GRAND DESIGN

Is the premise: If something can wrong, it will? This seems to be the basis of the gamble on which every show is grounded. It appears as though it has never failed.

Kevin McCloud’s television production, Grand Designs is a popular show that is frequently replayed. It is so admired that it is blatantly used as a filler in ‘free to air’ television, especially in Britain, apparently without any complaints. The published programme for Channel 4 often schedules whole afternoons replaying the programme: 1:00pm: Grand Designs; 2:00pm: Grand Designs; 3:00pm: Grand Designs; 4:00pm: Grand Designs - day after day. The only other competitor that comes close to this number of replays is on Channel 3 - River Cottage. This cooking show receives a similar repetitive listing of reruns. In Australia the repeats of both of these shows are more cunningly distributed, but are just as regularly aired, so that one might discover that a promoted programme has been seen some three of four times previously.

But why watch the repeats? In Grand Designs, one is confronted randomly with a greying Kevin with less hair and a more gaunt stature than remembered; or an extremely young Kevin with his sweet, innocent but eager 'Tintin' face; or anything in between. Time makes its changes. It is usually the image of Kevin that allows one to determine the age of the programme: to gauge its antiquity. The programme has been running for years. One sometimes has to wait to see the other folk involved in order to recognise the scenario; or sometimes the build itself. It is remarkable what one remembers of each show and how accurately and acutely it is recalled. Why? How? What is it about these episodes?

I am not saying that I have seen every programme, but it seems to me that there is a ‘grand design’ in the structure of this show that forms the core of the series: its format; its formwork, as it were. Indeed, one might say that each show is identical, varying only with different casts, contexts and circumstances, all led – ‘anchored’ - by the familiar and chatty KM - Kevin McCloud. The strategy starts with the general introduction of the proposed build that is pieced crisply together with a magical three-dimensional CAD presentation to explain matters and hoped-for outcomes. Kevin usually gives his overview to set the scene - perhaps to emphasise some potential difficulty; some uniquely experimental qualities; or to drop the suggestion that the budget is too low; or that the site is impossible; perhaps that the weather will prove a problem; or that the owners lack experience; that time has been grossly underestimated; and the like. The viewer is prompted on the weaknesses - on just what disaster or disasters to expect in this ‘warm-up’ styled introduction.

The camera is then pointed to a vista of open natural beauty, to pan into Kevin as he approaches the site, all to soft themed music. Here he expands on the scenario he set up in the introduction and has a ‘probing’ chat with the owners. At this early stage in events, he is cheeky, penetrating, challenging, asking the tough, sometimes insulting questions that might be further highlighted, aggravated and complicated, as particular issues and problems are elaborated on and explained in the responses or excuses given. KM can be cynical, even sarcastic, at this stage - cheeky; sometimes smug. Then the image of the ground being dug up comes onto the screen.

Here one sees concrete being poured without any reinforcement - a strange matter for one used to Australian practice. But this is the ‘old country,’ with old ways that it will not change. Issues with planning frequently bring this stubbornness to the fore. This is a country that works hard to keep its heritage, sometimes extremely hard, making unique and specific demands on owners and builders that appear strange to those outside of the culture. Frequently the result is often questionable, in spite of all the effort made in response to the detailed demands of the planners.

At this stage, during the preparation of the footings - planning matters can go on and on throughout the build - things can go well or disastrously, a bit like the planning issues themselves. Budgets can be blown out, and then more time is spent lingering on the difficulties, languishing in them with a drooling delight. If things go well, without any theatricals, this portion of the programme is skipped over until a different hurdle has to be confronted. The whole subject of the series is drama. This is highlighted time and time again as Kevin probes searchingly in his chats with the owner, or the architect, (if there is one, and one willing to go on camera), the owners, or engineer, or project manager: anyone who will talk and help with the structuring of the narrative of the drama; and the drama of the narrative. One must remember that these interviews are all carefully edited to provide the best effect for the show.

Sometimes KM will seek to explain matters to the audience by using quaint models to display the characteristics of what is happening. Other times he does little sketches. He might involve himself by standing on a sheet of, say, glass or plywood, to test and prove the load capacities. He might use a piece of toast to highlight the structural challenges; or play with model pieces to illustrate the structural and waterproofing, heating or prefab systems being used. It is all a little like Playschool when this is taking place. It seems to delight KM more than anything and is a strategy used when appropriate props are available: ordinary things that can set the scene simply. As in children’s television, KM likes to use, say, a cardboard box, cotton wool, a plastic tube and a ping pong ball, for instance, to make something to make a point, when for children it might be purely to create a fun item: maybe a spooky mask, all with a similar educational intent. KM likes to play. It is not as though all technical matters are explained. Sometimes these are frustratingly ignored, or just forgotten, when they are critical to an outcome and the understanding of the process being followed. There is no rigour here, just opportunities for games and drama. With exotic IT systems being built into a house, KM is more interested in counting fittings and pointing out the fun that can be had with the system than anything else: dimming lights and changing colours to suit the mood music or the desired feel, and the like, become the subject for attention.

