Arbitrary Lines

I love cities. (Yeah, obviously). But, they’re not perfect. Especially in the US. I’ve been wondering for awhile why many American cities feel a bit off and I think M. Nolan Gray may have solved the puzzle!

M. Nolan Gray’s Arbitrary Lines investigates how zoning policies have led to segmented and inequitable cities. The subtitle explains it all: “how zoning broke the American city and how to fix it.” Gray, unpretentiously, walks us through what zoning is and how it has pushed to perpetuate segregation and sprawl in American cities. With zoning, we aren’t just talking about wanting to be able to build whatever house you want (modern box? Victorian revival? how about farmhouse chic?). We are talking about access. Access to grocery stores (I’m hungry). Access to healthcare (oh no I’m sick from eating too much food). Access to infrastructure (you want your sewers to work don’t you?). Access to jobs (got to be able to pay for the groceries). Access to public transportation (how are you getting to that job?). Access is the real deal.

Gray explains in the top of Chapter 4: “Ancient Athens, Renaissance Florence, contemporary Silicon Valley. What do they all have in common? Besides profoundly shaping the world we live in today, all three clarify the importance of place in making us more creative, innovative, and productive…genius does not seem to be randomly distributed. Rather, it clusters in particular places at particular times,” (67). Urban planners attempt to create that fostering community through a Central Business Districts (CBD). A CBD seems like a great idea. Get everyone together in the same area and foster innovation and production. We can all influence each other and work towards a greater future. And then at the end of the day, we can all get in our cars for the commute home and get stuck in traffic! Oh wait…the auto-oriented nature shoots us in our foot. So, maybe zoning isn’t that great after all…

Zoning has a dirty history that has, and continues to, perpetuate racial and economic segregation. “As African Americans moved north and west en masse as part of the Great Migration that surrounded the First and Second World Wars, the practice of strictly downzoning affluent White residential area while relegating affordable housing to the worst parts of town would also spread, stripping the poor of their right to move to opportunity,” (85).

But zoning disguises its segregation inclinations as the buzzword phrases of ‘maintaining a community’ or ‘keeping character.’ Gray explains: “Through regulations like large minimum lot sizes, apartment bans, or restrictions on manufactured housing, communities often weaponize zoning to keep the poor out of those neighborhoods and suburbs with the best access to jobs or highest quality schools,” (96). Towns and neighborhoods make it essentially impossible for non-rich people to buy or build anything. It’s a way to create a gated community without building a fence.

Zoning also pushes cities to be less efficient. Looking at some numbers, Gray explains that a city needs at least 7 dwelling units per acre to make it worth it for the bare minimum of a public transit network: a bus that stops every 30 minutes. For better service (bus rapid transit or light rail service), the city needs about 15 dwelling units per acre. For context, a single family detached residential district allows a maximum 5 dwelling units per acre. Cities are mostly made up of this type of residential zoning, which shows how zoning creates high barriers for efficient (albeit, any) public transportation.

In short, cities need to be able to organically grow. That’s how they build that ‘charm’ that I have talked about before. In theory, zoning stands as an outline for that growth, but in practice, zoning stifles that growth and turns cities into an ugly collage. There is still room for localized use designations (don’t put a glue factory next to an elementary school). A case by case scenario would (and should) work for that. But those are obvious. And, they’re objectively going to promote a better urban environment, so no one is going to fight that. So, do we need zoning administrators for that?

Nah! We don’t need the planners! Heck ‘em! Whoa, not so fast. Planners still need to exist, Gray argues, but they just need to lay down a framework of mobility (streets) and infrastructure (sanitary and transit) that promotes and supports growth. Planners can also work as meditators, helping to guide people through specific planning issues (again, case by case). There's not an obvious or direct solution to all of this, but there’s certainly a direction that we want to go.

I’m not a socialist, but this solution in Paris seems like the right idea to build a healthy urban density and diversity. The government is buying and managing properties within the city to insure that lower income families (who are the workers that keep the city functioning) can live in different parts of the city. It’s a beautiful thing when different walks of live can come together and live harmoniously. Maybe that’s why Paris is called the City of Lights - they’re proud to shed a light on their equitable, diverse city to the rest of the world.

Fred again...

I just came across the NPR Tiny Desk Concert with Fred again…, and wow it did not disappoint. I had limited prior knowledge of Fred again…, but I got swept in with a little clip of the acoustic performance. He’s a really talented producer for numerous pop artists, and he primarily writes his own electronic music. So, this acoustic, intimate setting was a change of pace from his usual performances.

And, it’s beautiful. It’s raw. It’s personal. What I especially love about it is the way he layers different tracks in real time, right before your eyes. He starts with a simple looped vocal, then adds some piano, then a little marimba, and finally throws in a set of beats. This layering creates a wonderful sound, and eventually, he reverses and starts stripping those layers away again.

After I left my trance of 26 minutes and 44 seconds, I began to consider how layering is such an important element in all types of art. For paintings, artists notoriously paint and repaint on top of their canvases. For fashion, designers continually play with the layering of different textiles. And for architecture, (you didn’t think I wouldn’t talk about architecture did you?) architects layer materials and systems. Let’s look a little closer at that.

Tile backsplash meets marble countertop, window glass meets aluminum frame, hardwood flooring over plywood sheathing meets hardwood baseboard, hardwood window trim meets painted drywall, framing meets concrete foundation, Materials are constantly layered within architecture. The overlap is seemingly less than the musical tracks of Fred again…, but the resulting collage remains the same.

Architects start with a conceptual idea, which then gets layered with more and more information throughout the design process. Quite literally you can layer pieces of trace paper while drawing. (That directly translates to the layer management of the digital model.)

In construction, mechanical systems are intertwined with structural, framing systems. Gypsum board covers the framing. The entire building gets wrapped in layers of sheathing, exterior insulation, and cladding. Trim goes over the gypsum board. I’m not going to describe an entire building, but you get the point. Building and designing is a layering of ideas and systems, and it’s fun to see it in a different context.

