Sur le pont d'Avignon

The sound of Peruvian pan pipes will always remind me of Avignon. An elderly gentleman clad in what I hope is an alpaca poncho can sometimes be spotted at the entrance to the Woodley Park metro station down the street. He plays the pipes directly into a microphone, which, apparently is the traditional way of doing it. Last October, I recall sitting in front of the colossal Gothic mountain of the Palais des Papes, sketching the facade. For the entire hour and a half that we ambled around the plaza in order to correct and perfect our sketches, the air was filled with the sound of Peruvian pipes being blasted over loudspeakers by a group of be-ponchoed street performers. In an interesting parallel, the neurotic feeling imparted by listening to loud pipe music while trying to concentrate on a sketch pairs rather nicely with the bizarre episode of Church history represented by the papal palace.

Apart from the Gothic palace, the other well-known monument in Avignon is the Pont Saint-Benezet, the remains of a bridge that used to span the Rhone River. In what is perhaps another, more durable symbol of the Avignon Papacy, the Pont of the Supreme Pontiffs never held up. We will recall that one of the Pope's titles literally translates as "Great Bridge-Builder". The bridge built between the Avignon popes and the French monarchy was not one to last. It does however, leave us with a rather romantic ruin. It is a perfect spot from which to watch the afternoon sun bathe the city in colors like "burnt sienna" and "ochre", for instance. I recall being there at such a time. Ahead of me was a father with his little daughter. She was holding his hand, skipping along, singing the little French school-children's song Sur le pont d'Avignon, which has as its subject the very bridge we were standing on and the supposed copious dancing that took place thereupon.

A single-line contour sketch I made of the Pont Saint-Benezet

As I was walking home today from the metro at Woodley Park, the pan pipes were playing. I thought back to Avignon. I am thinking of the malaise and unease setting into many corners of the Church at the moment as a rather contentious Synod of Bishops is underway. I confess that I have not been following it too closely: I'd like to think that my faith does not much depend on the deliberations of some fellows in Rome for a few weeks. But, I thought of Avignon. What wreckage the 14th Century Papacy must've done to the faith of that time. The popes were literally being bankrolled and installed at the behest of the French king. These guys were no paragons of humility, either: of ol' Clement VI it was written, "a fine gentleman, a prince munificent to profusion, a patron of the arts and learning, but no saint." Surely some perspective is afforded by some of these more grotesque periods of Church history. There is a saying that I heard somewhere that says that in the Catholic Church, everything has happened at least once. And yet, here we are still: warty synods and all.

Winter wanderings

My thesis is reaching that crucial time when decisions must be quickly made, committed to, and expanded upon. From now until dim days of December, it shall be one headlong, maddening plunge toward graduation. Architecture students, much like architects proper, are often to be found talking about ourselves and our work - and all of its invariable complexity, and difficulty, and depth, and philosophy, and, oh, you should be both pitying us and marveling at our tenacity at this point! We, as a profession, share a bit of character with the Irish - the greater the number and intensity of your struggles and misfortunes, the higher your rank in a room. Needless to say, a bit of exaggeration goes on. Yet, I shall indeed be very busy for the next two months.

When it is all over, I will be heading out on another journey. It is perhaps a bit of the "millennial goes traipsing before growing up" genre, but there you have it. The prospect of two weeks vacation for the next ten years means that I shan't be heading to Europe again for awhile. So, I'm going now. In the wintry depths of January, I'm going to go to Helsinki in Finland for a few days. From there, I'll make a quick tour of the pint-sized Baltic countries before continuing into Poland. I'll be making a point to visit the famed Jasna Gora monastery, home of the holy icon of Our Lady of Czestochowa -- the spiritual heart of Poland. After a stay in Krakow, I'll hop over the Carpathians and across Slovakia to Vienna. The Austrian capital is another place that has always held my fascination. I think it will merit the better part of a week. I may make a trek up into the Wiener Wald to the Cistercian monastery at Heiligenkreuz, where there are relics of the True Cross and a growing community of monks. After Vienna, things are hazy at the moment and are dependent on friends and the ability of their couches. The goal is to end in Paris for a few days before coming home.

As of now, I am planning this as a solo trip. I have traveled by myself only sparingly. I think there is a lot to learn about oneself in solitude, especially in unfamiliar circumstances. The practical side of things is that I can spend my time exactly as I would like - indulging my idiosyncrasies at will. It is weird not to talk to people though. I went to Caen in Normandy last October and didn't speak the whole day apart from ordering lunch. It was liberating in an odd way. Sometimes I talk too much (see first paragraph) to no profitable end. Silence and solitude are valuable teachers.

24 and the Pontiff

Last week was pretty momentous on this side of the computer. I turned 24 on Tuesday. The day was pretty unremarkable for the most part. I was at work, on site. I have been on site a lot recently. I have been doing punch lists for an 11-story apartment building that is almost completed. Basically, I have to go around into every unit and mark everything that is wrong with blue painter's tape. An employee from the contractor firm walks with me and inputs everything into a system so that it can be fixed by the appropriate subcontractor. It's not the most fun. However, it does get me up and out of the office. After work, I had a nice dinner with three good friends at a French restaurant. It was a wonderful treat.

On Wednesday, the Holy Father, Francis, celebrated Mass on the east portico of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. During Mass, His Holiness canonized St. Junipero Serra. I was way in the back of the congregation, but I had a clear sight line to the altar (designed by several of my colleagues here in the School of Architecture). The Pope looked fairly tired (I don't blame him), and his voice was quite soft, but it was an extraordinary event.

