Architecture + Morality

A Vapid Unbearable Lightness: Why Modern Architecture Struggles to Inspire Catholics

2011-12-30T10:25:00.000-08:00

La Tourette Monastery by Le Corbusier in
Eveux, France

Inspired by a recent visit to a Le Corbusier-designed Dominican monastery near the French city of Lyon, I've been thinking a lot about the interaction between Catholicism and modernist aesthetics. It has little to do with whether the Church affects what designers create beyond filling the program. Instead, I've tried to examine the architect's religion influences the Church's own self-image. I've concluded that the Church, an institution that has been the guardian tradition and the patron artistic and architectural development in the West for almost two millennia, never could reconcile itself comfortably with Modernism.

I was reminded of this when I shared with my brother news on the opening of a new convent and Visitor Center buried into the hill on which sits Le Corbusier's famous Notre Dame-du-Haut Chapel at Ronchamp. The convent was but the latest creation of the contemporary master Renzo Piano, featuring architect's trademark manipulation of natural light, spatial simplicity, open views of nature and elegant detailing. My brother seemed to shrug at these qualities, writing

"Seems more like a fish tank with Ikea finishes than a cloister. I know natural light, rectangles, and windows are nice, but its openness and simplicity feel like some vapid unbearable lightness than a place of spiritual reflection. Zen monks might appreciate it more."

I replied that he seemed to have a very narrow idea of what constitutes a proper place for spiritual reflection, and that lightness and simplicity had a place Catholic doctrine. I referred to him to a series of pictures I had taken of Le Corbusier's monastery, wondering what he thought of his more 'Brutal' approach. My brother elaborated:

"Ugh, these architects have no god. That thing (by Corbu) is hideous. Look, meditation takes place in the mind, but more in the soul. Christianity places the priority on man's soul transcending his surroundings, not blending with it (a la Zen). Man is large, not small. Churches should be ornamented and highly symbolic, teeming with life, not stark and barren. It all has to do with Being not Nonbeing. The church is a foundation, it's heavy, it imitates the eternal. It's not some flimsy plates of glass and concrete garnished with random primary colors here and there."

Bedroom of Convent by Renzo Piano Workshop at
Ronchamp, France

Though there are indeed gaps in his argument that can be exploited, I think his overall opinion is respectable and shared by many of the Catholic faithful who possess a sophisticated understanding of their beliefs and how to translate them into sacred art. Often such views completely contrast from many members of the clergy, who have more of an interest in revitalizing the church by embracing contemporary artistic trends than by responding to wishes of their flock. The Dominican monastic order prizes scholasticism above all else, and finds it fully consistent to hire a leader at the forefront of architectural progress like Le Corbusier. The nuns were probably thinking along the same lines, wondering less about how sacred life can transform architecture, but rather how architecture can transform sacred life. Architecture in both instances is a stream of development independent of religion, part of an ongoing dialog on the nature of form, space and order.

Outside a few rare examples such as Ronchamp, I sense that Modernism has failed to deliver an architecture that connects with most Catholics and other traditional Christians. Much of this has to do with fact that Modernism as a cultural movement is inherently atheistic as it is based on a secular materialist philosophy. Even Renzo Piano admits as much, describing his client from the convent: "She has a profound love of architecture, of landscape, of sacred space – and even of people without religion, like me. She wanted a place of silence and prayer. I said: 'I can't help you with prayer, but perhaps I can help with silence and a little joy."

Chapel at Convent by Renzo Piano Workshop,
Ronchamp, France

And therein lies the crux of the problem: When one has done away with symbols, theology, and the act of worship, there's little else to inspire a credible work of sacred art or architecture. Piano, like any committed Modernist, is left with little more than a preference for abstraction, technology and some vague nostrums about nature and space. For a Modernist, the point of architecture is to convey an image of maximum clarity, in which all elements are related by function and little else. As long as a space is adequately sheltered and functions for the use of its occupants, there is no need for decorative flourish. Piano is reduced to checking off boxes for the client's wish list, from the number of rooms, to furnishings, and to achieving a quality of 'silence'. There's nothing all that particular about an architecture of silence--maybe a dark room secluded from more socially active spaces. Given the right palette of materials and details, any space can be turned into something contemplative. But can this generic approach to design evoke much meaning beyond mere emotional states such as peace?

