The title of the book, “Glimmer,” by Warren Berger, (the Penguin Press, New York, 2009) refers to the notion of the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, or in this case, the glimmer of light in a sea of darkness that inspires the creative type to move into action on a particular idea. It is a phenomenon that is, hopefully for the creative type, familiar. It is also often referred to as that “a ha” moment when one grasps an idea that has been hard to assimilate.
Most of what designers do is assimilation. The challenge is in managing the type of information with which one surrounds oneself. If, for example in the current crisis in Haiti following the January 2010 earthquake, all one knows is the humble construction of un-reinforced masonry, and all one has at ones disposal is mud brick and mortar, then one might rebuild a house with the same process by which it was built before. And since there hasn’t been a significant quake on the fault line between the American plate and the Caribbean plate in perhaps 200 years, one might be reasonable to think that the January earthquake was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
If, on the other hand, one has surrounded oneself with a knowledge of building technology, an awareness of materials and processes, one might, in a moment of inspiration, find the glimmer of an idea (in that sea of darkness and despair) that revolutionizes the way of building a home in Haiti. Perhaps, in lieu of a brick and mortar construction, one considers that some new, light-weight material made of recycled polystyrenes and polypropylenes with a simple baling-wire lashing to connect them is a possibility for making a quick, habitable space that is flexible enough to quiver with the earth, and light enough to avoid absorbing the energy of another quake. What is this material? And how does one make this happen?
Of course, one would have to have an education that considered the effects of earthquakes, the causes, the resulting damage, and the means available to avoid damage. One would have to know something about building, a little something about architecture, and a little bit about housing in a tropical climate. Possibly more importantly, one would have to be able to transform ideas into actions, and find solutions in discarded refuse.
In a world where leadership is considered a high-paying job (think of corporate leaders) has anyone organized a charette among the leadership of corporate San Diego to design solutions to the problems in Haiti? Or for that matter, since we students of architecture are learning something about the effects of earthquakes, the causes, the resulting damage, and the means available to avoid that damage, has anyone thought to organize a design charette? We know something about building, a little something about architecture, and a little bit about housing in a tropical climate. What is it that we can do about this crisis?
Being in receipt of an e-mail from Steve Altman, President, NewSchool of Architecture & Design, encouraging students to consider giving to a Haiti charity, I am tempted to wonder, in addition, what else we can do that is more related to our education. The president’s assessment of the situation is helpful and accurate owing to the fact that a significant sum could be contributed with one-days’ lunch money for the student body. I wonder what more we could all learn if we applied a little more effort and created a community response that considered design solutions in addition to lunch money (?).
Could we, for example, utilize some of the funds from the student activity fee to create a design-response-learning-charette that would help us all to learn about creating means of shelter after earthquakes and other disasters? Could we, I don’t know, learn something about Haitian culture that would help us to design solutions to the problems, perhaps inherent, in traditional means of construction on the island (?). Could we have a voice in creating designs and solutions that might address the housing crisis they are about to endure (?). Could we assemble a team of students willing to donate their summer months off to spend time directly affecting the cause of rebuilding in Haiti (?). Could we contribute more, learn more, and build community in the process(?)
Is this, perhaps, the glimmer of an idea?
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Modernism: An Interesting Stylistic “Dabble“, or the Generic Distillation of All Architecture?
How odd it must have seemed, at the turn of the last century, when one could begin to see the fascinating decoration and design which followed. The sinuous and sensual flowering of the late 19th Century Art Noveau style was strikingly unusual in its context of boxy furniture designs and architecture dotted and decorated with machine made rosettes and inexpensively mass-produced bric-a-brac. While the Industrial Revolution produced many great things and processes which we take for granted, it is possibly most notable for the counter-revolution it spawned. Indeed, many would-be designers of the 21st Century are still hoeing the counter-revolutionary row.