Geographic extremities

The rather unwieldy and fanciful motto of the State of Michigan is "Si quæris peninsulam amœnam circumspice" which means, "If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you." One of the reasons I like Michigan is that is has lots of geographical extremities. The land is always wandering off aimlessly into one of the big lakes. Roads end in Michigan. They terminate in a shifting sand dune or in a tangle of blueberry bushes clinging to the exposed rock. There's often to be found the sensation of reaching as far as you can go. The azure water arrives abruptly and announces -- like God to the primordial seas -- "Thus far shall you come and no further."

A few weeks ago, I happened to be traveling with my family in the Keweenaw Peninsula, a stunningly beautiful region in Upper Michigan. I had never been. It was always too far from wherever we happened to be. It's too far from Marquette. It's too far from the camp. It's just too far. But, the further a place is, the more mysterious and fantastic it becomes. I drank in the mystique of this little hidden kingdom at the top of the state. We drove several wooded roads to their end, where entrancing localities awaited further on foot. We climbed the bald, granite head of Bare Bluff to watch sheets of light rain shimmer across the unperturbed cerulean surface of Lake Superior. At Horseshoe Harbor, past the end of US-41 (which ends its 2,000 mile journey from Miami as a gravel cul-de-sac), the winds blew with ferocity out of the west, sending surges of whitecapped water crashing into the ancient lava formations. The inscrutable pine forest stood erect, sighing softly.

The end of the Keweenaw Peninsula and Bete de Gris Bay from the summit of Bare Bluff

Michigan is a bypassed state. It's peninsular, after all. It doesn't go anywhere. One has to make an effort to go there. The Keweenaw and all of the other sub-peninsulas await exploration all the same. One is schooled in enjoying the journey, because there's usually nothing at the end of it all. The Leelenau Peninsula comprises unparalleled wine country, but it terminates without ceremony at a lighthouse and a stony, cramped beach. The Old Mission Peninsula is perhaps marginally more exciting, as its terminus lies at the 45th Parallel. Why drive to Whitefish Point? It ends in shipwrecks and wind and blown sand. Truth be told, you can't even get to the end of the Keweenaw. The roads get too disorderly, overgrown and rutted. The Garden Peninsula, which separates Lake Michigan from the amusingly-named Big Bay De Noc, is inhabited by ghosts, who have their capital at Fayette, an abandoned town. But each is worth the drive, as I and any other Michigander will tell you. We're the experts in seeking pleasant peninsulas, after all.

September

Fall is upon us. Though, unhappily, fall weather is not, at least around your scribe's abode. The busy-ness resulting from the agitated confluence of work, school, and the rest has launched me into a whirl of activity. Are your Septembers busy? Mine always are. The air needs to get cooler to accommodate the annual rush of activity that attends the end of summer. In bygone years it was football games and homecoming and new friends, now it's thesis projects and work deadlines pressing down after the summer lull. Someday, I will have a restful September, a calm and golden-tinted transition into the radiant glories of October, which I will be able to relish appropriately. Brooding November will be as placid as a newly frozen lake. December will arrive with coziness and warmth shining from its frosted windows. One's advanced years are often called the autumn of one's life. Perhaps that is the only time we will be able to experience autumn in its completeness without the often superficial rush of quotidian tasks. The term certainly did not arise to draw a comparison to the September of a twentysomething graduate student. 

Our Lady of the Snows

Today is the feast day of the dedication of the Basilica of St. Mary Major in Rome. Known in Italian as Santa Maria Maggiore, it is one of the four major basilicas (along with St. Peter's, St. John Lateran, and St. Paul-outside-the-Walls). I had the privilege of visiting this marvelous place in September. It is a beautiful church home to many important relics including the icon of the Madonna known as the Salus Populii Romani, the remnants of the manger at Bethlehem, and the body of St. Pope Pius V.

The title Our Lady of the Snows comes from a legend concerning a Roman nobleman and his wife who wished to bequeath their possessions to the Virgin Mary. They prayed for some sign as to where they should put their treasures. The next day, the fifth of August, snow was found at the summit of the Esquiline Hill in Rome, where the Basilica was eventually built.

View of the Nave

Altar in front of the reliquary holding the remains of the Crib of Bethlehem

St. Pope Pius V

Eastern shore

This past weekend I went camping with some friends out on Assateague, a barrier island off the coast of Maryland. It's a beautiful place with a unique ecosystem - the centerpiece of which is the herd of feral ponies that roam the island. It was a beautiful, sunny weekend (as my sunburned shoulders and feet (of all places!) will readily attest).

Sunset colors over Sinepuxent Bay

The beach illuminated by the very bright Blue Moon

Some of the ponies roaming the beach

Sandcastle time

The marsh on the bay side of the Island

Sunset on night two

Storms over the bay on the second night

La plus ça change

"Primarily responsible, argued La Harpe, were those propagating the doctrines of Diderot, including in one crucial respect Rousseau. For despite the great quarrel that shattered their former friendship, from 1757, the two great thinkers nurtured one particularly subversive political doctrine that Rousseau derived from Diderot, namely that all the ills and crimes of the world arise not from the innate defects of human nature (which both saw as fundamentally good) but from the "radical viciousness" Diderot was the first to see in all existing institutions, systems of government, morality, and society."