Manufactured Charm

Vail, CO is fun. More specifically, I really enjoyed Vail Village. It’s a cute town. It’s a charming town. It reminds me of Disney World. I’m not a Disney Adult, but I always enjoy a trip to the Mouse House. There’s a certain charm there. The stories come alive through the characters and immersive buildings. Dare I say that it’s magical. But, it also feels plastic. You know that its manufactured. There’s a veil to it all. It’s a bit like a stage set. It’s manufactured charm.

To a certain extent, Vail, Colorado feels the same way. Unlike Disney World, the town is a fully functional town. All the buildings are real. There’s no hidden trap door to hide the garbage truck or some network of back alleys to hide the food services. But Vail still feels fake. Developed in the late 1960s, Vail was built and designed after the alpine towns of the Swiss alps. The pedestrian focused streets are lined with different imitations of small scale Swiss chalets.

Vail Village (taken from Vail.com)

A lot of towns in the West have history. Look at the mining town-turned-high end ski resort of Park City, UT or Telluride, CO. Even look at Aspen, CO or Jackson Hole, WY! You get the point…Vail is different. It was founded on the principle of being something else. It was built as a replica. As a copy paste. And, as a result, it doesn’t have a very rich history. Now, rich history usually means charm (look at basically any part of Europe). So, if you do a little thought experiment, lack of rich history would probably mean lack of charm right?

But, Vail does have charm! I really enjoy the downtown (and that’s not just because I like skiing). I’d like to think I have a decent read on a quality neighborhood. So, I’ve been trying to figure out why I like Vail so much even though I know its manufactured charm. Perhaps because it accepts its identity. It doesn’t shy away from who it is. It knows it’s mimicking something else. And the scale is great. Super walkable and intimate. I guess the question becomes: when does Vail has create its own history and charm?

A.R.E. (Architectural Registration Exams)

Time to pop the champagne! I have much to celebrate…I recently passed all the NCARB ARE exams! These exams are a necessary step towards architectural licensure. (For the non-architects, no, grad school isn’t enough - you need to pass these 6 exams and work 3,740 approved hours before getting licensed). The exam content spans building systems, construction detailing, business fundamentals, project management, and more. The breadth of knowledge seems a bit ridiculous at times (as an architect, why do I need to be tested on financial literacy?), but in the end, I actually really enjoyed the entire studying process. It definitely made me a better architect, and it reinvigorated my passion for architecture and learning in general.

Pass rates of AREs. Screenshot of NCARB’s website, linked in the article.

The pass rates for the exams are surprisingly low, especially when you look at the scores needed to pass. It’s basically a letter grade of D or better. Pretty easy right? Shouldn’t architecture graduates already know this stuff? Not really. Many schools don’t teach these building and business fundamentals. For better or for worse, most architecture programs focus on theory and design studios. You end up learning A LOT on the job (and on your own) after you graduate. But that’s for a different blog post. The good thing about these exams is that it requires architects to eventually learn this content.

Most wannabe architects space out these exams over months, some even years. There is a lot of prep work for each exam. But there is also a lot of overlap in the content, so I took the advice of Amber Book, and I treated the exams as one big test. Much to my happiness, I passed all 6 ARE exams, on the first try, in a span of 2.5 weeks. For non-architects, it may not seem that crazy, but I am incredibly proud of what I did.

Score needed to pass AREs. Screenshot of NCARB’s website, linked in the article.

The exams were a goal to work towards. I set a deadline for myself (albeit it moved a bit throughout my studying), and then I planned around that. I don’t want to make it sound easy or relaxing, but it worked out. I wouldn’t have done it much differently, if I had to do it again.

However, the whole testing process was definitely stressful. Might’ve taken a couple years off me. Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? Can my brain handle this much information? If I fail, will I have to redo this entire process?? But, it was also fun! It felt like I went back to school. I’ve always enjoyed learning. I approached each question as a puzzle to solve. There is a right answer, and it is up to me to decipher the code and figure it out. You don’t often get that clear cut of a puzzle in life, so it’s nice to take advantage of it. Anyway, cheers to solving more puzzles (and to taking the time to celebrate)!

Hector Guimard

The Richard Driehaus museum just finished hosting an exhibition about Hector Guimard, a pioneer of the French Art Nouveau movement. He was, most famously, the designer behind the iconic Paris Métro signs, but the exhibit was helpful in shedding light on a lot more of his career.

In general, the art nouveau movement is a style in art, architecture, etc that emerged in the late 1800’s, characterized by forms inspired by nature (think very whimsical, flowy, connecting lines). Victor Horta basically started the architecture side of it in 1892 Belgium with House Tassel.

That house and many of Guimard’s projects are a great example of gesamtkunstwerk (“total work of art”). It’s the idea that the style and design of a project should be reflected in every single aspect. The designer doesn’t just decide where to put the windows, but they will go ahead and design the handle, the mullion, the specific trim, everything.

Guimard’s prowess extended beyond architecture. He formed a real estate and construction company, to build his projects, and he also was a savvy marketer, creating brochures and promotions to advertise his business. It’s so interesting and also exciting to hear about this. There are so many examples of iconic architects living like starved artists. But, architects need to get into real estate and take advantage of their financial value.

Additionally, architects need to integrate technology and prefabrication into their practice. And Guimard has done that too! He designed a modular masonry unit, and even used moulds to create repetitive prefabricated panels for the railings of the Paris Metro stops. An inspirational visit indeed.

Divvy Rides (Repost)

This is from a brief study I did back in June 2021. I am cleaning up my website, and I want this post to live here on the blog. So, now it does. Yay.

How do we define our cities? What shapes our cities? Dots are the active Divvy stations from June 12, 2021. Lines mark the Divvy trips taken between those stations (as the crow flies, not related to roads at all because I can't do that yet). I love how this data suggests the physical boundaries of Chicago, obviously shaped by Lake Michigan.

Open House Chicago

Image from Guild Row (via Open House Chicago), by Anna Munzesheimer

Every year, for one weekend only, Chicago opens its doors to the public to explore some of the most interesting buildings in the city. Open House Chicago is coordinated by Chicago Architecture Center and is supported by many private and public donors. It’s such a fun idea, and I don’t think I’m biased even though I’m an architect.