As the mess of the build increases and the shape appears, KM then starts walking through the place, making disparaging comments about cost, size, intent, etc. - even suggesting that it might leak or never perform as planned. He literally revels in the project’s delays, often highlighting the fact that the project is something like eighteen months into a build that was to take eight: likewise with budgets. Repeated chats with the team and the owners are cut into with his monologues to bring out the character of the characters in the build and to emphasise the disastrous possibilities, a little like the graphics on Monster Moves that use three dimensional CAD to show the actual failures - true failures. It is a bonus if there is an argument or a real trauma, but it can become embarrassing. In amongst all of this, KM gets his hands dirty. Just why remains a question, as his involvement - this ‘getting my hands dirty’ game, (has this idea also come from Playschool?) - is always accompanied with the whinge that he is hopeless and not one used to, yes, ‘getting his hands dirty.’ Why bother? It is strange that television presenters like to jump in to try to accomplish things they have never touched before. What prompts this silly embarrassing performance? Surely not viewer expectations?

As the build progress, the script is honed appropriately to suit the context. Every opportunity to create issues and establish dramatic scenarios is grasped. “This is impossible. It just won’t stand up. It will be double the cost. It will be too dark ; too small; too sunny; too cold; impossibly ugly; out of scale; out of character - will not fit into its particular village or countryside.” One is encouraged to be prepared for, to expect, the greatest disaster of all time; after all KM should know, he has experience in these things: and the music hauntingly highlights this possibility as the camera twists into uniquely ugly images of whatever to prove that this will be so.

What is interesting is that the camera never captures the complete context. There might be a neighbour only a few metres away, but one is encouraged to see this build as a stand-alone, unique piece of architecture. KM likes those builds that are ‘modern’ and is at his most caustic, (he is never really rude), when they are otherwise. The camera seems to take the modernist ideal of seeing each building as being its own self, with its own unique identity: bugger everything else. This is a ‘grand design’ after all! Occasionally only a casual, chance glimpse, a mere suggestion, is gained of the complete context, as if by accident or by sheer necessity driven by some other critical ambition. Even at the completion of the programme the real circumstance is concealed in the hints, the cut and paste, of endless open vistas and clumps of green. Sometimes clever lighting blacks out the surrounds when they are too difficult to eliminate by other means.

Now, towards the end of the show after last seeing the build in a complete shambles, and being encouraged by KM to expect it to be the greatest calamity of all, the camera points to the idyllic scene of distant green and pleasant rolling hills in the best of British ‘Jerusalem,’ or frames a shimmering cornfield or a copse of trees with leafy light filtering through. You get the idea. Then it cuts to a frame in which one sees KM strolling up to a completed building to knock on the front door. One never notices it, but the camera is suddenly inside to capture the immediate surprise of KM’s arrival that is all handshakes and kisses to an appropriately positive, emotive tune. “Gosh, we didn’t expect you Kevin,” say the owners all dolled up ready for the camera and pizzazz of the accompanying the music. The music is critical to this production.

What! Is KM going to criticise this build after such a greeting? No, never. Suddenly everything is wonderful. Just right. It is all a little like a child’s book, as with Goldilocks, and that typical scenario with, say, a mouse that has everything wrong: too hot; too cold; etc., and then suddenly right - not too hot; not too cold; etc., all just right, as the little creature tucks safely into its bed - as presented on Playschool. It is a very satisfying scene for the child - comforting and reassuring. It seems to be the grand design for this production too. Is this the strategy that makes it so addictive? Is this why we are so forgiving of its weaknesses; happily blind to its illogical leaps?

The stroll through the newly completed home- well, sometimes it can never be completed within a reasonable time so it is signed off incomplete and left to the imagination - concentrates on the kitchen and bathrooms, with glimpses of the living and bedrooms. Stairs seem to be the new fetish. Frequently a 400,00 pound build will have a 100,000 pound stair - well, it seems like this. But getting a clear and honest statement of costs is usually the low point of the programme. The characters are all different: some can make sensibly believable statements; others appear to tell fibs; others just refuse to be helpful. Why did they get involved in the show? Was it the wife who was so adamant? It is always interesting to see who does the most talking.

