The Disco-Technophile:
Dancing Through the Crisis of Modernity:

We say with pride that ours is the age of the Information Revolution: not only are words and images exchanged at ludicrously fast rates, but the information itself rapidly changes through our discoveries, developments, and destruction. This necessarily dynamic relationship with a world in flux suggests that, despite our increasing investment in all things green and a growing concern about our impact on the environment, society’s condition is far from one of absolutes. What emerges from this instable global state are questions about how virtual and natural environments collide in the ongoing production of our built environment. With sustainability, though, definitive answers are still hard to come by.

One of the most unlikely contributors to the discussion on sustainability is Reyner Banham. Raised and educated as an engineer, he praised America’s worship of the automobile, encouraged technologies that allowed for near-complete environmental control, and was fascinated by all things mechanical. His admiration for the car led him to love Los Angeles and its sprawling non-plan. With writing and lifestyle saturated with popular culture, he wasn’t bothered by consumerism, either. As if all that did not completely condemn him to a camp of ecologically-ignorant theoreticians, he also largely dismissed the attempts at environmentally-conscious architecture of his time.

Although his values initially seem to conflict with today’s sustainability checklists, his shrewd critique of early environmentalism remains relevant for today’s conversation. More importantly, though, his untiring interest in “man, machine, and wilderness” prompted emphatic investigation of the roles and interrelations of each.¹ This triad of humanity, technology, and environment played a crucial role in his written investigations of architecture. Specifically, his critique of Modernism offers a parallel avenue for viewing the future of our current Sustainability movement. As civilization mutates and conforms to the constrains incurred by contemporary concerns, we return to Banham as a complex enough figure to stay afloat amidst the ambiguity and diversity of sustainable issues.

Of Complexity and Contemporality

There was just as much said on the basis of Banham’s unsustainability while he was alive, which he addresses directly in his writing. In the introductory chapter, titled “An Unwarranted Apology,” to the second edition of his book The Architecture of the Well-Tempered Environment, he says: “[[I]n the five years or so after this book first appeared [in 1969], the period of growing concern about the apparently irreversible depletion of the Earth’s energy resources and the pollution of the biosphere […] this book got progressively worse and worse reviews – it was a history of the use of environmental energy and proposed not anathema on that use and was therefore made out to be a tract in favor of wasting energy.”² He makes no immediate claims to the contrary, but identifies a layer of complexity not being addressed, and proposes that his book is, rather than propaganda for energy consumption, an introduction to other elements of design that must be considered in addition to ecological efforts. He does not deny the energy crisis, but recognizes that a generally reductivist approach to a multifaceted problem will not actually solve it.

Likewise, as Banham saw the architectural profession retreating to older forms of construction in hopes of reducing their impact on the environment, he chastised architects for their ignorance of comfort and convenience: “Rather than calling for more efficient air-conditioning, the call was for the abandonment of air-conditioning altogether, no matter who might suffer. If light-weight buildings, however appropriate in all other counts, were poor insulators, the call was not for better insulation, but for heavy-weight structures in traditional masonry.”³ Technical appreciation and social awareness led him to critique low-tech solar housing as “exploitive in more domestic ways that its (largely male) designers do not observe,”⁴ perceiving that low-tech often meant high-maintenance to a building’s inhabitants. The broad scope of Banham’s curiosity allowed him to evaluate architecture simultaneously from afar and from within, the varying distance offering different perspectives to the same design problems. Banham’s knack for noticing things others had missed was owed in part to his well-earned status as Enfant Terrible – he was looking for problems buried within conventional ideas.

Since Banham’s interests and observations were not limited to the realm of architecture, the frequent connections he drew across fields (of art, of science, of popular culture) meant he was deeply concerned about contemporary context when his critique of architecture finally bubbled to the surface. He felt strongly that the design of buildings and objects should reflect present cultural themes. Banham considered regressions to vernacular architecture in his own time as being stricken with “cultural rigidity” and declared these times of buildings “inadequate” for the demands of modern living.⁵

Even as a historian analyzing the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast, built in 1903, Banham praises “its total adaptation in section and plan to the environmental system employed,”⁶ but later says that “the external aspect of the Royal Victoria Hospital […] demonstrates with painful clarity the total irrelevance of detailed architectural ‘style’ to the modernity of the functional and environmental parts.”⁷ Banham is an advocate for Modernism, but only in completeness. For Banham, both theory and design must reflect their own culture. Quoting Banham’s article “Neo-Liberty: The Italian Retreat from Modern Architecture,” Nigel Whiteley writes, “The idea of a revival would always be anathema to Banham. A revival may be viable if you think in terms of form and style, but if, like Banham, you commit yourself to the idea of an attitude or spirit, determined by the conditions of the day, then a revival can be contemplated only in unusual circumstances: ‘The only conceivable justification for reviving anything in the arts is that the reviver finds himself culturally in a position analogous to that of the time he seeks to revive.’”⁸

Architecture must then be, at least in the eyes of Reyner Banham, completely reliant upon cultural circumstance, not just in the technologies it utilizes, but in the manifestation of the building’s form and experience. Banham’s approach was a critical view of history allowing for the emergence of speculative futures. He understood society’s contradictory impulses towards the nostalgia and tradition of the past, and the comforts of present and future advancements in technology: “[M]ost citizens [demand] ancient monuments and tomorrow’s mechanical aids simultaneously and in the same place. They get neither, because on one side is a tradition which cannot be expanded to deal with new developments without disintegrating, and on the other hand a disorderly pressure of new developments whose effect — because they are competitive and lack an integrating discipline — is disruptive anyhow.”⁹ To Banham, topicality was an important element of the context-driven architecture: history becomes completely imbedded into the present so there is no chance we can ignore it. Yet it is somehow much easier to turn away from the modern in favor of romanticized antiquity. The evolving nature of society and industry implies an evolution of architecture, while regressions in architecture indicate a return to an earlier, more primitive state of civilization. Banham undoubtedly noted the negative implications of such a regression.

Needless to say, revivalism and vernacular low-tech architecture both took a significant beating from Banham’s banter. However, he saw that, in certain conditions, aspects of a culture do not undergo heavy amounts of change and the environment itself stays very much the say. In such circumstances, he respected the appropriateness of an approach to the execution of design, even if it remained relatively unchanged. As he says in an introduction to the work of Foster Associates, “The lesson of building history is not that one particular building type of construction is superior or less wasteful or more natural than others, but that many modes of construction have long been understood to be subtly appropriate to different sorts and conditions of a buildings and you cannot tell which is more appropriate simply by looking – the proof is in the performance.”¹⁰ This idea applies to both high- and low-tech methods of building. Banham sees a building as successful when it works to serve the needs of its occupants, when it is functional and honest about that functionality.

While traveling across the deserts of the United States, Banham asks, “But what is an architecture, great or small, that is proper to this arid zone?”¹¹ We might half expect him to spout out endorsements of technologically-enhanced bubbles of completely controlled environment. But Banham, as always, had the unnerving ability to change his mind, “and allow experience and his considered response to shape judgment.”¹² So in response to his own rhetorical question, Banham writes:

It seems to be an architecture of cool, thick-walled boxes that can conversely, retain the heat that the sun pours on them all day and give it back to the house in the cold of the night; an architecture that jealously retains the heat of the fireplace in the chilly days of winter. It was what the Indians built in their pueblos, ancient and modern […] It is a mode of building that is currently back in fashion among the ecologically aware, like friends of ours now domiciled near Bernalillo, New Mexico, who are slowly building with their own hands a complex, sun-trapping house with thick walls of traditional adobe blocks. They have imposed on themselves an exercise of back-breaking toil and great economic sacrifice which I might regard as yet another example of the capacity of intellectuals for romantic masochism, were it not that the part of the house that is built and inhabited, and as compactly utilized as the interior of a ship, works remarkably well in the bright thin light of winter under the twin peaks of the Sandia Mountains. It drinks in the heat of the sun by day and retains the heat of the stove by night, and does all the proper practical things that its pragmatic, designer-trained, problem-solving inhabitants would ask of it.¹³

The design of this house might not be modern, but is “capable of accepting useful technical innovations like steel framed window casements.”¹⁴ Although the building utilizes ancient construction techniques and materials, it is easily adapted to the technologies – and therefore also the comforts – of today. Banham’s analysis of the adobe house returns to this emphasis on performance, a word we hear all too often in today’s sustainability rhetoric. His direct experiences with the architecture are measurable proof that it works in its efficiency in use, its compliance to technological change, and its relationship to the permanence of the desert context.

Regardless of style, Banham saw that performance and engagement of context are both important to the success of a building’s design. Appropriateness and “sophistication”¹⁵ allow Banham to make exceptions to his usual doggedly enthusiastic support of the modern and the mechanical. As we will find in his analysis of Modernism, intentions were good, but these examples of early environmentalism often fell short on their delivery. They lacked the functionality and level of comfort that Banham considered necessary for a building’s successful use, and failed to critically engage contemporary culture. A result of paranoia, they fell flat because they dealt with a reductivist simplification of what they understood sustainability was rather than dissecting the collection of complex problems that came with it. Banham saw these extreme views as retreats backwards through the technological progress made, and as detrimental to the profession, one more step further away from the integration of architecture, technology, and environment.

Of Change and Control

Although recognizing that man can survive in almost all conditions on his own, Banham suggests that additional time and energy are necessary to move towards a critical, reflective, and productive existence: “The surviving archaeological evidence appears to suggest that mankind can exist, unassisted, on practically all those parts of the earth that are at present inhabited, except for the most arid and the most cold. The operative word is ‘exist’; a naked man armed only with hands, teeth, legs and native cunning appears to be a viable organism everywhere on land […] But only just; in order to flourish, rather than merely survive, mankind needs more ease and leisure than a barebacked, single-handed struggle could permit.”¹⁶ Grouped together in Banham’s “flourishing” ideal, the progression of thought and progression of art both require an excessive investment in energy that humans alone cannot supply. The environment, then, must be either harvested or harnessed to create energy where there is not enough. He divides the methods of approaching this dilemma into two different camps: “Man started with two basic ways of controlling environment: one by avoiding the issue and hiding under a rock, tree, tent or roof (this led ultimately to architecture as we know it) and the other by actually interfering with the local meteorology, usually by means of a campfire.”¹⁷ Banham’s tone suggests a preference of the latter, but he understood architecture to be implicitly linked to technology, despite recent attempts to separate the two. As he writes in his introduction to The Architecture of the Well-tempered Environment, “The idea that architecture belongs in one place and technology in another is comparatively new in history, and its effect on architecture, which should be the most complete of the arts of mankind, has been crippling.”¹⁸ Banham’s interest lies primarily in a marriage between the two that defies the conventions of both.

His encounters with projects like the Mayall telescope exemplify his understanding of architecture as a correlation between technological and cultural influences, and of his desire for an architecture that reflects the present condition of both of these things:

I cannot find it in me to apologize in any way for the solar telescope. It is a supreme product of the culture to which I belong — the culture of scientific enquiry, technological enterprise and engineering precision. I identify with it, not just because one of its designers is known to me, but because it belongs to my generation and people, the clever folks who came out of World War II determined to make over Western Culture according to a different rationality, however terrifying some of its by-products might be. If we seemed naïve and sounded glib, then look upon what we have wrought on Kitt Peak, which is neither slick nor silly. And it is not so much that it seems to lord it over other, allegedly more ‘primitive’ cultures, but that it really does put down some of the more meretricious or hermetic aspects of our own.¹⁹

The strong silhouette of this symbol of modernity against its desert backdrop relishes in the man’s resolve to conquer land and claim it. Yet, it is simultaneously a monument to the natural mysteries of the universe, over which we have no ultimate control despite the strides taken in this scientific field. What the general public today has lost is that sense of awe, and the promise of progress. Banham’s theory about the necessity for humanity’s self-expression in the built environment underscores what has been lost between his time and our own.

The question remains as to how society can actually get at this promised provision of progress. Reyner Banham’s notion of progress has to do primarily with comfort; environments are “well-tempered” if they are well suited for growth. Banham writes, “A suitable structure may keep a man cool in the summer, but no structure will ever make him warmer in sub-zero temperatures. A suitable structure may defend him from the effects of glaring sunlight, but there is no structure than can help him see after dark.”²⁰ Although architecture alone might not be able to control the environment, paired with technology, it becomes a significant contributor in the optimization of an ideal condition from which we can “flourish.”

To return to the claim that Banham’s writing pursues the explanation of the relationships between “man, machine, and wilderness”: we easily accept Banham’s interest in the first two while dismissing the third. “Wilderness,” although it does not seem to play a major role in Banham’s articles, demands our attention in his books. We have already seen how control over the environment, through technology and architecture, is a major part of The Architecture of the Well-Tempered Environment. Fifteen years later, in what Whiteley categorizes as one of Banham’s two “compellingly ‘observational’ books,”²¹ the environment possesses an “all pervading presence” that man cannot escape.²² Banham’s Scenes in America Deserta is not only about the purity of that dry and desolate landscape, though, but of the infiltration and proliferation of man into it. As fascinating as he finds the desert on its own, it is the persistence of the work of humanity to overcome the harsh environment that ultimately captures his attention: “One of the reasons why the Mojave is my prime desert is that there are more traces of man to be seen, traces more various in their history and their import.”²³

Banham’s “traces of man” have a magnetic quality about them that induces interrelativity and some degree of dialogue among the objects. Finding the empty cartridge cases from people who took aim at “road signs, water tanks, memorial plaques, wind pumps or old beer cans,” Banham speculates on the recurring phenomenon: “Even if it is no more than a symptom of mindless vandalism, this mania for shooting at human artifacts is not quite senseless; the identifiable humanness of their origins gives these objects a different status from everything else in view. The works of man inevitably attract the attention of mankind.”²⁴ These objects allow for a subtle communication to occur between people separated by time. The slowness and precision of Banham’s experiences in the desert enables their immediate absorption into his already saturated postulations about humanity, technology, and ecology – this idea is really a reiteration of Banham’s understanding of the necessity for man to communicate in order to give meaning, and the dependency of meaning on material objects.

The culmination of Banham’s thoughts on the importance of “topographical and historical context” resulted in his celebrated Los Angeles: The Architecture of Four Ecologies.²⁵ Contemporary circumstances were not the only contextual factors architecture had to respond to: “For Banham, the promise of scientific functionalism led inevitably to a wider program that did not simply embrace the demands of a client or translate the zeitgeist of the movement into form, but took into account the broadest set of urban geographical conditions.”²⁶ The architecture of Los Angeles not only controls the immediate environment, but reacts to the broader condition of the urban ecology, and the existence of “polymorphous architectures” is an immediate reflection upon the diversity of ecologies within the city.²⁷

What Banham loves most about Los Angeles, though, is its capacity to change. The metropolis, as a collection of disparate parts, is only possible through its system of freeways. Movement of people and movement of ideas are necessary for the city to survive. The sprawling non-plan of Los Angeles further accentuates this essentiality of motion and modification, stretching the city’s space like taffy.

There is [a] strong sense of having room to maneuver. The tradition of mobility that brought people here, sustained by the frenzy of internal motivation ever since, and combined with the visible fact that most of the land is covered only thinly with very flimsy buildings, creates a feeling – illusory or not – that you can still produce results by bestirring yourself. Unlike older cities back east – New York, Boston, London, Paris – where warring pressure groups cannot get out of one another’s hair because they are pressed together in a sacred labyrinth of cultural monuments and real-estate values, Los Angeles has room to swing the proverbial cat, flatten a few card-houses in the process, and clear the ground for improvements that the conventional type of metropolis can no longer contemplate.²⁸

If the environment itself has the ability to transform itself, and if the architecture is explicitly linked to its many varieties of context, the architecture will change, too. Los Angeles, commonly thought to reject all principles of sustainability, should be praised at least in this regard. Constantly accepting new sets of cultural and ecological constraints, the city and its architecture have room for improvement and, with the right mindset, might find solutions through the excess of elbowroom.

