LIKE GEHRY IN PARIS: MAYHEM ON THE MOVE?

The temperature had reached the mid-forties. Even the sheltering shade of the souk offered no relief from the searing assault. We retreated to the reinvigorating refrigeration of the restaurant located nearby on The Creek, for a refreshingly cool drink and some relishable Arabian morsels. It was an excuse for a late lunch.

'The Creek' is an interesting term, giving a fondly modest name to what really is a more substantial body of water that divides old Dubai, east and west. This waterway is the reason for Dubai's location. The small settlement began as a trading post for the region, that blossomed in the 1960s with the discovery of oil to give us the exuberance of the Dubai we know today, a world hub: a Dubai that still remains an important place for regional trade. The souks are filled with 'wholesale only' outlets that have no interest in tourists or locals, other than those that want to order items in quantity. The Creek is always busy with dhows.

Dubai

We were in the general souk on the Bur Dubai side of this waterway that is frequently and cheaply crisscrossed by the weighty, wooden ferries that sit folk casually on open benches under a park-like, picnic-bench, gabled roof. It is an arrangement that, in what is boldly considered to be 'more sophisticated' circumstances, would be scorned by the self-importance of the Workplace Health & Safety officers. It is a most enjoyable trip just because of its challenge to these checks and balances that seek to ensure that everyone is managed into a sadly safe, bland, and careless numbness by the cliche 'nanny State.'

In stark contrast to the Dubai world of the 'whatever-one-likes' richness of different, seemingly ‘rule-free’ experiences, the British NHS doctor's surgery with clumsy buffers on the desk corners is recalled. These crude chunks of specially moulded synthetic rubber were installed to protect the patients from the sharp edges. In Dubai, one can engage with anything, and should expect it anywhere - a step or two here; a hole or a crack in the pavement there; an outward-opening glass door projecting into the footpath; air conditioners dripping overhead; disappearing pedestrian paths; public ways 300mm wide: name it and it will be there without warnings or any protection. The cliche phrase says 'to expect the unexpected.'

The restaurant on The Creek was indeed the cool refuge hoped for. The minted, iced lemon-and-lime drink was as pleasurable as the local serves were savoury. As always, this proved to be an enjoyable, although somewhat worryingly cantilevered platform. The concern was that the casual, ad hoc detailing of the superstructure might be repeated below; but it was a location from which the toings and froings on The Creek could be observed. There was always something happening on the water. The amazingly silly 'Wonder Bus' pushed its pink bulk awkwardly along the flow for the different, bespoke entertainment of tourists; to be followed by a traditional dhow, looking elegant with its slickly sweeping lines and clever sail shade, lowered and stored horizontally as it motored along surprisingly speedily, in spite of its obvious mass and solidity. The dhows are always a joy to behold, and often surprise to the point of alarm when fully over-loaded, squirting out cooling waters like a pissing cow as singletted sailors sprawl lazily over the unbelievably high stacks of bags and boxes as they seek out an unlikely flush of cooling air.

Dodging this busy circuit of commerce are the small ferries, most crossing side to side, some moving up and down The Creek, carrying both locals and tourists. It is a very egalitarian system, treating everyone in the identical fashion - squeezing all who choose to cross onto two, ten-a-side seats: all for one dirham per person. These open timber ledges close to the water-splash height are located under a propped gable gathering a smothering, choking haze of diesel fumes. The busy Creek clutter creates an 'olde worlde,' Dickensian image of anarchic water traffic once seen in every port before containers took over the transport world.

Then another dhow came into view. They have an impressive maritime presence, proud and certain, like the Arabian character itself. As this wooden mass moved into the centre of vision, the eye was puzzled, seeking to know more of the fuzziness that followed. It was not long before it was discerned that this eerie cloud was a stack of what seemed to be fish traps: steel rod frames covered with chicken wire of indeterminate form, but curved. The floating mess brought to mind the Gehry Foundation Louis Vuitton building in Paris, wrongly identified by the commentators of Le Tour as "the work of the French architect, Gehry." There was a flimsy, loose, lightness in the mass, something fascinatingly transparent yet solid, that suggested the Vuitton forms. The bold ad hoc curves and their random intersections brought Frank Gehry's glass building to mind.

As the dhow moved out to sea, the fluffy mass darkened with the change of light, and the cages became a haunting web of stormy clouds. Then another dhow arrived with more fuzz, offering a chance to confirm the perception, both surreal and engaging: yes, just like the Gehry.

What did this visual parallel have to say about architecture, about Gehry's work? The wondering at the wonder raised the question of order and disorder; how beauty might be so visually flippant and randomly uncontrolled in contrast to the traditional understanding of these things. Does this understanding legitimise Gehry's work?

It certainly offers another way of considering Gehry's genre: the architecture of the totally ad hoc. Does architecture really require some sense of order, some internal rigour, or can it be a complete, maybe a considered shambles; the massing of pure chance forms, a strategy that Gehry appears happy to promote with his proud, 'crushed paper bag' example? Does this place architecture into that understanding of art as arbitrary self-expression? Is it the 'art gallery' art that allows anything, anyhow, and pretentiously demands the reader impose meanings on it, just because of its context - as if meanings were necessarily so, and so important when nothing in particular was intended? - see: http://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2017/12/skull-art.html

What meanings do the dhows carry with their carelessly over-stacked bundle of fish traps other than the mystery of mayhem? Is life merely a matter of managing mess; of interpreting ideas into sequences, stories and 'sense' that confirm our prejudices and allow us to feel secure and certain? Is this the 'opium' version of religion: or is art/architecture more than this?

Yes, it seems to be: this Dubai circumstance is an outcome of the quirks of happenstance, a chancy 'seeing as,' rather than any theoretical proposition or 'creative' stimulus. It involves the indulgence of perception rather than any model for life and its living; for art/architecture and its expression. The observation may be 'interesting,' but this does not make it a basis for action. We need stronger roots for our being in this world than the admiration of the scatterings created by the randomness of ink-blot chaos, or the splatterings of avian droppings. Mental health is based on more than this conglomerate of the ad hoc that only aggravates and stresses ordinary well-being with its inherent, vague complications and clumsy contradictions; its doubts and indistinctions.

To be distinct, we need to become involved in the immediacy of the situation that can highlight the meaning and necessity of place and sensation, qualities that can intrigue and enrich more than the entertainment value of a couple of fancy, flashy figments. It is the sense that has been identified as 'depth' in the symbolic measurements of 'the breadth, and length, and depth, and height,'* an interesting dimensional analogy for things of the spirit.

* Ephesians 3:18 KJV

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