Some are brash and arrogant know-alls; others are prepared to do everything even when knowing nothing. There must be something similar about them all because they have all applied to be part of the show. The selection process also determines the type of build that is promoted. The choice usually is something quirky that can entertain; something odd to challenge and alarm; some different scenario that can generate interest and drama for the summing up. Ah! The summing up: here the music changes again, KM becomes the centrepiece with the house in the background as he extols the build, defines it in iconic statements. Rarely is he critical although he might slyly say that it is good for the owner, it’s what they wanted; or suggest that an architect might have helped, but he is never scathing. Even hopelessness in an outcome is praised. Ugliness is disguised in the positive; and the awkward is managed carefully by acknowledging a stunning detail or the care in a part of its making, or some similar distraction. This is after all, a ‘grand design.’

Indeed, it is a grand design that is managed with a grand design. There is a problem here. Frequently issues are ignored. Things technical and complex are made to appear simple, commonplace, when overlooked. The concentration is on the story, the plot as it develops, as it is honed in the process of the taking and making. The programme does little for design or for architecture, other than falsely promote its exaggerated possibilities. It highlights pretentiousness when it is there; exuberance and arrogance when it is there; false genius and foolishness likewise. Only one or two programmes - maybe, because I have not seen every episode - reveal a truly beautiful piece of work and thought that has been responsibly managed and carefully produced. The idea and intent of the show makes it far more likely that something otherwise will be chosen to embellish the framework of the plot – to beef it up with drama.

The show makes the professionals look like idiots. They are always, it appears, fair game. What it does is to show those who are bold enough to want to be part of the programme, making statements that highlight a certain arrogance, for example: “Building is easy; Architecture takes time” - all when the project is months out of time. The astonishment is that Britain has any builders left in business. The scene is commonplace: the budget is stretched and the build is months and months over in time. Yet the builder happily ploughs on with his slow progress without complaint or worry. How it this possible? He has to go broke with this attitude. What really goes on?

The whole building process is a worry. How many builds start without even a final set of drawings let alone a final cost? Here architects are shown extolling the virtue of their expensive ideas in spite of budget worries and time constraints. The profession is made look silly - stupid and pigheaded. Is it? Clients are presented promoting the idea that architects are a waste of time and money. The DIY concept steps in, suggesting that anyone can do what trained professionals work at every day. It is a real worry even when KM does suggest otherwise from time to time. The final positive, ‘everything is wonderful,’ scene only reinforces every prejudice possible. Greater rigour is needed if the truth is to be told. Here, it seems, truth is never let get in the way of a good story.

The whole strategy becomes more transparent when KM wants to build his own shed in Man Made Home  - a little hide-away home in a field he has purchased: a retreat. Here everything is promoted in the introductory monologue as being handmade from the site or from junk. This build will be green and me. The suggestion is that KM is going to do everything on and from his land, with his materials, his junk and his hands. But no - his mates and other contractors, designers and friends, and their friends do it all. There is always a skilled assistant to be introduced for each new task. We should have remembered that KM is useless with his hands. He has told us frequently enough.

Then we see the tricks. The machines are bought in to do the work after minutes of detail shots of the attempt at making, at cutting, by hand. The trees are cut, by chainsaw. The wood is cut, by chainsaw. The cabin is on wheels to overcome the planning regulations, (is this a good example to set?), but the wheels are dug into hollows so as to hide them. These old wheels are to take tonnes of timber and earth, but how are the tyres to be kept inflated? How are the hollows going to drain? Then suddenly, after many camera shots of handmade attempts and experiments with new systems, the frame is erected perfectly - no worries. It all fits first go, right down to the millimetre. We saw nothing of this fabrication and setting out, but it is all green and wonderful: you too can do this, just like I have! This is the repeated message. No fabrication problems at all; then the cladding. Yet again: the trick of hand making with the shingles. It is discovered that these will take months and months to make so a team of five is brought in. Suddenly there are two thousand shingles. Were these purchased from the local supplier? Nothing was said either way about this surprise. Nothing at all - just silence and, it seems, the hope that the audience will not notice or ask. Strangely, from time to time a planked wall is revealed in the background. Is this the wall the wide-angle shots never reveal? Just where does the drinking water come from?

KM keeps the monologue up with his greener than green indulgence, ’easy-peasy’ as one chef would say, suggesting that everyone needs to and can do what he is doing - well, what he is watching people do. He does nothing but look and make comments for the camera, and get in the way. His grand design is getting tangled up with his own promotion, even though he says that this is not a vanity matter. Hmmm. It may not be but it looks mighty like it. It is an indulgence where the reality of the making and all of the issues arising from this are skipped over in favour of a preferred narrative. It is the same pattern as that of his grander Grand Designs programmes. Even the music is here too.

