Recent comments about historicism have awakened that part of my brain that used to carry on those arguments about how we should design to context and existing conditions.
I'm always fascinated by those who don't care for modernism, where they usually throw in a few comments about glass and steel, so cold, all stripped down and uncomfortable. On the opposite hand stands the modernist, who is probably imagining the home of the historicist looking like their grandmother's home - so thick with doilies and lampshades, you can hardly walk without stepping on that old cat with cataracts.
Both visions can be unfair, and fair at the same time. Admittedly, my house has a lot less 'junk' in it than most. Many of my friends probably think I'm very poor, because I don't have enough consumer evidence filling up my floor space. I have a few pictures of my kids sitting out, but not an entire photo album. In fact, I have one room for music where I plan to make the carpet so overly thick and plush, there won't be chairs. I will actually forbid any shoes in the room (who says a modernist is cold?). I'm even thinking of raising up the threshold several inches, to try to send a clear message that shoes may not enter my plush music room. I'm trying to think of anything to avoid actually putting in a sign saying "no shoes allowed." To me, a sign would represent a design failure if I have to break down to using real words to control human actions.
I also have some concrete walls out back that I truly adore. I think I love concrete as much as Kahn ever did, maybe more. I can't think of anything I would rather play with, sit on, or hug. It's so permanent. Once, I made some concrete columns out of 12" PVC pipe forms, and they came out smoother than a baby's butt. I would often hug them. Seriously, I really would hug them. Smooth, round, beautiful concrete can be very huggable. I even engraved my address in a concrete wall behind my home. I admire it every time I pull out of my garage. When I turn 80, perhaps there will be so much concrete around my house that you will hardly be able to walk without stepping on a Bega fixture.
I was originally introduced to the concept of modernism by a professor of the Mies school of thought. He taught me how to handle steel and glass, flat roofs, and zinc strips. We talked a lot about
space, about form, not so much. He also taught me that my car should be white or black, that other paint colors for metal were inefficient and beneath us. I just assume every architect gets their dose of this in school. Or maybe I'm just getting old.
But I don't think I ever truly appreciated modernism in its full capacity until I came across Eric Owen Moss in graduate school. His vision of modernism was very clearly focused on context. It would be hard to underemphasize the extremes he would take this. An existing condition, whether it is 15 years old or 150 years old, is simply an existing vocabulary, an existing construct, or more clearly an existing geometry. Eric taught me how to clearly look at these existing formations for exactly what they were, and then attach to them in some literal physical way. He felt like if we did not physically
touch the existing geometry, then we were not speaking clearly enough about any expression of context. Being a guy who actually hugs columns, I got that. He did not want context by implication or association. He wanted a
connection to context the same way an alien monster grows inside that dude's stomach.
Eric wanted us to think about that relationship between old and new. He forced us to add modern ideas to old buildings, where we bravely tore into existing formations, adding new forms that were often purposely contradictory or different. But in those places where the systems connected physically or overlapped, a third thing emerged. The intersection between old and new would create a third thing that could not exist in either independently. In other words, the sum became greater than the parts. That was the real key. It made the work far more interesting taking this approach. It was not unlike Beethoven setting up one theme, then another, then blending the two. The only difference was, we got to blend themes from two time periods. This gave us a chance to express contrasts in time, rather than trying to artificially deny the emergence of the new one by hiding it behind the old. The first theme was created by another architect from another time. We got to complete the music by adding a second theme, and the playing with the blend.
Some designers want to respect the old designs by not offending them. Additions to famous buildings are often designed to blend in, be invisible, or hide. Nobody dares to threaten the original masterpiece. Considering the poor skills of many designers, this might be a wise approach in many cases.
I got to witness, first hand, an architect who was adding on to a well known modernist creation with a new design. He actually called up the famous creator out of respect, just to get his opinion and thoughts of what was being proposed. It was simply a courtesy call. There was no legal obligation, no request by the client. He had a design that was not blending in completely. He was bending some rules to what was established. I'm guessing he probably thought the original master might be intrigued and be able to offer some insightful comments.
When the phone call was made to the big shot elderly architect, he was none too pleased with the proposed design to say the least. And he was not shy about making threats of what all he would do to the reputation of the offending designer if he continued down this rule breaking path. He literally ordered the "lessor" architect to copy from the set, existing vocabulary and do
nothing more, period. The lower status designer took the comments in stride, with humor, yet did respect the strongly worded "requests." He toned down the design to fit in perfectly with the rest of the existing, aging,
modern architecture. Was this historicism or modernism?
From one modernist to another, the moral of this story was, "it's ok for
me to be creative, original and modern. I can break the rules when I want to. But you, on the other hand, must be a true historicist when adding on to
my work."
We architects are such a
chummy bunch, aren't we?
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Rich Farris AIA
Architect
Dallas TX
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