--- from Revolutionary Ideas by Jonathan Israel

"The Tennis Court Oath" Jacques Louis David

Why do we not learn more about the French Revolution in school? I learned only a brief outline in sixth grade. The central thesis of the author quoted above is that the Revolution was one of ideas. The radical Enlightenment philosophes conceived of a new society based firstly on the abstract notion of equality and gradually won over what they saw as the ignorant common people of France, who were by and large content and ultraconservative (the prevalent myth of mass disaffection with the monarchy and aristocracy throughout France is squashed around page three). These philosophes formed a sort of gnostic party who believed themselves possessed of knowledge about human nature that the common man could be persuaded to believe but would not come to it independently because they were shackled by ignorance. They set about with what we would call a media blitz - publishing radical literature critical of the Church, the monarchy, the local parlements, the nobility - "all existing institutions." They fermented discontent by convincing the commoners that they were inherently blameless people caught in a web of vicious systems stacked against them.

This would be dangerous to teach in schools in the United States. We would not want anyone thinking that ideas have consequences. We would not want to reunite the abstract realm of philosophical ideas with physical reality - that could get messy. We would not want people to question those who have convinced us that all of our existing institutions are fundamentally rigged against people who are fundamentally good and whose choices must always be approved of. 

This will prove to be an interesting read. 

The See of Baltimore

Last Sunday, I took the train up to Baltimore for the afternoon. My thesis at Catholic University involves developing a design for a museum of American Catholicism. My site is currently in rural St. Mary's City, Maryland, the first place in the Colonies where Catholics were free to settle. It's beautiful, but it is far from DC and is quite remote. It was suggested to me during my final review for the semester that I consider a more urban site, given the largely urban nature of American Catholicism as a whole.

To that end, a visit to Baltimore was in order. Baltimore is the oldest diocese in the United States. Its first bishop, John Carroll, was a cousin to Charles Carroll of Carrollton, the only Catholic signer of the Declaration of Independence. During the 19th Century, Baltimore - like many American cities - swelled with Catholic immigrants from Europe, lending various layers of character to its many unique neighborhoods. In all, I am growing more convinced that an urban site for this museum makes more sense.

Below are a few photos of the magnificent old Cathedral of the Assumption, the first Cathedral in the United States. I thought it interesting that it was built in the Neoclassical style that was so often used for government buildings and Protestant churches. It was quite beautiful.

Monsignor

Since I moved in May, I've been attending St. Thomas the Apostle Parish, which is just a few blocks from my new apartment. Its clergy are Oratorians, a group of professed religious who take a vow to exercise their ministry in a certain specific place. The Washington Oratory, which is St. Thomas, is quite young and is still technically an Oratory-in-formation. In this early stage, the local clergy are being assisted by Monsignor Wadsworth, a British priest of some renown.

Today I almost ran into Monsignor. I had just gotten off the escalator at the Metro. I had just received a text apiece from two friends I had not heard from in many months -- Isn't it funny how that happens sometimes? I was walking on the sidewalk along Connecticut Avenue, clogged with slow-walking tourists most days, but especially this week in anticipation of the Fourth of July. I dodge a stroller, look down at my phone, look up and find myself staring into the eyes of Monsignor Wadsworth, not more than a foot in front of me.

He's a kind man with a gentle demeanor. He gives pointed, but well-considered homilies, with their share of one-liners:

"Not much in our world is imperishable. I think Our Lord asks more of us than a can of tomato soup." (on the imperishability of the soul)

"Our dear Cardinal, a good friend and a lovely man, has not yet realized that the New Evangelization is the same as the old evangelization" (on Cardinal Wuerl)

"The message is the same. God does not change. The message does not change. If you came to church last Sunday, last month, last year, five years ago, ten years ago, fifty years ago, the message is the same. I doubt many of you would've been at mass one hundred years ago -- those people come on Sunday mornings." (on the perennial nature of the Gospel)

"We need to learn the language of heaven. If you go to another country, it helps to learn a language rather than just talking LOUDLY and slowly like we English speakers tend to do. I've been here for six years and I'm still learning the language." (on American English)

"St. Philip [Neri] was often asked what authors to read. He suggested - and I suggest to you - authors whose names begin with the letter S... Saint..." (on what to read)

I managed a "Good evening, Father!" before stepping out of the poor man's way. He was with the parish priest and the novice who recently took his first vows. They were wearing the distinctive cassock and collar of the Oratory. It is always nice to see clergy dressed like clergy while out and about. I saw one priest this weekend in the National Gallery of Art in a cassock.

In the final analysis, a near run-in with Monsignor was not nearly as embarrassing as when I sneezed on the Bishop of Lafayette-in-Indiana.

Purple mountain majesties

Two weekends ago I went hiking with two friends in the mountains of Virginia. Our itinerary of three days brought us to the peaks of several mountains, along a portion of the Appalachian Trail, and many fine views of the mountains of the George Washington National Forest. A few photos follow, in no particular order:

Though I've had a backpacking pack for a year and a half, this was the first time I've used it for anything apart from a carry-on. REI separated me from a good chunk of my first paycheck, but I'm happy to now have the rudiments for future backpacking trips. My friend who planned the trip is very experienced in backpacking, so it was good to learn from her as well. Hopefully there will be more adventures of this type ahead!

