the most complicated design I've had to produce to date, but also a pleasure.

On a more pragmatic note, a December 1999 article about the project in the New York Times exposed a city "loophole" that one homeless man, Michael McGee, decided to address in the design process.1 The city's "anti-tent laws" were alluded to by the spokesperson for the New York City Police Department, Detective Walter Burnes. This obscure law states that any structure, domed or otherwise, standing in excess of 3.5 feet above the ground and capable of housing someone inside, is considered a tent, and use of the structure on city streets is considered illegal camping. Given the incidence of homelessness in New York City, these laws are clearly meant to anticipate the possibility of "tent cities" and to prevent against an appropriation of "public" space. In response to the ordinance concerning height, McGee raised the question of what would happen if his shelter were shorter than the 3.5 foot maximum, thereby challenging the defensive efforts of the city and circumventing the law.

My relinquishing of control has been a big part of a lot of the projects that I've done; I like public art that enlists the audience as vital collaborators in the production of meaning. Of course, there are times that such an open system can only lead to failure, but I think that failure is highly underrated. Artists need to reclaim this right to fail.

SS: Absolutely: there are times that you need to run with an idea and see what happens. Where do you see failure within the paraSITE project?

MR: Earlier, you had asked me if I categorize it as design or art. I would say it's a failing design project, because if I were a designer my responsibility would be to devise a solution. Maybe this is a problem with design practice. Maybe we should pick problems and throw more problems at them in order to create an enraged but highly valuable public dialogue about the problem. So for me, when [former New York mayor Rudy] Giuliani got angry about this project, or when he went nuts and enforced all these antihomeless laws that, by the way, had already existed in the city's charter, he may have been doing the city a favor by agitating a dormant issue into something that created a sense of solidarity with the homeless. So, the failure of paraSITE as a design project may put the onus on designers to provide proposals for a longer-lasting structure to get the homeless off the streets, instead of prolonging life on the streets, which is what my project does.

SS: Have you kept in touch with these homeless men over time, and do you find they are still using your structures?

MR: A lot of them are. In New York it has been harder and harder to keep track of this, because after September 11, you don't fuck with building ventilation, so it's become harder to do this project. I'd say there's been a decrease in the number of New York homeless who want the structure, but there's been an increase in Baltimore. It's amazing how much extra space exists in that city. One of the interesting parts of the history is that several people who are no longer homeless have given back their shelters.

SS: Did they ask you to pass the shelters on to someone else?

MR: No, they understood the shelters as being their own.