Sacred spaces achieve much of its effect by emphasizing mystery. This is at the core of any religion, in which divine truth is revealed beyond any logical or rational framework. As is often said, God is revealed in mysterious ways, and the purpose of any sacred space is to embody this reality. It is inherent that a secular space is completely counter to this and thus adopts an architectural language devoid of mystery or even ambiguity. Secular spaces instead embrace the language of the engineer, someone who works outside the world of art, poetry, and indeed of mystery, by solving problems with the most rational tools of math and science. There is a lot of work that goes into making successful setting for secular activities, much of it having to do with the science of building, such as lighting, acoustics, and visibility. There is also a tendency for generating phenomenological effect through technology, such as making walls highly transparent or reflective, surfaces either smooth or deliberately rough. To the Modernist who puts its faith in technological progress, the more an effect can exceed what can be done by the human hand, the better.

La Tourette Monastery by Le Corbusier, Eveux, France

Such attention to a material's effects point to Modernism's essentially materialist philosophy on architecture. In sacred architecture, the building and the spaces within serve to connect users to a deeper reality that transcends its walls. They function as a gateway from the material world to a spiritual realm--the focus is on the eternal, not the object that portends to represent it. In a secular context like Modernism, the object is the thing itself, and all meaning is tied directly to that object. Walking into a exemplary Modernist space, one is supposed to marvel at its lightness, smoothness and simplicity, attributes that are commonly summarized as 'machine-like'. If one desires a more 'humanist' look and feel, the designer can instill a quality of 'roughness' by texturizing concrete, oxidizing steel, and inserting warmth by using natural materials such as wood and stone. Industrialization gives us that much more control to generate a precise effect, and empowers the designers unlimited opportunities in experimenting. At the same time, it diminishes the role of the craftsman, who throughout most of human history was the guardian in generating material effects, and in many ways assumed the role of architectural detailing. Machines take the human factor out of the art of making, thus producing something devoid of passion, feeling that imbues every man-made object.

Piano singles himself better than most of his contemporaries by his ability to reinsert the human touch in his design process. His architectural details are truly works of art and are usually the result of a distinct craftsman-like approach in generating them. The name of his firm, The Renzo Piano Workshop, harkens back to the time when architecture was realized by stone masons, who would accumulate specialized design knowledge in the development of style details and templates. Where Piano departs is the end result of his craftsman-like approach: highly refined, ultra-precise, machine-polished building systems and parts. The structural connections in his projects are beautiful and poetic pieces of engineering, much like Apple products, but like most industrial artifacts, they cannot express the ancient, primordial aspects of our humanity. Is that necessary to fully immerse oneself the Catholic experience?

I believe so. A fundamental assumption in Catholicism is that history is linear and that God was incarnated in the human form of Jesus Christ at a precise point in history to the point that the period before and after this event are neatly divided (BC vs. AD). Its doctrines and liturgy are part of an evolutionary process that have taken place in the world for two thousand years, and followers actively partake in this history by participating in the mass. For most Catholics, weekly mass is the only time that they are reminded that they are tied to humanity in throughout the ages, both in the past and the future. This goes against 'modernity', or the idea that the times are so new and different that prior truths or solutions are irrelevant. In Christianity, Truth is eternal, and the problems that afflict humanity are no different during the time of Christ than they do now. There is no 'new and improved'. Rather, the ideal was was established two-thousand years ago (the life of Christ) and no amount of social or technological advance (or regression) can change this.

View of Crypt inside the La Tourette Monastery
by Le Corbusier

In addition, Christianity relies on communicating its ideas through allegories conveyed verbally in the Bible, musically in its music and visually illustrated in its art and architecture. These are designed to make the message accessible to all people, as opposed to keeping revelations close to a self-selected elite. The message has to be clear, the context must be provided and the characters believable. Visually, this requires the use of lines and recognizable figures placed in a narrative relationship. These demands don't lend themselves well to abstraction, the modus operandi of the Modernist. Abstraction is by nature open to individual interpretation; Christian revelation is not. Abstraction is deliberately exercised by an individual, driven by their own desire to create original content; Christian subjects and themes are the content, with the artist sharing his visceral imaginings of truths he does not question (like most European art before the 19th Century).