Freedom

"Look at the worldly and at the whole world that exalts itself above the people of God: are the image of God and his truth not distorted in it? They have science, and in science only that which is subject to the senses. But the spiritual world, the higher half of man's being, is altogether rejected, banished with a sort of triumph, even with hatred. The world has proclaimed freedom, especially of late, but what do we see in this freedom of theirs: only slavery and suicide! For the world says: "You have needs, therefore satisfy them, for you have the same rights as the nobles and richest men. Do not be afraid to satisfy them, but even increase them" -- this is the current teaching of the world. And in this they see freedom. But what comes of this right to increase one's needs? For the rich, isolation and spiritual suicide; for the poor, envy and murder, for they have been given rights, but have not yet been shown any way of satisfying their needs. We are assured that the world is becoming more and more united, is being formed into brotherly communion, by the shortening of distances, by the transmitting of thoughts through the air. Alas, do not believe in such a union of people. Taking freedom to mean the increase and prompt satisfaction of needs, they distort their own nature, for they generate many meaningless and foolish desires, habits, and the most absurd fancies in themselves."

--- from The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky (1880)

Moving on up

This weekend, if all goes well, I will be moving to a new apartment in DC. I'm terribly excited to be heading to a different neighborhood. Where I am now has been good, but it comes with its share of annoyances: thirty minute bus rides to the grocery store, a twenty minute walk to the metro, no neighborhood conveniences (stores, etc.) to speak of, no air conditioning, and lots of bike-inhibiting hills in the neighborhood. None of these has made it a bad place to live, per se, but I'm not going to miss these issues. I'll be moving to a basement unit in a townhouse in the historic Kalorama Triangle in the northwest part of the city. The location alone makes the slight increase in rental costs worth it: a four minute walk to the metro, five minutes to the grocery store, and tons of restaurants, bars, and shops close by. Also, my commute to work will be cut in half.

New neighborhood

This has gotten me thinking about urban planning and walkability. My new neighborhood will be extremely walkable. Errands will be able to be done on foot, and leisure (in the form of park space) is only a few blocks away. Kalorama is known as one of the more well-to-do areas of Washington, and neighboring Adams Morgan was named one of the best urban neighborhoods in the United States. Though we have found a really good deal, rent is generally not cheap. This begs the question: why have our most walkable and convenient neighborhoods so priced out the poor, who would benefit most from easy proximity to the necessities of life? We can go back and forth about gentrification, but it somewhat misses the point of the issue. We may not force people out of every neighborhood wanting to be the new Brooklyn, simply because we've already condemned the people there to a poor quality of life by the very design of the city. If it's an annoyance for me, a decently-well-off young person with a professional job, nearly two college degrees, and a decent amount of leisure time, to go grocery shopping, how much more is it a strain on a single mother raising two kids and working two jobs? There's plenty of blame to go around for this state of affairs, and there are frankly very few easy solutions.

Kriol

"Orait, longtaim bifo enijing bin jidan, det Wed bin jidan, en det Wed bin jidan garram God, en det Wed na im God. Wal brom longtaim det Wed bin jidan garram God, God bin meigim ebrijing garram det Wed. Im nomo bin meigim enijing nomo garram det Wed, det Wed na bin abum det pawa blanga gibitbat laif, en det laif na bin det lait blanga ebribodi, det lait oldei shain langa det dakbala, en det dakbala kaan neba audim det lait."

--- John 1:1-5

This well-known scriptural passage is rendered here in Kriol, an English-based creole language spoken by many Australian Aboriginal peoples in the Northern Territory. Creole languages are fascinating to me because they rely so much on actually speaking the words, as the language being creolized is often not a written one. In the first sentence we read "longtaim bifo enijing bin jidan" which looks pretty foreign until you speak it aloud and realize it's "longtime before anything [was made?]". It's not exactly "in the beginning" but you get the drift. I once saw some Haitian Creole (which is based on French) written someplace. It was amusing to me because the French-derived words were actually written like they are pronounced (ça as sa, qui as ki, dite as di, etc.). I didn't understand what I was reading until I tried reading it aloud to myself.   

On accents

Isn't it interesting that English lacks any accents or other diacritical marks? I can think of no other language off the top of my head where this is the case, apart from Latin. As English is a hodgepodge of various languages, one would think that some of the diacritical marks of French or of the Norse languages would've survived. Middle English still used some of the old Norse letters like ð, æ, and þ, for instance (these are preserved in modern Icelandic). Perhaps accents would make English easier to learn for non-native speakers? But then again, sometimes spelling is so disconnected from pronunciation that this may be impossible. It would be difficult to explain the difference in pronunciation of "cough" and "through", for example, with the mere addition of a diacritical mark or two.

I am in the midst of reading Empires of the Word: A Language History of the World. The subject of language has always fascinated me, especially when it comes to the evolution of sounds and words. Last night, I was at a friend's 25th birthday party. Several of us were talking about how we are getting to the point of "not understanding kids these days." We were discussing the use of the expression "on fleek" which has apparently arisen recently. Synonyms include "on point". We decided it sounds far better if one pretends it was a French phrase. Thus, en flique, was added to the modern lexicon. Nous etions en flique hier soir...

