balding angrily

This morning I got the chance to go to a press preview (sounds so official, right?) of a new exhibit of architectural models at the Nasher Sculpture Center. It’s called The Art of Architecture: Foster + Partners, and it was planned in conjunction with the eminent opening of Dallas’ new Winspear Opera House, designed by Foster + Partners.

Aside from the room dedicated to the Winspear, there were approximately twenty other architectural models of bass wood, plastic, lights, and, in one case, a working elevator. Spencer de Grey, Head of Design at Foster + Partners walked the various reporters around the exhibition space and talked about each project.

But this is all about me. It’s my website, dammit. I got the invitation through my work with The Advocate, even though The Advocate doesn’t cover Dallas’ expanding arts district—the Winspear and Nasher being key components— so I took the opportunity to shoot a whole lot of photographs of beautiful models. The Nasher doesn’t usually permit photography, so, score!

A photography teacher once told my class, “The only difference between professional photographers and you is that the professional photographers don’t show you their mistakes.” In that vein, I’m only showing you my favorites.

One note: the Nasher Sculpture Center is just an amazing indoor space for photography. Only one of these photographs required a flash. It’s always awesome to get good photographs with ambient light. I also got to play with photoshop to correct lens distortions—I made vertical lines true.

De Grey talks about one of the models in the exhibition.

 A model of The Great Court at the British Museum in London. I would like to be able to erase myself out of the reflection. I like the other reflections.

I tried to capture the eagles’ nest that the model builders had placed on this tower platform. The nest didn’t come out clearly, but I still like the tower structure against the beautiful ceiling treatment inside the Nasher.

He’s a little man doing his little job.

This is the only photo that has a flash, and I’m very proud of myself that I was able to manipulate the flash control on my camera so that it doesn’t look like a flash photo. I love macro photography; I think I need to get a macro lens.

As you can tell, the updates for my blog have started to dwindle. Yeah, it may be a cop-out to say I’m busy, but it’s the truth. And I’m busy doing stuff that I find exciting. So I guess I can at least update you on those small things that are keeping me from you, my beloved fan. (Do I really still have any of those?)

The Advocate Magazine - On the three days I’m not at my job in architecture, I’m interning at a local magazine. I just finished my first article for them that will get published in March. The article tells a few stories about a specific intersection that’s getting a lot of attention locally. Whole Foods is building a new store at this intersection which is really the center of this particular community. I’m really proud of my work on the article, and I’m looking forward to seeing it published.

Right now I’m working on a couple of photograph-heavy pieces for the magazine’s annual design issue. I’m interviewing some architects and trying to line up some photo-shoots of remodeled bathrooms. These are a nice break from the intensive research I had to do for the other article.

Working Out/Maintaining Health - Again, it seems silly to write about this, but I do spend a lot of time in the gym. That takes me away from you, dear reader. And instead of being apologetic about it, I might as well admit to it and be proud of what I’ve accomplished. Since early 2007 I’ve taken 20 pounds off, and it just feels really, really great. I like looking at myself in the mirror now. And I feel good, up, happy. All those things that lead to boring writing.

Editing the YAF Connection - In Salt Lake City, at our end-of-year meeting, I received a lot of strokes from my colleagues on the work I did last year for the YAF Connection. They said that I greatly exceeded expectations, and that I was a valuable asset to the group. These things gathered together validate that I’m not making a mistake by pursuing this “writing” thing.

Miscellanea - Jerry and I have been going to a lot of open houses; we’re feeling out the Dallas real estate market, finding out what our money can buy. When we decide to buy, we’ll be educated.

Tonight Jerry and I are hosting our open house at our loft. Every month our building picks a floor, and the tenants on that floor open up their lofts if they want. The rest of the building comes to the open lofts and judges them. Jerry’s been working himself into a lather to make sure that we win “best loft.” I don’t think we will, or maybe it’s more correct to say that I don’t care a whole lot. I just hope people enjoy our loft.