Everyone knows how even the assemblage of a flat pack of, say, shelving, creates problems. First the understanding of the whole; then of the process; then of the pieces; then of the tools; and the organisation required. Now, if all of this is satisfactorily resolved, the assembly starts. In no time at all, the matter of setting out, holding together and screwing correctly arises; then of the steps and stages; then of keeping things square. How? No one says: then of nailing off the rear panel. Finished at last, only to discover when the whole is turned over, (the instructions were to assemble the unit upside down), that the kick plate is installed backwards. Nothing warned of this problem. Why? Thanks Ikea. It requires everything to be disassembled to correct the problem. Then after twenty weeks of ordinary use, the shelves sag about twenty millimetres. Thanks again Ikea! Nothing in making is ever simple even if the DIY world loves to indicate otherwise. The sense of body experience, problem solving and skill management are always missing in the presentation that promotes the ease of making wonder and delight: “There!” - the hand slaps the finished item with a proud wack: “Just like a bought one!” and we all know otherwise.

How many times have you seen the craftsman in a video illustrating how to make, say, a table? Just do this; then that; and this; and it is made: proud wack! - look directly at camera. After the first minute of attempting to replicate the task, there is a problem that has never been mentioned, let alone identified and solved; some real but unexpected complication that was given no time in the video. Grand Designs is like this. It skips over issues, edits them out, to grasp the substance of drama. It is a programme based on human interest and personal foibles, using the building process as its fabric. This is why it is so addictive: one is always interested in personal challenges; intimate problems; potential failures. It is really a very old narrative that has the struggle being overcome by success: adversity is defeated. It is a soap opera. What else does one want?

It is an interesting question. There is really no easy answer. The comment can be made that making a drama out of real-life building situations is not helpful in describing the true circumstance. It is really just a grand design for Grand Designs: promoting the different and unique as a battle. The show certainly has been successful. But we must remember just how the programme is so selective, choosing only those people and builds that it believes will fit the mould that it has made - provide sufficient drama to make it compulsive viewing. Everyday modest success has no use here. Ordinary folk do not make interesting stories or churn out dramatic outcomes. Characters are needed with character builds that can create character headlines - KM’s catchphrases that are littered throughout his monologues. There is something Shakespearean - no, more of Hollywood - about the programme where the tension of potential tragedy builds right up to the final success of the project when the human spirit prevails. Strangely, on reflection, the words written by KM are frequently more important than the build. Is this what we remember best? Such are stories: grand designs for good entertainment.

As KM himself might say in summing up with a cutting precision, “The pen is mightier than the act and experience - of building.” One could add music to this too.

Camera fade out from detail of house and garden with all lights blazing at dusk, to signature tune and the overlay of credits: written and presented by Kevin McCloud . . . .

It is indeed a grand design: and ME - Kevin!

Like David Attenborough, Kevin, Kevin and Kevin is always there to be seen and heard.

He is the Attenborough of building.

So what can one finally say about Grand Designs? Well, the best nature programme I have even seen was on otters in Shetland. One never saw the presenter, only heard his commentary as the camera concentrated on the shy and elusive otters. The subject was managed subtly and sensitively, with love and care. No ego complicated or overrode issues; no face fronted, confronted, the camera lens. It is possible. There was no Attenborough here; no McCloud to ‘McCloud’ matters.

P.S.
It is now the end of August 2013, the last day of our winter, some six months after publishing this piece. The ABC TV is still promoting its series  Man Made Home as a DVD set. The promotion speaks romantically of 'Kevin Mc Cloud's eco-friendly cabin in the woods.' Perhaps it should be 'ego-friendly'?
I wonder if he has had to pump the tyres up yet?

NEW SCHOOL OF ARCHITECTURE - OLD SCHOOL?

LETTER TO THE HEAD OF A NEW SCHOOL OF ARCHITECTURE

Sir,

Thanks for the briefing on Wednesday. As you know, I find the five-minute thinking blocks of a ‘butcher paper’ event a little restrictive when matters need some more careful review and reverie. I believe that such events are now called ‘think tanks.’ Is this because everyone is drowning underwater, flailing around aimlessly, seeking the surface in an attempt to make some sense out of nothing? The setting up of a new school is exciting. It offers an unusual new beginning and a real challenge to implement different structures to suit our times. The Bauhaus model has been reproduced for many years now. This is a great opportunity to see if some different approaches might be fruitful - to bring the Gropius enthusiasm for education into this century so that it can play a role in shaping the next one hundred years.