To stroll is Parisian

I was going through some photos yesterday. This one is from my second day in Paris, which I remember vividly. On my first day, I rushed right down to Notre Dame, but on day two I had no real itinerary. I wandered down to the Place de République and then zig-zagged through the Third Arrondissement. I stuck my head into Saint-Elizabeth, the Parisian parish of the Order of Malta. At a cafe across the street from the church, a car backed into a pole, causing a commotion. From there, I got all turned around and ended up in the neighborhood of Charlie Hebdo. After a stop in the Place des Vosges, the sky turned turbulent, and I took refuge from the rain in the church of Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis in the Marais. There was a clearing and I continued on to the Seine and crossed over to the Ile Saint-Louis. It was from the bridge that this shot was taken.

My favorite part about Paris, which has become clearer in retrospect, is the delight it gives to walkers. The texture of the city is so uniformly interesting, that one can just keep going from place to place without noticing. There is such a strong continuity of experience. "To err is human, to stroll is Parisian," as Victor Hugo said. I think Washington is a good walking city as well, though it is not as uniform as Paris.

The Octave of Easter

Happy Easter, all! I'm back in DC, and things have been hectic in the aftermath of the Easter recess. This coming weekend the school of architecture is undergoing its accreditation visit from NAAB - a process that happens typically every six years. Suffice to say it is a big deal and it's an all-hands-on-deck situation. My professor, Julio, is largely spearheading the organization of the visit. I am his research assistant, which means I have been busy assisting him in whatever ways I can. The week has included a lot of lifting and moving models, pinning up student work, and making the building look good. Our main efforts have been focused on the team room, where the accreditation team will do their deliberations. The room is full of a range of student work from each and every class offered in the school. The work is tagged and color coded according to a matrix of educational criteria established by NAAB. It has been an exercise in tedium.

*     *     *

On Wednesday, Julio took a brief break from the madness of accreditation to deliver a lecture introducing a book that has just been published that he edited and assembled. The book contains a series of essays from a wide range of authors on contemporary views of sacred space. The diversity of the contributors is perhaps the strongest aspect of the book: from Duncan Stroik, one of the leaders of the current resurgence of traditional Catholic architecture, to Juhani Pallasmaa, a Finnish architect enamored of an architecture of all five senses, the variety of views makes the book enriching. I have not read all of it yet, but I will have to report back with my final thoughts. Julio spoke honestly and quite personally about the book - his first of his long and distinguished career - and there was a nice gathering afterward where he sold and signed the books. He wrote me a very kind inscription in my copy, which I will treasure.

*     *     *

The cherry blossoms have begun to bloom in earnest. Unfortunately, the weather remains cold. I think, even if it is nice this weekend, I will be too tired to get out and enjoy the beauty of spring because I am so exhausted from this week.

*     *     *

My job search is continuing in the midst of it all. I am looking for something permanent that will allow me to transition from summer work to part-time work in the fall as I finish my thesis, and then on to full-time afterward. Several firms have indicated their willingness to work with me to do this (it's quite common). I ask St. Joseph and St. Juan Diego for their intercession in this matter.

 *     *     *

I got coffee with Julio today and he made a comment that stuck in my mind. He was saying how problems grow with your age, but you always have little problems too. You think, "Well, when I graduate, I will be able to relax. When I have a job, I will be ok. When I am promoted, I will be happy." But really, it never ends. "And when you retire, you think about death I guess," he said with a smile. He said he has had to come to terms with each 'incarnation' of himself separately. I feel I have done the same. Ball State Matt is not the same as CUA Matt. I am not naive - part of growing is adapting to new problems and circumstances. But, it was just nice to hear someone I admire be a bit vulnerable about his own journey. It was reassuring. 

*     *     *

There are a lot of rumors flying around campus right now. I really don't like rumors. It is hard to resist dwelling on them or passing them along. I see rumors as perverted religious impulse. We crave the unknown. When we spread a rumor, we pass along our belief in something that may not be provable. The difference, of course, is that religion (Catholicism, more specifically) is based in truth. Rumors may be either true or false. I have been working on keeping my mouth shut more. I don't want to be complicit in spreading falsehoods, even if I think they may be true. It is better left unsaid until the truth is discovered.

Good Friday

"There flowed from his side water and blood. Beloved, do not pass over this mystery without thought; it has yet another hidden meaning, which I will explain to you. I said that water and blood symbolized baptism and the holy eucharist. From these two sacraments the Church is born: from baptism, the cleansing water that gives rebirth and renewal through the Holy Spirit, and from the holy eucharist. Since the symbols of baptism and the eucharist flowed from his side, it was from his side that Christ fashioned the Church, as he had fashioned Eve from the side of Adam. Moses gives a hint of this when he tells the story of the first man and makes him exclaim: Bone from my bones and flesh from my flesh! As God then took a rib from Adam’s side to fashion a woman, so Christ has given us blood and water from his side to fashion the Church. God took the rib when Adam was in a deep sleep, and in the same way Christ gave us the blood and the water after his own death."

--- St. John Chrysostom, from The Catechesis

Home for Holy Week

I am at home for a few days for Easter. This is the first time I've been home for Easter with my family for many, many years. At Ball State, we had no time off for Easter (indeed, many of our studio deadlines seemed to fall on Good Friday) so my family would come down to Muncie for the weekend.

