RA 013393

About (20) years ago, give or take, I was standing in a ditch tying rebar.  It was 30° F with a 35 mph breeze out of the north.  On this snow and rain and ice mixing Mississippi afternoon, somewhere in Pontotoc County, ankle deep in slush, the thought crossed my mind that maybe this isn’t where I want to be for the rest of the show.  I was in my early 20s and most of my high school friends were either finishing college or preparing for yet another child to be born – neither seemed like a viable option to me at the time.  But that’s what people did there.  You either get married straight out of high school (or even IN high school), bang out a bunch of kids and mark time until the big fade.  Or you go to college first and then do the things I just mentioned.  It has only been in the last few weeks that I have fully realized how stunting emotionally and artistically and financially and culturally growing up in Mississippi was for me.  It’s not that it is an inherently bad place to be or be from but it wasn’t my place.  No offense intended magnolias.

At any rate, I made up my mind that afternoon what I had to do.  So I did it.  Because I was such an outstanding student in high school I went to the local community college at night after work to get the math I never had.  I actually thought about the art I was making so I could put it in a portfolio.  I made the calls and got the letters of rec.  At (26) I became a freshman.  I killed it too.  Maybe because I was old and / or focused, but either way I killed it.  One night after (36) + hours in the studio, my buddies made me a walker out of cardboard and I was okay with it because I was facing forward. 

I missed holidays and concerts and birthdays and everything else that architecture students miss.  It’s what we did (do).  It’s a badge of honor to do (48) straight and pass out in your jury. Architecture school is probably the worst possible method of preparing students for the world of architecture by the way.  It’s not reality.  And it’s taught by those who don’t have the sack to operate in reality.  There are exceptions to this rule and I learned a lot from those guys: Fazio, Berk, Lewis, Monson.  Maybe it was because of my age, but I was able to see through the bullshit that even those I respected were selling me.  They saw through my bullshit too and a tentative mutual respect took root.  And to repay that acknowledgement I haven’t spoken to a single one of them since I graduated.  I take what’s mine, but that’s not totally on me.

The field of architecture has the highest rates of divorce, alcoholism, suicide and chronic depression of any of the major professions.  I knew that going in but thought it was a good idea anyway.  Looking back on it now, I really didn’t have a choice.  This is what and who I was meant to be. When I was a kid I would trace the floor plans my father brought home from his work.  I would study them at night with a flash light under the covers of my bed.  I’ve always seen this world differently – when my friends were drawing race cars I was drawing longitudinal sections through coal mines or critiquing the framing structure of the Western Sizzler.  It’s what I do.  I had a dream even then.  I didn’t know it at the time but I would grow to understand it.

Taking these tests was a trial unto itself.  The full week prior I would be nauseous.  Until I received the results I was more so.  I steered my truck downtown (8) times for these clusters and every time I got there about a thousand hours early.  I’ve seen the sun rise over downtown Atlanta enough.  As fate would have it, there was a big neon sign that permeated my every thought in those hours before taking that long walk into the testing center.  That walk was a torture no one should know. The drivel that passes for art in public buildings astonishes me. 

I can assure you that the irony of taking Architecture exams in a building that is light years away from what Architecture should be was not lost on me.  Nevertheless, I always saw (see) this neon sign.  It was (is) always lit.  There is no question that I’ve long since turned my back on organized religion but the events of the last several months have made me question that construct.  If you know, then you know that the ARE is (7) tests long.  I failed test (7) and as I stepped out of the truck to walk into face (8) I stopped and looked up one last time.  I don’t pray – I don’t believe in it.  I looked up and said a prayer that day – so be it.

I grew up in a small town where different was identified with a quickness and emblazoned upon your rep even faster.  It was branded and emphasized to the point that you soon realized that different was wrong.  I was repeatedly told explicitly and implicitly that I would never amount to shit – teachers, coaches, congregants.  The divide that perception created between me and my hometown is immense and un-navigable – unforgiveable really.  And though it may seem so, I’m not bitter.  If you weren’t down – it’s your loss.       