The somewhat reactionary Arts and Crafts movement of the late 19th Century, heralded as the triumph of “hand-made” over the machine, unwittingly, opened Pandora’s box. The century which followed had no lasting official style nor architectural design idiom. Suddenly, the intellectual rigors of Edwardian times were discarded in favor of style-of-the-day proclamations. The impact, at roughly the same time, of the burgeoning mass media and the seeding of what would eventually be called “the Age of Information” further skewered the decorative arts and architecture.
All of this culminated in a hundred years in which no particular style reigned, and no particular aesthetic virtue remained. The eventual result of the Arts and Crafts movement is the parody of design that is HGTV’s home-makeover-in-a-weekend-for-five-hundred-dollars. Does the HGTV acronym stand for homogenized TV or homogenized design? Everybody has a “hand-made” opinion; indeed everyone is a designer, and each believes in their right to comment, and even to influence design, regardless of their aesthetic training. In this context, there is little particular value for rigorous design training, aesthetic education, nor patronage of the arts; particularly architecture.
During the same hundred years, however, there has been a consistent development of increasing pragmatism (as in economy of means) in the design and construction of buildings. This development has, at its core, the economic impacts of our evolving times. Our decreasing supplies of affordable fossil fuels and increasing costs of energy development have impacted design in ways which would cause Mies to twitch in his grave. God is no-longer in the details; but lives in the economic equation which factors form, function, aesthetic parameters, health and safety, liability, present day and unknowable future maintenance costs, durability, technological parity, and -most recently- energy and material sustainability. This equation says little or nothing of space-making or place-making, and only peripherally deals with the creation of architecture.
Rem Koolhaas has shed some light upon this evolution of architecture and decorative arts in the form of sarcastic commentary in his essay known as “Generic City.” For while the organized chaos that is modern culture has been working its magic, a generic distillation of the forms and functions of our buildings and urban environments has been at work. While his commentary is not specific to any particular work of architecture or design, it is clear that he has opinions.
In general, Koolhaas comments on the lack of architectural power or prowess available to deal with the statistical and economic realities of the modern urban environment. His sarcasm and inventive inquiries are best understood as coercive jabs pushing at the limits of collective knowledge about architecture and design. He is, in his own way, asking his reader to venture out of the armchair to see what he sees. One cannot help but think that this might be an interesting journey.
And one can see, in our own environment in San Diego, certain parallels to his commentary. The inevitable sprawl that a city center, located on the edge of the continent induces is part of this equation. The population of the area of roughly one half of the circle of sprawl that surrounds most cities is forced onto the half of the circle around downtown San Diego that is not under water. This situation is further exacerbated by the ridge of mountains not twenty miles from the Pacific Ocean making our local sprawl into a long stretch along the sea.
This evolution of San Diego has produced the challenges of infrastructure and culture on which Koolhaas comments; most notably a distortion of identity, and a longing for a history long ago razed. In its place, a few mediocre buildings are meticulously preserved and celebrated as the “Gaslamp District.” Not altogether unlike Koolhaas’ analysis, this is the place in San Diego where the boundaries of cultural conservativism and sexual experimentation are often crossed. Indeed, the very area now celebrated as the “historic Gaslamp district” was at one time riddled with flop-houses, drug dens, and prostitution.
Koolhaas goes on to discuss the rewinding of the scene; metaphorically emptying the city of its contents. This consideration of another urban exodus is far from likely. Statistically speaking, the urban regions of the globe show consistent growth trends and evolution. It is far more likely that an architecture that deals with this trend is in development. By whose hands it is designed remains to be seen. The pragmatic developers work toward some ideal formula based upon the aforementioned equation. Their approach leads to a generic standard while the romantic starchitects develop esoteric and uniquely personal, sculptural plans.
There is one consideration that may bring it all together: Is it possible that the generalizing of architecture and design to which Koolhaas alludes is simply a continuing refinement of the Modern architecture envisioned by Le Corbusier? Is it possible that a Modern architecture of simplicity, parsimony and elegance is the refinement and the eventual zenith of all architecture?
