aubrey bader

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102 Manifesto: Fixing the Broken

“[12] Architecture shouldn’t be confrontational but conversational.”

And isn’t it ironic that when reacting to this statement, some people also become confrontational? Therein lies our problem.

Although this point has been phrased as a command, it is more of a commentary on society and on the issues underlying some of the other points made in our class manifesto. We live in a society that thrives on competition, consumerism, and (yes) capitalism. We are taught that in order to be successful, we must win, beat out our competitors, our colleagues, our friends. And architecture is no exception.

Today, it is some of the flashiest, most extravagant and outrageous architects whose designs make headlines—make it into the consciousness of the public. While many are indeed great architects, they thrive on a broken system, a system that rewards their wild oft-theme-park-like designs more than the practical and sustainable designs of other great but lesser-known architects. This system is based on the practice of confrontation—throwing the architecture boldly in our faces and forcing us to take it all in.

I recently added an undergraduate research colloquium in which one of the presenters discussed Superkilen Park designed by BIG, Topotek1, and Superflex in Copenhagen, Denmark. Her research was through the lens of sociology and urban planning, and she looked into how the locals perceived and interacted with the park, now a global tourist destination. Her findings were intriguing; while the park attracted visitors from all over, the locals barely used it and say they preferred the other initial design concept: a more traditional park with trees and greenery instead of brightly colored rubber. (It was a transformation not too far from Rem Koolhaus’ description of how “Indian barbarism gave way to European refinement;” the outsider thinking they know what’s best and the natives helpless to stop them.) Sometimes, often times, boldness in architecture is emphasized over practicality, and this is a result of the confrontational system.

Transitioning out of this system of confrontation to conversation will be difficult. To be realistic, this point should probably read as “[12] Architecture should be less confrontational and more conversational.” But in order to fully achieve this, it will involve fulfilling all of the preceding points in the manifesto—especially increasing public understanding of architecture—and would go against the flow of our current competitive, consumerist, capitalist society. But the rewards of conversational architecture would be immense. No longer would people stand for poor quality architecture—they would protest that places that don’t fulfill their needs (whether aesthetic or physical) be changed. They would stand up for architectural places of historic importance. And most importantly, they would always have a non-weather-related conversation starter: “So, what do you think of this building?”

(image source: http://www.visitcopenhagen.com/copenhagen/superkilen-park-gdk707822)

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4.20.17 | Time[scape]lab. CONFABULATORES NOCTURI columbarium, an upturned chessboard - 2010

Pre-observations:

1. This looks like a plan/overhead view of a building and pavilion.

2.  The top left corner of the pavilion is cracked--because of old age?

3. The majority of the bottom of the building is black--cloaked in darkness.

Post-observations:

This image is actually a montage (not collage because it’s digital and flat) of a plan (top half) and a section (lower half) of a columbarium with a large amount of cut earth/dirt shown with the dark void. The cracked top corner refers to the poem by T.S. Eliot titled “Wasteland.”

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04.18.17 | Children in Liverpool - 1939

Pre-observations:

1. It’s a black and white photograph of children wearing gas masks probably for a “gas drill.”

2. It’s a  surreal image because gas masks are usually worn by soldiers--not children.

3. It’s probably in an elementary school and the kids are holding hands--a peaceful gesture with a harsh mask.

Post-observations:

This image is surreal because of the juxtaposition of the children and child-like gestures with the gas masks. Taken in London, England during WWII, the children in this photograph are oblivious to their bug-like, other-worldly looks. This photograph is a gem of photojournalism because it so vividly conveys the reality, the context in which it was taken.

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Amazing Thing #5: Visualize

Language barriers frustrate me. I wish they were invisible, but then how boring would the culture of our world be? It would be monotonous, too similar to celebrate our differences. I wish I knew Japanese and could’ve heard Kazuyo Sejima give her lecture in her native tongue because I know I would’ve been able to appreciate the ideas and concepts behind her architecture even more. The dominance of English, and its ability to diminish other languages, is a global phenomenon that I am not fond of. Nonetheless, the precedents I gleaned from her lecture were remarkable.