That said the list of people I’ve pushed away in pursuit of this little dream of mine is longer than I care to admit.  I have attempted this week to let you know individually how much it meant to me that you were in my corner all those years but there is no way you could understand what I was saying.  Suffice to say that this isn’t just mine – I share it with a ton of people who I can never share it with and that sucks.  I made it.  I kept my eyes on the prize for all of these years and no matter what I had to compromise to get here I did.  I've been so singularly focused on this one thing for so long that the achievement of said thing has created a vacuum that I'm not yet sure how to fill.

Now what?  I got my number.  I’m legit.  I’m a licensed architect, finally.  In the next few weeks I will get that number tattooed on my body – no one can ever take that from me.  I'm as proud of this accomplishment as I have ever been of anything.  It’s the one thing that I know I can’t lose (unless of course I drop a building on somebody or whatever). How many failed relationships did it cost?  How many friendships fell by the wayside?  How can I ever repay the people who helped me get here?  And where the hell is here anyway?  I’ve been licensed for less than a week and I’m already bored with it.  That’s a helluva pill to swallow on a thing you’ve chased for (20) years but that’s that. 

My dogs don’t give a shit that I’m a licensed architect.  Belle still wants her ball incessantly thrown and Maynard still wants to be left alone on the bed (unless the thunder precipitates some additional snuggle time).  I still have laundry to finish and I owe myself an explanation for that ridiculous shower curtain I bought earlier today.  Tomorrow will still be Monday and I will still have dipshit clients to deal with.  I will still have the yard to keep next Saturday and my garden to tend and my eternal list of home improvements to face.

Maybe this is my life. 

Maybe I’m okay with that.

I know who I am and from whence I came and I will never forget that – I just don’t know what to obsess about now.  I will never forget that day in that ditch and I will never forget the lessons that taught me.  I will never forget the way my father subtlety taught me to chase my dream even though it’s not exactly what he wanted.  I will never forget my mom’s undying belief in me. 

But now what am I supposed to do?  Whatever IT is: IT is never enough is it?

Maybe I’ll figure it out tomorrow.

    

The Fifth of May

5 May historically is the day that (legend has it) some 30-odd Mexican soldiers defeated an invading French force of more than 10,000 near Puebla, Mexico.  It was more like 4,000 to 8,000 but still an impressive victory for an undermanned, under-equipped Mexican army.  So why do we care?  It's Mexican Independence Day, right?  Nope!  The Battle of Puebla happened 50+ years after that historic fact.  We care because it’s a helluva an excuse to get rip-roaring in celebration.  We are Americans – that’s what we do.  We care for the same reason that countless thousands of non Irish-Americans celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.  Those with Irish heritage make up about 12 % of the U.S. population but this country drowns in green beer 17 March every year.  I think we would celebrate the Tet Offensive if someone told us we should…a rattlesnake’s birthday?  Sure.  Why not?  That’s what we do! 

Cinco de Mayo apparently isn’t even observed in Mexico outside of the Free and Sovereign State of Puebla.  What our collective tequila-addled minds forget (or don’t realize) is that we actually should celebrate Cinco de Mayo as an American holiday.  Had Ignacio Zaragoza not led his troops to victory that day, the United States would have been a different place.  Possibly, there would be no such thing as the United States of America as we know it.    The French, led by Napoleon III (the famous short guy’s nephew),  had a singular objective for invading Mexico in my opinion – to gain a foothold in North America close enough to the U.S. to alter the outcome of the Civil War.  The 5 May in question occurred in 1862 by the way, just a month after the South's narrow defeat at the Battle of Shiloh and just before Stonewall Jackson would forcibly evict Union forces from the Shenandoah Valley.  The Confederates were on a roll and the French wanted a piece of that action.

What France really wanted was to strike a blow at the United States without having to fight them directly.  If the Battle of Puebla ends differently, the French would have advanced farther north into Mexico and would have established a base of operations from which they could have continually resupplied the Confederate Army.  Invariably, French troops would have been added to the mix.  IF either happens there is a better than average chance that the South wins the damn thing!  Imagine this country if that unthinkable had come to pass. 

