This I Believe: Design should be a transcendental experience.

Architecture and interior design should be a TRANSCENDENTAL EXPERIENCE. Further, it should be ENRICHING AND INSPIRATIONAL.  

This stems from the feelings that being inside beautiful architecture can elicit from me.  Ever since I can remember, I have wanted to be an architect or interior designer.  Granted, when I was little, my idea of architecture was designing houses – but the reason I wanted to design houses (not that I could articulate this at the time) was to capture very specific emotions and experiences through design.

The beauty of a ray of sunlight shining through a window pane, changing throughout the day and the seasons.  The way the layout of your living space can alter your attitude about the events of your day.  How the built environment of your workplace can make the 9-to-5 grind either somewhat pleasant or an absolute terror.

To me, architecture/design should create a meaningful place where you actively desire to be. Design should be ENLIGHTENING, INSPIRING, INVIGORATING, AND EVOCATIVE.

Architecture is like music.  Music has so many nuances of genre, instruments, and lyrics – with the thousands of permutations of these elements, you can create a perfect ambience for any mood or activity.  Music can take you to the highest points of exultation and move you to tears.  It can make you angry, uncomfortable, motivated, and energetic.  So, too, can architecture and it elements be permutated to evoke any mood, any atmosphere that the client or the designer desires.  While a plethora of emotional options are available in a design, architects and designers should create places that not only make it tolerable, enjoyable, to inhabit for extended periods of time, but also draw in patrons, make them actively WANT TO BE THERE.  Non-designers probably don’t think of form and space as being so intrinsic in shaping your mood, but the psychology of the physical environment – to me – is one of the most important factors in shaping your well-being.  You may not be able to put your finger on it, but seemingly tiny aspects of design can also bring you to zeniths and nadirs of mood.  It is an undeniable truth that colors, smells, lighting, and textures affect your comfort and your state of mind – therefore, good design must engage these senses.

What does any of this have to do with transcendentalism, or the transcendental experience?  In its most basic explanation, transcendentalism is the development of a person to their highest potential and communing with the (natural) environment.  Because the natural environment is supposed to be a physical manifestation of divine power, this communing with the environment was meant to bring man to an elevated sense of self.  In this age, post-Enlightenment and indeed post-God in a way, the capabilities of man’s mind are more awe-inspiring than the mythos of a higher power.  So, I amend the transcendental idea of the environment as a physical manifestation of the divine to mean this instead:  BUILT ENVIRONMENT IS A MANIFESTATION OF THE DIVINE POWER OF THE HUMAN MIND.  By truly engaging all of a patron’s senses through design, a space or place can have a spiritually and physically fulfilling effect.  How often have you looked at a design and said to yourself, I wouldn’t have thought to bring these elements together like this?  To me, the artistic human mind is indeed something almost divine – the ability to contain all these disparate pieces of information and synthesize them in unexpected ways. 

The next question is: how does the development of man to his highest potential relate to architecture? Ralph Waldo Emerson must have been channeling Vitruvius when he wrote his essay, “The American Scholar.”  Vitruvius posits that a good architect must be equipped with knowledge from a variety of disciplines, because “it is by his judgment that all work done by other arts is put to the test.”  Now, I don’t believe that architecture is the benchmark by which all other arts should be judged – but it is an all-inclusive form of “art.”  In his essay, Emerson states that in order to be the best a man can be, he must educate himself in a variety of disciplines, not only through study but through living the experiences himself.  Both Emerson and Vitruvius were proponents of the idea that scholars, or architects, should learn much from the predecessors, but must not mimic them.  They also believed scholars/architects should look to the future and fearlessly have their own thoughts.  Therefore, the education of an architect very closely follows what Emerson believed to be the ideal education of the well-rounded scholar.  The very essence of the development of an architect is transcendental in nature.

One of Emerson’s principles of “Self-Reliance” was this: “The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency; a reverence for our past act or word, because the eyes of others have no other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loath to disappoint them.” In addition, Juhani Pallasmaa says, channeling Vitruvius again, that architecture is becoming too specialized as a profession, too insular, being governed more and more by its own values rather than the amalgamation of the values of arts in general.

 Louis Kahn’s architectural philosophy addresses this problem, and my next theoretical point:  First, architecture has no (or should not have) strict rules or principles, and that buildings may “contradict each other.” This is something that I find to be of particular importance, because I have trouble with it myself – your designs should constantly push your personal boundaries and challenge your skills so that you don’t fall into a monotonous rut.  Second, Kahn was a big proponent of “monumental architecture” that retains a sympathy for the site.  All of Kahn’s realized buildings have this quality of monumentality, of significance that relates to and enhances the site, that makes each of them seem like a temple to whatever program they serve.

