Retroactive Projects Part 1: SUPPORTING

Architecture students at RISD go through several thesis rites of passage: a thesis probe, a thesis seminar, and a wintersession launch of thesis that results in research, project, and preliminary book. I wrote and posted blogs during this process, but didn't showcase a lot of the work that came out of it. This retroactive series of posts will cover those projects in a more graphic way.

 

In no particular order, I'm going to start with supporting, a segment of thesis seminar taken with Silvia Acosta. Designed to be a memorial bench, my response to `supporting' was meant to embody a time period of mourning as well as its immediate use to support a body. This time period could last a lifetime, forty years, or only as long as someone is using and maintaining it. The materials were meant to interact with the user- age and decay, and transform.

The seat- laminated wood, supported by rope

The supports- thicker laminated wood and steel, cast in concrete foundations.

The stone- a cast concrete counterweight suspended below the sitter

As I design it I told myself a few stories about how it could be experienced. For example:

Imagine a widower. Instead of a conventional stone, he chooses to place a bench where his beloved is buried. Below the seat is an engraved stone that bears her name. When he sits, the counterweight resists his own weight, a visceral presence of the memory of her, and the weight of his sorrow. Daily, weekly, monthly, or annually, and finally when possible- the widower comes to the bench to spend time. He talks wordlessly, a sitting observance of the passing time and with it his passing grief. In ten years or less, he may have to replace ropes or maintain the wood- until one day, he comes no more. When he dies, his name is inscribed on the stone and it sits quietly undisturbed, holding the seat in tension. Family or friends and even strangers come infrequently and use the bench until the day when no living person remembers. The ropes, untended, rot and break. The stone drops to the ground and the two supports shed their decaying wood to reveal the skeletons of steel standing erect in the silent ground. The stone and its supports will be swallowed by the earth.

After constructing the story, came the actual bench construction and installation. Suddenly, the bench acquired new meanings and stories, and my interest in community engagement collided with installation architecture and an interest in gorilla-inspired projects. I borrowed some city land and planted the bench at the site of a bridge demolition in the dark of a November night. The life span of the bench, I soon discovered, was to be considerably shorter than I expected (as it became a part of demolition six months later), but the process brought to light some more wonderful fringe spaces with potential for projects. This bench was a catalyst for new work, and along with the bridge, has been swallowed by the earth.

Books and Blogs: Stitching an Interface

In the rare instances I was able (read: allowed) to venture outside of the Bayard Ewing Building at RISD, I took some elective classes. Architecture students- on occasion- stumble out of the BEB, bloodshot eyes and empty coffee mugs, stowaways from their brick storm-battered ship in port- but only when pressed. The opportunity to venture out was one of the primary draws, for me, to this particular school. I was hemmed in frequently by a heavy departmental regiment of classes, however elective offerings I unfortunately missed included the departments of painting, printmaking, textiles, sculpture, furniture, and glass- to name just a few. Ironically, an elective requirement was all that stood between myself and my precious diploma, at the end of the spring semester, 2011. This may well be the lightest, brightest, and craftiest blog post I have yet penned- hooray for small, rectangular pleasures.

And so happily, I learned to make books.

This first example, above, was my all-time favorite; a concertina form that holds separate signatures within a small half-accordion frame. This cover is made from a soft green Lotka paper (traditionally made from a plant in Nepal), with each signature held by waxed binding thread of a different color. This will be the format for a portfolio of architecture work.

This narrow, horizontal book (above) is a well-known Japanese Stab binding, filled with hand-made denim and abaca paper, with tea leaf & abaca `tipin' (meaning an additional page that is different than the body of the book and often is the first sheet you encounter when you open the book).

Much more of a traditional `book', the above binding is a kind of Perfect-Bound book, also known as flex binding, where the pages are glued in a text-block but still flexible and separate from the Davey Board spine. The fabric is silk, and the interior of the boards are lined with suminagashi paper (Japanese traditional marbling technique using ink (sumi) and water).

 

These two books are not shining finished examples of binding techniques, but they were learning experiences and represent two types that I'd like to explore further because of their durability. The top image is a Sewn-to-Tape binding, using a cloth that belonged to my grandmother as the cover. Cloth must first be prepared by adhering it to paper and drying, and if you buy book cloth this will have already been done for you. The tape itself is made of fabric, and can be purchased in various widths. The bottom is Sewn-to-Chord- much trickier in my opinion and I much prefer the tape.

