Plantation 1

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I’ve been thinking about heterogenous assemblages, and the way that nonhuman things relate to one another. So the idea here is that the derelict washing machines would rust slowly into the ground, providing iron and other nutrients for the soil, and habitat for the rabbits. The rabbits eat and breed quickly, but bamboo is able to recover quickly from being gnawed. Bamboo is also known to be a bioabsorber, so the more toxic materials such as lead and pvc contained by the washing machines can be trapped and prevented from polluting the soil. Rabbits aerate the ground with their burrows, and bamboo stabilises the soil. Although the plantation has little direct benefit for humans, and may even be unsightly (bamboo, rabbits, and derelict washing machines are all counted as pests in some locations), they are anticipated to form a coherent network.

The drawing contains one rabbit for each washing machine, in case anyone wanted to keep count.

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Plantation 1: Bamboo, rabbits, derelict washing machines, Carl Douglas, 2010. Pencil on paper, 594x841.

Afternoon House II

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Afternoon House II 2006 / 2009, pencil on film, 594x841mm.

This was published in Architecture NZ (#6/2009). Tony van Raat of Unitec’s SCALA invited a group of participants who he felt represented the ‘edges’ of architecture in NZ. I’m not sure how edgy mine, or any of the other work actually is, but I was very pleased to be included. Afternoon House II was mostly drawn in 2006, and was revisited mostly for cleaning up and reformatting in 2009.

The Afternoon House series is an ongoing research project leveraging belated or obsolete architectural techniques and ideas to explore the way that architecture makes world-order perceptible. What is the nature of the world, and how do we fit into it? Is it a chaos to be protected from? An ecology we must not upset? A pleasure-garden to marvel at? A blank canvas? A pool of resources with economic value? Architecture answers this question over and over again. Andrea Palladio, for example, believed in a stable and orderly world, with humans its most important occupant. Thus his Villa Rotonda is an orientation device, a compass rose inhabited by a rational and dignified subject. Postmodern philosophy, by contrast, tended to describe the world as essentially incomprehensible. For some this was intoxicating, a world of unrestricted play; while for others it was frightening, a world without ethics or purpose. This view, premised on disconnection and fragmentation has given way in the twenty-first century to interconnection and complexity: ecologies, networks, programs.

Afternoon House II is a revision of Palladio’s Villa for a world he could not imagine. It consists of a black shell of layered in-situ concrete, enclosed, partitioned, and furnished in light timber and fine steel joinery. The shell is formed by linear rhythms of solid and void. One rhythm establishes three semi-circular spaces: a library at the east end, a salon, and a dining room. As these spaces intersect with the niches, vestibules, and skylights of the longitudinal corridor, they break up the mass of the house, allowing the afternoon sun to break in. Complexity develops as simple rhythms slip in and out of phase with each other, converge and interfere. Although each pattern is rigorous and repetitive, no two of the resulting spaces are identical.

This abstract geometry played out in plan may seem to be an intellectual exercise. After all, nobody experiences a plan, do they? In response to the high level of conceptual abstraction in late twentieth-century architecture, a number of architects have emphasised the direct realities of perception – the warmth of sun on stone, the fragrance of a garden drifting in through a window, the weight of a door. This school is sometimes referred to as ‘haptic’ or ‘phenomenological’. But this is a misunderstanding of perception (to say nothing of phenomenology). Perception is a cognitive operation. Your eyes, for example, are not cameras sending fully-formed pictures to the brain. Sight is an active process. Streaming data from at least two types of optical sensor in the eyeball, the brain constructs an approximate working model which is continually being refined or redefined. New sensory data is either assimilated to the model or requires it to be updated. Gaps, ambiguities, or contradictions in the model prompt the brain to direct further sensory resources to the problem. The sense that you are seeing one cohesive world is an illusion your neural systems work very hard to produce. No perception is ‘direct’, and there is no reason to accord simple perceptions a greater degree of reality than complex perceptions, like that of a plan. Although the plan is not sensed directly in the way that heat, darkness, or solidity are sensed, it is nonetheless perceived. It is not a matter of the mind against the senses: it is incorrect to oppose cognitive order and sensory experience. Experience is also cognitive and order sensory.