Sunday we’re pulling hosting duties for my family. Over the holidays we didn’t connect with them, so this is to make up for that. I’ll be cooking two recipes, one from our new favorite Food TV personality, Ina Garten.

That’s about it. I can’t promise more frequent updates because, like I said, I’m enjoying the work that’s keeping me away from the blog. Plus I’m pretty proud of the posts I HAVE been putting up. Lately, I’m thinking that I’d rather have fewer quality posts than more frequent “blah” posts. Lately, anyway. Except for this one. This one’s shit.

Even though its old news, I have to blah, blah, blah about the economy.  Last Friday, while I was away from the office, we laid off a few people.  I found out when I called in, and the receptionist was crying; she had just been given the bad news.  When I came into the office on Monday, I was told that I should cut my hours.  (If you’ll remember, I work part-time, hourly.)  I also found out who else was let go.  One of the girls is someone that is in the U.S. on a work visa.  If she can’t maintain employment, it’s possible that she would have to move back to her birth country.  This girl’s a friend of mine; she’s bubbly, cute, and bright.  I think Monday was the first time that I didn’t see a smile on her face.

Throughout Monday and yesterday, I kept thinking about her, trying to think of ways I could help her out.  I was able to get the name of an immigration lawyer, but my friend is a junior-level employee.  She can’t afford a high-priced lawyer.  Then I gave her the name of a head-hunter, the only one I knew, but the market in Dallas is WAY down.  All I’m hearing from friends in the profession is, “Yeah, we let some people go.”

At her request, I called a past employer, a three-man operation seemingly immune to past economic downturns, to see if they had any need for a drafter.  The three-man operation had become a two-man operation, in part because of the slow-down.

My hope is that in two years, I’ll be able to look back at this period and say, “Aw, what was I worried about?”  But goddamn.  It’s pretty fucking scary. Immediately after 9/11, when I was witness to layoffs, I always had the sense that there were still jobs out there.  In other words, I wasn’t too worried about getting the shaft; I always felt that I’d be able to find a job.  This time, it doesn’t feel that way.  Now I see my bright, bubbly friend, a person that NEEDS to work at the risk of deportation, a person that is a good, hard worker, and I see that the future ain’t so bright.

Today I interviewed a church pastor for a piece I’m working on about a church - in case you didn’t get that. I recorded the interview on one of those iPod voice recording doo-hickeys in a large atrium space with lots of reverberations. I listened to the recording on my way back from the interview. Apparently 2:00 on a Thursday is the perfect time to vacuum concrete floors. Also apparently, contemporary Christian music has a lot of ticky-ticky drum beats. And thirdly apparently, this interviewer feels the need to apologize for everything he does.

“I’m sorry if I’m taking up too much of your time.”

“I’m sorry if that doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m sorry if I’m swooning from your cologne.”

The pastor was very attractive, and his scent drew me in. I kept edging closer to him on the couch. I guess they train you in seminary to ignore the gay guy batting his eye-lashes and sitting in your lap when you are extoling the virtues of your church.

Before I left my last job, I received an inter-office email from a co-worker who - how shall I put this? - displeased me. I worked for him last year when I was blogging a lot. He didn’t appreciate it, and gave me a poor performance review. And rightly so. Remember?

Anyway, before I left - long after the bad review, when I wasn’t working for him - he sent this email company-wide. In the subject line was: How Do You Identify a Siamese Persian Cat? (Edit: See below in the comments. I’m an idiot.) At the top of the body is: “Scroll down to find out.” The curious email reader does this, rolling his or her eyes, and at the bottom is a picture of a cat with a kitchen-towel turban on its head and plastic Warner Brothers cartoon-style dynamite sticks strapped to its chest. (Siamese. Persian. Terrorists. Get it?) I had to laugh. The reasons are twofold:

1. That a person can be so clueless as to forward this email. Company-wide. In 2008. Knowing there’s an Iranian woman on staff. COMPANY-WIDE??!!!! INCLUDING A WOMAN FROM IRAN!!!! YOU ARE A FUCKING IDIOT!!!! I AM ASTOUNDED AT YOUR STUPIDITY!!! YOU ARE SURPRISINGLY VILE!!!!
2. Pictures of cats being humiliated are funny.

