Down the Rabbit Hole

One of my favourite things that I do at the Architects' Journal is manage and edit the Small Projects Awards and issues. Typically, in our mag, we push plush new office buildings or grand University schemes. If we do feature new houses or smaller projects, they tend to be by big-name architects on equally lavish budgets.

But the Small Projects Awards is a chance for smaller practices to show off what they can do on more modest budgets (�250k or less). Sure, we get sent hundreds of house extensions, but for every twenty bread and butter backyard extensions, we receive one incredible tree house or a stunning self-build hideaway in the hills. 

Given that we get sent upwards of 200 entries for a shortlist of only 24 projects, there's always one or two projects I've got a soft spot for that don't make the cut. One of my favourite projects this year that just didn't make it was Neil Boyd's 'Down the Rabbit Hole'. 

Neil submitted this project as part of his final masters exhibition at Strathclyde University and I wanted to give it some love because - contrary to most of the client-driven projects we received - Neil's was one of the few projects where an individual saw an opportunity to create a little something and then just got on with making it. The rabbit hole took two weeks to build using reclaimed OSB and timber left over from the end of year diploma exhibition. As expected, health and safety issues soon got in the way of fun and the structure had to be removed after only one month.

I love that it's imaginative and a little bit silly - a project that transformed an ugly corridor into a mysterious and whimsical escape from the Uni's architecture department. His visuals perfectly reflect the project: they're deceptively simple, captivating and just a little bit magical.

the language of architecture

What month is it? May. Right. So I've been working at the AJ since September, and for both the AR and the AJ since January.

I like architecture, I like urban design and urban planning, I'm a little bit interested in psychogeography, I think about how people function in space and buildings and how both of these interact with design. But I've got no formal training, and apart from the little I learned working in a big engineering firm, I don't really know about how buildings are actually designed and constructed. I sort of hoped that working at the AJ would be like living in foreign country and that I could 'learn architecture' like one learns French living in Paris: by osmosis. Alas, this seems not to be the case. I've learned about publishing and journalism, but not enough about architecture. Maybe there's not as much to learn as I thought, but I'm still judging buildings on aesthetic principles honed on years of thinking about and looking at fine art.

The thing I can't understand is how the aesthetic principles seem to be so different between buildings and art. Okay, obviously they serve different functions, but why shouldn't a building be judged on aesthetics as well as on usability, situation, and interaction? I don't know if I'm missing something or if it is my own subjective aesthetic agenda, but you could place a pretty safe bet on our editor not liking buildings I like and vice versa. Having said this, he's not an architect either per say, but he's been working in architectural criticism and journalism for an awful lot longer than I have.

Foligno church by MDFA

Maybe it has to do with my lack of technical knowledge. I suppose it's like what I was saying about the technical appreciation of film and painting. When a "random" looks at a Jasper Johns, he thinks its a bit of fun that might look nice on the sitting room wall. But when I look at Jasper Johns, I'm thinking about how amazing it is that this artist pioneered and perfected the encaustic technique when most of his contemporaries were messing about with oils. I'm thinking about his theory of painting, and the importance for him of form and technique at the expense of narrative pictoralism. And the same thing with film. Like I was saying about Russian Ark. If anyone watched that film without knowing the technical process underlying everything, they'd probably think it's a rather strange and slightly boring look at Russian history. But when you know that it's a single take, shot over 90 minutes, you gain a new level of appreciation for the piece of work. So maybe that's my problem with architecture: I know what I like and what I don't like, but I don't know why everyone else hates Richard Meier's Ara Pacis Museum in Rome and I adore it. Or why everyone goes all fawning over something like the new church in Foligno by Massimilian and Dorina Fuksas Architects, but I think it's just a bit boring. Okay, so maybe I don't understand the complexities involved in working with concrete and that this is possibly some kind of post-post-modern renunciation of the parametrically obsessed (Cf Zaha Hadid), but I still don't get it.

Richard Meier's Ara Pacis Museum in Rome: exterior and interior

So when I realised last week that I had basically been living in AJ land for eight months and still hadn't really learned any architecture-speak, I had a mini freak out. It's exactly the same as someone who moves to Berlin, lives there for eight months and doesn't' learn to speak any German - behaviour I find completely abominable. So I think I need to pop my bubble and figure out what this world is all about. I need to learn the language.

how to cover up a stain

Or how not to.

Why would you want to with these interesting teacups designed to improve through use. The product blurb talks about how the teacups challenge the assumption that use is damaging to a product, which is an interesting idea: the supposed devaluation of a product which begins immediately post purchase. But in actuality these cups become more beautiful the more they are used: the interior surface of the cup is treated so that it stains more in those treated areas. I like it.