Palladio wants the body’s model of the Villa to coincide directly with the geometry used to construct it. This order is to be disclosed as quickly as possible: lucid geometry presented directly to the mind’s eye. Beyond seeing the house, he wants us to recognise it (believing wrongly that in this way the rational mind, feeding on sensory data, had access to ultimate natural realities). The perception of architectural order in Afternoon House II is the slow subconscious piecing together of consistencies and inconsistencies, repetition and difference. It may take some time – many visits, or the intimate engagement of long-term inhabitation – to form a coherent model. Rather than a centring machine like the Villa Rotonda, Afternoon House II is carved by orders that originate at a distance, and are only passing through on the way to somewhere else.

Afternoon House II, hand drawn, generated in plan and devoid of context, is belated in every respect but one: insistence on a world of complexity perceived from within, not Renaissance anthropomorphism or postmodern fragmentation. It aims to be the inverse of architecture that is radical in form but conservative in substance.

Operative Drawing I: Miralles

Some notes on a drawing by Enric Miralles of his Calle Mercaders Apartment (1995), previously noted here.

1. The drawing lacks heirarchy. Miralles has no interest in establishing a clear heirarchical reading of the drawing. There is no variation in line weight (although occasionally, he doubles lines closely enough to approximate a thicker stroke). Mobile objects: tables, doors, etc. are not accorded any status distinct from stationary objects. The swings of doors and cupboards are not given a lighter line. Even the heirarchy of drawings is flattened: this drawing was not one of a set, and in it elevations are projected into the same plane, even the same paper space as the plan. Indoor-outdoor are not accorded any heirarchy: the drawing spills into outdoor spaces.

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2. Miralles describes the apartment as a heterogenous collection of interacting elements. “Learning how to live with a given, second-hand, structure, like rummaging through the pockets of an old coat, setting the things one finds on a clean surface.” The apartment is historically layered. Each element has its own allegiances. Miralles speaks of “a profound conviction that projects are never finished, but merely enter successive phases in which we perhaps do not have direct control over them or perhaps are reincarnated in other projects of ours.” He describes this as a game of differentials like chess, in which each piece is freighted with its own regulations, capabilities.

“This house works like a chessboard. The pieces move according to the rules of each object… They must always return to the starting point to restart the game… Hence the floor, which set the existing items back in front of the windows… or the paint on the walls, which reveals the discovered fragments, are the rules of the game… Amongst them, moving in an orderly fashion, are tables, books, chairs…”

It has become common to contrast Go and Chess (at least since Deleuze and Guattari did so in A Thousand Plateaus); Go being a game of essentially equivalent and valueless points used to create operative configurations, while chess is a game of innate properties. For Miralles elements are not equal: each is heavily freighted, with allegiances that lie outside the game. There is a process of learning to live with givens, things drawn from the pocket of a coat, things that come from somewhere else, import their own contexts, embody their own rules.

3. This heterogenous field is not a playground of juxtaposed references; nor a chaos or an aporia. I want to distinguish this drawing from two other types of differential field: the semantic field of early postmodernism in architecture, and the fragmentary field of deconstructivist architecture. These are fine distinctions that need some work, because naturally there is overlap. Unlike Moore’s Piazza d’Italia or Stirling’s Staatsgalerie, for example, which are Jencksian fields of reference, Miralles’s drawing of the Calle Mercaders apartment, with its high degree of abstraction, does not juxtapose references. Nor is there the kind of fragmentation or deformation at work that there is in Morphosis or Gehry. It is a field of differences, but without the kenotic impliation that this difference opens onto an aporia.

4. Miralles claims his drawings operate in a non-representative register. He claims his drawings are not representations but operations. They are not a static description of an idea originating elsewhere. The drawing is a kind of calculation.

