So about a month ago I returned from Hawaii and Thailand. First things first: beautiful. Glorious.
Second things second: a terrible person with weird reasoning blew up a temple that we stayed down the street from about a week after we left.
As an architect you may forget that buildings are secure but people can be the worst. For about a week I was in that weird place between grateful to be alive, angry the terrorism went down and freaked out in general.
I mean, we had just been there. Eating street satays outside of Wat Pho, walking by high-end malls and doing the typical things a tourist does in Bangkok. It just is strange when your passive enjoyment of a facsinating and beautiful city is seen as a political act.
But on a happier note: here's the recap.
Bang Pa In Summer Palace, a former residence of Thai kings, set around a lavish ornamental pond. If this beautiful palace reminds you a bit of 'The King and I', that's probably because it's the former home of Mong-Kut, King of Siam. There is a precision, tension and allusion everywhere, a palace that acts as the architectural translation of a monarch deciding how much he should alude to western power and cotton to Eastern Rivals. Don't watch the movie. It's simplisitc. Anna is condescending and lame. Though I do have a sore-spot for this part:
But I think that's a Yul Brenner thing. Oof.
Ayuthaya, this ancient city show the ruins of a past empire and bring up the many contradictions of Thailand. It is a culture of both peace and war, power and politeness. Growing up in DC, I know that feeling well. The red-stone ruins seem almost endless.
Erawan National Park, "So there I was, having just fallen the wrong way down a waterfall and was getting patched up by our trans tourguide..." For the record. That is how I would like every story I ever tell to start.Dude. Waterfalls. Waterfalls that are so beautiful they look fake. But when your twin brother goats you into going down one, remember 1. Avoid the rocks and 2. He has a camera.
Kanchanaburi and the Bridge on the River Kwai This was the part of the trip that got emotionally difficult. I was unaware of just how horrific the Death Railway of World War II had been. I mean, when you call something the "Death Railway" you know there will not be a picnic, but good God, it was crippling. At one point, walking through the Hellfire pass I just had to take my headphones off and just be sad. For more on this story, I recommend 'The Railway Man'
We then returned to Bangkok and I got a chance to go to Jim Thompson's house in Bangkok. Jim Thompson was one of those East Coast rich kids who wanted more. He became a foreign intellegence officer and fell in love with Thailand. After the war he established a silk company, built a gorgeous house across from his textile manfacturing plant, and then, in his 60's went for a walk in the woods and dissappeared. A strange man who led a fanastical life.
So over the past few months, I have been figuring out what was next in store for old Retly.
Part of it was personal, most of it was professional.
The short version is: I had been offered a PhD position back in England that would start this year, but not enough to funding to take it, and so declined/deferred. As much as I wanted to do it, it just couldn't happen financially. It would be a lifetime of debt with no support. At times like this you think: Man, where are those lottery winnings when you need them.
I keep telling myself it was the smart choice, as I already have a job I actually like, but since then I've been wrestling with whether it was the right move. A discussion took place over coffee with an old professor (Jo Feb will know him - It was Dr. B.) while he was in town and he advised that while an architect can be both a practitioner and a theorist, it's not a common route, so I had to expect some bumps along the way. Maybe the lack of money was one of the bumps.
So since another round of funding submissions are months away, I figured, screw it. Let's buckle down and get on this registration thing taken care of. But first. Let's do what I always do when confronted with disappointment: run away.
This summer has been a bit of traveling, with more in store. 3 weddings, 2 baby showers and a couple of birthdays in between. Meaning this is the first weekend I've had to do nothing in months. It is glorious.
But all of that was in preparation for the next two weeks, which will consist of the following:
1) Flying to Hawaii to visit my twin brother
2) Learning to play the Ukulele on a beach while he goes to work
3) Taking a week with said brother to fly to Bangkok for food
4) Hiring out a tuktuk for an adventure up the river Kwai
5) Hanging out with Tigers, snakes
6) Begin the return home, with a brief stop in India along the way
Will keep this blog posted on adventures, observations and off-tune notes.
So I haven't slept (fully) in approximately 6 days. Why? Because it turns out at 29, my body decided that it was high-time for me to enjoy the glory and grandeur of literally the worst sinus infection of my life. Especially as this is the week I am currently without health insurance. Awesome. Though as my lymph glands swelled to the size of limes and my temples felt like a bullet was going through them, I found out that seething, agonizing pain can actually get incredibly boring after a few days. Chugging back pain killers and antibiotics, I decided to go out into the world and distract myself. In that light, I present: RETLY'S TOUR OF THE EAST SIDE (while almost blacking out from pain).
Stop 1) Nom Wah Tea Parlor
Not a particularly stunning piece of interior design, but one that I have a particular kind of affection for. The Nom Wah Tea Parlor on Doyers Street is over 90 years old. Though it has had its up and downs, it has the eerie, almost medicinal quality of space that I love in Chinatown. Plus great Dim Sum at low, low prices.
You may have seen it in a lot of TV shows and movies, including 'Premium Rush', 'Smash', Various Food Network spots and the Jeremy Irons/Glenn Close movie 'Reversal of Fortune'.
