Professional Context: Position Paper 1

ARCH 517
O.Poticha
4.15.2007
Position Paper 1

Introduction

Though the reasons surrounding my study of architecture are similar to those of a “typical” architecture student, it is the differences, in my view, that define my role—not only as an architecture student, but also as a future architectural professional. Discoveries and experiences during architecture school have shifted the tracks beneath my educational & professional engine. These shifts in values and perspective have not only called into question my future professional role, but they have also clarified my needs and expectations as I venture into the practice of architecture.


Similarities to others

If I were to poll my peers about the reasons why they have chosen to enter the architectural profession, the majority would likely mention that they want to make the world a better place. Most would value the opportunity for creativity, and—if they were honest—the majority would place importance on the social acceptance and status of presenting a business card with the title “Architect” beneath their names. In these ways, I am no different from my peers.


My career aspirations are not unusual. Like most of my peers, I would like to be financially solvent and self-supportive. Ideally, my career will contribute a sense of enjoyment and fulfillment to my life, while providing the opportunity to become a force of positive change in my community. Job satisfaction comes from surmounting challenges and creatively solving problems, creating beauty while serving functional needs, and gaining the respect of my superiors, colleagues, and community. These goals—while perhaps idealistic—are fairly common.


Differences from others

Though I share many values and goals with my peers, some of my aspirations, needs, and expectations likely diverge from theirs. The one thing that most affects my future career—and of which I learned during architecture school—is my disability status. Getting diagnosed and coming to terms with a disability that I have (unknowingly) struggled with my entire life has had a major effect on a) how I identify myself in [and relate to] the world, b) the quality and quantity of projects I undertake, and c) my expectations and goals for the future.


Financial solvency and self-sufficiency—an expectation for almost every architecture graduate—is, for me, simply a goal. Financially, I do not expect to earn a lot of money at any point in my architectural career, because a) a wealthy architect is an effective manager and salesperson—for me, weak areas both; b) I want to serve the underserved and underprivileged—homeless, low-income, the elderly, children, and disaster victims—the best way to ensure that my school loan payments continue well into my 80’s; and c) I will always choose the most supportive, positive, and flexible working environment over the most prestigious or financially rewarding one. Belonging to a supportive community of like-minded professionals and clients is important. In my experience, it’s also rare.


Other needs not often met for intern architects in traditional firms are intellectual stimulation, lifelong learning, and appreciation & recognition for my work and effort. Reading this, a fellow student might think, “yeah, and I’d like to make $200K right out of school, but if I hold out for that, I’ll never work in this field.” Enter sacrifice. Because these are needs, not desires, I am willing to sacrifice a high salary in exchange for their satisfaction. I’m not sure that most of my peers would do the same, because I doubt that most would consider my needs to be necessities for themselves (at least in the short term).


Architecture comes in all shapes and sizes—many would agree that “architecture” per se does not require a professional architect. In that vein, an architect does not need to work at an architectural firm in order to “practice.” The practice of architecture, as I see it, might be defined as using a set of skills to participate in the design of the built environment. Thus, one might say that some architects currently working in firms actually contribute less to the practice of architecture than some city planners or carpenters. Ultimately, the best architecture is that which combines aesthetic & technical expertise with the practical awareness of its users.


Future professional role

I have yet to find my professional fit. I’m not sure that it’s in the traditional role of intern architect at an architectural firm. There is still time to figure it out (though I wish I had a mentor—perhaps one with my same disability—to guide me). My brain works in strange ways: though I am deficient in certain areas (such as organization, focus, and time-management), I can readily peel away the layers of a problem to uncover many of its current and future implications. I am excellent at analyzing a design to quickly discern potential challenges or areas of strength/weakness. I am a creative problem-solver who sees possibilities where others might see roadblocks. Though my desire for perfection is death to time-management, it is valuable for catching important details that others might overlook. And my skills in many types of hand and digital media, in addition to written and verbal communication, make me a valuable contributor when graphic quality and linguistic proficiency are essential. Though my disability makes certain skills harder to learn, I bring many other useful and critical skills to the table.


