MORE ON SYDNEY MODERN & AI

Nearly one-and-a-half years have passed since the grand opening on 3 December 2022 of what was called ‘Sydney Modern’ – the $344 million extension to the Art Gallery of New South Wales designed by SANAA. Unusually, the gallery extension was not named when opened. One presumed that most of the catchy acronyms like MoMA and GOMA have been used up by other galleries across the world, leaving the Art Gallery of New South Wales management with a problem, and its own awkward AGNSW shambles that makes no phonetic sense. In the absence of any decision on the name, the gallery became known colloquially as ‘Sydney Modern.’ A review of the gallery was written at the time: see – https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2023/02/thoughts-on-sydney-modern.html.

Shortly after this, ChatGPT became available as an AI tool for all to use. The idea came: why not ‘ask’* ChatGPT to write a review of Sydney Modern, just as a trial. One could compare the AI result with one’s own writing. So the words: ‘Write a review of Sydney Modern,’ were typed into the AI site, and the button was pressed. The result came in about twenty seconds – or it might have been less: the images here show the text on the mobile phone.

This exercise showed up one thing: that this new gallery had become known, in a very short time, as ‘Sydney Modern’ by all. The AI site never paused with any ‘uncertainty’ or muddled codes about this matter; it simply put together words that said something about the new project. Looking at the text, one sees words that read as somewhat ‘mealy-mouthed.’ The dictionary helps us explain: avoiding the use of direct, critical, and plain language, as from timidity, excessive delicacy, or hypocrisy; inclined to mince words; insincere, devious, or compromising.

The words appear hesitant, making what looks like a concentrated effort to be right, polite, using catch phrases as blurb pieced together, as if taken from a tourist brochure, or collected as generic statements, general, almost apologetic words that have no idea about the particular subject being referenced, or any of the specifics involved. One could say that the AI review lacks rigour and substance; that it has none of the authority of experience. It looks to be structured on a phantom schedule, annotating some cliché dot points, offering a sundry gathering of these bits and pieces as ‘a review.’ The whole is puny: poor in quality, amount, and size. AI seems to be more of a threat from poor outcomes concealed in exuberant hype, and our hopeful belief in it, than anything else.

Now, at last, it has been announced that a name has finally been decided, for both the new and the old galleries:

Art Gallery of NSW’s $344m building extension finally named more than a year after it opened

Newer building named Naala Badu, meaning ‘seeing waters’ in the Dharug language, while older building named Naala Nura, or ‘seeing country.’

https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2024/apr/16/art-gallery-nsw-new-building-naala-badu-naala-nura-dharug-language-meaning#:~:text=The%20gallery%2C%20which%20has%20been,out%20on%20to%20Sydney%20Harbour. Can one really see significant water from these galleries; does one see country?

One has to wonder: why has the awkward AGNSW been dropped in favour of these two puzzling First Nation names? Why was ‘Sydney Modern’ not good enough? It seemed to catch on very quickly. Why do aboriginal names get selected when their soundings are not easy to correlate with grand institutional references?# Will Naala Nura ever match the authority of MoMA, or Tate Modern? Can Naala Badu do anything better? The intentions appear good; but is this all just a cultural cringe, a hypocrisy that pretends to care about true recognition and assimilation, but only in words? One hears a “Na-na, na, na-na” rhythm that has a mocking chant to it rather than any naming of a venerable art gallery. Is this naming the outcome of a group of indulgent enthusiasts sitting around a table, encouraging each other’s ‘genius’ suggestions without any critical overview? Did no one ever ask what the man in the street might make of this naming in classic, clever Aussie slang? Was there not even a joke mentioning ‘going to Timbuktu’?^

Seeing Waters?

Seeing Country?