Her ability to connect the interior and exterior of her buildings was truly impressive and fluid. Her concept of multiple buildings in one enclosed space, with interstitial hallways reminded me of The Nashville Arcade, with its enclosed, street-level main hallway with multiple levels and a multitude of shops, but vastly more complex (and not for shopping!). The Nakamachi Terrace Library is one of those “volumed” buildings (those without roofs, deconstructivist in nature?) that contains multiple buildings within this membrane—its hallways an exterior of the interior structure. This concept of interior/exterior connection is also prominent in the Rolex Learning Center and Grace Farms River Building, but these buildings also prominently involved Sejima’s (seemingly) favorite material: concrete. With the precise curves of these structures, utilized to maximize this connection between interior and exterior, I have found a new appreciation for concrete—one that goes beyond the brutalist form of our (and many other US universities’) A+A building. By balancing this concrete with extensive bands of glass encompassing the space between the roof and floor concrete, she has created delicate, rising and falling forms with this robust material.

But beyond her incredible projects, the thing that struck me the most about Sejima’s pieces was that she didn’t intend to create novel forms of structure; she intended to find the best solution to a troublesome program for a space. And building off her personal set of principles and limitations (such as only creating “volumed” structures), her architectural designs have produced novel and innovative structures across the world. This reminded me of one of the topics covered during class: the honest process, and the artists Christo and Jeanne Claude. They set out principles and limitations to follow as artists and with these in mind began to imagine, draw, and construct their concepts—going through this honest process of design. Sejima does this too, in her own unique way, and in a way that has deservingly warranted her the Pritzker Prize.

(image from: https://www.pinterest.com/yasirsakr/kazuyo-sejimasanaa/ )

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Amazing Thing #4: Fireworks

I was running late. I grabbed my dinner and scurried over to the Music Building, but what? Where? I wasn’t in the right place. Duh, I thought to myself, a large choir wouldn’t fit in that fantastic little auditorium. Quickly, I rerouted myself to Cox Auditorium, where I could hopefully sneak in the back unnoticed. Once I arrived, I scanned the handout and found where they were in the order. I sank back into my chair, placed my dinner discreetly beneath by jacket in my lap and tuned in to the concert.

I had only learned about the concert a few days prior when my excited desk-mate (in studio, of course) started humming some of the songs they would be singing. She invited me to come, and I readily agreed, (trying to make up for all the times I missed my high school friends’ chorus concerts) although, I told her, I’d probably be late; there’s only so much time in the day to squeeze everything in.

Isn’t it funny? That I was there in support of my one friend, and nearly everyone else there came to support their one son, daughter, or friend, but really, we all end up supporting the collective. How often can we actually distinguish their voice from the others? Yet afterwards, we shower them with praises and hugs and flowers, when really, we are celebrating their part of the whole, the collective choir.

So now, after hugging and praising my friend, I must sing my praises for the collective:

I entered during a swinging, jamming piece titled “He’ll Make a Way,” and not only was the choir clapping, stomping, and swaying to the song, the conductor was too. It was quite a visual performance that only added to the auditory power of the piece, especially from the conductor. A quick glance at the bios of the conductors in the back of the handout lent me the perfect description of the conductor, Dr. Jaclyn Johnson: “energetic little firecracker.” Her presence alone lit up the stage and it was clear that this energy was being radiated to the entire choir. They were all feeling it, and you could almost feel the fireworks, the energy shooting off around the room. It was like walking through New York City, with skyscrapers exploding up, surrounding, and embracing you.

