Stone and water

Saying goodbye to Chris's family, the three of us continued northward for Switzerland. A sequence of three trains and a bus lead us through Zurich, Chur, and Ilanz before depositing us at Therme Vals. Our route was certainly not the most direct, but between the mountains and train schedules, it proved to be both necessary and sufficient. We were all impressed by the carefully timed Swiss train schedule, which allowed for just enough time to purchase tickets at each of our stops before catching the next ride.

Therme Vals made its way onto our itinerary primarily as an architectural pilgrimage, but only slightly behind that reason was the allure of a couple days at a spa in the Swiss alps. We were all made familiar with the building through Ted Brown's theory course during our first semester, and Peter Zumthor's name certainly crops up around the Warehouse often enough. That said, we'd seen numerous official photographs, but no significant plans or other drawings. Given this gap in our knowledge, it was certainly understandable when, upon arrival, I had to assure Beth that we had arrived at the proper destination. The hotel complex that greeted us was a whitewashed jumble that seemed to be doing its best to hide its cheapness by becoming too boring to look at.

The lobby, however, showed a spark of creativity and good taste, and we soon came to understand that Mr. Zumthor had inserted the bath house into the middle of the complex as well as renovated certain key parts of the hotel, including the lobby, the upscale restaurant, and the top-tier of rooms. Our rooms, of course, were not among those that would have been graced by his hand, but they were satisfactory, if not up to our unusual American standards. (Beds on this continent are a joke.) We wasted no time in donning our bathing suits, bathrobes, and slippers and shuffling over to the baths, where we at last found the magnificent stone architecture we had been seeking.

Zumthor certainly understood how to strip the building down to its essentials—both functionally and æsthetically. The only three materials present themselves with any prominence: concrete, quartz, and water. Where most pools are surrounded by a deck, Zumthor uses the walls themselves to contain the water. The effect is a dramatic, to say the least. The baths feel much larger than they are (especially when eye-level is close to water-level), and the rooms feel as if they were carved into the stone rather than being constructed with walls. Most interesting is a network of cuts in the ceiling that allow thin lines of daylight to play on the stone, casting a solar clock of sorts on some walls. At some moments the concrete of the ceiling seems to float above the rooms, allowing the more majestic stone to continue skyward without being directly associated the lesser material. Frustratingly, other moments show the ugly concrete cap for what it is, and the effect is somewhat diminished. Certain details, most notably the window frames, suggest a strained budget, so I'd like to believe that the details that irk me also arise from financial constraints. Overall the building is quite pleasing to the eye and comfortable for bathing, and I'd be happy to overlook what seem to be its faults if I had the chance to return.

Colony

Having met up with Chris, the rest of the Netski family, and Beth in Florence, I traveled by rail Monday morning to Como, a lakeside town in the Italian foothills of the Alps.

Arriving with naïve expectations of a naturalistic getaway like the lakes of Minnesota or New York, I was caught off-guard upon arriving at the thoroughly developed Lago di Como in northwester Italy. We stayed in the city of Como, located at the end of the southwestern arm of the wishbone-shaped lake. As a vacationer, I could certainly see the potential of the town as a poor man's Monte Carlo ('poor' in this case meaning 'middle class'). The shopping was so prevalent that it was hard to walk from the lake up to the remnants of the old city wall without brushing into a dozen shopping bags, and any place that wasn't a store was a hotel or a restaurant.

As an architect or even simply as a person with an appreciation for the tasteful, I cringed. Como is not the ugliest place I've been,* but it is the most acute example of squandered beauty. The city is disfigured by masses of bad modernist buildings, which detract from the overall landscape and spoil the scene for the occasional rather nice piece of modernist architecture. While "good" and "bad" modernist design is a debate in which I'm only beginning to grasp and can't discuss intelligently, the degradation of the landscape is much more readily described. The region's traditional building have flat fronts, which form large surfaces for reflection of the sun. This, combined with the creams, golds, terracottas, and other warm colors that dominate palette, turn the fields of buildings into friendly, glowing mosaics in the green slopes. The modernist buildings have a great tendency for clunky, shadowy balconies, which turn the façades dark and the cityscapes foreboding. Combine this effect with the cancerous sprawl of building on the banks surrounding and opposite to Como, and you've got one sadly blighted landscape.