Stop 2) The New Museum
It's not the same for me without the giant, rainbow "Hell Yeah" on the outside of the building, but still a nice place to visit. Especially out on the top most terrace, which gives a fantastic view of Mid-town Manhattan. For me, the New Museum is a hard sell, it's kind of like the baby MoMA, and as such the exhibitions are the dominant feature in the space. Every time is different: either love it or hate it. Though one thing that stays true: my love of their bathrooms.
Stop 3) The Four Seasons Bar
Getting classy as a mother-****er up in here. Mies van de Rohe at his Mies-iest. The arm chairs line up with the window structures. Of course they do. That nerd. The room is a classic golden proportion with leather, wood and bronzed metal and that's it. It's the classic, sophisticated environment that just screams "capitalism".
Ugh. Beautiful.
Also, if you're interested in why the walls have no paintings, I would check out Simon Schama's "The Power of Art" about Mark Rothko. There is a story there mis amigos.
Stop 4) The Frick Collection
So out of the money frying pan and into the money fire. I know we've talked about the Frick reference library before but man oh man, that house is crazy. Though there are some of the most famous Rembrandts and Vermeers Art History provides, the key to the collection is the Whistlers. Architecturally, it is a literal embarrassment of riches.
Welp, that's it for now. God willing this sinus infection nonsense ends before I am driven crazy by the pain. Aleve, don't fail me now.
So as mentioned on the previous post, I now live in New York. Apparently. That's the thing with looking for a job. You starve forever and then WHAM! You're in different state, you have to be at a certain place at the same time everyday and you live on top of a holistic medicine outlet in Chinatown.
It's now Friday night which means my first week at a new job is at its close. After a glass of wine, a long soak, realizing I have no blowdryer, going out to buy a blowdryer, getting distracted, getting dumplings, finally remembering to buy the blowdryer, getting back to my apartment and blowdrying my hair, I am ready for bed.
In this first week the question I keep getting from friends and family is: "What's it like?" and for right now: I don't really know. It's strange but familiar. Big but close knit. Lonely but not as unkind as I thought it would be. All and all I think it's too soon to tell. I think I've moved to this metropolis at the same time when many of my associates have decided to pack it in. Singing the refrain of "I just want to get out of New York" which, while refreshingly honest, does kind of put a damper on the excitement I would otherwise be feeling for a brand-new adventure. Personally, I'm excited to have a sense of independence again, even if it's in a place as weird and overwhelming as this.
But that's enough about that boring, personal malarkey. Let's get to the real meat of this blog: BUILDINGS.
I've decided to just start posting interesting architectural examples I come across in my day to day work, which usually involves site surveying all across the 5 boroughs. Most of the sites I work on are fairly nondescript, so I'm going to skip over them and get right to a few places I've been to this week which deserve a larger audience. NUMBER 1: Baruchim Ha Ba'im. Also known as the Synagogue for the Arts, the Civic Center Synagogue
Probably one of the most interesting religious buildings I've seen in a long time. This Synagogue was built in 1967 and has some of that trademark formal optimism. Like a funkier I.M. Pei. Like a funnier Louis Kahn. The architecture feels like it comes from that version of the past where the future was going to be awesome.
NUMBER 2: The Merchant's House
The Merchant's House Museum is an often overlooked little gem in NoHo. Apparently the youngest daughter of a well to do merchant was cast a rough lot in love, never got married and kept the house as a pristine remembrance of better times (a la 1858) even as the area crumbled around her. I find stories like these always fascinating because
A) They come from a time when it's like "Oh you don't have a man to take ownership of you, you know like property? I guess you're an embarrassment. Let's all pity you."
Which...just...so...many..questions..there... and
B) It's not "period" furniture. This is the furniture. Like, all of it. That biz is rare.
Architecturally it's not all that unique for the era, but it's nice to find a place that is so untouched. Plus in October they dress it up like you're going to a funeral, it's a unique experience.
NUMBER 3: The Stained Glass Windows on the Bronx Zoo Station
Not architecture, I know, but I found this series of stained glass windows on the 5 train going up through the Bronx to be charming and lovely. They were designed by Naomi Campbell (not the one you're thinking of) and produced in 2006. There's an article about it HERE. They are brief and beautiful. The kind of drawings a kid might do about the animals from the zoo, but with a sophisticated hand.
Ok - I think that's it for now. Stay cool and stay tuned for more New York City finds.
Whelp it happened, I too, like many of my architectural brethren, have been pulled as a moth to the flame to New York City. A place I never thought I would live in. Though now that I’ve signed the lease to a huge sublet in Chinatown I’m starting to get kind of excited. Stay posted bloggers. I’m sure I’ll be one of the following options.
So if you're following the blog, it's no secret that East London is probably my favorite place in the world. When I moved here it kind of felt like one of those coming-of-age movies from the 90s about 'the summer that changed everything' but with way more hard liquor and a better soundtrack. And indeed, in certain parts of Shoreditch, the obnoxiousness of never-ending adolescence is still strong in the streets. Regardless - East London is where I became the person I always wanted to be: it's where I fell in love, it's where I started dying my hair and wearing clothes that fit, and against the best backdrop in the world I was finally happy: hundreds of years of history and an ever-changing landscape. This is not to say I'm immune to its flaws. If I have to walk into one more hipster bar and pay 9$ for a beer while some dingus wearing Google Glass explains why I should be doing their design work for free, I'm going to yak.
