JUST A WASTE OF TIME

The two books that had been purchased online arrived, by pure chance, on the same day. One had been ordered four and a half months previously from the publisher in Melbourne, Australia; it was a recently published book on a local architect written by a University of Queensland academic. The other book had been ordered just two weeks prior from a book seller in Perth, Australia. The latter publication was a book on decoration, nearly one hundred years old.

The first book had been launched at a formal function in early December 2023, but, strangely, it was not available at this time: there was one copy to peruse. When ordered later, the advice was that it would arrive in about two to three months. Why was it launched at this time? When the middle of March arrived with no sign of any book, the publisher was contacted. The response was that the book would arrive mid-April; there had been publishing delays: the book arrived on the 15^th April. The second book was purchased early April, and the order had nominated this same day for arrival; it did exactly this without any hiccoughs.

It is not only the difference in response times for delivery that stimulate thoughts here; the publications themselves and their packaging show a stark discrepancy also, differences that have reverberations in architectural ideas, both as relating to the subjects of these publications, and architecture generally.

Perhaps this piece could have been called ‘Zen and the art of packaging.’ The new publication came vacuum packed in cardboard; well it looked like this. Two sheets of stiff card hard been pressed together above and below the publication to seal it in a package that swelled around the book, leaving a thin, flat, perimeter surround about 75mm in width. To open this well-sealed item, a small tear tab had been detailed into the face of one card, along the inner edge of the parcel at the beginning of the swelling. Pulling this strip away opened the parcel in the same way as a cigarette package opens, and let one pull the book out from its cardboard shell.

On opening, one discovered that the inner surfaces of these enclosing cards were covered with a sticky substance that not only held the book in place, but also sealed the parcel’s perimeter. This tacky surface was apparently supposed to avoid the possibility of the book slopping around inside the wrappers, and damaging the corners. One could say that the packaging was efficient and functional; that, with the machine sealing, it must be a fast process offering reasonable protection for the publication it encompasses. On a time/cost basis, where all matters must be minimal, this system must allow for a prompt packaging of large numbers of books per hour. The computer-printed addresses would complete these items to make them ready for posting with a prompt labelling. What could be better? It was noticed that the publisher had handed over the task of forwarding the book to a specialist ‘forwarding company.’

The other book, the old ‘rare book’ publication, arrived differently. It came wrapped in brown paper, with clear adhesive tape sealing all the laps, flaps and folds. The name and address had been hand-written on one side. Opening the parcel required a sharp-pointed knife to pierce the tape. One had to be careful not to damage the contents. On removing the outer wrapping, one discovered that there was a second inner brown paper wrapper similarly sealed. This was again carefully removed to reveal a parcel wrapped in corrugated cardboard that had been rolled around the longer dimension of the contents, and again sealed with the same adhesive tape. The two long sides of this package could be seen to be layers of corrugated board that had been built up to equal the thickness of the book. These layers finished flush with the outer wrapper that was wider than the contents. Again, after carefully opening up the clear adhesive tape seals, one could see that the layered edge strips had been carefully cut to be about 25mm in width. Held snugly between this layered edging infill, was the book itself, beautifully wrapped in brown paper. The removal of this wrapper revealed the publication enclosed in a plastic covering to protect the fragile, torn and worn dust jacket. On opening up the book, one discovered the business card/bookmark of the seller and the receipt for payment, with a hand-written and personally signed ‘Thank you’ addressed to my Christian name.

The stark contrast of these parcels, one anonymous, the other identified with the first name of the seller, made one ponder the process and the personal involvement in book wrapping. The new book might have involved a person placing the publication on the sticky sheet, and locating another sticky sheet above, and then clamping down on the sandwiched sheets to form the enclosed parcel ready for labelling – in preparation for the sticking on of the computer-printed, contact-adhesive sheet of addressed paper for sending: then on to the next one. There was little thought for the book itself; merely a concentration on the effectiveness of the process. One could only think about the object and the procedure, having no feeling for the person involved, if there was one.

