If this were real...

If this were real...That’s how I begin criticism when I’m at my students’ desks coaching them as they work to become architects. If this were real...It’s an invitation, a hand extended, to enter a possible world without ever leaving this one.  It cradles the comments to follow, and offers information that the student should know—indeed will need to know in the real world--but may not have to deploy at this point, because it’s not real…yet.

Emma’s project had a courtyard sunken about 6’ below sidewalk level. An awkward dimension if you imagine yourself either above or below, but it served many purposes in her project:  gave access to a Metro station, conveyed an archaeological narrative, and gave light and air to the lower levels of her museum.  She imagined that it would be a protected and quiet space in the city. I looked at her model and in an instant a series of scenarios passed in front of my eyes, just as if I were looking at a real place.  If this were real, I said to her, I would be concerned about the eddy of space at the Metro entrance; it feels unsafe, unsurveilled, in perpetual shadow, and hidden. I’m trying to get her to see what I see, to flash forward to an unintended future architectural failure:  abandoned space, closed cafe, vandalized concrete walls, vortices of trash and dry leaves in the dark, mildewed corners, flying in contradiction to everything that Emma fervidly wishes for her world.

She hasn't learned yet how to see the spectrum of possible worlds play out from a single arrangement of fictional walls, floors, and air, to bounce these possibilities, to reflect and referee them, off a mental archive of good and bad precedents, a taxonomy of  realistic assessments of human nature, municipal budgets, and the meager staffing capacities of non-profits. I see all that in the cardboard corner of a sunken cardboard space in a cardboard city. If this were real, Emma, you would be making a place doomed to a future completely counter to what you imagine.

Writers of fiction often talk about their characters as if they’re alive and not completely under the author’s control.  They say and do things the writer didn't completely intend; they steer the story off the well-planned course and wreck deadlines.  These characters remain safely within the book though, only as real as words. When an architect’s characters—the places, elements, and material—become real, develop agendas, and take a bad turn, they do these things in our world.

Design is as fiction, until it’s not.  That is an extremely difficult concept to grasp, whether you’re a student, an architect, or a future inhabitant of a place.  A lot can happen on the way to reality. Fiction allows the author to create worlds that could or could not, should or should not, exist.  But it’s rarely her intention to execute any of these speculations; a novel is not a set of instructions for making a world.

it could have been otherwise...

If this were real…That’s a subjunctive phrase.  The tip-off is, of course, the “were.” You’ll certainly hear people—not me, mind you--say “if this was real” because we English-speakers have become grammatically casual.  We don’t attend to how we choose our words, particularly in speech.  I stick to the subjunctive structure because I've been writing (but not yet publishing) about it as a mode of architectural drawing.  I've become quite partial to it; as an architect I appreciate the snug fit of the right construction to convey the sense of the sentiment. I’m a subjunkie.

If this were real…if I were you…If this were due tomorrow…These expressions liberate architectural criticism from the dull blade of the imperative.  Simply ordering my students to do or not do certain things-- don’t ever put a door there; never make entrances like that--is no way to cultivate learning or imagination.  And don’t even start with the future indicative…That won’t work.  

Transit Reverie

A disabled train at Takoma Park.  A thickening crowd of people fill the platform at Gallery Place where I had just stepped off the Yellow Line for my usual change to Red.  They were a chatty group, attention split between glowing screens and sharing information with their fellow strandees—“My friend’s at Union Station and he’s been waiting for 15 minutes and hasn’t seen a train yet.” A muffled, muddled voice comes over the PA and we all stop, heads tilted as if tipping one ear upward will better clarify the sound.  “What did he say?”  “I have no idea.”  It’s time to consider my options.

I have many options...

I realize that I know more about the bus routes of London than I do my own city of Washington, but fortunately the little device in my pocket is my guide, my Beatrice, from the underworld.  The 42, it turns out, begins its route to Mount Pleasant right above my head at 9^th and G, so with a nod to those around me—“I’m outta here”—I make my way to the surface.

A young guy is smoking a joint in the bus shelter while his friend talks incessantly at him about Ferguson; a third sits slumped on the anti-sitting bench.  They have laid claim to the shelter, so the rest of us workers, homeless, and tourists, bump umbrellas in the cold rain.  The German couple grows impatient and hails a taxi, rolling away in Prius quiet.  I could do that too, I think to myself. Or I could Uber.  Or find a Car2Go.  Bike share is out, but I have so many options, far more than many of those around me.  But I stay and wait. Uber will be pricey, reflecting the micro-dynamics of bad weather, Metro delays, and rush hour; the taxi may or may not take a credit card and I’m cash light; and I’d rather walk home than actually get in a Smart car and drive myself.  So I wait.

such as the 42

The 42 comes right on time, reasonably close to the 2 minutes that NextBus promises.  The homeless woman with the cart is holding up the line, and declining the gentle help of the young blonde.  Sitting by the window in the warm dry bus I watch the wet city roll past me—Zara, Blackfinn, Pret a Manger.  The 42 cuts through the parts of the city that I know best which makes this trip that particularly wonderful combination of familiarity and discovery.  An H&M in the old Filene’s spot? Who knew?  Lucky Bar, still sticky no doubt.  For a moment I feel like I could be in London, watching the yellow glow of restaurants and bars, the neon lights of fast food, the cool LED glow of office lobbies.

I slip into the kind of reverie unique to transit: freed from the task of attending to where I’m going and all the obstacles and perils both major and minor that punctuate my path, I can listen to the buzz of other conversations and watch the spectacle of the city unspool, glistening in the Blade Runner rain.

Although this trip had taken about 15 minutes longer than my usual Red Line + walk, it offers a textured way to experience the city as a living continuum rather than a series of discrete and predictable points.   I should get out at Gallery Place and take the bus more often.