Though I'm not the only American to fall prey to the charms of Spitalfields, there have been many before me but who exceeded all collective eccentricities and definitely had more money. Was the king of the desperate romantics: Dennis Severs.
Dennis Severs had been brought up in post-war California, and while the likes of Reyner Banham were dreaming of the place-less reinvention that the West provides, Severs longed to be part of something older. After years of costume dramas on TV, Severs arrived in London in the 1970s, but found something not at all to his tastes. It was a rapidly industrializing place and the city workers were getting more encompassing by the day. Instead of accepting his disappointment and adjusting, he simply ignored the development around him and decided to live in the past. Sort of like the Amish or Japan's rejection of firearms for 300 years.
The past became Severs medium: he began by buying an authentic handsome cab and giving rides. But after his stable was demolished by developers, he needed to find another outlet. So he bought a ramshackle house at 18 Folgate Street and started to work.
He decided that he was going to invent a family of Huguenots silk merchants, their beginnings as hard working protestants to grasping decadence and further to their inevitable decline. Each room in the house was going to be a total experience, sights, smells, sounds. All in perfect silence while Severs described this fantastical history. Here's a quick recap starting from the bottom-up:
Basement Cellar - The remnants of the leper burial plot from St. Mary's Spital (hence the name: Spitalfields)
Basement Kitchen - The beginning of sensory development, in an almost Frank Lloyd Wright philosophy, he reminds the viewer that the Latin word for hearth is focus. So the fire is the axis on which the rest of the home moves (editorial note: I've always disagreed with this statement, though maybe because I've always had central heat)
First Floor Dining Room - The "Jarvis Family" (again, a complete invention by Severs) move in and are the kind of hard-working patriarchs one might expect. Food half eaten, a clean, functional, warm space filled with orders and announcements.
Second Floor Parlor - It seems a generation later, their protestant beginnings have started to give way to the Enlightenment principles of Kantian aesthetics: not a single thing should be added or removed, the room is complete.
Second Floor Smoking Room - Though all is not well with the Jarvis Family, the heir is a lout and a drunkard, a spoiled rich-kid who daddy never paid attention to. The thing that is to be noted in this room is the vast number of blood-letting bowls, a common treatment for people suffering from Gout. Turned over chairs and the pungent smell of tobacco pervades. According to the myth, the young heir eventually hung himself in the attic, something that is noted in a portrait in the upstairs room - speaking of which.
Third Floor Bedrooms - A young girls room is immediately on the left as you come up the stairs is covered with subtle notes of a broken heart. A portrait of a young man with a black ribbon tied around it, dozens of pictures of happy couples, this girl wants to be loved. Bad. The other bedroom is presumably of her mother, an eccentric who would have been a hoarder if taste had allowed. This place is lousy with blue and white china.
The Lodgers Rooms - But it's here where the story gets dark, fast. In an almost Dickensian turn of events, the Jarvis silk business is waning now that the industrial revolution has taken hold and they are taking in poor lodgers. Notes from "Scrooge and Marley, Esq." are posted all around, presumably these are bills for unpaid rent. This setting also makes sense as Victorian Spitalfields was the haunt of Jack the Ripper and various unsavory folks.
First Floor Parlor - Though it seems the Jervis' survive long enough to make it to the late Victorian period. The last room you enter is at the bottom of the stairs, just before you exit. Here the cult of personality that surrounds Victoria and Albert is in full swing, with over-decoration and stuffed chairs to match.
As you exit the house, you're leaving on the eve of 1912, as a subtle newspaper cutting on the wall describes. World War is upon you, and as you exit onto modernity, you know the world of the Jarvis' is over.
I liked it, though it is slightly disturbing. Though by far my favorite part was the hallway decorations. On the first floor, a magnificent candied fruit display sits delicately on a wooden table. Anyone who has been in enough museums would recognize it immediately as an objet d'art. One that, should it be on display in any other forum, would be a nice piece of pottery and nothing else. Here it is being used for its intention, and is all the more beautiful for it.
The main gist of this whole house is either you get it or you don't. A viewer will either see an intense Gesamtkunstwerk of a still lives and people just outside of sight or a total weirdo whose obsession with the past is just an uncomfortable side effect of mental illness. It's kind of up to you.
I think I get it because I understand Severs longing desire for a world not his own. More than once people have asked me why I don't want to live in the place I grew up. At the end of the day, it's because the person I was when I lived there wasn't a person I liked being: insecure and jealous, awkward and lonely. It was the liberation of all that middle-class, white bread, meet a nice boy and settle-down expectation that made me happy for the first time in years. And that liberation came in the form of constraint. Constraint by history.
History has the ability to make you feel connected to a longer tradition, even if it's one you invent, like Severs did.
Though at the end of the day, the obsession eventually consumed Severs and in the last years of his life, he sought to escape the world he created, realizing that there was no way to continue this obsession. Maybe that's the trap of reinvention, if its tied too closely to a place, then its never really yours.
So this week, as London is completely shut-down in the holidays, I decided to take a visit out to the soon to be demolished Robin Hood Gardens by the Smithsons.* Now, I actually don't live too far from the complex, (only about a 10 minute walk north) but hadn't been because, as my cockney love so elegantly put it: "Don't go down there, some of those people are right scally." But in a great continuation of earlier themes in ignoring good advice, I went anyway.
