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.

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.

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.

The floating red house

The other day, I finished reading The Skin by the Italian author/political chameleon Curzio Malaparte. The book is chilling, bizarre, and basically a-moral, but, more than any other book I've read it captures well the absurdity of war and its aftermath - in this case Naples under American "liberation". I would have never encountered the work of Malaparte had I not visited his home in Capri in September as part of a three-day architecture workshop. Below is an excerpt from my journal:

For the better part of this afternoon, Maria and I sat in the wood-paneled dining room at a heavy wooden table next to a little window that faced the sea. In the corner was a German stove - the kind you might find in a Munich bierhalle. On it were stacks of Malaparte's literary oeuvre in all of the languages of Babel. From where I sat, in the corner, I could see into the small foyer and out onto the front patio that blazed red in the afternoon sun. There was no relief in the typically azure sea beyond - the sun was at its zenith and the crests of the undulating waves were stark white. The sky was pale and dehydrated. The two became one flesh where the horizon should've been. The cat, Luna, had given up her pestering and was guarding the open front door. Outside of the window at my right, shady pine trees of the peculiar Mediterranean variety screened the view out toward the towering cliffs - cathedrals of a type that soar out of the water and continue to the heavens. But, like the mighty Cathedral of Rouen commanding the end of the narrow street, the cliffs stopped my view abruptly with a jumbled jaggedness of dry earth.

I had begun to feel more and more unsettled the longer I sat on that dark wooden bench. I got up several times to have a glass of water from the adjacent sparkling silver kitchen. But, every time I sat down, the twirling of my stomach would return. Looking out the window at the otherwise magnificent scenery was akin to looking at a flat, foreshortened tableau, not unlike a painting from the early Renaissance or a Chinese mountain print. The psychological problem, I later decided, was that I could not see the horizon nor the sky but was able to see very far laterally. It was as if I was constantly looking through binoculars at the cliffs. The only other time I've had this experience was when I was once on a cruise ship - as we sailed past that variety of mountain that plunges itself into the sea. That's what my body and mind were expecting. They thought - I thought - that I should be sailing along the coast of Capri, sitting in a German cabin enclosed in a floating red cloud. When the afternoon of work was done and it was time to go upstairs for espresso and orange cake, I stared at the horizon from the main room. The sky was purple and the sea was gray. I had missed that dear boundary between boundless expanses.

I have not had this experience since. It was visceral, physical, and extremely odd. It is one of the many reasons that extraordinary house will stay burned in my memories.

Here, you can see the house perched on its promontory, with the cliffs beyond. The dining room is on the other side.

Here, you can see the narrowness of the house on its little sliver of rock.

Theory

Much steam has been blown up the skirt of the architectural establishment by a recent survey by the Royal Institute of British Architects that claims that architecture students are not "well-prepared" for work upon graduation. The survey then cites a majority opinion that "theory" occupies too much curricular space while practical skills are not given enough weight.

This article is but one facet of conversations and thoughts I've been having on this topic for some time. Should architecture morph back to a vocational-style education like it once was? Certainly the apprenticeship model has its values. However, it seems unlikely that the educational-industrial complex would give in to this mentorship-based model easily. The rest of the debate has centered simply on the rather utilitarian demand that "students need to know how a building goes together." This is typically coupled with a complaint that recent grads aren't proficient enough at the software du jour. The trend that results has been one that has happened much more quickly in other fields: the morphing of curricula whose goal is education into curricula whose goal is skill-centric.

Though I am skeptical of this trend generally, I am particularly troubled by its application with apparent vigor to architecture. I read once on the popular photography site "Humans of New York" that the person interviewed for the photo said "You cannot escape the architect. Every other art you can avoid or at least marginalize if you wish." This has, obviously, stuck with me. Our works are permanent fixtures in our places of habitation. Our profession is one that has a striking responsibility to the public of today and the future. We are not mere artists, we are professionals who provide what amounts to a public service - whether the particular commission is public or not. No one can escape the architect - that's a pretty lofty responsibility that we must shoulder as a profession.

My point here is that architectural theory and architectural history are perhaps more needed today than ever before. We, as a profession, must have a cogent philosophy about design. We must be knowledgeable about principles and trends that have proven successful (and unsuccessful) in the past. We must confront how our work will impact the public. We must consider what our aesthetic choices communicate. We must have at least a view of what it all means. Nihilism does not work when the object of our profession is the creation of something - something that the public may not be able to "escape" for many generations. Our popular culture may tell us that nothing really matters, but this is no philosophical basis on which to conceive great architecture. The architect, the good architect, must be convinced that what he is doing matters. If it matters only to himself, he may be an egoist, but at least he is, at minimum, considering someone. Obviously, the good architect would be more wide-reaching in his viewpoint.