It could also be the time to take a look at other models. The Beaux Arts comes to mind, and the role of the esquisse that seems to have faded into more singular, extended programmes. Studio work is another matter that has become less structured - as well as the ‘crit.’ I came into architecture just as the course was changing, so I experienced a little of the ‘old school’ programme, but never had to render the orders. One recalls how frequently an idea has sometimes to be quickly documented and presented to a client - tomorrow! The esquisse training could be useful here. It would also assist in understanding student capabilities and give fast feedback. What else did the Beaux Arts hold that might be worthwhile implementing? What other potentials are there? We tend to discard concepts just too easily without much concern. There is a lot of local experience that could be involved in reviewing possibilities for a new model - experience that also has roots in years of practice. This is an aspect of understanding that I think is critical for any educational base if theoretical games are to be avoided - well, let go astray and out of context, to be played with for their own delight.

I scribbled a few notes to myself during the morning. One was that the visiting specialists could turn the school into a carnival of ‘outside’- out-sourced - entertainment. One has to make sure that the school has its own internal necessity, (as Kandinsky spoke about art), with the visitors only arriving to enrich this. Rather than seeking out distant experts, one might hope that they seek out the school to be a forum that they might find useful for themselves - one that they choose to be part of. I have always believed in aiming for the sun, (or moon), rather than being happy with easy, quick results. A new school provides the opportunity to create a place that others will want to share in - from anywhere - if only we might choose to make the effort. It is interesting to recall that the Bauhaus employed and housed its full-time staff of skilled lecturers/tutors and that everything, even the posters advertising events, and the building itself, was approached as a design opportunity that is still admired today. What will the new school do?

The concern with outsiders was highlighted for me as I waited to be picked up at the main roundabout after the morning workshop. As cars of all smart, imported, European and other designs and multi-colours flashed by, it occurred to me that the school needed its own quiet centre, a little like the circle of lawn that shapes the core and the roundabout. It is too easy to invite the flashy outsiders in to get a quick reputation. There was an annoyance and entrancement in the ever-passing and mesmerising motion that I found disconcerting when perceived as a metaphor. The school should have its own rigour and reputation - its own quiet centre. It needs to avoid giving the impression that everything of quality comes from elsewhere - interstate or overseas - never from the school itself. One has to overcome this ‘cringe.’ It will not attract students. The extreme alternative is not necessarily parochialism if one is aware of and is in control of the situation. We are much better than this. There is an abundance of quality local experience in architectural education, (I can think of over sixty years of experience in just three people that has not been harnessed, these same three with over eighty years’ experience in practice), that could be involved. On the flip side, I have seen just too many ‘accents’ arrive to a fanfare and turn out to be less than ordinary - and no one is allowed to say so.

I see the school as having to establish its reputation through hard work, commitment and persistence rather than in gathering external egos. It is too easy to seek to gain from other reputations, A core rigour is needed. The aim has to be to establish this with ideas and quality outcomes that might encourage others to want to be here. Fashions need to be avoided - a danger with new school of architecture buildings too!# I can recall a time when we had one school leading the way - when students wanted to come to us: one person changed all of this. Success is a fragile circumstance, so it has to be managed carefully - with drive and purpose. The new school needs to create this excitement with the ordinary, not the astonishing, giving the place an inner strength. It is too easy to grab the extraordinary buzz and listen to the noise in a self-congratulatory manner.

On a book - your request for all to identify an important book: I can recall some significant books in my early career but I am reluctant to presume that others might also have the same experience or enthusiasm for these. Paul Grillo’s What is Design? comes to mind, as does Naum Gabo’s On Divers Arts - both of which are now probably out of print. My question about old books, raised in the discussion on future library purchases, comes from these and other experiences where I have discovered a lot from the old. Even Howard Robertson’s The Principles of Architectural Composition seems useful for me today. It provides a ‘raw’ basis for understanding architecture, even if it is not very popular - it is certainly seen as ‘old fashioned’ - today. My complaint is that education races ahead into the ever new and into areas ‘perceived-as-clever,’ while it forgets the old, when we need the old to offer guidance and review to understand where we are at - and where we might be going. Practice itself is kinder to the old than theory and talk. Here the ordinary is a useful guide too. Is it our culture that sees no value for the aged in society that allows educational matters to be considered in this manner?