And what did I think?
I liked it a lot, that is, I liked it a lot architecturally. In another age, and with significantly more money, it might have been like the Royal Crescent in Bath. Looking at the space, it's balanced with the landscape and the details are well crafted by designers who clearly cared about what they were putting together. In the past year, I've developed a growing fondness for Brutalism, not as a factor, but as a design style with vision and specific intent. If I would summarize the space in a word it would be: Honesty.
But then again, I'm an architect and as such see the design, but not what it means.
Now that I live in the far East End, as opposed the "fashionable" East End I lived in previously (which I can no longer afford because, as it turns out, Grad School student loans are expensive) social housing, as a typology, makes sense. You've got a lot of people with kids, a lot of people looking for work, and a lot of immigrants (including myself) who need help getting a foot in the door. What doesn't make sense, though, is asking people to walk across a massive complex just to get to public transport, dark corners, visual inaccessibility and most importantly, having a big-ass depressing highway right next to a massive housing complex. It is too big to live in.
Looking at Robin Hood Gardens made me realize that as much as architecture wants to be a balm for social issues, a lot designs of social agendas are kind of dickish.
The word I'll use here which I am loathe to use is "Community". I hate the word "community" in design because it's often just a flowery hipster way of saying "the natives", that is, poor people. It's an upper middle class way of classifying anything other than an organic farmers market and craft fair is somehow not enough. In a way, current social housing developments are at their most obnoxious when schemes are phrased as "fostering community" as if community was an orphan, lost in a system. What these kinds of statements imply is that there isn't a group of people who have a way of relating to each other already.
They do. They live in the same part of town. Is it always a shining beacon of connection and tolerance? No. God No. But assuming that some walls and windows are going to fix something like three generations of not having enough money is silly.
The Smithsons themselves had similar feelings about their work by the 1990s. Basically saying the problem with Robin Hood Gardens was not the architecture, it was the people in it. When I first heard these statements, I was shocked, I mean the basic understanding of contemporary architecture is that can make people better. But what makes people better is so far beyond architecture it's almost scary. For example, right now in Poplar, the private housing industry is moving in with full force. Kicking people out of the Goldfinger's Balfron Tower and building complexes for Canary Wharf finance workers at indestructible speed.
What really helps people is giving them skills as children, jobs as adults and not telling them that's not enough. Architecture can't really do this, it only provides the setting. It doesn't mean the settings shouldn't try to be sustainable, accessible and, well, beautiful but asking architects to solve all the problems with their trade isn't possible. Though, asking architects not to be idealistic is like asking a fish not to swim. It's just the profession.
I think that's why social design is so fascinating, it's a rock and a hard place of intent and outcome. I guess, architects, keep trying. And yet, no Architects are not Mother Theresa, you're just a person with an idea to change the setting of a hard life for people in a city that doesn't want them anymore.
Long Story Short: Someone in 15 years is going to write a thesis about how Robin Hood Gardens was an amazing bit of architecture and will never have consulted anyone who actually lived there. Calling it now.
*I have to apologize for not having my own pictures, my camera decided it was going to die this week. But when I get it fixed I'll be sure to put more up.
So sometimes I write academic stuff. So sometimes I edit journals. Here are some examples here:
I promise I will be less boring in my next post.
MA Thesis
In this thesis, the concepts of administration and bureaucracy are argued to be far more important on a personal level than any sort of material possession. By studying the aspects of administration and its subtle, mundane yet somehow bizarre logic, "Please Complete The Form" weaves together a story of laws, lies, perceptions, aspirations and an early morning wrecking ball which sought to destroy a legacy.
"The moment a name is written on a form, administrative space has been entered. Within this paper space, a person is only what they have self-identified, common symbols arranged in such a manner to indicate existence. The form is a dividing line between the personal and the individual within a strict machine: the individual being the physical embodiment of statistical data, the personal serving as something more mystical, more human. Though being human seems to be the lesser concern, as forms, and indeed the spaces which hold and process them, have a different understanding of the living and the dead. By simply miswriting information, one could technically live forever, or never exist, or be in two places at once, which results in a strange kind of immortality, particularly when it has to come to a lawsuit."
“Art cannot be criticized because every mistake is a new creation”: this is the poster-dogma of self named street artist “Mr. Brainwash” for his first UK show, a reinvention of his premier show in L.A., Life is Beautiful (Old Sorting Office, New Oxford Street, Bloomsbury, London). Initially the spray painted image invokes an avant garde battle cry, however this call to arms may actually be an act self-defence, given the artist’s backstory. Mr. Brainwash came into the public eye via the documentary Exit Through the Gift Shop (2010) . Mixing the mythologies of Emperor Claudius and Darth Vader, an odd but otherwise harmless shop-owner becomes seduced by hype, media, and the benefits of being a dangerous Street Artist via his cousin, the artist Space Invader. To mark the metamorphosis, Thierry Guetta changes his name to “Mr. Brainwash” and via a large public show, betrays the Street Art community by stealing their ideas to gain notoriety. At the end of the film the viewer, like the other artists, is meant to mix revulsion and indignation at the commercial success of Mr. Brainwash. He is portrayed as someone who never truly suffered for his art or developed a style, a fraud. We’re meant to be mad not because he made money, but because he cheated.