In both this scattered, high-speed metropolis and the austere American desert, Banham finds a broader understanding of environment. The relationship between architecture and ecology is not only reliant on the indispensability of man’s control over the latter, but is a result of an obligation of architecture to respond to its context, natural and artificial both. Man’s use of technology allows for control of, communication across, and assimilation within the environment. As “machine and wilderness” both change, architecture must also adapt, absolved from the nuanced fetishes of the past.

Of Concepts and Conception

Modernism and Sustainability both engage Banham’s themes of man, technology, and nature, though the degree to which they do so is arguable. Outlining different notions of nature in different periods of architecture, Adrian Forty sentences Modernism to be the era that claimed “nature had nothing to offer,”²⁹ finding that instead “it is in technology that architecture finds its model.”³⁰ Before he begins to rattle off exceptions to this principle (Frank Lloyd Wright, Le Corbusier, etc.), the apt reader must step back and consider that, even if it were a hard and fast rule, it primarily addresses the forms of buildings. Aesthetically, their use of industry’s new materials and typologies do suggest an aggressive break from nature, but this is deemed irrelevant by the detachment of these designs from the philosophies that had propelled them into existence. Modernists’ attempts to reimagine an environment as one suitable for man’s pursuits of progress show a different kind of environmental awareness. Banham sees the Futurist architects’ intentions “of harmonizing environment and man, and of exploiting every benefit of science and technology,”³¹ and his writings on architecture throughout his career echo this sentiment. The sustainability discussion today insists on a similar goal, but we should be warned that it closely follows on the heels of Modernism, and is capable of committing the same fallacies. Both promise a unity or balance of man and nature, but ultimately sacrifice one for the other.

The “grand narratives” of sustainability today evoke those of modernity³² – not confined to the architectural discipline, these two movements did and still do encroach upon our economy, our ethical systems, and our aesthetic judgment. The problem with “grand narratives,” Mark Jarzombek indicates, is that they make it easy to ignore how things will actually work out when romanticizing a more perfect world: “'Saving' the world is important and architecture has a role to play, but mapping the routes according to which this can be achieved is far from clear.”³³ This contemporary critique is reminiscent of Banham’s accusation of the misalignment between the “romantic dreams of prismatic crystalline splendors, cathedrals of light and colour [and the] snug and inexpressive towers of glass that form our current downtown scenes,”³⁴ a hint towards his major argument in Theory and Design in the First Machine Age.

Closing the introduction of both editions of this book, Banham writes, “The cultural revolution that took place around 1912 has been superseded, but it has not been reversed.”³⁵ We are just as obsessed with our own modernity today, in denial of the fact that we could some day be proven wrong. We judge the past by standards of today, but refuse to believe that the next generation will do the same to us. We remain consumed by our apparent power through innovation, emotionally detached from the knowledge we uncover. David Orr polemically declares, “Modern science has fundamentally misconceived the world by fragmenting reality, separating observer from observed, portraying the world as a mechanism, and dismissing nonobjective factors, all in the service of the domination of nature.”³⁶ But he is wrong: we are doing all of these things now and labeling them “Sustainable,” claiming scientific progress will save the planet it destroys. The tagline might have been amended from Modern to Green, but things have not changed as much as we claim they have.

A disjunction between the technical and intellectual was incomprehensible to Banham, who judged buildings on both fronts simultaneously. Yet Jarzombek warns: “[T]here will be a fundamental revision of the intellectual framework of architectural speculation. The new 'interdisciplinary' of architecture-with-science will create, for example, an anti-interdisciplinary polarization of architectural discourse along the antinomic lines of artistic freedom versus technological complicity.”³⁷ Regardless of appropriateness and performance, if sustainable architecture fails to engage us intellectually, the favorability of its contextual and functional attributes is negated by the architecture’s incompetence in this regard. For Banham, architecture’s role “as a service to human socialites, can only be defined as the provision of fit environments for human activities.“³⁸ The “social” element distinguishes architecture as an active form of communication itself and as a vehicle of interaction. James Wines writes, “Obviously if humanity expires from global warming, over-population, pollution, starvation, and a lack of water, it will matter very little whether civil rights have been achieved, the Middle East is at peace, an Aids vaccine exists, or the national debts have been paid.”³⁹ This is only obvious if you consider sustaining the human species equivalent to sustaining humanity. Wines freely exchanges the two, but his statement, and many others’ on the topic, marginalizes the importance of “man” in the equation.

Banham may be emblematic of the fact that “technical optimism [is still] deeply embedded into the modern psyche,”⁴⁰ but he recognizes both the need to change, and how, ironically, resistance to change brought about the death of Modernism. The movement’s demise unfolds when it fails to react to a major change in its chosen context: “As soon as performance made it necessary to pack the components of a vehicle into a compact streamlined shell, the visual link between the International Style and technology was broken […] Though there was no particular reason why architecture should take note of these developments in another field or necessarily transform itself in step with vehicle technology, one might have expected on art that appeared so emotionally entangled with technology to show some signs of this upheaval.”⁴¹

An augmented scope of Modernism’s fallacy reveals discord between theory and design. There existed for Reyner Banham an almost Ruskinian optimism for truth in architecture. In Banham’s case, though, truth was not found in materials, but how a building could reflect both its function and the theory behind its conception. The title of his first book, Theory and Design in the First Machine Age, asserts his concern with theory over design. As a historian, and as a Modernism himself, Banham could not and would not deny that modernism had succeeded in its impact on concurrent and proceeding architectural movements - the book does not reject the theories of modernism at all, but it does condemn the designs resulting from those theories. He saw that the actual buildings fell short of what modern architecture was claiming to be and insisted the architects of the period had failed to take advantage of the technology available. “[I]ts inadequacies were seen to lie not in the extent to which Functionalism as a theory had pushed architecture in the direction of mindless mechanization, but in the extent to which Functionalism, as practiced, had failed to go anywhere near as far as the developing technology could carry it, and thus give architecture, too, the power to deliver the promises of the Machine Age.”⁴² Functionalist architecture that had promised progress through use of technology and failed to be truly technological. Gently put by Vincent Michael, “Banham may have found the logical fault in modernism, but like finding fault in the use of the atomic bomb, the reality of the event and its effect on history is in no way reduced or diminished by its rational moral weakness.”⁴³ Modernism had failed only in comparison to what it could have been. Modernism had failed to live up to its potential.

We seek out opportunities to create and to build, compelled to give meaning to our lives and addicted to the self-satisfaction that comes with success. In the process, we actively optimize our surroundings to further guarantee society’s progress. However, as we modify our environment to the point of complete extinction of species, annihilation of entire ecosystems, and distortion of natural equilibrium as a whole, reservations arise regarding the parameters of what we need to change about the natural world to retain this quality of humanity and of what we are responsible for returning back to nature. As David Orr says, “We are caught between the drive for Promethean immortality, which takes us to extinction, and what appears to be a meaningless survival in the recognition that we are only a part of a large web of life.”⁴⁴ Sustainability insists we reduce our impact on the planet by reducing production of artifice, and so we are forced to sacrifice what makes us human.

Reyner Banham believed that the primary motivation for our continued existence was the creation of meaning through the creation of artifice. His writing was not concerned with sustaining the physical species of humans, but sustaining the humanity of humans. The contemporary obsession with sustainability has replaced a goal of progress with one of survival. Banham once saw architecture as an active engagement of the critical relationship between man, nature, and technology, but our analysis of architecture today has cast aside this responsibility, reduced to points of performance on a chart. Rather than completely negating sustainability as a priority, Banham’s values suggest we seek to resolve sustainability alongside other issues, so that architecture should be both responsive to and respectful of its environment, design reflective of theories that guide its creation and use. And this was, according to Banham, man’s most noble calling: the expression of theory through design.

If Banham were alive today, he would insist that for sustainable architecture to be successful, its design would have to be emphatic of the theories about humanity, technology, and environment that guide its creation and use. His “technical optimism” could be one way we reunite the scientific precision with theoretical discourse in sustainable design. Christopher Hight, through study of Banham’s The Architecture of the Well-tempered Environment, concludes: “The proposition that technical opportunities and problems can be the theoretical basis of architecture remains important, and potentially more productive and challenging to our conventions than critical theoretical, phenomenological, or Deconstructionist-derived approaches of semiotics and representation that continue to dominate the discourse.”⁴⁵

Mark Jarzombek writes: "There is great value in the architectural imagination, even though it is often lost or dismissed by the ethicists or engineers. The difficulty hinges on the hierarchy of the words sustainable and design […] we continue to need what we have always needed: designs that challenge our way of thinking and perceiving on a range of social and environmental issues." Banham, too, valued the entirety of that “range of social and environmental issues,”⁴⁶ never fixed entirely on a single concern. In order to come to terms with the complexities of our world, we need an architecture that engages the multidimensionality our existence.

Reyner Banham is a disco-technophile, a critical historian of architecture with an obsession with the interrelativity of man, technology, and the environment. Architecture was to be built not just of the time, but of the place, fundamentally rooted in its geographic, historical, and cultural context. Success, in Banham’s eyes, was architecture that both controlled and responded to its environment. He understood the vocation of man to be creation of meaning through the creation of symbolic material objects, and believed in architecture’s obligation to engage us intellectually and physically, to express its theory and function through its design. Although much of his prolific writing corresponds to topics of today’s sustainability crisis, Banham does not seek out immediate solutions to the problems we now more fully understand as the result of unsustainable practices. His attention is too directly focused on the immediate past and the immediate future, his faith too stubbornly rooted in technological progress to allow himself to believe that the end was near. At one of his lectures given at the International Design Conference in Aspen, Banham asked his audience with unwavering confidence in the answer: “What’s so good about a world where the designers have salved their consciences by taking everything so seriously that poetry falls flat, the birds are all grounded, and nobody dances? One of humanity’s main motives for surviving the bomb, the baby boom, and the final solidification of the freeway system into a coast-to-coast parking lot will be to get the birds and the poets back into orbit, revive the watusi and the pavane, and clip on the optional equipment generally.”⁴⁷ One of humanity’s main motives for surviving the crisis of modernity is architecture, a way to relate to our environment and to each other. Our buildings of the future will dance, if only as shadows on the face of a deserted earth, in memory of our failed attempt to overcome the naturally imposed order of a chaotic universe.

Reyner Banham remains inconclusive.

Endnotes:

1. Reyner Banham, Scenes in America Deserta (Salt Lake City: Gibbs M. Smith Inc / Peregrine Smith Books, 1982), 92.

2. Reyner Banham, The Architecture of the Well-Tempered Environment, Second Edition (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1984), 13.

3. Ibid.

4. Ibid, 287.

5. Ibid, 305.

6. Banham, The Architecture of the Well-Tempered Environment, Second Edition, 82.

7. Ibid, 83.

8. Nigel Whiteley, Reyner Banham: Historian of the Immediate Future (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2002), 17.

9. Reyner Banham, “1960 - Stocktaking,” in A Critic Writes: Essays by Reyner Banham, edited by Mary Banham, Paul Barker, Sutherland Lyall, and Cedric Price (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1996), 63.

10. Later in this introduction, Banham laments, “This, alas, is beyond the mental capacity of too many of our architectural pundits and public mouthpieces who want immediate optical signs that a building is ‘low technology’ and therefore (as their limited understanding believes) not wasteful of energy and materials.” Here, he is returning to his critique of the response to the energy crisis of the early 1970s: people assumed that a return to heavy, traditional architecture would lessen our impact on the environment. Banham, on the other hand, questioned its permanence, its inability to adapt to technology, and its overall disconnect from the modern world. Low-tech buildings can be wasteful, too, not only in their excessive use of materials, but in their failure to meet standards of living that allow for a high quality of life and the efficient work of the inhabitants. Reyner Banham, “Introduction.” In Foster Associates (London: RIBA Publications, 1979), 5.

11. Banham, Scenes in America deserta, 87.

12. Whiteley, 409.

13. Banham, Scenes in America deserta, 87.

14. Ibid.

15. Praising the resourcefulness and intelligence in the design of the Eskimo’s snow-domed igloo, Banham reaffirms, “In the right circumstances, a truly sophisticated approach to the man/environment system may involve no complex mechanisms at all.” Here and with the residence in New Mexico, though, the architecture has not left its own very specific environment – Banham is not endorsing international igloo use, but is only saying that it works well in this particular setting. Banham, The Architecture of the Well-Tempered Environment, Second Edition, 302.

16. Ibid,18.

17. Reyner Banham, "A home is not a house," Art in America 53 (April 1965): 75.

18. Banham, The Architecture of the Well-tempered Environment, Second Edition, 9.

19. Banham, Scenes in America deserta, 188.

20. Banham, The Architecture of the Well-tempered Environment, Second Edition, 21.

21. Whiteley, 405.

22. Banham, Scenes in America deserta, 42.

23. Ibid, 199.

24. Ibid, 170.

25. Reyner Banham, Los Angeles: The Architecture of Four Ecologies (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1971), 5.

26. Anthony Vidler, Histories of the Immediate Present (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 2008), 141.

27. Banham, Los Angeles: The Architecture of Four Ecologies, 5.

28. Ibid, 224.

29. Adrian Forty, Words and Buildings: A Vocabulary of Modern Architecture (London: Thames and Hudson, 2004), 236

30. Ibid, 237.

31. Reyner Banham, Theory and Design in the First Machine Age (Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, 1960), 327.

32. Mark Jarzombek, “Molecules, Money and Design: The Question of Sustainability’s Role in the Architectural Academe,” Thresholds 18 (1999), 38.

33. Mark Jarzombek, “Sustainability: Fuzzy Systems and Wicked Problems,” Log 4 (2006),12.

34. Banham, Theory and Design in the First Machine Age, 12.

35. Ibid.

36. David W. Orr, Ecological Literacy: Education and the Transition to a Postmodern World (Albany: State University of New York, 1992), 12.

37. Jarzombek, “Molecules, Money and Design: The Question of Sustainability’s Role in the Architectural Academe,” 38.

38. Banham, “1960 - Stocktaking,” 49.

39. James Wines, Green Architecture (New York: Taschen, 2000), 11

40. Orr, 4.

41. Banham, Theory and Design in the First Machine Age, 328.

42. Ibid,11.

43. Vincent Michael, "Reyner Banham: Signs and Designs in the Time without Style," Design Issues 18, no. 2 (2002): 76.

44. Orr,17.

45. Christopher Hight, “Putting Out the Fire with Gasoline: Parables of Entropy and Homeostasis from the Second Machine Age to the Information Age,” in Space Reader: Heterogeneous Space in Architecture, edited by Michael Hensel, Christopher Hight, and Achim Menges (Chichester, West Sussex, UK: John Wiley & Sons Ltd, 2009), 171.

46. Jarzombek, “Sustainability: Fuzzy Systems and Wicked Problems,” 12.

47. Reyner Banham, The Aspen papers; twenty years of the design theory from the International Design Conference in Aspen (New York: Praeger, 1974, 158.

For 48-448, under Professor C. Rosenblum.

091216
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Humanity and Humility in Frankenstein:

The series of disastrous occurrences composed to make up the plot of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein orbit around three central themes that mature and mate to generate an intense genealogy of ideas. Education, language, and power are at the heart of Shelley’s novel, as topics of debate and as elements of the book that manipulate character action. The ominous repetition of events and language serve to emphasize the fatalistic helplessness of Victor Frankenstein’s situation, but Shelley suggests that we do have a choice, arguing for the Romantic sentiment that values emotion and natural impulses, arguing for art and humanity.

A significant number of the characters in Frankenstein are self-taught, at least initially in their education. We first meet Walton, who “for the first fourteen years of [life] ran wild on a common.” This introduces the reader to Frankenstein’s childhood and upbringing, which appears soon after. Although Walton considers it a “greater evil” that he did not have a more structured education, there is something about the structure and intensity of a university education that Shelley suggests as having a negative influence on Frankenstein later in life. The schools at Oxford appear to Victor as “ancient and picturesque,” but this seemingly positive remark implies something else entirely; from afar, these universities seem well-proportioned in work and in design, but they have remained unchanged over the years and perhaps we should reconsider their purpose and their contributions towards individual self-discovery. Frankenstein’s attendance of the university of Ingolstadt becomes an exercise in solitary confinement, an unnaturally forceful injection of ideas devoid of emotion and detached from social relationships. The authoritative stance of professors and administrators of the university hint at the degradation of the student, suggesting that their contribution is not only unnecessary, but irrelevant to the advancement of the field. When Frankenstein makes the transition that allows his personal work to mature to that point, he becomes obsessed with his new position of control.