“I feel I am a participant in the tradition that prizes doing, manufacturing, as the source of thought… Shifts and turns make the paper lose its sheet nature. It is a working structure. Its rules are those of economics and commodity. On these planes there is no concern to represent… it is a task of multiplying a single intuition: of seeing it appear in all its possible forms… of aligning acrobatically, like a game, all the rays of lines that go in a direction… of keeping all the aspects of one’s project on paper. It is not a question of accumulating data, but of multiplying them; of enabling what you had not thought of to appear”

5. Miralles insists on the animate qualities of the elements of the project. Elements have a ‘life’ or rules of their own. If we recall Latour’s proposition that we should acknowledge action on the part of nonhumans, this stops sounding like anthropomorphism or psychological projection. A line across a page divides it. It doesn’t simply represent or refer to a division. Once the line is in place, there is no preventing it from dividing, or at least from differing. Miralles expresses something similar: “I would say this is not so much a line as a beam. A project consists of knowing how to tie up multiple lines, multiple ramifications that open up in different directions”.

These notes formed part of my recent paper for the Interstices Traction of Drawing symposium. They are part of an attempt to think drawing strictly in terms of its operation, something I think is desirable for two reasons. Firstly, by dodging a basically hermeneutic framework, it allows us to avoid unproductively elevating expressivity to a primary role; expression being one among many of the operations performed by drawing. Secondly, it allows for a better reconciliation with some attractive materialist theories (on which more later).

The Traction of Drawing

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I was at the The Traction of Drawing, the 2009 Interstices Under Construction Symposium last weekend. It’s good to see the Under Construction event becoming established – this time there was a sizable international contingent. Tina Engels-Schwarzpaul and Ross Jenner did a great job of organising it (and simultaneously editing issue 10 of Interstices, based on last year’s symposium On Adam’s House in the Pacific ).

New Zealand schools of architecture, and the Auckland University school in particular, has had a long fascination with architectural drawing. In the mid-nineties there was some amazingly skilled work: (I was personally conscious of the shadows of Peter Wood, Russell Lowe, Simon Twose and Andrew Barrie), some acute theorising of representation and post-coloniality, and some excellent teaching (in Sarah Treadwell’s drawing lectures in my first year at architecture school I understood very little, but remembered an enormous amount). The Traction of Drawing was, in this respect, a return visit to familiar terrain.

Sadly, there was little new at the event. In light of this symposium, I think that by the turn of the century, theorising about drawing had become consolidated: the arguments sketched, positions established. Catherine Ingraham’s Architecture and the Burdens of Linearity (1998), Robin Evans’ The Projective Cast (1995), and Stan Allen’s Architecture: Practice, Technique, Representation (2000, just released in a second edition, 2009) are the texts I find most compelling from this period. Ingraham indicates the philosophy of linearity implicit in much of architectural drawing, while Evans, with his characteristic lucidity, explores the mechanics of projective drawing and Allen insists that drawing not be artificially divorced from the context of architectural practice.

The Traction of Drawing felt dated, particularly with regard to computer drawing, which, unfathomably, some people seemed to think was somehow more problematic than any other mode of drawing. We were treated to the antique spectacle of some people standing up for ‘the digital’, others for the humanising value of hand-drawing, and others charitably proposing some kind of ‘hybrid’. Hybridity is an essentialist concept that assumes the existence of the discrete identites it merges, when in fact the extent to which drawing, modelling, simulating, rendering, geometry etc are actually differentiable as practices in the first place is precisely what is in question. Few people seemed interested in examining actual differences between computer- and hand-drawing; and there was a dearth of reference to current literature. Some bad critical habits were on display: unjustified reliance on puns and etymologies; and the tendency to build towering theoretical edifices on carefully selected edge-cases (a glaring fault of my own paper).