The Shard as we know it now, indivisible from the Southwark skyline, is a both a sign of the times and very much not. The most telling aspect of the building may not be the construction or layout, but in how it simultaneously orients and divides the profession of architecture. From conception to critique, it is both a fore-runner of possible trends and the beginning of the end for a particular kind of architectural persona. The building makes a defining statement about what it means to be "corporate" in a media-savvy and somewhat tech-oppressive environment. Indeed more than any other of Renzo Piano’s work or even Irvine Sellar’s (the man behind Sellar Property Group) investments, the Shard requires something more to be successful: the Shard needs love or better yet, envy. In its raw ambition, the Shard wants to be as photo-friendly as any other tourist spot in London, however there are elements that are preventing the architecture achieving this, elements that boil down to how the Shard is viewed by "us" and "them" .
“I knew that good like bad, becomes a routine, that the temporary tends to endure, that what is external permeates to the inside, and that the mask, given time, comes to be the face itself.”
When Marguerite Yourcenar wrote the above in 1951 she was referencing the personal struggle of a man who eventually becomes the tyrant he was only pretending to be. Though specific in its imagining, this quote recalls another from Fredrich Nietzsche “Talking much about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself.” Between these two reflections we can begin to identify a theme: the modern dilemma of labeling. As technology becomes faster, better, more malleable, as influence becomes vast, exotic, tenuous, it seems that to make a mark, to be remembered, requires a fantastic amount of self-assurance. Doubt is for dreams, regret is for memoirs and in the introduction at least, there can be no room for confusion: this is me. That self-assertion is as much about defining what you are as much as what you are not, often resulting in a simplistic ego that may not fit the intent. To become an icon, the modern author must assume whatever they pretend to be and Architects, as part of the authorial community, are not excused. Within the twentieth century in particular, the labeling of architects became the most vastly altered element of the field. Though one site in particular seems to be as philosophically challenging to labels as its designer (the subject of Yourcenar’s novel) was: The Villa Adriana.
So now that my grad school thesis is turned in I decided to reward myself in the dorkiest way possible: by going to visit museums. The cockney man I love was not able to come with me so it was kind of interesting getting involved in London's history spots without someone I can ask a bevy of questions to.
Questions like: "Is marmite an actual food or is used just for torture?" or "Do people in England really think that Ben Franklin was a serial killer?" But here we go:
Stop 1) The Handel Museum
Did you know that Jimmy Hendrix and Handel lived in the same row home in west London? Because I didn't. And honestly, that is kind of the only architectural interest of this house. Not to be dismissive to the museum, or it's staff, who were lovely. But unless you're super into Hanoverians, Harpsichords or dope-ass wigs. It's a row-home that has a very nice open spaces and a flat in the attic. I'd skip it. Though the restaurant in the little courtyard out back is nice.
Stop 2) The Dickens Museum
The Dickens Museum on the other hand is much more interesting and maybe because as a person, Dickens is just more interesting. Handel was incredibly private but Dickens may have been the human equivalent of a Chihuahua high on cocaine: the dude had some energy. The house itself is what a respectable Victorian home should be, and for that, it's interesting. It's lush, but compact, pretentious but not insincere. As someone who only recently started to get into cooking I can state that the kitchens were fascinating, particularly the sinks which seemed to have been a huge piece of stone carved into the shape of a utility sink.
Yet what I liked best about this museum was that it felt like the home that a writer would live in. It was comfortable but bright. Secluded but not isolated. It was the home of someone who works from home.
Off-topic: he was not cool to his wife. but then again she was loopy on drugs. also kind of dumb. Seriously look it up. Somebody hit a mid-life crisis wall hard.
SPEAKING OF WIVES!!!!
Stop 3) Hampton Court Palace
This was a place I had been dying to get to all year but like going the post-office, I hadn't found time. Well not anymore. Instead I took the noon train from Waterloo to Kingston-Upon-Thames. If one had been part of Henry VIII's court one would have taken a boat there (or back depending on if you were going to get your head cut off). But I'm rabble at best, so it's public transport for this kid.
The story of Hampton court is actually a tale of two buildings. The first one being the Renaissance Palace of a certain Cardinal Wolsey who had both sense and power, but not quiet enough as it would turn out. The other being Christopher Wren's palace for William and Mary on the other side. Both are really interesting in their aesthetics mostly because they're doing the same thing: promoting pleasure.
Henry the VIII's pleasure was grand, open air dining, dancing and spectacle. Sexy ladies and their scandalous French hoods. mrrrowww.
William of Orange's pleasure was a quiet evening and a good book, maybe a meal with a few good friends. He was a homebody.
And the layouts reflect this. The original Hampton Court is open and solid the addition is quiet and delicate.
However, more than anything else it feels like a palace. The only comparison I can think of at this scale is, rather uncreatively, Versailles. But Versailles is a consistent design plan. ALL of it feels ostentatious and dictated by strict protocol, and it all boils down to the king as an other-worldly creation. This is not to say that Hampton Court lacks that sense of force of personality, but that the personalities there are not as exacting in what they want their design to be. If Versailles is an exacting and coordinated dance, then Hampton Court is a waltz. It's got rules, but they're pretty easy to follow.