Fortunately, no other part of the lake that I saw had succumbed to the same fate. We took a ferry up to the rather lovely Bellagio. Towns along the way exhibited few(er) examples of mid-twentieth-century eyeblights, and development generally clustered around nodes on the main road twenty meters above the lake shore. The effect was quite pleasing, and I greatly enjoyed my day ferrying around with the Netskis.

* I consider the campus of UMass Amherst to the be the ugliest place I've visited.

And God cast the tripod from the garden...

The security personnel were apparently ignorant of Kew Gardens's policy on photography, and they wouldn't let me bring my tripod into the park. This put an initial damper on my visit, but I found the place to lend itself satisfactorily to leisurely walks and viewing of both flora and fauna. Highlights included the world's largest water lily, the world's oldest potted plant, and a number of rather docile peacocks. Chris and I wandered together for the morning, and had a surprisingly good lunch at the Orangery. I wasn't outright impressed with any of the architecture, but the placement of buildings within the landscape was worthy of study, and the historical context of the Palm House increases its worth tenfold.

Labours lost

Chris and I attended Love's Labours Lost at Shakespeare's Globe Theater on the south bank of the Thames. We both came away with mixed feelings about the play and a strong appreciation for the building.

Labours has a reputation for being a less accessible comedy. It's not as morally dated as Two Gentlemen from Verona (or even The Taming of the Shrew), but it's jokes are more focused on wordplay, and the language-base in which it works has evolved greatly. As Americans, I'm sure we were further disadvantaged, as the foreign accent still poses some challenge (although less as time passes). In spite of the limitations that have developed with time, I'm convinced that the play was never as impressive as Shakespeare's later comedies. Too little time and attention is given to the lovers, whom we'd much rather see than the clowns (of which there were two instead of one.) If anything the play seems like a test kitchen for later comedies from which the bard plucked the best elements. The production itself was lackluster, well acted but perhaps not well cast. The actor playing the King would have been more at home in a tragedy, never managing capture the humorous, indecisive side of the character. The highlight of the play was an accidental one; Longaville appeared on crutches, apparently due to a mishap during a previous performance, and the actor's ability and willingness to make it a source of humor saved the night.

The Globe, however—what a space it is! The wood created a feel of warmth, tempered by the cool night sky. As deep as it is wide, I can't but help feel the Globe to be the British answer to both the Colosseum and the Pantheon. That it lacks the comforts of a modern theatre is a small price to pay for it's intimacy, bring the audience members close to the stage and each other. From where Chris and I were sitting on the middle level, I had as much fun watching the groundlings as I did the actors on stage. Watching a clearly American man leap back from the stage in fright when the Spanish Don Armando brandished his javelin and pair of college girls wince in distress after being mooned by an aged fool during the play-within-a-play. I am wholly pleased that the once-burned Globe has been rebuilt. Many buildings would be less alive the second time, but Shakespeare's old haunt is lively and lovable.

Not an American capitol

Two hundred twenty years to the day after the United States Congress voted to send the newly drafted constitution to the states for ratification,* I set foot in the Palace of Westminster, home to Congress's British analogue. Although the Parliament traces its roots to the thirteenth century, the building itself is for the most part much newer than the U.S. Capitol, having been designed in the nineteenth century, and partially reconstructed after World War II. The building's relatively young age was frequently hard to remember. The Gothic ornamentation, the relative implied significance of the monarchical presence, and general lack of space for the Members spoke strongly of days gone by.

