It was that time of
the year again: the exhibition of the students’ work. The Abedian
School of Architecture at Bond University on the Gold Coast in
Queensland, Australia, promoted this event in parallel with one of
its regular talks. Hannah Tribe, a Sydney-based architect, was to
speak about her work after folk had milled around with drinks and
nibblies while perusing the display, chatting, or just catching up: see - http://voussoirs.blogspot.com.au/2017/12/hannah-tribe-portrait-builder.htm
The evening was an occasion for such preliminary, 'end of year' events.
The evening was an occasion for such preliminary, 'end of year' events.
The Forum space with full-height glazing opening.
The main entry is on the top left.
The multi-function entry: Forum (on left), crit space (centre), and corridor.
The kitchen in on the right (out of frame).
The glare of the Forum space with its high glazing either side of the speaker and screen.
The space surprised: it was different. As one entered the familiar void, an
intertwined mix of foyer, kitchen and Forum, the usual vista along
the ramped corridor was boxed off with a chicane-like slatted timber
screen offering two options for entry: or was one IN and the other
OUT? One was reminded of the Ekka, the annual agricultural show at
Brisbane, both the old entry gates with their narrow turnstiles, and
the animal pens. The screen had the qualities of both, giving the
feeling that one might have to pay for entrance, or be managed
carefully like sheep, for their regular chemical drenching; or
cattle, for their branding. It was not really a happy affair. One was
left confused by this puzzling ambiguity. What was intended? The
flimsy structure established a division between the bar with its
cheese and bikkies, and the display, as if it might be dangerous for
the two different purposes to meet or be shared: this is Queensland
that likes to define public drinking areas precisely, with a
determined precision and an enforced rigour. One wondered: was one
allowed to take drink and food into the exhibition area; through
which opening?
The passage ramp - view from main entry
Once one had
negotiated this ‘control’ screen – this is how it felt; was one
being recorded on camera; counted; supervised? - the usual open
circulation zone was discovered to have a display structure erected
along its central axis. This framework was made from the same pieces
and parts of dressed pine that the entry screen had used. The idea
was obviously a response to the swanky new building that had very few
vertical straight walls available for a sizeable display – in a
school of architecture? Originally artists’ easels had to be used
for crit displays. The temporary display frame, effectively a linear easel, provided hanging
places for the printed paper designs, and ledges for the associated
models. It was a fragile frame, but adequate, with a rather Rietveld
feel about it – piecemeal sticky, but not coloured. The detailing
that used smart brass pins, nails and screws as fixings somewhat
randomly, did not seem to allow for simple deconstruction and reuse.
One wondered why. Bolts and wing nuts might have easily allowed for
dismantling and reconstruction, but may not have looked as pretty.
The passage ramp - looking towards the main entry
The unfortunate fact
was that this rectilinear display system was placed on a ramp, so
everything was slightly askew. One thought of the Guggenheim: ramps
are not really a good place for display. It may not be a popular
matter to discuss, but Frank Lloyd Wright’s circular ramped
building does not make a good art gallery, no matter how much
tolerance and forgiveness might be offered to the master. Still, it
is an astonishing place. The Abedian ramp is not so startling; just a
little annoying, especially with such a formally gridded framing
system standing skewed. It might sound a small matter, but are we not
dealing with a place that teaches, trains architects? It might be a
good beginning to have the importance and significance of all
details, their precision and purpose, impressed upon young minds. One
thought of this point as one perused the drawings that seemed at ease
with the great, grand gesture, and recalled the Andrew Kudless talk
that had showed how carefully the students had been tutored in the
display prepared under his guidance. Here the mathematics of the 3D
curves of the clever building had been analysed and deconstructed allowing each individual panel to be shaped so that the arrangement
would form a continuous horizontal display as each touched the other
and weaved an exact linear alignment around the walls to which they had been
pasted. This was attention to detail; precision and perfection came
together as carefully as the panels themselves. Had nothing been
learned?
The display was, at
first glance, impressive, but soon one sensed a void, something
strangely, subtly askew like the support system alignments. Every
presentation seemed to lack the sense of touch, the feel of having
been the fruit of the hand. Everything appeared to have been the work
of machines, even the models that obviously needed some manual
manipulation. The forms and images all seemed to be suspended on a
fine film of astonishment, with the delicately-cut forms of the
models, and the spray of the ink onto the paper offering wondrous
effects and clever, impressive, other-worldly images. Technology
appeared to be on display rather than the work of students –
‘smart’ technology too. One feared that the student might be
equally amazed at the production, with these forms and images
appearing mystically, materialising magically from the machines.
Might this distant delight make anyone over-impressed with their own creations, prompting a surprised self-praise that easily overtakes,
blinds the critical eye with indulgence? The paper seemed to have not
one impression in it from any line or shape, leaving a sense of a
fuzzy haze of remote perfection, some otherness, enveloping the exhibition, as if everything
might be floating aimlessly. There seemed to be a lack of intimacy
here that separated ideas from outcomes; forms from feelings.