Maybe this has something to do with the inconsistencies of power for both of the main residents. Henry had only come to the throne because his father had beaten Richard III, William only had it because he married a nice girl who didn't have any brothers. (Not to mention both he and his wife had the ghost of Charles I haunting their every move). Versailles is absolutely sure that their power is unending, Hampton Court wants to prove that they are powerful in the here and now.
Though I think my favorite part of the whole palace was the influence of Henry's Wives or as I call them:
- Catherine "Everyone Forgets I'm a Blonde" of Aragon
- Anne "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard" Boleyn
- Jane "Something in Sheep's Clothing" Seymour
- Anne "It's what's on the inside that counts" of Cleeves
- Katherine "Pics or it didn't happen" Howard
- Catherine "Just get me out of here" Parr
Ahhh Henry, you may have been a horrible monster but you were never boring.
Marseilles, in a simplistic way, is a bizarro-land version of Paris. The architecture is reminiscent of a sort of second-empire, kind-of neoclassical that seems synonymous with the boulevard but with all the grandeur surgically removed. Marseilles is neither the center of the world, but neither is it completely obscure. It is, after all, the second largest city in France. However, there is something about the city that is both incredibly French and completely not. It is not the beret-wearing, french-bread-toting, bicycle-riding France that was made famous in movies like Sabrina or anything starring Maurice Chevalier. No, this is the France of Dumas, a revenge seeking, almost north-African setting which has a certain sun-drenched, slightly menacing feeling. Like a card game with people you don't know: the interaction could go either way.
A great description of Marseilles as it was (and a little bit of how it is now) can be found in the writings of Walter Benjamin, particularly 'On Hashish'.
I highly recommend reading this with a scotch and cigar because minor vices are the bread and butter of such writing. But I digress.
BUILDINGS!
If you read my previous post on Marseilles you will be able to tell that
1) I thought the Zaha Building was at least interesting
2) I was not all that impressed with the Unite D'Habitation
To quote Willy Wonka
"Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it."
1) The Zaha building does feel like something out of the not-too distant future, in the sense that is not something that belongs in Marseilles. Upon second analysis, the structure feels like something that was conceived in a studio in London (after someone spent a weekend in Marseilles) and in no way relates to anything doing with the micro culture of the city. One of my colleagues who seems to have dedicated her life to hating Hadid's plan for Istanbul could not say enough bad things about the building, and for the most part, yeah. There are a lot of problems with it, though I stick by my assessment that to ignore it, is to ignore it on purpose.
2) Ok, so to be clear, I'm not ready to drink the Kool-aid on all Le Corbusier buildings yet, but when I first saw the Unite, it was as someone passing through: This time I got to stay there and it made all the difference. The genius of the Unite is in the sections and the details. Each unit is, relatively, pretty small but they don't feel so. The steps are done in such a way that a baby's hands could crawl up stair unassisted. There is a drop-box for staples (Bread, Milk, Cheese) that one can order from the store on the mid-floor. It feels like the kind of place that a child would want to grow up. Which makes sense, given it the design's post-war intentions.
What I was wrong about before is the notion of subtlety. Where the Zaha building is indeed striking, what it is not is particularly clever. If we are to compare these two buildings (which we shouldn't necessarily do, as they are completely different programs but ehh...) it is a battle of 'Shock and Awe' vs 'Indie Cred', Britney Spears vs Bon Iver. Corporate vs Hipster, with all the obnoxious associations that connect those notions.
Which brings up our next topic. The European Capital of Culture.
'The European Capital of Culture' is an honor that has been created to promote cities in the EU which maybe have been ignored in the past, cities that are not necessarily on your typical tourist route. Some examples of previous years include: Porto, Salamanca, Lille, Liverpool, Turku, Cork & Bruges.
This designation results in various urbanization projects and in the case of Marseilles one might relate the followings buildings.
- Vieux Port by Norman Foster
- MuCEM Museum of European and Mediterranean Civilisations) by Rudy Ricciotti
Each of these buildings feel particular of this age and intent, which means that it may be a little too early to tell how these buildings are going to age. I could give my thoughts, but if Marseilles has taught me anything, it is that jumping too quickly to conclusions and opinions can result often in having to jump back from them. But for the sake of it:
- Like.
- Like.
- Meh.
As the end of the trip drew near, I was excited to return to London, even with it's miserable weather and soot. This feeling was somewhat deterred when I was almost vomited on when the tube reached the Covent Garden Station. (Which is what I get for being on the tube at 11:59 on a Friday). Upon my east-London flat, my counterpart went in for a hug and in a moment of hesitation, asked what happened on my journey: "People" I replied hopelessly. "And Buildings" which was when the smile returned. Then I took a shower with that regionally appropriate soap that dries your skin and dreamed of warmer weather.
I have just returned from the south of France and man does London weather look downright miserable in comparison. Now granted, I am not adept at warm temperatures. In fact, anytime it gets about 80 I start fearing for immediate implosion, but after several months of what seems to be the perpetual mid-November weather of England, a Mediterranean trip could not be turned down.
Our first stop was Lyon, which is in the southern central part of France and home to some of my favorite street art. Including one which told me (in English) that : "Life is too short for soft porn". Thanks. Gross.