I don't feel sufficiently knowledgeable to speak much about the specifics of the Gothic ornamentation other than to say that it is quite evident, and no significant architectural knowledge is necessary to recognize it. I can, however, easily explain the "monarchical presence" since the enormous golden throne and canopy at the head of the House of Lords. Apparently Queen Elizabeth joins them one day a year, but her seat certainly conveys her importance in her absence. As for the lack of space, there isn't enough space for all of the Members, much less space for a notebook computer or any of the other things I would imagine U.S. Senators use constantly.

I'm not exactly sure how any real work gets done in the place, but after eight centuries, I guess this organization knows what it's doing.

*also twenty years to the day after Star Trek: The Next Generation debuted

A rustic paradise

There was no tarrying in town today. After a hearty English breakfast (during which classmates expressed disdain for my letting the baked beans, sausage, mushrooms, eggs, and tomatoes co-mingle on my plate), we piled into a comfortable motorcoach for the not-too-long drive to Cragside. Once the home of inventor and businessman Lord William Armstrong, the house and estate is now part of the National Trust, a non-governmental organization that protects, maintains, and promotes historic places throughout the island, much like the Minnesota Historical Society and other state-level organizations do in the US.

The estate is expansive and amazingly beautiful, furnished by the impressive Craghill with uncountable observation points. The landscape includes one of the largest rock gardens in Europe, a pinetum, a children's labyrinth, and numerous bridges criss-crossing the stream at the bottom of the slope. Upon arrival, I plunged ahead of the slowly-dispersing group and was rewarded with a hour of exploration in complete solitude.

Also notable in the lands was a powerhouse, which used water power to generate electricity for the house, the first in Europe to install electric lights. The house itself was impressive in size and tastefully modest outside. No classical or Gothic ornament interfered with the idea that this was a rustic palace. Architect Robert Shaw instead implemented a pallet of stone, stucco, and half-timber that speaks of comfort and leisure. The inside, however, shows little such imagination and talent. Most of the rooms are simply boxes (now cluttered with historic decor), and the few rooms at the top of the house that strive for grandeur each have significant failures in the architectural language.

In some ways I think that all architects should pay a visit to Cragside. The poorly resolved interior should insight students to avoid such failings and the amazing grounds should remind them that landscape must not be neglected.

Towards Polaris

Our class ventured north to the formerly industrial city of Newcastle upon Tyne, not far from the Scottish border. Prior to departure I had a bit of time to look around King's Cross, which has been so familiar to me from reading Harry Potter books. The real item was significantly more contorted than I imagined, a little less monumental, but no less intriguing. Our train from Platform 4 made good time as we left London but was seriously delayed halfway along by a failed train on the line ahead of us. My table played a game of hearts to pass the time, and the sandwich and yogurt I packed kept me fueled without resorting to the dining trolley (which served no pumpkin pasties).

We arrived, took taxis to the Tulip Inn and more taxis into the town of Gateshead, Newcastle's neighbor across the river, taking a brief look at the Gateshead Sage before heading over to BALTIC Centre for Contemporary Art, which, like the Tate Modern, occupies a respectfully refitted industrial building. Work at the BALTIC is pretty edgy (one work is currently being investigated for breaking child pornography laws), and some of it I found to be unpleasant, but even many of the unpleasant pieces had sufficient thought, insight, and/or wit to be worth a serious look. Although not what I perceived to be the deepest work, Kendell Geers Irrespektiv will probably be the most lasting memory for me. The massive room full of artifacts of riot and protest included police lights, spiked fencing, and a still burning wreck of a car. The building itself seemed to attempt to be as generic as possible, providing little more than a series of large vertically arranged rooms. The narrow west edge of the building was the only one that seemed to have seen significant alteration, being mostly glazed, therefore allowing a rather impressive view to occupants of its two glass elevators.

From the Baltic we walked across the famed Gateshead Millennium Bridge into Newcastle upon Tyne. We ended our walk on Grey Street, voted "best street in the United Kingdom" by public radio listeners. The street was indeed beautiful, curving gently down the slope towards the water. Since we were most unfortunately without our guidebooks, we found food and drink by wandering alone, and both the food at Coco Mos and the atmosphere at Bar 38 was disappointing. I did finally getting around to trying a Strongbow, which I hadn't realized was a cider. The Strongbow I could recommend.