Yesterday, I arrived home and spent much of the afternoon napping. Last night after dinner, I went with my parents for a drive out to the lake. It was the first time in a few years that I'd been to Grand Haven. We parked and walked along the riverfront out to the pier. It was sunny and mild, but as we reached the lake, it got windier and colder. There was still a lot of ice on the pier and on the beach side of the pier. The wind blowing across the ice made it pretty chilly. Still, it was nice to walk around and enjoy the sunlight and the beautiful sunset. We met an old man on the pier who appeared to be a local photographer. He was eager to tell us how much ice has melted in the past week (and how it compares to last year at this time, and sundry other factoids). Later, we joked that that would be my dad in retirement because he likes to strike up random conversations with strangers. We drove back to Grand Rapids and got ice cream with my little sister from the ice cream stand where I used to work. It was in the 60s even that late in the evening.

Grand Haven beach

Along the pier

"crazy people"

The snow fences are still up

Sunset

Pier

Today the rain was torrential. I went to the bank and paid off a loan I had taken to go to Paris. It was a nice feeling to have that taken care of. The teller was surprised when I asked for my balance to pay in its entirety. She said, "Like, the whole thing? We don't get too many people wanting to pay off the whole thing! Good for you!" I don't like the idea of being in debt. I read Independent People by Halldór Laxness last fall, and the plot centers on a character who has worked for eighteen years to be free of debt and has been overtaken with an extreme aversion to being indebted to anyone - even to the point of refusing charity. His quest for "independence" is exaggerated to point out its faults. But that was in rural Iceland in the early 20th Century. One was in debt to one's neighbors, not to vast banking conglomerates.

Saturday Prime

How long shall sinners, O Lord: how long shall sinners glory? / Shall they utter and speak iniquity? Shall all speak who work iniquity? / Thy people, O Lord, they have brought low: and they have afflicted thy inheritance. / They have slain the widow and the stranger and they have murdered the fatherless. / And they have said: The Lord shall not see. Neither shall the God of Jacob understand. / Understand, ye senseless among the people: and, you fools, be wise at last. / He that planted the ear, shall he not hear? Or he that formed the eye, doth he not consider? / He that chastiseth nations, shall he not rebuke: he that teaches man knowledge?

--- Psalm 93:3-10, Second Psalm for Prime on Saturday

Many good works

Today I went to mass at 12:30. It was the first time I've been to daily mass in awhile. The chapel was hot. We are at that time of year when the air conditioning is not on and one day of hot weather - like yesterday - can cause heat to linger in buildings for a bit. The priest was one I did not recognize. He had a booming, measured voice. He was a skilled orator. In his brief homily, he focused on these words from St. John's Gospel:

The Jews picked up rocks to stone Jesus. Jesus answered them, "I have shown you many good works from my Father. For which of these are you trying to stone me?"

--- John 10:32

I had never noticed this particular verse before. It is one where I can really hear the voice of Jesus for some reason - a verse where he sounds particularly human. There's just a tinge of sarcasm present. The priest asked us to consider the times that we attempt to metaphorically stone Jesus despite the blessings we are given continually. He then related the scene to the temptation of the devil in the desert: "You shall not put the Lord your God to the test." If something we want isn't given to us from God, what is our response to be? First, thanksgiving for the other blessings we have. Second, hope in the plan of divine providence which is beyond all of our understanding. 

This passage presents a difficult lesson in humility. After mass, there was exposition of the Blessed Sacrament. There's humility.

A Creole tune

Bamboula, Louis Moreau Gottschalk, 1848 - First learned of this piece reading David McCullough's The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris last summer. Gottschalk was from New Orleans, but wrote this piece in Paris as an attempt to synthesize Creole and African music with classical European piano.

Nothin' to see

Travel has always been a predominantly visually-focused endeavor. We have always wanted to see the sights, or if there were any sights worth seeing. In our Age of Instagram, the visual is even more paramount to the experience of travel. As an aspiring design professional, I am of course biased toward the visual both naturally and as a consequence of my education. In terms of our popular culture, I suppose that means that I could probably get more Instagrams-per-square-inch out of more places than the average non-designer.

But, what happens when there's "nothin' to see." In Louisiana, apart from New Orleans, I was told there was "nothin' to see." On the face of it, that's fairly accurate: "the sights" are few and far between. But, it's often a separate joy finding the poetry in the mundane and the routine - even if it's not visually arresting. You can't photograph the chewiness of a piece of crawfish, described by a friend as "a little dirty shrimp." One can take a photo of the magnificent live oaks that shade the campus of LSU, but you can't depict the joy that they bring to the eyes of a winter-bound Northerner who is amazed that such great green things are such an ordinary part of daily life in some places in the world. And, since I attempted it, you can't really photograph the sense of benevolent enclosure those magnificent trees provide. I'd almost consider moving South just for the trees. And what about the rain? In five days I encountered several species of that multifarious creature. There was the light rain that was largely intercepted by the live oaks, leaving the pathways damp but puddle-free; there were clouds that simply stooped to eye-level and deposited their moisture radiantly; and then there were downpours worthy of Noah, soaking, flooding, washing dirt where it shouldn't be and then washing it clean. Then there were the various sociologist's delights. There was the fraternity house of Delta Chi where I was lodging (my friend - a student affairs Masters student - took a job as their house director) which gave me a few fleeting glances beneath the surface of Greek life. The campus provided further people-watching opportunities. I was amazed at how easy I found it to pick out people who were of French descent - the long Norman faces and often long wavy hair I saw everywhere made it seem like I was looking through my grandmother's old family album. The Cajuns were Canadian before they were Louisianian after all.

Sometimes when there's nothin' to see, I think I come home with a better sense of the place and its people.

