Drumming about drumming

DRUMMING ABOUT DRUMMING

Aureli:

“The “silence” of Mies’s architecture has often been interpreted by historians and critics as reflecting and incorporating the uprooting nature of modernity while defining a critical distance from it.

He gathers a mob of writers who make this proposition about Mies: Tafuri, Cacciari, Hays, Mertins, Wallenstein. I find it completely implausible to see Mies as a critical, ironic or even subversive figure. What exactly is this ‘critical distance’ Mies maintains from modernity? Was Mies actually critical of modernity? I was reminded of this from Graham Harman:

“there are those who remain especially intrigued by artworks about art, films about filming, self-referential cabaret shows, fireworks that explode into shapes of themselves, dog biscuits in the form of dogs, and drummers who drum songs about drumming – a kind of ‘drumming at the limit.’ In each case, the supposed cleverness comes from the fact that the activity in question not only happens, but also refers to itself ‘as’ what it is. But this fashionable trend only represents the worst of metaphysics in the old-fashioned sense, since it declares self-reflexivity to be a privileged moment in the relation between the two faces of being” (p. 75).

Being critical is one possibility of architecture, but the attempt to make criticality the defining characteristic of architecture, as Aureli does, is just strange.

Krauss versus Latour on the singularity of objects.

KRAUSS/EISENMAN VS. LATOUR/HARMAN ON OBJECTS

Peter Eisenman on the “autonomy” of architecture:

[Rosalind] Krauss has said that to preserve the singularity of objects we must cut them off from their previous modes of legitimation. This idea will be seen to be important to any project of autonomy (p. 90).

This is completely counter to Bruno Latour’s description of objects (he calls them “actants” to remove the connotation of passivity), which is that they become progressively more singular as they increase their attachments. Harman describes Latour’s position:

Actants are always completely deployed in their relations with the world, and the more they are cut off from these relations, the less real they become (p. 19).

Krauss’s statement (and Eisenman’s use of it) seem naïve to me. Overcoming oppressive modes of legitimation and authority is great, but to extend this to the general claim that objects are more themselves by being more cut off is essentialism.

Critical architecture.

Aureli:

“It is precisely within the rise of the space of urbanisation that architecture as the project of the finite, and thus separated, form(s) can be read as critical” (p. x)

The idea that architecture should be primarily critical is to me like saying that all writing should be critical. In my experience, it’s always accompanied by the argument that architecture is and should be a privileged subset of building—an exclusive art.

Aureli on the city versus urbanisation.

AURELI ON THE CITY VS. URBANISATION

Pier Vittorio Aureli, in The Possibility of an Absolute Architecture (2011), distinguishes between the city, “the political dimension of coexistence”, and urbanisation, “the economic logic of social management” (p. x). The city is a political space, and urbanisation is an economic space. He claims urbanisation is managerial, driven by private concerns, oriented towards infrastructural functions, and tending towards a totalitarian whole. The city, by contrast, he characterises as agonistic, public, self-critical, and immune to totalitarianism.

Aureli justifies this distinction by appeal to the Greek one between polis, governed by technē politikē and oikos, governed by technē oikonomikē. He finds this reflected (through a little semantic gymnastics) in the Roman civitas and urbs. This appeal-to-the-wisdom-of-the-ancients isn’t convincing. It’s far from clear that Greek or Roman cities provide a good model for contemporary cities or politics.

To my mind, distinguishing between politics and economics is wrong and completely artificial. If that’s all Aureli’s distinction between cities and urbanisation rests on, then I think that’s wrong too.

Bryant’s “The Democracy of Objects”.

Levi Bryant is one of the most interesting philosophers writing at the moment, in my opinion. Like Harman, Bennett, and Morton, he rejects ‘correlationism’: the belief that whenever we talk about anything, we are only talking about how humans relate to that thing. He is a realist:

[Ontological realism] is the thesis that the world is composed of objects, that these objects are varied and include entities as diverse as mind, language, cultural and social entities, and objects independent of humans such as galaxies, stones, quarks, tardigrades and so on. Above all, ontological realisms refuse to treat objects as constructions of humans. (p. 18)

I think a perspective like this is essential for thinking about cities, infrastructures and public space. His The Democracy of Objects has just been published (2011). You can download a digital copy from the Open Humanities Press, or purchase a hard-copy. Great cover art by Tammy Lu.

Alexander off-balance

ALEXANDER OFF-BALANCE

Christopher Alexander:

“this power we have is so firmly rooted and coherent in every one of us that once it is liberated, it will allow us, by our individual, unconnected acts, to make a town, without the slightest need for plans, because, like every living process, it is a process which builds order out of nothing.” (p. 14)

Alexander believed that the built environment should be a natural production. Towns and buildings should emerge naturally, like birds make nests. The things we make should themselves “be” nature. But his concept of nature relies heavily on the idea that nature finds equilibrium, conceived as a basically static (or at least, very slowly changing) condition. This is evident in his example of trees balanced against the force of the wind:

“These trees and branches are so made that when the wind blows they all bend, and all the forces in the system, even the violent forces of the wind, are still in balance when the trees are bent; and because they are in balance, they do no harm, they do no violence. The configuration of the trees makes them self-maintaining. But think about a piece of land that is very steep, and where erosion is taking place… The system is self-destroying; it does not have the capacity to contain the forces which arise within it.” (p. 31)

