casios and bombs

Detonation of seized weapons in Afghanistan, via militaryvideos.net – by the troops, for the troops...

Last night I went to the Dalston Superstore for a Diesel U:Music party (my brother is a sometimes radio presenter there). I got talking to this one girl, about the relative efficiency of various makes of timepiece (fascinating) and she said "you ought to get a Casio, like me". I looked at the watch and had a sudden flash of recollection.

"When I was 15, they invaded Afghanistan" I said "and of course I watched it live on TV. About a week into the war I remember seeing a heap of dead bodies – the first enemy victims of the invasion. At the bottom of the pile was an arm and a hand sticking out, and the camera zoomed in on his watch – the same Casio you've got there – and I thought, how poignant" I paused for dramatic effect "how poignant that this watch keeps on ticking, probably for years, long after the man that owned it has ceased to be."

I got a bemused, if somewhat cold, stare. I needed to turn this one around, and fast.

"So what I'm saying is, they're pretty reliable, and if you get American's all up in your business, invading and shit, well... you know what time it is."

A chuckle. Saved. Barely. Still, funny the things that obviously mark you but lie dormant, a silent bank of influence.

non-immediacy

The star-forming region LH 95 in the Large Magellanic Cloud, via Hubble (also, hi-res 2mb)

No one really supposed that light had speed, but we now know it takes 8 minutes to reach us from the sun, and two and a half years from the nearest star. When we look up at the stars we are seeing a live show taking place 30,000 years ago. An aggregate of non-simultaneous and only partially overlapping events. Change is normal. The physical universe is forever changing.

This is Buckminster Fuller talking about Einstein's theories, from a video playing at the Barbican's new one (I'll write again on the exhibit itself). The video is called "Modeling Universe", and its a 1976 doco on Buckminster Fuller, by Jamie Snyder. The reason I labouriously copied down this passage was because of that one line : an aggregate of non-simultaneous and only partially overlapping events.

Baudrillard writes a lot about our obsession with real time, our desire for information to be instantaneous. He says there is no point in trying to identify the world as it happens, because it is already out of date and distorted (through the lag of the eye to brain, or some other instrument of perception like a mirror). He says, in the Perfect Crime:

Thus all things offer themselves up without a hope of being anything other than illusions of themselves. Fortunately, nothing appears to us in real time, any more than do the stars in the night sky. If the speed of light were infinite, all the stars would be there simultaneously and the celestial vault would be an unbearable incandescence. Fortunately, nothing takes place in real time. Otherwise we would be subjected, where information is concerned, to the light of all events, and the present would be an unbearable incandescence. Fortunately, we live on the basis of a vital illusion, on the basis of an absence, an unreality, a non-immediacy of things.

Of course, if you suggest that there is a value to temporal setback you may as well tattoo the term Luddite to your forehead and be done with it. It seems a commonplace in contemporary architecture to try to portray the temporary, the fluid and flux – to design an architecture that is maleable and adaptable. But isn't that really a cop-out, a sidestep of the issue. By refusing to impose will into the formal (or other) structure of a project, and claiming that it will define itself, the architect avoids the responsibility to produce a formal response to a given situation.

An aggregate of non-simultaneous and only partially overlapping events... What would an architecture be like that, rather than responding quickly to the ephemeral conditions of the present, attempted to (re)present the past (as a statement that the present is only the temporal offset of history): a modern stadium designed to host gladiatorial battles, a condo highrise with stables and slaves? Given how long it actually takes to construct a building, what is the maximum acceptable offset (no one, after all, complains about Sagrada Familia being out of date)?

Well. Gees, let's lighten things up a bit with a Roman joke (via Mary Beard, who is the authority on all ancient humour): A man meets a friend of his in the street and says "that's funny, I was told you were dead". The friend replies "well, you can see perfectly that I am still alive". The first man furrows his brow and says "I have to dispute that, the man who told me you were dead is much more reliable than you." Its not that bad really, when you consider that I (like many) don't get Punch at all, and that it was conceived by a whole different kind of Millennium People.

I promise tomorrow's post will be less cerebral.

Shifting Shorelines #2: NY

Under the pavement the beach: mid-70's, just after the completion of the extension of Manhattan, an era of NY beach parties.