Drawing is ill-defined. So what? What is the desirability of establishing this kind of definition anyway? What is gained from maintaining a clearly demarcated thing called ‘drawing’? Albert Refiti’s paper, ‘Against Drawing’ described the construction of a Samoan fale as a kind of drawing in space that was not resolved as the projection of a plane, but as the aerial trajectory of a suspended curve. To call this a hybrid of drawing and modelling is to impose a categorical distinction that makes no sense in the cultural-technical context. Andrew Barrie commented at one point that the tendency to consider drawing in terms of a single authorial figure was an historians way of seeing things – and it is possible that the desire to maintain categorical distinctions like ‘drawing’ is a similar historians bias. Why defend drawing? Drawing doesn’t need to be defended from anything.

The keynote speaker, Marco Frascari, was of little interest, unfortunately (I didn’t attend his wrap-up comments on Sunday). Some of Professor Frascari’s writings (‘The Tell-the-tale Detail‘ and Monsters of Architecture especially) are excellent. Here, however, behind enjoyable although dubiously-useful latinate neologisms such as ‘facture’ and ‘sapience’, his argument was unimpressive. He began with the idea that architects are neurologists because they act on the nervous system. But then there was a blurring of emotion and sense, and  the discussion collapsed back onto the assertion that certain drawings provoke emotion and others don’t (from his examples, I had the uncomfortable feeling that he meant blurry bits were emotional and straight-line drawings weren’t). The materiality of drawings, Frascari argued (the weight of their lines, the texture of their surfaces) are to be savoured for their emotional stimulation. But it isn’t recalcitrant Cartesianism to observe that architectural drawings operate in other ways than the direct pleasuring of the embodied viewer; commonly (although not necessarily) notating or foreshadowing an act of construction in a higher-dimension space. (In fact, it occurs to me that projective drawing is not really Cartesian at all – it certainly isn’t Euclidean). To neglect these other operations of architectural drawing in favour of the pleasure of the singular drawn artefact is falling back on a comfortable auratic elitism.

The session I found most interesting was the final one (possibly because I had already given my presentation, so I could relax!). Andrew’s discussion of Japanese folded-paper drawings accessed a practice unfussed about maintaining distinctions between drawing and modelling. Mike Davis’s demonstration of how drawing operates in a host of ways in his own current practice was refreshing because it classified drawing by forms and degrees of abstraction rather than media. Christine McCarthy, noting the origination of section drawings in renaissance anatomical practice and ideas about architecture as a body, catalogued current medical diagnostic techniques which have supplanted cutting (MRI, CAT, PET), raising the possibility of new parallel architectural drawings. I almost laughed out loud when, in response to yet another lengthy question about whether computers are stealing the souls of our drawings, Christine simply replied that in a few years nobody would care, so it wasn’t a big deal. This session at least felt like it was taking place in the present.

Interstices has always had high academic standards, but it needs to continually update itself. In my view, The Traction of Drawing was too hidebound to assist with this.

Mandelbulb

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The Mandelbrot and Julia sets are two-dimensional fractals that most of us have wasted some time zooming in and out of. The Mandelbulb is a three-dimensionalisation of the Mandelbrot set. Not sure if it’s actually mathematically a pure fractal, but it’s freaky awesome inside! More 3D fractals here and a low-tech fractal by sevensixfive here.

Polar Transformation of the Villa Rotonda

The Villa Rotonda (1550, completed 1591) is a representation of an anthropomorphic world.

“If we consider this beautiful machine of the world, with how many wonderful ornaments it is filled, and how the heavens, by their continual revolutions, change the seasons according as nature requires, and their motion preserves itself by the sweetest harmony of temperature; we cannot doubt but that the little temples we make, ought to resemble this very great one, which, by his immense goodness, was perfectly compleated with one word of his.” (Palladio, 1570, in Norberg-Schiulz, 1980: 127)

The circular space at the centre, which Palladio derived from the Pantheon, figures completeness and order. All the rooms of the house refer back to this stable centre. Another way to look at this is that the central space doubles the outer world in miniature. What happens if, rather than echoing the world in a rationalised way, we make the representation of the world and the world itself coincide, like they do in the legend of the 1:1 map.

