Detours, Visually Explained

Quiet. Yes. Any reason, in particular? Well...we are still working on this little thing:





Progress has been steady, but as always, you have one step forward, a couple steps back. Things are added, things are delayed, and what you thought would take a couple months takes a couple months more... (We are closing in on the finish, but my photos are a bit behind.)

I've been with my contractors day in and day out. They still haven't told me to get lost, so I guess I've proven myself to be useful. Or, at least not a liability. And, had I not gotten along so well with them, then I wouldn't have had the chance to participate in this:





A side project for my grandpa. A surprise, really, which needed their immediate attention. I learned I suck at a 60lb jackhammer, but can shovel chunks of concrete like no one's business. Hey, at least I'm learning new things....

I'll hopefully find inspiration soon...something that gets a good rise from me, or at least a funny story to share with you all. For now, however, I'll just leave you with this:

Timing

It's Architecture's Big Prize. And this year, the winner was someone whose name doesn't necessarily ring a bell. Unless you're an archi-nerd of some variety.

Photo © Architekturburo Zumthor, Haldenstein
via Arcspace

The choice of Peter Zumthor isn't surprising, if you've seen his work. Pictures take your breath away. Well, they did for me. The first time I saw his work, way back when I was a freshmen, was revelatory. A shot of his thermal baths in Vals, Switzerland, it captured a sense of gravity, permanence, solitude. I connected with the image instinctively. I wanted to be in that photo, submerged in that still pool, lost to the world.

That gutteral response to his work was something I'd never had before. It was the response I hoped one day someone might have upon seeing my own work. So far, no luck.

Maybe it's just me, but the jury's choice seems, in particular, to reflect the current state of our profession. The flash and bang of other winners would seem a bit extravagent given the tough times we currently face. The values of craft, materials, space rise back to the forefront.

Greatness is part talent, part luck, and part timing. Making my way through school, I found myself drawn more and more to those professors who emphasized the things that Zumthor's work so effortlessly exudes. But, as I noted before, the things I had come to admire, sought to incorporate into my own work, made me a relic amongst my peers. Apparently, my timing was a bit off.

Now, as I worry about the next step, which approaches more quickly than I care to think about, I can't help but wonder, will my timing will always be a bit off?

Surviving the next cycle

Lately, I find myself coming back to thoughts I made in this post. Though made a year and a half ago, I am still asking the same questions today, especially given the current plans to "green" our way out of this historic recession. Green has moved beyond fad. It is, apparently, Architecture's way forward.

The economy has hit Architecture hard. There's no pretty way to put it. But, then, our profession has always been susceptible to the ups and downs of the economy. It's not rocket science, given that the money that drives construction in turn drives the need for the services we primarily provide. If people are building, we're in business. If people aren't building, well, we're screwed.

But, I would also argue that the profession has made itself increasingly susceptible to these winds of change. We have become increasingly "market-driven", you might say, relying on flash to get across the value of what we do.

Let us take, for example, the NYC construction scene. Last year was the Year of Architects, you might say, with projects big and small drawing great press for professionals. The glamorous openings of condo developments by Jean Nouvel and Herzog and De Meuron lead to record setting sale prices for the units they designed. The opening of the New Museum could be easily considered the turning point for the transformation of the entire Bowery.

Piece by piece, projects inserted themselves into NYC, their noteriety gaining them press which gave them, and their creators, credence for other projects, which would hopefully, for those fronting the money, provide the same returns and press that the intial projects provided. Celebrity begets desire begets profit begets new projects begets greater celebrity.

But, when the money dries up? What happens? The work gets cut. The designs ideas that were so effusively promoted by the marketing machines and architectural press get eliminated for their extravagence.

The "green" road is suppose take us out of this recession - save our profession from the decline we are now suffering. But, unless the profession takes a greater role in the development and implementation of the practices that will guide us, we'll be in the exact same place as we are now. We'll be out specifying green materials or integrating green energy products into projects until the money dries up, the stimulus money runs out, or the market decides that, without tax rebates, the products don't make financial sense, which will end the demand for our work retrofitting/ungrading/remodelling. Then what? The hunt for the next saving grace?

Our profession will always have an aspect of salesmanship. We will always be relying on people looking to trade in, trade up, buy new. But we need to be more than that. We have to be if we want to survive the inevitable downs that following the ups.

What happened to the profession that challenged the way people lived? That proposed grander visions of life - aspirations that, in failure or succeess, at least led people to ask hard questions about the status quo? We need to lead, to take positions that direct the change that will shape the future of our profession. And, since it seems like many of us are out of work anyways, this might be our chance. The chance for architects to take their knowledge and skills into politics, into lobbying, into consulting, into think tanks, into policy making, into the companies that we often promote to clients. We've always been capable of more than what the public has acknowleged. It's time to shown them.