Had the South been able to win the war under this scenario they would have owed their independence to a French command that had designs on nothing less than dominant imperialism.  They certainly didn’t share the values the Confederates held dear.  So if the South wins, there would be a necessary payback, right?  If the South wins, Jefferson Davis would have been replaced with a sympathizing puppet leader and the French would have successfully broken the Union.  A divided country would not have withstood that pressure on the heels of a devastating civil war.  At the time, France held one of the strongest armies in the free world and would have certainly exerted that power against a defeated Northern Army and eventually colonized these great United.  If the South wins, we are all speaking French with a wicked Southern drawl and what we know and love as the United States of America would have never fulfilled its destiny as a world superpower.  I’m from the South and I can report that Cinco de Mayo is vigorously embraced and observed by these chuckleheads.  If they really knew what was being celebrated the 5^th of May would be epic!  (Nobody really likes the French after all.)

Some historians believe Zaragoza and Lincoln should equally share credit for preserving the Union.  I tend to agree with that evaluation.  So as you suck down your watery margarita and your obligatory fish taco take a second and raise a glass to my good buddy Iggy Zaragoza and our Mexican compatriots. Without their bravery and resolve that day back in 1862 we might not be who we think we are today. 

Enjoy your queso.

Ignacio Zaragoza

24 March 1829 – 8 September 1862

On The Nile

Have you ever sat down and had a conversation with a belly dancer after their belly dancing shift was over?  Me either…

I exhausted a couple of days in Secaucus, New Jersey last week on business.  I had never been and was excited to see somewhere new.  I’m not sure what I expected from the “Garden State” so I can’t say I was disappointed.  I didn’t see so much as a blade of grass though while I was there much less a “garden” – not sure what genius coined that moniker.  Suffice to say that barring a gun being shoved in my mouth, I do not anticipate a return visit.   If you ever have a chance to go, I suggest that you do not.

I flew into Newark and that was outstanding.  I fail to understand airline flight paths but was pleased to find that we flew past Newark to the north, took a hard right and skipped down the entire western edge of Manhattan – what an amazing view of NYC from above.  As the day wore on, I began to realize that the brief detour I enjoyed was going to be the highlight of this excursion. 

The hotel was less than even by my primitive standards and had apparently (thoughtfully) morphed into an (8) floor walk-up due to lack of elevator maintenance just that morning.  As my travel companion and I trudged up the dark slender stairwell, my only contemplation was I hope this dump has a bar.  My GC buddy obviously shared the same design and we agreed to meet in the lobby in (15).  As expected, there was no bar – a fact that I found (and find) perplexing.  How can a hotel of any value exist successfully without a bar?  Even some Hampton Inns I’ve lodged fake a bar with a washtub of iced Miller. Nevertheless we were encouraged by the Indian gent behind the front desk to venture down the hill to a Mediterranean restaurant that had been stapled and duct taped to the end of this sad block…The Nile, you will like sir. 

My first clue should have probably been the appearance of the front door, but I was parched and in desperate need of a rounding-off-of-edges-before-dinner libation.  The stained glass and teak entrance was shuttered with what can only be described as a big-ass log chain (thanks to my Mississippi up-bringing) and a colossal corroded pad lock.  The flickering gas-light lanterns did little to assure me that this was a good idea.  Despite my initial apprehension, we walked right on down the alley to the (back) front door.  No chains, no locks, no lights…not even a door handle – just a door. 

Inside there was a skeletal layer of hookah smoke seemingly eternally suspended in stale air and the elastic jangle of Nubian folk melodies crackling through yesterday’s sound system.  Candle flames flirted and danced with their reflections in dirty mirrors and died inside the tarnished patina of the punched tin ceiling tile.  The dappled fading sunlight flitted through the tattered folds of the red velvet drapes chaotically drawn on every pane and settled down among the chunky fibers of the threadbare rugs, exhausted from its journey.  I posted up in an overstuffed leather and pine barstool, ordered a Budweiser and enjoyed sub-titled CNN.

The proprietor of this fine establishment was a gracefully aging fellow named Mustapha.  He had emigrated from Egypt with his brother Ahmed (10) years prior and opened The Nile shortly thereafter.  I’m a sucker for this story every time and they regaled me with their tales of trial, tribulation and finally success in America for the whole of the time I was there.  Alas, I had a dinner reservation and couldn’t stay but flippantly said I would see them later as I ascended the steps to the alleyway.

