 Wayne Coyne is fearless. I attended a Flaming Lips show on the eve of July 4th in Atlantic City. I had heard the buzz about them for years, and had been trying to attend their annual show in Philadelphia. I finally made it there along with our 22-year-old office intern Carter, and my friend, Frank. Sure, it was a terrific show. All the props, the confetti cannons, the exploding inflated balloons loaded with confetti, the LED laser tricks with the huge disco balls, the DIY look of the stage that was simply covered in orange paint and orange duct tape -- EVERYWHERE. The inflated seven-foot-tall catfish and caterpillar, especially the eight-foot-diameter clear inflated ball that Wayne steps into and confidently crowd surfs in a controlled free fall dance.
But what really got to me? I was totally inspired by the artistry and passion he and the band bring to their show -- we can apply some of his ethos to our lives as designers. And they still have it -- they have been doing this since the ‘80’s. I first noticed their passion for their craft during their sound check. Wayne kept reappearing on stage, fussing with the setup, acknowledging the crowd, getting them excited then walking off. He let them know that he was there for them and that he was going to take them on a trip with him -- although many, including the kid behind me who collapsed to the ground, had gotten started without him. He turned the mundane and reviled sound check into an event. And on came the LED screen of the tastefully naked dancing woman with the band emerging from a door in her crotch to take their places behind their instruments. And on and on. All of that is fun and theater, but his art was passionately connecting with his audience through his show. Performing and improvising songs that require the participation of the audience. His vibe is warm and engaging, ironic, full of love and a dose of anti-war political theater thrown in.
He confidently lets the world into his head. Displays it in all its “freakiness (his word)” and dares, no welcomes, them to hum along. It was all a spectacle; much of it rehearsed, much of it left to chance. Surfing across the crowd in his human-sized inflated balloon was only a little risky. Fully committing himself to the crowd, letting them drive and push the show, telling them and showing them how much he believes in the human spirit. Letting them see the world inside his mind. That is fearless. That is fun!
What I got from Wayne and the Lips is a reminder of how all things can be artful. When you have something to say and when passion from a performer (or a designer) is genuine, you can most successfully connect with your audience. Showing your audience that you care about them and are interested in them (not bored -- the affect of cool) is the way to their hearts and the way to a long and successful career as an artist.
 Our new summer intern, Carter, got his summer position by “coincidence.” His story reminds me of the power of luck and that people who are lucky often make their own by creating a strong network of friends and colleagues, being publicly visible, honest, helpful, and reliable. It reminds me that while the success of our practice is attributable to our skills, it is also because Aaron and I are friendly people out there meeting and helping as many people as possible. As Woody Allen said, “Eighty percent of success is showing up.”
I met Carter when I was moving my daughter’s furniture into her new apartment. Lucky for her -- she was in South Africa completing a semester abroad and recruited her parents and a roommate to move her stuff to her new off-campus apartment -- while she partied with millions in Cape Town in anticipation of the World Cup. Carter was the hired muscle. He and I bonded while moving one unbearably heavy chest of drawers. In passing, I asked him what he was studying. He told me he is an undergrad student of architecture at The University of Pennsylvania but couldn’t get a job in the field this summer. After discussing the sorry state of the profession, he told me that he had sent 40 resumes seeking a volunteer position (“In bold at the top of my resume!”) and that he had not had any luck. I confessed that I have a small architecture firm and that he might want to come down to talk. The four of us movers went out to lunch and halfway through I offered Carter a job. He thought he was being a mover, doing a friend a favor. He didn’t realize that he was also at a job interview. Bingo, he had a job because I was able to see how he works (moving stuff), how cooperative he is, that he is a friend of my daughter, and that he would fit in well at the office. This was a more telling interview than sitting down and reviewing a resume and work in a conference room. So, this reminds me that every day is a kind of audition. Being myself in front of as many people as possible, showing my face, doing favors, and helping as many people as possible will bring good luck my way.
After graduating from architecture school I felt cynical about the value of architects. Emerging from New York City in the 1980’s, I felt like I had stepped out of Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities or Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City. I was a carpenter who often worked for the wealthy and sometimes felt more like a servant than a craftsperson.
And after seeing a few of my designs demolished I believed that I was providing a disposable and marginally important service.