There are certain spaces on this earth that when you walk into them, it can take your breath away, send chills down your spine (as cheesy as that may be).  I think all good architecture should do exactly this. Good design should enable its inhabitants to feel a SPIRITUAL CONNECTION. Somewhat abstractly, the way that materials and elements connect with each other, with the ground, and project into the sky, can make you consider your own connections to things.  I like it when a space can make me stop and meditate. I think of the feeling it gives me to stargaze, to look up at the sky and see the absolute beauty of the stars and the moon and the clouds, and how all this beauty surrounding me makes me stop and reconsider myself and my place in the world.  Buildings can do just that.  Not to say that every space should make you have a grand epiphany – but good design at the very least should make you say “WOW.”

The terms “spiritual connection” and “transcendental experience” might not be exactly apropos, but what I want to say is this:  architecture and interior design should engage the patron on a profound level.  Your experience of architecture should not be superficial – in, out, gone.  That’s what separates architecture from mere building.  Your typical office block is functional, fits basic requirements of protection and climate control, provides ample space to conduct your official functions – but it sucks.  You leave for work in the morning, dreading the day ahead.  You passively inhabit your workspace for eight or nine hours, growing increasingly desperate to leave, then off home where things are infinitely better.  Architecture should subvert the office block.  Through superior design, the occupational environment can be so much more than a shell where you earn your money and give up your greater dreams of becoming a rock star. Through design, where you work (or where you play, for that matter) can become a place that you ACTUALLY DESIRE TO BE, not for the activities you do there, but for the way that place makes you FEEL.  It’s like the feeling of going to your grandmother’s house, or a seaside condo, except that instead of merely the context and the experiences driving the good feelings, the design elements themselves can elicit a positive reaction.

Juhani Pallasmaa articulates my theories about architecture better than I can with my limited experience.  In his writing, "The Geometry of Feeling," Pallasmaa talks about how so many of our modern buildings can excite us and pique our curiosity, but they often leave us feeling cold emotionally.  The struggle is to imbue the buildings with MEANING.  A quote that really sums up this problem: "From the viewpoint of cultural philosophy our entire hedonistic materialism seems to be losing the mental dimension that might in general be worthy of perpetuation in stone."  To break it down: Architects and designers are becoming too invested in what they're working with and not how they're working with it.

I agree with another of Pallasmaa's statements: "We make the mistake of ... assessing a building as a formal composition, no longer understanding that it is a symbol or experiencing the other reality that lies behind the symbol." This reiterates Kahn’s philosophy of monumental architecture.  Obviously, not every space has to be viewed as a grand tribute to stock trading or customer service or pedicures or the sale of Vietnamese noodles.  However, spaces and places should be more than a box filled with trim and a level ceiling, even more than a box filled with exquisite architectural elements.  What does the architectural ceiling contribute to making the experience of eating noodles a significant one?

Another of Pallasmaa’s ideas -  “the artistic dimension of a work does not lie in the actual physical thing; it exists only in the consciousness of the person experiencing it.”  This is the crux of the issue.  Architecture can mean many things to different people, but the singularly important thing is this: that architecture MUST appeal to your consciousness somehow, not just allow you to experience it completely passively.

To sum up:  Architecture and interior design are transcendental in two ways – one, the development of the designer him/herself to the pinnacle of what they can be intellectually and spiritually; and two, in the manifestation of the divine feats of creation that the artistic mind is capable of.  Design should be a constant overturn of established ideas, ever contradicting itself.  Ultimately, I feel that good design should engage the inhabitant’s body, mind, and soul in their entirety, leading to significant intellectual and physical experiences that draw them back for more.

Bonus Blog 3: Sean Coulter Lecture

The lecture on Tuesday was quite enjoyable.  Coulter's entire presentation dealt with the "ethereal connections" to context - people to the building, people to each other, people to the environment, buildings to each other ... every possible interlocking connection created by the built environment.  It reminded me of the issues addressed in the readings about site.  Coulter showed a few comparisons of Gehry buildings (I wonder if he has the same disdain for Gehry that Caldwell does?) - a pair of similar buildings, one in Las Vegas and one in Amsterdam, and another pair of which I can't remember the locations.  Suffice it to say, Gehry (and other architects) sometimes designs buildings that could really be dropped in any location anywhere in the world, and they'd be okay, but not as excellent as they could be.  

My favorite design from the presentation was the UNLV Lied Library. I love the tectonic qualities of the space, with the repetition of the curved planes inside and out, and the materiality.  Pretty much, it's awesome.

Bonus Blog 2: That which remains...