Dinner with my team was the fiasco it always is on these interview gigs – a bunch of middle-aged, middle-class white men trying desperately to convince the other of how important and successful they are.  The glad-handing, back-slapping confirmation of their perceived station in life is as important to them (if not more than) the very air they breathe.  My state school pedigree almost always draws a chuckle.  I hate developer deals man, but that’s the job sometimes. They're probably all great guys: we just have nothing in common.  I consoled myself with the knowledge that as intolerable as this collective debacle was it wasn’t half as bad as the 1,000 dollar suit broker douche bag bullshit interrogation I would have to endure the following morning.  As per the norm, I nodded and smiled at their elitist Republican jokes, chugged overpriced wine and choked down forgettable fish.  In the perfect solitary fortress of my mind I forced myself into my Zen place – my dogs, my garden, my home…but I secretly lamented the tiny death of another piece of my soul at the same time.  But hey, there was an incredible view of lower Manhattan from our table, right? 

I remain continually pissed off about the necessary evil business side of my business.  It makes me question my path some days.

Back at the hotel, I parted ways with my eclectic group seeking nothing more than the anonymous company of strangers in the quiet nothing of the residue of the day.  As soon as I walked back into the Nile I knew I had missed it.  I wasn’t sure what it was, but it had most definitely just taken place.  The builder’s grade ceramic dance floor I had barely noticed before was a minefield of empty cups and cigarette butts.  I could barely see through the smoke to the dusty blue neon bar where Mustapha was holding court with a reserve of remnant revelers.  The music had switched to Wu Tang and DMX and I felt a wave of peace sweep over me. 

(30) minutes later, the kitchen and wait staff had been dismissed.  The stragglers had dispersed.  The TV above the bar had been changed to I Love Lucy re-runs.  Frank Sinatra was being looped on the juke box.  I sat on one side of the bar with Mustapha and his son Vlad and a past-her-prime belly dancer named Shondra and Ahmed sat on the other side with a bucket of ice, a bottle of some swill and a constant supply of fresh glasses. I thought to myself, maybe Thursdays aren’t so bad.

I sat there listening to my newfound crew discuss topics as disparate as health care reform to Kim Kardashian’s ass for what seemed like hours.  As the evening waned I realized that Mus and Ahmi were struggling through walking Sambuca induced comas and young Vlad was increasingly speaking with a Hispanic accent about Formula 1 racing and Shondra hadn’t said a single word the entire time.  It began to dawn on me that this is what every Thursday night is like at the Nile.  As I watched it unfold I became more and more depressed.  They all seemed so happy but there was barely a cogent thought shared among the four.  At some point, I began to realize (or imagine) that my gang had stopped speaking broken English and were back in their native.  I don’t speak Masri and I think my white American paranoia got the better of me. One of these things is not like the other Sesame Street logic crept into my psyche.  When silent stoic Shondra suddenly smiled, laughed and pushed away from the bar I was abruptly anxious. 

Have you ever sat down and had a conversation with a belly dancer after their belly dancing shift was over?  As it turns out, they are not much for conversation.  I get it; I don’t really want to talk about my day after my day is done either.  I asked her how she had enjoyed the day thus far and then it hit me like a ton of bricks.  When she laughed and stood up, I knew exactly what was about to happen.  I’ve seen enough movies to know that she was about to walk to and lock the door and the rest of the boys were totally about to slice me open and harvest my organs!  Having little desire to wake up in the ridiculous streets of Secaucus bleeding to death with feral felines fighting over my intestines I threw a wad of cash down on the bar and bounced with a quickness.  Undoubtedly, my imagination was working overtime but one can never be too careful, eh?

Safe in my lumpy hotel bed, I regrouped and tried to summon the wherewithal to face the following day.  The next day was as rip-off as everything else about New Jersey had been.  The interview was a bust – we didn’t land the deal.  Packed between sweaty fat man (1) and (2) on the flight back to Atlanta I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.  I spend so much time inside of my own head that everything outside of it seems preposterous to me.  I laughed all the way back to the A…in much the same way as a crazy person might.  (I wonder what that says about me.)

Touching down, I summed up the futility of the previous (48) hours in a single sentence: I’ve never been to Egypt, but I have been On The Nile.   

Anything else I might say would be pointless.