Firehouse Chicago, photo by moi

This year, my wife and I went to Guild Row on Saturday and Firehouse Chicago and St Gregory the Great Roman Catholic Church on Sunday. Guild Row is a co-working space, including a coffee shop, a bar, woodworking shop, and game room. It also has a pretty substantial social calendar. There seem to be lots of events going on, and the entire place is even available to rent. We had a fun tour with the architect - learning of a slanted motif throughout the space and that the building used to be a dental tool factory. The new and old weave together well. The motif comes from the fact that the street is a hill, entering the space half a level above the main floor. Albeit, the abstracted motif does not always show up, it’s a nice nod to the site itself.

Firehouse Chicago was a (you guessed it) firehouse in the Edgewater neighborhood until it was decommissioned in 2008. It’s now a venue rental space, with an amazing amount of details still intact, including the tin roof, the pole from 2nd to 1st floor, the wooden carriage doors, the ceramic tile on the ground floor, and much more! Though I am a bit confused about the seeming Airbnb unit on the 2nd floor, it’s a lovely space and a great example of adaptive reuse.

St Gregory, the Great Roman Catholic Church, photo by moi

Lastly, we made it to St Gregory. A beautiful church tucked away in the quiet neighborhood of Andersonville. The parish was originally created by the local Luxembourgers in the area. The current building is in the Catholic Revival style. The arched side openings in the sanctuary hall are well-proportioned, and the craftsmanship of the wooden alter is a sight to see. But, I think the real gem of the place is the painted ceiling and trusses. Just look at that beaut! In all, it was a great visit, and, after, we explored downtown Andersonville.

Hopefully both these sites are on the list for next year, so more people can check them out. And hopefully, more cities do this too. It’s a great way to explore your own backyard.

The Age of Average

A friend sent me this article by Alex Murrel recently. It’s a thought provoking read that points all the current similarities across fashion, media, art, architecture, and even the human face. It argues that our ever-so globalized world has led everything to become, essentially, the same. And not just the same but bland same.

Remember in Up in the Air when Anna Kendrick’s character reveals her new business approach called GLOCAL? This reminds me of that. The styles that we reflect and work through are losing their vernacular (local) charm, and they are becoming global waves. Is that what it is coming down to? Is that a bad thing?

From Duo Dickson’s article in Common Edge

There’s a portion of the article that focuses on architecture becoming the same. In the grand scheme of things, I would agree. Especially when it comes down to larger scale architecture. Murrel talks about the five-over-one buildings, also called fast-casual architecture or McUrbanism. It’s those boxy mid rise buildings that all look relatively the same. It’s a concrete podium of retail on the bottom, with some sort of wood-framed residential above. Based on the building codes and zoning that are seemingly the same across most of the US, this type of project is the most efficient way to build for developers. Murrel also cites Coby Lefkowitz’s article (I believe this article is behind a paywall, sorry, but go to the link in the photo caption for another option), which dives even deeper into the issue. I urge you to take a look because these clunky boxes are becoming a problem. They don’t reflect any vernacular styles, and they are becoming the bland sameness that is sweeping the world.

Duo Dickinson explains this “architectural pandemic” in shorter, more succinct terms (this article is also not behind a paywall). I think the economic conditions will, indeed, have a big role in this. Money was essentially free for the past 15 years (ridiculously low interest rates), meaning it was much easier for developers to make a profit. But, now that interest rates have risen a great deal, I think developers will be a bit more cautious. It’s a bummer that American consumer sentiment about value and morality couldn’t really move the needle. It’s going to have to be economic conditions. Hopefully something can stop this.

Owning vs Renting

I have a hunch that owning a home, rather than renting, ends up creating a more sustainable home.

I rent my apartment, and I recently fixed the half wall in our kitchen. It was loose and slightly detached from the rest of the countertop peninsula. So, I had to take out the dishwasher and attach some brackets to the back of the cabinetry and half wall. I had asked my landlord to fix it, but he was dragging his feet. So, I decided to just do it. And, I also love doing things and making things (you know that already). It was a fun Saturday project.

But, I am also a weirdo.

A typical renter doesn’t really care about the place they live in. Yes, they will do their best to make it feel like a “home.” Hang a picture, put some nice smelling soap in the bathroom, get a fun throw blanket for the couch. But, the renter doesn’t really care about the longevity of the building. It’s understandable - they don’t have any skin in the game. Financially, why would they care what happens to the building, once they leave?

Owners are quite the opposite. They should care about everything involving their building. It’s an investment. Whether you are trying to increase the value for a resale or trying to avoid maintenance cost in the long run, you need to treat your home with love and respect. That ends up leading to a more sustainable home. If you have a regular maintenance schedule as an owner, everything works better. That way, you don’t have to waste money and resources trying to repair things that shouldn’t be broken in the first place. The way people treat buildings has a huge impact in the length of a building’s life.

I don’t have any data whatsoever to back this up, but I think home ownership is one path towards a more sustainable society.

Marcel the Brutal

Throwback to September 2022…

Hotel Marcel. Photo by Seamus Payne via Dezeen

We are driving down I-95, on our way back from Newport, RI, with LDW (and summer) in the rear view mirror. Listening to the Indie Alternative playlist expertly curated by Spotify, I pensively look out the window. I gasp in disbelief: “Hotel Marcel!” My three fellow car mates tilt their heads to see what the fuss is about. “That’s the new adaptive reuse project that took an abandoned brutalist building and turned into a net zero energy hotel!”  As quickly as they looked at me, they look away, uninterested. Nobody cares. 

I am exaggerating that moment a bit, but there’s some truth to the experience. Most people tend to ignore me. No, just kidding. But actually, most people don’t appreciate brutalism. 

It’s easy to see but tough to explain. Why do people hate raw concrete so much? Maybe it’s seen as monotonous and abrasive. It’s definitely modern. It’s tough to see the human. Which is the point. The modernist movement is founded on the evocation of the machine. Efficiency at its finest. Prefabrication even gets a mention at some point! But, more and more, we see that industrial finesse doesn’t necessarily age well.

Hotel Marcel. Photo by Seamus Payne via Dezeen

Though, brutalism is a different breed. It’s certainly not “classic,” but it’s a vital part of the history of architecture. There’s an honesty of materiality, that I love so much. (I admit that’s an overused phrase, but my romantic self still loves it.) There’s also a beautiful craftsmanship behind brutalism. The details aren’t like find woodworking details, but they nonetheless sing the melody of the project and keep me in awe. There’s no dovetail joint to gawk at, but there’s still the remnants of formwork, the textures, that tells a story of the building process. And, there’s a strong compositional element to it.