But what I found most interesting in Lyon were the three following places:
1) Jean Nouvel's extension of the Lyon Opera House
-
I liked it, for whatever that's worth. It's trying to be epic and sophisticated but in a contemporary fashion. Much like the loud break-dancing teenagers outside the opera house, it's an attempt at taking something historic and making it contemporary. Though the real success is how it meets the public space adjacent to it.
2) Le Village de Etats Unis (and corresponding murals) - This odd area of the city was designed almost entirely by Tony Garnier, and as such has an almost Utopian feel to it. Originally this was built, as the name implies, for Americans who had served in WWI, built between the years of 1920 and 1935, as affordable housing it's a remembrance of its time. Both beautiful and just a little off.
3) Halle Tony Garnier - You may be able to guess who designed this one. Sadly we couldn't go inside, but the exterior was quite lovely. In fact, I would venture to say it is the nicest slaughterhouse I've ever been to. TAKE THAT SMITHFIELD MARKETS!
After we left Lyon we made our way to La Tourette, or more formally, 'Sainte Marie de La Tourette'. Which is a Dominican monastery outside of Lyon, about 30 min by car. If you're reading this blog, I'm making a general assumption that you are aware of Le Corbusier and his subsequent effect on architecture both modern and contemporary. But for me personally, I always hated the work of Le Corbusier. I know that's blasphemy, but we're being honest here. For years I thought his work was enormously over-rated and, as little as it matters in the grand scheme of architecture, ugly. This ugliness comes from what I perceived as a lazy style of baton brut, clumsy forms and ideas which are overly political for someone who finds himself 'convieniently Swiss' every time a war breaks out. He may have had Sigfried Gideon and Colin Rowe in his pocket (which are indeed, pretty good gets), but not me.
Though I always found my hatred of this ugliness to be contradictory, I mean I loved (and still do love) Robert Venturi's work, and that is about as ugly as ugly gets. Why then so much Corb-hate? I suppose it's because I saw it as claiming to be more than it is, the product of a really good spin artist and a figure just arrogant and articulate enough to be believable. That is until I saw La Tourette.
Cliche as it sounds, I think the monastery may have started to make a believer out of me. Do I think it's my favorite building of all time? No. Not even close. But being there, walking around, staying in one of the cells, I get it. There are theorists who believe that Le Corbusier's work was done in such a manner to make it more photogenic. I'm going to have to disagree. In photos La Tourette looks like a massive, miserable block of a building. Solid, impenetrable, unfeeling. But I guess what I never realized, not fully anyway, is just how hollow and empty the courtyard of the building seems to be, how green, how, well, peaceful.
It should be noted that just about a 2 min walk away from the entrance of La Tourette is a graveyard. As the woman who runs the monastery stated 'it's a wonderful place to be deceased' and yeah, in a weird way, you feel almost like a ghost in La Tourette. It feels ancient, and you are merely the earth-bound shell of blood and bone holding, like a egg in a nest, a soul which emerges, fully formed upon your death. Or maybe that's the wine talking. Either way, it was better than I expected.
Though the skylights sticking out of the chapel are stupid looking from the exterior. That I'm never going to change my mind on.
The next step was the provincial town of Arles. Arles is the kind of place that you feel a Diane Lane movie should be set. You know the one I'm talking about, like a middle-aged woman moves to a small town in Europe after her crippling divorce to discover herself and along the way meets a gardener or like a mechanic or a wine merchant or whatever who teaches her to love again.
As a side note, I'm going to list words I hate that are used in movies such as this:
- Sensual
- Lover
- Wit and Wisdom (together, the words are perfectly fine apart)
- Rediscovering herself
Ugh - kill me.
However, to the best of my knowledge Lifetime has never actally filmed a movie in Arles, so I allowed myself the freedom to like it. And it is, really, really charming. Maybe it was the sun, maybe it was the entire pizza I ate by myself, but the connection of provincial, ancient and accessible just gets me every time. Sometimes I suspect that going to these places as an American means that you're going to see these places differently. In the US if there are 'charming winding streets' they are usually artificial and conceived of a Richard Sennett inspired urbanist, which is fine, by the way. But there is a kind of obsolete usefulness to these streets, like stubbornly using a type writer from the 1920s, even if the damn thing barely works. They have problems, they're not practical, but what can I say? Oh, let's just let 1990s Meg Ryan do it for me?
Stay tuned for next time when we talk about Marseilles, Unite D'habitation and various other sundries.
What's that you say? You want to hear MORE about Museums in London? Well. Give the people what they want.
London Museums Part II: Al and Vicky want to party with you
Ahhh Queen Victoria, is there any more confusing idol for modern women? On the one hand you were the unquestionably dominant ruler of a vast empire (granted, a lot of people in that empire were not interested in you ruling them, but still). On the other hand, you were a big supporter of a woman's place being squarely in the home, idealizing womanhood as being submissive, delicate, passive and pure. The idea that a person is either 'pure' or 'fallen' just doesn't sit right with me: placing the value of a human life on whether or not they put out is not only unfair, it's also untrue.
