Handcuffed (A Beautiful Thing)

A recent commission in the office has me scratching my head.  How does one satisfy a client that employs catch phrases?  Cutting edge.  Sleek.  Smart.  Really?  I can design almost anything that would meet these criteria.  That’s not direction.  It’s the opposite of what I’m used to and herein lies the problem.  Without a defined set of parameters, I’m apparently dead in the water.  I’ve sketched (100) + ideas – I’ve contemplated about (1,000) more.  When there is nothing to measure success against how do I know when I’ve solved the problem: especially a design problem?  I can’t infiltrate the client’s head and comprehend what they are thinking.  Moreover, I can’t crack open their boss’s head (figuratively of course) – whose aspirations and expectations they (and by extension, we) are attempting to bring to fruition.  I can’t see his wheels spin.  I’m more convinced daily that I should have taken additional courses on interpersonal psychology at Dear Ole State.  Add that to the list of possessions you won’t attain from higher education.

Effectively this deal has no parameters.  On the surface it seems like the dream gig, right?  Whatever you’ve done in the past, we want more than that.  Push the limits.  What?  That’s nonsense to me.  I hear what they are saying but I’ve been programmed not to listen to a single word.  I’ve been in this business long enough to know that even if I do achieve this design nirvana we all envision they will value engineer my balls off and kill my intent.  We want something new. You can’t be serious...sometimes being an architect is like dating a stripper – there is nothing you can do that hasn’t been done before – you’re not going to impress her.  There is nothing NEW!  It’s all been done.  Who am I to think I can create new, whatever the hell that even means?  Has my cynicism regarding this profession finally smacked its apex?  Have I at last caught up with my own incomprehensible design arrogance?  It’s hard for me to believe that I have allowed myself to be oppressed by the absence of rule, but I have.  I’ve questioned and doubted authority since Jesus was a child, it’s one of my core values.  And without authority, I feel blind?  Have I really forgotten how to be amazing on my own terms?  Maybe I have, but maybe not.  Either way this deal has me handcuffed and it sucks. 

It’s not going to disappear, so I have to figure it out.  After all, I would like to take a good nights’ sleep at some point in the not too distant future. 

My “aha” moment came to me while resting peacefully mindless in bumper-to-bumper on the connector this evening.  Just do something beautiful.  It really is that simple.  It’s primary in why I chose this path.  It’s what I tell anyone who will listen, that’s what they should be doing.  How many times have I asked someone showing me their work in studio “is it beautiful and amazing?”  That’s what I do.  That’s what we are supposed to do.  We strip away all of the bullshit and make something that possibly shouldn't be beautiful, beautiful.  I didn’t become an architect to protect the health, safety and welfare of the populous; I became an architect to create a more beautiful thing.  I’m not sure how many are conscious of the fact that everything in the built world is designed.  Wherever you are right now, you are surrounded by someone’s architectural idea.  Chances are better than average that you are not surrounded by good architecture.  We are it seems encircled by shit design, but I can change that – one line at a time.

If I am an architect and I do not daily endeavor to create a more beautiful thing then I have failed my profession and more importantly, I’ve failed myself.  If you are not an architect and you do not endeavor daily to create a more beautiful thing, no matter what that thing is for you – your yard, your kids, your life, whatever – then you have failed yourself too.  If we don’t all believe that we each individually can have the utmost profound and lasting effect on this world and that we are possibly the only ones who can change it then it will never change, no matter what it is.  If we don’t believe that and we expect or assume someone else will do it, “I’m not that creative”…”Those aren’t the kinds of buildings I do”…”I’m not sure what I should say…”  IF we collectively feel that way, we will eventually truly be surrounded by shit more so than we are today in more ways than one.   

If this little ramble has taken on the tones of a taut Sunday sermon, I apologize.  It’s intended for my own ears as much if not more than it is yours.  I’m casting dispersions on no one.  I get caught up in the business of this business sometimes and forget why I jumped in in the first place.  The truth is that this small struggle of mine over the last few days is part of the game.  It is the game actually; it’s the struggle that makes us better.  It's the struggle that makes me want to play at all.  Being handcuffed in this sense is an exceptionally beautiful thing.  I don’t know what I would be without it really.  This rare thing makes my heart beat faster, you know?  No problem I can’t solve, no task I can’t master, no client I can’t satisfy.  Maybe it’s only rare insomuch as I rarely see it, but today I feel more alive because of it.

