FORMS, FUNCTIONS, & RUINS

Louis Sullivan's edict, Form Follows Function, may now be a cliché that is quoted willy-nilly by folk who know little of its origin, and/or care little about it. The phrase has become so hackneyed, that it is simply dismissed as an odd, outdated irrelevance in today's architectural debate that is happy to indulge in a spate of superfluous hype and florid, hopeful exaggerations that define expectations in words that frequently exceed the experience with poetic attempts seeking to define indulgences that hold a relevance only in the mind's eye of the wilful ‘genius creator’ promoter.

Yet, when a strange object appears in one’s driveway, it is Sullivan’s connection that one uses when trying to decide just what this curious item might be. The quiet question is: what function might this form attend to? One does not ponder the aesthetic connotations.

There were two parts found on the pavement: one was a grubby, worn plastic block with a wire protruding from one end, with a button form on the other. This piece had side snaps that seemed to suggest that the other part might have been its mounting ring. This other piece was a broken, dirty plastic circular form with four plastic snaps on one side. The silicone insert seemed to suggest a weather seal. The idea was tested: yes, the block fitted into this mount, with the seal neatly closing the gap when the items were reassembled; but what was this strange thing? It was clearly electrical. The button end was pressed to see if it rocked on and off as a switch. It moved, but without any conviction or direction. One could assume that it might be a broken switch, but this was not clear.

The objects remained a puzzle. If a switch, then what for? If not a switch, then what? The dirt, grime, and seal suggested some exposure; but where, and what for? The clues did not congeal into any obvious, coherent function. The short cable that plugged into some connection, had a coded sticker on it. While the forms suggested some functions, there was no certain or final outcome. So Google was consulted; what might the code search bring up?

The top code, SX13S236AA, was entered: the response was interesting and definitive: this was a Ford Territory reversing sensor. The irony was that it seems that this sensor did not work, and had fallen out after a decent bump.

Now things all made sense: all details and forms could be related to their functions, even the dirt and grime was now explained, as well as the plug connection that is typical of automotive electrical installations. At least engineering design is rigorous enough to enjoy this Form/Function relationship that architecture has moved on from, into a world of ME fantasies that seek exclamatory visions for slick publications and bespoke praise, using the latest tech available, if only by name. Here everything lies in the message as text that becomes one’s guide for understanding and interpreting the images with the ‘seeing as’ suggestions raising possibilities of perception that can mislead.

Who could ever guess what a Ghery or Hadid building might be; or, in the future as a ruin, might have been without any text? It was Wright who suggested to us that we might gauge architecture with its possibilities for making beautiful ruins when speaking about Taliesin West. In a strange way, the knackered sensor could be seen as a ruin with a hidden message to be deciphered. We should think more about these implications in our architecture; it might make it more articulate; more rigorous.

These ponderings raise another matter to do with the determination of function: that of reuse, of recycling our buildings effectively and efficiently so that they do not become instant, even if beautiful, ruins after the initial performance; something to be forgotten, remaindered, or discarded like this little reversing sensor has been. We need to think seriously about re-functioning forms and their pieces instead of being bedazzled by our own, bespoke cleverness that is presented as the final, unique, unalterable statement - something special and singular, defining and declaring MY genius.

Alas, this too shall pass, so thought is required: see - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/This_too_shall_pass

Sic transit gloria mundi . . . https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sic_transit_gloria_mundi  

Thus passes the glory of the world.

NEITHER HERE NOR THERE

Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There: Travels in Europe, Minerva, London, 1992.

Bill Bryson

Hammerfest

The additional notes on the front cover in block letters, in text sized between that of the name of the author in large script, and the title of the book in smaller, colourful block letters, read Author of The Lost Continent (in upper and lower case), and ‘IT’S VERY, VERY FUNNY’ SUNDAY TIMES (all upper case). It is as though this book was being promoted on the basis of a previous success, with the hype that it is, at least, a good laugh if nothing else.#

Hammerfest

Gothenburg

The cover presented a set of mixed messages: that this is a pretty ordinary book produced to profit from the popularity of an earlier work; that the author’s name is the most important reference; with the suggestion of a potboiler making the subject appear almost irrelevant – literally ‘neither here nor there;’ but, in spite of this, it is extremely funny: buy the book and enjoy a good laugh. Like most hype, the scale of things humorous was much less than ‘very, very,’ but the muddled messages did prove to have a certain deliberateness in the rather contrived subject with its hopscotch approach that struggled to structure any relevance: it was truly ‘nowhere; anywhere; everywhere.’ The singular concern of the intent of this writing seemed to be driven as a response to a demand for a follow-up book to cash in on the author’s previous success: those who liked the first book were sure to purchase this one, especially if it was 'very, very funny.'