Changing Expectations

I’ve been quiet, sucked into the daily routine of our extreme makeover. The hope is that we are halfway through. But you know what they say about expectations.

It’s about this time in most projects that I find myself falling into a rut of sorts. The doldrums of the project, I suppose, when the end seems too far away and I second guess what’s been accomplished. Part of me wishes we were done. Part of me wishes we were a few steps back, and I could address some things differently. Part of me knows that, given the way things are, I should just lay low and ride it out for as long as possible. After all, once this is over, real unemployment awaits.

Where I sit now is miles away from where I thought I’d be. I don’t think anyone expects that, five years out of undergraduate school and weighed down by grad school debt, they’d be living in the basement of their parent’s temporary house. And I have it better than many others. I am at least doing work of some sort. Plenty of architects are in a far worse position.

But this isn’t the dream, is it? The one they sell you when you sign up. The one that drives you through late nights, past the criticism, hits to the ego, the numerous hours in front of a computer or at a modeling table. You don’t dream of looking for a new position during an economic crisis. You don’t necessarily plan life goals with the catastrophic collapse of your profession in mind.

If you were to ask me, in school, what I imagined for my life at this point: IDP completed, ARE exams completed and working in a mid-size, respected firm as a project manager of some sort. I’d be in a large city somewhere, on my own, with enough knowledge to be thinking about going out on my own, and the better sense to think about rounding out my experience by jumping to a new ship.

The reality? Well, I’ve tutored, taught, been an administrative bitch, a shoulder to cry on, a student adviser, a student and a junior staff monkey. I made good headway in an office I enjoyed working at, but doing work I didn’t quite fall in love with. (And don’t get me started on the fact that the principal of my firm never bothered to learn my name, even though I was one of the fastest junior members to get promoted.)

Not quite the dream, eh? Hell, it’s not even a direct-to-TV knock-off sequel of the Hollywood feature. For the most part, I’m actually okay with that. I’ve had experiences in the past five years that I never considered for myself while in school. In school, I was sold on the professional practice version of becoming an “Architect”. Who wouldn’t be, since it seemed so clear and simple. Do this, record this, work for this amount of time, and before you know it, you’ll be ready to go.

But, let’s face it. School does not provide enough time or experience to make a definitive decision on how you will practice. In fact, it seems unlikely that during your first, or second, job you’ll have found yourself doing what you want in a manner you wish. You may fall in love with the work, but hate how your firm runs its business. You may find yourself in a firm with solid client relationships, admirable benefits and working environment, but doing work that bores you to death. At one job, you may find yourself filling a niche, which makes you indispensable to the firm, but in no way helps you fulfill all those IDP units. At another, you’ll get all your IDP done without seeing a project from start to finish. It’s a crap shoot they don’t dwell too much on in school.

So, beyond my (to be eventually discussed) rants about the ever-changing standards for sending in IDP units, and the ARE exam format, is my considerable frustration with this so called intern life. This state, between student and Architect, leaves a lot to be desired. Supposedly, I am still learning; that’s the justification by firms for the lower wages we receive versus other professions which require a professional degree. But, since I am not in school, I get to pay back my student loans asap. Since I don’t know enough to practice on my own, I need to go out and find it. But, unlike residency programs for medicine, I can’t guarantee I’ll get the experience I need, in a timely fashion, or in any specific order. In the end, we are responsible for how well we prepare ourselves, especially if we wish to practice on our own. That is a heavy weight to shoulder, given the potential impact of the work we do.

So my expectations have changed. They are still changing, really, given that landing a job, any job, is not a guarantee right now. I know now that so much that awaits students who will, this May, join me in this state of non-professional professional life, will be far from what they were told, far from what they expect. Some will find the direct route to the land of “Architect”, but I think most will find themselves on one of many potential detours.

It’s not that detours are bad. For most, these detours may actually take them to a destination far more suited to their dreams and desires. But I think it’s time for our profession to take a look at how we get from here to there, and what guides we provide to those about to set out. It’s not simple, not easy, and not that clear. And after all the time and effort put in, the expense undertaken to qualify for this profession, the least we can do is make sure everyone understands that.

A Real Writer

Maybe I can call myself an author now. At least a published writer. Thanks to Crit, I can now add a small entry onto my CV - "published article". Sweet.

Crit is sent to all members of AIAS (American Institute of Architecture Students). You can also become a library subscriber to get a full issue, which is filled with articles, essays, images from other architecture junkies/students/critics. Highly recommended as an alternative to more readily available publications. For me, it's nice to hear what other people are thinking about/writing about when it comes to issues within this crazy profession.