I boil all of the nonsense I’ve said tonight down to this:  A beautiful thing is a beautiful thing.   A beautiful thing only knows that it is beautiful.  It exists on its own terms.  It doesn’t have to be a part of a whole, in fact the category or family or genome to which a beautiful thing belongs has, should have no bearing on its possession of beauty.  Tomorrow, I will create a beautiful thing for my client, but more importantly for myself.  Knowing that makes this day and the next a hell yes day and that is a beautiful thing unto itself.

That said tonight I’d rather throw some paint at a canvas or a wall than think about anything other.  Hey, maybe I will make that canvas or wall beautiful, maybe I won’t. 

Either way, I won’t be handcuffed and it will be a beautiful thing.

Johnny America

A hundred or more years ago when I was a different person I wrote poetry as a means to the end of becoming a rock star.  Alas, I’m neither poet nor rock star but I still remember a bit of the chorus to this one song – can even still play it [just did quite loudly]…two major and one minor chords (and I wonder why I’m not a rock star?) 

       “My name is Johnny America,

                   I got my face shot off for you…”

That’s all I can remember tonight.  I’ve turned my house inside out looking for that little piece of nonsense scrawled on the back of something else that was less important for the last hour or so.  It’s just as well probably.  I’m confident that it wasn’t as outstanding as I remember and I’m okay with that. 

I do remember recording it [one cannot hope to be a rock star without a demo tape after all] with a rather sophomoric preamble about hot dogs and mustard and cold beer and misaligned priorities or something – wrote it and recorded it on a long ago Memorial Day. 

I was just a kid at the time, but I got it you know?  For all the piss and vinegar I have in my heart for what this country has become, I’ve never forgotten the countless thousands of dirt naps taken for me to voice that opinion.  And when I say that I disagree with this thing or that or I’m pissed off about this and I don’t believe in the other it doesn’t mean that I don’t value the sacrifices that have been made. 

As I’ve said before, I’ve got bros in the shit for the last (15) + it seems.  Most of them know I don’t believe in the war they are fighting but they all know that I believe in them.  They all know what’s in my heart.  And as many times as they are willing to go back into harm’s way it is a million more times than it would even cross my mind to do the same.  One doesn’t have to fight or die to be a patriot, but a patriot of even the most radical ilk could not exist without those who are willing to fight and die.  I wouldn’t be able to have any opinion without them. 

I consider myself a patriot of the highest order, but I hate what America is.  I love the guys that have made it possible for me to say that.

My personal experience with war is limited to what the History Channel and Hollywood has shown me.  I’m prolific at quoting the catch phrases – “the horror”, “I am in a world of shit” – but I don’t have a clue what it’s really like in a hot zone.  I don’t know what it’s like to jump in front of something that might kill my best friend or not jump and watch my best friend die.  I can’t even kick my over-active imagination into a place where I can imagine what that hell must be.

These words aren’t meant to be political, but if there is one thing that all of us no matter our political leanings can agree on I think it is this – bring our boys home.  If we can “win” then by all means keep them there, but as of this Memorial Day no one has publicly stated a measurable and / or an achievable objective, so bring ‘em home.    

I have made no secret of my opposition to this or the last (or any other) war we’ve waged.  I’ve made no secret of how dissatisfied I am with the direction this country is going.  I’ve even admitted that I might have made the wrong choice last time (I’m just kidding about that - will def vote O again).  BUT, if we let it, politics will rip this country limb from limb. We don't need that.  We don't need politics – we need Main Street.  Not the Main Street of sad flag-draped-coffin parades, Main Street with parades about nothing more troubling than junior high baseball teams and 4-H or cub scout troops, right? 

Regardless of what I feel at a philosophical level I have always been and will always be in constant and unshakeable awe of the Johnny Americas who came and went before and for those who continue to fight and die among us.

You don’t have to be a poet and you sure as hell don’t have to agree with me to get that.  We all want the same thing.

 

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.