For Hotel Marcel, it was completed in 1970 as the headquarters for Armstrong Rubber Company. In 1998, it was turned into the North American headquarters for Pirelli, the tire company. It’s a stunning building - the panels creating a unique textured facade with dynamic depth. The new project has brought the building into the 21st century, aiming to be the first hotel with a Passive House certification as well as LEED platinum status.

It’s exciting to see the building get a makeover and gain a new life. That’s the hope for all buildings. There’s a story in every structure, but it’s up to the architect to shed new light on that legacy. That’s also my hope for brutalism. There’s a beautiful story in every brutalist project, but it’s up to us to take time to understand it.

Interactive Train Maps

Screenshot of Transitland

Yesterday, I arrived in Newport, RI for a wedding this weekend. I was planning on flying into Providence, RI and then taking a ferry from Providence to Newport. Easy peasy. Unfortunately, my flight from Chicago to Providence was cancelled at the last minute, and I was rebooked on a flight to Boston. That’s close, but not close enough. I ended up staying the night in Boston, and then I took a half hour Amtrak from Boston to Providence to catch my already-booked ferry. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t terrible, and I was still able to get here without a car (though I Uber-ed a couple times). It’s times like these that Transitland could actually come in handy. It’s an interesting interactive map that lets you explore all the public transportation routes all across the world. It’s not really a route-planning tool, because Google Maps already does that pretty well. But, it’s a fun exercise of seeing your options.

Screenshot of Europe 5 Hour Train

This trip also got me thinking about a post from Brandon Donnelly’s daily blog a few weeks ago. He linked this different interactive map that allows you to see how far you can go in Europe within a 5 hour train ride. It’s also not a route-planning tool or anything, but it’s fun and truly visualizes the connectivity of Europe. As an American, I am jealous. I love trains, and I wish I didn’t have to fly as much to get around. For most of the country, we lack that robust infrastructure and train system. But, there is a region where trains actually work. And that’s where I am this weekend. Amtrak states that the Northeast Corridor (NEC) is “the nation’s most congested rail corridor and is one of the highest volume rail corridors in the world.”

Yay for Amtrak and their high speed trains. It’s exciting, but it’s also one of the densest parts of the US. So, it’s not that crazy to see why Amtrak has such a presence here. Since non-Northeast US isn’t nearly as dense as Europe, we definitely need to build out our high speed rail networks (lets go Hyperloop!). But, that’s a topic for an entirely different post. I urge you to play around with the interactive maps. Sometimes things don’t need to actually have much purpose, other than to have a little fun and expose you to new perspectives and/or ideas.

American Framing

I visited the American Framing exhibit at the Wrightwood Gallery last month. There is a striking structure in the main three story atrium as you enter the museum. The structure is framing, meaning its typical construction of 2x4s and 2x6, which is intricate and fascinating. (I think a lot of the architects enjoy the framing stage the most).

The walls of structure have diagonal bracing within the studs , which is not often seen anymore, and the inverted roof makes you think twice about what it represents. While standing inside the structure, the docent gave a brief history of the exhibit and invited us to visit the accompanying gallery on the third floor.

There, a naked 2x6 stud wall lines the left hand wall, with a rough opening that guides you into a space with a few architectural models and photographs by Daniel Shea and Chris Strong. If you go back out into the hallway with the stud wall and continue further, you find yourself in a more intimate space with photographs and video work.

The photography work is really beautiful. It captures the life behind stud framing. There are sunset images of partially framed houses, and there are also intimate shots of the tradespeople hard at work, shedding light (literally) on the hard labor associated with this work.

The frames for the photographs are also works of art. They are seemingly semi-deconstructed. Like the larger structure in the atrium, it makes you think about how it was built.

The museum label summarized the exhibit really well. Stud framing epitomizes the American dream. The simplicity and versatility of the construction (both in the material and labor) makes it very democratic. And, the lumber is a readily available local resource.

There was an elegant simplicity in the exhibit itself, too. You could certainly find delight in the details, especially the custom designed furniture by Ania Jaworski and Norman Kelley. But, you could also step back and just appreciate the craft inside the walls of our buildings.

Lewis Mumford

A friend recently sent me this piece written by Lewis Mumford in 1958. The basic argument is that the car has destroyed American cities. Urban designers have prioritized the automobile at the demise of all other forms of transportation, and it’s negatively affected the lives of citygoers. Highways have cut apart cities and communities, and people rely on the car way too much.

It’s worth the read.

I’m incredibly impressed with his foresight because the car problem has just gotten worse and worse. We need pedestrian and bike friendly cities! He specifically talks about Linjbaan in Rotterdam (pictured above, courtesy of Mei Architects via archpaper.com) as a prime example of a planned pedestrian corridor in an urban environment. Though it feels a bit like an outdoor mall, I get the idea. But, I’m going to stop writing because I want you to read the article. Enjoy.

Create & Consume

I generally categorize my life in two ways: create or consume. I mean, there’s also sleeping, eating, and melting my brain (aka Instagramfest or Twitterville), but those are boring, so I’m going to ignore those for this post. I think the easiest way to understand “create vs consume” can be seen in having a conversation. You talk (create), but you also listen (consume). Talking is informed by listening and listening is informed by talking. It’s a feedback loop. And that’s what my life primarily is - except in the design sense. Okay, story time.

I had random-sized pieces of polycarbonate (leftover from Stockyard Institute’s retrospective exhibit at DePaul Art Museum last fall) and 1’ x 1” x 6” common board (leftover from the bed that I built using Semi-Exact’s Bed Frame Kit over Thanksgiving). I’ve spent months trying to figure out what to do with these material offcuts, and, well, I finally figured it out and made something. It’s a wine rack, and I’m proud of it. It’s simple, but pretty cool. And, I was able to build the entire thing in a Sunday afternoon!

But, it wasn’t that easy. Even for this little dinky wine rack, I spent a lot of time, like I said, trying to figure out what to make - I sketched (create), I day dreamed (kinda create), and I even looked up cool furniture made from polycarbonate (consume).