On first semester: I see aesthetics as being risky. It is important but perhaps should arise in other contexts. Without falling for the cliché - ‘those were the days’ - my first year included: Chemistry, Physics, Mathematics, Structures, Geology, Design, History, Studio Work, Town Planning - and maybe more? - with all ‘outside’ courses being given as part of the first year of Geology, Chemistry, Mathematics faculties, etc., (all part of their full first year courses for their students), never as a ‘special’ course for architects. It is this rigour that I think is lacking in the present structure. I am not saying that we should now do all of these courses, but I do note that there appears to be a weakness in the ‘thinness’ of the proposed course - all specially manicured for architects, perhaps apart from the ‘standard,’ required segments that I fear may be promotional rather than critical. Care needs to be exercised here to ensure that there is depth and meaning in the course work. It occurs to me now to ask: where do the students learn about materials, detailing, documentation, etc. when they are expected to go into offices, (and apparently be useful), after just two years? We once attempted to have office work assessed as part of the course, (arguing that the students spent more time in offices than at college, and that college time would be better used otherwise), but we met with an enormous scream from the offices. The fear was that we were assessing the offices - or checking up on them - when all we wanted was the best for the students.

I mentioned a couple of DVDs only because I have watched these recently and have commented to colleagues that I think every architect needs to see these. One ‘complete box set’ is not only informative - it approaches architecture, (yes, both old and new), in a factual way that astonishes, intrigues and enchants. The set is called simply Architecture - the complete box set - a five DVD collection by Ovation, (a good name). I would think this set might be more useful than trying to guess at a response to a book from an unknown individual coming into the course. The set has been produced for the general public - those interested in architecture. Then there is the DVD of Scottish artist Andy Goldsworthy’s work - again seen only recently: Andy Goldsworthy, Rivers and Tides - working with time by Docudrama. Have a look at his web site. His work is dazzling and charming, emblematically using materials, structure and aesthetics in a delicate and surprisingly memorable manner. I would feel happier recommending these DVDs rather than any publication - they will possibly be more enjoyable to view: less effort, which seems to be a positive modern trait. Oh, and then there is another recent viewing: Frank Lloyd Wright, a DVD by Ken Burns and Lyn Novik - an ABC production. It is very good, and comes complete with classic old footage. The viewing of these DVDs might make the beginning of the course less of a threat too - and less intimidating.

I must admit that am a little puzzled and concerned when I am unable to see the full picture of the course that is due to begin in a few weeks. I have always believed in the establishment of an overall vision to shape and guide all action that can then allow for an ad hoc, flexible response to provide the required challenges to the student/group as the opportunities arise. This is the ‘deep end’ that I referred to where the lecturer/tutor/staff is in a learning/discovery situation as well as the student/group, with everyone exploring ideas in different ways, but all with the same ambition. To do otherwise is not education but dumb repetition: “O’Grady says, do this,” and we all look to check if everyone has complied.

These are a few thoughts. More time is needed to refine these and to explore more ideas.

Regards,

NOTE (added some six months later): This communication has never been recognised or responded to. Such is life - and education.

The silence has been maintained to this day. Open debate on ideas appears to be seen as an anathema.

# see:  http://voussoirs.blogspot.com.au/2012/06/pete-dud-on-cringe.html

NEWGRANGE - MODERN MYSTERY

Was this really the way? The directions given by the navigation system had taken us down what looked like a tertiary road, narrow and twisting, without any signage that could confirm that this was the route to Newgrange, Ireland’s ancient heritage site. It was not as though our destination was some remote and unknown outpost. Were we being hoaxed? Again? This clever computer had directed us along its shortest, ‘most efficient’ route on another occasion when we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, on a dirt track, with cows standing startled, looking puzzled, as though they had never seen a vehicle before. It is possible for a gadget to be just too clever. Still we persisted. We were not on dirt yet. If everything failed we could loop around and reach our destination using the roadway we thought would take us there - via the next village. There was no real concern. There was no rush and the drive was taking us through some picturesque countryside. Sometimes getting off the beaten track can be a more enjoyable experience than maintaining the hype of speed in the forced flow of motorways. As we progressed, we convinced ourselves that we were on the wrong road.

Then the sign appeared - 'Newgrange.' Well, who would have guessed? Why was the route not better signed - well, signed at all? Still, we were pleased. Soon the site - the purpose of this trip - could be seen in the distance high on the left, but we drove on well past this first sighting until we reached a sign that directed us into a leafy car park. There was no building here. After collecting our bits and pieces, we moved off in what we assumed to be the direction of the visitor centre, along a twisting path framed by a pergola. It went on and on - and on. It was a surprising distance, but eventually a building appeared. We moved in up to the counter that looked like the place where things were formally resolved. Unlike that at the Giant’s Causeway, there was no charge to enter this centre: (see http://voussoirs.blogspot.com.au/2013/02/giants-causeway-gateway.html)

"Are you wanting to go on the tour?"