Frankenstein’s creation also begins his education through a process of self-discovery, of learning through experience, imitation, and self-initiated acts of learning. But it is equally unfortunate in outcome, perhaps because he had no one to help guide the process of self-discovery and understanding. The creature is inclined to learn, not just to survive but to fit into society, to participate and contribute to the good of man. Abandoned by his creator and denied the right of friendship by everyone who runs away from his hideous facade, he has no one to draw forth the knowledge, or the goodness, within. Shelley argues for self-initiated education, but emphasizes the importance of interaction, and dialogue between student and teacher without that division of roles.

The monster learns by observation that only through language does he have the opportunity to overcome his repulsive appearance. His encounter of De Lacey is hopeful at first, only making it all the more crushing when it ends in disaster and yet another abandonment. Shelley takes us on an extreme emotional turn here, echoing Romantic sentiment of the time period. It is interesting to consider that the creature only really exchanges words with three characters (Frankenstein, William, and De Lacey) – by living outside of society, he is denied conversation and attachment to any other being. His morals are scattered and cannot be developed because he has had little opportunity to interact properly with others.

Throughout the book, though, language is presented as an opportunity to surpass or span conventional divides. It becomes an art, and a quality of human nature. The monster understands that this is how people communicate with each other and because he seeks this type of interaction, wishes to learn it. Language and emotion go hand in hand, though. Watching the cottagers, Frankenstein’s Adam is the perfect embodiment of a Romantic: “I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature: they were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear these emotions.” The further he educates himself through observation and imitation, the more attached he becomes to the cottagers and the more human he becomes. Yet he laments that knowledge and emotional attachment has made his existence all the more unbearable: “Sorrow only increased with knowledge. Oh, that I had forever remained in my native wood, nor known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst and heat!”

Through these encounters and experiences, the monster learns of the power of language, later employing it in his reign of control over his creator. He combines language with nature to emphasize his power over Frankenstein, engraving messages (“my reign is not yet over” “many hard and miserable hours you must endure”) into trees or stones to further manipulate the scientist’s actions and morale. And through Frankenstein’s creation of the monster, we see not power through nature, but an attempt at power over nature. His obsession with “uncovering the secrets of nature” regretfully makes him ignore all limitations. He works himself up to the point that he sees himself not as a scientist but as a god. He is not experimenting, but creating, denying life’s natural cycle, denying death. Only after experiencing the deaths of all those close to him does he begin to see that he was wrong and must take responsibility for his actions.

Shelley repeats specific phrases and events within her embedded series of stories that appear to suggest Frankenstein cannot escape the curse he has befallen upon. The sentence describing his initial departure for the university is almost identical to that describing the beginning of his trip to England: “I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away and indulged in the most melancholy reflections,” and later, “I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly knowing whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around.” Frankenstein seems to give up on his fate, to throw up his arms at the situation and makes no attempt to fight it. But Shelley shows that we do have control, or can, if we choose to work with nature instead of against it, with society instead of against it. Shelley’s book is an example of that: language is her medium of representation chosen to make her argument, and perhaps nudge civilization a certain way without forcing things a certain way.

Isolation becomes a theme among characters as well. Unnatural, it seems to increase the rate of learning, but also of suffering. There is an echoing of Frankenstein’s education at the university and the monster’s education in the hovel: both are about two years of intense study and isolation. Although Frankenstein is surrounded by students and academics, he is absorbed by his own work, not visiting or concerning himself with any human attachment he once had with friends and family home in Geneva, neglecting to visit and communicate with them. Meanwhile, the monster has thus far been unsuccessful in his attempts to engage with man and is an equal state of self-imposed isolation, for the sake of learning so that he might return to society civilized, more like man and more accepted. Both are ultimately failures, telling of the importance of the individual is secondary to one’s interactions with others.

Mary Shelley’s relationship with her novel can be seen as a successful parallel to Frankenstein’s creation. In her introduction, her language suggests this coming together of mixmatched parts: “Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos; the materials must, in the first place, be afforded: it can give form to dark, shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself.” Frankenstein’s monster may have been a bunch of literal body parts stitched together, but also of ideas. Frankenstein’s failure to acknowledge the role that these influences actually played in the grand experiment was yet another misstep on his part. Unlike Frankenstein, Shelley also takes responsibility for her creation, and works at following through with its development, recognizing that the whole story is there if she can only pull it out and nurture it in the way she advocates for education. She speaks to writing a story “worthy of its name” and of her struggles to make it all work together. She understands the importance of a natural balance between logic and emotion. Contributing to the Romantic epoch, Frankenstein praises the humanity and humility of existence, arguing against struggles for power that will only end in disaster, and exploring how human progress can remain in harmony with nature.

For 76-221, under Professor A. Kennedy.

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Nonverbal Communication in The Odyssey:

The themes of storytelling and oral communication are undeniably central to The Odyssey, but subtler is the role nonverbal exchange plays in lives of Homer’s characters. Today, in a world that allows so many instances of direct contact to be slighted by faster and more convenient emails, text messages, and “Tweets”, we often lose significant meaning by eliminating the nuances provided by things like body language and tone. But these survive translation and such a large span of time in this text because they are not limited to a specific formal language – even if certain instances of social obligation or cultural idiosyncrasies require further scholarly explanation, much of the nonverbal communication that occurs in the narrative is as enduring as the story itself.

One scene showing a level of command over one’s personal body language occurs in Book 6, when Odysseus finds himself exposed and unclean, face-to-face with a pristine royal virgin. After internally debating whether or not he should throw himself at Nausicaa’s feet and plead for help, or hold back, he opts for the more reserved choice of winning her over only with his words, restraining from further intrusion of her personal space, out of respect and humility, but this decision is also made in part because he still has an ounce of pride left, he is still Odysseus the hero / warrior / king. The fact that he is able to control himself here is telling of this strong sense of confidence, despite the pain and abuses he has had to bear.

But, as is shown with their relationship to the gods, mortals are often not in control of lives and actions. Even Odysseus “melts” upon hearing Demoduous’s song of Troy in Book 8. He cries openly, incapable of stopping the emotion that overcomes him – and the description of his weeping consumes at least half a page (longest-running simile?) – and THIS is what tips off Alcinous that the stranger might not be the man he says he is.

Beyond these movements, gestures, and revelations of sentiment are the resultant actions of social obligations and formal expectations among this particular society. The general expression of hospitality runs throughout; rarely is a guest ever turned away in The Odyssey, even an unidentified stranger. Other scenarios demonstrate and emphasize typical behavior for individual classes. For example, Book 18 shows Odysseus not only adopting beggar garb, but also physically lowering himself among others, and later crouching to avoid a blow rather than the expected response of at least a more active defense. (Despite this, Homer’s description of his protagonist is unshakably characteristic of the true Odysseus. Each mention of his name includes a description “master of many exploits” and the likes. Homer will not let us so easily forget.)

In some cases, the direct interaction between two characters requires the reader to look more closely at the unspoken dialogue. Reminiscent of the scene leading up to Odysseus’s disclosure to Alcinous is the moment between Odysseus and his old nurse in Book 19. His true identify is revealed again, not by his lengthy stories that mix fact with fiction (or fiction with fiction’s fiction?), but by Eurycleia’s discovery of his scar (the narrative further intensified by the break from the narrative to provide some explanation for Odysseus’s distinct mark). The woman’s shock is so intense that she drops his foot and spills the water with which she had been washing him, and she confesses it was “not till I touched the body of my king” that she was able to recognize him – the intense implications of touch, of actual and DIRECT human contact are epitomized here.

The complexity and contradiction between verbal and nonverbal communication can be seen clearly in Book 23. Penelope’s nonchalant suggestion to move the bed – one of the many cases where what is said is a trick or only fragmented truth – and upon the realization that it is indeed her husband, she rushes to close the gap between them, and that closer contact after so long an absence brings on a wave of emotion so strong that it literally stops time, holding Dawn (and dawn) back a bit longer. Again, human contact and body language can overcome the trickeries, etc., of spoken communication.

There is something comforting about the fact that it is almost impossible to conceal the way our body speaks for us, that even the most dishonest person can be revealed and that denying one’s own true response to any given scenario is near impossible. It is a strong undercurrent of Homer’s The Odyssey, one that plays off of its parallel cousin theme, the importance and necessity of extravagant storytelling. By reinforcing the communication between characters, it also gives a contemporary reader further insight to the text, because even though we might have significantly less of this very direct form contact with each other, it is still something we can understand, still something we can relate to.

For 76-221, under Professor A. Kennedy.

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Of Memory:

Despite Peter Eisenman’s division of pre- and post-architecture diagrams (as being “generative” and “explanatory,” respectively), his elaboration on the idea of diagramming in the act of memory can be applied to both of these conditions. Because Eisenman’s diagram denies actual representation (re-presentation) by existing as an idea or ideal on its own, it can remember and reference history more directly than any other drawing. Architecture’s architecture needs to be repeated to be altered: “[A diagram] is conceived of as a series of energies which draw upon the interiority and anteriority of architect as a potential for generating new configurations.” This motif of repetition is again significant to the act of remembering, as “memory overcomes forgetting” through repetition – but the diagram does not simply repeat, its layered nature suggesting a linear progression of evolving designs; it evolves as it repeats, remembering but also reflecting. “The diagram enables an author to overcome and access the history of the discourse while simultaneously overcoming his or her own psychical resistance to such an act.” The relationship to time, and the physical “imprints” it has on itself allow the diagram to serve architecture beyond any other drawing because it adds a fourth dimension to a two-dimensional commitment.

Billie Tsien and Tod Williams “write in support of slowness” because it allows for a physical weight that suggests evidence of evolution and actuality of the design. They quote Milan Kundera: “There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. Consider this utterly commonplace situation: a man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down.” Their firm’s slow process of design allows for a slow understanding, a gradually uncovering of the ideas of what a building should be. In this way, their drawings are very much like Eisenman’s description of the diagram, implying change and a sense of history, serving as architecture’s memory. To both TWBTA and Eisenman, the diagram does not represent architecture, and the architecture does not represent something in turn. Architecture is, and the diagram is. Both are layered accounts of space and time, at once remembering and forgetting their own and each other’s histories to allow for the emergence of the next, whatever that might be.

For 48-200, under Professor J. Lucchino and Coordinator K. Gutschow.

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An Open Letter:

Dear Sir,

I wasn't sure who to send this to. For one, the internet hates history, and destroys it. It is nearly impossible to find maps and documents that haven't been updated within a year or so. Another problem is that I know for a fact the construction of this building happened over a large span of time (half a decade or so), by different groups of people. And I’m not sure how to go about tracing this, and even if I were, it would probably be, it probably is, a waste of time. I don't expect any response, though comments are welcome, especially if you could direct me to the person to whom this letter should have been sent.

And so this letter is addressed to the Architect(s) of Bridgewater-Raritan High School.

For four years, I attended BRHS, and I openly complained about it. The school's design, I mean. Everyone did. The buildings were ugly. Everything was red and there was far too much brick; this was Bridgewater, not Newark. The design seemed at once impersonal, an institution of crushing proportions, and isolated, among a sea of parked cars. The architecture hated us. It mocked us daily. None of the buildings were directly connected, so students were forced to walk outside in between class.

It was said the campus had been designed by a drunk Californian architect as a sick joke. Central Jersey is not LA. It snows here.

It was as though the architect had pretended to accommodate the climate with a covered walkway that stretched to connect most of the buildings, and a squat canopy between the new two-story monster and its nearest neighbor, but hadn't actually. The covered walkway is narrow enough that when windy, rain blows from one side to the other, soaking everything and everyone in between. But it is heavy enough to require structural support of its own, coming in the form of rectilinear columns every six feet or so - a red army narrowing the path even more. And the canopy so generously shading those below from sun and snow? It stops ten feet short of actually doing its job; there is no way to escape from the 1000 Building without getting wet if it happens to be raining at all.

The buildings are scattered about every which way, with little to differentiate them. They are unstacked bricks without grout to hold them together. There aren't enough windows, except where there are too many. The school as a whole is two-faced: approaching from one side and you are swallowed by it a hundred yards away, approach from the other and it is invisible until it consumes you entirely.

And yet, as much as I have hated it solemnly for four years, and even now cringe at the thought of the place, it is treacherously beautiful. It resists itself in a handful obscure moments. It is trying to be a beast that cannot be beaten down, that cannot be understood. It is trying to make its inhabitants hate it, so they will be forced to focus, and to learn what they came to learn. It is trying to impose order on an orderless student body of teenagers who want nothing but rebellion and anarchy.

But, you see, it is a teenager, too. It fails at what it wants so much to do. It is imperfect because it understands imperfect is part of learning. Its parts are flung about in every which way and it remains open to the less-than ideal weather that assault it on a daily basis. It stops short of doing what we want it to, because it knows we can't stand to be completely protected, to be smothered.

And there are moments here that are undeniably beautiful, disgracefully so. A large section of one of the library's classrooms juts out of the harmonious solid blocks that define the individual buildings. It is tantalizingly symmetrical, grotesquely so, and yet completely out of place, offending whoever dares to look at it.

Walking between the buildings is terrifying, because there is nothing and no one there. An unavoidable mountain pass. And yes, of course you are expecting something to happen. But it doesn’t, and so you glance back at those mountains, feeling lucking to have cheated death. You didn’t, but you feel as if you have. Thrill without actual danger.

And of course, we want to get soaked and sunburnt and frostbitten. We want to be reminded of our suffering so as to be reminded of our existence. The sprawl, critiquing suburbia’s own, works only on this scale to give us of humanity’s most primal needs: an exposed reminder of reality.

Even the plan works in certain places. The artists and musicians and theater students have winding corridors to contemplate their art, but remain close enough to the cafeteria / big city hub to remain in contact with the rest of "society".

It is completely detached from the site, save the looping arms that envelope it in an overgrown, gangly sort of way. And except in the northwest corner, where it rises from the ground like an ancient ruin sunken into the earth. It defies its nature, here, by defying all else. It is at once sloping and flat. It is its own landscape.

The windows become sacred at sunrise. They become blinding, disorienting, and demand attention despite. Public school though it might be, this is a religion. Reverence is expected.

Because it is gorgeously obscene. It doesn’t want to be. It doesn’t know how to be. But it is.

Sir, your architecture is a disaster, but only because it is trying so hard to be.

Signed,

Architecture Student and BRHS Graduate

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Actuality's Absence and a Reliance on Representation:

Abstract: This paper analyzes the differences between truth as an abstract idea and concrete representations of this truth. The importance of this explication reflects its medium: regarding the speech and content, how the two should play a role in the argument for or against limitations of free speech; regarding formal intentions and human experience within architecture, how the process of design should or should not be reconsidered and reshaped. Despite truth’s instabilities and intangibilities, despite the fact that we cannot purely convey our ideas without communication or give a space meaning without form, I would contend that because these shadows of reality are all that we have, they should be allowed to develop and mutate as our knowledge, perception, and interest changes. Words are not just noise; form is not just an imposed system. The two are worth pursuing and protecting because it encapsulates the pursuit and protection of their more abstract counterparts.