Today, we have a modern architecture that is something much broader than Le Corbusier’s invention. Indeed, Le Corbusier’s Modern, will look as foreign in a few years as it did upon its invention (nearly a hundred years ago) as the new sustainable architecture of the 21st Century unfolds. As Jurgen Habermas comments in his essay “Modernity -An Incomplete Project,” the word “modern” comes from the Latin word “modernus;” first used in the 5th Century to distinguish the, then, present from ancient Rome. In this context, the word Modern can be applied to all the architecture and design since the word’s invention in the 5th Century. This could mean that all the architecture since the 5th Century is Modern; and Le Corbusier’s 20th century invention of Modern architecture (later named the International Style) is really just a variation on a theme.
In this case, perhaps Koolhaas’ use of the term “generic” is in fact a variation of semantics representative of a continuing, distilling, evolution of the Modern. I, for one, look forward to uncovering further the generic distillation within Modern architecture. While Vitruvius may have summed up his view of architecture with the oft repeated triumvirate, Firmness / Commodity / and Delight, I would add that Simplicity, Parsimony, and Elegance need to be considered in this lexicon. For me, the counter-revolution begun with the “hand-made” ethos of the Arts and Crafts continues with the ongoing distillation of the generic essence of the Modern; most pointedly not homogenized.
The somewhat reactionary Arts and Crafts movement of the late 19th Century, heralded as the triumph of “hand-made” over the machine, unwittingly, opened Pandora’s box. The century which followed had no lasting official style nor architectural design idiom. Suddenly, the intellectual rigors of Edwardian times were discarded in favor of style-of-the-day proclamations. The impact, at roughly the same time, of the burgeoning mass media and the seeding of what would eventually be called “the Age of Information” further skewered the decorative arts and architecture.
All of this culminated in a hundred years in which no particular style reigned, and no particular aesthetic virtue remained. The eventual result of the Arts and Crafts movement is the parody of design that is HGTV’s home-makeover-in-a-weekend-for-five-hundred-dollars. Does the HGTV acronym stand for homogenized TV or homogenized design? Everybody has a “hand-made” opinion; indeed everyone is a designer, and each believes in their right to comment, and even to influence design, regardless of their aesthetic training. In this context, there is little particular value for rigorous design training, aesthetic education, nor patronage of the arts; particularly architecture.
During the same hundred years, however, there has been a consistent development of increasing pragmatism (as in economy of means) in the design and construction of buildings. This development has, at its core, the economic impacts of our evolving times. Our decreasing supplies of affordable fossil fuels and increasing costs of energy development have impacted design in ways which would cause Mies to twitch in his grave. God is no-longer in the details; but lives in the economic equation which factors form, function, aesthetic parameters, health and safety, liability, present day and unknowable future maintenance costs, durability, technological parity, and -most recently- energy and material sustainability. This equation says little or nothing of space-making or place-making, and only peripherally deals with the creation of architecture.
Rem Koolhaas has shed some light upon this evolution of architecture and decorative arts in the form of sarcastic commentary in his essay known as “Generic City.” For while the organized chaos that is modern culture has been working its magic, a generic distillation of the forms and functions of our buildings and urban environments has been at work. While his commentary is not specific to any particular work of architecture or design, it is clear that he has opinions.
In general, Koolhaas comments on the lack of architectural power or prowess available to deal with the statistical and economic realities of the modern urban environment. His sarcasm and inventive inquiries are best understood as coercive jabs pushing at the limits of collective knowledge about architecture and design. He is, in his own way, asking his reader to venture out of the armchair to see what he sees. One cannot help but think that this might be an interesting journey.
And one can see, in our own environment in San Diego, certain parallels to his commentary. The inevitable sprawl that a city center, located on the edge of the continent induces is part of this equation. The population of the area of roughly one half of the circle of sprawl that surrounds most cities is forced onto the half of the circle around downtown San Diego that is not under water. This situation is further exacerbated by the ridge of mountains not twenty miles from the Pacific Ocean making our local sprawl into a long stretch along the sea.