Conclusion

Where does this leave me? What is my future role in the profession? Whether I pursue a path in planning, advocacy, consulting, or as an in-house architect with an organization, I can be assured of continued growth and challenges—not only architecturally, but also professionally and personally. My aspirations and goals are not unlike those of my peers, but my needs extend beyond the norm. Finding the right fit will likely be a challenge for someone with my unique set of strengths and weaknesses; I expect to make sacrifices in some areas (like financial compensation) in order to satisfy my needs in others. Though my future role in the profession is unclear, one thing is certain: I will need to forge my own path. (That, and school debt.)

Buro Happold

“Design and Construction of the Downland Gridshell,” R. Harris et. al., Building Research & Information (2003) 31(6).

After reading this article, I have a lot of respect for the level of dedication, patience, knowledge, and planning that went into the Downland Gridshell. In spite of this, I think it looks like a worm wearing armor.

I think it’s possible to appreciate the details, innovation, and elegance of a building without finding its overall aesthetic to be incredibly pleasing. Admittedly, the interior is more inspiring (if not altogether evocative). The true value of the Downland Gridshell as a structure, however, lies not (imho) in its overall form, but rather in those aspects also highlighted by the authors: structural, material, & economic efficiency; structural modeling; collaboration; structural details; and innovative construction processes (though certain aspects—e.g. the enlarged center dome and gable end resolution—are thoughtful). As a prototype and reference for future gridshell design and construction, it is invaluable.

I particularly appreciated the discussion about funicular form (as was used in Frei Otto’s gridshell building in Mannheim) versus Downland’s form. “A funicular shape would be more of a ‘barrel vault’, which would have less lateral strength and stability than the form chosen.” (p. 434) Why? I wonder how the designers came to this specific form—was it simply the most efficient arc?

The decreased lath spacing in weaker regions was also a clever move. Here again, I wonder why they chose those timber sections (50mm x 30/35mm). Why would it help if the laths were wider than they are tall? Why not 30 x 30mm? Wouldn’t a 50 x 30mm lath have the same bending strength as one of 30 x 30? If they only modeled the building structurally once they decided on a section (50 x 30 originally), then how did they come to that dimension?

Amusing to me was that, of the joints that failed, most were made with the "latest jointing technology" (finger joints), and not the centuries-old hand-crafted scarf joints. This makes me even more afraid of "mechanically separated chicken."

Frankly (and despite its innovations), the Downland Gridshell is close enough in form to Ban’s Japan Pavilion that I find it difficult to herald it as the best thing since sliced bread. In fact, Ban’s gridshell seems far more innovative—using paper (both recyclable and potentially recycled) for both structure and enclosure (developed by Ban to be water-resistant and light-emitting), and boxes with sand as the foundation. The Japan Pavilion took three weeks to erect—admittedly, it was a temporary structure, but it demonstrates what is possible.

The gridshell can be a beautiful form in itself—why, then, did Downland need a set of armor?

Abstracting Craft

The undergrad philosophy major in me thoroughly enjoyed our class discussion about Malcolm McCullough's Abstracting Craft. Though many architecture students (at UO) seem to get bored quickly with discussions about theory (at least from what I can tell), I could yammer away all day with someone about subjective versus “objective” reality, the cultural foundations of “rationality,” scientific research and that which our society recognizes as empirical truth, or the gendering of psychological “disorders.”

[Sigh]

In a university program that (despite its abundant and sundry bibliographical resumé) likens the theoretical domain with Cockapoos and Schnoodles—“designer dogs” with no real purpose other than as fashion accessories for the Hoity-Toity, i.e. overly-hyped mongrels—I am a bit of a fish out of water. The architecture program at UO (and Pacific Northwest architecture in general) is like a Chocolate Lab: even-tempered, friendly, flexible, and eager to please—a true sporting companion (the Chocolate's profile is raised above the common Yellows and Blacks—no big boxes or housing subdivisions—but she doesn’t alienate laypeople as would a Poodle, or Thom Mayne).

Maybe I’m getting off track. And cynical. There’s nothing wrong with Schnoodles.

So McCullough…

We touched on many more topics during our discussion than we had time to explore in-depth, though I’m sure these ideas have each been explored by theorists, philosophers, and designers in more books than even I would care to read. Highlights (with my own thoughts interjected):

- When does technology stop serving humans and the inverse begin to occur (as in The Matrix)?