I really, really wanted to see the guy get a talking to, but I didn’t. I’m sure he got one; I just didn’t see it. Ah well.

This is the story of a column, carved out of limestone by a sculptor under the influence of ancient Greek hallucinogens. It, along with three other columns carved by three different sculptors under the influence of three different ancient Greek hallucinogens, supported a cracked entablature, and they all stood on an unstable hill next to a blue, blue ocean with a wooden dock. At its core, the limestone column held a defect, a segmented, plated fossil.

If ahead is toward the ocean and the four columns faced it, then the limestone column was in the back, on the right. Next to it, on its left, there was a column with a steel core and a creamy soapstone facing.¹ The soapstone column was taller and more slender than the limestone column.

A black granite column stood in directly in front of the limestone column; it was taller and had more heft than the others. To balance its starkness and strength, its sculptor had carved on its face, around its entire circumference, a diamond-patterned mesh. Then the sculptor had carefully filled in the grooves of the mesh with a gold alloy that shone in the sunlight.

The remaining column, of pink granite, was the only one sculpted to look like a person, a popular Greek heroine really. It stood as tall as the limestone column with one hand up - giving the illusion that it supported the entabulature with that hand - and one hand at its waist, holding the folds of it skirt.

Four years after the completion of this crooked Greek temple, the crack in the entablature widened and split it in two. It fell, and the two granite columns rolled down to the ocean. One day fishermen from a far away land tied their boat to the dock, saw the fine carving on the black granite column, and took it away with them, leaving the pink granite column on the sand. The soapstone column also rolled to the ocean, but it rolled to its left, taking a long and winding path down the hill, coming to rest on the sand far away from the pink granite column.

The limestone column remained on top of the hill, and through the years the fossil within it stirred, slowly waking. It grew, eating the limestone around it, and the outside of the column cracked, losing bits of itself to a pile at its base. As it grew, it changed from a segmented, plated fossil to a naked man.

He held his hand to his brow and looked from the top of the hill to the ocean. He saw two piles of crumbled stone like the pile at his feet - one closer, one farther away. He looked at the wooden dock, decaying but standing. He bent down and touched the broken entablature, running his hand along an edge. Then, he stood up and pulled the right corner of his mouth back, dimpling his right cheek. “Hm,” he said. “Curious.”

Soon another naked man walked from the far horizon to the hill and greeted the naked man who had been a fossil inside a limestone column. They talked and laughed, and the naked man from the far horizon asked the other naked man about the ruins around them. “What happened here?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” said the naked man who had been a fossil inside a limestone column. “Let’s try to figure it out. It’ll be fun.” So they did.

¹ No, ancient Greeks did not have access to modern steel, but this is my story. So shut your cake-hole.

Frank Lloyd Wright’s head floats in an elevator in the Kalita Humphreys Theater, here in Dallas. No, really. The story goes that Frankie disapproved of an elevator that The Dallas Theater Center installed after his death but before the theater opened.

This raises some questions. Why did his head choose this particular project designed by his living and - I’m assuming - breathing self? Surely, there are far more important projects that FLW would want to haunt. If I were a ghost-head, and I wanted to haunt a place, I would choose a place that gets lots of attention. Fallingwater, for example. Taliesin. (His wife and kid got killed there, for God’s sake.) That place where they filmed Gattaca. Why a little-known project?

Where is the ghost for the rest of his body? Let’s assume that he split his ghost into various parts. Isn’t the head the most important part of the spectral entity? Wouldn’t he have - as postulated before - sent his head to Taliesin and sent, like, a pointer finger to the Kalita Humphreys?