Concrete hills

Between Baton Rouge and New Orleans, I-10 runs its path and neither swamp nor lake nor width of bayou can stay its course. A good portion of the road is a causeway built above the bizarre merging of land and water at the west end of Lake Pontchartrain. Other parts of the same lake are prone to various acts of apparent hubris: a highway bisects it from north to south, power lines stand a mile out in the midst of the flat waters, laughing at anyone who thought that electricity and moisture couldn't be friends. But here lonesome trees claw their way out of the swamp, only to be assailed by Spanish moss. The earth undulates between wet and dry with baffling rapidity. The only hills are concrete - the road will occasionally lift itself over a particularly wide channel of murky water, or it will reach even more remote altitudes launching itself across other roadways. From the summit of these concrete hills, one gets an almost unsettling view of the landscape. One is not supposed to see from up here. This is the privileged domain of the pelicans and the egrets and the cranes. But then you're back to the pancake flatness of the marsh and the traffic, crawling along like an alligator.

Traditionalist Urbanist

Pope Pius X once said that the true friends of the people are neither the revolutionaries nor the innovators, but the traditionalists. This quotation sprang to mind the other day when I saw a little video on urbanism produced by Alain de Botton. In it, de Botton explores six principles for making a good, beautiful city. As usual, he is a bastion of sensibility, pointing out that we may not say that beauty is objective but few people vacation in Frankfurt or Birmingham. We instinctively are drawn to and swept up in certain "beautiful" cities that exemplify the points de Botton brings up.



The video, posted on ArchDaily - a prominent online architecture outlet - aroused a bit of criticism from the commentariat, who alleged that de Botton has nothing new to say. I would agree. De Botton is not advocating some sort of novel urban theory - the 20th Century is littered with failed urban utopias. Instead, he is pointing out that the successful characteristics of Paris or Barcelona can and should be exported and even demanded by the population. We know we like these places so why do we let those in power say that all is subjective and any development is inherently as beneficial as any other development? The world is becoming rapidly more urban, the question is whether we will demand the tried-and-true planning methods that have sustained and delighted humanity for thousands of years or else be seduced by the dollar and all of the revolutionaries and innovators it motivates.

Product of being busy

Often, when I have many things I need to work on, I feel more creative. I'll find myself procrastinating by putting my mental energies into things that I find more interesting. Part of me thinks its a complete and utter waste of time to indulge in this habit, yet, I can't help but thinking that sketching or designing for fun teaches me things that can be applied later. Or that allowing a creative outburst stimulates the brain and allows me to be more productive overall. In any event, I've been a flurry of activity lately, as we find ourselves in the pre-Spring Break crunch.

Today, I partially developed a design for a house. The behind-the-scenes work has its genesis in a number of thoughts I've been having about an ideal room. What does the ideal room for living look like? While in France, I was consistently drawn to the high ceilings and comfortable proportions that the French employ in their apartments. Part of the delight was due to the large, famed French windows that could be accommodated by the larger proportions of the room. My other inspiration is also French in a roundabout way - the beautiful home of our Paris studio professor here in Washington. He designed and built a house on a wooded site in northwest DC that takes advantage of heavy timber construction and a large "great room" that can be adapted to many uses.

So, back to the ideal room. Assuming myself as the client, what would my main living space look like? Where would I want to invite people for dinner? I think a large room would be ideal - with the kitchen elsewhere (I wouldn't want my dirty dishes on view during after dinner conversation). Not too much furniture, either. After our final dinner in Paris, we went back to my sketching professor's apartment, and the evening quickly turned into a salsa-dancing lesson - we were able to push all of the furniture to the edge of the room, open the windows and have a dancing extravaganza til the wee hours (the good Côtes du Rhône helped considerably). Regardless, the ability to be flexible is important to me. Of course, whenever I'm designing a house, I always think about what Christmas would look like there, and how Thanksgiving dinner could be accommodated. These rituals comprise only a fraction of the year, but then again, given their importance, shouldn't they be easily adapted into the architecture of a home?

Above, you can see the fruits of my labors. Essentially a two-story concrete box, the room makes use of a variety of wood details to add warmth. Steel beams and simple lightbulb light fixtures add a casual, industrial feel. Bookshelves divide the dining area from the entry hall and kitchen beyond. Upstairs, a small balcony overlooks the space, providing an isolated perch for reading. The master bedroom and a small office space are behind the balcony.

So now I've designed a house and taken the time to write about it. I really should get back to real work.

Je me souviens

"He thought of the war and the English with the same bitterness. How could French-Canadians -- the only real Canadians -- feel loyalty to a people who had conquered and humiliated them, and were Protestant anyway? France herself was no better; she had deserted her Canadians a century and a half ago, had left them in the snow and ice along the Saint Lawrence surrounded by their enemies, had later murdered her anointed king and then turned atheist. Father Beaubien had no fondness for the Germans and no wish for them to win the war; he knew nothing whatever about them. But he certainly knew if a people deserted God they were punished for it, and France was being punished now."

--- from Two Solitudes by Hugh Maclennan (1945)

The book Two Solitudes is apparently a landmark of Canadian literature (I confess my ignorance of all Canadian literature outright - unless you can count Life of Pi). It takes place during and after World War I in Quebec, and follows the soap-opera-esque actions of the aristocratic Tallards - an old French landowning family who practically run the small fictional town of Saint-Marc. Adding depth to the story are a Nova Scotia sea captain who buys land in Saint-Marc, causing a stir amongst the entirely French population; the parish priest who resents Mr Tallard's anticlerical streak; a prominent English banker in Montreal; and Mr Tallard's Irish wife and two sons. 