An Instable Truth

Regardless of whether or not it is possible for truth to exist outside of abstraction, it is in its most comprehensible way conceptual, or a collection of ideas, one that merits discussion for the understanding of our own being, one that is fundamental to human philosophy and development. As all ideas, realized in reality or not, these can be represented. The most common type of representation of truth is language: spoken, written, or signed. However, truth can be diagrammed through a multitude of media. Art or science, exploratory or analytical, these representations provoke response, and again, most often via words, but this is not necessarily exclusively linguistic. Since this progression of logic lends itself to supports of the ideology that truth is not only dynamic – as Linda Ray Pratt of the academic sphere writes, “truth is not certain, or stable” (99) – but intangible and impossible to pierce its way through what we know to be our realm of reality, it produces a significant amount of resistance: people like to know things, they like to understand and for all of their senses to match up without misalignment to their experience, and these contested symmetrical truths confuse and misinform that experience outside of their control. How truth is represented, the media, the lighting and maintenance of the scene, effects our perception of what truth is, but also our perception of our living experience. Truth is a collective, not limited to what any one type of physical representation of any one conceptual model might be. It is up to us to make these parallel lines converge.

It is important to come to terms with the fact that all of these forms are not the actual embodiment of truth; they are projections, shadows of understanding that allow the discussion to continue. This returns to Pratt’s idea that even when we think we have decided upon some scientific truth, we become aware of our own uncertainty. Our representative truths are sequential but fleeting. Running concurrently alongside them is the concept that allows for the possibility of separation of form from context. Through the debate regarding restrictions on free speech, for example, most authors, aligning on little else, would argue it is possible to divide speech and what we understand to be reality – that is to say, speech in the abstract, speech on anything and everything and nothing – from what is being spoken about, or the context of their communication.

And this can be applied to most, if not all, of these representations of truth. Architecture, too, is often analyzed as an empty shell; the actual human experience and interaction with a building is disregarded while attention is turned to formal elements of design. Most critics and theorists would assent that in both speech and architecture, context far outweighs its cloak in importance, regarding the impossible quest for truth. Others, though, recognize that speech itself, or the form of architecture on its own, can contribute significantly to the discussion of truth, though its influence may be noticeably subtler.

Shadows of Reality

Plato’s Allegory of the Cave sets up a scenario where shadows are literally the only reality known to a set of people:

"[H]uman beings living in an underground den, which has a mouth open towards the light and reaching all along the den; here they have been from their childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that they cannot move, and can only see before then, being prevented by the chains from turning round their heads. Above and behind them a fire is blazing in the distance, and between the fire and the prisoners there is a raised way, like the screen [that] marionette players have in front of them, over which they show the puppets." (409)

As people pass, the prisoners see their shadows and the shadows of things they carry, and can hear warped versions of the sounds they make, the cave echoing. Because this is all they know, and have never considered the possibility that a second, more real reality exists beyond the fire, this is their reality. “To them, […] the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images” (410). However, they would, nonetheless, be only representations of true reality.

The prisoners name the projected images and make predictions and try to better understand their world, as limited as it might seem to outsiders. Their need to understand and their need to define are not unlike our own, and it might be said that to us, too, shadows are all that there is. Maybe there is no truth projecting the shadows; maybe they can be seen as forms on their own. If so, the sanity and well being of the society, of our society, would rely on constant discussion of these shadows, of this existence. True meaning may be unknown or misunderstood, but that intangible truth must be protected.

The What and How of Speech

In this allegory, shadows are the manifestation of what is real, a physical symbol of an idea. Regarding communication, speech could be recognized as the shadow of what is being spoken about, a way to represent or portray an idea, as some sort of secondary medium is required to do so. Similarly, a building or physical elements of architecture are shadows of the meaning or experience masked by design. The separation of the sign from what it signifies comes up often in critiques of both language and architecture.

An early perspective on this topic comes from British liberal thinker, John Stuart Mill. He writes that speech is beneficial whether it is proven to be right or not, in explaining why speech should not ever be suppressed: “If the opinion is right, they are deprived of the opportunity of exchanging error for truth: if wrong, they lose, what is almost as great a benefit, the clearer perception and livelier impression of truth, produced by its collision with error” (10). By saying this, Mill recognizes there is a difference between speech on its own and what is being said. In fact, Mill emphasizes the importance of the former in saying all speech, right or wrong, should be expressed. However, also dealing with the suppression of discussion, he writes of instances when “the words [that] convey it cease to suggest ideas, or suggest only a small portion of those they were originally employed to communicate” (23). Without constant expression of opinion, the ideas disintegrate, and only a handful of words stand alone to signify the original thought. Mill’s tone suggests that these words are not enough, can never be enough to completely capture the essence of a truth, but are nonetheless all we have. So Mill’s separation of form and meaning has to do with tolerance – we cannot ever have the real thing, so we should expose ourselves to everything that might be some fragment of truth.

Censoring Communication

Beyond speculation and hypothesizing, it is important to explore how these theories might play out in an actual situation. Noam Chomsky of MIT became involved in the Faurisson affair when he came to the defense of Robert Faurisson, academic holocaust denier, purely on the grounds that everyone should have the right to express their opinion, true or not, offensive or not. Chomsky’s defense of speech as a concept was detached from the defense others tried to pin on him, a defense of the validity of what was being said. The American’s perspective is that there is nothing wrong with allowing any variety of speech since truth will emerge as truth, and our understanding will increase with our understanding of both sides of any argument. Chomsky writes of the incident, “Some time ago I was asked to sign a petition in defense of Robert Faurisson’s ‘freedom of speech and expression.’ The petition said absolutely nothing about the character, quality or validity of his research, but restricted itself quite explicitly to a defense of elementary rights that are taken for granted in democratic societies, calling upon university and government officials to ‘do everything possible to ensure the [Faurisson’s] safety and the free exercise of his legal rights.’ I signed without hesitation” (1).

American theorist and historian John Durham Peters calls for a new liberalism, but does so by examining the broader liberal tradition. Again, there is a highlighted difference between the group’s defense of the right to speak and their defense of the content of that speech: “Liberals are confident that any doctrine, good, bad, or ugly, should be allowed its innings in the open air. […] ‘Let truth and falsehood grapple’ say some liberals in the fashion of a Roman emperor declaring the gladiatorial contests open” (7). While not stressing the benefits of the “bad or ugly” speech, Peters says its presence is a necessity, that speech should be defended regardless of what it represents. In an amused sort of way, he refers to free speech as a “stubborn utopia [that] will not go away” (20), implying restrictions to the way we say things will always be there, whether we establish them or not, but all the while retaining the optimism that perhaps the communication of some truth might work its way past these obstacles.

Another American scholar to argue that free speech cannot actually exist is Stanley Fish. Since we value the content of what is being said, Fish sees restrictions on free speech as having a positive effect overall; we stay true to these principles and the contextual qualities of speech become even more important. He also points out restrictions of speech do not restrict us from actual pursuit of truth or knowledge, since that is found instead on the interior. “The good news is that precisely because speech is never ‘free’ in the two senses required – free of consequence and free from state pressure – speech always matters, is always doing work because everything we say impinges on the world in ways indistinguishable from the effects of physical action, we must take the responsibility for our verbal performances – all of them – and not assume that they are being taken care of by a clause in the Constitution” (114). Speech being fundamentally limited by the reactions it provokes means what we say matters, but the right to speak does not. Fish’s line of division deals primarily with a value of ideas over the value of speech, or meaning over noise.

But because in most cases, we do value meaning over the noise – though Baudrillard would disagree – meaningless noise is, of course, meaningless. Nonsensical gibberish and racial slurs both mean nothing unless we attach meaning to them. And since meaning needs this secondary translation to be spread from person to person, since it relies on communication to be shared and reviewed and examined before it dies, some noise is necessary to record reality and to question it.

Meaning of Reality

Regarding their relationship to reality, American architect and professor Michael Benedikt compares written language to a building:

"The novel and the poem, though each an act of communication, are windows to a reality empty of the intention to ‘communicate,’ a reality neither potential nor ideal, but actual: to a world of things-in-themselves seen clearly. The house as such, on the other hand, seems intended as little more than communication, a knowing and somewhat insolent manipulation of symbols at arm’s length to create the ‘proper’ message." (8)

This suggests that it isn’t reality trying to communicate with us; rather, by projecting meaning into things, we are trying to communicate with each other, and to give our own existence meaning. To Benedikt, a tree is not actually meaningful, or trying to convey meaning on its own, but we can find meaning in a tree. We can provoke and respond, and we should, because “the ‘world,’ […] is an ever evolving, socially constructed, personally projected solution to (what can one say?) the problems of existence” (20), and architecture that begins to embody realness will show that, through “presence, significance, materiality, and emptiness” (32).

Like Fish, Benedikt recognizes that perhaps there is no truth behind Plato’s shadows, but does not allow that to stand as an excuse for conformity and near nihilism. He contends that we make our own shadows anyway, so making them all the same is useless, and anyone can make a shadow. Free architecture, like free speech, does not necessarily produce good architecture, but does allow for the creation of real architecture, or architecture that we can find meaning in. It seeks to understand something about itself, and seeks to redefine the shadows on the wall of our cave.

Formal Design's Creeping Influence

Like language, the form of architecture can be found meaningless without context, without human interaction or interpretation of their experience. As Mill, Chomsky, Peters, or Fish would suggest about speech and content, the two architectural equivalents can be separated and one could defend or attack either form or context on their own, but truth and understanding is much more easily found in the latter of the two. Form is structure and / or ornamentation, but by itself, it is not architecture. Like a corpse, it is a body without a soul, so can hardly be the person it physically represents. Philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein is quoted as saying, “Architecture glorifies and eternalizes something. When there is nothing to glorify, there is no architecture” (Pallasmaa 242). It is the human element that makes it architecture, that gives it meaning and weight in our world. We define Wittgenstein’s “something” by our interactions with architecture, by injecting our own meaning.

Juhani Pallasmaa, Finish architect and theorist of the mid-twentieth century, finds, “Design has become so intensely a kind of game with form that the reality of how a building is experienced has been overlooked” (243). As obsession with the formal aspect of composition and style overrides the impact of experience, ignorance towards the human condition grows and we are left with a building. One might call it beautiful, or strong, or interesting for some historical allusion it makes, but it remains empty of any emotion. Pallasmaa writes, “The quality of architecture does not lie in the sense of reality that it expresses, but in quite the reverse, in architecture’s capacity for awakening our imagination” (245). Reality to Pallasmaa is real reality, Plato’s travelers through the cave road who cast shadows; but the combination of individual realities, or Benedikt’s and Pratt’s understanding of a truth in flux, Pallasmaa’s “reverse,” is what does influence us and our understanding of meaning.

Still dependent upon the physical to produce effect, we are chained to the manifestations of an unknown and indefinite truth, just as opinions thought but not spoken can never move beyond the mind of their initial conception. A void cannot imply ideas. That outside envelope is important, too, but the intangible contents must also somehow be conveyed. Architecture can be restricted by form, by means of code or convention, but restricting meaning is virtually impossible – meaning comes only from human explication, from the outside, not from the creator of the architecture him- or herself. In the words of Swiss architect Bernard Tschumi, “Architecture is constantly subject to reinterpretation. In no way can architecture today claim permanence of meaning” (249). Tschumi’s realization about the adaptive, animated quality of architecture releases a great deal of responsibility from the architect / speaker equivalent here, because one cannot possibly predict all future outcomes of a space designed to fit only one program, nor can you know what meaning the building’s users will take from it, whether or not you impart your own meaning into the architecture.

Diagramming Truth

All these overqualified people say you can separate speech, as sound, from what you communicate, or form of architecture from its meaning, and these are the consequences, etc. Despite their multiple and varied voices of reason, to operate on this set of Siamese twins, you would kill them both. Speech without an idea is nothing, but so is an idea without speech. Form without meaning is just form, but meaning without form is incomprehensible. All of these philosophers and academics and theorists use the separation of the two for their own agenda – that the restriction of one is the saving grace of the other, in the instance of Fish, or that one has become too overbearing on its partner, as Pallasmaa suggests. But the two are codependent, feeding off of each other happily. Truth’s reliance on its outer shell is important to understand, and I would contend that form is also important in the investigation of truth, maybe not to the extent of meaning found inside experience, but in a subtler, curiously refined way; what you see is what you get, and it is that initial encounter that leads you inside.

As Benedikt writes, “reality [may not be] so obliging as to be, in itself, meaningful, [but you] cannot catch the world unaware and naked of meaning” (10). An uncertain reality implies multiple meanings, and the necessity for multiple shadows. If shadows are all that we have, we must record and represent these projections of an original but now missing truth. Free speech is necessary, free form is necessary, so that we can do this, so that our fluctuating understanding is balanced. All too often, meaning and experience of reality is sacrificed thoughtlessly, and written off as a sacrifice for responsibility. But a greater responsibility, and an impossible task, is to chart these unbounded and unseen lands through audio, visual, and experiential means. In doing so, our words and our buildings, become the idea and the meaning; the sign becomes the signified, temporarily, and for one fleeting instance, we see truth, an unreachable point on the horizon, simultaneously tormenting and inspiring us.

For 76-101, under Professor R. Reames-Henry.

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Bare Necessities of Education:

In a nation founded on the principles of democratic rule, one of the most coveted rights Americans cling to is their freedom of expression. Taken for granted as if in an abstracted and theoretical lab-country, the functionality of this right often deteriorates when confronted with the problems that it generates as a sort of democratic backwash. An educational setting heightens these apparent conflicts, introducing large groups of impressionable minds to new freedoms, a new sense of individuality, while still imposing restrictions on their words and actions. The question is one of rank, that is to say, determining where free speech fits among our system of values in an educational setting. There exists a related disagreement between groups of scholars, regarding what things prove to be most essential for the security of education as a system, or what value set is to be placed above other priorities for the sake of education’s own functionality. Absolutists regard the Constitution’s definition of free speech as the ultimate priority worth protecting, in any setting or scenario. Others would contend context merits the dissolution of this right, and the safety of the individual is to be valued above it. At odds with both of these groups are those who see education’s goal as being the pursuit of truth, and their crusade allows them to knock down free speech and individuals’ well-being a few pegs, letting knowledge rise to the top priority in pursuit. These three divisions among academics share some common values and approaches, but their ultimate arguments differentiate them enough to make any middle-ground appear especially faint. As they develop their impressions of education’s fundamental base, the cornerstone marking it from other programmatic institutions, we have no choice but to check the geometry of this scholastic structure and wonder just how many corners it can and should have.

Having already established that democracy is a necessary tool in the political realm for the functionality of our nation, there are many scholars who assert it is also the driving force in the development of our educational system. Robert M. O'Neil argues that the nature of an institution of higher education is just as democratic as the popular vote, and so the legislation of our government, mainly the Constitution, should translate as accurately as possible to this particular setting. "All public colleges and universities," he writes, "are bounded by the First Amendment [and many private campuses] pride themselves on observing the standards of expression at least as high" (15). As he analyzes speech codes, regulations within a certain setting that limit or ban speech beyond actual legal limitations, O'Neil also remains concerned with what a university ought and ought not to do. By implementing such restrictions, colleges are stepping out of their jurisdiction and their fundamental duty to their students. He quotes Committee A of the American Association of University Professors as stating, "By proscribing any ideas, a university sets an example that profoundly disserves its academic mission ... [A] college or university sets a perilous course if it seeks to differentiate between high-value and low-value speech" (qtd. in O'Neil 22). Not only does this prescribe "a certain arrogance" about the power they hold (22), but it also reveals the educational system as subjective, opening the floor to discover flaws in its subjectivity. That's not to say these universities should turn the other way and sacrifice individual comfort and safety to let free speech run its course, but, "[a]bove all, universities should approach racism, homophobia, sexism, and anti-Semitism through what they do best - education" (25). O'Neil recognizes the problems that unrestricted speech can cause, but also acknowledges its necessity in an open environment that calls for discussion and debate, given "the very nature of a university as a place of free inquiry" (22). Similarly, Rodney A. Smolla’s approach to education is heavily dependant upon preexisting Constitutional values. Recognizing that “freedom of speech has its costs, and tolerance of even the speech of the intolerant is one of them” (169), Smolla is willing to take in free speech despite its negative effects. Balanced in their current composition, he finds the First Amendment provides for him a solid enough foundation on its own. Although he sympathizes with victims of hate speech, a consequence of some free expression, and calls for the humanization of institutions dealing with the sort of scenarios related to the application of these laws. Again, he sees free speech as being a fundamental element not just to our nation, but to our educational systems. He approaches the disturbing dehumanization of racism, etc. with a degree of optimism and with O’Neil’s logic about education’s core contribution: "In a just society, reason and tolerance must triumph over prejudice and hate. But that triumph is best achieved through education, not coercion" (169).