Sunday Afternoon High

I allowed myself a brief reprieve from the prosaic ordeal that is studying for the A.R.E. and wandered into the High Museum this afternoon. 

I never consider myself a Richard Meier fan until I’m in one of his buildings.  At first blush it is easy to dismiss his architectural style as cold, inorganic, predictable – simply a “style”.  The reality is just the opposite.  His buildings are more experiential voyages than they are simple built objects – so much so that I forget why I’m there.  

The High is a fine example of his earlier work, but for me, Meier’s crowning achievement is The Getty in L.A. That campus of structures is as thoughtful a manipulation of space, solid / void, differing texture as I have seen. Path.  Space.  View. Vista.  Adjacency.  He identified and exaggerated the hilltop site’s inherent character and took full advantage of its every nuance.  His choice and distribution of materials, the sequence of moves and their inter-relationship are so subtle that this relatively new facility convinces you that it has always lived there – so deliberate that it feels naturally occurring.  The Getty seems somehow historic, monumental but at the same time perfectly understated.  It’s stunning really and makes me feel like an absolute hack.  As a brash, not so young, know-it-all architecture student I spent a flawless, solitary afternoon on the grounds of the Getty and was forced to confront the agonizing truth that I really didn’t know a damn thing about experiential space.  I’ve attempted (in futility) to replicate small moments from that day in the work that I’ve done since.  I will keep trying.

In college, I had an idealistic, socialist professor who had a significant early influence on my architectural preferences.  He also colored my interest in art to some degree.  He introduced me to Constantin Brancusi, a Romanian sculptor who rose to prominence during the first half of the 20^th century.  I’ve seen many of his works but most galleries only have one or two pieces.  The traveling exhibit at the High has (3) of his sculptures and several of his photographic studies and sketches.  I haven’t seen as extensive a Brancusi collection in one place before so today was a must.

What is significant about Brancusi past the beauty of the artifacts he produced is the process of making and creating that constantly evolved over his life and career.  He was interested not with the outer form but the underlying idea of the form – the very essence of the thing.  What he captured in bronze and stone and wood is breathtaking.  The beauty of “the thing” is found in its abstract simplicity.  Comprehension of this design construct eluded me for a long time, but when it clicked, I’ve been hooked since.  I can (and have) sit in a room with his work for hours and every time I do I’m amazed by the fact that I see another facet of not only the art but of the artist as well: another layer of understanding his non-literal representation of nature is uncovered.  Every time, I leave humbled.

These photos are pointless really – you have to experience his work in person to truly appreciate it.

Today's was an impressive collection of many of the 20^th century masters; Picasso, Warhol, Matisse, Duchamp, Mondrian, Johns, Pollock.  It runs through the 29^th – I highly recommend you find your way to the High before then.  The Art of Golf is on display right now too as well as the High’s permanent collection.  (Note to self:  Spend more time with art.)

 

I left the museum feeling refreshed.  Invigorated.  Rejuvenated.  High.   

Art holds the power of enlivening and lifting the human spirit and mine was lifted this afternoon.  Art matters.  It matters at all levels, from the scribblings of a child to the life’s work of Jackson Pollock and at every point in between.  It’s one of the most positive aspects of the human condition and when you see it; when you feel it – like a punch in the gut or a warm embrace – when it makes your pulse quicken, your heart race you know that you are alive.  When you experience a piece that makes you question your own views of the world, that challenges your ideas of beauty, of politics, philosophy you are existing at the highest levels of human consciousness.  You are taking full part in the human experiment.  You don’t have to “know” art to love it but if you do your awareness and knowledge will feed your desire to learn and your love of art will grow.  

Art is certainly subjective but there is no such thing as bad art in my opinion.  That said good art can deliver raw emotion, illuminate pleasure, pain – it stimulates our mental development and allows us to face difficult concepts and realities.   When human beings endeavor to create we strengthen our position as an intellectual life form.  I believe that creativity can not only raise awareness of all ideas and characteristics of being human – our strengths, our fragility, our mistakes, our victories – but can give form and substance to the abstract, unspoken nature of our existence.  It helps us understand why we are the way we are.  The making of art is a biological imperative.  Without it, without creativity, society would fade and die.

Art gives me hope. 