Along with accordion books, we tried several different folded structures that have their roots in origami. This sweet little book includes a ribbon that would allow the book to be tied closed or hung open. I later played with paste papers I had made to create two variations on this theme, below:

Paste papers are just what they sound like-- plain paper that is painted with a paste-like paint. Using tools & implements that have texture or teeth, you can manipulate multiple colors and the paper begins to have a sense of depth as a result of the translucency created by the paint. Later, this paper can be trimmed creating beautiful snapshots of color and texture.

The Dos a Dos is a simple folded structure that we learned early on in class while mastering simple binding stitches. It also lends itself well to color and content play:

The Altered Book is something we spent very little time on, but held the most fascination for me. Some altered book artists are just, well, badass. Their alterations are pure labors of love. I hope to post some links to these amazing artists in a future blog, but for now my first humble effort- a used book called "The Fear Makers"-- which involved a fictional story set in Germany during WWII. Not knowing the story line (and with no time to read it), I responded to the cover, title, and my own take on the events of the time. This was the altered state:

A few final projects and thoughts:

The box was a time and measurement intensive endeavor, but with satisfying results. This box is made with a linen book cloth, bone clasp (from already deceased animal bones, for those concerned about animal cruelty), and Lotka paper latch and lining:

Along with bookbinding, we made paper (as mentioned) and honed our typesetting skills-- with a trio of linoleum cut, wood type, and lead type all poured into one project, we learned to (at the very least) appreciate the pain and suffering of our typesetting forbears and (at the most) appreciate the wonderful possibilities of super-cool antique typesets. Below is the origin of my experiments-- a wedding guest book for dear friends:

And speaking of possibilities; paper Paper PAPER! Each project seemed to respond so differently to each choice of paper-- texture, color, and weight. Check out the same linoleum, wood, and lead type design on various papers versus book cloth:

SPEED AND TIME

“The English travel writer Bruce Chatwin wrote about a group of white explorers who were trying to force the pace of their African porters. The porters, within sight of their destination for the day, sat down and refused to move. As they explained to their frustrated employers, ‘‘we are waiting for our spirits to catch up with our bodies.’’-  John Thackara, In the Bubble: Speed

From the invention of the spinning jenny onward, the Industrial Revolution has concerned itself with speed and efficiency. We wanted to "make products efficiently to get the greatest volume of goods to the largest number of people, turning labor to mechanization…" as William McDonough aptly stated in Cradle to Cradle. Without criminalizing technology and our desire to improve our quality of life, I think it’s worth questioning the effects of efficiency on our lifestyle.

Thackara raises many important questions and ideas:

• Speed is not free.
• Chronos, absolute time, is different than Kairos, qualitative time.
• A speed society might create the precondition for psychosis
• Italians have an expression for the ‘sweetness of doing nothing’; dolce far niente. Do we have a word for that?
• We have moved into REAL TIME ENTERPRISE, a rapid pace of business that used to be determined by the speed of hand delivered mail. 
• We are ‘always on’. Does this give us time to reflect?
• Nemawashi is a Japanese term that means the creation of trust through time. It is thought to be the groundwork for understanding. If we skip this step, how do we understand one another?
• Social capital takes time to grow.
• Slowness doesn’t have to be a drag on civilization.
• In Israel schools, time is taught as a concept and a way of understanding other cultures. Do we consider time enough?

Speed and time are related to architecture, though it seems counterintuitive. Architecture is not frozen music, no matter how still it appears to be. For instance, intimate spaces all of have a sense of time. At my own house, we haven’t owned a television in years. It’s not that we don’t enjoy it, or that we judge those who have one, but the temptation to be drawn into hours of semi-conscious watching is too strong. By design, we wanted the furniture in our living room to be arranged in such a way that encourages conversation—something articulated to us by a good friend one day and we adopted. How many people arrange chairs around their wide-screen tv, with no sense of a communal circle in which to engage? By design, spaces can encourage slowness even on a small scale.

Industry poses a larger question; how can a factory support slowness? Should it? In business and industry, constant acceleration is unsustainable. Whether we consider the draining of oil wells, over-fishing, clear-cutting, or massive monoculture farming, it’s clear that there needs to be a balance and moderation in order to support the replenishment of natural resources. It’s redundant and overstated, but true. Acceleration through 'brute force' is ripe with negative consequences, but we are a system based on growth.If we slow down, we also need to remain prosperous (see above, `slowness doesn't have to be a drag on civilization').

The site of my inquiry is a peninsula that cradles Prince’s Cove, Eastport, Maine. There have been generations of fishery buildings at this site. The earliest structures (at the height of sardine and fish-based fertilizer production in the region) were large and rambling. There were a series of small outbuildings that created a kind of village, a testament to the level of activity that once took place. Eastport at one time had the largest sardine factory in the world. Clusters of sardine packing plants were scattered over the island. As time went by and the fishing industry flagged, the buildings at Prince’s Cove became fewer, and today, three uniform concrete structures are the last remnants of a golden age. As the proposals for new commercial fisheries roll in, plans to demolish the remaining structures are in full swing. What could these new forms be? How might they consider the speed of sustainability, the temporality of enterprise, and their place among the ghosts of buildings past (or to come)? 