There are some who would contend that free speech has no place in an academic setting, that educational institutions' priorities should be focused on the protection of the individual. Kathryn Abrams testifies that free speech, in its current absolute form, is completely unnecessary in an academic setting and that "we need limits on free expression in intellectual life" (1). She writes, "First Amendment rhetoric and principles are being applied in contexts where incursions on expression are accomplished not by legal restrictions or sanctions, but by protests, condemnations or requests for inclusions" (4), implying institutions recognize they are stepping out of their place to implement restrictions they have no right to enact only to concede to public pressure. It is "when our legal and cultural reluctance to place other values in the balance with expression begins replicating itself in the moral deliberations of potential speakers" that the problems begin to occur (5). When the harm of an individual is dismissed to take up an issue of free speech, the university is failing to protect, failing to provide and safe and comfortable environment to learn. Stanley Fish sees "democracy [as] a system of political organization, not a model for organizing every aspect of daily life" (Democracy and Education 2). And because we value the context of what is being said, not the act of speech on its own, restrictions on speech increase our value of this non-free speech. Context is far more important than the absolutists allow us to believe, and "the democracy is a system of political organization, not a model for organizing every aspect of daily life" (There's No Such Thing 118). Fish answers his own question about whether or not universities are the right place for free speech, though not required by the Constitution to do so: "If the answer were 'yes,' it would be hard to say why there would be any need for classes, or examinations, or departments, or disciplines, or libraries, since freedom of expression requires nothing but a soapbox" (107). The utilities of a university require something more, and the existing levels of control in an academic setting are there for a reason. Restrictions allow us to value more what is being said, putting into action once again the gears of the university, and this value of knowledge is an essential element to understanding the function of such an institution.

Recovering ideas from John Stuart Mill, some scholars recognize free speech as essential to intellectual and societal progress, because we cannot know if something that goes unsaid, for reasons of internal or external restriction of the speech, could have contributed to our understanding of truth. Linda Ray Pratt sees knowledge as a dynamic energy, something that can be achieved, at least temporarily, with the help of academic freedom. “Truth,” she writes, “is not certain, or stable” (99), and education is the vehicle by which we can chase it. It is not just a goal, but an “'awkward responsibility' of those who sought to provide guidance in an uncertain universe of ideas” (104), including professors and administrators of the university. This search for knowledge is dependent on an exchange of ideas, and Pratt “still believe[s] that the university must be the resource and refuge for th[is] free exchange” (110). By instilling professors with this freedom of expression, they can explore possible outlets of truth and pass on these ideas to their students. Without being able to teach, to speak, truth and knowledge cannot be pursued. According to John Durham Peters, limitations imposed on speech interfere with the main goals of an institution of higher education, again, the main goal being knowledge. Retaining the modernist approach that there can be an end game, Peters reminds us that "liberalism is a part of the story about overcoming suffering (enduring offensive speech), and pain turns out to be a secret key to the puzzle of how the public life of democratic solidarity might work” (22). Peters goes as far as to suggest the views of the offensive can be beneficial, too, raising awareness and allowing for the address of moral concerns, as "one can oppose censorship while maintaining a capacity for judgments about the value and quality of cultural forms" (9).

Following Louis Sullivan’s mantra “that form ever follows function,” education’s program should be reliant on its basic functions. In the past, this might have been to seek out a certain truth, investing heavily in the idea that we should value this quest for knowledge and understanding of the world around us above all. As the public became more interested in protecting the individual, in providing a safe atmosphere for students to learn, the well-being of participants in an academic setting became more important. And put into an ultra-democratic context, more recent times would dictate that we open the floor to students; the idea that free speech should be valued above both safety and an uncertain truth stems off of an obsession with control, making out the administration of education to be something of a business manager. But today’s educational systems are less focused in their objectives, more contextually defined by the subjects they teach, the students that attend, the professors that teach, the alum that donate, their location, their history – laws involving free speech and individual safety should reflect this. Form, after all, can and should depend on things other than pure functionality, or architecture would dissolve completely into engineering, cease to exist, and spaces would have no effect on their inhabitants. Although the pursuit of truth is still a worthy goal, it has been long forgotten; the commercialization of campuses has tainted all three of these aims. Perhaps by returning to this loftier ideal, where education is less of a societal obligation and more something that requires the ambition to learn, more something that requires the desire to embark on an impossible task not very unlike filling a small bucket with every raindrop that falls towards the earth, academia can shed the corrupt layer of political dust that has developed in its darker rooms.

For 76-101, under Professor R. Reames-Henry.

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Eugène Viollet-Le-Duc, John Ruskin, and the Big Bad Wolf of Industry:
Why the Three Little Pigs Were in Way Over Their Heads:

Architecture could easily be defined as a science, an art, or a business, but cannot be so simply labeled. As a system so open to the rest of the world, it allows technology, humanity, and all other impossibly vague and eternally dynamic factors to flow through it with immediate impact and constant change. How the change provokes reaction among society is how our view of architecture, and our view of culture as a whole, initiates the new direction civilization chooses to take. During the Industrial Revolution, technology stuck its nose in everyone’s business, whether they slammed the door on its face or welcomed it in with open arms; architecture can hardly be an exception to this rule. Two major critics experiencing the change, Eugène Viollet-Le-Duc and John Ruskin, shared the opinion that architecture should remain honest to humanity, but had differing views on how new technology might be utilized by architects of the nineteenth century. As technology continues to change the way we perceive the arts today, it also changes how we manipulate the world around us through structural design and composition.

From the meager beginnings of the development of industry as a major force in Europe, and later in America, the housing of the machine existed as a major issue to be addressed. Pierson, in his analysis of early industrial architecture, suggests that the form of the building was infinitely dependent upon meeting “the requirements of power-driven machinery” (2). In fact, the technical specifications of these new machines, even in their simplest forms, dictated the “association with the planning and building of factories [to] the names of engineers, not architects“ (2). The factory was from the start an extension of the machine that it housed, thus the architecture was not rightly architecture, that is to say, not built around people but some other dictating the decision-making of a design. Despite easily apparent complications with this new architectural theory, the rationale behind it, the energy that seized hopeful nations, nullified these issues to some. There was something exciting about the new prospect that “[man’s energy] was limited only by the capacity of the machine itself; and the number of machines which could be set in motion was limited only by the amount of power which could be brought to bear upon them” (2). Their limitations were blown out of the water, economic profit seeming infinitely large, and they saw no alternative outcome save their success.

Not all the world was so easy to accept this drastic turn of events, as change is never immediately well received; there will always be negative impacts on parts of society, and the people who notice them. One man particularly fond of detail was John Ruskin, a theorist who had very strong feelings about the happenings of his time. Of the resultant mass increase in labor, he felt that it was “fundamentally undermined by mechanization, the division of labor, and a capitalist system that increasingly alienated workers from the products of their efforts” (Raizman 10). He also observed that art had an improving quality on the human spirit, and could be the saving grace of society, despite the wrath of industry. In his Seven Lamps of Architecture, Ruskin writes as an aside:

"So long as men work as men, putting their heart into what they do, and doing their best, it matters not how bad workmen they may be […] and if a man’s mind as well as his heart went with his work, all [these slight windows to humanity through mistakes and pauses] will be in the right places […]; and the effect of the whole, as compared with the same design cut by a machine or a lifeless hand, will be like that of poetry well read and deeply felt to that of the same verses jangled by rote." (229)

Much of the world embracing the mundanity of the regulated twelve-hour workday – Stearns includes a strict set of rules for such a factory in France during the eighteen-hundreds, including the regulation of every movement by the sound of a bell (27) – while Ruskin was rejecting regularity and consistency for preference of the sense of humanity found in irregularities and signs of the craftsmen’s existence within their work. Through all of his conflicts with the time period, Ruskin remains with the faith that the world of art as he knows it will not collapse into complete desuetude.

As machines continued to grow in size and complexity, there arose a demand of more suitable architecture, and materials. At one point, Pierson discusses the use of wooden gears and their becoming obsolete, despite high efficiency, because they could not take the strain of the machines (6). This breakdown and rejection of the organic can begin to reflect the backbreaking nature of the work itself and its toll on the workers of these factories – if wooden gears, which had been perfectly suitable before, could not withstand the crushing power of new machinery, how could men be expected to work the same number of hours with these machines? This change in materials was not overlooked by Ruskin, who recognized this and called for a reversal of progress on this front.

In the “Lamp of Truth,” Ruskin spills out his woes about what he considers to be dishonest elements of architecture. “A direct falsity of assertion respecting the nature of material, or the quantity of labour” dissolves the human quality of architecture (59), and Ruskin goes all out in calling each lie “an imposition, a vulgarity, an impertinence, and a sin” (84). Structural honesty determines the nobility of the building, thus the level of respect and appreciation it receives. One sublayer of his accusations includes the use of unnatural materials, despite advancing technologies that make metal, etc. a necessity:

"Architecture’s first existence and its earliest laws must, therefore, depend upon the sue of materials accessible in quantity, and on the surface of the earth; that is to say, clay, wood, or stone: and I think it cannot but be generally felt that one of the chief dignities of architecture is its historical use, and since the latter is partly dependent on consistency of style, it will be felt right to retain as far as may be, even in periods of more advanced science, the materials and principles of earlier ages." (67)

Metals, however, can be used, if only to serve the same purpose as an existing material: cement (68). To use iron and other metals in some new, unspecified manner, would taint the building with what he calls the “anarchy of iron” (69), taking away from the neutrality of other materials if used in a juxtaposed fashion, and destroying all traces of the craftsman if used on its own.

Ruskin is completely enamored with ornamentation, its intricacies and its functioning role as a transfer of personality from the craftsman to the craft, so it is no wonder that he views the use of machine-generated ornament as a degradation of architecture, and a lie. The “two entirely distinct sources of agreeableness” of ornamentation as defined by Ruskin are “the abstract beauty of its forms [and] the sense of human labour and care spent upon it” (82-83). Although it takes him more than a few pages to articulate it as he becomes obsessed with the richness and admirable qualities of man-made ornament, the machine-made elements are just as much a lie to the viewer of a building as the use of wood painted to look like stone.

Not long after Ruskin’s emergence on the world as a theorist set on reforming the progress at hand through book after book critiquing the Industrial Revolution at hand, French architect and theorist Eugène Viollet-Le-Duc began to similarly explore the honest nature of material and its interaction with the architecture it was used to create. He asserts that “stone, marble, wood, cast or wrought iron, and the various forms of baked clay have widely different properties: in view of this variety and even opposition of character in the several materials, the form that suits one of them cannot suit the other” (169), going on to critique his peers for not paying attention to the properties of such materials and using them in a careless, dishonest way. In fact, he accuses them of not utilizing new materials at all – not exactly what Ruskin is calling for. Any attempts have been “timid” and lack any change in how they are used – again, almost the exact opposite of what Ruskin is saying in his Seven Lamps. The composition of a structure should, according to Viollet-Le-Duc, derive from the materials used and the assembly process of the construction, and forgetting this is the first fallacy that will inevitably domino its way into poor architecture (171).

The new way that Viollet-Le-Duc suggests architects use metals in their design is actually not very new, although in an artistically historical sense it is so. Inspired by the organic world, by the form of creatures (182), including bone structure and joints, he proposes these unnatural materials take on a natural form. The absolute inclusion of both natural form alongside mechanical qualities of iron is strange at first, especially after reading Ruskin’s definition of structural honesty. Viollet-Le-Duc seeks to emphasize the imagination, “the power given to man to unite and combine in his mind thinks that have struck his senses” (197), and when previous have these two clashing properties had such an impact on society? The change in technology produces new juxtapositions as it is layered along with historical technologies and the ever throbbing heart of progression in civilization.

As Stearns puts it, “It was, in sum, as basic a change in human history as has occurred since the advent of settled agriculture (25).” Change is imminent and constant, whether or not artists, theorists, and society at large choose to accept the fact. From caves to cows to cities to cars to computers and beyond, human nature is about evolution and the intricacies of a dynamic organism. The implications this has on culture are apparent through society’s reactions to its own art, and of course through the art itself. Architecture, an experiential art form not restricted to visual, physical, or acoustical means, is paradoxical in nature because it is a supposedly static form committed to the site and the spaces it creates, but at the same time is composed of wholly dynamic elements unavoidably linked to all that is outside. And unlike the other categories of art, architecture is embedded with responsibilities to protect and cultivate a society so that it may continue successfully.

Ruskin’s infatuation with the love handles of an imperfect architecture is not so delusional as it might seem. If architecture is about experience, the more humanity is embedded into its cracks and hiccups, the more we can feel its curves and get into the spaces that the creator slaved over – and to appreciate that construction on this other level. Meanwhile, Viollet-Le-Duc had every right to call-out the Pinocchios of the nineteenth century. Truth allows for precision and understanding; it also allows for mistakes and confusion, adding a convoluted layer of humanity – everybody lies. But when architecture becomes less than these things, when it becomes simplified down to Modernist ideals and the stripping of all ornament, the mechanization of structure itself, it becomes nothing more than a singular symbol. Although Viollet-Le-Duc’s theories and practice did make an impressionist on the Modernist movement, like a bad game of telephone, some of the key words were lost. The definition of purity and truth shift dramatically as the twentieth century progresses at a speed comparable to that of the Industrial Revolution, with a similar lack of attention paid to the shuffling of cards under the table.

As the twenty-first century unfolds, architects scramble to conceive these structures in the hopes that their buildings, their metaphorical children, will outlive them a hundred times over; they will influence the conception of hundreds, thousands of other buildings scattered across the globe; they will impact design, art, culture; they will mark some milestone in humanity’s ever-shifting sphere of history. In that sense, an architect is immortal: even as his buildings crumble, his art lives on through the art of others. But in all of these lofty ideals and a Ruskin-like faith that terms will improve if only one loves and believes in art enough, there lacks a fundamental stability that encourages society to share a similar faith in architecture. Technology adds to this unrest and skepticism; one major example of this is the fact that so many architects and clients are unwilling to embrace the digital resources at hand, and continue to rely on analog preconstruction representations as a crutch. The way that technology is being utilized now is far from maxed-out. Currently, computers are being used to replace what was once done by hand (i.e. drafting in a program like AutoCAD instead of hand-drafting a structure), most often to save time and decrease the chance of human error. Potentially, though, technology could be used to reorganize the fundamentals from the bottom up, rather than top down – how things are looking now. Improvements have certainly been made in all aspects of the field, from design to construction to business relations – architecture is, after all, an all-spanning discipline that envelops a range of subjects – but the improvements tend to lack the dynamic directionality necessary to implement a change of the capacity aforementioned by Stearns. Many have suggested that architecture is the marriage of science and art: if both of these two facilities has not only embraced new technologies but have played a role in their development, why should architecture be left behind? Social responsibility and morality, though pertinent to all occupiable structures, sometimes contribute our cautious, circulatory approach towards new technology. Beyond this, our fear of change lacks justification.

When the Big Bad Wolf is a few doors down, about to blow down another house, it’s probably not such a good time to add detailing to your brick dwelling. It might also not be the best time to get out your wireless keyboard and mouse and generate wolf-proof algorithms for structural modifications. But maybe there exists some middle ground from which we can begin to understand the complexities of architecture in a new light.

For 64-100, under Professor T. Chang.