The second book left one mesmerised, pondering the thought and care that one person had put into packaging this object that was obviously loved. One could sense this personal involvement, and admire the skill and planning that went into the wrapping of this lovely old book. There was a richness here that the first vacuum-packed parcel lacked, even though the first parcel could be seen to be efficient and effective; clever. One did worry about the placing of the unwrapped book directly onto the sticky, inner surface – might this leave a sticky film on the book cover, or remove some finish? Who cares? The process is fast, involving less time and labour than traditional wrapping.

One could see the Zen qualities in the latter parcel - the thoughtful time taken to package the lovely old publication; how the seller handled this book with care and love; how the wrapping was done likewise, neatly, precisely; with an understanding of how this parcel might travel, and the potential impacts involved. The first parcel managed matters with a similar outcome, but there was no emotional depth or response to this package other than sensing its ‘scientific’ effectiveness that saved time and money, and ‘did the job.’ One would never think of sending off a complementary Email of thanks to the first seller; but one did this immediately to the second after experiencing the sheer delight of the careful effort given to the task.

There is ‘something more,’ as we say, involved here; but it is always difficult to articulate these ephemeral, subtle matters that are accompanied with a sense of response – a phrase that gives another meaning to the word ‘responsibility.’

One might suggest that there are qualities about these publications themselves that perhaps sets the scene for such feeling. The new book came with a smart, glossy hard cover, and equally slick pages, all inked with digital perfection, without an imprinting or any disruption to the perfection of the paper’s surface. The book had the feel of what is known as a ‘print on demand’ publication, such was the bland, ‘in your face’ perfection of the whole production that came with small, black and white photographs distributed throughout the text. It was a strangely naive graphic formulation that gave the appearance of an early 1960s publication, and contrasted with the smart styling of the architecture it referenced. It was this apparent clash in graphic styling and panache, that made one think of the ‘on-demand’ publication format, that is really just an old publication that has been scanned and printed digitally. The process of printing these days is so automated that hundreds of books can be printed with computers, and bound and trimmed, literally overnight. Knowing this only aggravated the puzzle of the four-and-a-half month delay in getting the copy delivered when it was ‘launched’ in early December 2023. What really went on? Why not hold the launching celebration until the books become available? Who knows? Who cares? Was the publisher hoping for Christmas sales? Was this gifting urge needed to overcome the pricey hindrance - $170? It is the emotive response to the book that is worthwhile noting here: one stands back and looks as an observer, taking in appearances and analysing processes, as if one is not doing anything at all other than just being there. As with the packaging, there is a lack of things personal, intimate, here; one is confronted with the sheer perfection of functional efficiency that machines are capable of.

The old book highlights the difference. Here time enhances matters; the tattered dust jacket shows that other hands have touched the book; used it; read it; engaged with it: but the difference is more than this. The pages are softer, rougher; the print is impressed into the fine fuzz that has absorbed the ink; the print is not just glancing on the surface sheen, it is embedded into the page as if it were home, well-settled; imprinted. It is snug, like the book was in its packaging. The pages themselves have a homely feel; they are trimmed to about the same size, but this sizing lacks the crisp, sheared excellence of the guillotine used for the new production. The edges are softer, a little worn; less threatening as cutting edges on the fingers; the pages turn with a gentler, more accommodating action and touch. One can sense the difference in the production processes; hands are involved here; and hands have touched the book over time: it is a thing designed to be enjoyed by touch, as well as the eyes. Even the illustrations are all hand-drawn; there is nothing slick or glossy here; just naïve, honest efforts using the available technologies of the time. The new publication only becomes less smart with touch; it loses its efficient gleam that is defaced even by a finger print, crease, or a scratch. The old book accommodates change with a happier demeanour; it is less pretentious; more modest in its being and wholeness.