In reality, most students of architecture will not design a building until mid-career - if even then. The slow processes of construction demand a late-blooming profession. Architectural academia is essentially educating students for their mid-to-late career. Much "practical" information is learned quickly in the workplace environment. There is a learning curve, but that is to be expected. I think it is short-sighted and a disservice to the nobility of the profession for firms to demand mastery of a panoply of fairly-easily-learned skills upon graduation. I believe education should instead promote the development of the full person - including reflection upon the individual and his place in the world. Yes, philosophy is impractical, but that is what makes it important. No person acts un-philosophically. That is, we each operate according to our over-arching beliefs. Discovery and development of these beliefs is one of the manifold purposes of education, and should not be jettisoned in favor of mere utility.

At this juncture, I will descend from my digital soapbox.

Born in a barn

After a long hiatus including - among other things - four months in Paris, I am back in Washington, back at the grindstone of my last year of academic study, and back - incidentally - at the drawing board. Why not inaugurate the year of Our Lord two thousand and fifteen with a bit of paper architecture? This particular design is for a small parish church (seating perhaps 200-300 persons). The seeds of this scheme have been germinating for quite some time now (including while in Paris). The genesis was a small corner of the fascinating architectural museum at the Cité de l'architecture et du patrimoine where there were several models of the wooden structure of European barns exhibited. The one below caught my eye:

Of course, perhaps it says something about a mental imbalance of mine that the first thing I thought of when I saw that model was "man, this would make an interesting church!" Perhaps instead the thought came to mind because it reminded me both of the St. Henry Ecumenical Chapel in Finland and - albeit more tangentially - to Kramer Chapel on the campus of Concordia Lutheran Seminary in Fort Wayne.

Whatever the method, my brain began associating these varying images. One of my personal challenges when I undertake a theoretical design such as the one below - free from all constraints of budget and disobliging clients - is to strike the appropriate note when it comes to traditional architecture. Many have noted well that we may be in the midst of a nascent renaissance [a rebirth about to be born? Etymology...] of Catholic church architecture. Indeed, the "heavy hitters" of the movement such as Duncan Stroik, James McCrery, and others, have already blazed an encouraging path. However, I must confess that it sometimes leaves me a bit unsettled. Perhaps I have been too much indoctrinated by architectural modernists, but I can't help but feeling like much neo-traditional church building is a bit artificial. Much of the work seems archaeological; going to the high Renaissance or the Counter-Reformation for example, and choosing your favorite model to build cheaply.

Of course, I generalize, but I also don't think it need work this way. I am convinced we can develop an architecture that points to God and to Catholic truth without slapping Corinthian columns and pink marble on every sanctuary we come across. Yet, the iconoclasm and disorientation of churches in the dominant contemporary idiom of the moment go in a far worse direction. I certainly don't have all of this figured out - and I probably never will - but I will just reiterate by saying that this intellectual feeling outlined above is constantly in my mind when I put pen to paper for these sorts of little exercises.

Back to the church at hand. Thus inspired by the above precedents and thoughts, I did a few studies of different elements in my sketchbook. I liked how in the original barn model the wood structure was so expressive and layered. I also enjoyed how readable the structural principles were: wooden arch descending to rest on heavy stone walls. Now, nobody goes to church with the intention of a structures lesson, but it speaks to a deeper point nonetheless. Intelligibility and reason are two aspects of God that figure prominently in our thinking about the incarnate logos Jesus Christ. God created an intelligible and ordered universe which we are to have careful stewardship over. Building in a manner consistent with the logic and proportions (and materials) found in nature reveals our thoughts on the universe and our place in it.

After considering what I had drawn, I was unsure what the overall feeling would be, so I quickly built a prototype in SketchUp to see how the trusses would work together. As this was a quick, half-baked study, I just borrowed some elements from a previous design to mock up the sanctuary and the pews, etc. I was pleased with the overall form and impression given by the design. However, in the original model, the roof would've covered the entire structure, allowing daylight only through small windows in the stone walls. In a church I think that lack of light would be inexcusable (though it is the case in some of the more horrific suburban churches thrown up in the 70s). I decided on a sort of skylight method that would allow light in above the main arch of the nave. Playing with the shadow settings in SketchUp, I was pleasantly surprised with the way the light would play off the surface of the ceiling and filter through the trusses.