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Rococo on the Rocks:
European Architecture with a Native Bartender:

The discovery of a giant landmass is not an everyday occurrence, and would be equally as earth-shattering had it taken place now, roughly half a millennium later. Cultures completely alien to each other were in a position to communicate, to make up for lost time, but were already very strongly routed in their ways. Understanding minimal and tension high – such is the stuff of intriguing art. Portugal’s parasitic attachment to Brazil meant European imposition in all aspects of native life, and they did not have much of a choice, forced to start on the defensive. As generations passed and the lines of race and class became increasingly blurred, the resulting art forms continued to react to the history of the colonization of Brazil, not quite an identity crisis, but still questioning the complex relationship between the two countries. The implications of racial divisions on art can be seen in the work of architect Antonio Francisco Lisboa, who attempted to explore his Portuguese heritage alongside the history of his country of Brazil.

The so-called Age of Discovery not only created contact between the New World and Europe, but also produced an entire ongoing dialogue and complex relationship between the continents. An interest in the exotic nature of these newly discovered lands prompted further exploration and permanent settlements of the environments, not to mention rich interaction between native and foreign people. One of the most established nations when it came to testing the literal and metaphorical waters of colonial expansion was Portugal. As Michael Hall writes, “The Portuguese, more concerned with profitable commercial activities elsewhere, took several decades to work out a successful formula for the colonization of Brazil” (34). Experienced with the intricacies of establishing cultural niches in Africa and India, Portugal finally appeared prepared at the dawn of the sixteenth century to develop a European colony in South America. Pedro Alvares Cabral’s landing upon the Brazilian coast introduced yet another string tying together South America and Europe. Portugal’s grip on the new land remained at all times slippery, but was threatening enough to provoke reaction from the native people. Initially, Indian resistance “through frequent escapes [from enslavement], sabotage, malingering, and theft” called for the importation of African slaves (Hall 35), introducing a third population into the hierarchical social mix. There occurred other forms of resistance, though, such as resistance against oppression within culture and the arts. Despite the imposition of architectural styles, European dress, etc., the cultural integrity of Brazilian tradition was maintained within parts of major art forms. The persistence of native culture allowed it to find its way into more European artistic styles and preferences, generating a blend of ideals and morals uncommon in a society without cultural integration. Another important outcome of this melding of two populations was a whole new set of people. Brazilians with both Portuguese and native ancestry were thrown into the already complex racial situation early on, and continued to be an area of conflict among those who sought to divide a hierarchy of race and class.

European feelings towards mulattoes were as mixed as these people’s racial heritage. The first glimpse they got of a mulatto man and a mameluca was the couple from Albert Eckhout’s paintings (Brienen 66). Brienen concludes that this couple is “placed at the top of this chain of being” within the Dutch painter’s works (67), judging by their clothing, other objects found within the painting, etc., but only because of their European qualities. Although the Portuguese appreciated some aspects of this hybrid population – women, for example, were valued by “European soldiers and colonists could select ‘acceptable’ wives and concubines” (Brienen 67) – they remained restricted by their race. “By the end of the eighteenth century, […] racial prejudice within the free population reinforced rigid hierarchies of power and wealth, and free backs and mulattoes suffered both legal disadvantages and widespread discrimination” (Hall 38).

For Antonio Francisco Lisboa, Brazilian architect and sculptor of mixed birth, this meant overcoming the architectural context of his hometown of Vila Rica. Much of the power of construction lay in the hands of the Irmandados, or brotherhoods, whose “membership was governed by ethnicity and/or occupation and divisions were strictly enforced” (Benton 147). The elitism that circulated around membership rules also directed their commissions; “even the less privileged brotherhoods commissioned expensive chapels, often using Portuguese-born architects” (148). Lisboa’s ability to overcome certain the obstacles of racial discrimination may well have had something to do with the legacy of his father, “white Portuguese carpinteiro (carpenter and builder)” (146).

Tim Benton rationalizes that Lisboa architectural education was passed down from his father, Manuel Francisco Lisboa, and his uncle, Antonio Francisco Pombal, both Portuguese emigrants from the early seventeen hundreds (149). At that time, the preferred style in Portugal was in the process of a drastic change, in an effort to catch up with the rest of Europe. The strict regularity and symmetry of the Renaissance was sacrificed for the dynamic flair, undulating curves, and elaborate detailing of the Baroque style. Theatrical qualities of light and space swept over new buildings, eventually making their way to Portugal just in time to be brought to the still relatively new colony of Brazil. The intricacies of European Baroque had not yet developed in South America developed at a decidedly different pace, with allowance for some native contribution, too. The architectural decisions made by Antonio Francisco Lisboa and his predecessors were largely influenced by this European trend; the Ouro Preto Church of Francis of Assisi is one example of how elements of the Baroque style – an ornamented, curved front, the elliptical plan, and gigantic order used to expand the building upwards – were utilized in the foreign land (Benton 160).

Despite this overwhelming influence of European tradition and his father’s craft, Lisboa’s style also had a certain degree of “Brazil-ness” that, though comparable to the then-emerging Rococo style in Europe, was considerably different and paid a certain homage to the other side of his heritage, as well as the additional attachment to his land of birth. Being the son of an African slave (147), it can be assumed that oppression and restriction played a certain degree on Lisboa’s early life. Benton barely touches on this side of the architect’s parentage, implying it had less an impact on his style than the influence of his father’s work, but combined with the overall relationship Portugal had with Brazil, Lisboa’s treatment of detail could be read as a rebellious reaction against both cases of repression. Going back to the Ouro Preto Church of Francis of Assisi, the treatment of the sculptural elements of the façade is nothing if not elaborate. The explosive opulence of detail on the façade is overwhelming in its stark contrast to the pure, solid walls that wrap around the building, projecting those ornaments into the open sea of white, a defying element breaking away from the usual Baroque décor, which, though elaborate, was significantly less intricate and complex in its asymmetries and freeform quality. According to Benton, “The light tonality, and free, asymmetrical ornamentation that flows around the main motifs defines this decoration as Rococo rather than Baroque” (163). The whimsical qualities of a style that “included swirling asymmetrical and fanciful motifs, […] light tonality, […] and a virtuous frothy sculptural quality” was certainly visually apparent in much of Lisboa’s work (155), but Benton points out that “no precedents [for this style] exist in Brazil” (155). Personal exploration of these sculptural elements as way to react to the social situation of Brazil’s past and present, while utilizing his aptitude for sculpting soapstone, may have been the reason for his development of this Rococo-like architecture.

In an attempt to conclude his analysis of Lisboa’s architectural influences, Benton introduces two possible hypotheses: Either “sophistication in Brazilian architecture could be measured in part by its openness to European influences, [or] the development of architectural styles in Minas Gerais was more self-sufficient” (165). It cannot be cleanly decided as to where one influence stopped and another began, but must be analyzed in way that reflects the very style of Lisboa’s architecture, that flowing, expressive comprehension of form. The Age of Discovery was not the Age of Understanding – the two cultures struggled and still struggle to understand each other now. The complexities of the relationship between Portugal and Brazil illuminate the differences between these two cultures, and the interweaving of the two can only generate something so intricate as the rationale behind one man’s architectural design. Only after probing all the possibilities can we begin to understand the idiosyncrasies of the geographic movement of artistic milestones and specific influences on the individual.

For 64-100, under Professor T. Chang.

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Spatial Definition of a 2x4:

Rugged individualism has existed in the American psyche long before the days of President Hoover – the United States was, after all, established to differentiate it from other nations. It would take more than a war and a few lofty documents to cleanly cut the cord between America and the rest of the world, though. Our culture and art mimicked European styles for decades, not directly replicating construction and building types, but copied with adaptations that were far from innovative. Without the skilled craftsmen to cut stone and fit joints for heavy timbers, Americans were at a loss in the architectural field. What they did have plenty of, though, was wood. At first, wood was only a replacement material. Augustine Taylor changed the nation’s perception of this abundant natural resource in 1833 with a very light, and very cheap, church in the relatively new city of Chicago.

With the help of a lot of nails, Taylor eliminated joints, mortised beams and fittings, using lighter timber, introducing the concept of 2x4s and 2x6s in stud framing to the general public. St. Mary’s Church held its own against the Windy City, despite master carpenters’ nickname for the style of building: “balloon construction.” As the idea caught on in other cities across the expanding nation, benefits of its minimal cost and time of construction were quickly realized. The logging and lumber industry soon began to regulate the production of 2x4s and other dimensional lumber, for economical purposes involving the transportation and sale of the wood. The impression this form of construction has had on the United States is enormous: most American homes today are still built with this method, and its use in commercial architecture continues to increase.

The process of creating a 2x4 begins with the felling of trees, removing limbs and cutting down with chain saws. After being transported to the mill, logs are stripped of their bark and cut down to a more manageable length with bucking saws, predetermined by the manufacturer. Bandsawing and resawing are necessary to cut pieces down to size before drying, or seasoning, the wood as a preventative measure against decay and shrinkage. Planers are used to cut the wood to its final dimension, and then are stamped according to grade and branded. Final trimming is often done after purchasing the 2x4, and the standard size becomes 7/4x15/4.

With growing attention towards energy conservation in the operation of households and other buildings, the energy it takes to actually build the structures also must be considered. The measurement of the energy it takes to create, assemble, install, and move materials – collectively referred to as embodied energy – allows architects, engineers, etc. to compare building materials. The total embodied energy for a standard 8’-long 2x4 is about 30,000 BTU’s (British Thermal Units) per pound. This is significantly higher than steel (19,200 BTU’s per pound) and concrete (10,300 BTU’s per pound), but much lower than the general classification for wood (91,618 BTU’s per pound).

Although there are many alternatives being developed in today’s modern age, wood remains a prominent element of our standard construction process. The 2x4 is an American tradition, withstanding technological advancements and environmental critics for nearly two centuries.

For 48-100, under Professors S. Drake & J. King and Coordinator G. Damiani.

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Senioritis:
A Diagnosis:

To a former teacher:

You recently inquired how one could possibly “stop the awful scourge of [S]enioritis” that has so mercilessly taken over your classes. I’m sorry to report that there is no cure for this plague of lethargy and unmotivated spirit. There is no way to “stop” it permanently (and by permanently, I mean for the entirety of the last three months of school, when the disease is running rampant through the halls of high schools everywhere).

There are, however, a few ways to treat the symptoms directly and increase quality of work in your students/patients. Six have been listed below, in no particular order, because I’m a doctor and honestly can’t be bothered finding the optimum sorting method for such things. I am very important! I have lives to save!

1) Offer them cookies. This is a failsafe method for making anyone between the ages of 3 and 93 do something they do not want to do (although the elderly should be monitored if they wear dentures). Warm cookies are especially effective.

2) Threaten to change their earlier marking period grades. They might not be concerned about one U, because mathematically, they could still average out the year with a B+, but with four Us, it becomes a little more complicated. (Note: Even if you cannot ACTUALLY do this, students won’t know if you are a good enough liar.)

3) Con and/or confuse an assignment out of them. Make them think that they are having fun when REALLY, they are learning. It’s pretty simple, actually. If you assign them something they’re already doing, they probably won’t stop it just because you assigned it. They can’t be bothered to change their routine.

4) Take them for a walk outside. Although it is possible to sleepwalk, it is difficult to do so on cue. And they’ll want to frolic in the sunlight like the happy little people they are – say they can, as soon as they write a poem about a dandelion.

5) If you are seeking to give your class “meaning” to your students, consider changing your subject. The grand (and grandiose) CollegeBoard-stamped title of AP Literature can only evoke a response on days preceding the actual exam. Post-test, take your class in a completely new direction. Mix it up. Skydiving Tuesdays, Forensic Science Thursdays, Ballroom Mondays, etc. Some could even address issues they will have to deal with next year: Cooking to Survive a Cold Winter in Ithaca, How to do Laundry Without Turning Things Pink, What Not to Put Up Your Roommate’s Nose are some suggested mini-courses.

6) Throw thick, hardcover books at them. If they do not fall over, you didn’t throw it hard enough. Practice on squirrels that eat from your birdfeeder.

I hope that helped a bit. Be careful not to get sued for any of those. Parents can be cruel.

Best of luck,

Doctor of Nothinginparticular

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A Failed Revolution:

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age.

Yes, Virginia, the coexistence of cyclists and drivers does exist, and can be achieved by a large, public high school in central New Jersey.

Regarding the events of Wednesday, April 30: There is little to be said that has not yet been exhausted by printed publications, online medium, radio talk shows, and casual hallway conversation among students / faculty / parents. Five seniors did their research, spread the word as much as they could for a week or so, and hoped they wouldn't be the only people with helmet-hair come Wednesday morning.

They took a chance, and were greeted by a respectably large gathering for the peaceful protest against the administration's lack of open-mindedness concerning the prospective installation of bike racks at BR.

Despite, it would seem that many people, the press included, missed the point.

Having seen some effects of our abuse on the environment already, and having used advanced technologies to predict what might happen in the near future (polar bears swimming around with nothing to grab onto? sad!), we're getting worried. Pollution, global warming, the works – a strain on the earth means a strain (and not just economically) for its population. We recognize this; we try to cover it with a band-aid.

Green is the new black (according to some Vitamin Water bottles, which we all know is a source more valuable than Wikipedia). Green is cool, a trend that, like all trends, will thrive for a while before ultimately crashing into the background with a slim chance for reincarnation (skinny jeans, anyone?).

Or will it become more than a fad? Has it already? Have our fears evolved into a force great enough to change our lifestyle permanently?

Maybe the problem is – to quote the great Kermit the Frog – "It's not easy bein' green." At this point, we've become so caught up in this one-way (and automobile-congested) street that we've failed to notice the crumbling notions of what we thought was the American dream.

"The auto-dependent transportation system in the United States is heading for a crash with the reality of limits," says Bill Wilkinson, executive director of the Bicycle Federation of America and New Jersey native. "We are close to the limits of available space, available resources, highway capacity for motor vehicles […], and the carrying capacity of our ecosystems."

Whether or not we can see it, we're maxing out. We need to find a long-term solution, stop treating the symptoms.

Gurdon S. Leete remarked, "It is curious that with the advent of the automobile and the airplane, the bicycle is still with us. Perhaps people like the world they can see from a bike, or the air they breathe when they're out on a bike."

There was a time, we might recall, when we did not have such a destructive impact on the world around us. Prehistoric, probably, when there was little to distinguish between us and our fur-covered cousins. The one thing dividing us was imagination, the ability to fathom something unreal, something not there, a feeling or fleeting emotion, a desire to create. And to change.

There was a time, we imagine, when we did not destroy our environment because we could not. We could only dream.

It may not be in human nature to destroy, necessarily, but it is in human nature to survive (and to the highest possible standards of living?). However, until this point in the timeline of humanity, these things have gone hand-in-hand. We have destroyed not for the sake of destruction, but to live and live well.

So is this the world Leete mentions, this world we can only see perched on the seat of a bike?

The self-proclaimed "Bicycling Bandits" (Kat Dransfield, Adam Ginsberg, JP Hennessey, Talia Perry, Michelle Slosberg) composed a letter to Dr. Roccobono and presented it on the day of the incident. The opening paragraph of this letter addresses the environmental element of the ride's purpose:

"This year the Bridgewater-Raritan School District has taken admirable steps towards creating a greener community. Along with becoming an EnergyStar partner with the goal to reduce energy costs by 10%, we have hired an energy consultant and created several new environmental initiatives. The high school's new recycling program, which is mostly student run, is more effective than ever before. Students and faculty have also cooperated in efforts to turn off lights and computers when not in use. Interest in living sustainably has grown admirably and is demonstrated by a variety of clubs such as the Environmental Club, Recycling Club, Greenpeace Club, and many community service groups in addition to extensive enrollment in environmental science classes."

Although BRHS has taken many steps towards becoming a more environmentally stable school, we also take steps backwards on a daily basis by driving gas-guzling cars, leaving computer monitors on, forgetting to flip off the lights, etc. Either you're in, or you're out; this is one of those bothersome all-or-nothing situations that make politicians dance in their seats.