Once I settled on a wine rack, I researched a bunch of different designs online (consume), I sketched more (create), I played with the material in the light (create/consume), I 3D modeled a couple different concepts (create), and then I went back to those designs online to verify measurements (consume).

Then, multiple weeks went by. Whoops. Fill in the blank of my excuse (I got distracted, I had plans, I was gone, or I had nightmares of friends walking into the apartment, looking at the wine rack, and laughing and pointing at me), but, finally, three Sunday mornings later, I looked myself in the mirror and said, “you’re making this damn thing, Curt!” And by golly, I did.

The actual making and assembly took up a rainy and cold Sunday afternoon. It really wasn’t bad. After a few missed cuts and misplaced screws, it turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself. I was able to have some fun, layering the polycarbonate sheets - creating some interesting translucent patterns. And, I took advantage of the cupping of the common board to create a natural resting spot for the wine bottles.

Whether you like the wine rack or not, you’re probably thinking: dang, that seems like Curt is overthinking things. I used to think that I was crazy, but I’ve talked to enough designers now that I know that I’m not alone. We don’t just sit down and draw all day. We’re not genius creators that just shoot from the hip. We overthink every single detail at every waking minute of the day. And even when we do start drawing, it’s a constant back and forth. (You know, create and consume). Draw a bit. Analyze the drawing. Think more. Delete some of the drawing. Add more to the drawing. Repeat. And then we have just enough self delusion to think that our idea is work making.

But my bigger point is that everybody creates and consumes. Everybody has conversations. Everybody listens to music. Everybody recommends their favorite podcast even when no one asked (admit it, you’v’e done it). Everybody watches at least an hour of construction Youtube videos every night. Wait, what? Okay, maybe that last one is just me. The point is that everybody creates value and consumes some value too. There’s certainly a balance of create vs consume, but that pie chart differs for every person. Everybody has their way of doing things. Which is great. That’s the hope! We all digest information in a specific way, and we create value in this world in an individual way. It just ends up that there’s a physical manifestation of a designer’s create and consume feedback loop.

Barnes Foundation

What do drugs and art have in common? No, I’m not talking about artists doing drugs. Nope, also not talking about art about drugs. I’m talking about a remarkable collection in Center City, Philadelphia. Eh, I still feel like you’re getting the wrong idea. Please hold.

Dr. Albert Barnes was a very successful medical practitioner who made his fortune with the invention of the drug Argoryl in the early 1900’s. He also was an avid collector of Impressionist, Post-Impressionist, and Modern paintings. In the 1920’s, he hired Paul Cret to design a private museum for his collection in Merion, PA (distant suburbs of Philadelphia), and in his will, he said that the artwork as well as the layout should not be altered what so ever. Barnes was really weird about allowing access to the museum; for most of his life, he only invited friends and didn’t allow the public to visit. He also was really particular in how he displayed his artwork - not leaving much space in between paintings that he juxtaposed together for color, composition, and subject (as opposed to grouping paintings based on style or era).

Image Courtesy of Barnes Foundation via ArchDaily

But roughly 50 years after his death, his will was essentially broken to move the entire collection into downtown Philly to improve the foundation’s finances and to provide better access to the general public. There was a huge controversy over the legal battles. I mean, you could make a movie about it. No, seriously, there’s an entire documentary about it (though I haven’t actually watched it yet so I can’t necessarily recommend it or not). As Paul Goldberger explains in his review for Vanity Fair, the history is a little confusing and convoluted, but it’s really helpful to better understand the building.

Speaking of, as you stroll down the Benjamin Franklin parkway in downtown Philly, you notice a few different buildings. The Philadelphia Art Museum looms in the distant, marking the end of the parkway. (I was planning on writing an entire review of the new Frank Gehry renovation here, but it was pretty understated and so un-Gehry-like, I am passing on that). But, there are two buildings on the parkway that feel quite comfortable in their spacious sites - the Rodin Museum and the Barnes Foundation. The Rodin Museum is pretty and well done, but, no offense, that’s not why we’re here.

Image Courtesy of Barnes Foundation via ArchDaily

The Tod Williams and Billie Tsien-designed Barnes has a striking, modern presence, configured with a heavy, large format stone-clad rectangular box nestled in the Laurie Olin-designed garden and a floating glass box above, cantilevering to create a a covered ground floor outdoor terrace. I’m not really sure why I’m describing this to you since you can just look at the picture, but it’s fun to try to place the entire exterior essence of the building in one brief introductory sentence.

And the exterior is really important. It’s a nod to what’s inside. The stone has a monumental feeling - alluding to the power of the art inside. And the Mondrian-like collage of the stone is reminiscent of the layout of the paintings on the wall - different sizes and proportions of rectangles juxtaposed together that create a quasi-grid.

Walking past the ticket booth and through the sand-blasted concrete walled entrance, you approach the building through a zen-like tree-lined path, which is separated from the building by a 10’ wide minimal depth pond.

The entrance is intimate, and it feels like you have walked into someone’s personal library. The wood-paneled interior and the 15’ plus ceiling height gives it an approachable importance. After entering, you are guided past a staircase into the Light Court. First impression is that it’s just a bit too big. Why do you need that much space? There’s a small coffee bar at the far end and a ton of lounge seating - open to all. But at second glance, there’s a feeling of being outside again. That’s why it feels big. The clerestory windows* are the sky, and the same cladding that was used on the exterior is now on the interior. It’s like the city’s outdoor living room, where they can host events and receptions year round. There’s outdoorsy expanse and openness, but it’s protected with hardscape.

*basically windows above head height, but in this case I’m talking about the light coming from the white ceiling

The Light Court

Image Courtesy of Barnes Foundation via ArchDaily

The permanent collection is on the opposite side of the Light Court and it’s an obvious transition. Experientially, it’s totally separate from the Light Court, and you can really feel that you are crossing a threshold. On the first go around, it feels like a French chateau was scaled down by 50%. All of the viewing rooms are connected with thick doorways, no hallways, and there is art everywhere. Honestly a bit overwhelming. But, after attending a short presentation about Dr. Barnes and his vision of the collection, everything makes more sense. Now, the second journey through the spaces is on another level (speaking figuratively, though there are physically two levels to the collection). The abstraction of details from the original building in Merion are wonderful Easter eggs to find, and the addition of the indirect lighting from above elevates the art.

