Six Degrees

It's all about who you know. People try to deny it, but it is one of life's ultimate truths. Especially in this profession.

Photo by Doug Kanter from The New York Times

This article, in the New York Times, seems to reinforce the unspoken truth. Imagine, by answering an email, you'd be given the opportunity to design a large villa in an exotic locale, unconstrained by anything other than your own imagination? A young designer's dream project, with the added bonus of international exposure and the guarantee that the project will be built. Why can't we all be so lucky?

We can, apparently, as long as we work for the celebrities of our profession, in this case the dymanic team of Herzog and de Meuron. Their reputation brought them a commission which they magnanimously bestowed on 100 firms. They spread the wealth to those they trusted, admired, knew. And why not? If they at one time employed these designers, they must certainly have some faith in their abilities.

This "six degrees" concept was something I thought long and hard about when choosing to go to graduate school. I took a risk, attending a school whose program that, I felt, offered more in terms of personal growth and intellectual exploration. I turned down a school whose faculty and reputation attracted an international list of big names for critiques and reviews. In the end, I spent three months looking for job. My friends at the other school? Picked up by starchitect firms before they even left.

I remember visiting some friends attending the "other school" for a summer abroad. One of their classmates was obsessed with getting big name firms on her resume, even though she had at least three years before graduating. She had her summer internships all planned out. As a California native, she would apply to Gehry or Moss or Morphosis first. Then, after her third year, she'd look for a big East Coast name, like Holl or Eisneman. And after fourth year, she'd look at an international firm, like OMA. With such a resume, she was certain that, come her fifth year, she'd be accepted to any Ivy League grad school, which would, of course, lead to a permanent job at some star firm. That would, inevitably, lead to her own success later on.

At that time, my friends and I pondered the logic. Weren't other things important? Like the size of firm you worked for? Or how the firm practiced? Maybe the firm's business model? How about the potential exposure to different projects and building types?

But, after my rounds of graduate school applications, my first bout in the arena that is the job hunt game, I understand her perspective. She was younger than me, but much less naive to the realities of the world that we operate in. She realized the fundamentals. Relationships mean something. Connections mean something. Not everything, but definitely something. Name-dropping, when the relationship is significant, greases wheels, opens doors. And if your goal is to be as famous as those you currently idolize, it just might be the fastest way to get there. So let's just acknowledge it: in the design world, incest is best.

Traitor to the cause...

I’ll be called a traitor. I’ll be laughed out of all respectable architecture circles. But I have to admit it. Having spent nearly a week visiting friends in the vast land of suburbia known as southern California, I could see myself living there. Yeah, I just said that.

Admittedly, this particular suburb of SoCal was only 20 minutes from the beach. And the sun was out nearly every day. For this New York City dweller, having come via London, the blinding yellow sun was like teasing a child with an ice cream cone after feeding them steamed broccoli. It was a bit of luxury, a break from a streak of ho-hum life. And you just want more. We’ll gloss over the fact that I was playing around for nearly a week without work. That would make any place seem appealing, I imagine.

More than the lack of responsibility, though, may have been the sense of overwhelming ease. It was a return to the lifestyle of my childhood – car rides to the grocery store, evening walks along streets where kids played ball in the street and the neighbors passed with their dogs in tow, all while bathed in the blanket of orange-red light that lay itself over every surface at sunset. Those were the visceral moments of my childhood, when the air carried a crisp chill, as it swept down from the canyons, carrying with it the scent of pine and mint. While I was with my friend, walking their stubborn yet adorable pit-bull along the trails surrounding their home, I was once again twelve, out for a walk with my own dog, transfixed by the beauty of nature.

I’ve been on the move a lot, recently; less than others, probably, but more than I’d prefer, to be honest. Before my year abroad, then back, I lived for seven years in Pittsburgh, five in the same house, which I have previously mentioned my fond affinity for. It grounded me, despite my fantasies of moving here or there. Wherever I was, I had a place to return to. It’s different now, in the city. To rent with roommates means living a life without absolute security – the knowledge that you’ll be in the same place a year from now.

