Tales from the Steppes

2004-01-08

4:04 p.m.
murky waters of space

As I start into the twilight of this phase of my graduate student career, I find myself struggling to define my own personal style and form of expression. I think it is important to take everything I have learned and ask what it means on a more personal level to better understand my own interpretation and design style.

Some people do this through their master�s design project. I am writing a traditional thesis instead and so do not have this opportunity. Perhaps I chose wrong. My hands have been itching for their pastels � I have three I haven�t even opened, but I have no design to render; no real reason to draw except for the joy of it. And right now I have so little time that I can�t justify a detour or diversion. (This I can justify doing because it gets my brain settled and helps resolve issues.) But lately I find myself thinking more in colors and this is certainly a sign that all is not balanced.

Does anyone else�s brain do this? If there is an area of my brain that needs to be exercised, it tends to assert itself. For example, if I meander off too much to the right side, I find myself drawing in straight lines and trying to quantitatively analyze things that really should not be. Too much time spent analyzing data means getting lost in my doodling when that is not what I should be doing and imposing an aesthetic where none is called for. And staring at the sunset while wishing I could match those colors. Well, anyway.

Most designers have a particular style or at least commonalities through the progression and growth of their career. There are (were) people like Andre LeNotre for whom symmetry and vistas are incredibly important. LeNotre designed the grounds at Versailles in his head! What a genius. But that is not me. Not to say they are not important concepts, but they are lacking in something. Others are into qualities more like whimsy. There is a designer, Martha Schwartz who put a squadron of gilded frogs worshiping a geodesic globe in the courtyard of a specialty shopping center. Really. My reactions range from �yuck, a shopping mall� to �how inappropriate� to �that�s not even funny.� Now if it were a giant dollar sign or a statue of Elvis, I could find some humor in it. But even then, tacky would be the word of the day.

I guess, if I were to think along those same lines, the quality that most defines my work is that of surprise or revelation. I am fairly classical in my tastes � not to the point of shear dullness or because of inability to envision anything new, but more out of preference for the particular proportions and aesthetics. But one thing that I do add is a surprise or a twist. Perhaps it is a fabulous vista that is hidden and revealed at an appropriate juncture or maybe a stature that is only found when an alternate path is taken. Sometimes the form itself is a surprise � your expectations are pleasantly not met. In my favorite book, Little, Big, a city park is described where all of the paths that you expect to take you to the center, actually lead you away and visa versa. Definitely something that has happened to me in Central Park.

But this concept of surprise really only works at a small-scale. No one likes a surprise on a large-scale. Look, this road ends, but it has a fabulous view. Surprise! No thanks! Perhaps on a community scale the quality I strive for more is transcendence. I try to make my designs be more than simply the sum of the individual pieces. The proper placement of a signature building can make all of the difference in a neighborhood. Well, it can, but that is probably not the direction I want to go in. This is what I get for trying to write while listening to the Planning Board (over the phone) debate the merits of a zoning text amendment about the definition of building height and the way in which it is measured. Turns my brain to mush and my soul to ashes. I will try to describe this better at a later date.