Lichtenstein

The book, published by Minerva, London, 1992, is typical Bryson. It is a cheery book that does have one laughing aloud from time to time with its shrewd, descriptive analogies. One could sum the publication up as ‘walks in cities.’ Bryson repeatedly describes his arrivals, his search for accommodation, his hunt for meals, his quick impressions of the place, and the local beer, in an easy to read, chatty style. He must travel using guides, because he has interspersed his casual observations with various facts seemingly gleaned from these publications, e.g. the size of the cathedral, the length of the street, the number of people, etc., as if this information might be more meaningful than the silly language phrases that Bryson points out are useless, developing the theme for more humour, even though it might not be LOL - laugh out loud, as ex-British PM David Cameron once explained in an effort to overcome any perceived 'relationship' issues.

Lichtenstein

Copenhagen

Generally the arrival is stimulating, but Bryson seems to get bored quickly. He usually spends only a few days in each place, so this is not an ‘in depth’ reporting of cities or city life: we are given snippets of various occasions. Perhaps this is why the emphasis on the cover is on it being ‘funny,’ with ‘TRAVELS IN EUROPE’ using the smallest text - ‘neither here nor there,’ suggesting that it doesn’t really matter. The descriptions of Bryson’s adventures are interspersed with tales of his travels as a younger man, seemingly to add another layer of story-telling and some structure to an aimless itinerary. Sometimes one sees the book as a retracing of steps; perhaps the older Bryson seeking his younger self? - but there is nothing certain about this aspect either. The text is really a happy shambles of Bryson’s irrelevant ramblings: “I think I’ll go to Rome now.”

Copenhagen

Rome

The book records ordinary, everyday experience in a straightforward, one could say simple, but ‘honest’ way. Bryson is a good observer of life. His writing carries the same chirpiness that he presents as a person. He is a typical tourist, never wanting to assimilate by learning languages, just wanting to sense the place, to see it through his eyes; to observe it and move on, hoping things will only get better. He loves the challenge of being like a child again, in an unknown place, with unknown people, language, food, habits, etc. - to discover unknowns and try to cope with them, not in any transformative manner, but just as a passer-by being entertained, with thoughts only about a different future elsewhere.

Rome

Paris

The text is repetitive: Bryson enters his discovered ‘expensive’ room, throws down the backpack, showers, changes, then goes for a walk to get the feel for the place, sometimes to see if it matches his memory. Then he hunts for a meal, and finds an ‘expensive’ place with menus he cannot read. He is always scared of ordering obscure foods that he cannot eat. It is here that Bryson becomes ‘funny’ with suggested meals. He plays a similar game with the soundings of language, cleverly drawing parallels and establishing new contexts for everyday speech. There is a strange and unhappy sense of intolerance in the work that is buried by the recognition of the cleverness of the author.

Paris

Yorkshire Dales: dreaming of home.

Just like a typical tourist, Bryson returns to the hotel tired and/or full of beer, waking up the next morning to have several reviving coffees. When feeling well again he is either rushing off to a bus, or wondering what to do. The cathedral is usually the first place visited, followed by a stroll along some streets and lanes; then a visit to a museum or two. As every tourist discovers, museums can be enjoyed only for so long. After a few hours, Bryson is off for a drink, often spending most of his few days just sitting around watching people in a bar, a square, or a park. If not so engaged, he is in a line waiting somewhere for officialdom to sort out a problem, be this a travel, pickpocketing, or banking matter.

Malham, Yorkshire

Capri

In amongst the observations, Bryson makes comments on architecture and urban design. He is frustrated with cities that lack character and have given no thought for people, just as much as he gets cross with indulgent architectural displays that ignore function. He does write about his experience of cathedrals, and records other places as very desirable - the cliché Capri is one such location.

Capri

The book is a strange amalgam; Bryson records that he is no genius, but, in amongst the jaunty pieces he does sneak in some serious observations. In spite of this, the book is primarily seen as ‘funny.’ It is about the experience of the everyday. Bryson is a skilled observer of place and people, and enjoys the fun and games of context and meaning which lies at the heart of humour. This is not an ‘I did this and this’ book. It is about life, living, place, and people. It is this that makes what appears to be a pretty ordinary book an enjoyable read.