A Healthy Respect for Noise

As has become my routine this time of year (and throughout the summer months) I came inside from the yard work Saturday at or around noon to have a helluva ham sandwich and a blissful bit of Metal Mania on VH1Classic.  If you are not familiar with this programming, (1) you should be ashamed, (2) if you’re my age – give or take a few years either way – you should be really ashamed.  Herein lies a veritable gold mine of music that MTV once broadcast when the “M” actually stood for music.  Sure, what you see on MM wasn’t typically aired until after midnight but it was a permanent part of their playlist and remains in heavy rotation on the infinitely looped soundtrack of my misspent youth.

Much to my initial chagrin Metal Mania wasn’t on.  In its place was Episode #1 of Metal Evolution.  I had watched Metal: A Headbanger’s Journey a while back and had agreed with most everyone that the only problem with the film was its brevity – after all, you can never really talk about Heavy Metal long enough can you?  As a nod to that near universal sentiment, the creators elaborated on the “Heavy Metal Family Tree” they had presented and blessed us with what we’ve all (at least those like me) have been waiting for since 1989…”they used the 26-subgenre chart as a "road map…host/producer and metal-head turned anthropologist Sam Dunn, crisscrossed the globe exploring the vast history of heavy metal across its 40+ year history and beyond."   

Seriously?  Two of my greatest loves – Heavy Metal and documentary film – coming together in one glorious union?  (Had they managed to squeeze some Lou Kahn or Carlo Scarpa in there, the trivecta would have been complete!)  The planets had aligned and what was once the successful commencement of a very industrious Saturday quickly devolved into a self-indulgent orgy of PBR-infused, fist-pumping, devil-horn flashing celebration of the music that meant so much to me as a maniacal adolescent.  If you weren’t there, everything that I’ve said thus far and most everything I’m about to say will mean very little to you and possibly only serve to solidify my station as a moron in your eyes.  So be it – my condolences.

Alice Cooper to Yngwie Malmsteen and all points in between, an absolute unabashed carnival of Heavy Metal from its very primal genesis through the bastardization of purity that it has become today.  Finally, somebody had the balls to say it proud and out loud and give it the proper attention it deserves – to grant it, by virtue of investigation, the status it warrants in the immeasurable lexicon of popular music.  Past that: to bestow upon it the tribute of (un)holy coronation it has earned through lifetimes of struggle and sacrifice and to render it viable, if only to itself and its adherents.   As it turns out, I’m not the only one who sees it and hears and feels it still.  Finally.

So the tasks I had outlined for myself were neglected – completely forgotten actually.  Not only my “plan” for the day but effectively everything that my Saturday was capable of failed miserably.  I must confess that I didn’t even watch the Final Four due to the magnetic pull by which I was captured: transfixed, powerless to look away from the outstanding decadent spectacle of excess bounding haphazardly from pixel to ill-prepared pixel along the slick surface of my unimpressive television.

In life, I think that one has to occasionally allow the selfish luxury of sitting still long enough to recognize and appreciate the simple (if sometimes foolish) joy of their past or present.  For me, I can’t think of a more productive way to spend (11) unproductive hours of a perfectly beautiful I should be outside enjoying this weather day than I did with Metal Evolution this weekend.  Some call this music "noise" – I call it necessary.  Some have their morning coffee: I have my mandatory Metallica.

The thought occurred to me as I reveled in my nirvanic state, that in these (40) years, I’ve never met a girl who could sit idly by and allow such an indulgence and I’ve certainly never met a girl who could understand and appreciate the gravity of how and what that music makes me feel and remember, much less one who has shared those feelings. (“If I ever find me a girl like that, I’d kick off my shoes and dance on my hat…”)

I’m sure this fact is the progenitor from which all relationship stumblings in my life have been born.  It couldn’t possibly be my extreme idiosyncratic behavioral obsessions or my ever increasing disdain for human beings or the height of the elitist intellectual tower upon which I reside or the freakish random paranoia of my thought process or the rigidity of my stubborn belief in "my way".  No.  It couldn’t be any of that…it must be the music.  Right?  I’m sure that’s what it is. [sarcasm]

Either way, note to self: My next ex must have a healthy respect for "noise" as I do.

 

Keep Music Evil.