In a fit of delirium, Rem Koolhaas praised the urban democracy of the New York Commissioners' Plan of 1811. With a fixed number of blocks (2,028) and (at least in theory) no single development surpassing the limits of its block, the equality of each 'urban island' was assured. That is, no block could claim to be anything more than a certain percentage of Manhattan. Rem goes on to explain that the power of the rules lay in the rigidity of the limitations they presented.

But the rules were not so fixed. The construction of the World Trade Center produced almost a million cubic metres of excavated fill – and rather than dump it or ship it elsewhere, New York used it to push the shoreline 210m to the west, and 2km to the north. The resulting strip (called Battery Park City) created six new blocks and 92 new acres. The shoreline was augmented, a parcel of land (of incalculable value) had been cut from the island itself.

The north tower was finished in 1970, the south in '72. For 4 years the Twins fronted the Hudson directly, until the backfilling was complete. But the first building on the new strip didn't open until 1981, and for several years the strip was the site of art exhibits, anti-nuclear demonstrations and beach parties. The Twins suddenly found themselves at the beach, like Yankies in Miami.

The impact of this enormous expansion on the feeling of Downtown must have been phenomenal – the people revelled in a sudden emptiness that had not been felt in Manhattan for almost two centuries. The landscape artist Agnes Denes celebrated the final days of the space, (new blocks already seen under construction in the distance) by planting an acre of wheat. The abstract world of global finance presented, if only so briefly, with the realities of basic agriculture: the foundation of civilisation brought to the etherial heights of the metropolis.

Coming soon... #3, the thrilling conclusion to the series.


To see the 9 images in Agnes Denes series click here.

italian police motorcycles

Just fantastic, although turn off the crap music, via Anonymous Works.

research architecture

A mapping exercise I executed on the zoning and usage of Gennevilliers.

Today's post primarily consists of excerpts from an article by Mark Foster Gage (Assistant Professor at Yale), entitled 'In defense of design' – from Log 16 – and the subject is the demise of architectural precedents in contemporary design theory. It struck a particular chord with me, and it touches on one of the questions Millennium People is most interested in: to what extent (if any) does architecture have the power to shape society? Is even the most daring utopic design merely a reactive solution to pre-existing social (or other) problems? Can architecture ever really be a revolutionary expression of a civilisation's desire for improvement?

The architectural line is now defensible only if it is the direct result of an act of analysis, of a process, a mapping exercise, or just about any manipulation of data emerging from any body of factors. This contemporary emphaisis on process and analysis is largely the product of a drift in architectural theory from linguistic and poststructural models to what... is commonly being referred to as "research architecture".

While nobody was watching, the actual research of "research architecture" as a theory intended to reinforce our understanding of architecture in larger globl contexts – whether geospatial, social, political, economic, ethnic, or other – was diluted, mixed with artificial sweeteners, packaged with witty icons and hairline vectors, and sold cheaply in the world's design schools, not only as a new line of thought, but also as the newest and most harmonious of architectural chorus lines.

There are clearly historical arguments to be made for "research architecture as theory, however few the precedents may be. But there is no such precedent for the trickle-down Reaganomics of "research architecture" as practice, which is only a reflection of a wholly contemporary architectural culture based on the easy, the quick, and the convincing, and on the frequent – at times even sincere – yet mistaken assumption that we are always more powerful in dealing with social injustice or inequality in our role as architects than in our roles as citizens or activists.

It should also not be forgotten that architecture has functioned historically not only as a record of change but also as an instigator of change, and any architecture dedicated to solving problems discovered within an existing organisational system is therefore partially complicit in sustaining the status quo of that system – or at the very least relegates itself to the weaker position of subverting existing standards instead of optimistically endorsing new ones.

When I was at school I was told, by dusty relics of the post-war Modernist push, that they were surprised to discover their architecture had a lot less influence on society than they had expected. Will it be the same for those of the profession that have strayed too far into the meaningless end of "research architecture"? Gage states that "research architecture" demands only information, "which today is as ubiquitous as asphalt", while the use of architectural precedents requires knowledge and "a dedicated understanding of the historical lineage of architecture – hard things to come by with a quick Google search." The real point Gage is trying to make is that while the collective informatic resources of the profession are growing exponentially, those of the individual are waning. This is not unique to architecture. As access to information becomes ever more instant and easy, so our propensity to forget what we consider superfluous becomes more puissant. That is, we do not retain the results of our searches: we are erasing (or blocking) our own internal cookies.