I just think that if FLW - or his soul - was peeved at a past client, he or it would focus on something more substantial than a backstage vertical circulation device.

Here’s the promised follow-up. I mentioned in the comments to the last post that there was a news crew taping my time in the wheelchair. Here it is. Bask in my luminescence.

Also, for Nick, the charity is Winners on Wheels. I would link to it, but the website is down. One of the people in charge of the event, the contact with Winners on Wheels, tried explaining why the website was down, but I was too busy bitching about getting water to hear her.

I spent today in a wheelchair; my company sponsored my time, giving money to a local charity. I’ll post the name of the charity when I can find it. The event is designed to make architects aware of the specific challenges of the wheelchair-bound.

I knew it was going to be difficult, in general terms. Therefore, I’ll focus on a specific.

When did we become so lazy and/or absent-minded that we need a device to close a door for us? I can think of only one place where a door closer is appropriate - at a door that closes in the event of a fire.

You might say, “But Alex, what about at shop entrances? Isn’t that a matter of security? Aren’t automatically closing and locking doors appropriate there?”

No. No they’re not. If we have become so averse to turning around to close the door behind us, we deserve to have our shit stolen. If we have trained generations of people that the door will close itself, then it is our own damn fault. If our national security is at risk because someone forgot to close the damn door, we were never really secure.

You might say, “But Alex, what about doors into bathrooms? Surely, we need to protect the public from seeing dirty bathrooms and/or male body parts.”

No. No we don’t. Again, if you can’t turn around to close a door, you deserve to have your wang looked upon. And again, if, as a society, we have become so lazy that we’re not training people to close doors, we deserve an unwelcome peepshow.

Swinging doors are cloves of garlic to a person in a wheelchair - if a person in a wheelchair is a vampire. Door closers are prickly spines on that garlic - if garlic had prickly spines. Do this. Pick up one of those hand-held counters popular with amusement park line attendants. Carry it around with you one day and click it every time you go through a swinging door. Click it twice if the door has a closer. Fuck it; forget the counter. Just count how many times you have to open a swinging door in a day.

Imagine the number you get is the amount of times you spilled hot coffee on yourself. You would be justifiably afraid of coffee. But you can’t give up coffee, and you can’t NOT spill coffee on yourself. In order to function, every day is a constant barrage of messing your shirt and burning your nipples.

By the end of the day, I feared doors. I feared leaving my cubicle to go to the bathroom. I feared my daily [walk] to Starbuck’s. I feared going to the kitchenette to get a glass of water. I preferred gas pains and a screaming bladder to negotiating the path to the bathroom. I preferred the dull boredom of my computer screen to turning around in my cramped cubicle to look out the window.

But don’t let me discourage you from doing a similar exercise, especially for charity. I’ll do it again next year if only to remind myself how the smallest things can be huge for someone else.

Aside from trying to stay focused at work, there has been a brewing development in the household over the last 6 months. Most of my thoughts have been aimed toward it, but I can’t yet let it out of the bag.

But I can share two news items, one minor and the other a little more major than the midpoint between minor and major. The minor item is that my literature class is over. I can start reading whatever I want again.

The item that is a little more major than the midpoint between minor and major is that I’ve been selected to be the YAF (Young Architects Forum) Communications Editor for the AIA. I haven’t been given the complete details of what will be expected of me. What I do know is I’ll be responsible for producing 6 bi-monthly issues of a newsletter and on-line content. Or editing content that’s given to me. I’m not sure. It’s a paid gig, and in a way I can say I’m in journalism now…I think.

To apply for the position, I had to send in some writing samples and collect some letters of recommendation. The fact that I was chosen gives me a sense that I might be able to make a living with this writing thing. Or it gives me a big boost of confidence. Or both. I’m looking at journalism schools right now, but I can’t talk too much more about that because of the aforementioned gag rule currently in effect.

I’m dying to know if I was the only applicant. That would suck.