This evolution of San Diego has produced the challenges of infrastructure and culture on which Koolhaas comments; most notably a distortion of identity, and a longing for a history long ago razed. In its place, a few mediocre buildings are meticulously preserved and celebrated as the “Gaslamp District.” Not altogether unlike Koolhaas’ analysis, this is the place in San Diego where the boundaries of cultural conservativism and sexual experimentation are often crossed. Indeed, the very area now celebrated as the “historic Gaslamp district” was at one time riddled with flop-houses, drug dens, and prostitution.
Koolhaas goes on to discuss the rewinding of the scene; metaphorically emptying the city of its contents. This consideration of another urban exodus is far from likely. Statistically speaking, the urban regions of the globe show consistent growth trends and evolution. It is far more likely that an architecture that deals with this trend is in development. By whose hands it is designed remains to be seen. The pragmatic developers work toward some ideal formula based upon the aforementioned equation. Their approach leads to a generic standard while the romantic starchitects develop esoteric and uniquely personal, sculptural plans.
There is one consideration that may bring it all together: Is it possible that the generalizing of architecture and design to which Koolhaas alludes is simply a continuing refinement of the Modern architecture envisioned by Le Corbusier? Is it possible that a Modern architecture of simplicity, parsimony and elegance is the refinement and the eventual zenith of all architecture?
Today, we have a modern architecture that is something much broader than Le Corbusier’s invention. Indeed, Le Corbusier’s Modern, will look as foreign in a few years as it did upon its invention (nearly a hundred years ago) as the new sustainable architecture of the 21st Century unfolds. As Jurgen Habermas comments in his essay “Modernity -An Incomplete Project,” the word “modern” comes from the Latin word “modernus;” first used in the 5th Century to distinguish the, then, present from ancient Rome. In this context, the word Modern can be applied to all the architecture and design since the word’s invention in the 5th Century. This could mean that all the architecture since the 5th Century is Modern; and Le Corbusier’s 20th century invention of Modern architecture (later named the International Style) is really just a variation on a theme.
In this case, perhaps Koolhaas’ use of the term “generic” is in fact a variation of semantics representative of a continuing, distilling, evolution of the Modern. I, for one, look forward to uncovering further the generic distillation within Modern architecture. While Vitruvius may have summed up his view of architecture with the oft repeated triumvirate, Firmness / Commodity / and Delight, I would add that Simplicity, Parsimony, and Elegance need to be considered in this lexicon. For me, the counter-revolution begun with the “hand-made” ethos of the Arts and Crafts continues with the ongoing distillation of the generic essence of the Modern; most pointedly not homogenized.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
The documentary film, "Visual Acoustics," about the late Julius Schulman is a must-see. I was impressed with the subject's singular focus; and early childhood development of that same focus (however unclear the target may have been in the early years). It is clear that the world has lost an important and extremely talented man due to his death last year. The title refers to comments made by Schulman referencing his talent for controlling the visual noise surrounding the subject(s) in his photographs. Schulman is known for creating the iconic images of modern architecture; especially his photograph(s) of the Pierre Koenig Case Study house.
"Visual Acoustics" was presented in conjunction with some of Schulman's photographs (from his archive) of buildings in San Diego; courtesy of ModernSanDiego.com. I was fascinated to learn that many of the photographs are of wonderful buildings now razed. An additional group of photos was of mid-century architect-designed homes about which there seems to be no current record. Many of these homes were built in Rancho Santa Fe; an exclusive suburban San Diego community known for its lack of street addresses. Frankly, no-one knows if these notable homes exist, or in what state they exist, as they are referenced by PO Box address only.
This brings to mind a question about the ownership of architectural designs. And this question, ultimately, references back to the debate about the definition(s) of architecture. If a private individual with construction talents builds a purpose-built chicken coop, according to the vernacular tradition of chicken coops in the particular region in which the chicken farm resides, is it architecture? If one builds a very large "chicken coop," using the same structure system, bedecking the nesting shelves with velvet theater seats, and suspending great chandeliers from the crossing point of the truss, or from the ridge of the ceiling to light the space (subsequently called a theater), is it architecture? If one builds the earlier mentioned vernacular chicken coop in Times Square in New York City, using the nesting shelves as bunk beds, and the structure as shelter for the homeless, is it architecture?