Typical layout of the artwork

Image Courtesy of Barnes Foundation via ArchDaily

Within the permanent collection, you pass a light well, overlooking a small outdoor patio on the lower level. It’s a wonderful connection between the stories, and it’s such a subtle way to urge you to explore more of the building. So, guess what. I did. And the lower level does not disappoint. It’s used more for the educational portion of the foundation, along with the museum shop, and some of the support services like bathrooms, storage lockers, and an extension of the kitchen from the restaurant on the ground floor. But walking into the small outdoor gardened light well was surreal. Two lounge chairs beg you to sit. The three trees perched in the garden extend towards the sky, leading your eyes up as the light dances across the textured stone exterior. You forget where you are for a moment. You forget who you are for a moment.

At this point, you’re probably like, okay Curt, we get it…you like the museum. And you’re right, but, actually, I’ll go far as to say that I absolutely love this building. It reveals itself over and over. It acknowledges its deep history without replicating it. It celebrates a unique way of viewing art. And, in turn, it becomes art. It becomes part of the collection and a part of the city, and it’s a must see for any art and/or architecture-loving tourist or Philly local alike.

ICON's House Zero

New materials and products seem to always be coming onto the scene in the construction industry. High performance windows, eco-friendly finishes, recycled plastic furniture - even entire pre-fabricated homes are now available off the assembly line! But, new technology and processes are harder to come by - mostly due to the fact that it’s really difficult to convince a builder to try out a new way of doing things (annoyingly understandable because it costs time and money to learn and train people about something new).

And that’s why it was so exciting to check out ICON’s House Zero in Austin, TX this weekend. Designed by Lake Flato Architects, House Zero is a 3D printed house - built to showcase ICON’s concrete 3D printing capabilities. It’s a beautiful home. Nestled in the hot market of East Austin, it’s a cluster of concrete organic, curvy “tree trunks” creating the exterior wall, with glulam beams spanning the width of the house and creating a clean, flat roofline.

Street view of House Zero

Image Courtesy of Casey Dunn via ICON

The floor-to-ceiling windows and doors create an accessible feel to the building, and the limited material palette allow the building and its interior design to shine. The layers of the 3D printed walls create a texture that can catch the light just right. ICON’s technology is really similar to small format desktop 3D printing, but if you’re unfamiliar with that, let me attempt to explain. (Or you can just watch a video from ICON.)

So, there is a nozzle attached to a gantry (laymen’s terms: moving arm.) That nozzle slowly releases the building material (normally plastic in small scale and concrete in the case of ICON). As the nozzle is extruding material, the arm moves around according to a programmed file. 3D printing is pretty sweet. It can make some serious shapes and can lead to some amazing accuracy. And, it’s ‘mostly’ a set-it-and-forget-it situation, which gives you time back in your oh-so-important day.

ICON’s Vulcan nozzle extruding concrete

Image courtesy of ICON

Matt Risinger’s video is a great tour of House Zero with ICON’s co-founder and CEO Jason Ballard. They get into some of the nerdier details, so I urge you to check it out (the video is ~18 min long) if you’ve made it this far. As with most new technology, it’s pretty expensive to use right now, but there is a lot of opportunity here. Specifically, the cost of different wall thicknesses does not change that much because the nozzle just needs to go a little farther. As opposed to a stick-built house, where you need a completely a new stud size or maybe even double the studs to change the thickness of a wall.

Main Living Room of House Zero

Image Courtesy of Casey Dunn via ICON

Though concrete has recently taken a beating as a not so eco-friendly material, the fact that the structure can be the finish both inside and outside leads to an admirable honesty of the building. The efficiency of the technology is exciting, too. Another one of Risinger’s video visits a different ICON project, where smaller homes are printed in a week (pretty sure that includes just the first floor and none of the windows or trim or anything like that, but still, dang that’s quick). Less time should equal lower cost, right? So hopefully that means this isn’t just for the rich.

But, I also want to know what the average builder thinks about this. The general consensus on robots and automated technology is that everybody is going to lose their job and we are all going to end up like the fat people in WALL-E. Though I studied economics in undergrad, I am severely under qualified to evaluate that assessment of our future. So, naturally I’ll attempt to anyways.

I have faith that new jobs will emerge. They won’t look very similar to what we’re doing now, but we, as humans, will always create value in this world, not just consume it. The future is bright in my eyes. New jobs and new houses - hopefully 3D printed (maybe with recycled materials?!). That’d be ICONic.

Four Walls and A Roof

The Complex Nature of a Simple Profession

it’s quite a title, right? And with an engaging and thoughtful opinion piece published on Dezeen, it’s exciting that there’s an entire book!. But, in short, this book is good. Not great. Just good. Let me explain.

Reinier de Graaf’s state of mind in the preface is refreshing: “Why this book? Most architects are lousy theorists: I am no exception. Whenever we offer theories, they should be mistrusted,” and then he notes, “That doesn’t mean, however, that what architects have to say is without value,” (xi).

I appreciate his self-awareness. Even though it doesn’t necessarily come across in the book, it’s a nice gesture. If anything, it’s a great jumping off point. It’s meant to ground him. He and the reader are equals. (It has taken all my willpower to not make a sarcastic comment about architects thinking they are equals with others. You’re welcome.)

Image Courtesy of Harvard University Press

The book is a collection of 44 different essays from de Graaf - about half written for the book and the other half written for other occasions. And, the topics are wide ranging.

There are well-researched history lessons - profiles of communism-led urban developments, origin stories of building technologies, and specific case studies, in particular the Hartsfield-Jackson International Atlanta Airport (I’ve said this before, but I love airports, so woohoo!)

Broad architectural theory is sprinkled throughout the book, including one chapter titled “The Inevitable Box”: “In the name of creativity, architecture sides with the masterpiece against the cliche, with the unique against the common, with the specific against the generic. Creativity prioritizes the exception over the rule and chooses the margins over the mainstream,” (72).

A box is a traditional and fundamental way to approach architecture. (Hi, yeah it’s me, not de Graaf). It has stood the test of time, so should we continue to design boxes? Should we design an anti-box, just to be different? What is the guiding principle there? Just to be avant garde? Is that enough of a reason?