But why the bike? Stuart S. Wilson writes in Scientific American:

"When one compares the energy consumed in moving a certain distance as a function of body weight for a variety of animals and machines, one finds that an unaided walking man does fairly well (consuming about .75 calorie per gram per kilometer), but he is not as efficient as a horse, a salmon, or a jet transport. With the aid of a bicycle, however, the man's energy consumption for a given distance is reduced to about a fifth (roughly .15 calorie per gram per kilometer). Therefore, apart from increasing his unaided speed by a factor of three or four, the cyclist improves his efficiency rating to No. 1 among moving creatures and machines."

Number one is a pretty strong claim, but even the most efficient of things is only as efficient as it is used.

Similar to the environmental issues as a whole, bicycling and the relationship between cyclists and motorists is dependent on what everyone does, not just a handful of people. In an Argus-Courier online poll for the Petaluma School District (September 2007), one parent, when asked whether or not these children should be allowed to ride or walk to school, responded, "Everyone needs to break the cycle. Less traffic makes it easier to walk and bike, justifies expenditures on additional bike and pedestrian facilities, creates more awareness of pedestrians and bicyclists in the right-of-way, and creates a more livable city for all of us!"

The "just keep spinning" mentality corresponds with the nature of cycling, of course, but can be applied to the movement itself, too. It's all about momentum. You stop cranking and you fall sideways.

Let's aim high, for a minute.

The most bicycle-friendly city in the world (according to numerous creditable sources) is Amsterdam in the Netherlands. The compact nature of the city's narrow streets don't offer much for the driver of the smallest car, but bicycles and pedestrians can maneuver comfortably. The geography of the city – relatively flat – is another contributing factor.

Obviously, we can't start from scratch when it comes to planning the city of Bridgewater and surrounding areas. We can't tear up the vital veins and arteries mindlessly and start anew without complete chaos ensuing. We can't level the earth to make the goings easier for pedal-powered vehicles.

So what can we do? One of the real reasons Amsterdam works as a bike-easy metropolis is that forty percent of the traffic consists of cyclists. With such a high cyclist to motorist ratio, the environment is automatically safer for cyclists. Drivers are more aware of their presence and act accordingly. Bikers are less likely to panic and make a bad decision when encountering a car six times their size.

Getting unnecessary motor vehicles off the road and cyclists on the road is something we can do, something not overambitious (forty percent is a little high as a preliminary goal). Students, specifically, are an easy group to target. According the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety, the highest risk of motor vehicle crashes comes from sixteen- to nineteen-year-old drivers; this age range is four times more likely to initiate a crash than older drivers. Accidents occur in the senior parking lot at least once a week, as minor as they may seem.

Safety is a major concern not just because the school administration cares for our well-being, but for legal reasons, too. If someone was injured on or near school property while riding their bike, who's to blame? In a letter to Dr. Schilder and the Board of Education, the BR Student Cyclists (group formed after the initial Bike to School Day) addresses the issue of liability:

"The current policy of Bridgewater-Raritan High School endorses driving to school by its recent expansion of the Senior Parking Lot for the 2007-2008 school year. This parking lot is host to numerous traffic accidents on a weekly basis. There have also been countless accidents throughout the year that students faced on their way to and from school. These numerous mishaps on the road are dangerous to the student drivers. The high school administration is not responsible for student driving accidents that occur to and from school, as well as those that happen on school property. This policy could easily translate to bicyclers as well, should bike racks be installed on school property. The presence of bike racks would therefore help to minimize the risk student drivers pose to themselves and everyone else on the road."

A major cause for accidents involving cyclists is lack of education about the rules of the road (right-of-way, placement of the cyclist, turning signals, etc.). The public has gotten used to roads without cyclists and will need to be reminded how to interact. Legally, a person on a bike has the same rights as one in a car. However, laws can be confusing and sometimes contradictory (i.e. the "stay as far as possible to the right" rule). By reeducating before reintroducing the cyclist to these suburban roads, crashes and other scuffs (and animosity between cyclists and motorists) can be minimized.

Motorist-cyclist collisions are not unknown to Kat Dransfield, senior and biking advocate:

"In August of 2006 I was hit by a car while riding my bicycle. The car's projected speed was 35 miles per hour when I made contact with the vehicle, at which time I was thrown up onto the hood of the car, then thrown off onto the pavement until I skidded to a stop approximately 15 feet away from the site of the initial impact. Bridgewater police speculated that the reason I was not killed or seriously injured was because I was athletic enough to stiffen my body up prior to the collision with the vehicle. Regardless of how lucky I was to sustain only minor injuries, the accident was enough to teach me and the drivers involved a valuable lesson. The accident was completely preventable; had the drivers and I been informed about how to safely co-occupy the road, the incident would likely have not occurred. This personal experience has been my primary motivation for my advocating for a cooperative, practical, and safe approach to alternative transportation."

In his article, "Nonmotorized Transportation: The Forgotten Modes", Wilkinson outlines the major potential problems for moving something from one place to another minus a car: bulky transport (sheer size or inconvenient shape of whatever needs to be moved), lack of flexibility of time, long distances (problems increase when combining this with the preceding issue), sprawl (poor arrangement of highway construction and urban planning), and limitations presented by your alternate mode of transportation.

How does this affect the students of Bridgewater-Raritan?

In their second letter to the administration, the Environmental Club wrote:

"Students in these groups and many others have expressed interest in riding their bicycles to school as a convenient, inexpensive, healthy, and environmentally friendly mode of transportation. A large portion of students live close enough to school to bike and hundreds have expressed interest. Unfortunately, though, the high school currently has no bicycle racks and students who ride to school have no safe place to lock their bikes. To provide for the needs of bicyclists, the Environmental Club offered to donate bike racks to the school but was refused on the grounds that bicycling is potentially dangerous and by accepting the gift, the district would be condoning bicycling and be liable if students got in accidents. The school condones seniors driving to school by having a senior parking lot, yet the school is not liable for any automobile accidents. Legally a bike is a vehicle and is subject to the same traffic laws as a car; therefore since the administration is not liable for automobile accidents it likewise cannot be responsible for accidents caused by cycling. If necessary, students could sign a biking contract that would include clauses such as wearing a helmet and arriving at school before 7AM, when heavy traffic begins."

Ride Your Bike To School Day 2008 (perhaps the first of many? or maybe there will be a day in the not so distant future when this day seems as irrelevant or redundant as Drive Your Car Or Take A Bus To School Day) may not have resulted in the installment of bike racks, the original goal. However, it was a success in that it spread awareness about the environment and the safety issues of biking to school. Despite what some people have said, the idea of this peaceful protest was not to show how many people will potentially ride to school, nor was it to serve as a rebellious senior prank. It was to prove that people are interested in changing their environment, that people are willing to sacrifice the easier route (taking a car) to ride their bikes, that people can learn the rules of the road and safely transport themselves, that this solution could, with a little tweaking, work.

BR Student Cyclists are currently working with other administrative departments in the area to address the concerns that have arisen from this event (i.e. increasing safety of alternative transportation).

No biking?! Thank god - people will ride and ride forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, bikes will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

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Shakespeare was a Natural:
Tracking the Motif of Nature in King Lear:

The incomplete essay and lovable cartoons can be found here.

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Another Man Who Knew Too Much:
Oedipus and Knowledge

Learned, divine, or innate, the theme of knowledge saturates the classic tragedy of Oedipus with a deeper sense of humanity. The contrast between those who have knowledge to give and those who have knowledge to gain provokes a power struggle within the confines of this quest for truth. The magnitude of the power it generates, of the power required to control it, the seriousness of its total altering effects, outshine the role of even the gods in this story. For power or for truth, the struggle itself evokes change. As a driving element in Sophocles's drama "Oedipus the King" and the original Greek legend, knowledge manipulates characters as well as the audience.

In the Prologue of Sophocles's play, Creon quotes Apollo: "'Seek and you shall find. / Only that escapes which never was pursued." (9). This message from the gods begins the story with an overwhelming sense of larger-than-life responsibility to uncover knowledge, to look and discover for yourself whatever greater meaning of life there is. Not long after hearing Creon, Oedipus takes up the quest as if he is personally offended by his city's deterioration. "I am resolute, and shall not stop / till with Apollo's help all blessed we emerge, / or else we are lost – beyond all purge" (11). His self-proclaimed heroism and unwavering faith in himself, his increasingly apparent hubris, is not only ironic, but also contributes to the unlikely fast-paced epic that unravels, for Oedipus, all too soon.

It is not enough to say that the story of Oedipus deals with the search for knowledge – struggle for knowledge would be a more fitting phrase. The title character begins a journey, ultimately self-destructive, for the very sake of knowledge. Although he faces many challenges and becomes involved in other conflicts, the struggle is internal. He later exclaims to Jocasta, mother and wife, torn between the need to know and foreseeing his own regret, "Persuaded from truth? Pursuing it? I must" (III 59). It would seem that he has no choice in the matter. As Oedipus furiously digs for the truth, he uncovers more of himself in the process. That which he finds is horrifying: his origins, the foretold events already beginning to unravel. The most painful discovery he makes is the truth about truth, the struggle to know or to not know.

The first of Oedipus's two self-imposed exiles is from his home in Corinth. These leads to the death of Laius and the victory over the Sphinx. Although this quick succession of events is hardly mentioned explicitly in Sophocles's "Oedipus the King," both are vital to the plot and are alluded to frequently. At the peak of his anger with Tiresias, Oedipus cries:

"Or why when the bitch-dog Sphinx of riddles sang,
you never spoke a thing to break the spell?
And yet her riddle called for insight trained—
no traveler's guess—
which you plainly showed you did not have
either from theology or birds.
But I, the Oedipus who stumbled here without a hint,
could snuff her out by human wit,
not taking cues from birds." (I 23)

Oedipus's rant not only questions Tiresias's role as seer – an insult, to say the least – but emphasizes the king's qualities of leadership and wit. He feels as though he has proven himself innocent by proving his knowledge, all through solving the creature's riddle. However, he sees through Tiresias's much less complex riddles, and is unable to put together his story and the blind man's prophetic statements. In this scene, knowledge is emphasized through its differences from similar traits one might posses: wit and intelligence are not equivalents.

Through the dialogue exchanged between Oedipus and Tiresias, the audience of Sophocles's drama is also exposed to the tension that the imbalance in power that knowledge creates. Earlier, in the First Episode, Oedipus questions the Chorus: "Does any man among you know / who killed Laius son of Labdacus? / Such a one I now command / to tell me everything" (14). He goes on to threaten and plead with them, until the Chorus admits to knowing naught of the murderer. While in the similar situation with Tiresias, Oedipus questions the man's loyalty when faced with a reticent interrogatee, to which Tiresias replies, "Ah, fair speech! If yours were only so / I should not shy away" (18). The status quo is tipped slightly in the blind man's favor at this point; he has knowledge that Oedipus thinks he wants more than anything. Oedipus's control over the situation slips because he has no new information to contribute; he must remain passive and wait for others to come forward and share with him their own knowledge. His personality does not allow this, of course, resulting the forced extraction of knowledge, commonly through threats or softened pride.

One of Oedipus's major faults is his failure to recognize his own identity. He is confident in his choices, that he is right, that he knows who he is. In fact, he is blind to the truth, thus blind to himself. As Jocasta recounts the details of her late husband's death, Oedipus, too, revisits his memories. Questioning himself now, Oedipus remembers the possibly first time he doubted his parentage: "At dinner once, / a drunkard in his cups bawled out, / 'Aha! You're not your father's son'" (II 44). Here, he is shown, or rather told, who he is not, but until all is revealed to him at the end of the play, he cannot be sure who, in fact, he is.

Apollo, God of Truth, is the most influential deity in the lives of Theban royalty. Two attempts are made to nullify the prophecy, one by Laius and one by his son. Although Laius dies unknowing the irony of his own death, Oedipus and the audience discover that in this case, knowledge does not in any way aid in the escape of fate. Through the priestess at Delphi, Oedipus discovers "that I / would come to couple with my mother, and with these very hands of mine / spill out the life-blood of my father" (III 53). He literally runs away, but foresight of the events does not in any way hinder their progression. The second self-exile follows Oedipus's revelation:

"Lost! Ah lost! At last it's blazing clear.
Light of my days, go dark. I want to gaze no more.
My birth all sprung revealed from those it never should,
Myself entwined with those I never could.
And I the killer of those I never would." (IV 67)

In an impossible biblical allusion to Adam and paradise, it is knowledge that forces Oedipus from his blissful kingdom. The knowledge that had been forbidden to Oedipus / Adam, once exposed, leaves him vulnerable to truths previously unseen.

The human struggle for knowledge creates a multitude of problems for Oedipus, not only because it drives him to discover the unfortunate truths of his past, but also because it affects how he stands in the future, not to mention his children's lives. The inseparability of knowledge and power plays an important role in character development, as well as plot sequence. The duel nature of the struggle itself – the wait for self-discovery and the wait for the peripetia – creates complexities too difficult for the ill-fated Oedipus to deal with. His only solution is to plunge himself into a world of darkness: "Go dark for all time blind / to what you never should have seen, and blind / to the love this heart has cried to see" (epilogue 70).

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Making Traditions:

International exchange programs are educational, memorable, and fun! Parents receive pages upon pages of propaganda summarizing the many historically, culturally significant places their children are guaranteed to see. The students are fed stories by friends of past exchanges and dream up exploits of their own.

Of course, by the final bus ride to the airport, there looms a Vegas-like motto that haunts impending months upon the American students' return: what happens in a foreign country stays the foreign country.

Despite exhausting schedules, occasionally boring tour guides, and that thing that might have happened that no one is ever going to talk about, these students want to go back. They would sooner ask for a plane ticket than an iPhone this holiday season. Their millions of memories and photographs are far from satisfactory by comparison.

You had to be there, they say. They refuse to talk about it further, fearing their words will fail to do it justice.

It was amazing, they say. Glances are exchanged in hallways, nods and smiles and waves, but words are limited and cryptic. What is this mystic quality about being in another country that inspires such unusual behavior?

At only a few decades more than two hundred years old, America is a baby of a country. If you were to place its biography alongside that of, say, a middle-aged European nation, it would be like comparing a novella to something by Tolstoy.

Huzzah democracy! Huzzah separation of church and state! independence! freedom of the press (this is a newspaper, after all)! But what about culture? art? history? Have we become, or were we in the beginning, such a mixing pot of people and ideas that we have little to call our own?

Is this what our students find while on the other side of the ocean? A taste of culture, of art, of history more than a few hundred years old?

On October 26, a handful of BR students, decked out in tie-dye shirts and giddy with anticipation, said goodbye to the States. There were no regrets, despite numerous phone calls at the gate reassuring parents that yes, they would remember to wear seatbelts and no, they would not do anything "stupid," whatever that meant. Why would they have regrets? They were on their way to England.

Escorted by the BR teachers affectionately known to those on the exchange as Ro-dog, Grandmaster P, and K Mac, the small group of juniors and seniors arrived in Heathrow airport the next morning. Another three hours or so and they were greeted by their British partners. Hugs and handshakes, and everyone went their separate ways.

Less than two weeks later, they would be going through the same motions, but in reverse, and in what seemed like slow motion. It should also be noted that there were a lot less handshakes this time around, more hugs and more tears. The sky itself opened up and rained for the first time since they had left Bridgewater; it was a sign, perhaps, that England was mourning the loss of twenty-two American students.

What can be said of what happened in between that short period of time? Education happened. Enlightenment happened. Parties happened. Disagreements happened. Friendships happened. Cambridge, Kimbolton, Ely, Oxford, London, and places in between happened.

Stories became jumbled with characters like Edward Montague and Helen Keller and Henry V; words like pants and jelly and punting took on a whole new meaning; driving on the other side of the road became gradually less terrifying.

Opposites attract – a two-word cliché that says so much.

Male BR students were outnumbered three to nineteen while the Kimbolton students were an even eleven-eleven split, resulting in many girl-guy exchange pairs. Senior Jordan H. wondered aloud on the drive from Heathrow about how she should greet her partner, Max: "Am I suppose to hug him?" Awkwardness dissolved quickly by the end of the first weekend.