When, really, does a structure or a building become architecture? It has been said that the definition requires "design with aesthetic intent." This amplifies the process, certainly. I am not certain that it clarifies the situation. Clearly, aesthetics is in the realm of subjective considerations. Is this definition referring to the aesthetics of the builder? For example, the economy of means used in assembling a building might be of aesthetic value to the builder. So is a cheap building that is quick to assemble, using little means, architecture?
Or, does the "aesthetic intent" refer to that of the possibly-unschooled designer whose misguided attempts at beautification might include the re-presentation of some architectural detail borrowed from another time, another climate, another structural system, or another material. As witness: look around San Diego at all the "Tuscan" influences in buildings great and small. Then go to Tuscany and see the real thing (One should be amazed at the difference). Faux this-and-that is no substitute for the real things, used in simply honest ways, with indigenous materials. So, clearly, the idea of "aesthetic intent" has no calibration for error: intentions might be noble and the results disastrous.
Back to the Schulman photographs of now "lost" San Diego buildings! At the point at which our rather fickle and fluid culture defines a building as architecture (allowing for the gray areas as above) who owns that architecture? Does it belong to the pantheon of architecture reaching all the way back to the ancients? At what point does the architectural value supersede the real-estate value and become worthy of preservation, documentation, and rescue? Does architecture always subject itself to being razed in the interest of progress (however defined)?
At what point does the glimmer of an architectural idea (or ideal) get the respect of renovation; hopefully consistent with the original design intent? As contrasted with razing and transferring to waste in a land-fill, is there a respect that is due a building which has, until said point in time, faithfully and willingly served its purpose?
I am reminded of a project I once worked on (in another state) where great lengths were taken to preserve the original character of an historic home. The home was not protected by registry; still the (then) owners' preference was to respect the design intent of the original architect. Built in another century, the Edwardian-style home was updated with respect for the original fittings and details including: 1) remaking the knives which cut new moldings to match those which were original to the structure, 2) and having new brass hardware custom cast in newly made molds so that hardware matching the original door handles could be used on all the new doors, 3) a custom door manufacturer was solicited to create matches to the solid wood doors used throughout the original structure, 4) Copper gutters and valleys were extended by old-technology roofers so that the slate roof would appear consistent and preserve the craftsmanship of another era, 5) antique tile details were matched in new materials so that the indoor swimming pool could look as though it had always been there, 6) an expensive, imported conservatory was added to the house with careful attention paid to antique tile details and lighting that might have been utilized at the time of construction of the original house, 7) a custom wall covering printed by Bradbury & Bradbury was utilized to fill the frieze space above custom detailed cabinetry designed to mimic the glass covered bookshelves in another space in the home, replete with matching hardware, 8) old-technology Rumford fireplaces were hand-built of masonry to match specifications from another era, and so on, ad-infinitum...
I have heard that the house has been recently gutted by a new owner who, owing to the spectacular siting of the home, and their taste for contemporary design, wanted a contemporary style home in that setting. Who owns that architecture? And further, by what right is the disposal of all those materials (let alone hours of design intention) justified? It comes down to the same old question: By what right does the driver of a Hummer utilize more precious resources than the driver of a Prius? And, at what point does the common good unseat the power of cold hard cash?
Again, I digress! So back to the point of when a building becomes architecture, how is that architecture held in trust? Or is architecture always subject to the whims of the real-estate title holder? I am perplexed. And I would love to see the responses of the gentle readers of this blog.
"Visual Acoustics" was presented in conjunction with some of Schulman's photographs (from his archive) of buildings in San Diego; courtesy of ModernSanDiego.com. I was fascinated to learn that many of the photographs are of wonderful buildings now razed. An additional group of photos was of mid-century architect-designed homes about which there seems to be no current record. Many of these homes were built in Rancho Santa Fe; an exclusive suburban San Diego community known for its lack of street addresses. Frankly, no-one knows if these notable homes exist, or in what state they exist, as they are referenced by PO Box address only.