What is this difference? One might suggest that those qualities that one loses at death might help us understand matters. The sense of sharing, of responding, of accommodating each other as in a feedback loop, is lost at death as one changes into an observer. Might one say that one ‘observes’ the new book, but engages with the old book in a completely different, ‘responsive’ manner? It might even come down to observing smells, being able to enjoy the newness of things in the odour, while being engaged with the subtle complexities of references other than the merely ‘this is new,’ in the older publication that carries depth in its presence in many intriguing ways. Might one suggest that the first publication is ‘dead’ – dead to the eye and touch; unresponsive?

That one book, the new one, was on modern architecture, and the other on decoration raises yet another layer of thought as a strange parallel of circumstance: might modern architecture only be observed, with older buildings of other eras offering complicated references in feeling and understanding that enrich with intertwined responses developing an intimacy over time – with depth? Might one suggest that modernity is ‘singular,’ while traditional architecture is ‘multiple’ in many ways, not least with meaningful decoration. Decoration, brutally demeaned by Adolf Loos, carries a richness in image, form, and referencing that allows a toing and froing in being; being there; there is substance in the response that gains a reply, again and again, as a dance of meanings, interpretations in visual delight. Modern architecture presents itself for the observer to see and admire; to be amazed with a static, ‘futuristic,’ suddenness; an instant, abrupt understanding that does nothing over time but reinforce itself as a clever, flash identity.#

As undecorated form, modern architecture might be considered to be ‘naked’ architecture, a removal of the clothes; or perhaps ‘skeletal’ architecture, the removal of the flesh. Fashions beyond modernism might be seen more like the skeletal remains shambles in mass graves, such are the ad hoc distortions that still deny decoration any place in expression, but search for deliberate, bespoke and quirky, noticeable differences to bewilder perceptions and amaze the observer with a startling, static ‘death’ viewing, while declaring ‘Look at ME!’

To sense more of this experience, one might consider a jug; a pristine piece of modernism, perhaps a classic Nordic piece, stripped of everything except its fine, geometric form shaped by functions that enhance the qualities the material: now think of a duck vase, covered in coloured decoration. The depth of expression and referencing in the latter vase is far richer than the stark and certain singularity of the modern piece, even though there is no difference in functional efficiency. One sees a jug in one; a duck, bird, flight, water, feathers, colour, and jug in the other, with all that these fine feelings touch upon. There is a seeing in the first object, but a reciprocal engagement in the latter that reverberates with ideas, feelings, and emotions. Architecture can be like the latter, but modernism denies this possibility, ensuring that the desired difference remains the challenge by promoting architecture as ‘artful’ photographic pieces devoid of place and person: see - https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2024/01/architecture-as-bitsnpieces.html Modern architecture and beyond remains as objects to be admired, nothing more; it ignores the feeling body as well as all of the other similar and different works. We have become conceptually inept; inarticulate, and do not care. Consider Islamic patterns – see: Keith Critchlow, Islamic Patterns: an analytical and cosmological approach, Thames and Hudson, London, 1976 - and how these are not merely the clever geometric games that ‘modernism plus’ plays with.

We need to know more about what to do with decoration so that we can speak in form – inform form and transmit the ‘remembrance of origins’ as tradition refers to it. Modernity has been an exercise in removing all so-called ‘unnecessary’ decoration with the rigour of a time and motion efficiency drive; trimming forms down to functional, no-frills, pure geometry. Sir Kenneth Clark noted this change when he concluded one session of his Civilisation series – first aired on BBC 2, February to May, 1969 - when talking about the beauty of Wren’s Greenwich Hospital by saying that the world came to see such architectural effort as just a waste of time and money.

