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On a short walk in my neighborhood this morning, I must have passed hundreds of poles: Light poles, utility poles, sign poles.
They do their jobs of holding up stuff but I noticed that they can do a lot more.
Here in just a few blocks, some upgrades:
This Stop sign pole is across from a yarn store.
Light pole as soap box.
This memorial pole shows up on my corner every year around this time.
It is for young Emily Dunn, hit by a bus at this intersection.
I’ve posted about it before: ad hoc monuments
These pole dancers are in a series of guerrilla pieces in the neighborhood. Bravo, somebody!
You can tell a lot about a city by its layout. The arrangement of streets tells the history of a place. If you look closely, you can see the story of slow growth from cramped forts to booming modern cities. Or the evidence of evolution from farmland or prairie to grid.
There are the medieval European cities with their high walls and twisty narrow streets. You can tell they grew organically, the buildings huddled together, defended by the ramparts. They were designed by fear.
It would be even more so if the post Earthquake plan by Daniel Burnham had been adopted: San Francisco’s layout ignores the hills and even water.The heart of the Financial District was under San Francisco Bay.
The city exploded during the Gold Rush, and its exuberant disregard of obstacles is reflected in the streets. And its culture to this day.
The patterns of our streets are our cities’ tree rings. They are the fingerprints of the urban past.
And somewhere, on them: you.
“The book will kill the building”.
That’s what a character says in Notre Dame de Paris (better known as The Hunchback of Notre Dame). It takes place in medieval France and he is talking about how printing will replace the storytelling role of the cathedral. Cathedrals were pretty much the architecture – and the literature – of the day. They taught the illiterate masses the dogma of the Church through form and iconography.
The whole buildings were designed to tell a story.
Of course, the book didn’t kill the building. Books and buildings actually get along pretty well. In my office, I have stacks of books about buildings:
Books about individual buildings like the TWA Terminal or Pan Am building in New York, or the Chicago Tribune Tower, or groups of buildings like Rockefeller Center
I’ve got books on ruined buildings in Pompeii and Detroit, guidebooks to the architecture of Havana and Pyongyang, books about buildings by architect or by style.
The thing is, by and large they aren’t really about buildings; they’re story books.
They tell about the people who had the ideas, took the risks, hit roadblocks and overcame them. Or about how a building was first used, then about what it became.
You can see every week in the real estate ads the stories brokers telll about buildings, how glamorous and carefree your life would be if only you lived here or there.
But the best stories about buildings are the ones we tell:
My parents were married in that hotel.
I had my first job in this building.
I met _____ in that building.
(These photos by Felipe Dulzaides)
Here is a salute to clients. The ones who care about how a building works and what it looks like.
Or, closer to home, Phyllis Lambert (nee Bronfman), the daughter of the scion of the Seagram company who, at age 26, took charge of the design and construction of their landmark headquarters on Park Avenue.
She was living in Paris, studying sculpture, when she stepped in to hire Mies Van der Rohe and his sidekick Philip Johnson, to design the company’s new headquarters. Then she moved back to NY and took a desk in their office.
Her dad might have preferred something more baronial, old world and gentile.
From Paris she wrote:
“You must put up a building that expresses the best of the society in which you live, and at the same time your hopes for the betterment of this society. You have a great responsibility and your building is not only for the people of your companies, it is much for all people in New York and the rest of the world.”
Five years later came the Pan Am building, the largest commercial structure to date:
The client wasn’t Pan Am; they came in after construction had begun. The clients were Grand Central Railroad (and its shareholders), the Diesel Construction Company, and twelve banks (six American and six British). The design was by Emery Roth and Sons, with respectability provided by the more prestigious Walter Gropius and Pietro Bellushi. Everybody hated the building, then and now.
Guell and Lambert were wealthy individuals, like Frank Woolworth, who famously paid out of pocket for the 1913 Woolworth building. They didn’t cut corners on costs: the Seagram building’s skin is bronze and it was at the time the most expensive skyscraper ever built. Their buildings represented them to the world.
There is no more Seagram company, no more Woolworth’s and certainly no more Guell. But there are still clients. Like Steve Jobs, who famously obsessed on the design details of Apple devices, Apple stores, Apple headquarters, and Pixar studios.
Most clients default to a handful of safe architects, the ones who can work with the neighbors and the planners and the investors and lenders and the clients to bring in safe buildings.
But I have seen mediocre architects do good buildings for good clients – and good architects do crappy buildings for bad clients. But it is the architect who gets the credit or the blame.
So a toast to the client – the bold ones, the brave ones, but most of all the caring ones.
I had a billionaire client.
And he made sure I knew about his jet and his household staff and his wife’s jewels.
One day I was waiting in his office to have lunch with him. An older Chinese guy came through, with a white guy following him taking notes. I overheard, “put statues of tigers facing the elevators. A bowl of water here. Move these chairs from the window.”
My first thought: this is medieval.
My second thought: But he’s the billionaire, not me.
Now I’ve got one of those hexagonal mirrors in my office window, but I can’t say I notice any difference in my luck.
That guy moved his office to 88 Kearny, to reap some of the luck from the number 8.
In Chinese superstition, that’s the number to hang your hat on.
From this morning’s paper.
The thing is, the Chinese word for 8 sounds a lot like發: “wealth”.
The Beijing Olympics started on 8/8/08. At 8 minutes and 8 seconds after 8 PM.
New developments here in San Francisco seek 8s in their addresses:
8 Washington Street (which actually seems kind of cursed; opponents have put it on the November ballot),
8 Octavia, under construction.
and the grand slam of 888 Brannan Street.
I worked on the conversion of that building from warehouse to offices. My first client lost the building to the lender (not so lucky) and then I was hired by the new owner, who had better luck. It’s the new headquarters of Airbnb.
Not so lucky: the number 4, which sounds an awful lot like 死, “death”.
444 Market Street even changed its name, to 1 Front Street.
I attended the groundbreaking for a high rise that included a ritual involving tossing dyed rice in the air. Not so lucky for me, I got red spots on my jacket. The building was never built and the developer went bankrupt.
Maybe you’re more modern and not easily spooked. This stuff seems silly and not very modern.
But honestly, wouldn’t this address make you uneasy?