After this energetic, jovial piece, there was a transition, to the a-cappella groups: revolution and VOLume. To continue the New York City analogy, it was like transitioning from the sidewalk to the MET; each member of the a-cappella groups was a piece of fine art that was novel on its own yet when grouped with others it created a distinct tone, conversation, interplay of ideas and voices. And, like most art museums, I am drawn to specific pieces, parts of the whole collection, and in these a-cappella groups those are the beat-boxers. I think that it is an odd yet brilliant skill to possess, male or female, and even more brilliant are those who can suddenly transition from beat-boxing to singing without (literally) missing a beat—like a sculpture with a dynamic form, viewed differently from every angle.

But what I can find no NYC analogy for is the bittersweet sending off for the graduate conductor Roxanne Cabrera. As the women’s choir, conducted by Roxanne, finished their final piece, Dr. Batey, the choir director came out on stage with a chair and announced that there would be one more song, one that Roxanne did not know about. As the choir sang, Roxanne sat in the chair, weeping, being comforted by her superior, listening to the last song she would conduct at UT. It was a heartwarming moment; a moment so special I couldn’t help but be moved by the music and the emotions swirling in Roxanne and every member of the choir. They ended with a group hug, all 59 of them, and although the music ended, the memories, the fireworks and tears, would last forever.

(image from: http://www.music.utk.edu/choral/ )

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(Titles are Trivial:) The Honest Process

Wrappings,

beginning to imagine,

to see

in new ways

the old.

The dance

becomes art

as the blur of feet

turn into magic,

musical notes.

And the words

on the page

are suddenly

interrupted

by a scandalous

image.

We seek

the unexpected,

and, regardless,

it will find us.

           The “honest” process is one that I have thought long and hard about. Before Tuesday, I did not know it had its own name, title. My most lucid encounters with the honest process have been in our Drawing and Representation class this semester. A continuous theme for us has been “modeling the real”—therefore taking actual objects or movements and rendering them digitally. Due to my want of constant perfection, my mindset going in was to make a duplicate, a digital copy of my real-life things. But this wasn’t what we were supposed to aim for. The class isn’t called “Copying and Representation,” it’s called “Drawing and Representation” because through our drawings we are supposed to re-imagine the object, find new meaning by re-creating it in our own unique style. The Lite-Brite I modelled was no longer a Lite-Brite, but a digital object with more personality (especially in the exploded axon) than the real-life object could ever hope to have. And the photos, the ones where the light bleeds across the page, making the pegs come alive, are another representation of the re-imagined object.

This process of representation I now understand to be the honest process, and I now see the true value in this process that far outdoes copying. I see this process in the work of Christo and Jeanne Claude, whose drawings and actual pieces have drastically different meanings. Their website establishes these different meanings through creating sections on “realized projects” (with images of the preliminary drawings AND photos of the actual exhibits) and “projects not realized.” By celebrating the honest process of inventing the objects via drawing and then actualizing them in reality, Christo and Jeanne Claude have created a metaphor for what architecture school does and is:

The education of an architect is primarily drawing-based and focuses on the honest process—“creating the project (and inventing the object) through drawing while thinking;” contemplative and speculative drawing. The education relies heavily on the explanatory/ generative device called the diagram and utilizes this tool alongside the honest process to create drawings, not buildings. The actualization of almost every project completed will not occur during this education, rather that privilege is saved for the established (and fully educated) architect. 

So, for now, I can (and will) enjoy the process of collage and montage and digital rendering of structures and all the other ways possible to “escape the Excel spreadsheet” at UT and beyond.

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04.13.17 | Barnett Newman. Twelfth Station - 1965

Pre-observations:

1. It is a very simple, orthogonal drawing and part of it looks degraded.

2. There are only two colors: black and white, and they are in contrasting thin and thick blocks.

3. All the lines are vertical and the only large white area is on the far left side.

Post-observations:

Although the painting is in a simple, abstractionist style, it draws meaning from its context. It is one of a set of fourteen “Stations of the Cross” paintings that are as large as a human (and the small jagged edge is a purposeful tear in the paint/tape). Although their intent was outwardly religious, inwardly they are a commentary on the human condition. 