So, I stopped there for awhile until coming back to the project just yesterday. I've been pretty busy this week working for my professor on a very, very, VERY, tedious project (the joys of being a research assistant!), and I needed some time to do something creative. As the process of this design has been largely an interior matter, I went for an exterior view:

This design is a variant of a couple of aesthetic themes that litter my sketchbooks. The first is the "big triangle". Now, gabled roofs are nothing new in church design, but they are seldom very expressive. The major exception are the small English Gothic parish churches that are often almost all gable but typically feature a little bell-tower at the peak. Perhaps I am being too Postmodern, but I love the symbolism and power of the pure gabled roof (it calls to mind images of home, points the eyes heavenward, and even has a monumental purity because of its descent from the pyramid). Thus, the "big triangle" fits in well with the other theme I enjoy developing which is austerity - particularly in its Art Deco-ish manifestations: pure, largely unornamented geometrical volumes combining in varying compositions.

Thus, in this scheme, there is little exterior ornament. It is applied sparingly where it would be to greatest effect. The most detailed portion of the entire exterior are the portals - arguably where most people would come into direct contact with the building. Thus, I've hinted at perhaps carved tympanums (tympana?) above the doors and perhaps a carved saint or two in the niches flanking the central door. Beyond that, the exterior is quite severe.

Today, I took another look at the interior - paying close attention to the sanctuary, which I had not given thought to in the first SketchUp iteration. Again, ornament and detail is applied where it can be to maximum effect - here it is at the altar and the reredos. The form of the altar and its setting is based on the design of the exterior portals at the front of the church. A symbol often co-opted from the Romans in the basilican churches of the Mediterranean was that of the triumphal arch: Christ's death has opened the gates to heaven, toward which we gaze during the Holy Mass. It is architecturally and theologically fitting, then, that the priest - the alter Christus - would stand at such a gate to offer the holy sacrifice.

The rest of the sanctuary is traditionally arranged. Several steps separate the altar from the floor of the sanctuary, which is itself a few steps up from the nave. Certain folks with certain agendas may say that this engenders a much too clerical view of the mass. However, apart from the purely practical benefit of making the actions of the altar more visible, the elevation of the altar has beautiful scriptural symbolism. I think of the Psalmist singing "Who shall ascend the mountain of the Lord, and who shall stand in this holy place" and Isaiah saying "Get you up to a high mountain, O Zion, herald of good tidings; lift up your voice with strength [...] say to the cities of Judah 'Behold your God!'" and of course one also thinks of the Lord's ascent to Calvary which gives meaning and weight to both images.

A Church

After what seems like months away from my own personal drawing board, I've recently made a creative inroad or two. I've returned to my usual muse, Mater Ecclesia, for a few graphic thoughts on the relationship between tradition and modernity. The program chosen is that of a small parish church (perhaps seating 250-300 people).

click to view larger

I was inspired by a number of historical precedents in the development of this scheme. There are allusions to the Ottonian Hallenkirche of the former Holy Roman Empire. The material patterning hearkens to the playfulness of Siena Cathedral, while the alternating stone surrounding the altarpiece is a small (and very toned-down) homage to Mario Botta - one of the preeminent postmodern masters - and his chapel at Mogno, Switzerland. American Art Deco sensibilities play out in the relative streamlining and minimizing of detail throughout. The image of Christ used for the altar mosaic comes from the Medieval Codex Bruchsal. 

The sanctuary follows a very traditional layout, making it ideal for both the celebration of the Traditional Latin Mass, or a Novus Ordo Mass said ad orientem. Permit me a small digression on the orientation of liturgy. Notwithstanding all of the sound theological reasons for facing toward God as a whole community during worship, having the altar arranged in the more traditional manner often works so much better from an architectural standpoint. A freestanding altar necessarily requires a larger sanctuary, which, depending on the size of the church, can distort the cohesiveness of the sanctuary as a whole. In short - a freestanding altar has a higher probability of getting visually lost in a sea of objects. In this case, I have contrasted an ornately vested altar against a slab of gray stone, so that the eye is naturally drawn toward it, then to the tabernacle, the crucifix, and finally to the Son of God, occupying what in Old Testament theology would be termed the Mercy Seat.  

On a more mundane note, this project was entirely developed in SketchUp, with only the shadows and lighting added later in Photoshop. It's a technique I've been working on for about a year now, and I think I've finally been able to strike an appropriate balance.

Allergic to tradition

Yesterday, in a class I am taking, our midterm project was due. It was a fairly straightforward project: we were to design a small daily mass chapel for an ugly, sprawling suburban Catholic parish in Mt Vernon. Mine was quite small and plain (more out of lack of time devoted to the project than to any philosophical reason). I presented it well and the professor nodded approvingly throughout. It was going well until, while a section view of the chapel looking toward the altar was on the screen, he furrowed his brow.

"What is that thing in front of the altar?" he asked, referring to a horizontal line about 16in above the floor, with numerous vertical lines joining it to the floor every 2 feet or so.

"Oh, that's just where the section cut went through the first row of chairs in the digital model," I replied, truthfully.