Wiltshire

Our Survey of English Architecture under the guidance of architectural historian Jeremy Melvin began today with a trip to Salisbury and its neighbor to the north Stonehenge. The coach ride was about two-and-a-half hours from our school in the heart of London, which provided time read up on the sites and catch a little sleep.

The five thousand year old earthwork was our first stop. We spent some time exploring the oldest and most subtle features of the site, including a cursus, which looks like nothing more than a long shallow groove and ridge running through the sheep pastures. Stepping carefully we made our way to pair of barrows. The sunshine made the place merry enough, but a Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadildo! or two drifted through my thoughts nonetheless.

Back across the road, we started our slow orbit of the stones themselves, sketching as we went. We were there over the lunch hour, and it seemed to me that the flow of tourists lightened briefly. I was surprised by how many of the elderly visitors were natives of the island. I would have figured that in sixty years of life in Britain, a trip to Stonehenge would have been inevitable, but perhaps the place draws repeat visitors. I certainly wouldn't mind returning, perhaps in some colder weather, when the place might be further vacated.

Our second destination was the much newer Salisbury Cathedral, which, at a mere eight hundred years of age is practically contemporary. The Gothic architecture somehow seemed perfectly at home in the comparatively squat town, and I appreciated the perfection of so many complicated intersections of form and geometry in the ornament that covered every surface save the floor. I wish I could attend a Sunday service or two. Whatever I saw in my too-short stay today would be a drop in the bucket compared to the observations I would make if I was trapped in a pew for the better part of a morning. That would teach me something.

Eastern exploration

Both studio leaders are sending their students eastward. Alan has his class going almost an hour a way, but Nick was easier on us, and our site is only four tube stops down the central line. Today my partner Jenna and I set out after class to do some photographing and attempt to locate a specific urban "room" that might be suitable for our project. We were both hungry, so, after ascertaining that Jenna was for the most part herbivorous, I struck a path for a well reviewed vegetarian restaurant in the vicinity of our destination.

Personally, I think naming a vegetarian restaurant carnivale is delightfully ironic (bitingly funny even), but I couldn't tell if the name was intentionally witty. The place bills itself as a "Mediterranean vegetarian restaurant and deli," and our friendly waiter seemed to be from a lower latitude, but then again, his English was perfect as he joked that usually only Japanese tourists take photos of the food.

The food was quite good. We both opted for the evening's fixed menu, which included this excellent leek soup, a tomato and zucchini pasta entrée, and slices of a chocolate log accented with fresh, ripe raspberries. I had a Vintage Roots organic lager, which was easily one of the better beers I've had on this trip.

Our surveying work was reasonably productive, and we found a few areas worth pursuing as we continue through the project. On our way home we were rewarded with a lovely view of the often-visible but usually-obscured 30 St. Mary's Axe.

By the numbers

Claire and I celebrated a year-and-a-half together with a lunch at Wolfgang Puck's 20.21 in the new Walker Art Center. We were already visiting the building so that I could shoot some video for a project I'm working on for a professor, so the restaurant lent itself to our cause quite readily. We both enjoyed the pan-Asian cuisine, which managed to take enough pleasantly unexpected turns to set the menu apart from, say, the local LeeAnn Chin. The pot-stickers we ordered for an appetizer came with a vinaigrette instead of the usual soy sauce concoction, and the lettuce wraps had a much more complex blend of vegetables than I've tasted in similar dishes. I wouldn't make a special trip to 20.21, but I was pleased to find that the food justified the high costs that one normally finds in art museum restaurants.