I also liked the idea of these secretive teacups because this week has been quite strange indeed. There have been too many secrets floating around my office lately, many of which are only now being revealed. We all keep secrets from one another, and this is perhaps nowhere more true than at work, but when those around you begin acting secretively and strangely, you start feeling as if people can see straight through you. Even if you have nothing (or at least little) to hide, why is it that other people's suspicious behaviour makes you feel so uneasy? I've just found out that one of my colleagues is pregnant, one is applying for a new job, and yet another has just lost his job. Everyone has their secrets I suppose.

Don't ask me what mine is.

I'm not telling.

LFW - The Buildings Behind the Brands

(Article published in the AJ 05.03.09)

The venues build the clothing brands as much as the models at London Fashion Week, writes Crystal Bennes

London Fashion Week, 20-25 February, various venues, London

London Fashion Week (LFW) celebrates its 25th anniversary this year, and while you may think that there�s not much of a connection between LFW and London�s architecture, you�d be mistaken. Catwalk shows in venues like the Royal Opera House, a carpark in Brewer Street and the Korean Embassy are a crucial part of the designers� managing of their brands.

Since 2006, the home of LFW has been the Natural History Museum in Kensington, where the British Fashion Council (BFC) � the body that promotes British fashion designers � has its tent. While the white tents of LFW have not become as iconic as those of New York Fashion Week in Bryant Park, for fashion-forward Londoners they represent the glamorous lifestyle associated with the capital�s fashion industry.

Though designers don�t like to admit it, the recession has had an impact on the excesses of fashion week. This year saw only one tent on the lawns of the museum, as more and more designers are taking their pick of London�s buildings for use as runway stages. Showing outside of the BFC tent is not only more cost effective, it also allows the designer to appropriate a building to extend its brand image in a way not possible in the one-size-fits-all BFC tent.

Take two very different brands: Nicole Farhi and PPQ. Farhi has been in business for 27 years and is one of Britain�s most established designers. Her clothes are refined but playful, with an emphasis on tailoring in beautiful fabrics. PPQ on the other hand describe their look as �luxe pop-chic and underground London cool� and are favoured by indie-pop stars. Neither brands showed at the BFC tent. Instead, Farhi showed at Edward Middleton Barry�s Royal Opera House, in the glass-domed Floral Hall (1860), and PPQ showed in the Samuel Ware-designed Burlington Arcade (1819).

Not only does the architectural stage serve as the backdrop for the runway spectacle, but the constraints of the space also dictate the fashion world�s strict hierarchy. At Farhi, the catwalk was arranged in a square, instead of the traditional long rectangle, with the biggest names in the fashion press on one side, buyers across from them, lesser press on the third side, with VIPs in the front row, on display as much as the models. PPQ�s venue provided its own constraints, both to the staging but also to the all-important industry hierarchy, when nearly everyone became front-row, given the arcade�s confined space.

The Farhi-Opera House partnership is a good fit as both brands identify with refinement, luxury and sophistication; it clearly works for Farhi, as she has shown there for the past four years.

PPQ-Burlington Arcade, however, is a marriage of practicality. After closing their Conduit Street store last year, the company will soon open a pop-up shop in the Burlington Arcade. While Amy Molyneaux, one of PPQ�s designers, said that a pop-up shop would allow more versatility than the fixed layout of their previous store, certainly a short-term lease in the Burlington Arcade is also less financially demanding than a four-storey Mayfair boutique.

To show or not to show: a question fashion designers may soon be asking themselves in these economically uncertain times � especially when a single catwalk show can cost up to �600,000. If these grand spaces are invisible in the catwalk snaps published in fashion magazines worldwide, why go to the trouble and expense of a major show? Buyers and editors could just as easily look at the collections online. This season, British designer Alice Temperley eschewed a costly runway show in favour of showing her latest collection via a digital installation at her shop, for example.

The numerous considerations involved in producing a show means that the decision to stage must be more about brand management than ease of use. As any fashion insider will tell you, the point of fashion week and its catwalks is spectacle. The celebrities, the unusual venues, the aura of exclusivity: if nothing else, these lavish circuses sell perfume to those who can�t afford the clothes but who still want a piece of the lifestyle associated with these fantastic spectacles. Build something grand enough and your building may serve as the backdrop for a future catwalk.

The power of the sub-editor

Let me preface this tirade by saying that I really, really like our sub-editors. They are both brilliantly cool, intelligent creatures and I quite like them a lot.

Having said that, I never knew such a thing as a sub-editor even existed until I started working on the magazine. After I wrote my first review for publication, I filed my copy blissfully unaware of the torture the subs would put it through in the sake of cutting the word count (which was only 18 words over I might add) and generally making the piece 'more to their liking.' When the review was published, I hardly recognised the writing as my own. I felt violated - perhaps an overreaction - but at least in academic discourse, if someone doesn't like what you've written you have the scope to argue it out - they don't just rewrite or chop whole sections of your paper.

