Ambiguity

It seems like years ago I got the first notification from Gmail that started this whole process.  I was exploring possibilities for a separate and somewhat related set of twin blogs/sites on which to post my drawn work and built work and how the two very different processes interrelate when you step back and take a look at the big picture.  The client had a site I had admired for a while; it was clear, simple, clean and moreover communicated it's content very well.  I had inquired about the steps he took to create his site, as I have no understanding of web design or programming, in hopes that a more user friendly route was the one he had taken.  He promptly responded, and after the pleasantries and obligatory questions about family and what we were up to, he asked what I wanted to start sites for.  I explained my idea in vague terms, since in all honesty, at the time, I had no idea what the two sites would actually contain.  He asked if by "designs" in my email if I mean architectural designs, I said yes, and that was it.

The program is simple:  a residence, 3-4 bedrooms, open/loft style plan, copious use of glass, steel structure.  All in all, a very modern house.  But naturally things are never that easy, in any capacity.

At this point, a site had not been selected.  All that was known was that it was planned to be on a lake somewhere in the "triangle" between Dallas, Houston and Austin.  Tiny footprint right?  Well when you're searching for lakeside property on a lake suitable for recreation, it is.  Combine that with the fact that many lakeside developments are joint ventures between a development entity and a contractor/builder group the developer has selected, and upon purchasing a lot in those developments, commit to the overlaying style of what is already existing at the risk of having your plans disapproved by an Architectural Review Board, which is generally a group of 3-4 people who don't know shit about shit, but want to tell you whether or not the plans you submit are of sound design and aesthetic.  The concept, preventing an ugly or flawed house in your neighbourhood, is of sound reason and good heart, but is overwhelmingly blown up by the people on said boards due to the enormous sense of self that I assume must come with the ability to decide if someone else can or cannot do something they want to do.

But because excitement is such a powerful emotion, we began exchanging ideas and sketches and doodles.  This was not entirely bad, because we realized that we were, in fact, on the same page when it came to what we would like the end product to look like.  We brainstormed some solid ideas, I tested out my drawing skills that the good folks at the University of Texas at Arlington had been searing into my brain.  Very productive use of our time, considering we didn't really have anything to work with.

But in retrospect, I realize something that I should have known then:  I didn't know what the fuck I was doing.

Take away the fact that there was no site, no budget, no specific program.  We were essentially throwing darts at the thin side of a piece of paper and hoping to split it in two (and to save you the trouble and amusement of trying that, it doesn't work).

For the last three years or so, during and after my tenure at my previous place of employment, I worked preparing construction documents for my father in his own practice and in the design partnership he works in.  I knew, basically, how construction worked.  I knew how buildings went together, the processes it takes to make everything work, how long/tall/heavy things can be to actually get built with any degree of success.  I knew what it took to get a building permit. I knew how to read, research and dig through city records, surveys, deeds and deed restrictions, zoning maps, etc.  But I still didn't know what I was doing, I didn't have the key to why legends like Mies, Corb, Neutra and Wright used the same materials available to me but created art whereas I would create shit.  I stewed over this all of my holiday break and into January of this year, but by virtue of my education, this problem would soon be solved with what would be a gauntlet of assignments, projects, readings, lectures and sleepless nights.

Studio is a story in and of it's self.  And this is not the place for it.  All you need to know is I now know what it is that makes buildings successful.  The subtle things that every human eye picks up but not every mouth knows how to verbalize.  And so, after months of toil, trial and error, I sit here with a better understanding of exactly what I need to do to make this project successful and why the work I ever did prior to this was such garbage.  And that's good, because the site has been selected, and this Summer will be a Summer of time spent on this project in earnest.

It's amazing to see that we've come from sketches of elementary skill and rough ideas to SketchUp models and worrying about soil conditions in such a short time, and as I sit here with a 1/8" scale version of the site preparing the elevation contour lines to eventually take it to a model build, I wonder, am I really going to be any good at this?  I just slam dunked my final project and the studio course as a whole, but my jury at presentation ripped me apart.  Is my work going to be appreciated by my professional community, the public at large, both or none?  In 100 years, will my work still be there, and if it is, did it inspire anyone the way iconic works did for my peers and I?  Perhaps.  But nonetheless, I have to work as if the move I'm making any second could be the one thing that begins to set me apart from others, the one that opens doors and creates opportunity.  I am lucky to get the chance to work with a client with such great vision, creativity and taste as I have, no doubts of that.  This project deserves everything I can give it, so hopefully after ground has been broken, I've exhausted the playlists on my phone from replaying again and again in my head the aura and environment we're trying to create, and a home has finally been completed, everything I could possibly do will be enough to make something great.  

Because if I'm not good at this, I'd sure as hell better find something else to do.

DS