The appeal of suburbia, in part, is that which has been marketed to us. In that sense, it is fantasy, make believe. No wonder that the front yard and picket fence ideal polarizes the population into camps of “hell yes” and “hell no”. Some want nothing more that to move into that home of their own, where they’ll raise their family, have play dates with neighbors, and eat out on weekends at the local Applebee’s.

I always thought of myself in the other camp, ready to make a life in the grittiness of urbanity. Any progressive architect could not consider otherwise. After all, we were supposed to know better, armed with our education, which allowed us to see past the developer’s illusions of suburban harmony. City living, at the fringes where industrial and commercial ventures meet, is where we are supposed to find ourselves. We’re homesteaders not suburbanites, right?

School seemed to reinforce that idea. Cool architecture existed within confined contexts, the spaces in-between. Those were the projects professors got excited about, that most of us, if given the choice, would pursue. Even in Urban Design studio, our site was not the blank slate of the suburban fringe, but the examination of existing, though decaying, centers.

Urban Design, as we were taught, was dogmatic. This was probably due, in part, to the fact that our professor was considered, by many, to be one of the fathers of the New Urbanism movement. We were taught the importance of tradition, uncovering the story of a place. For some reason, the story seemed to repeat itself over and over again as the semester went on, but there were some key ideas that made sense. The emphasis on community building, on diversity, appealed to the liberal, democratic spirit of architecture dreamers, hoping to change the world. But, the way we were taught, seemed limited, constrictive. There were so many rules.

When our professor first started preaching his ideas, in the 1960s, the ideas were challenged as contrary and radical. By god, who would want mixed income neighborhoods? Or messy commercial districts near the expansive yards of their personal estates?

That was then. For us, sitting in lecture, this wasn’t new, wasn’t radical. It seemed like common sense. But, feeling the need to pass the class, we begrudgingly did pattern-book house studies, mockingly repeated the “perfect” street sections for our group presentations, and told ourselves that, if we were to do it our way, we’d do it different, better.

Ironically, those tenets which we had to learn by heart – the 15 minute walking circles, the mixed-use main street at the center – are now the en vogue urban design principles being implemented from coast to coast, from one new development to the next. They definitely guided the design of my friend’s neighborhood, with its community park and arts center, a small area business zone with a café. The only concessions to the car-centric life that is California living: a super-sized (by city standards) grocery store, with parking, and a gas station, centrally located between the various residential developments.

Sure, my friend’s neighborhood lacked access to public transit. Sure, every house had at least two cars in the driveway (and often two in the attached garage). But, for the most part, these new developments were following, the ideas we were continuously taught in our Urban Design course. As I watched families arrive at the local ball field for their weekly games of softball, chat with neighbors as they let their dogs run free in the local dog-run, I felt a bit foolish in my contempt for my Urban Design class. It seemed that the rules worked. Very well, judging by the general contentment of everyone I passed.

Fact is, for a large portion of the population, this is the lifestyle they are seeking. Architects, quite often it seems, willfully ignore this. We chase the glitzy, the adventurous, the sexy, the new, Maybe it gets back to being told, over and over again, to “think outside the box”. We are attracted to the idea that the status quo needs improvement, change, a radical shift in ideology, and of course we are. That’s how we justify the existence of our profession.

Don’t get me wrong. Suburbia isn’t perfect. The new suburbs can be applauded for incorporating ideas of density, mixed use, community building. But they can also be derided for their emphasis on materialism, repetition, appearance. Without a doubt, every new development my friends and I explored, used the standard SoCal housing clichés; every development allowed the buyer to finish their house in one of four styles: Italian Villa, Arts and Crafts, Traditional or Hacidenda; every development had fanciful, aspirational names for their models, which all showed granite and stainless steel wherever possible; all developments had driveways proud and center; all developments still had private, fenced off yards.

But, as with all clichés, there is a foundation of truth. These homes are what many dream of. These are the places people hope to call home, imagine coming back to each and every night. These are the buildings people are willing to put their hard earned money towards. That says something to me. It says that these developers, for better or worse, understand the world better than I do. It reminds me that, for many, perhaps a majority, this is the lifestyle they want to live. Not the sleek, glassy living that our profession so often highlights, promotes. We vilify what the majority aspires to. That is a huge disconnect.