The repeated phrases about acknowledging country etc., etc., are proudly spruiked at nearly every opening or introduction; and aboriginal place names are now used in the news, and on weather maps too, but really nothing changes. Indeed, it is worse: when the population is asked to agree to give a ‘Voice’ to the aboriginal population, just the right to be listened to, nothing else, astonishingly the vote goes against this idea, all while these pitiful, self-conscious acknowledgements and namings - e.g. “This is Cammeraigal country” - continue, appearing to be both insincere and devious; lacking true rigour and commitment; just shrouding an intent to do nothing about ‘country’ or its people who, perhaps hopefully, might be placated by such hollow gestures. The use of the aboriginal names for the galleries has a cringing feeling about it: one could say that there is nothing ‘native’ or necessary about this labelling. “I’m going to go to Naala Badu,” sounds like a phrase that comes with the cynical, sarcastic, Aussie retort: “Ya might as well go ta . . . .” - think, at best, Timbuktu; and 'snarly' comes to mind as well. The sounds lack authority and substance to the western ear; they almost complain. The meanings might be poetic: ‘seeing waters’ and ‘seeing country,’ but does it make sense to name a place in this way, either in English or in the Dharug language? It all appears very shallow; perhaps it is just an effort to be seen to be ‘politically proper’? Might this increase funding for these galleries?

Sydney Modern - Naadla Badu

The closest parallel one can think of is the arts theatre building in Lerwick, Shetland. It is named ‘The Mareel’ – mareel being the name in Shetland dialect for the phosphorescence seen on the sea, especially so during autumn nights - the sheen of light on water: one might say ‘seeing waters.’ With the Nordic/Icelandic roots, the sound ‘mareel’ settles easily on the ear, and the name carries some substance in its new punchy title, as it maintains its poetic reference which lingers nicely with the location: the building sits right on the waterfront on Lerwick harbour, opposite Bressay Island.

The Mareel, Lerwick:

see - https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2014/04/seeing-what-we-believe-idyllic-visions.html

One can only remain uneasy with the twin, double-syllable, First Nation names that collect four soundings into each title; is this the problem: too sing-song? Shetland’s working sheep dogs were named with single-syllable words so that commands would be crisp and certain: e.g., Fleece; Sam; Max; Jack. Perhaps a name needs a clear, brisk snap with a sharp certainty to sound right, to be memorable, to hold meaning in its reference in order to establish a belief in itself and what it stands for?

What is interesting is that this SANAA building itself appears uncertain; it is still being illustrated from drone shots. It appears as though this is the only identity it has. It was argued before - in https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2023/02/thoughts-on-sydney-modern.html – that the building would never hold the identity, the authority, of the Sydney Opera House, even though the media hype claimed otherwise. One supposes that one has to get something outstanding from an iconic expenditure. Here, yet again in this current media release, we see the building photographed from on high, highlighting the obvious weakness as it begs the question: what does it look like from ground level?

Naala Badu from above:

the words sound like a foreign country, perhaps as strange as the vision itself?

The images of the new SANAA gallery seem to struggle for cohesion and identity when not taken from a drone. From the air, one sees layers underlining the context of Sydney’s dramatic skyline and harbour; an interleaving that becomes a criss-crossing of planes from higher above; but at eye level, one sees a certain blandness – planes and posts framing nothing but uncertain white voids, lacking the confidence and strength one sees in a Meis building. Naala Badu – is it ‘The Naala Badu,’ and does one add ‘Art Gallery’ after this or not? - seems to have no public image that can be grasped from eye level; and there is now nothing in the sing-song name either. As noted previously, usually a graphic is developed to promote such a place. What will be the graphic image for Naala Nura and Naala Badu? It can hardly be the colonial frontage of the AGNSW! Perhaps the current graphic might turn the angles into boomerangs? - it would nearly be as crass as the naming.

The interior seems as uncertain as the exterior in deciding what it wants to be.

Might boomerangs be a better match with the new names?

Why not use boomerangs in the graphic above?

Even the section appears ephemeral.

Will this new interest in things aboriginal in Australia now give its First Nation members a ‘Voice,’ or is all of this ‘feel-good’ aboriginal naming just an artful scheming to pretend we love ‘country’ and its people; that we really, truly care? - !! ‘Humbug!’ sounds loud in the silence which we are forcing on our First Nations people – “You have no say in this country.” What might AI say? We’ll have to put the instruction: Write a review of Naala Badu, and find out.# One fears that it will be as poor as the first review on Sydney Modern.