The mind of an artist can be a scary thing.  It seems like the most successful artists in any medium are the tortured ones.  It also seems that all of the Louisiana Tech SoA professors are a little bit ... eccentric.  In no way am I implying psychosis, merely that architects/interior designers and artists in general have the ability to see the world in different shades of reality from the average person, whether it is voluntary or brought about by mental instability.  Being an artist requires at the very least the ability to distort perception enough to create something new, something inspired, or subvert traditional views.

The opening of that which remains was a little bit of an eye-opener for me.  I already knew about Mr. Caldwell's penchant for quilting, so that didn't come as any sort of surprise.  My favorite works of his were "Vertical Zen" and "Warm Thunder."  "Vertical Zen" is reminiscent of a raked rock garden; the Japanese minimalist/Zen aesthetic has always appealed to me in its natural elements (here represented by neutral colors) and simplicity.

Mrs. Carwile has an exceptionally bubbly disposition and, as we all learned well last year, extreme positivity in the face of adversity.  Her favorite color is yellow, which she says is usually associated with genius or insanity.  The thing I liked about her paintings was the pervasive architectural systems - the underlying geometry left evident on the surface, and the richness and combination of colors.  What surprised me was the dark qualities of Mrs. Carwile's paintings.  The titles of her paintings tended toward darker subjects, and there were lots of ethereal beings.  The titles didn't provide much insight to me of the messages of the paintings, but it was somewhat unsettling seeing these atmospheric ghosts lending a watchful eye to the canvas.

Bonus Blog 1: Mullet Cheese

Our readings and class discussions have covered the topic of what separates "architecture" from being designated "art" or "building."  This post, however, poses the question to you, whoever might be reading this - what makes art, art?

As some of you are probably familiar with, the LA Tech SoA field trip to Houston includes a stop at the Menil Collection by Renzo Piano.  The Menil includes Byzantine, African artifact, Surrealist, and Modern/Contemporary exhibitions.  My focus today is on the Modern/Contemporary exhibition.

I'll start off with some mere opinion.  My favorite pieces from the exhibition -  Rene Magritte's "Le survivant" and "La courbure de l'univers," and David Novros's "6:30." 

"Le survivant" is provocative in its subversion of what it means to use a gun - the "user" end (the butt) of the rifle is splattered with blood, as opposed to the "business" end (the barrel), which would, under regular circumstances, be the end covered in blood.  It has several possible implications that I find intriguing, but I'll leave it up to you to take from it what you will.  Also, I have a very macabre sensibility and it would probably freak people out to dig too far into my psyche. 

"La courbure de l'univers," or "The curvature of the universe," is simply a bottle and oil paint.  Yet it raises some interesting questions about what the universe actually is - it reminds me of the end scene of Men In Black depicting our own universe as merely a glass marble in the bag of an alien.  It kind of makes you feel insignificant, the way looking at the stars makes you feel insignificant.  We accept that we as people are so small compared to the universe we can comprehend, but how insignificant is our own galaxy to the grand scheme of things?

I couldn't find any images of Novros's "6:30" but suffice it to say it is an arrangement of six L-shaped canvases coated in iridescent paint.  Depending on the angle you view it from, the light plays across the paint and gives the top portion a pinkish hue and the bottom a greenish-blue hue.  For me, and I think it was intended for other people as well, this piece reminds me of the play of light at twilight periods - dawn or dusk.  Or the Aurora Borealis.  Though I think the title is crucial in determining its intended purpose.

And now, the point. I decided to write a blog about this particular exhibition because of the principle artist displayed here: Robert Gober.  Gober actually took part in coordinating the displays of his work in this exhibit, so one can assume his pieces are shown very nearly as they were originally intended.  Most of his works are untitled, leaving their interpretation wide open.  Some of the pieces displayed at the gallery: "Untitled" , "Untitled" , "Untitled" , and I'm not sure but this is very possibly also untitled.  The docent explained that Gober likes to create replicas of every day objects with a slight "surprise."  I inspected the Seagrams bottle uncomfortably closely for a while and couldn't find the surprise :(. 

What do you make of Gober's work?  As far as finding a deeper meaning, I generally abstain from any symbolic interpretation of the work.  I wouldn't say I necessarily like it, but it does appeal to my macabre sensibility in that it is sort of off-putting - it throws you off balance for a little while.  You know something's not quite right, and you suspect something greater is going on here, but it's just out of reach.  Like the feeling of being watched.  The mulleted cheese is kind of like a guy in a bunny suit carrying an axe.

What is your favorite kind of art?  Be it paintings, sculpture, movies, or books - what kinds of emotions do you like art to invoke in you?  When does "art" stop being art?  Is pornography art, or exploitation?  Are terrible B-movies still art?  Leave comments, discuss.