It took me a few years to understand the lasting power of good design. While sitting in my sun-filled 1920’s-era house, with its thick stone walls and slate roof, I often think about its designer. Was there was an architect involved? Who knows, or cares? What’s important is that the many generations that have inhabited this house benefited from its thoughtful design. The thinking someone did more than 80 years ago still has a direct impact on people’s lives.
While we enjoy designing for homeowners, the work we do for the public, for non-profits, schools, and museums can have a significant impact. We create spaces that have a lasting positive effect on people in the future. I now believe that our ability as designers to change in the physical world is a powerful and important skill, something that will (probably anonymously) contribute to peoples’ lives for many years after we are gone.
 Clients always ask me at the beginning of their projects "how much will this renovation cost?" A totally reasonable question. When I go to a store, I want to know the price of a product as well as what it looks like and how it works. Obviously, the cost of construction is one of the critical components in a deciding if a property is worth the purchase price. Less obvious to you, my clients, is that the cost of a renovation can vary wildly because every existing building is different. While general construction square foot costs can be useful, they have little accuracy in renovations. Without a drawing, or at least written document, to help start the conversation, the best we can do is guess based upon past experience. My suggestion? Hire an architect (or do it yourself) to spend eight or 12 hours visiting the site, discussing the requirements of the job and sketching a scenario that can be priced by a friendly contractor who will provide budget numbers at no cost. The 1,000 dollars you put out upfront will be well spent towards providing you with peace of mind. If you buy the property, the work can be used in the development of the project. If you don't buy the property because you found out you wouldn't be able to afford to fix up the property, the money was well spent.
 I keep worms in my basement. It's a pretty silly exercise, really, as I have no yard and no garden. A few pots do OK outside of my kitchen (a concrete slab, 6' × 13') but the supply of worm castings far outstrips demand. My wife finds it remarkably creepy and won't have much to do with the whole enterprise. Offers of true, free "black gold" to friends are generally met with enthusiasm but little follow-up to actually pick up a load. Thus my inventory is approaching wholesale quantities. They are busy little house-mates, these worms. Our guts teem with life separate from us in interesting ways. These microbes live on housekeeping chores that, through clever co-evolution, make it possible for us to function as omnivores, among other things. I hope, in my sentimental fashion, to have a house that mimics this lovely dance. Of course, the metaphor has its limits and can quickly devolve to an unappetizing place. But it does get me thinking about systems and mess. Like most, I instinctively think of the two as mutually exclusive. Maybe even mutually antagonistic. One introduces a system to clean up a mess. One inserts mess into a system as sabotage. My worms inform me about ways both can live in some level of harmony. On the surface, the system is simple and neat. Food scrap enters the bin; worms eat it and leave castings that I, in turn, give away as Christmas presents. But the decomposing waste dumps a surprising amount of black water. The worms have preferences (mango pits are tough for them). Poor management of the newspaper bedding can lead to fruit fly explosions. Moisture levels must be managed to avoid dry, stiff worms, or the whole bin going anaerobic in slush. But what I've found is that, more than being a forgiving system, it seems happiest when precision is off the table entirely. The more I think of it as a system in the largest sense, with connections to other systems in my life, the more each element of mess seems to have its place. The black water (diluted) is actually quite tasty for house plants. Tearing a week's worth of NY Times into one inch strips has its pleasures. Metering food scraps into the bins in a way that gives the worms time to do their work but doesn't clog the kitchen with debris is an useful way to think about what, when, and how we eat. Clearing out the bin every couple of months is an astonishingly clear lesson in how things decompose. System is traditional defined as "a set or arrangement of things so related or connected as to form a unity or organic whole." (Webster's New World College Dictionary) What the worms teach me is the lovely mess of systems. When they intersect with other systems to the extent that boundaries blur.
 I like having a dog at our office. Our office dog is Carl, a yellow lab that lives with Jason. Carl has changed the tone of the office. We are pretty relaxed, but hard working. When Jason proposed that he bring Carl in, part of me imagined that we would spend our time playing with the dog, not working. Instead he spends the day under Jason's desk and periodically trots around the office to check in with all of us. I don't see a drop in production; I see a rise in collegiality and happiness which contributes to our productivity. The vibe in our office changed along with Carl's arrival. The staff started talking to each other (even) more. Jason talks to Carl and the dog listens. Is it his tone of voice; is it his hand motions, or does he just understand? Carl makes me see the office in a different way. If we can have a dog here all day, why not a woodshop, why not more employees with even more diverse backgrounds? Will we be the better for it? This is playing... we are putting experiences together in an unusual way (like dogs in the office) and standing back to see what happens. This experience leaves us looking at the world with a slightly different point of view. Having someone around that is always friendly and licks you is a wonderful distraction. Reaching down to pet Carl and scratch his ears is like taking a tiny vacation. Then I go back to work feeling a tiny bit more relaxed and productive.