"Oh!" he replied, looking very relieved. "I thought it was a communion rail! I would've had to fail you on the spot!" he laughed. "But, they're coming back, you know. Some of these priests these days are trying to carve out some sort of precinct for themselves. It's recidivism."

I attempted to muster the blandest expression I could before concluding my presentation and returning to my seat.

There you have, in one little portable story, summed up my frustrations with this class. It's not that the traditions of the Church are debated from a theological point of view, weighing the arguments for and against a certain practice - that would be an acceptable academic pursuit, in my opinion. It's that tradition is simply scoffed at and derided, as if having a communion rail was at once the silliest and most ghastly thing one could do to a church. 

A papal palace in Jerusalem

The idea of such a project is enough to get each and every hair on each and every conspiracy theorist's head to stand on end. But, apparently, someone in the early 20th Century did not think the project entirely too far-fetched. Glancing through my copy of The Master Drawings of Otto Wagner the other day, on an entirely different errand, I discovered these beguiling watercolors. The proposal was authored in 1912 by Josef Heinisch, an Austrian architect who was very much a devotee of the Jugendstil, as was Wagner. Further commentary and background information are not provided.

I suspect that this was simply a student project, rather than any sort of official proposal sanctioned by the Holy See. However, at that time Pope Pius X was on the Chair of Peter and the papacy was still essentially a "prisoner of the Vatican". Relations with the Kingdom of Italy were chilly at best, and there was some talk throughout the years previous of the papacy moving. The Ottomans, who controlled the Middle East at the time, were not favorably disposed toward Italy, a stance which could have theoretically engendered an alliance with the popes. In any event, there was enough back story to make this pass muster as a decent theoretical project for a student to undertake.

An aerial view of the complex

The plan, as a whole, resembles that of one of the great French Gothic cathedrals

The elevation. Note the inscription. Rather interesting considering our current Jesuit Pontiff.

Section through the church.

Two Saint-Jeans

We remarked at winding length on these pages a few days ago about the seigneurial system of New France, and its semi-feudal underpinnings. Since then, I have come across two beautiful relics of those days which now function as museums. They both exhibit typically French features in their architecture, and look as though they would be just as comfortable in Normandy as in Quebec. The first is the seigneurial manor of Saint-Jean-Port-Joli, located on the south side of the St Lawrence, downriver (which is to say, northeast) from Quebec City:

Red, white, and beige do seem to be the dominant palette in La Belle Province. And, look at that steep sloped roof, managing to keep the inundating Canadian snow at bay. The second manor is also in a place called Saint-Jean, but this Saint-Jean is located on the Ile d'Orleans, the large island that sits astride the St Laurence immediate north and east of Quebec City. This is the famed Mauvide-Genest manor, which was completed in 1734:

This house is certainly more manorial in its bearing, being a full two stories and exhibiting more detail in terms of door and window openings. This manor was the seat of a seigneur who possessed a portion of one of the most ancient areas of French Canada. The Ile d'Orleans, due to its proximity to Quebec City and its fertile soils, was one of the first places to be colonized. Many of my own ancestors can be found among the island's records. Some, in fact, even came from Saint-Jean. It is interesting to think of them working the land for the gentleman who resided in this very house. Their residences would probably be more akin to his type of home (also located on the Ile d'Orleans):

This is a typical example of the small cottages built by the habitants in New France. They are simple, but certainly have an elegance about them. The fine view of the Laurentian Mountains in the background certainly does not hurt their case either.

Churches of Quebec

La Belle Province is home to the finest collection of French Colonial architecture anywhere in the New World. Because of Quebec's relatively sparse population and largely undisturbed culture (away from the St. Lawrence, that is), the province is littered with hundreds of beautiful churches dating from the 17th century to the early 20th century. Here are a few to give you a taste. These are taken from the fascinating Flickr group Églises du Québec. Of course, I will remind the readers that I have 300 years of Québecois ancestry on my mother's side of the family, so I have a special interest in the history of that part of the continent.

 

As you can see, there is some stylistic variation, but the uniformity of building materials (granite walls, limestone details, tin roofs) leads to a fairly cohesive architectural genre. Much like the stereotypical white, neoclassical Congregational church of New England, the paroisse stood at the center of the cultural life of New France - first out of a necessity for social cohesion in the face of the wilderness, and later as a bastion against British imperialism. With these two exterior pressures largely gone, Quebec has become one of the most religiously arid places in the Catholic world. Though, in a typical display of Québecois contrarianism, the crucifix remains steadfastly affixed to the wall of the provincial parliament chambers in Quebec City. Only time will tell what the fate of these beautiful buildings will ultimately be.