Aachen Cathedral

Aachen Cathedral

Istanbul

One misses illustrations of the places mentioned, but Google Images solves this problem. Aachen Cathedral, recorded as a rich experience, needs to be seen just as the images of other buildings and places described have to be illustrated in order to locate the words, give them some tangible anchor in understanding. Without this, the text remains just a collection of ad hock ‘funny,' forgettable pieces. Life is more than just being ‘funny,’ although humour is an essential part of happily being there. Bryson knows this. His writings are a jovial amusement, seemingly fanciful, while touching lightly on the depth of things ordinary, things lived, with a gentle awareness.

Istanbul

#

NOTE

The book has been presented with many different covers:

GRACE & HISTORY

Notes from The Amber Trail: Journey Through Eastern Europe - Natascha Scott-Stokes:  Phoenix,  London, 1994.

The complete title seems to vary, with another version being: The Amber Trail: From sea to sea: Baltic to Aegean, by bicycle; and there are other titles too; but it this second one that defines the subject more clearly.  

The Amber Trail is a chatty travelogue that uses what is said to be the Viking amber trail as a pretence for a structure for the trip; apparently to give it some direction, meaning, and an assumed relevance. The journey loosely follows what might have been the route taken by the Viking traders - this is no clear or certain trek or track - and there seem to be many assumptions and sundry random detours that remain mysteries: one feels a little disappointed. The actual history of the route plays hardly any part in the piecemeal bicycle trip which is undertaken by Natascha and her partner.

The book is chatty and homely, somewhat naïve, and seems to be based on a simple pattern devised from travel guides in the ‘Bryson’ style without the ironic humour: cycle for the day complete with the usual 'hiccups' and arduous times; arrive somewhere; find place to stay; check out a few landmarks and record the hassles; move on and repeat.

The book would have been better with more rigour and varied invention, some real discovery rather than confirming travel guide ‘revelations’ that just reference the clichés in the places visited. One keeps hoping for some substance that relates to the amber trail – perhaps even some amber, or maybe a museum relic - but nothing appears. There is no evidence or any place that can be related to the core history of the route identified in the title; the whole rationale for the book seems to have been fabricated just to impress.

One is left disappointed that the publication is more a personal memoir than anything to do with its title. Still, one does read a few asides worth pondering. These relate to various places, paths, and items, observations made using the traveller’s eye and unpretentious language rather than the professional’s trained approach to places: here 'unacademic' words like ‘grace’ and 'spirit' are used. A few of these comments have been noted here.

Gdansk

Gdansk

p.31

old Gdansk . . . a pleasant mixture of grace and history.

Gdansk

Eastern European village

p.45

Maybe the reason for my unease was much simpler. It is possible that exposure to Western European culture and history through schooling, television, and travel created a subconscious familiarity and my plain ignorance of any Eastern European country inevitably made a first encounter feel like a meeting of strangers.

Eastern European village

Black sea shells

Black sea shells

p.48

Specifically shells from the Black Sea, which have been found in prehistoric sites as far north and west as Poland and Germany, and were probably used for tools and ornamental purposes. Just like anyone else, early societies liked to keep their traditional way of life and went to great lengths to get supplies of the things they wanted.

Black sea shells

Eastern European mountains and valleys

Eastern European mountains and valleys

p.48-49

The traditional paths between the Baltic and the southern cultures of the Black Sea, Adriatic and Aegean were established following river valleys and low mountain passes where travel on foot and with animals was easiest.

Eastern European mountains and valleys

Petrzalka

Petrzalka

p.82

. . the hideous suburb of Petrzalka (Czecho-Slovakia) . . .

Featureless housing blocks spread over a flat expanse of four square kilometres: box upon box in a huge nightmare of anonymity, where 160,000 people are crammed into their hutches, and it is no surprise to discover the estate has the highest suicide rate in the country.

Petrzalka

Austrian village

p.86

The perfection and efficiency of the Austrian villages was somehow unattractive, lacking in something which I can only call generosity of spirit.

Austrian village

Austrian village

Budapest

Budapest

p.14

Budapest . . . the whole city impresses with its dimensions, but somehow lacks grace.

Budapest

Novi Sad

Novi Sad fortress

p.134

Novi Sad . . . A huge fortress thrones on a promontory opposite the town, where attractively dilapidated streets present a faded nineteenth-century film set below its walls. The gas streetlamps still hanging on their cast- iron frames, but none work, and many of the crumbling houses are abandoned, their ancient window- panes hung with dusty spiders’ webs.

Novi Sad

Novi Sad

Natascha Scott-Stokes and her partner eventually do reach the Aegean by various means as well as the bicycles mentioned in some titles; then, almost as an anti-climax, seemingly wondering why they might be there, they pack up and go home - without any amber. Might it all have been to please the publisher who wanted another best seller?