In terms of architectural theory, I thought de Graaf did an okay job. Starting from an incredibly abstract idea, he jumps around a lot (in time, scale, and everything in between). This chapter is the epitome of the book. It’s exhaustive (not quite a compliment), but it leaves you with some thought-provoking questions.

De Graaf also shares personal anecdotes from his travels and work experience, that give you a (albeit still foggy) peek behind the curtain of one of the most influential architecture firms in contemporary times. Oh, maybe I should’ve mentioned that earlier. Reinier de Graaf is a partner at Office for Metropolitan Architecture (OMA), which was founded by Rem Koolhaas. Maybe I’ll eventually do an entire post about OMA, but they’re behind iconic buildings like Seattle Public Library, CCTV, among many others, and, they’re also heavily involved in theory including masterplans like the unbuilt Parc de la Villette and books like Delirious New York and Elements of Architecture. Oh, and don’t sleep on their research arm AMO, which de Graaf leads.

Like I said, I like the book. I think it’s an interesting perspective on the current state of architecture from someone who actually has a pulse on the profession. So, I guess my issue is the actual writing. it’s often dry and unapproachable. It’s not bad, but I just think it could be better. And it being a collage of essays, it lacks a certain cohesion, yet easily hits the 486 page mark.

Demolition of Pruitt-Igoe Housing (St. Louis), which is featured in the book

Image Courtesy of Chad Freidrichs via MOMA

And, it doesn’t touch on actual architecture as much as I thought it would. Which, in general, that’s fine. It’s undeniable that the influence of architecture extends beyond its walls. For most people, that’s the point of architecture - to influence people and society beyond just the building you design. And that’s certainly what this book is trying to get at. There are many other players and decision makers, sitting right next to the architect at the table. But, my preconceived notions of de Graaf being an actual architect and the title of the book made me believe that we were going to be playing on the beaches of architecture, not jumping into the ocean of urbanism and surfing the waves of critique. Idk. Maybe, that’s my fault. But when the title of your book is literally describing a very basic house, I would think you would talk about smaller scale projects of the actual built environment. But, maybe that’s his tongue in cheek way of doing things.

In good faith, I can’t recommend this book as an “essential.” To put it bluntly, it’s overly written, and it doesn’t push the narrative enough. But still, Reinier de Graaf and this book both give me hope. There is potential in this work. De Graaf talks about the future, and there is an undeniable emphasis put on the upcoming years. However broad the questions are (there are no answers), they make you consider the future. Which is good! We need to constantly question our present. Always be looking at what is next. No, don’t get bored with what you’re doing, but question why you’re doing it. There’s always room for improvement. And, remember, the answer isn’t necessarily more complicated. it might just be as simple as four walls and a roof.

Bourdain's Love Letter

In Kitchen Confidential, Anthony Bourdain writes a love letter to the kitchen industry. It inspires to celebrate life through food. Go out to eat. Order one of everything off the menu. Have that extra cocktail. Indulge in dessert! It makes you want to cook and to taste. It’s beautiful, raw, heartfelt, and real.

I’m still waiting for architecture’s love letter. Many architects have tried their hand, but they almost all turn out to be manifestos of their own agenda. For the most part, they’re self-centered and pretty boring. But, I digress, that’s not really the point of this article, and I’m trying not to be a Debbie Downer on my occupation and passion.

Back to Tony.

As an outsider to the professional cooking world, one of the most powerful takeaways from Kitchen Confidential for me is that it makes you truly appreciate the people in the culinary industry. The grind is real; the respect is lacking. The kitchen is a hot, stressful, and chaotic mess, and, the hours are endless. Even if you are at the top - executive chef or restaurant owner, the struggle to stay financially afloat and culturally significant is a constant beating.

Image courtesy of Bourdain’s Twitter Account

Bourdain explains the mindset and approach of the people chopping your mire poix, sautéing your onions, frying your french fries, grilling your steaks, and broiling your pork roast behind the stainless steel swinging doors:

“Cooking is a craft, I like to think, and a cook is a craftsman - not an artist. There’s nothing wrong with that: the great cathedrals of Europe were built by craftsmen - though not designed by them. Practicing your craft in expert fashion is noble, honorable and satisfying,” (62-63).

Bourdain goes on to suggest that artists are essentially narcissistic people who don’t care to follow anyone’s program except their own. Most certainly not a cook.

So, that begs the question - what are we, architects?

For one, we’re not craftspeople. Generally speaking, we don’t build anything. (Yes, we might make some furniture or help with finishes, but that’s really the extent of it. And, if you do these things, that’s normally beyond the traditional scope of architectural services).

As architects, we make drawings that communicate information to craftspeople. So, where does that leave us? Are we god forsaken self-infatuated artists? Some of us are, yes. But, most of us are mere orchestrators of craftspeople.

We help guide the vision and give direction. Meaning, if we want to do our job right, we need to respect and understand craftspeople and their craft.

The About Buildings and Cities podcast has two great series on Carlos Scarpa and Andrea Palladio (some episodes of Palladio have still not been released yet). Both Italian but from completely different times in history, Scarpa and Palladio are two of the most well-respected architects. And guess what. They both understood craft!

Palladio apprenticed for a stone mason for years in Vicenza and eventually worked his way up to take on his own commissions. But eventually, he would begin a new career as an architect. Scarpa collaborated with local craftsmen throughout his whole career, and he was even the artistic director of Venini, an Italian glass making company, for many years - offering new techniques to the craft.

Basilic Palladiano (Palladio)

Castelvecchio (Scarpa)

For Palladio, you can sense the appreciation of craft in the proportion of his projects. The use of stone adds to the monumentality and scale of the Palladian window, for instance. And Scarpa. You can sense the appreciation of craft in the materiality of his projects. The details that play with light and tactility are infused in all of his buildings.

I know that “craft” is an incredibly broad term (and, I know that I’ve said “craft” about five billion times in this blog post). But, it’s just the act of making something. And that’s the point. It’s making. It’s creating. Architecture is creating a building, and it’s important to appreciate the craft behind that creation. Perhaps a love letter to the craftspeople would do the trick.