This and That

Washington is a great city for strolling

National Gallery of Art - East Building

Basilica in the evening

Rosslyn Jazz Festival with friends new and old

Cruising up to Georgetown with friends

My family at my cousin's wedding - 13 September

Beacon Hill, Boston - 22 September

The Mall nearly empty during day one of the gov't shutdown

Morning at the Southwest Waterfront

Old Airmen Cemetery near my residence

Donald Cardinal Wuerl, Archbishop of Washington visiting the Crough Center at CUA

Lecture and reception at the Italian Embassy with architect Claudio Silvestrin

Fall 2013 Sacred Space/Cultural Studies studio with Walton Critic Claudio Silvestrin

Hiking in Shenandoah

St. Anthony of Padua in DC's Brookland neighborhood

Sundry Happenings

After six days of rain, the District of Columbia has finally settled into its sunny autumn that I've been told so much about. Today it was remarkably pleasant, as was yesterday, which happened to be Columbus Day. It was as good of an excuse as any to have the day off of classes. I can only hope the current mild pleasantness of the climate continues apace throughout the week and weekend, to make thorough amends for the recent gloom.

However, the recent gloom did/does seem to fit the current political mood in the city. As you well know, la crise budgétaire continues, bringing new feats of partisan brinkmanship to the fore with each passing day. We have observed it all up close here in the Capitol, from the WWII vets' peculiarly-necessary storming aux barricades, to the man igniting himself with gasoline in the middle of the Mall, to the woman attempting to ram her little car through the bollards around the Capitol building. It's been an eventful two weeks.

*     *     *

It is interesting to now be classified as one of those "inside-the-beltway" types. Geographically, it's true. But, we know that habitat influences habit. I have found myself much more in tune to the goings-on (or not-goings-on, as the case may be) of the federal government, simply by osmosis. And, let me say, I don't particularly like what I'm absorbing. There is a fundamental malaise that seems to underlie everyone's discussion of things federal. Polarizing doesn't even begin to express it in my opinion. There are quite simply two (or three) visions for the future of this country that cannot come to grips with the reasons the others even exist, let alone contemplate their points of policy. There is something in the political air lurking behind the garbage fumes rising from the piles of uncollected trash. It ain't pretty. But, I don't really know what we can do about it. 

One professor at Ball State, who was one of my mentors, tweeted something the other day to the effect of, "In addition to all of the theatrics, Americans need to take the shutdown as a time to reflect upon what their government is for." I think that's happening bit by bit. Will there be a full-blown revolution or reformation of the federal government? It's hard to say. The mood is here, that's for sure. And, I think, if the "standoff-and-shutdown" mentality continues on down the road, people may start to seriously look at the 9th and 10th Amendments. Already, states are nullifying federal laws (California and the NDAA, for instance). Remember the last time states started nullifying federal laws? I'm no conspiracy theorist, but I do know some history.

*     *     *

Yet, amidst such uncertainties, life must carry on. The spheres inscribed on the city by my various comings and goings rarely intrude upon the realms of political thought. Rather, at the fore lately has been Claudio Silvestrin's presence in studio. I must truly eat my words from the beginning of the semester. It has been a pleasure (albeit a subtle one) to have Claudio back in studio. How to describe him? It is a difficult task. His round, bald face hardly ever displays emotion. He communicates more by pressing his lower lip forcefully into his upper lip and by furrowing (and un-furrowing) his brow than by speech. Yet, he does speak, though with few words, spoken with a rather intriguing British-Italian accent. When critiquing, he will say something like, "You should work in section." And then he will pause, purse his lips, look up and nod slowly at you. And then he'll look back at the papers in front of him and continue: "It will clarify what is happening here. You must have clarity of thought, purity of intention. That comes with clarity of drawing. Don't idolize drawing. Use it to clarify the thoughts you have up here." He'll slowly press his fat fingers into his bald head, look up, nod again, squint his eyes, perhaps wink, and then stand up and leave. It's unlike anything I've ever experienced in architecture school, but it's bizarrely helpful in a way.

*     *     *

This week, there are two lectures of significance. I hope they continue the high standard set last week by Craig Dykers, principal of the award winning Norwegian/American firm Snøhetta, who delivered a fantastic lecture at CUA. One of my favorite lines was, "I have never seen anyone enter a building, drop to their knees and exclaim, 'My God, what a fantastic concept!'" You could feel the academics in the room squirming, but the students loved it. Claudio was unamused. 

Tomorrow, the National Building Museum (mercifully unaffected by the shutdown) will host Japanese architect Toyo Ito, the 2013 Pritzker Prize laureate. Mr Ito, perhaps to the chagrin of Mr Dykers, is devoted to a highly conceptual view of architecture. I will say flat out that I dislike most, if not all of his built works. However, it is still an incredible opportunity to hear from such an icon in the profession. And I find most architects are much less polemical than their buildings, allowing principles to be extracted from their words that perhaps get obscured by their architecture. I am hoping this is the case.