Alexander seems to intend that we understand the stable condition of the tree-ground-wind system as better than the system in flux. But what sense does it make to call erosion unnatural? What might appear to be the disorderly and chaotic disruption of the hillside might, from the perspective of the entire watershed and river-system of the region, be part of an ordering or patterning process. I was reminded of the second episode of Adam Curtis’s All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace (2011), which points out that natural equilibrium was an unexamined hypothesis in the ecological and cybernetic thinking of the sixties and seventies. There are many states a system can find itself in, of which equilibrium is only one. Alexander wanted us to believe that if we model our built environments on nature, they will inevitably be balanced and harmonious, but in fact he illicitly imported harmony and balance into his very definition of nature—balance is a premise which forms his idea of nature (and thence building); not a quality of nature.

Where does Christopher Alexander go wrong?

WHERE DOES CHRISTOPHER ALEXANDER GO WRONG?

Where does Christopher Alexander go wrong? In A Pattern Language (1977) he describes a design methodology that tries to capture the apparently spontaneous success of vernacular building:

“The elements of this language are called patterns. Each pattern describes a problem  which occurs over and over again in our environment, and then describes the core of the solution to that problem, in such a way that you can use this solution to that problem a million times over, without ever doing it the same way twice.” (p. x)

Each pattern describes a particular relationship that can be manifested any number of ways. For example, the pattern ‘Arcades’ specifies that paths along the edges of buildings should offer continuous shelter; and the pattern ‘Necklace of Community Projects’ specifies that town halls should be connected to a ring of facilities for community groups. So far, so good. But somewhere down the line he gets to arguing that we should only use warm colours inside, that all farms must be public parks, and that its impossible to make a comfortable space using thin columns. I react strangely to his work: his desire for a generative theory of the built environment sounds great, but somewhere along the line it gets weird and ends up being retrograde.

Horizon as Object

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Hyperobjects can be partially mapped or traced out as networks of effects—as transformational spaces. The relationship between horizons and the transformational space of hyperobjects is neatly articulated by Gregory Bateson, who gives the example of a blind man making prosthetic use of a cane:

“Where do I start? Is my mental system bounded at the handle of the stick? Is it bounded by my skin? Does it start halfway up the stick? But these are nonsense questions. The stick is a pathway along which the transforms of difference are being transmitted. The way to delineate the system is to draw the limiting line in such a way that you do not leave things inexplicable. If what you are trying to explain is a given piece of behaviour, such as the locomotion of the blind man, then, for this purpose, you will need the street, the stick, the man; the street, the stick, and so on, round and round. But when the blind man sits down to eat his lunch, his stick and its messages will no longer be relevant — if it is his eating that you want to understand.” (Bateson, 2000: 465)

The network of transformations is continuous, and the drawing of a horizon, a “limiting line” is necessarily a severing of some connections. Horizons are provisional, belonging to a particular encounter with a network of transformations. There is no ultimate horizon, because there is no end to the effects and transformations that could be included in the network.

 

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Hard Problems

A symposium held a couple of weeks ago by the Division of Social Science at Harvard asked: what are the hard problems in Social Science? Referring to mathematician David Hilbert, who in 1900 set out what he saw as the twenty-three most fundamental and vexing mathematical problems facing the field; the symposium asks for an analogous set of the ‘hardest unsolved problems in social science’, in order ‘to inspire new research’ and ‘serve to focus funding and inform policy.’ The symposium has prompted others to ask what the hard problems in their own respective fields might be.

Is such a list of questions possible in the field of architectural research? Would a problem-focused approach too constrained for a design field? Is there a sufficiently-widely-accepted epistemology of architecture that can support a question like this? My own answers would be ‘no’ and ‘with reservations, yes’ for the second and third of these questions. Although I’m undecided on the first question, it does seem to me that the concept of hard problems could have some value in focusing architectural research.

So what are the hard problems in architecture? What is a problem in architecture? How do we decide what makes a problem difficult? How is difficulty related to importance? How do we know whether a proposed solution is actually a solution?

Against Interdisciplinarity

I really don’t get the idea of interdisciplinarity. Why not just study what you want to study, or practice the way you want to practice? People who claim to be interdisciplinary start by drawing a whole lot of circles on the ground, and then saying they stand in outside or between them. But why draw the circles? And if other people are the ones drawing the circles, why reinforce them? Of course, I’ve never had the misfortune of being marginalised or ejected from an institution for not upholding the party lines (I know some have, and i’m sure this has been traumatic).

Off the top of my head, there might be two factors at play here, belonging to the culture of academic postmodernism. Firstly, certain strands of late postmodernism (or at least certain strands of it) valued marginality. This began with the desire to give attention and voice to the marginalised, but ended up in valuing marginality in and of itself. Secondly, the concept of ‘critique’ as it is deployed in Critical Theory, is based on having something to subvert or deconstruct; and disciplinary boundaries with their institutional politics are ripe for this.

Anyway, I just feel like interdisciplinarity is such a negative, subservient concept. The Deleuzio-Guattarian concepts of the plateau or the rhizome seems much more valuable: open, fluid, and not defining themselves by what they aren’t. </vent>