Agency and (Temporary) Architecture

What is Agency? Two very motivated grad students here at RISD developed, proposed, and then received permission to teach a grad studies class- aptly named `Design Agency’. Our first task? To define what agency is. As designers, we have abilities (learned and inherent), or a set of competencies that allows us to problem-solve in a way that others might not be able. We also have vision; original ideas and creativity that are channeled through our abilities. Finally, we have an impulse to act. As designers with abilities, vision, and a desire to use both, we can be a catalyst for change.

ABILITY + VISION + ACTION = AGENCY

The crux of agency, though, is that at the heart of each community… at the grass-roots level… agency is required for meaningful change. Agency within a community, that is. We, as designers, might find our best work as the catalyst for the agency of others.

Everyone Designs. These are the words of John Thackara, author of ‘In the Bubble: Designing in a Complex World’. This basic human activity is common to us all, and according to Thackara, we need to develop an appreciation for what people can do that technology can’t.

Thackara talks a lot about efficiency, and how our obsession with it has lead to dehumanization. He charges us to consider these points:

• ·         Consider MATERIAL and ENERGY FLOWS in all design
• ·         Human AGENCY is a priority (humans are not a `factor’)
• ·         Deliver VALUE TO PEOPLE, not people to systems
• ·         Treat CONTENT as something we DO, not something we’re sold
• ·         PLACE, TIME, and CULTURAL DIFFERENCE are positive values, not obstacles
• ·         Focus on SERVICE, not things

The focus of this blog has been architecture, and its temporality. This is the forum and tool I have used to explore community engagement through architectural installation. After all, architecture is designed to be used—for the express purpose of the needs of humanity. Without needs, we would have no architecture. Need is a loaded word that encompasses all the subjects of past, present, and future blogs about temporary architecture: the need for shelter, the need for safety, the need for a free state, the need for beauty, and the need for agency.

Our architecture is a reflection of our agency.

Our Place and Our Time: Architecture and the Temporary

Temporary architectural installations are all around us. The houses we live in, the roads and bridges we traverse, and the places we worship and mourn. Human constructions can last thousands of years, but on some level we quietly acknowledge that constructions are simply a stage for culture that will one day see an end. Our constructions serve us through their temporality and locality. Our diversity of shelter mirrors our diversity of culture; a panoply of houses for the body and soul. To locate ourselves in this vast temporality, we can identify our own communities. We are linked by time and space to our dwellings.

How do you define your community? It could be where you were born. It is more likely where you live, work, learn, play, raise a family, or have close friends. Through a loosely defined process, I located for myself eight communities that I call home. And in one of those communities, there is a sister community; one that has breathed it’s temporality with the changing landscape and the rising and falling tides for twelve or thirteen thousand years before colonization. 

The town of Eastport and the Passamaquoddy Pleasant Point Reservation in Maine share a road, a landscape, and a vast ocean bay; not to mention a storied past. Blogs upon blogs could be dedicated to the swift march of European colonists claiming lands, fighting each other, sickening, converting, and oppressing the native people of Maine. The Passamaquoddy were the indigenous tribe of this particular region, traveling in small family bands between fishing grounds of summer and winter camps slightly inland for hunting game. The temporality of their architecture reflected the seasons and their uses—highly transportable and lightweight, the summer structures came apart easily. Winter dwellings sometimes incorporated a heavier foundation of logs much like the log houses of today, as a base to keep snow out. But the upper portions of the winter dwelling were every bit as temporary, a physical manifestation of an embrace of change.

Today, we build with less of an embrace of the unknown. Colonists built to settle and lay claim. Foundations are a mark of this attitude. While it is true that Native Americans in Maine had territories—and sometimes fought over these lines—ownership of land was not considered in the same manner. The resources of the land were considered to be communal. In suburban and rural communities today, we deny change as much as we deny death. Family homesteads are cherished, belongings are stockpiled whether or not they are useful, and resources are compiled to ward against uncertainty. This is a much safer, more comfortable lifestyle for us. We have our assets gathered against misfortune. But in reality, these are temporary also.

Temporary does not mean lightweight (though it can). To design or plan with a sense of temporality is to acknowledge being HERE. Active participation is the genetic marker for your existence. Your active awareness expressed through design is the quality and inherent order of a space. Temporary architecture might just be architecture with a greater awareness for its life (and death).