"Yes."

"One will be going in ten minutes."

Well, one can be lucky. Maybe the crowd of students seen alighting in the car park will take longer than ten minutes to get organised? Arrangements were agreed, sorted out and finalized. We were labelled and told to walk to the bus in the indicated direction. So we walked, and walked - and walked, down over the river and along to the bus stop tucked in behind a wall of information that presented facts in various languages. Here we waited and waited - and waited, until the driver decided it was time to leave, which seemed a much longer period than the predicted ten minutes, but still the large student group had not arrived. Why had we pushed ourselves so hard to get there? Why had we rushed anxiously, breathlessly, along the long, ramping, twisted path of unknown length?

"All aboard," was said with a Polish accent.

Then we were off. We drove and drove - and drove, until we reached the small building that was the kiosk at the entry to the site of Newgrange, at the bottom of the hill, squeezed tightly into a corner of the field surrounding the mound. The narrow timber steps and gateway seemed too rustic, too informally ad hoc for this monument. At this time of the year adjacent, similar historic sites - Knowth, Dowth - were closed, so there were no options to see the other mounds that apparently had more carvings and archaeology on display. Perhaps Newgrange was the closest to the visitor centre, the most convenient? All visitors were checked in and told to move up to and assemble at the entry to the mound. Here the group waited as the surrounding countryside was surveyed. This was an astonishing location, complete with a three hundred and sixty degree vista into the surrounding distant hills. What was the meaning of this place? 

Newgrange itself was a surprise. We had seen the promotional images that highlighted the bright white wall, usually in images shot from the air, but the surprise was that this wall was made of white stones with a grid of darker pebbles patterned across it, almost digitally. The quartz and pebbles - they were really sizeable rocks that the scale of the place made appear as small stones and river-washed pebbles - were merely a facing; but it was an extremely sophisticated cladding. The wall started as a dark surface, with a mass of dark pebbles that faded, blended by selective gradation, into a pure white wall with a grid of dark dots, and then shaded back again to the dark pebbles. The portion of facing over the entry was all white, to, as we discovered later, reflect, concentrate and direct light. Was this the original structure? It looked amazingly modern - very subtly modern. Its use of a sparse dot pattern reminded one of an Otto Wagner wall, his Postal Savings Bank in Vienna. It is an appearance that has once again become popular with architects.

  
The eye could not leave this elegant wall, all pure white, with a beautifully modulated, pixilated pattern, standing vertical, directly on a base of massive dark stones. It was an amazing sight, exceeding all expectations. There was power here. Before the question to the tour guide could be put, the spiel had started. This wall was a reconstruction carried out by the Irish archaeologist Michael O'Kelly in the early twentieth century. The original wall had collapsed into a pile of rubble. O'Kelly pieced the parts together by analyzing the locations of the various parts and pieces. Just how he knew it was a vertical pebble-faced wall remains uncertain. The manner in which he devised the precise pattern from the rubble mess is even more unclear. But there was a question: what lies behind this pebble facing? What structure? The wall has a substantial portion of the mound to support, as well as itself. Would ancient man really have created a vertical retaining wall out of rubble and then faced it so carefully? How were the pebbles fixed? Could it be possible that the wall might really have been a tilted gravity structure rather than a vertical retaining cantilever, as it now appears to be? What footings sat on the base rocks? It seems more likely to the casual, ignorant eye that it might have been a raking structure, but who knows? The vertical wall looks really impressive, but would the unique challenge of erecting a high vertical retaining wall for such a mound be chosen when other more efficient raking structures could perform the required ask? There was an enigma here. Perhaps the significance of the site demanded a special effort?

The guide continued as the mind pondered. He gave an extremely professional presentation. Once the group already in the mound - those on the previous guided tour that day, (the site can only be accessed by one on a guided tour) - had exited, it was our turn. The directions were given, warning everyone that the space was narrow, low, and claustrophobic. One became slightly concerned. How long was this tunnel entry? What endurance was needed? We moved into the dim, low and narrow space that twisted and contorted, making one do the same for some twenty metres, and then the inner space expanded, opening up into a high, circular chamber with a lapped, cantilevered stone ceiling over a space that was surrounded by cubic recesses on three sides. The generous volume was no distance at all from the entry, but the passage leading into it was very low and narrow, certainly as awkward as the warning had suggested. The guide started his interior spiel. The purpose of the whole was unknown.