There's a brilliant, and surprisingly well known, email from Giles Coran about this very same issue. In his email, he positively flips out on the subs at the Times for removing the letter 'a' from the final sentence of his copy. While I always found his rant amusing (which you can check out here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/jul/23/mediamonkey), I never really understood the depth of his raging frustration until now.

My most recently published review, the Polidori bit I just posted, has also been forced to kneel and beg for mercy in front of the subs desk. The crazy thing is that you don't actually get to see the changes made by the subs until the piece is in print. Very sneaky! So I thought it would be fun (and perhaps cathartic?) to post the actual copy that made it into print so you see for yourself the damages inflicted by the power of the subs...
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It's disadvantageous to know that the pictures in Canadian photographer Rober Polidori's show are of the Palace of Versailles before seeing them. The Disney-esque mythology of Louis XIV's royal ch�teau in the suburbs of Paris is power enough to threaten Polidori's beautiful collection, taken over the last 20 years. (I added this sentence, but it said something like, 'The Disney-esque mythology of the royal ch�teau is powerful enough to overwhelm the delicacy of Polidori's beautiful collection of photographs, taken over the last 20 years' - and also calling it Louis XIV's is technically inaccurate, as it was Louis XIII who constructed the initial hunting lodge).

In contrast to the usual attempts to capture the palace's grandeur in wide-angled panorama, Polidori has taken a micro approach, capturing fragmentary views of the palace. Although the photographs are spatially restricted, they remain visually demanding; partly because of the decorative nature of the interiors, but also because of Polidori's excellent framing. Seemingly arbitrary crops juxtapose intricate wallpapering with wooden mouldings and richly textured paintings.

Polidori is a meticulous technician, but what gives his pictures such impact is his use of large-format film - a Kipp Wettstien aerial photography camera is his weapon of choice ('weapon of choice' - may that my prince come to awaken me from my clich�-ridden nightmares). Images of coloured wallpaper are so lifelike, they look like the real thing (this just makes me sound like a poor writer - the sentences, at least to me, now feel so robotic it's a machine writing them, not a person).

The intellectual forces behind this series is restoration and revisionism. This is intriguing, given Polidori is primarily know for his exquisite, controversial images of destruction in Chernobyl and post-Katrina New Orleans. Change, natural or man-made, the selective process of curation of the destructive force of nature obsesses Polidori (completely alters the emphasis).

(The brilliant bit about the painting of the revolutionary, Marat, is entirely removed, which is a central example of the kind of historic anachronism brought about because of the restoration process)

There is also the question of how the act of restoration is in some way subsumed by a nostalgia complex. Though nostalgia often saves historic buildings, the saving is typically accompanied by shocking anachronism. Consider Versailles' latest restoration programme and its proposed removal of king Louis-Philippe's grand staircase, added during the last major rebuild of the ch�teau in 1837. Constructed during the Bourbon restoration, it doesn't complement our fantasy of Versailles as a 17th-century fairytale palace and so must be removed (I included this in my final draft, mostly because it's good stuff).

Polidori's cleverly framed images highlight our fascination with antiquity while also mocking anachronistic intrusions. An image juxtaposing a CCTV camera with the elaborate panelling of Louis XV's daughter's salon is similarly witty (not if you don't understand the historical context which makes it so witty - also cut). Each provide a loaded snapshot of modernity versus history; a reminder that 21st-century Versailles was made by us, for us (the snappy for of aphorism loved by subs. Of course the last line evades the chopping block).

Transitional States: Robert Polidori at Versailles

It�s something of a disadvantage to know beforehand that the images in Robert Polidori�s new show are of the palace of Versailles. In contrast to most artists, who make futile attempts to capture the palace�s grandeur in wide-angled panoramas, Polidori�s micro approach means that interior treasures of Versailles can be appreciated in their own right.

Though the photographs are quite restricted in their spatial focus, they remain visually demanding; partly because of the decorative nature of the palace, but also because of Polidori�s excellent framing. Cut off�s which appear arbitrary � the tops of chairs, for example - are beautifully juxtaposed onto intricate wallpapering, wooden mouldings, and richly textured paintings. The overall effect provides a striking and novel perspective on one of the most overexposed historical buildings.

This is in part possible because Polidori is a meticulous technician, but equally because he still uses a large format film camera. Large format makes an immeasurable difference to the final print, so much so that one wonders why photographers bother with digital at all. Images of nothing more than boldly coloured wallpaper are so lifelike and vivid that they make the plain wall of the gallery look like an imitation of the real thing.