A map of the Ile-de-France region indicating the plateaux, cliff edges and valley bottoms. I did this image while working on the competition for Grand Paris.

tschumi's legacy

The parthenon gallery at Tschumi's new museum.

The other place I visited when in Athens (apart from the acropolis) was Bernard's new museum. Last time I was in Greece the musem was still under construction, but even then I had my doubts. It is no return to form for the man famed with Paris' La Villette. While it had some interesting spaces, and the collection was well laid out, the detailing was nothing special and the lighting was really bad. Spotlights? Who uses spotlights as a means to light large rooms? What is this, a 1980's office block? In fact, the feel of most of the museum is that of an uncompleted carpark.

This is not a poor shot, I spent some time playing so that the image captured the actual light conditions.

That said, the central atrium space is quite impressive, but not enough to save the building. Its reception by Athenian's has been mixed, apparently a block of 1930's class-listed heritage architecture is obstructing the view of the acropolis from the cafe level, so the museum wants to raze some of Athen's finest examples of art deco to improve the view. Apparently Tschumi was well aware of this design limitation before construction and seemed to design a large platform pointing at the backs of the buildings anyway. Said slab is way too heavy, and just out of proportion with everything. Frustratingly, the excavated ancient Athens that lies beneath the building is completely inaccessible, and unlike Zumthor (who delights in ruins), Tschumi seems to treat the remains as a hindrance. I can only imagine it was his decision, I mean, no department for culture would actively reject its own heritage, right (skip to about 1:50)?






The offending building, white, on the lower left.

the parthenon's corners

The path to the parthenon.

On my way back from Hydra I spent a day in Athens. Faced with the Parthenon, my first thought was of something I read for a history class. Apparently, the major difference between Roman and Greek ideas of space and monumentality is the angle of approach – while Roman perspectival depth is frontal, the Greeks often relied on a 45 degree angle of incidence. A Roman temple is accordingly supposed to be seen from this view, and not this one.

The last time I was in Greece was February 2006, and I noticed that the reconstruction of the acropolis had advanced a good deal in 3 years. Not only have large portions been reconstructed, but a number of elements have been recreated. The aim is what many might call an in-situ replica. Out-of-situ replicas already exist, Nashville is famous for advertising just how far it can miss the point. My thoughts on the perpetuation of buildings…



I loved the effect of the scaffolding, which turns Pericles’ dreams into modernist masterpieces. The Temple of Athena Nike has become a Greek Pompidou Centre. Compare with Nashville. The layering of hessian screens, cranes and construction machinery over the ancient stones blurs the limit of the ruins, and allows for an ambiguity of form that is quite amazing. Could this be some new style of architecture, some post-post-modernist (after Graves, after Moore, after Stirling) – where the ancient orders are not simply semiotic references, but the uncertain centres of hi-tech machines?

airships

BT tower, at sunset, as the R101's of the C21 cruise in to dock.

I am on holiday on the Greek island of Hydra, so the second post in the Shifting Shorelines series will have to wait until I get back to London.

While reading a BLDG BLOG post about the Sydney-based Urban Islands studio (I did the same studio 2 years ago with Morphogenesis) I was struck by Mitchell Bonus' project, who I know as one of the UNSW archicats. The thing that really got to me was the idea of producing trading cards for architectural proposals, and then slipping them into cereal boxes, cigarette packets and bags of crisps. This type of subversive dissemination of architecture is really at the base of Millennium People, and I'm sure Ballard would approve.

Why is it architects are so crazy for airships? I am sure they will return to the skies - if only as a result of the collective desires of the design community. Although it sets you thinking about the collective psychology of a profession, I imagine our obsession stems from the fact that airships represent the pinnacle of Modernist thinking about the effects of lightness and transparency- pure, white, floating buildings.

As a homage to Mitch, I have knocked up two images of the London destination for his departing zeppelins. So a link is drawn between Centrepoint and the London Sky Harbour- based in the old BT Tower.