And that’s where I find myself, lost, torn between the nostalgia of my youth, the principles of my education, my nascent and undefined personal desires. Our profession tends to knock suburbia, its lack of identity, its mind-numbing sameness. But, and maybe this is just me, there is something appealing to the suburban model. Maybe it is because, for all its faults, it works rather well. I know. I was a product of it.

Eye-Candy

sample panel, engraved graphic on tinted mdf

Vacation

We all need one. After this last month, I definitely need one.

So while I recharge, posts will be on hold. If you got some time to kill, check out the archives, and hopefully, when I get back, I'll be filled with inspirations, of the visual and intellectual kind.

Burned

I should have paid more attention. After all, I made it to every mechanical systems class, despite its 8:30 am start time. And though I sailed through, it was more because our professor was a softie, than that I really absorbed the material. After this week, I definitely wish that wasn’t the case.

The minutia of the technical components inherent in the creation of one project is often glossed over in school. There are a number of reasons why this happens. Some argue that there just isn’t enough time in the architecture curriculum for in depth study of these aspects, which other professionals spend significant amounts of time studying. Some say that these fundamentals are better learned on the job, when real world constraints provide lessons in compromise and efficiency. Still, in my own humble opinion, I think it would be in an architect’s best interest to take a keen interest in the things that, as students, we considered mundane and rather superfluous.

The problem that arises from this predicament, in my particular case, is the reliance on others to complete necessary work for your client. The right consultants make this part an engaging process, as you learn how other disciplines react to the challenges of the project. The things that worry them don’t necessarily bother you, and vis versa. They worry about airflows, efficiency ratios. You worry about how they’ve crossed your space in odd locations with their exposed ductwork and conduit. They remind you to think about wattage loads and noise levels. You remind them that you can’t have an 18” duct in a space with only 7’-3” clearance.

In the best relationships, this back and forth progresses towards a positive resolution. Through some compromise, a bit of back and forth, a solution is finally reach that incorporates their knowledge of those finite details you might not know with your design intent, which they might not have ever imagined.

The problem with an interdependent relationship, however, is the potential pitfalls that arise then one partner falters. Or ignores you. Or misses deadlines. Or fails to ask you questions until they realize that, yes, they need to provide you with the things you have been requesting because, no, your request were not for fun.

These situations make me realize how little I know and how much our profession relies on the professions of others. I never wanted to be in the position where I felt so beholden to others. It is an impotent feeling, and frustrating to no end, because, while your project is the most important thing to you, it might not be the case to your consultant. My consultant made me understand that quite perfectly.

It’s a tricky game, once the relationship goes south. Deep down you want to scream, shout, demand that their obligations be met. You practice diplomacy, hoping that their professionalism will prompt them to keep their new promises, their agreements to new deadlines. But as they fail time and time again, you lose hope, and think, what happens now? You still need them to complete, or else you’ll really be screwed. You hang on, and think, once this project is over, you’ll never hear from me again.

A dream scenario might be the one practiced by large firms, with architects, engineers and the lot all housed in one place. Coordination would be a lot easier, one imagines, and consultants could be a part of the team from the get go. I imagine team meetings, where people from the different departments pow-wow, discussing great new ways to address the delivery of cooled air to their quirky designed spaces. Trace is used by the roll, and red ink flies, as the architects and engineers throw ideas back and forth, asking each other for more, better. And then, with a solution finally reached, they pat each other on the backs and pop open a few beers. Fade out.

Another scenario might be to become the expert. More school, more debt, but hey, you learn how to do it all. Screw the consultants, control it all yourself. That might be wonderful as well. Decisions made immediately, no need to wait. You get to decide where things go, what things take priority, and detail it all. Coordination would be a breeze, and things would all go swimmingly. Unless there was a mistake, in which case, you’d get to assume liability for it all. End scene.

I am not sure what might be the best way. As of now, I have only been exposed to this way. And this way isn’t working. So, hopefully, in my future, new relationships will present themselves, and perhaps I’ll find that perfect one. The one that works, that gets me what I need, when I need it. The one that challenges me, matures me, and teaches me. But, until then, I am at least committed to finding my damn mechanical systems textbook and hauling it into the office.