As the guide gave his well-learned and excellent presentation, all to the point, and precise, without pandering to the tourist mentality that prefers presentations as entertainment, smattered with high humour and smart stories, the eyes explored the details of the structure, and the markings and colourings on the stones. It was good to see the 'No Photography' requirement enforced rigourously. For some tourists, raising the camera in response to something new is almost a conditioned reflex that, today, is made easier with cameras becoming as mobile as phones. The structure of the main ceiling and the shaping of the three side compartments seemed familiar. The parallels with Mayes Howe in Orkney were remarkable, even down to the concept of light penetrating deep on axial alignment precisely on the winter solstice.

 

The presentation concluded with a light show that first blackened the void and then shone a beam along the entry path as it would be revealed on the winter solstice when the whole space would be aglow from the brilliant ray of rising sunlight that reached deep into the western recess. Unlike Mayes Howe where the light entered the corridor through the doorway entrance, here the light entered through the opening over the doorway because the entry passage ramped up steeply, a fact that was not noticed with the distraction of the squeeze. These high entry walls formed the recess that was faced only with the white pebbles to enhance the brilliance of this event. After a few questions, the guide revealed the detailed carvings and the wonderful triple Newgrange spiral tucked away behind a large rock framing the entry to the western void. So this is the original, the source of what has almost become a cliché decorative symbol. It had been beautifully carved. It was larger than anticipated. The other puzzling difference with Mayes Howe was the fact that there was no 'runes' graffiti at Newgrange. What did this mean, if anything? No Vikings? More respect?

The exit reminded one of the tight fit of the tunnel, and the tricky low lintel that catches the brow even when one has been warned. The student group was there waiting for our exit to be completed. Walking out past the carved iconic entry stone, we strolled around the perimeter of the mound to admire the setting and to look at the detailing of the base. Even here, some stones were decorated. There seemed to be no design strategy to the patterns or their locations. It has been suggested that the stones were perhaps from another site as they seemed to have been decorated prior to being located both inside the mound and outside.

 

'Coracle' seats on the path by the Boyne River

The eye was constantly drawn to the stonework and the subtle curve of the mound. It was truly an elegant and well-considered structure. The walk took us back past a grand old tree to the kiosk. Here there was a pause to look over the shoulder, like Lot's wife, to see Newgrange once more, for one last time, just to admire it again - to see if the eyes were really seeing this wonder. Then on into the bus and back into the real word of tourism: to the bus stop and the long walk to and across the gushing Boyne River; then the climb to the Visitor Centre, to enjoy a coffee and a browse. There were informative displays in this building that had been designed for crowds. It must be busy in summer. Our visit was in winter, obviously a quieter period. The centre seemed to be arranged for a precise flow of crowds: in, down, out; in, food and shop, up, out; and please leave your sticker for reuse. We pasted our stickers on the board provided and left, returning to parade along the kilometre-length of pergola promenade to the car.

Why were the distances so great? From car to centre; from centre to bus stop; from bus stop to Newgrange - it must have been ten kilometres. On reflection, this remoteness was essential for the integrity of the historic site. It gave the tourist a sense of humility, and maintained the context of the historic site with its uninterrupted, grand three hundred and sixty degree open vistas. It also physically illustrated, in a small way, the effort required to construct this site, with the chosen materials having to be transported from distant regions. Anyhow, why should this place be compromised purely for the convenience of anyone?

Driving back to the highway, the site could be glimpsed on the right, high in the distance, but infrequently. Its location was so open, but so secluded. One remained both astonished and puzzled: just what was the purpose of this structure? Will we ever know? The committed work of archaeologist O'Kelly is impressive, but was he too eager, like Evans was at Knossoss in Crete? Reconstruction work is always something to be wary of. It is always controversial. It relies on a personal interpretation, albeit one based on the best professional opinion of the time. It is also driven by the specific attitudes to history of that era. We have seen how these change with time and understanding. The world has come to understand on many occasions and in many different circumstances, how years can alter perceptions, making modifications that are usually based on assumptions, come to be labelled as ‘past failures.’ Still, even with this circumstance, the work of O'Kelly has been important for Newgrange and what we have and know of it today.

In spite of doubts and uncertainties - these perpetually recurring questions on veracity - we are left admiring what can be seen and felt as the sense of this site, its skill, its determination, and its mystery; a mystery enhanced by the triple spiral, the promotional icon off this place that is steeped in its own richness of references to life itself and its spiritual roots in continuity: the trinity. The rigour of Newgrange sets an example for our work today that seems so trite and limited when compared to our immediate concerns and their solutions. How can we assimilate substance into our projects? How can we harness power in place today? Indeed, how does Newgrange do this with such a simple stacking of stones and mounding of dirt? Is it the thinking, the feeling, the intelligence - the intent and commitment - that makes the difference?