 Domestic tasks are best when given the attention they deserve. Preparing a meal for a lover on a special occasion has its own gravity; nervousness, anticipation of pleasure, intimacy - it barely qualifies as a domestic task. The standing life-support activities like vacuuming and laundry have almost no weight. They float in and out of our attention almost invisibly. They rise to our awareness only as an annoyance or with unplanned urgency. But there is also the possibility that sometimes such tasks materialize with a heft and smell that pushes out from behind the background noise of our lives. Folding a fitted sheet can do that. Designed to defeat the sensibilities of those who need order, crispness and snap, fitted sheets lean more toward wadding than any other storage system. Maybe that's why hotels generally use only flat sheets. An industrial setting is hostile to the anarchy of a fitted sheet. I admire them for that.
We (fitted sheets and I) have come to some small understanding.
Remove the sheet from the dryer, warm and smelling clean. Place your hand inside one corner and slide your other hand down the long side of the sheet and slip it into the second corner. Place one inside the other, nesting the seams together. Reach down and do the same thing with the other two corners, then neatly pocket all four corners together, keeping the seams aligned. Lay this new assembly down on the table lengthwise and gently smooth out the captured air. Take the corner opposite the collected corners and fold it over on top of the corners. Double again, once in each direction. The identity of the sheet remains intact. It will not allow you to overcome its character to bunch up and randomly pleat but it grants you the pleasure of order and some degree of efficiency. Personifying the inanimate world is never a profitable enterprise. But I have found that by granting it its due (as best I can discern) allows me into a place of attention to a real place in the world.
I recently attended the conference for Hands On! Europe - the children's museum association of Europe. This was the second of their conferences I have attended and it was wonderful and challenging. I am always humbled by meeting with a group of folks who have managed to learn multiple languages in their lives (among the many things that humble me!). Leaving aside the conference for the moment - maybe more on that in a later post - I want to write a few words about the spectacular museum moment of my trip. For some years I've wanted to visit the Museum National D'Histoire Naturelle and I took the opportunity of being in Paris to do just that. My wife had to pry me away after three hours of my open-mouthed gawking. What a wonderful museum! It is among the most beautiful museums I have ever visited. Bar none. After almost 20 years since the central installation was complete, it is beginning to show its age. If they are smart, they will simply assemble as much of the original team as can be found to minimally spruce it up. Every decision was elegant, economical, and beautiful. The designers applied a deeply respectful sense of play in assembling the menagerie. Very little is behind glass, most of the collection occupies the same space as the visitors with only the slimmest of barriers between them. One has the feeling walking among God's wonders, how much a part of this group we are. The masterfully mounted taxidermy specimens vie for attention with the fossil or skeletal specimens. Because the visitor can look them all in the eye, so to speak, it is more a relationship across time and species than I am used to. Rather than make me uncomfortable, it was profoundly reassuring. Visit this museum! It's worth the transatlantic voyage!
I love electrical high tension towers. How many times have you looked past these hulking behemoths while driving down the New Jersey Turnpike, through Boston's industrial outskirts, near Gary, Indiana's old steel furnaces? OK, how many of you have been to Gary? While designing the Morris Arboretum's tree canopy walk (sorry I am not finished writing about this) I was looking for a visual inspiration for its towers. I started with the incredible geometry of these pylons. Triangles dominate and resonate throughout. Large and small. The cables that fly over your head not only transmit power across the sky, they also provide stability. All the towers act as a piece, holding each other up. See how transparent and lace-like they are. The structural components are paper thin angles that make huge three dimensional trusses in the sky. And the towers vary by the installation, each set with their own character, marching to the horizon.
Yesterday, a new social network for Architects, Architizer, launched. While the site is still in its infancy, it shows real promise - highlighting architects, firms, upcoming competitions, and job openings throughout the world. The need for architects to display their work in a sanctioned environment could lead to something very successful. I see Architizer beginning where Coroflot left off. Read more about the site and its launch at Metropolis Magazine. What do you think about a social network dedicated to Architects? Is it a much needed addition to the industry or just another clutter-filled website?
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