The crit space.
Did a lack of
personal critique allow the main efforts to concentrate only on the big
images, suggesting that further development was not needed with such impressive results; indeed, that these might be disrupted, spoilt with further
interrogation? There seemed to be no sense of questioning here; little doubt:
there was something of an over-confident hiatus. All the schemes looked
like they had concentrated on the big picture that could be modelled,
confirmed as ‘real’ 3D matter rather than explored, tested. Everything was
presented in sufficient detail to give the impression that all issues
had been attended to, that the design was complete, and completely
considered. Alas, once one stepped closer to peruse the planning
details and the structural intents and resolutions, it soon became
clear that there were massive gaps in these alluring images; huge
vacancies. Living rooms with space for one lounge chair; dining rooms
with a table only and no room for chairs let alone circulation; open
plans with names only defining emptiness were displayed without apology. One wondered if anyone had
ever thought of living in these places; felt them; imagined being
there? This was the void: the apparent separation between self and
object, what Martin Buber might have referred to as the 'I-Thou' gap. It was not immediately obvious that any consideration had
been stretched so far, let alone any emotional engagement. So how did
the forms get formalised? Was it merely a matter of developing
something ‘interesting’ on the computer - ‘morphing’? - and
labelling it: selecting something from Pinterest? The accompanying
words were impressive and fashionable, but were frequently left isolated, alone, as an aside; an intellectual involvement. These texts sought to amplify the drawings, as if
the statement of the words might magically imply that everything was
as it had been described. It does not work like this: the images
frequently appeared otherwise, making a mockery of the texts, and
vice versa.
The crit space.
There was a
lingering concern with the work on display. One sensed that it might
be seen as being like projects published in glossy magazines,
work publicised only to impress. One could perhaps understand how it
might be considered acceptable to have student projects presented in this
manner – grand in idea but vague on the more intimate details: such
is the persuasive power of print and fashion. Work like this is being built and
published every day, so why might one question functions, materials, details and structure? Anything is possible! This thought became more worrying when the publication
of the students’ work was seen. It is a slick, glossy, 20mm thick
coloured document reproduced on quality paper, looking impressively comprehensive
and creative with its double covers. Here the concept of technology overcoming the critical
eye is confirmed. Students are able to see their own projects
published as if in an international magazine, or an acclaimed architectural
volume, such is the identity, feel and smell of this printed tome.
This is a serious concern. Education needs tough depth and rigour,
not easy gloss.
Professor Keniger
noted in his introduction for the evening’s talk that the
publication was a significant item for the young school. He spoke
about it as establishing some identity for the place, possibly to
establish the school’s credentials: hence its moth-like
‘attractiveness’ for future students? Education is now a
business. The idea of the book seemed to be a gesture towards creating an
awesome reputation for the school with all the skill of a marketing
maestro. One hopes that a school is not training architects to be
impressed with coloured printed material that truly materialises schematic and uncertain projects, mystically turning them
into quality, graphic facts. This scenario is something like the way
the art gallery restructures attitudes that allow nearly any event and thing to go unquestioned as 'art,' if not ‘great art’:
see -
http://voussoirs.blogspot.com.au/2014/01/swell-sculpture-festival-2013.html
The school should be wary of basing a future on phantom glitz and
glitter.
But is it already
doing this? When one discovers that the working portion of the
school, the workshop that holds all of the ‘magic’ machines, is
in a nearby tin shed 'out the back,' one soon gets the impression that the building
by Sir Peter Cook of CRAB could itself be purely a promotional item: a quirky,
different, eye-catching structure that might gain the national and
international attention and recognition that the institution seeks,
and become its icon: the drawcard. Such, it seems, is the competition in education
today, and reputations.
The exhibition
offered a glimpse into ideas that seemed to fit the promotional mould
of educational and architectural commerce. It was indeed flashy, a
floating world, ambiguous in its commitment, certainty and intent.
Now this had nothing to do with Edo, although some projects were
related to the study tour to Japan undertaken by some of the
students. It has to do with the impersonal haze of ideas and
technological outcomes that appear to impress, and to seek to impress, well beyond the actual reality that
they pretend to define.
Education needs to
touch the everyday. As Henri Lefebvre said, Man must be everyday,
or he will not be at all. It is really too easy to be
‘exceptional.’ The challenge must be to make the ordinary
extraordinary; the ‘everyday’ rich and vital. Just how this can be achieved in this building is not clear.
NOTE
25 DEC 2017
This article in The
Guardian gives an insight into education, teachers, students,
attendance and commerce – universities run as a business:
How might these
understandings be interpreted in current architectural education?
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.