Lastly, our friend Claudio Silvestrin will be lecturing on Thursday evening at the Italian Embassy. The studio is all a-flutter over this particular outing. Such excitement occurs when students are promised good Italian food and wine at the reception following the lecture. So, it promises to be a good evening mingling with the Italians.

*     *     *

I am reading Les Miserables. I am about 200 pages in (of 1200-something). It is very good so far. I appreciate the digressions (sometimes chapters long) that Hugo delves into. They add a layer of authenticity to the narrative. I am also intrigued by many of the Catholic themes I am picking up on throughout the story. I say intrigued because Victor Hugo was decidedly anti-clerical (most clearly exemplified in The Hunchback of Notre Dame). But that is neither here nor there at the moment.

*     *     *

Catholic society is rather abuzz here in Washington because of the new chapter of Juventutem that is being launched under the auspices of the new Oratory-in-Formation at St Thomas in Woodley Park. Juventutem is an youth apostolate devoted to the traditional Latin mass. I am very pleased that such a group is being established here. They will be sponsoring a Solemn High Mass of Requiem on All Soul's Day that I look forward to attending. 

In other news, Cardinal Wuerl, our esteemed archbishop, was on campus today to see projects done by fourth-year architecture students during their time in Rome last spring. The site for their project was the piazza outside San Pietro in Vincoli, which is Cardinal Wuerl's titular church in Rome. He was happy to see all of the projects and tell stories about the church itself and the relics it holds (namely, St. Peter's chains). He also discussed the conclave a bit - most specifically the electric excitement the cardinals felt after electing Francis.

There is No God in that Church

British-Italian architect, Claudio Silvestrin, is the 2013 Walton Critic at the Catholic University of America. He is with us for three weeks in my studio, teaching and critiquing. Last night, he came to our Theory of Sacred Space class and spoke at length with us in question-and-answer format. Some of his most interesting points, in my opinion, revealed his views on modern church design, and where he sees design flaws. I say they were interesting, not because they were radical, but rather because his criticisms sounded radically traditional. Given Silvestrin's devotion to minimalism, I was taken aback by some of his answers. Here, I have reproduced from my notes, his points relevant to church architecture. These comments were in answer to a variety of questions, but I have reproduced them collected and organized.

Question: How do you understand a church? And, what makes a successful church?

Silvestrin: Well, I have never designed a church yet. I would love to design a new cathedral every week, but the Church has not approached me yet. I do not consider any of my works sacred, as such. That would be blasphemy. It is blasphemy to call a boutique, or a restaurant, or even a house, sacred. It is too far. They have moments that touch the soul, yes, but they are not sacred. As for a church, it is a house for God. An architect must not design for only the client, or worse, only for the satisfaction of his ego. Rather, his work is primarily for God. Architecture, like the priesthood, is a calling. Modern churches have forgotten God. They are acts of ego only. They are not houses of God, they are houses of men. Man is at the center of modern churches. Design decisions are based on man, not on God. I went to Ronchamp. It is a great work of architecture. But, that is it. It is a great design by a great architect. That is what I sensed when I was there. There is no God in that church. 

On my way home to London from holiday, I drove way out of my way into Germany to see Peter Zumthor's chapel. I admire Zumthor. So, I went to the chapel. From the outside, it sits very modestly in the landscape. It is unobtrusive, it has a good material quality. All well and good. But as you enter, you must go through this sharp, aggressive triangular door. It is not at all about God. Inside, it felt like a place for the devil, not a place for God.

The great sacred places are all made from natural materials. They have a certain life and vibration. Stone and wood have vibrations that they bring to a building. Concrete, plastic, steel, glass, do not! They are flat, fake, and empty of all vibration! You cannot make a good church out of concrete! Never! It has no vibration, no soul, no life, no history. It is of the machine. You can feel the cold cut of the machine, not the warmth of man's touch, as in wood or stone.

The architect doesn't design a church for himself, he designs it firstly for God. Nobody knows who the architects of the great cathedrals are. The monks built their monasteries for God. They didn't "design" them. They built them honestly, and with purity of intention. That is what gives them their immense power. There is no ego in a Cistercian monastery [Claudio, being a minimalist, is partial to the Cistercian aesthetic]. The architect must disappear in some cases - to reveal the essence of something.