The intellectual premise lurking behind these paintings is one of restoration and revisionism. This is intriguing given that Polidori is primarily known for his exquisite, though controversial, images of destruction � Chernobyl and post-Katrina New Orleans. Nevertheless, it is evident that change, natural or manmade - the selective process of curation or the destructive force of nature � is a theme important to Polidori�s work.

There is also the question of how the act of restoration is in some way subsumed by a modern-day nostalgia complex, and though this complex acts as a saviour to historic buildings, it is also a plague, as the saving is typically accompanied by shocking anachronism. Polidori�s cleverly framed images highlight both our fascination with these antiquities while also gently mocking the anachronistic intrusions.

There is a photograph, not in the current exhibition, of a ground-floor room in the palace, where J�rome-Martin Longlois� copy of David�s giant, Death of Marat, rests on the floor waiting to be hung. Longlois� painting, and subsequently Polidori�s photograph, make an absolute mockery of all Versailles symbolises; Marat, of course being one of the most famous French Revolutionaries as well as a supporter of the abolition of the Borboun Monarchy, the very kings who built Versailles.

For a bit of 21st century irony, Polidori has taken a witty image of the elaborate panelling in the salon of Louis XV�s daughter, Madame Victoire, highlighting one of Versailles� many CCTV cameras. This image works on multiple levels: the formal court procedures instituted by Louis XIV meant that the king and queen were nearly always under surveillance, the court acting as 18th century CCTV cameras; and, on another level, it reveals those glaring architectural inconsistencies inevitable in the restoration of any heritage building.

Polidori�s photographs each provide a loaded snapshot of modernity versus history: a reminder that the 21st century Versailles was made by us for us.

And now for something personal...

The most frequent complaint of these wayward sentiments (made by my motley crew of loyal readers) is that, though they appear as if belonging to a blog, do not actually constitute a blog, rather a mere collection of essays. 'Tis true to be sure - I like essays - it means I can make believe I'm writing my own newspaper column, but without the pressure of deadlines or word count. Nevertheless, I shall endeavour to occasionally take on the mantle of confessional (compulsive?) bloggette.

Starting now.

Two firsts for Monday the 15th of September. I started a new job, and given that "working" is a concept I find in every way unpalatable and reprehensible (academia partially excepted, of course), I was looking forward to today with trepidation and apprehension. I needed not worry, however, as my new post is pretty swish. I am, as of today, the newest editorial assistant at the Architects' Journal - part time so I can still PhD (yes, it is a verb), good pay (the publishing industry's equivalent of spotting a narwhal in the middle of a desert), cool editor, and an equally groovy editorial team (afternoon "water cooler" chat consisted of a discussion of the merits (or not!) of Kurt Vonnegut's "Breakfast of Champions"). I'm quite fond of writing, keen on architecture, too opinionated for my own good, and a fascist pig dog when it comes to editing AND I've already snagged an invitation to the private viewing of Gerhard Richter's new show at the Serpentine next week. Me and the AJ are going to get along just fine. Oh yeah!

In an attempt to ensure my bottom spends good time on a chair in the library, especially now that twenty hours of my week are now dedicated to the AJ, in a whimsical fever of, uh, whimsy, I joined the London Library a few weeks ago. Today was the first opportunity I'd had to consummate my membership and I wasn't disappointed. There's a nice frisson of sexual tension given that the overwhelming majority of LL users are either male or very masculine looking women. It also doesn't help that the floors in the stacks are metal grates, meaning that anyone on the floor below looking up may have caught an eyeful of my stockings and knickers. Needless to say, I won't be wearing dresses in the library anymore. Don't want to encourage the pervy old men. The selection of books is ace and open stacks are such a good idea, especially compared to the Fort Knoxness that is the British Library. But the best thing I discovered in the library this afternoon was in the Members' Room where I retired after a few hours of reading to revive myself with a cup of tea. I picked up the magazine nearest me to page through and then noticed it wasn't actually a magazine. The cover letter on the manuscript politely explained that the author of the screenplay resting in my hands had been unsuccessfully pitching said manuscript for the last three months. He had bribed a friend, a member of the Library (which incidentally is rather costly to join), to surreptitiously sneak the manuscript into the Members' Room so that any directors or producers (who happened to be members of the Library) might take pity (or interest, whatever) on his script and make his dream come true. The best bit was the post script which indicated that, for their trouble, the kindly producer/director would be treated to a "large drink" and that the author would make a "small donation" to the library. Though I am neither kindly nor a producer nor even a director, I was intrigued by the gumption of the author and turned to page one only to find (not unexpectedly) that the writing was terrible and the story even worse. If you're going to go through the trouble to hob-nob with the great and glorious of the LL, at least make sure you've got a good story to tell and then do it justice by telling it well. For all the awfulness of the script, I was quite taken with my studious afternoon in the reading room and look forward to many more such productive sessions surrounded by the charms of the library. In trousers mind...