This brings to mind a question about the ownership of architectural designs. And this question, ultimately, references back to the debate about the definition(s) of architecture. If a private individual with construction talents builds a purpose-built chicken coop, according to the vernacular tradition of chicken coops in the particular region in which the chicken farm resides, is it architecture? If one builds a very large "chicken coop," using the same structure system, bedecking the nesting shelves with velvet theater seats, and suspending great chandeliers from the crossing point of the truss, or from the ridge of the ceiling to light the space (subsequently called a theater), is it architecture? If one builds the earlier mentioned vernacular chicken coop in Times Square in New York City, using the nesting shelves as bunk beds, and the structure as shelter for the homeless, is it architecture?
When, really, does a structure or a building become architecture? It has been said that the definition requires "design with aesthetic intent." This amplifies the process, certainly. I am not certain that it clarifies the situation. Clearly, aesthetics is in the realm of subjective considerations. Is this definition referring to the aesthetics of the builder? For example, the economy of means used in assembling a building might be of aesthetic value to the builder. So is a cheap building that is quick to assemble, using little means, architecture?
Or, does the "aesthetic intent" refer to that of the possibly-unschooled designer whose misguided attempts at beautification might include the re-presentation of some architectural detail borrowed from another time, another climate, another structural system, or another material. As witness: look around San Diego at all the "Tuscan" influences in buildings great and small. Then go to Tuscany and see the real thing (One should be amazed at the difference). Faux this-and-that is no substitute for the real things, used in simply honest ways, with indigenous materials. So, clearly, the idea of "aesthetic intent" has no calibration for error: intentions might be noble and the results disastrous.
Back to the Schulman photographs of now "lost" San Diego buildings! At the point at which our rather fickle and fluid culture defines a building as architecture (allowing for the gray areas as above) who owns that architecture? Does it belong to the pantheon of architecture reaching all the way back to the ancients? At what point does the architectural value supersede the real-estate value and become worthy of preservation, documentation, and rescue? Does architecture always subject itself to being razed in the interest of progress (however defined)?
At what point does the glimmer of an architectural idea (or ideal) get the respect of renovation; hopefully consistent with the original design intent? As contrasted with razing and transferring to waste in a land-fill, is there a respect that is due a building which has, until said point in time, faithfully and willingly served its purpose?
I am reminded of a project I once worked on (in another state) where great lengths were taken to preserve the original character of an historic home. The home was not protected by registry; still the (then) owners' preference was to respect the design intent of the original architect. Built in another century, the Edwardian-style home was updated with respect for the original fittings and details including: 1) remaking the knives which cut new moldings to match those which were original to the structure, 2) and having new brass hardware custom cast in newly made molds so that hardware matching the original door handles could be used on all the new doors, 3) a custom door manufacturer was solicited to create matches to the solid wood doors used throughout the original structure, 4) Copper gutters and valleys were extended by old-technology roofers so that the slate roof would appear consistent and preserve the craftsmanship of another era, 5) antique tile details were matched in new materials so that the indoor swimming pool could look as though it had always been there, 6) an expensive, imported conservatory was added to the house with careful attention paid to antique tile details and lighting that might have been utilized at the time of construction of the original house, 7) a custom wall covering printed by Bradbury & Bradbury was utilized to fill the frieze space above custom detailed cabinetry designed to mimic the glass covered bookshelves in another space in the home, replete with matching hardware, 8) old-technology Rumford fireplaces were hand-built of masonry to match specifications from another era, and so on, ad-infinitum...
I have heard that the house has been recently gutted by a new owner who, owing to the spectacular siting of the home, and their taste for contemporary design, wanted a contemporary style home in that setting. Who owns that architecture? And further, by what right is the disposal of all those materials (let alone hours of design intention) justified? It comes down to the same old question: By what right does the driver of a Hummer utilize more precious resources than the driver of a Prius? And, at what point does the common good unseat the power of cold hard cash?
Again, I digress! So back to the point of when a building becomes architecture, how is that architecture held in trust? Or is architecture always subject to the whims of the real-estate title holder? I am perplexed. And I would love to see the responses of the gentle readers of this blog.
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