St Anton Kirche

Zurich is not particularly renowned for its Catholicism. The reformer Huldrych Zwingli succeeded in converting most of the city to his version of Protestantism during the course of the Reformation. Catholics in Zurich, as in Scandinavia, Britain, and other Protestant nations, were largely marginalized until the mid Nineteenth Century. Yet, there are some Catholic gems to be found even in iconoclastic Zurich. This church, in Zurich's fashionable Hottingen neighborhood, was built at the beginning of the Twentieth Century. Karl Moser, the foremost proponent of the Art Nouveau (or Jugendstil) in Switzerland, was the architect.

It's reserved exterior is quite handsome. It preserves the traditional facade of a church, while introducing bits of modernity in terms of the detailing and the materials. It is a very elegant exercise in architectural continuity. The tower is especially lovely, and bears a striking resemblance to the campanile on the campus of Cornell University.

The interior provides many lessons on how church architects today, often faced with tight budgets, might make the most of a parish's resources. It is not overdone in terms of ornament, yet the ornamental scheme that is employed is sound, unified, and beautiful.

Expensive materials are used sparingly around the sanctuary, while the remainder of the iconography is basically all painting. Yet, the richness of the colors and the clear orientation of the painting prevent it from seeming too "tacked on" to the whole. It is a shame that a meager Ikea-table-altar is used instead of the magnificent original high altar.

Visible Celebrations of Tenderness

Although we belong to a species which spends an alarming amount of its time blowing things up, every now and then we are moved to add gargoyles or garlands, stars or wreaths, to our buildings for no practical reason whatever. In the finest of these flourishes, we can read signs of goodness in a material register, a form of frozen benevolence. We see in them evidence of those sides of human nature which enable us to thrive rather than simply survive. These elegant touches remind us that we are not exclusively pragmatic or sensible: we are also creatures who, with no possibility of profit or power, occasionally carve friars out of stone and mould angels onto walls. In order not to mock such details, we need a culture confident enough about its pragmatism and aggression that it can also acknowledge the contrary demands of vulnerability and play - a culture, that is, sufficiently unthreatened by weakness and decadence as to allow for visible celebrations of tenderness.

- Alain de Botton, The Architecture of Happiness

Lou Kahn on Our Epoch

About a month ago, I was working late in my office, as is my custom, and a man working with me said, "I would like to ask you a question which has been on my mind for a long while... How would you describe this epoch?"

This man is Hungarian, who came to this country when the Russians entered Hungary. I pondered this question because, somehow, it fascinates me to answer questions to which I do not know the answer.

But I had just been reading in the New York Times Magazine of the things that had been going on in California. I had visited California, and I went through Berkeley, and I noticed the size of the revolution, and the great promises of the machine, and I felt, as I had read recently, that there were poets who were trying to write poems without words.

I sat for at least ten minutes, without moving, reviewing in my mind all these things, and finally I said to Gabor, "What is the shadow of white light?"

Gabor has a habit of repeating what you say, "White light... white light... I don't know." And I said, "Black. Don't be afraid, because white light does not exist, nor does black shadow exist."

I think that it is a time of our sun on trial, of all our institutions on trial.

I was brought up when the sunlight was yellow, and the shadow was blue. But I see it clearly as being white light, and black shadow. Yet this is nothing alarming, because I believe that there will come a fresh yellow, and a beautiful blue, and that the revolution will bring forth a new sense of wonder. Only from wonder can come our new institutions... they certainly cannot come from analysis.

And I said, "You know, Gabor, if I could think what I would do, other than architecture, it would be to write a new fairy tale, because from the fairy tale came the airplane, and the locomotive, and the wonderful instruments of our minds... it all came from wonder."

- Louis I. Kahn, 1968

Resonating

This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they're a cloud of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

- Rumi

*      *      *

Sine I first read this poem last week, it has been resonating with me and my current situation. We are reading the poetry of Rumi as part of our introductory regiment for studio. Rumi has been much in vogue among New Age-ers and the like for some of his more universalist views. But, I echo both Thomas Aquinas who advised seeking truth wherever it may be found and a Polish proverb that points out that even broken clocks are right twice per day.

So early in my experience here in DC, I never know what the day will hold. There are many possibilities for both happiness and sorrow. Friendships are slowly developing, perhaps too slowly for my liking. I come from a vast network of friends, for whom I am very grateful. But, none of them are around. This is a new feeling for me. It isn't like freshman year either, where life in the residence halls provided a ready-made social environment.

This is not to say I am unhappy - far from it. We are just in unfamiliar territory at the moment. Every morning is truly a new arrival.

*      *      *

Tomorrow, there is an information meeting for the campus Knights of Columbus council. I look forward to getting to know some of the men on campus involved in that organization. Next week there are call-out meetings for both the American Institute of Architecture Students and USGBC Students, catering to architecture students specifically. I was involved in both organizations at Ball State and look forward to the opportunities they'll bring here.