By subjecting the plan of the Villa Rotonda to a polar transformation, we can effectively unroll it.  The static closure of the circle is replaced by open-ended linearity. The house becomes a demarcating line: the porches face one way, and all the passages lead through to an infinite interior. What happens to your fancy Renaissance humanism now, Andrea? Huh?

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rotonda plan polar

The result is different if the plan is rotated 45º : before / after

Contingency

In lieu of spitting on the carpet in the doorway, Vek nodded politely and left the Risk Manager’s office. He waited until he was around the corner before muttering angrily at such a preposterous waste of his time. It was obscene to be managed like this. Vek resented the insinuation that the way he had been managing his department for seventeen years was suddenly risky. And what made him irate was that it didn’t seem like the Risk Manager actually thought this. He had been apologetic, the ridiculous little crab, as if it wasn’t really him asking for thirty-odd pages of forms and boilerplate. He had even rolled his eyes at one point, which Vek took to be implying that the two men were in the same boat really, driven by managerial whims. That it was the system, the institution, that somehow required Vek to stop working for the three days it would take him to fill in enough rectangles to quell its anxieties. As if he, the Risk Manager, wasn’t the institution! As if somehow writing things in a rectangle on a form made them comprehensible and controllable! Planes fell out of the sky some days!

Unwilling to go back to the workshop after his meeting, Vek slunk off home. Stopping on the corner close to his rented flat, he pushed through the grubby glass door of a questionable-looking eating establishment and searched his pockets to see what he could afford for dinner. Not finding much, he settled for a pie and a drink taken at random from the fridge. In the back corner, where it was warm, he settled on a bench: the pie was ok, but the drink tasted terrible. He squinted at the label trying to find a description in English of its contents, but when this proved futile he drank the rest anyway. Reaching into his bag, he took out a piece of paper and a pencil. Exhausted by consistency, he leaned over the page and began to draw the plan of the apartment he would build one day.

Enric Miralles, <em>Apartment Calle Mercaders</em> (1995)

Enric Miralles, Apartment Calle Mercaders (1995)

Gunnar Asplund, Villa Snellman (1917-18)

I am in awe of this plan! Just look at it. In overview its not that complicated: a two-storey main block with a single-storey wing meeting it at a slight angle in the corner. Rectangular rooms off a couple of corridors. But look more closely: everything is tweaked. Look at the shape of the upstairs corridor! That circular room isn’t actually a circle or an ellipse—it’s amorphous—and look at the shape of the the entry to the room on the left of it! Good grief, is that another stair squeezed in to the sliver of space left over from the corridor? Notice the thickening of the walls where the two wings meet downstairs. Look at the three doors in the first room of the smaller wing—they’re all different sizes. And look how the window spacings slip out of alignment in the garden elevation! The walls enclosing the bath upstairs!

Villa Snellman, Djursholm (near Stockholm), Erik Gunnar Asplund, 1917-18.

Pictures of the house on flickr ]


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snellman djursholm elevations

Background Noise

Frances Richardson, <em>Paradise Lost</em>, 2002

Frances Richardson, Paradise Lost, 2002

I’ve been meaning to write something about Byzantine interiors, but I’m working to some deadlines right now. Instead, here are a couple of drawings by Frances Richardson. Her drawings are made up of thousands of tiny little markings, pluses and minuses, a kind of zero-point-energy field. The distinction between figure and ground can only be made through a kind of averaging: the figure is often no more than a slight disruption of the background. Foreground and background are not different orders of material, just different configurations of the same material. Figures arise out of a field of difference. Above, Paradise Lost, in which Richardson renders only the background of an Orthodox icon, revealing the spatiality of the halos and frame. Below, 020602, is how a hallucinating particle physicist sees a forest.

Frances Richardson, <em>020602</em>, 2002

Frances Richardson, 020602, 2002