Also, the period Queen Victoria came to be the symbolic representation of produced some of the weirdest, most incorrect takes on history. See the death of Horatio Nelson. Yet, this period also some of the greatest contributions to literature the world has ever seen. What to do, what to do? Do we hate Victorians for their general characterization of being ethno-centric, tree-cutting, whore-mongering, bizzarre, repressed and even sometimes unbelievably rascist/sexist jerks? Or do we celebrate their industry, their imagination, their thirst for knowledge and their belief in social reform and improving the lives of the poor? To quote John Green "Stupid History. Always resisting simplistic understanding".
So it's with this state of mind that we look at the Victoria and Albert Museum.
The V&A had originally gotten it's start in the 1850s with the intent that the "decorative arts" may improve the life of the common workers in London. For a while the collection moved from venue to venue until it found it's permanent home near Hyde Park, where it stands today. To date, it is the world's largest museum dedicated to the "decorative arts" which we will find means basically whatever you want it to.
I had been interested in visiting this museum for quite some time, but for some reason, something had always came up on the day of and I'd have to cancel. That is until a cold October day when class was suddenly cancelled and I had nothing else to do. A few tube stops later I entered the belly of the beast.
It's a really extraordinary place, not only as a collection of decorative arts, but for how many people are there. Seriously, this place was like a circus. If you are the kind of person who is into the hushed awe of an empty museum then this is not the place for you. Kids, adults, everybody, they're all over the place. And for good reason, in what other museum can you see Edwardian Gowns next to a display about 'Gothic Lolitas' or enormous cast reproductions of Trajan's column next to some beautiful little Korean bowls. I think what I enjoyed most was the cast rooms, not only for the sculptures, but for the scale. It's three stories high and you can follow everything from top to bottom.
Though points need to be given to Tipu's tiger, which is a bizzare contraption that I think could serve as a very good metaphor for the museum as a whole.
Weird? Yes...but also kind of cool.
I guess what I'm trying to say is: The V&A. Weird...but in a cool way.
So I checked the blog this morning and realized that I have been a no-show for quite some time. Well all that changes NOW. Over the past month, a lot has happened and we've been to a lot of places. Let's start in London shall we?
Part One: Luxury for Free
One museum in London is kind of a secret club: a 'shave and a haircut' knock for designers. Being able to say you've been there is nerd street cred of the highest caliber. It is of course, The John Soane Museum. If you are an obnoxious hipster designer, your first expression would be 'Oh, have you not heard of the Soane?' said with a downcast eye and a mixture of contempt, pride and superiority. Barf.
Some people are under the impression that the only kind of people who 'get' the Soane Museum are designers and that's just nonsense. Anyone who is interested in something unusual likes the Soane Museum, which is why their candlelight tours (which take place the first Tuesday of every month seriously, look it up) are always packed around the block.
So what makes the Soane so special?
If it were a movie the tag line would be: 'It Takes Progress'
The trailer would start: 'In a world, where life was run by a series of precise rules and polite society, one man decided to create his own dream scape, where anything was possible.'
Then the score starts playing and...who can we get?... Hugh Jackman... looks up from a drafting desk.
Cut to black.
Coming this Christmas: SOANE.
Getting back on track: John Soane was a neo-classical English architect in the late 1700s/early 1800s who rose up the ranks of society from a humble background, mostly through his charm, connections and talent to become one of the most celebrated designers in England. You can see his influence in London today, from public buildings to the red telephone booths (which were inspired by some of his later work). The wealth and prestige his success bought him allowed Soane to buy a house in fancy (and also schmancy) neighborhood of Holborn. Slowly the home was expanded and became a sort of playground for the brilliant mind. It was here Soane could experiment with concepts on a individual scale and magnificently arrange the numerous souvenirs from his global travels. If you have ever wondered what the concept of the 'Sublime' looks like in architecture, this is a perfect example. It's weird, it's small and you feel like at any moment you could be grabbed by a maniac or fall through the floor, but that excitement is kind of the best part. On top of that, and let's get real here: it's just plain beautiful. The light, the layering, the arrangement, the Soane Museum makes you the star of your very own version of Indiana Jones. It's personal and it's charming, you feel like you really get to know the man who designed it. Love. Passion. Fear. Regret. You can see how a guy like this could become such good friends with JMW Turner.
Due to the thoroughness of it's integration, it's hard to tell where the collection ends and the building begins. However, there are a few moments that stand out, particularly in the painting room, where you can find an original Hogarth in the form of A Rake's Progress.
More on that here:
You can also review our old posts about Northern Scotland, which goes over it, click Here
The display of A Rake's Progress is masterfully done, a visionary design of scale that opens expensively. Watching the paintings unfold, you feel sophisticated and wealthy, something I realized because Grad school makes you very, very poor. This experience is poignant especially because the display may have been designed to give Soane comfort after he realized that his own son, George Soane, was a stereotypical 'Rake'. Violent, dissolute, angry and bitter, George marries a girl to spite his parents, gets into debt he can't get out of and spends the rest of his adult life simultaneously trying to destroy his Father's reputation and, stupidly, also trying to extort money from him.
To ensure his wastrel son does not get the inheritance, and also because it's a nice thing to do, upon his death Soane donated his collection and home to the city of London, where you can view it, any time of the year for nothing. If you're in London, do it, it's a 4 minute walk from the Holborn tube station and absolutely worth your time. Go for the nerd cred, stay for the sheer experience. Even if you're not a designer, trust me, you'll love it.