The Shadow of Anywhere

Moneo talks of the "substantial immobility" of architecture.  I like that phrase.  It encompasses so much in so few words:  the profound nature of the built environment, the staying power (hopefully) of a building, the ability of the building to create context where it stands.

These works impress upon us the crucial point that a building should be designed so that it clearly fits where it belongs - that the design draws from its site and adds to the site so that the building couldn't belong just "anywhere."  The cookie cutter suburban homes across America could be airlifted from NoWheresVille, Indiana and transplanted to the suburbs of Shreveport and not look a stitch out of place.  This is not architecture.

I like the idea that the site is the first given material of a design.  It isn't merely the ground plane, nor just the excavated hole for the foundation to be poured in.  When I switched majors from architecture to interior design I was somewhat relieved that I wouldn't have to deal with site issues anymore, like drainage and landscaping and whathaveyou.  WRONG.  Because the site is so much more than the dirt you build on, I do have site issues to consider.  When we went on the SoA Houston field trip this past weekend, the second year interior design students toured several projects by Rottet Studio, one of which was the Cheniere Energy, Inc. located on the eighth floor of Pennzoil Place by Philip Johnson.  The building is constructed such that there are twin towers with a clearance of only roughly ten feet between them, and with Cheniere offices on the eighth floor, natural light was an issue.  Rottet Studio had to design carefully to accommodate the lack of natural light, and succeeded as you can tell from the pictures at the link.  These are the site issues an interior designer would have to deal with, though this was merely a shell in an office high rise in a downtown that could be anywhere.

The topics that we are assigned to read about in this class inevitably all seem to come back to the "soul" of architecture - consideration of the site is what takes the foundations of a design from being merely a superficial solution to a problem to the level of appreciating and enhancing the "given."

Rocking Your World View: Real Breast Cancer Awareness

The SCAR Project
October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month (as I'm sure you haven't failed to notice with all the pink products being sold).  The SCAR Project, which stands for Surviving Cancer, Absolute Reality, is a photograph series by fashion photographer David Jay of young breast cancer survivors.  The pictures are raw and slightly uncomfortable, with pictures of women with proudly displaying their mastectomy scars.  This series is truly beautiful, and I think that if you want a true dose of breast cancer awareness, this is better than pink ribbons.

The Craft of the Hand and the Heart

Though typically I prefer assigned readings to get quickly and concisely to the point, I enjoyed the tangential information presented in Metcalf's The Hand at the Heart of Craft.  I never stop to think about the evolutionary (God-given?) implications about why we as humans are able to use our hands the way we do, much like I don't stop to think analytically about each nuance of movement as I type or build models.  It is true that our dexterous hands are an integral part of what makes us human.  Metcalf has me believing that we should feel privileged as part-time craftsmen, though my appreciation for the abilities of my hands didn't make having to draw them fifteen plus times in freehand drawing any more enjoyable.

Metcalf writes about one of the most important things I've learned in the school of architecture:  Art is nothing without passion, without feeling.  He quotes Csikszentmihalyi: "People who find their lives meaningful usually have a goal that is challenging enough to take up all their energies, a goal that can give significance to their lives."  In my studio classes, even in my theory classes, I feel continually challenged - I tend to get whatever the designer's equivalent of writer's block is, I have to fine-tune my craft, and frankly I find myself producing a lot of shit work for a while.  I hate producing shit work.  But hopefully this will lead to a good kind of, life-fulfilling challenge, not make me want to change my major again next year.

The designer and maker used to be one and the same, but not anymore.  We (architects and designers) are, unlike engineers, self-conscious makers.  We are about functionality, but functionality plus -.  For us, objects and places aren't just to be used, but experienced.  And, as we've stated before in class, the product of our design is nothing without HEART.  Our design is verily crafted by our hands in conjunction with our hearts.  Without passion, we're just getting paid - not doing our jobs.

Kieran and Timberlake discuss, among other things, the modular construction of grand things.  They compare the construction of a building to that of a ship or an aircraft, but I'm going to make the leap by stepping back to Metcalf and comparing the development of a building to the construction of a human being.  Metcalf talked about the branching of the arm from the body and the fingers from the hands, the way the shoulder joint attaches to the body and how the nerves connect with the brain. Kieran and Timberlake talk about the spine of the building, frame, skin, systems, and equipment - how easy it is to anthropomorphize buildings construction.

And so, the conjunction of these works with Pye is this: there used to be a time when the designer's hand and heart went into the entire product, from development to production.  But now, so much of what we design relies on whether or not the contractor or whatever "maker" can execute design well.  Our heart can be lost through their hands.