- What is craft? Does Joe Blow appreciate Aalto’s leather doorhandles or Scarpa’s rosewood ones? Does it take a craftsperson to appreciate craft? If not, are there different qualities of craft appreciated by different factions (much like a clever animated film that provides multiple layers of humor for kids and adults both)?

- [industrial design ≈ architecture]? What if we found a perfect way of building a school? Would all schools be identical?

Likely, yes, with a few variations for budget and climate [zones]. The first thing that came to mind is the residential high-rise in Hong Kong. In "Homes for China" (Architectural Design, vol. 74 no. 1, 81-87), the authors discuss “ideal” residential tower forms, mass-produced. This article, by the same authors, touches on similar themes:

“These new design concepts for residential tower blocks have rendered the conventional role of the architect redundant.” (p. 36)

- iPods. Why does everyone want one? They’re supposedly well-designed, but they all look the same (mass production). One person thought that the reason everyone wants one is because everyone has one: people want to fit in. Another person said that it’s because they’re simply the best mp3 players sold.

Empirical Understanding

It was suggested (both on Wednesday and Monday) that our knowledge of how something (e.g. a building or an iPod) works—how it functions, how it’s assembled, its organization, etc.—contributes to whether we deem it well-designed. (On Monday someone said that his inability to visually digest Gehry’s EMP building in Seattle was an indication that its design was lacking.) The iPod looks and feels simple, and it’s simple to operate. Though most users don’t actually have an understanding of how it works—how it’s built, how it’s programmed, etc.—they THINK they do because the device seems so simple.

The apparent simplicity of the iPod empowers its users—the object itself endows them with a sense of mastery or control (hence intelligence and power), and because the object is well-designed (functional and beautiful), its users feel sexy. Imagine: an object that's beautiful, brings me pleasure, is costly (read: coveted), and over which I have complete control. The marketing is brilliant.

With regard to the argument that, by virtue of its mass production, the iPod lacks craft: its commercial and cultural success speaks for itself. If people didn’t think it were well-crafted, its popularity would have waned long ago. Virtually every tool, piece of furniture, appliance, paper clip, stereo, book, cat box, etc. is mass-produced. Mass production, like hand production, comes in many flavors. The toilet brush I buy at the dollar store does not possess the same level of craft as the one I buy at Restoration Hardware. (I don’t buy things from Restoration Hardware because I’m broke and cheap, but I’m just proving a point. This also raises the question: is “craft” inherent in the object, or does it solely exist within “that which crafts”? Both? Neither? Who cares?)

Most would agree that the iPod is a relatively well-crafted object. It doesn’t matter how it’s made; what matters is that it’s made: its craft lies in its design.

On Wednesday I said that its craft lies in its design, not its production, but I’m re-thinking that now. Craft involves all the phases of an object’s (or a building’s) coming-into-being (Existenzeingekommen?). Ultimately, what matters is the product. How you get there only matters insomuch as it affects the final outcome. (You will not likely produce a well-crafted widget if you do not put at least some thought into how it should look, how it should be constructed, and how it should function. This is not the same for art—l’art pour l’art—one wouldn’t say “what a well-crafted painting,” because painting is not a craft. A talented artist could easily create a beautiful product without pontificating the process of its creation. In fact, that which produces fine craft may actually detract from fine art, as most truly great art will contain elements of unadulterated serendipity. An architect would not [one would hope] sling some Copics at a drafting board and call the resulting splotches a design.) An object’s production is also part of its craft-worthiness: a beautiful design, poorly executed, is not a well-crafted one.

Hi.

Thanks for visiting. Though keeping this blog is required for studio this term, I've already had a lot of fun personalizing the site and learning more CSS. Our first assignment for the blog (due in a few hours) is to read and comment on a couple chapters from Abstracting Craft by Malcolm McCullough.

Our first assignment not for the blog (just yet) is a case study. Our group is researching the Korkeasaari Lookout Tower--hence the multiple links on the left.

(And for the record, the background image is of the British Museum's Great Court, designed by Foster & Partners with the help of Buro Happold.)