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04.11.17 | Nils-ole Lund. The Future of Architecture - 1979

Pre-observations:

1. The image is of an old abandoned car and building with a sunset in the background.

2. The parts of the image appear as distinct images collaged together.

3. White the sunset is a (weakly) warm yellow, the tone of the colors in the scene is dark and neglected.

Post-observations:

This image, referenced in a previous lecture by a guest speaker, displays a future dystopia in which knock-off Mies van der Rohe style skyscrapers are abandoned and decaying along with the remnants of automobiles in a desolate (desert) landscape. While it is a collection of images/parts, this collage as a whole is greater than the sum of its parts through the message it conveys--that good architecture (and society) will inevitably decay and fall into disrepair over time due to neglect.

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A Proper How-To: Another Digital

Computers bewilder me—I have no clue what goes on behind the screen I am staring at—but I think this is part of their magic, part of why our society is so obsessed with them in this Age of Technology. Erik Herrmann’s lecture taught me about current computers, and their past predecessors. His infusion of old with new (and new with old) in this lecture “Another Digital” have helped me grow in appreciation for how far technology has come and how user-friendly it has become (it’s only taken me months, weeks to learn new programs, versus years). And his research on pre-interface era computers was fascinating in that even without screens (interfaces) people were beginning to experiment with infusing art into computing. 

His explanation of computation versus computerization struck me as reminiscent of what Mark Stanley has reiterated all year long in our Drawing and Representation classes: we’re not trying to make an exact copy of real life in our models, we’re trying to re-imagine them in the software provided (typically Rhino). We should embrace and celebrate their differences because through these we see new and often unexpected things in our real-life model. This is what Erik defined as “computation” and this is what he promotes and what the pre-interface era computer-artists seeked. By distinguishing the difference between this and “computerization” (which is computer-aided design, meant to speed up and correct hand representational techniques), Erik has given me further insight into what a successful architect should seek to achieve while being educated in one of the many (but by far the best) Brutalist-building architecture schools in the US.

(image source: http://www.erikwherrmann.com/architecture/Eroded-Urbanism/)

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An Annunciated History: Art & Religion

I am religious; I go to church weekly. But I never really gave serious thought to the hugely important connection between art and religion. The Annunciation scenes (all five of them) are just one example of the amazing artwork produced in conjunction with religion. These two were—and are—intertwined in a symbiotic relationship that has spanned centuries. Before the written word existed, people were communicating and inscribing their histories in art—often drawings on cave walls or large boulders—and, too, these inscriptions tell us of the things they worshipped, the early proto-religions. Even after the written word was established in a culture, art played a key role in spreading the oft-religious values of the literate elite to the illiterate masses under their rule. Art as a tool to spread religious ideas and scriptures, and, like we discussed, art as a teacher, a priest or preacher. And I agree that no art can be called “primitive” because to the people whom it served, they considered it a higher power—a message that could be conveyed through the past, present, and future.

The next time I am home, and am walking through the sanctuary of my own church, I will certainly stop and look at the stained glass—the pretty colors and shapes I never really gave a second glance from my literate, educated position. I will look at them and try to learn from them. Learn the scripture and stories, yes, but try to look at them from an illiterate standpoint, a being only literate in the visual world of representation, and find that age-old connection between art and religion shown so well in The Annunciation “collection.”