More spectacular was 112 Eatery, which we visited this evening as my official (albeit delayed) birthday dinner. I started out with duck & radicchio salad, which was heavy to the (very delicious) dressing, but the entrées Mom, Dad, and I ordered (tagliarini w/ blue prawns & vin santo, nori encrusted sirloin w/ ponzu, and pork tenderloin w/ sweet potatoes & Roquefort butter, respectively) were truly spectacular. Laura, never quite as adventurous, ordered the 112 cheese burger, which managed to frustrate her with its exotic array of cheeses. She was happy, however, with the cauliflower fritters, a side we all shared. More than once we felt that the familiar food in front of us (sirloin, sweet potato, cauliflower, or other) was better prepared than anything we'd previously experienced.

Of iron and carbon

Our Building Systems class went on its third and presumably final field trip of the semester. This time we went to the Nucor Steel plant in Auburn, NY, and saw some truly awesome things. Within five minutes of donning our safety gear, we walked on a metal-grate walkway over a production line of red-hot steel bars. The day was cold, but the heat coming off the steel kept the whole place warm. The buildings were so huge that I could not see from one end to the other, an effect no doubt enhanced by the soot in the air. The site is a "mini-mill," practically tiny to the major plants of Pittsburgh and Cleveland, utilizing only scrap steel instead of raw ore. The Auburn facility was cutting edge when it was built in the mid 70s, and today it remains for more efficient than its larger counterparts. The experience was amazing, and I would love to go back for a more thorough tour.

Of silicon and oxygen

The entirety of today was consumed by a studio field trip to the Corning Museum of Glass in Corning, NY. Chris drove, and Paul, Tim, and I rode along. We stopped at a busy little shop in Ithaca near campus of Cornell for sandwiches along the way. Professor Munly had arranged for a tour, so we got to hear about the glass-heavy architecture of the old Corning industrial campus before exploring the museum itself. We had a lunch break, and then a little bit of time for exploration. I saw a glassblowing presentation, and had fun gazing into a rather crazy lens. Unfortunately, I didn't actually get to spend much time looking at the actual museum collection, but perhaps there'll be another day for that. We concluded our visit with a tour of the new library, which utilizes some very interesting architecture to control the temperature, humidity, and light to which the books are exposed. It was very dark by the time we got back.

After we got back I took Chris out to eat at a local Indian restaurant as a small repayment for the ride.

Over and out

The much anticipated letter from Columbia Graduate School of Architecture, Planning and Preservation was waiting for me on my desk when I returned from Milwaukee. I had Sarah look for me, and although she recited Psalm 4 and said three Hail Marys for me before she opened the envelope, the answer was, sadly and expectedly, 'no.' She took me out for a nice long walk around the capitol, and I felt better.

I'm going to be an Orangeman. Knowing is nice.

Gold and silver and bronze by gold

I met Jenny this morning for tea and mint hot chocolate. It occurred to me that I've now been friends with Jenny (whom I met in Ms. Braun's seventh-grade high performance English class) for over one-third of my life. It's an odd thought, if only because it makes my junior high days seem so distant. It's also a very comforting thought to know I have a friend of over seven years.

I met Sarah, a much more recent acquaintance (six months to the day by one definition), for lunch and an early-afternoon stroll. She took me to the Monona Terrace, which I had previously neglected to visit. As much as I dislike Frank Lloyd Wright in many respects (most notably what I view as pride of the inefficiency of his architecture), I have to concede that he was a genius. Sarah and I were the only two people of our age that we saw, and I was one of only three or four males. Sarah poked her head into one of the auditoriums and found that there was a workshop on wedding-related arts and crafts in progress.

This evening I read the eleventh episode of Ulysses, which is generally known as "Sirens." It was one of the more difficult episodes I've encountered thus far since the structure emulates music (which, of course, is central to the sirens' powers). The chapter begins with an "overture" of sorts which, using fragments of text, maps out the entire chapter. The sirens in this book have no magic, however; they are regular barmaidens (one brunette and one blond). I suppose, though, that many men would consider the effects of alcohol to be sufficiently enchanting.