Tree Studios

Just imagine:

Walking down the streets of River North in Chicago, you feel swallowed by a sea of metal and glass skyscrapers.  Looking down the block, you see a break in the wall.  Who is offering that view of the sky?  A low-rise brick building is the answer. It’s a thing of beauty.  It’s elegant and thoughtful.  It’s a breath of fresh air in the concrete jungle.  It’s the Tree Studios on State St.

Sounds of champagne bottles popping, haunting aroma of fresh coffee, and perfectly framed scenes of window shopping greet you on the sidewalk.  The cast iron detailing of the first floor facade is reminiscent of the Louis Sullivan-designed Carson Pirie Scott building, just a few blocks down State St.  The roman brick at the second floor provides a warm contrast to the first floor ornamentation.  Above, the chimneys reach out beyond the roof line, projecting symbols of domesticity and hearth.  The lush, green courtyard behind beacons to be celebrated. It’s a well-mannered building, unassuming in its elegance and unrelenting in its charm.

Tree Studios, Image Courtesy of Friedman Properties

Following the 1893 World’s Fair, Judge Lambert and Anne Tree hoped to entice artists (particularly European ones) back to Chicago.  They lived in a mansion at 94 Cass St (what is now Wabash Ave), and they enlisted Parfitt Brothers, an architecture firm based out of Brooklyn, NY to help them build a community in their backyard.

The English Queen Anne main building, running along State St, was built in 1894.  By 1912 and 1913, the English Arts & Crafts annexes (the additional buildings to the north and south) were finished, creating a U-shaped courtyard in the back. (My understanding is that the mansion was on the east portion of the block, but has since been replaced by the Medinah Temple.) Also, the comical irony of a Chicago-based couple attempting to lure people back to their city by hiring a New York based architect to design an English style building cannot be ignored. But, so goes the classic story of wealthy people trying to show how wealthy they are and thinking everyone else cares about how much wealth they have. Anywho, all of that aside, the end result is, like I said, a thing of beauty.

Nestled in River North, which is at times an odd combination of commercial skyscrapers and surface parking lots, Tree Studios is a treat. The neighborhood is truly an urban setting - buildings are eclectic in form, function, and scale. High rises welcome office workers, condo owners, and apartment renters. Mid risers host big box stores, street level retail, and a collage of restaurants (we’re talkin’ Michelin star Spiaggia, T.G.I. Fridays, and everything in between ).

Exploring the context, you stumble across a historic single family home that is unwavering in its commitment to withstand the test of time (although, those survival stories usually involve a transition to a museum or retail). You hear the “L” rumbling past old industrial warehouses that have been chopped up into “sexy” industrial loft offices. You see a movie theatre sitting next to a boutique jeweler. A church, a university, and a luxury car dealership create a motley corner - just a few blocks from your newfound favorite building.

Tree Studios, Image Courtesy of Friedman Properties

With a story of neglected use and maintenance, the buildings of Tree Studios have been heroically restored and brought back to life (by Friedman Properties). It’s a great tale of old meets new. Sweetgreen and Framebridge, trendy companies of the 21st century, have found a home with remarkable history. But, the building is much more than its retail tenants. It continues to promote a creative community, with many studios occupied in the upper levels by painters, sculptors, designers, and more.

Just like different artists sharing studio space, distinctive buildings juxtaposed together create a world of contrast and harmony. Tree Studios is a testament to how that in-between condition can forge a thing of beauty in the city. And, it’s a reminder for all of us to keep searching for that.

Helmut Jahn

Helmut Jahn was a huge force in the design community. His projects, and seemingly his personality, were larger than life. One of his more well-known local projects (Thompson Center) was recently in the media, thankfully evading demolition. Unfortunately, Jahn passed away in May 2021 in an unexpected bicycle accident. In memory of him, the Chicago Architecture Center (CAC) put on a temporary exhibit. With drawings and models from his office, and thoughts from prominent design community members, we were able to reflect on the significant history of Jahn and his firm.

(Unfortunately, the exhibit is no longer on display after March 14.)

Joe and Rika Mansueto Library, Image Courtesy of JAHN

Jahn’s portfolio is a great example of how styles change over time. Influenced by the education and mentoring of prominent Modernist architects, you can see how Jahn took that as a jumping off point for his projects. In materiality, he used glass and metal throughout his career. Those materials lend to his projects being streamlined, sleek, and minimal - evoking Modernist tradition. But he breaks away from that mold with his embrace of technology and shapely form. 1000 S Michigan on the southern edge of Grant Park here in Chicago, IL and 50 West Street in NYC have softened edges. The Mansueto Library at University of Chicago has a heavenly domed roof. The Post Tower in Bonn, Germany uses the offset elliptical shape (check it out in plan) to adjust for wind and create stability.

Post Tower, Image Courtesy of JAHN

The German high rise also takes mechanical advantage of a double skin glass facade, as do many of Jahn’s other projects. Echoing the high-tech architecture movement (i.e. Norman Foster, Richard Rogers, Renzo Piano, etc.), Jahn embraced new technology and allowed it to inform his design decisions. Reaching beyond the scale of some of his peers’ projects, Jahn created Sony Center, an OMA-like-f*ck-context multiplex. Its beauty is in its ambition. It’s a wonderful collage of spatial function and innovative detailing. (Please forgive me for my occasional designer jargon).

The Suvarnabhumi International Airport was highlighted in the exhibit, emphasizing again Jahn’s frequent collaboration with German engineer Werner Sobek. The massive long-span roof was achieved through multi-dimensional trusses (I explain that vaguely because I indeed have a vague understanding of it). Airport architecture is a unique and challenging art form. The scale is immense. The orchestration of many moving parts and people is overwhelming. In Suvarnabhumi, O’Hare Terminal 1, Munich Airport Center (I’m obsessed), and various parts of other airport projects, Jahn translated that complexity into something stunning.

Munich Airport Center, Image Courtesy of JAHN

Though the exhibit itself was a bit confusing at times (the permanent CAC collection of scale models was weirdly intertwined with this exhibit), the CAC recognized Helmut Jahn’s legacy. He epitomized post-modernism. He was a deviation from the norm, and he was an answer to the subdued conditions of modernism. He was, and continues to be, an inspiration to the design community.