(image source: http://www.stjamesperry.org/tours/stained-glass-tour/annunciation.aspx)

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4.6.17 | Max Bense & Georg Nees, Rot 19 - 1965

Pre-observations:

1. There are lots of tiny line drawings on the left, contrasted with an enlarged one on the right.

2. It appears to be images from a (German: “Bild 2 and 3″) book probably about a famous artist/architect.

3. All the tiny lines are overlapping and mainly orthogonal--creating a city-block-like overhead image.

Post-observations:

The line drawings weren’t actually done by a famous architect or artist or even human; they were done randomly with a plotter and some code. The images are from a magazine titled Rot (which means “red” in German) which was part of the computer art movement, which hoped to utilize the computer to create new forms of art--instead of simply enhancing/correcting hand representational techniques.

image source: http://dada.compart-bremen.de/docUploads/rot19k.pdf

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4.4.17 | Fra Filippo Lippi, The Annunciation - 1435/1440

Pre-observations:

1. There are two figures on two different sides of this painting.

2. The figures, separated by a wall, are facing each other, and one has wings and the other is praying (Mary and an angel?).

3. On the angel’s side it is light and windows are visible--unlike the other side--but both have a mysterious curved cropping in the top corners.

Post-observations:

This is an image of The Annunciation scene in which the angel Gabriel comes and tells Mary that she will bear a child (Jesus Christ). The lily Gabriel holds is a symbol of fertility and innocence and a sign that the child Mary will bear will be a boy. This painting was painted in the early Renaissance (therefore there is complexity to the depth of the painting) and was painted for a specific site (as a mural) which explains the strange curvature of the painting--it probably fit into a domed space.

image source: https://www.artsy.net/artwork/fra-filippo-lippi-the-annunciation

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Aperture

Like Freud discovered in his office, reflection can be powerful. The reflection of famous (framed) alumni through this window on the Clarence Brown Theater onto Hess Hall remind us of our roots; we all began our UT journeys as first-year, dorm-living students. And by giving us this view, this albeit dirty window provides us with a fresh, opaque connection to the Volunteer Family, past and present, and a bright shining light cast over our futures.

We often forget about the window—we press our faces up against the glass and gaze at the sights on the other side. But every so often, we are given a little reminder--a misplaced mustache, a faded sticker, that will appear day and night, just as the window does—that shows us the window deserves as much (if not more) attention than the sight on the other side. Without the window, there would be no “other side” to see, and for this we should be humbled.

The beauty of the window is its ability to convey information to both sides of its viewers—but what happens when one of these sides is taken away? To those who only use windows as frames, like a camera, to see through, it becomes null, nothing. But to the curious onlooker who sees the window in its ability as a reflector of light during daytime, it becomes a special opportunity to harness this ability and connect the window to its environment not by looking through but by looking at.

As a species, we cling to things we love—people, clothes, food dishes, etc.—and views are no exception. This window is reminiscent of one I photographed through two years ago of the Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island Ferry in New York City. The dirt on these windows was not from neglect but from love—because of how much people loved the views of Lady Liberty and of the outdoors (from the dark, artificially lit halls of McClung Tower and the HSS building).

The sadness of neglect, the loss of a connection to the outside because of a detrimental (and wet) connection. But in this loss, the window still holds strong in one of its other purposes—the bird’s eye view, and now, it is even stronger. Peering through the glass, you are suddenly flying, surveying the ground and, through the luck of your timing, discovering patterns and beauty in the mundane mowing of the lawn, mimicking the rounded green letters of the note.

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Unnatural History: Diane Fox Lecture

I was amazed. So little did I know about natural history museums, about taxidermy, about dioramas, about photography.

Where to begin?

I’ll begin with where it all began—for Diane Fox and for all the elements involved in the lecture: taxidermy. Frankly, taxidermied animals have always creeped me out—it’s the conflict between how alive they appeared to my eyes and how dead I knew they were in my mind. But now, understanding that these figures are no longer animals but rather art is somewhat soothing. Through the process of molding the animal’s form and placing its skin upon this mold, Carl Akeley created the “modern” taxidermy that is widely used today, and knowing this, my stomach doesn’t turn quite so much.

