DO NOT CLIMB: The Extinction of the Climbing Tree

Up until its eventual demise in 2008, the courtyard of the Noguchi Museum in Queens was centered around a large Ailanthus altissima, known commonly as a Tree of Heaven. This tree was seventy five years old and had already escaped death once, saved by Isamu Noguchi during the conversion of the building that now houses his museum. Not only did he spare the tree, but he centered the entire garden’s design around it. After the tree became diseased a little over twenty years later, its wood was repurposed into the very benches that sit in the courtyard today. The Tree of Heaven is generally loathed by the public. Their drought tolerance, ability to survive in poor soil, and massive amounts of seed give them a tendency to crowd out other plants. Not to mention the smell. The male trees emit a smell that people describe as anything from cat piss to rancid peanut butter. Numerous guides on the internet, all titled something along the lines of Stinking Tree of Heaven: How to Remove This Exotic Invasive Plant in FOUR Easy Steps, detail every possible way to kill these indomitable plants. However, when looking at photos of Noguchi’s beloved Tree of Heaven, someone could come to the brief conclusion that it could make for a really solid climbing tree.

On a different side of the internet from the invasive plant removal guides, a discussion on the Tree Climbers International website confirms that while inspecting for hollow branches first is a must, the tree is climbable, and its smooth bark and simple branch structure make it a satisfying climb. The TCI site itself is a great rabbit hole for an outsider, and contains anything a technical tree climber could want to know. But while tree climbing with a rope and saddle is a niche hobby adults enjoy, akin to rock climbing and spelunking, what has happened to the simple act of clambering up a tree? Portrayed in classic movies and solidified as a timeless part of being a child, but rarely seen in real life. Why aren’t we climbing trees anymore?

The observation that kids aren’t playing outside anymore is quickly dismissed as an effect of technology. In a world of iPads and infinite kids content, the outdoors just aren’t as appealing. There is definitely merit to this belief. Immersion in games has increasingly improved, and provided an alternative experience to the outside world. Many could even argue the fantastical worlds in video games are more interesting than the everyday experiences nature has to offer. But the companies that create these games aren’t really to blame. The real culprit behind kids' exodus from the outdoors may be the parents themselves, or really, our modern-day view on parenting and safety concerns.

We live in an age with increasing access to information concerning a variety of dangers, ranging from cancerous sun-exposure and venomous insects, to bad drivers and pedophiles. Of course, the natural instinct is to keep your children close and constantly supervised. Statistically the chance of encountering many of these dangers is slim, but no one wants their child's name to become a cautionary tale. So many parents are satisfied if their child spends the day watching a video on a screen, or running around indoors, because this way they can remain within their sight. Some states even have laws against kids playing alone outside. In Illinois, leaving anyone under the age of fourteen unsupervised can result in a charge of neglect.

It is also becoming less common, in this day and age, to be close with neighbors. This is partially for the same reason we aren’t letting our kids outside, distrust of others and a fear of crime. The rest of the blame can be pointed at a variety of other factors woven into our social web, but it’s clear to say our sense of community within neighborhoods has declined. As said by Robert Putnam, author of “Our Kids: The American Dream in Crisis”, a book on the decrease in upward social mobility for young people today, “If it takes a village to raise a child, the prognosis for American children isn’t good.” 1 Fostering friendships with neighbors can greatly reassure parents of the safety of their children. If they do run into danger, they have multiple trusted places to go for help. Who would be keen to send their kid running down the street not knowing who lives in the houses they pass? It’s important to note the word street here. Gone are the days of Dear Johnny frolicking in the woods till he hears the dinner bell ring. Because of increasing population and land use, neighborhoods aren’t as spread out as they used to be. Larger neighborhoods with houses in closer proximity and the ever more popular townhouse complexes all have busier, more active streets. And in most cases, aside from the lawn, the road is the most accessible outdoor place for a child to explore.

If a parent does let their child play in the street, does this really constitute ‘going outside’? Barren asphalt in a quiet suburb is hardly a comparison to the stimuli provided in nature through grass, trees, plants, flowers, and bugs. Author Richard Louv, who studied the changes in relationship between children and the natural world in his book “Last Child in the Woods” coins the phenomenon of children not going outside as “nature-deficit disorder”. He believes that the way modern cities and towns are built creates a disconnect from the wild, and in some cases makes access to it only available by traveling miles away. Louv claims that this disconnect leads to “diminished use of the senses, attention difficulties, and higher rates of physical and emotional illnesses.” 2 The truth is that nature is historically and genetically intertwined with humanity, and we need it.