Among the many bonding moments planned for the students, one of the most memorable was the sports competition. Basketball was a brutal American victory. Football / soccer was a close two-to-one game. The outcome of the tie-breaker was yet another American win. Thus, the Americans took the Davies Cup, so named after the coordinators of many events of the exchange. It may not have been as grand as the ITF's Davis Cup, which professional athletes, but also Americans, went on to win a month or so later, but is certainly worth mentioning as a memorable, albeit sweaty and embarrassing, time together.

Of the sports competition between the students, senior Zack B. said, "It seems as though the British are not very familiar with basketball. Having said that, the Americans beat them down – rightfully so, seeing as it was developed in America. Naturally, when it came to soccer, or 'football' as they liked to call it, the favored English dominated."

The relationships that developed between exchange partners are expected to be strong, as BR students lived with the same families for two weeks and spent a lot of time alone together. Sammy D., senior, said, "I found my twin across the pond. I never thought at the beginning of the exchange that I could become best friends with someone thousands of miles away, but my partner Maddie and I are the same goofy person, and without this exchange, I would have missed out on a life long friend. I'm already counting down the days until they come in March!"

Besides the relationships forged across the Atlantic, other distinct elements contributed to the awe-inspiring moments that remain indescribable and beyond words.

For some, it was the history. Talia P., senior at BR and prospective student of architecture, said, "It was amazing to see all of the art and architecture England had to offer. Buildings were centuries old and each brick seemed to contain more history than a whole American city. Restoration takes on a whole different meaning."

Whatever it was, they miss it. Senior Jacob Y., after his first day back at BRHS, said, "Augh! I went to school at 7:20 this morning; I had to put my bag in an actual locker; there was no assembly; I didn't go to Buttercups; my Environmental Science class had twenty-eight people in it; I didn't go to my school's non-existent common room; and I had nine periods. That's it. How much do Virgin flights cost? Like $650?"

Many Brits have adopted an AOL screenname and many more Yanks have learned to work with MSN messenger. Facebook has been another saving grace for the American-English alliance. Long-distance telephone calls have appeared on more than a few bills this month.

The countdown for the arrival of the English in late March continues.

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Unconventional Advice for High School Seniors:

"Be different," they tell us. "How?!" I want to scream in reply. How can I possibly stick out when there are so many places to fit in? I glance wearily at the heap of college applications flooding my doorway. The same exact application sits in thousands of other bedrooms, is strewn across thousands of other kitchen tables, lies under piles of brochures and booklets that will never be touched. How can I turn my overprinted copy into an original? How can I become more than a number? How can I squeeze my three-dimensional self down to two-dimensional size without loosing my individuality?

After failing miserably to produce any sort of essay worthy of submission, I have concluded that colleges know perfectly well that you haven’t found yourself yet – they just enjoy watching you suffer as you struggle to define yourself to a random stranger in a suit.

Okay, maybe not. Maybe I’m just so frustrated, so stressed about something that really should matter that much but does because someone once told me that it should, that I’ve forgotten how to enjoy writing in that rambling, incoherent manner that use to irritate my English teachers so often.

Like that! It is incredibly exhilarating to write run-on sentences and fragments and not care. Call me a nerd, call me pretentious, but I’m smiling. Ha.

Because I can bend language, squish it like warm bread, stretch it out until it becomes a deformed Slinky, I am not a number on a page. I am not a test score. I am not a grade. I am a thinking, breathing being. This amazes me.

Today, when it is so easy to read what others have to say, to see if you are right before you even venture a guess, we don’t take the time to form any original thought. We’re always craning our necks at our neighbors’ homework problems to see if number seven was cosine-pi-theta, always erasing vigorously when we see that it isn’t. We’re always checking SparkNotes to see what the symbols are before we even get through the first chapter on our own. But there is hope. Is it possible to pour out your heart and soul in 200 words? Maybe. Do you need to? Is it really necessary to try so hard to be different when you only stumble upon new samenesses?

What can I say that will clearly express what I’m trying to say? Being different isn’t nearly as important as being. Just being. Live a little. Sing along with Jim Sturgess, despite the angry bald man chucking pop corn at your and telling you to sit down. I’m not condoning misconduct in your local movie theater, but it’s your prerogative if you want to dance in the aisle.

So don’t sit down when you’re trying to think of what to write. Don’t scrunch the wrinkle lines on your forehead together, press your delete key so many times that it becomes depressed in the middle, or stare at the white screen until your eyes are dry. Get up. Go for a jog. Help an old lady cross the street – it isn’t a nationally recognized charity that you can put on your application, but there may be cookies in the deal for you. Watch people coming and going from a coffee shop, and wonder aloud if they could last ten years on a sitcom. Bungee jump, or tell people you did when you really spent the afternoon whale watching. Reorganize your sock drawer. Just get away from your computer before it sucks you in and turns you into a zombie. Experience something. Without experience, without mistake, yours will be an awfully boring essay. And an awfully boring life. This may not make you stand out, but it is sure to make you different.

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Yes Man:

The AP English Language Final Part II was a creative writing assignment relating to one of the pieces of literature we read that year. If you recently read Macbeth, you should get the gist of it. I have a thing for minor characters. It ends sort of abruptly, but there was a limit on length.

Fear not, Earl of Ross, that I have dismissed your service to Scotland at Birnam Woods – nor has my memory lapsed in regard to your loyalty thereafter. I must ask you, however, to assist your country yet again, although I confess that much less can be lost by your attempt now than was at risk then. Chance has been kind; you are to pass through Ireland next month, and I am in need of a questrist. Donalbain hath not gazed upon the high hills of Scotland since the dawn of a tyrant's rule. I suspect, and fear, that my sibling has perished in one of Ireland's frequent conflicts. It would aid my search immeasurably if you were to make inquiries on my behalf along your travels. Anticipation of his swift return to his home, hope that he has found sanctuary on the island, keeps my young brother alive in my thoughts. As great Scotland begins to mend her wounds of wars past, I find the time adequate as any other to restore brotherhood and to hence commence peace for all. Upon my brother's discovery, express my deepest joys, and to Scotland, send him immediately.

Donalbain

An eerie calm swept across the thin forest as Ross stepped cautiously into the woods. The moon, well on its way across the sky, was pregnant with yellow light; the gentleman saw no reason to bring a torch. He had become accustomed to the darkness on previous midnight rendezvous, and the moonlight was sufficient to avoid low branches. Ross wandered around until he came to a clearing, and a small stream. Patient for his anticipated meeting, he smiled and watched the stars flicker like schools of fish over the pebbles beneath the surface.

Fleance saw the thane, but remained crouched besides the pine tree. As his left hand sifted through the cold, damp soil, his right tightly grasped his dagger. It was not so much that he did not find Ross trustworthy – the man could fool a priest, and Fleance was sure Ross had successfully foiled everyone by fooling everyone, himself included. It was this place, this awful place, that made him want to be someone else, somewhere else. Likely, Fleance suspected, nothing would ever change here. It would be forever untouched by man, the only exception being the dark stain of royal blood, of his father's blood, unseen by everyone but the little boy who had gotten away.

As Ross watched the insects trace new constellations across the stream's surface, he became increasingly aware of another movement, directly behind him. Taking a pause in his breath, he turned his head carefully, slightly to the left and, unblinking, allowed his eyes to follow the path. What he saw almost made him laugh out loud, or at least sigh in relief: an angry teenage boy, tall and unsuccessfully trying to hide himself behind a tree, playing in the dirt. Throwing his own dagger down at Fleance's feet, he gleefully whispered, "Arte thou finished making mud pies?"

Taken by surprise, Fleance would have doubled over had the sturdy trunk not saved him from this embarrassment. Instead, he jumped up, brushed himself off, and handed Ross the dagger. "I was waiting. I had seen you, and I was only waiting."

Ross smirked and replied, "Enough of this. Let us walk."

Despite the fact that this forest was out of the way and, Ross thought, full of spies or common criminals, it was the only setting that would allow him to manipulate the young man prophesized to become king. He had not heard the witches' words himself, but Macbeth had poured out his soul to him and he was sure that Fleance must have a similar interpretation of the prediction. As they walked, Ross quietly told Fleance of the letters that had passed between the brothers, and that neither was pleased with the other. Donalbain was upset that his brother had been so greatly influenced by their cousins in England that he was now changing customs and doing away with traditions. Malcolm was near tears after reading his younger brother's letter, and shocked that he had not come back to Scotland immediately. Oh no, he did not blame Ross for his brother's offensive tone, for how could his trusted earl and messenger have prevented it?

"The seat is very unsteady now, because the elder brother is incompetent at make rational decisions. They say that the horses—"

"Yes, the horses and the owl and the dark clouds…Save your elaborate descriptions of a kingdom in chaos for some newer acquaintance. I have heard it before."

"Can you not see it? Will you not grasp the crown that sits before you? Many years ago, in this very spot, I spared your life. Your father—"

"This, too, I have heard before. I need not be reminded of my father's murder."

The thane remained silent for a while as they walked. A deep sigh filled the air around them, letting him know the boy was growing tired, and therefore more willing to compromise. He unveiled his plot, carefully, mentioning the deceased Banquo when appropriate. He proposed they travel to Ireland, separately, of course, in order to find the necessary army to back Donalbain's ascension. Donalbain himself would be easily convinced; he would not forget that his brother had not chosen him as heir to the Scottish throne. Though he cared deeply for Ireland, he felt it was his obligation to restore Scotland to its original state, a return to normalcy, if you will. Ross, an actor at heart, knew that what this tragedy's sequel lacked was a scene that forced man against man, and act of revenge.

After hours of debating with the young man, Ross proposed this happy ending to him, promising that Malcolm's sons would not let Donalbain sit on the throne for more than a few years before they could raise up their own rebellion and restore the crown that they believed to be rightfully theirs. Fleance could not lose; supernatural forces were behind him. The sun began to rise lazily above the hill and the two men walked their separate ways, though they were headed in the same direction.

Ross splashed the stream's cool water over his face. He buttoned up the coat not his own, and looked around. The setting was familiar after the third time, but it smelled rankly of death. There was little blood spilled, but no bodies to be seen. Ross shook his head as he waited at the edge of the clearing. Nothing, it seemed, worked smoothly for him anymore. He had served many kings, had maintained his vast estate and helped others rise far above him. He had conned, manipulated, and deceived, all while playing the yes man to whoever the king happened to be. What was it, he wondered, that made him give up his good life for one of murder and lies? Fleance had escaped again, unintentionally this time, and Malcolm's son had chosen to torture his uncle, rather than kill him outright. Even Ross could not imagine what horrors lay in store for Donalbain, who was being transported further south.

"Your highness, Lady Donalbain requests your presence before the banquet," a scrawny servant quipped. Ross coolly turned over his shoulder.

"Yes. I'm sure she does. I am, after all, her husband."

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Theories on Modern Art Not Yet Discarded:

"The aim of an artist is not to solve a problem irrefutably, but to make people love life in all its countless, inexhaustible manifestations. If I were told that I could write a novel whereby I might irrefutably establish what seemed to me the correct point of view on all social problems, I would not even devote two hours to such a novel; but if I were to be told that what I should write would be read in twenty years’ time by those by who are now children and that they would laugh and cry over it, and love life, I would devote all my own life and all my energies to it.” Tolstoy's quote gives us a glimpse into the eyes of a twentieth century artist. It is irrelevant that he is a Russian novelist from the 1800s and that he quite possibly never picked up a paintbrush in his life.

As we take a peek at the art from the 1900s to the present, we see a few themes ripple around the world. To the artists of Asia, Oceania, and Africa that stayed put in their native lands (as in, they didn't travel the globe and experience other trends in art), their works did not make too many drastic changes. This tends to happen when political situations do not change, economic situations do not change, and military situations do not change. When a region gets stuck in time, it usually gets stuck all around, including the arts.

As we near the Americas and Europe, however, some new ideas about art start to pop up as new technology and ideas are introduced. Artists all over Europe were experiencing art, not just creating it; Picasso, Braque, Orpen, Spilliaert, Boccioni, Kandinsky, Gris, Brancusi, Moor, Sottsass, Kirkeby, Miro, Dubuffet, Miró, Matisse, Blance, the list just goes on forever. And Europe was in shambles. Two disastrous wars took their toll on the people and their tradition-ridden culture. Though so many lost their lives, wars and rebellion helped shape a "new" Europe. Still with deep ties to old-fashioned ideas, artists found new ways of looking at what had been there the whole time, and their own way of representing the new technologies that had shot all over the western world.

Similarly, the Americas had their own ups and downs. In South America, heritage was just as important as revolutionary ideas. Unlike the previous century, political situations were not as, well, crazy, and there were less imperialistic impressions left upon the people. Even in the highly modernistic paintings and sculptures, there is almost always a link to the past. Artists like Milhazes, Botero, and Marisol Escobar worked with a palette of culture, expression, and life. Central America had a similar situation, and poverty was an issue for many citizens. These countries were represented by artists such as Zayas, Tamayo, and Catlett. Again, tradition continued to play an important role in their representations.

America always manages to cram a lot into a short period of time. In this last century, we've had the Progressive Era (conserving our nation), WWI (wetting our feet in Europe's entanglements), the "Roaring" Twenties (when everyone got rich, got drunk, and got down), the Great Depression (when everyone got poor, got more drunk, and lived off of soup), WWII (with even more new technology), the Groovy Sixties, Vietnam, and all of the crazy things that have gone on in the last twenty years that's just too recent to "look back" on. Highs or lows, art oozed through America's pores. There was art of all kinds: patriotic, technologically friendly, inspirational, pop culture, frenzied, natural, freeze-frame, the list continues. For a while after the first World War, the United States closed itself off from the rest of the world via Immigration Acts and the Americanization of everything that touched our shores. We began to become more of a world economic and political power, and from there, developed our impression on the art market. While Paris had been the original "hot spot" for modern art, New York City started to share in this spotlight. America had moved to the cities at the end of the 1800s, and was there to stay. With the invention of the car and radio, America was unified and freer at the same time. With the freedom to explore, Americans saw more, understood more, and created more. Artists embraced organic and geometric abstraction, and even Europeans began to turn their heads our way.

Politics got hot somewhere around the sixties, and visual images were more accessible. Between televisions and computers, people could see everything from everywhere at any time they chose. The click of a mouse, the tap of a key, and Donatello's Birth of Venus can be on your screen. In a few years, I'm sure they'll figure out a way to make a hologram of Kouros Boy in your living room. Until they do, we'll have to deal with 2D pictures.

But anyway, my point is that we see SO MUCH on a day to day basis, our lives are moving SO FAST, that most people of today can't look at a realistic painting and appreciate it beyond "wow, that must have taken a long time to do" or better yet "I wonder how much that costs." That's one reason why modern artists feel the need to do something different. They need to stand out. We all do. There are too many people in this world, and everyone wants to either stand out or be accepted. Artists, for the most part, care less about being accepted. A good artist is one who creates for his or herself. A great artist is one who creates for his or herself and yet can provoke discussion between two people who would otherwise had never taken the time of day to exchange a glance.

Regardless of when or where or why or how, artists were and continue to create. Many people don't give modern art any credit for, well, anything. I've got to admit, I can sometimes consider myself to be one of those people. Sometimes, I think, wow, I could makes something better. Or I wonder what the hell it means.

This is key. I wonder what it means. Everyone wonders what it means. That's my theory for why they have so many benches and so much open space in the modern art exhibits. It's to encourage you to sit down and think, to look at it from a different angle. Sometimes, you look for it too long, and it turns out to be like a "Where's Waldo" without the Waldo. You get frustrated and you move on. But sometimes, you can just catch it, out of the corner of your eye, and say "wow" again, this time in an under-your-breath, epiphany sort of way. Who really cares if it's just a toaster on a stand to the next person who walks past? If it matters to you, it matters to you. Now, the thing I'm more concerned about is how we'll look at these pieces in twenty years…two hundred years. Will we laugh and cry over it? Will it makes us love life? Will we know that the artist who created it poured out his life and energies into it? Or will we forget

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