But Carl Akeley did more than taxidermy, he did dioramas, which I also contribute to the discomfort of the conflict between my eyes and brain. The dioramas placed the specimens in painted versions of their natural habitats with some of the specimens shaped in ways that displayed the activities the real animals would be doing—like swimming or having a tea party (maybe not under their own will, but possibly realistic). And he put these in museums where the public could view them and learn about them. By placing these dioramas in museums, Akeley and others who followed in his footsteps hoped to spread awareness for and about these animals and some of their plights. I find this gesture confusing—were they really killing animals to save them?

Regardless of their purpose, these dioramas have sprung up in natural history museums all over the world, and I do think there is a sincerity of intent in them. The taxidermied specimens found in natural history museums weren’t always simply for public education—they use to be used for physician’s education. Yes, the class field trips we went on to museums in elementary and middle school were once trips made by college-level students of medicine—for the doctor-hopefuls not of ten but of twenty or thirty years old. By adding this layer of history to the purpose of these museums, I think I will find myself more engaged and appreciative of every experience in them.

With all of this in mind, Diane Fox embarked on her photographic journey through the museums of the world. As an avid photographer myself, I really enjoyed learning about her process and the “restrictions” she placed on herself for this series and for her photography in general. I could relate to her “method of discovery,” which was to not stage a single piece, and rather find meaning and pleasure in photographing the instantaneous, because I often enjoy the same. The time spent searching for the exact right shot—be it one second or twenty minutes—adds to the depth of meaning in the shot. She also explained that her interest isn’t in recording the dioramas as a form of preservation, but instead she “adds another layer” to their story, and I see this in my own photography as well. It’s not about finding the all-encompassing shot but about finding that piece of the place that carries the most meaning. But one thing I do struggle with is framing—while she states that her photos are never cropped, I always find a way to “better” my images by cropping them. Maybe it has to do with patience, or probably it’s that Diane Fox is an amazing photographer that I can only aspire to be like some day. Why? Because her photographs of dioramas, the Unnatural History found in natural history museums, reincarnate life in these taxidermied specimens in ways I could’ve never imagined.

(image source: dianefoxphotography.com)

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Amazing Thing Three: Perceive

The Ewing Gallery has always been there, tucked away behind Einstein’s Bagels, but I had never actually been in the gallery until this semester. Twice I have gone now, and as they begin to install new exhibits, I am reflecting on the last—and definitely memorable—exhibits I saw.

The first thing to welcome you into the space was a woven sheet (blanket? curtain? rug?) that wasn’t just cloth—it contained plastics and even what looked like film. Probably not the most comfortable blanket, I’m guessing, but it didn’t have to be comfortable. All the colors of this odd sheet—from the florescent pink to the shiny black film—came together to create an aesthetically pleasing display and beckoning entrance to the gallery.

The Ewing Gallery is only one large room, divided by movable (and removable) walls, and oftentimes there is no clear path to follow through the space. This ambiguous circulation path allows visitors to freely wander through the space, following what catches their eye. Because of this individualized experience, after inspecting the woven sheet centered at the entrance, I found myself wandering away from my friends whom I was visiting with, as we were each intrigued by different exhibits.

As I began to explore the gallery, I could see the theme set in the woven sheet continuing throughout. The exhibits were a motley group of pieces utilizing mediums from trash—thrown away treasures such as Barbie jeep, to pottery, to painting, to video—an unexpected element that caught me by surprise as I explored the gallery further.

Two videos in particular caught my attention. The first was a video with animated people—loosely attached androgynous body parts with no facial features—who communicated with strange animal-like noises and whose body parts casually fell off in certain scenes. This was certainly not what we were expecting to see—or hear—in an art gallery, and while it was disturbing, slightly disgusting, and made us feel quite uncomfortable, I could not tear my eyes (or ears) away from the short video. The second video was also very strange, but its creator had included headphones in the exhibit, and so this video was much more personal. Instead of evoking revulsion, this video evoked a strong feeling of honor and sacrifice through the simultaneous escalation of both the chaos and carnage of the war scenes and the change in the classical music from piano (soft) to fortissimo (very loud). This video reminded me of how detrimental and costly war is to the lives of many, many people.