So here comes our Anthropocenic solution: curated nature. You know, the park. The garden. Spaces to experience nature built into our manmade networks of cement. Natural spaces that are free of danger and pleasing to the eye. The first part of the park a young kid is introduced to is the playground. You could call this our solution to the loss of the climbing tree, and more. Various stairs and monkey bars replace the tree, the slide replaces a hill, a metal swing set replaces the good old fashioned wood-plank-tied-to-two-ropes-hanging- from-a-tree-branch swing. But the playground is so detached from its natural counterparts. Could you really compare the sprawling expanse of a hill to a small plastic slide? Playgrounds are stimulating, but don’t offer a cure to nature-deficit disorder.

Parks themselves are fun, of course, for both children and adults. They contain flora and fauna and they usually feel natural enough to satisfy our needs. Many times, they aid in conserving plants and animals that could otherwise be jeopardized. But they leave little room to explore. Every average sized park has one thing in common: the trail. Trails remove danger and the probability of getting lost, but they can also be limiting. Many park trails nowadays are made of asphalt, a man made material that separates us from ‘the wild’ and marks a clear path to navigate us through the surrounding nature. In this way, trails are much like a fenced in backyard for a child to play in. Most of the park remains unexplored by the public, spaces full of stimulation reduced to nothing more than a landscape.

Noguchi himself has a popular quote⸺ “We are landscapes of all we have seen”. His choice of words is interesting here. Seen. Sight, the most catered to of the senses, even extending to our modern understanding of nature. It’s not hard to notice how a majority of park trails are built to lead you through a visually beautiful landscape, or to lead you to the most breathtaking view. Maybe sound takes second place, usually in a combo type of deal with sight. Where we see nature, we will also hear it. A park will never lead you to a waterfall so you can hear the crashing of its water onto the rocks down below. The main attraction is being able to look at the waterfall, watch it cascade.

This same sensory hierarchy falls into place at museums. Art has historically been thought of as a visual medium, so it’s no question why museums cater to the eye. Perhaps an exhibit may have an auditory aspect, like the sound guide handed out to visitors for an exhibit at the Noguchi museum in March. Like sound in parks, sound in museums is usually an accompaniment to the center of interest, a piece you can look at. It’s rare to find sound art in a museum, because the museum itself exists as a visual space. Look at Noguchi's gardens: they are designed to be pleasing to the eye. Plants, trees, sculptures, and paths are all placed within patterns and forms to achieve a kind of visual balance. It’s almost ironic to place a garden in a museum, a place that preserves some element of history. Is it an omen of nature's curated future? A world without the wild? You could think of the park itself as a museum. A catered and manicured visual experience, paths that lead you through, and fences that act as barriers of proximity between you and what you look at. A person goes to the art museum to look at art, and a person goes to the park to look at nature.

While sight is appealed to all around, and sound is its humble sidekick, touch, the very first sense we develop, is constantly overlooked. Touch only seems to be found within a set of constructed rules. Past childhood, there are no sensory experiences, such as toys and touch friendly kid museums, and what is acceptable to touch is policed. Touch is generally limited to products in a store, which even still are off limits due to the commonly followed “You Break It, You Buy It”, and whenever else necessary (ie. opening a door, using silverware in a restaurant). Our reasons for touch are hardly ever inquisitive or neurally stimulating. We cannot just touch the materials making up the spaces around us. Our bodies are made to sit on the ground, but in public we must only sit on designated benches and chairs. We are only really free to touch whatever we please in our own homes.

It’s noticeable how, like fences in a park, pretty much every museum experience, the Noguchi Museum included, has a magic that is taken away by the small ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ signs placed on the walls of nearly every room. Are these signs even necessary as more than a precaution to prevent liability? The general consensus is that unless clearly directed otherwise, touching is not allowed.

So, could we say then, that it’s not just the mobile games, and not just the parents? That really we choose not to climb trees because we have been taught against touch? That we are so worried about breaking the rules that anything not created with the intention of our interaction is subconsciously off-limits? We have been conditioned against exploration, and directed to destinations chosen for us. It is okay to sit on a park bench. It is okay to walk along a trail. It is okay to simply look and listen.

But it is also perfectly okay to climb a tree. Pick a sturdy tree with strong branches you can reach, and hoist yourself up. If you have a kid, climb a tree with them. It will exercise both their groups of motor skills, teach risk assessment and problem solving skills, and foster a connection with nature. We need touch to fully understand the world around us, and for kids, the tree is a sensory experience that the plastic or metal of a playground cannot provide. Feel the trees bark against your palms, living and regenerating⸺ just like your very own skin. It’s like being able to touch the chiseled grooves of a sculpture in a museum, understanding how it came to be. After all, it was Noguchi who said “Everything is sculpture. Any material, any idea without hindrance born into a space, I consider sculpture.”