So, there are things on the horizon. Organizations, meetings, and minutes will surely come in due time. Which again reinforces the awkwardness of the current moment. I know I will be busy soon enough. I know I will be longing for solitude and peace soon enough. Which means I should soak it all in now with gratitude. I am attempting to do so.

*      *      *

Daily mass is offered in Caldwell Chapel on campus at 12:30pm. I can go every day if I please. I have gone twice so far. I like daily mass because of its succinctness and its silence. Today we chanted the sung portions of the mass a cappella. It was hauntingly beautiful in its simplicity. No microphones, no piano, just the human voice rising to God.

Last week, the university's chancellor, Donald Cardinal Wuerl, the Archbishop of Washington, was on hand to offer a special Mass of the Holy Spirit for the opening of the academic year. The faculty were in attendance in full academic regalia, and the Apostolic Nuncio was present alongside a host of priests from area religious houses. It was a grand and solemn occasion that lasted nearly two hours. The grandeur of the celebration matched the grandeur of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception - a rare feat.

*      *      *

I have been reflecting on how interesting it is to be back at a Catholic school. In a very interesting way, I think it was beneficial for me to have spent four years away. I loved Ball State, but it is so refreshing to be at a place unfettered from the bonds of political correctness and absolute relativism. This openness to discussion of faith - but also philosophy and more general spiritual things - is pervasive on campus. The studio concentration I have chosen, Sacred Space and Cultural Studies, confronts the metaphysical and spiritual dimensions of being directly, so that architecture can be in service to the whole person. 

Thus, having discussions on truth, beauty, faith, becomes integral to the progression of architectural education. Again, it feels as though I am breathing new and wondrously fresh springtime air. My past experiences of architectural education dared not even broach the questions of what makes architecture "good" or "beautiful". The relativistic tiptoeing-on-eggshells responses of professors were designed to be purposely vague so that one theory of what makes good architecture is not valued more than another. Of course, this was coupled with a nearly universal disdain for anything remotely traditional. At least here, everyone is showing their cards. I am enrolled in a studio that will be exploring minimalism. I have my own intellectual baggage about minimalism, but at least I know where I'm headed. I may be being cleared out for a new delight.

*      *      *

Campus is thronged by priests and religious in their habits. Seeing the variety of habits, cassocks, etc. gladdens my heart. It's like seeing a policeman or fireman in their uniform - you know that these men and women have put their lives at the service of others (and God, in this case). I wish the wider culture could see more priests and religious properly dressed out and about. It is such a counter-cultural sign to this self-obsessed era of ours.

*      *      *

I don't have air-conditioning in my apartment. This has taken some getting used to, as it has been routinely in the 90s since I moved in. The humidity is what really kicks my butt. I have never sweated so much in my life as I have the past two weeks. But, I am learning to cope, slowly but surely. Hydration is key, and I find myself drinking water at intervals that would've seemed preposterous in Muncie. Luckily, the evenings have been cool, so sleep has not been an issue. 

*      *      *

This past weekend, my friend Heather arrived for a visit of a few days. It was so very nice to have someone here to spend time with - especially such a good friend. I got to play tour guide around DC - it's amazing how quickly I'm becoming oriented to everything. It was fun to play tourist a little bit. We went to the National Gallery of Art, the monuments, the Air and Space Museum, caught the Army Blues band playing a concert on the steps of the Capitol. It was a nice, full weekend.

Also in the vein of travel and tourism, I'm looking forward to heading home in a week and a half for my cousin's wedding. The following weekend, I'm going to Boston to meet my parents for my birthday. And, at some point this fall, I must get up to New York to visit a good friend from Ball State who's working there for the semester. Being in a well-connected city like DC makes such visiting so much easier.

On Grotesquely-Dancing Architecture

"Based on such uncertain, shaky, and non-existent cultural foundations, it has not taken long for the structures of much contemporary architecture to assume either the lugubriously ridiculous appearance of a hilariously grotesque Brueghelian dance; or to appear like a sky-reaching duel between aseptic Towers of Babel made of steel, glass, and special materials which, by the first story have lost the reason for their daring apart from guilty and naive construction." - Claudio Silvestrin

 

The Wedding Dance, Pieter Brueghel

Addition to the Royal Ontario Museum, Daniel Libeskind

 

Mr. Silvestrin is an acclaimed Italian-British architect who will be at CUA for three weeks this semester as the Walton Distinguished Visiting Critic. He will be specifically working with the studio I am taking, which focuses on sacred space and cultural expression in architecture. He is an avowed minimalist, which is something that immediately arouses suspicion in my mind, but, as evidenced by the quote above, I think he and I are coming from the same direction when it comes to diagnosing the problem of contemporary architecture. It will be an interesting studio indeed.