Often in these exhibits, I find myself wondering about the intent of the artist—or what their given assignment was. In architecture, we are given an assignment and later we must present what we’ve created to accomplish this assignment to a group of faculty. But in the Ewing Gallery, there is no presentation of the art pieces—not even a description of intent for each piece—only the name of the artist, their title of the piece, and the medium(s) used in the piece. In the Ewing Gallery, it is entirely up to the visitor’s ability to perceive meaning in each piece, and although this may sound trivial, I think it is something we, in architecture, must also face because after we have built our structures, we will leave and won’t be there to educate people on our intent. The Ewing Gallery may contain pieces from art students, but as an architecture major, I am still able to perceive and glean meaning from each of these exhibits.

(image from http://www.ewing-gallery.utk.edu/past-exhibitions/#bwg68/1431)

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Origami as Art & Science

As a child, origami frustrated me. I think it was because I have always been terrible at folding in straight lines, but I have also always been a perfectionist. I would try to make paper cranes, paper cups, or that silly four-sided finger game, but they would never turn out quite right—I wanted them to be perfect, and they simply never were.

Looking back now, if I had persisted a little bit longer in trying to learn origami, I probably would’ve learned to enjoy it—because I’ve learned that perfection in every tiny detail is exhausting and senseless. As long as the Gestalt—the whole piece put together—looks perfect, I am now satisfied, and after watching Between the Folds during class, I see the power of near-precision in quick, but purposeful folding as well. The time I spent during high school coloring sheet after sheet of graph paper with brilliantly bright colors and designs could very well have been spent folding paper, had my interests in origami flourished and had the available paper not have contained blue-inked grids but rather no lines at all.

Looking back, it all seems circumstantial—my interest in graph paper designs and my disinterest in folded paper. But while watching the film, I came to a moment of epiphany. I noticed that most of the great origami crafters chose to add color to their creations after creating them—so the color would be an additive element that complemented their figures—but I began to wonder about creating the color first, with its own unique design and intent, and then folding the design into an origami shape. This would create an interplay between two designs that could be seen in two different dimensions: the 3D of the origami creation and the 2D of the unfolded design—with the lines created by the folds interacting with the drawn design. This, I think would add even more to the amazing study of origami.

With these thoughts swirling through my mind, I watched the rest of the film, and as we explored the who, what, how, and where origami is used today, I was amazed by the complexities of forms created and also the implementations of origami in math, science, and other fields; it is an art form that can also be used in the laboratory and the Harvard classroom. And while they did not explicitly mention a connection to architecture in the film, I can see the similarities between learning origami and learning architecture. At first, it seems like you are following a set of rules carefully explained to you, but it is up to you how you interpret and respond to these rules. After mastering these rules, further exploration is required on your part to create your own set of internalized rules that you must follow in order to be successful. It is a difficult and time-consuming process both on the part of the architecture student and the origami crafter, but with persistence both can accomplish anything.

(photo of my original creation)

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03.23.17 | Luis Barragan. Chapel of the Capuchinas. Photograph. 1950s

Pre-observations:

1. The painting (?) has a vivid red tone in every element of it.

2. At the center of the painting is a simple cross and to the left is a nun (?) kneeling and praying towards it.

3. There are very few objects in the room (nun, cross, and candles) and so the largeness and emptiness of the space is heightened.

Post-observations:

The painting, but Luis Barragan is of the Chapel of the Capuchinas, and the vivid red tone is coming from a floor-to-ceiling window hidden behind the wall to the left of the cross. The idea is for this window to cast a shadow on the oddly placed cross—which is normally centered in the chapel on the altar—so that the shadow cast places the cross in its sacred spot on the altar. This odd placement forces the nun to alter her direction of prayer but in a meaningful and respectful way.