I remarked a few weeks ago about "the pre-revolution" and how interesting it is to me to see what gives rise to massive social change. In the 1960s, Quebec (and France, but that is a separate issue) went through a massive societal upheaval known as the Quiet Revolution. The Church and the conservative provincial government were swept out of politics and social life. What had been one of the most institutionally vibrant centers of global Catholicism saw all of its influence vanish almost overnight. Of course, the Quebecois still employ church vocabulary as swear-words, even if fewer and fewer of them understand their origin. 

In any event, Two Solitudes paints a rather convincing picture of pre-Quiet Revolution Quebec. The Church was The People and they both resented what they perceived as English intrusion on their land and their way of life. I read somewhere that apart from the various Native American cultures, the French Canadians and the American Confederacy are the only "defeated" peoples of North America. They are the only two groups who have been told that their way of life and their rights to self-determination are wrong. Of course, we can exhaust a lot of time arguing over the merits of each, but I present the comparison as a way of understanding the thinking of the time period. In any event, the Quebecois in the Nineteenth and early-Twentieth Century regarded the English in much the same way that a Southerner might've regarded a Yankee during Reconstruction. The difference, as you may have guessed, was the Quebecois saw their struggle through intensely religious eyes. Not only was their way-of-life being repudiated - their faith was as well.

Thus, it seemed only natural that Church and State would make an alliance to assail what both saw as a common enemy. Yet, not every French-Canadian refused to fight. And, after the war, Canada had begun to develop a cultural cohesion distinct from the rest of the British Empire. World War II sealed the deal, and the post-war economic boom brought prosperity to both English and French in Canada. Thus, what good were the old Church-approved nationalist arguments that hinged on English oppression? Hadn't the period of the Church's usefulness in French-Canadian society run its course? If the national government is going to allow our French schools and our French culture in our French province, why do our institutions still need to be in the hands of the Church?

This is in my mind when I read about people wanting to build "a Catholic culture" that simply stands in opposition to the mainstream. I think the experience of the French Canadians should give us pause to examine our motives. The Gospel is a freeing joy, not a hammer with which to pound away at a perceived grievance. A Catholic culture that rests on the joy of the Gospel - difficult though it may be - will be ten times stronger than one that has its basis in the negation of the current cultural climate. If that climate improves, at least one historical example warns us that the Church will have then have simply been viewed a means to an end.

Extraordinary architecture

As part of my research-assistant duties, I've been editing a collection of 700-some written accounts of people's 'extraordinary architectural experiences' which were submitted as part of a survey of over 3,000 people in 2007. Reading them closely - in addition to taking a hideously long time (the Word document is about 500 pages) - has been interesting. There are some patterns and some buildings (the usual suspects) that crop up again and again. But, it has gotten me thinking about what I would submit to such a survey. I have been fortunate to be quite well traveled in my short life, and I've seen a lot of architecture, but to boil it down to a few 'extraordinary experiences' would be difficult, let alone a single one. The other, more formidable trouble is how to muster the appropriate words to describe the experience. Many of the stories sound flat simply because what they are attempting to describe is as difficult as pinpointing what is special about the architecture in the first place. One particularly poignant story that sticks out in my mind simply said, "I have no words. If I did, why bother building?"

I think my post the other day about Casa Malaparte would be perhaps the closest I could get. But that was a single moment. I could never describe the whole experience of the architecture of that place in the same detail.

Driving in Iceland

In August (and again in December, under much different circumstances) I was in Iceland. I rented a car with my friend Brian who was traveling with me, and with it we were able to see a fair bit of the country. Iceland is a bit in vogue as the darling of the tourist industry at the moment, but I can certainly see why after traveling there: it is unlike any other earthly place I can think of. One of the great pleasures of traveling through the country is the vast expanses of nothingness one encounters for much of the ride.

Toward Fjallsárlón glacier

Wide expanse of volcanic rock covered in lichens in southern Iceland

Driving toward Grundarfjorður on the Snæfellsnes Peninsula

Between Seltún and Reykjavík

North of Akranes

Also north of Akranes

On the Snæfellsnes Peninsula

The north face of Snæfellsjökull, one of Iceland's largest volcanoes

The road across Snæfellsjökull

Negotiating right-of-way

Our Nissan Note on Mars or Snæfellsjökull

We thought it imprudent to go too much further up this road

Heading toward Skaftafell in southeast Iceland

Southern Iceland in the afternoon mists

It is all the more astonishing in my view to think that this land has been inhabited by people continuously since the 900s AD. Our American minds tend to associate pristine scenery with our own myth of the wild west - an uncivilized uninhabited region awaiting our Manifest Destiny. Though Iceland was a cultural backwater for most of its history, it was still inhabited. I just finished reading Iceland's Bell by Icelandic author and Nobel Laureate Halldór Laxness (his Independent People was arguably my favorite book of 2014, perhaps narrowly edging out Les Mis and Kristin Lavransdatter). In events of the novel take place during the 17th Century, when the Danes had a political and economic death grip on Iceland. It was a challenge in reading the book to imagine these descendants of Vikings struggling mightily against the Danish Crown for some scrap of honor against the backdrop of such noble wonders of creation.