Perhaps this mishmash in naming can be seen to be stimulated by that of the identity of the new building itself that seeks to claim far more than it appears to offer.

*

AI language always refers to the digital, programmed system as though it might be human: see note below on the instruction to write a review, where the response refers to an ‘I’ that is mere code, nothing human at all.

#

This was done on the original AI site, ChatGPT, but a direction was given to download the very latest AskAI site. The site was downloaded and the words were typed in; ten seconds later some words appeared. The response is very telling and says much about the problem with the new name:

I’m sorry, but I don’t have any information about “Naala Badu.” It seems like you might be referring to something specific. Could you please provide more details or context so that I can better assist you?

What can one say but express alarm and concern: the site responds as if it might be a real, living, thinking individual: I’m sorry, but I don’t . . ; and, surprisingly, the new name of ‘Sydney Modern’ which was the original name that was immediately recognised, means nothing. The suggestion is that it might be referring to something specific but it has no information at all, and seeks guidance to give it a clue. Who would have guessed that it might be an art gallery; not just any old place, but the prestigious Art Gallery of New South Wales? There was no such uncertainty with Sydney Modern.

The change to this First Nations name seems to have immediate problems with recognition, let alone being seen as an apologetic cringe that has no intention of changing anything to do with First Nations people, and their country. It all looks very much like an imposing, new Colonialism operating with the idea that apparent inclusion will allow power to be maintained, which is not good. One can see it as a scheming to hold the “No Voice” stance, where the cunning argument is that we are including you; that we respect you.

There is yet another problem with the new names: Googling Naala, the common portion of the new identities, one discovers that this is the name of a singer - see: https://www.instagram.com/naalaofficial/ - and that it is an acronym for the NORTH AMERICAN AUSTRALIAN LAWYERS ALLIANCE. It also means: Not An Average Legal Adviser, and has its own graphic, and references a healing centre too. This is not a good start; did anybody check? One might say: "Join the queue."

Naala, singer.

^

Gordon Spicer has already made his comment online:

I haven't heard of that name change.

Does that mean it will only show Aboriginal art, or is it political revenge for the NO VOTE last year?

It's pathetic how we are caving in to minority woke activists.

Spineless NSW Government?

NOTE:

This is not the first time a familiar place has had its name changed to the indigenous title. Bombay has become Mumbai; Ceylon, Sri Lanka; Ayers Rock, Uluru; and, more recently, Fraser Island has been named K’gari. All of the first three noted here have been successful, with the names easily slipping into colloquial chat. The last name has yet to be tested, but there seems no problem with this almost cryptic, friendly title. The lingering issues with the new gallery names remain the strong aboriginal referencing for an international display, and the twin syllables of the two words that begin telling a story in song and can almost be seen to reference themselves as an echo rather than sounding as a place: Naala Badu and Naala Nura will have to prove themselves on the street. It seems as though there might be some difficulty as the sounds appear to be saying something unknown in a foreign tongue, something secret – which they are; but discovering that this is ‘seeing waters’ and ‘seeing country’ may leave one puzzled with such poetics when the idea was to be there to ‘see art.’ The further complication is the twinness that can, with its structure and sounding, easily be wrongly assumed to be a Christian name and a surname, when it is not. The whole appears very confusing. Might the galleries eventually come to be known as The Badu and The Nura? It might be better than establishing a confusing, mystic puzzle in rhythmic sound, and could hold some mythic sense in place and style with the old gallery being the solid ‘country,’ with the new more ephemeral extension being the surrounding ‘waters’ - wishy-washy comes to mind. Perhaps the whole complex might eventually become the Nura Badu Art Gallery of New South Wales, and come to be known as the more friendly, more encompassing acronym: ‘the NuBa.’ The only problem here is that this is the name of the indigenous inhabitants of central Sudan, and is close to 'Uber.' Such are the problems of acronyms: see - https://voussoirs.blogspot.com/2020/02/aaca-graphics-questions-and-answers.html Maybe the matter will sort itself out with time?

Naala Nura

Naala Badu

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.