This past issue focused around ideas of infrastructure. You know, the things you use everyday, but usually think nothing about. There is a whole world of issues that need to be addressed, and I am glad that Crit took the time to explore this area that often gets passed over for flashier pursuits.

As for my take on infrastructure, well, I've attached the text below. Hopefully it'll get you interested enough in getting an issue yourself, or at least finding an issue in the library to check out.

The Street Where You Live (from Crit Fall 08)

I find myself miles from where I grew up. My childhood was spent running between the backyards of my friends' homes, clustered in an idyllic suburb of American mythology: green grass, sidewalks, open doors, neighbors that knew you, family, and probably everyone you called friends.

I now live on a numbered street, in a small walk-up in the East Village. The street where I live is filled with—best guess—a couple hundred other people, all in apartments, all living the life of metropolitan fantasy: a quick walk to restaurants and bars, a 24-hour deli right around the corner, a local Laundromat with drop-off and same day service, and of course, a gym just five minutes away.

So much of our life is spent outside; outside of buildings, homes, schools, offices—the spaces that fixate our profession. In the car-oriented world of my childhood, this time was spent on roads—some quaint, some vast—all laid out to meet an exacting set of standards for parking spaces, passing lanes, and—at least in my home town—bike lanes. In the dense, pedestrian packed urban landscape of the city, this time is spent on sidewalks, narrow and wide, often dodging other people, plants and the odd bag of trash. There is a haphazard quality to the sidewalks of New York, the way things are patched together, the surfaces changing from building to building; a marker of the city's evolution, perhaps.

Despite the amount of time we spend transversing this part of the built landscape, we spend little time thinking about it; how we use it, how it is laid out, how we experience it. We walk on it, we drive on it. It provides us access from one point to another. The thing we use most is, well, the furthest from our minds.

It seems to me that this space between is both a product of, and a producer of, the designed spaces that border it. That the streets of my childhood were also my playground is partly because this was where we would run into our neighbors. We all had backyards to play in, but being out on the street meant we could see our friends as they came home and could call them over to hang out. It facilitated communication, contact—the principles that made my neighborhood so idyllic. Even now, when I go home to visit, I am more likely than not to strike up a conversation with a neighbor if I just hang out in the driveway.

In Urban Design class, we were drilled on the ideal street section. In our world, where New Urbanism ruled, you needed front porches on each side of the street, each with a section of front lawn, a sidewalk, a small green curb, and a two lane street in between. We laughed at it then, since it was so dogmatic. But, then again, my childhood home was a prime example if it working.

My current street isn't quite like that, or even that of the New York streets depicted in Sesame Street. I don't know any of my neighbors, though there are various characters with their very specific routines. The man in sunglasses, for instance, who, from sun-up to sun-down, stands in front of the door to his building, staring straight ahead as the world passes in front of him. No kids play in the street, and it is often lined with garbage bags, awaiting their every-other-day pick-up. On my street, you'll see people going about their urban lives; walking their dogs at morning and night, hauling their laundry to the dry cleaners on the street, carrying their groceries back to their apartments. The street fits the people here—mostly young singles and couples, working during the day, and out at night, who need their streets to fulfill the other necessities of life.

And yet, a funny thing happens in the city. This space, seemingly owned by no one and everyone, is under constant occupation. We wait for friends on shady corners, take a quick lunch on curbs or stoops, strew about haphazard barriers so that we can dine al fresco. Everywhere one looks, people occupy and use the streets—a secondary manipulation.

The same could be said for the street of my childhood. We would chalk up the street for games, and in the winter our sidewalks became raceways for sledding. This zone of communal ownership was our playground, and we used it for all it was worth.

What I realize is this: if space is available, we want to use it. This is especially true in the city, where space is limited. We'll find places to sit, to congregate, even if these spaces aren’t designated for those purposes. By adding a bench people stop and rest, even if the street is less than picturesque. Street fairs turn ordinary thoroughfares into plazas, which bring out thousands, damn the traffic headaches they may cause. New York City will even close a 6 mile stretch of road—from Brooklyn Bridge to Central Park—for three days this summer, just to give the city a place to play. Carts will roll in, tables will come out, street performers will appear, and we'll pretend that Lafaytte and Park Avenue are Las Ramblas of Barcelona or Le Champs l'Elysee of Paris.

So imagine. Imagine if we planned for this? Imagine if we, as architects, thought about ways to connect experiences beyond the walls of the projects we build? After all, we are able to turn a dirty New York street into a festival for a day, despite lack of planning, or the infrastructure to support it. What would that festival be like if we had? I'd like to think, that with the right planning and fore-thought, it would be a hybrid of the street I live on today and the street on which I used to live. And for me, well, that would probably be pretty close to perfect.