Shifting Shorelines #1: St. Magnus-the Martyr

A. London Bridge (dating from 1973) B. Location of London Bridge prior to 1831 C. Monument. St. Magnus' is in blue.

While in Tokyo, Douglas Adams once remarked to his guide that a particular temple had weathered remarkably well since its construction several centuries earlier. The guide replied that this was not at all the case, and that it had been burnt down twice in the last century alone. Its significance as a state monument therefore involved its complete reconstruction. Adams started to mediate that the Western obsession with the temporal continuation of materials is only an impediment to actually seeing the building. This perpetuation of a building’s soul, or spirit, irrespective of its physical form, he implies, is not common in occidental thinking. Oh, but Douglas, it is.

Take St. Magnus-the-Martyr, a church at the north end of London Bridge. First built in 276 – the discovery of a Roman wooden pylon near the site indicates that it was constructed outside the Roman river defences (designed to prevent flooding). That is, the church was either on, and probably sometimes in, the river. It was enlarged in 1234 (a satisfyingly sequential year) in stone, destroyed by the Great Fire of 1666 and rebuilt by Wren.

For several centuries it marked one end of London Bridge, (whose famous 20 arches supported numerous houses, fortifications and even a church) and marked the limit of naval traffic – the upper reach of London Pool. After Wren it actually sat on the bridge, its vestry on the fourth floor open to travellers (the type of elevated urban structure that would, much later, inform the design of the Barbican).

But throughout its history it was always St. Magnus-the-Martyr. The physical distinction of the buildings is evident – but the spirit remained. With sacred architecture we recognise the fact that the meaning of the place comes from powers unbounded by time or space. We are less convinced of the ontological value of offices, retail, even our own homes.

But there is an added complication with St. Magnus: the church was attached to the bridge, bordering the ancient path used by the invading legions (advancing onto their own epochal Heart of Darkness). Thus the genius loci of St. Magnus’ is a maritime river spirit. Now the Old London Bridge is gone, demolished. Even the 19th century replacement has been sold, dismantled, and reassembled in the Arizona desert. The new bridge is 50m from the church. The vestry hangs up in the air, strangely isolated. A child that has climbed up a countertop and is suddenly unsure how to get down. The bells, which were scrapped about the same time the bridge was moved, have been replaced, but are now silent.


A worker beating the lead roof had left the tower door open, and deafened by the organ did not hear me sneak up to the vestry and then take a picture of the bellroom.

The river bank, too, has moved, 200m from church – the distance across the Thames is today about half what it was in the C17th. What sort of effect has this had on the conception of the place, and can we even say that the church is today in the same place as it was in centuries past? Find out more in part 2, with a shocking (and controversial) conclusion in part 3.

Coming Soon… Part #2: New York, New York.


St. Magnus-the-Martyr, dwarfed by the modern office blocks, as seen from Monument. Arrow indicates present London Bridge, vestry located at about half of the tower’s height.

monumenta

2001: the spacemen descending into the moon pit, monolith at its centre.

Sticking on the 2001 and moon theme:

Last year, when I was living in Paris, I went to the annual Monumenta exhibit that is held at the Grand Palais – possibly the largest enclosed space I have ever been in. In fact, the space is so big that almost anything you put in it looks out of scale. Some artists, like Anselm Keifer, don’t even try to create installations that confront the space, but treat it almost like a warehouse, allowing them to collect together projects that would normally be impossible to exhibit alongside each other.

In 2001: A Space Odyssey, Dr. Floyd journeys by Pan Am spaceplane to the moon, where he examines a colossal pit dug into the surface: an archeological digging that has exposed the black monolith. Everything about the scene is designed to imply that the monolith has been there for eons, awaiting a new millennium people.

Serra's installation had a similar effect on me, in fact my first thought was that this light glass and iron structure had been built around the monoliths. There was an implication also of weightlessness - while easily twenty metres high, the slabs of corten (that slowly rusted over the course of the exhibit, exposing the finger and handprints of the visitors) were only 10cm thick, and none of them completely touched the concrete floor. At least one corner was raised, giving the impression that they were floating elements tethered loosely to the ground. As I watched the shadows of the dome play across the metal, I thought about how Serra had masterfully reversed the chronological order of the palace and its exhibit; typical of his incredible power over material and space.


Monumenta by Richard Serra, at the Grand Palais in 2008.