It is ‘irrational’ functionalism – both rational and irrational reasoning - that needs to be squashed, put aside, in favour of the thinking that generated the cliché, Form Follows Function. Sullivan wrote about decoration and used it beautifully. His thinking highlighted decoration in functionalism; it was a poetic reference, not one of mean, lean, and effective efficiency that it has become over time, almost as an excuse for a lack of skill and knowledge. The understanding of this cliché as ‘simplicity’ made things just too easy for everyone to design with the explanation of ‘minimalism’ shaping bland things and nothingness, left there to be observed and admired in their special, aesthetically thin sparseness. It is an attitude that has been refined in architectural publications that rarely show people or the happy ‘mess’ of daily use; we get only contrived visions to admire. We need architecture that can respond to people, and vice versa, just as Sullivan wanted it. We need decoration, not just frivolous embellishment, but serious, meaningful work that truly enriches and responds by embracing humanity: ideas, emotions, and feelings - beliefs - with an engaging, encompassing reciprocity rather than displaying only clever, isolated performances. Ideas about wasting time need to go; we need an architecture that supports life with all of the complexities that death removes.

Louis Sullivan argued for meaningless Victorian decoration to be stripped off buildings, to be replaced with an organic decoration. He never argued for the death of decoration, but suggested that it may take 100 years to learn how to use it again. He published a book on decoration and theory - Louis H. Sullivan, A System of Architectural Ornament According with a Philosophy of Man’s Powers, Kawneer, Niles, Michigan, 1924 – a publication that has received very little attention. He wanted to get rid of the false, romantically florid foibles of the Victorian world, and develop and architecture that was rich and vital, where form followed function, and function followed form; where decoration had a vital function: his was a poetic perception of possibilities that he explained in the rose: the function of the rose is the form of the rose; the form of the rose is the function of the rose: and the leaf likewise. Maybe architects need to use the rose as an emblem to remind them of this situation, and not stride off into the easy world of nakedness, where thought is limited to admiring bland diagrams for living – Corbusier’s machine for living. The irony is that machines were once decorated very beautifully: c.f. the Singer sewing machine. We no longer know how to decorate; what to decorate; or what decoration might be for. We need to change; we need to know how decoration is not just a waste of time and money, but how it can enrich our lives immeasurably.

While the glossy new book might broaden our understanding of one particular local architect, the old book by Archibald H. Christie - Traditional Methods of Pattern Designing, Claredon Press, Oxford, 1929 - can be useful on many levels by showing us, not only how time and use can be beautiful and ennobling, but also how the thing itself and its handling can carry meaning and value. Of course, the irony here is that the new book took so long to arrive, wasting time, while the old one was promptly efficient, strictly on time. We live in a topsy-turvy world that pretends it is cleverly saving time with its rude neglect for ordinary humanity. All care is distracted with arguments for time and money, and the delight in difference – in death, defiance, and drama.

Two books, two ways of wrapping; two ways of seeing; modernism and tradition: one can see it as a search for admiration that contrasts with a search for responsible meaning, a sharing of relevance that is happy with engagement rather than denying it; that delights in decoration and its marvellous humanity: its life – enjoying complexity.

The danger is that AI might be seen to hold the answer, ‘as if’ it might be useful, that it is something other than mathematics and machines. AI only aggravates matters, ensuring that we can only observe; denying us any involvement, just that we become something less. We need to become more by doing more, and forget about the clever, distorted quirks of catchy adages. We need to see our love of blind progress for what it is – an enthusiasm for science and AI that engages us uncritically; dangerously.

# One might note the difference between the stunning Villa Savoye and Corbusier’s work at Ronchamp, that mysterious chapel that materialised out of modernism, as if by mistake. We admire the villa, its intrigue and parts, but remain entranced and engaged by the chapel both visually and emotionally in a way that is ‘universal,’ as sensed in traditional architecture.

NOTE:

The ‘new book’ referred to is Elizabeth Musgrave, John Dalton Subtropical Modernism and the Turn to Environment in Australian Architecture, Bloomsbury Press, Melbourne, 2024. Strangely, Bloomsbury records the date for publishing as 10 August 2023: the puzzle of availability only deepens.