This probably explains why many Catholics feel a certain frustration with the role played by modern music, art and design in today's church. The music uses irregular folk beats, vulgar melodies and harmonies, and seem composed to bring attention to the songs themselves rather than acquainting singers to a more transcendent reality. In contemporary Christian art, Christ is portrayed as a non-descript figure, and often times and rendered in an abstracted archaic style that is flat and lacks feeling. The cross is abstracted to emphasize its iconic nature as a symbol, detached from any literal representation of what actually happened on the cross. In most modern churches, seating is arranged as a theater in the round, focusing the parishioners' attention to the the priest, or the choir, rather than to God as manifested in an elaborately decorated apse wall or a ceiling pointed to heaven. This was vividly brought to my attention when watching the broadcast of Christmas mass from the Vatican--most of the camera shots showed details of the sanctuary's glorious interior and symbolic art, with the occasional view of the Pope. Catholic worship is not about the mere men (priests) who help conduct its rituals but is instead is about how God is revealed in them by means of humanity's most outward expression of what lies within its soul: Art. When there is nothing meaningful or moving to look at, one is resigned to paying attention to a charismatic individual standing on a stage, tanscendent beauty is loss, and the Christian message takes on a banal delivery.

Chapelle Notre Dame du Haut by Le Corbusier,
Ronchamp, France

Architects, a growing number of whom fall into agnosticism and atheism, often seem to forget this when visiting sacred yet Modern masterpieces. Just because Le Corbusier's Ronchamp chapel makes some of my colleagues cry doesn't mean it fulfills its ecclesiastical responsibilities particularly well. They are likely overwhelmed by the chapel's poetic mastery of form and light and how it provokes a profound yet undefinable emotional response. I succumbed to this response myself when I went to Ronchamp as well when I toured Le Corbusier's monastery of La Tourette. I was taken aback by his buildings' abstract forms, its play with light, its vivid use of color, its sophisticated relationship to its site. In the end, I didn't develop a more profound appreciation of Christian revelation, but a greater respect for mathematical proportion, abstract formal metaphors, primary colors and geometries--transcendent things nonetheless, but a bit too esoteric for most people. La Tourette was clearly a more regulated composition compared to Ronchamp, which is probably why is probably why the latter provokes a more emotional response. In a sense, the chapel is Le Corbusier at his least 'modern' and more archaic, while his monastery is likely intended to feel more academicized due to that typology's tradition of being repositories for knowledge. Ronchamp's form sweeps up to heaven, its dark sanctuary enclosed in thick walls reminds one of a cave evocative of early Christianity, while its rounded towers mimick Mary in her veil, sheltering the church below. Though these moves aren't literal, there is just enough reference to the symbols and ideas of Catholic church that make this more approachable to average followers.

Church on the Water by Tadao Ando, Tomamu, Japan

This isn't to suggest that modern architecture can't achieve successful spaces for spriritual contemplation. Tadao Ando's Church by the Water is especially powerful, manipulating natural light and framing views that heightens the senses and fuses nature into the act of worship. The church is stripped of traditional Christian decoration, illustrations of bibical stories or saints, or any other reference to the history of the church. It works for those who wish to understand God through nature's primal elements and how they change through the passage of time. There is a sense of ignoring the human presence altogether, as it invites one to blend into the natural surrounding (as my brother's comment on zen indicates), which may work in more minimalist strains of Christianity and even Catholicism, but will leave many believers hungering for a place rich in narrative objects and a more fully enclosed communal response among people. There is no altar to focus on, only a highly abstracted cross standing in a reflecting pond, which could have all sorts of meanings, but not one that concentrates the mind of the believer on Christ and his passion.

A truly inspiring space that uses a modern architectural language for catholic worship is extremely difficult to find. While many architects simply choose to employ a historicist style for even newest churches, it is possible to address the particular characteristics of a catholic church while maintaining a modernist sensibility. I submit a Cistercian chapel located not far from where I live in Irving outside of Dallas designed by Gary Cunningham. Long an admired designer in the area, Cunningham's work can be characterized as simple, straight-forward, and sensitive to materials. His award-winning residences follow a rather conventional contemporary style but he also is very accomplished in the art of adaptive reuse, in which he repurposes an existing building by carefully juxtaposing old and new elements. This consciousness of how time plays a role in the way a building expresses itself is strongly manifested in the Cistercian chapel. The space is enclosed in rough quaried limestone, cut in massive blocks and stacked in traditional running bond, which instantly strikes any visitor as reminiscent of the Catholic church's earliest Romanesque sanctuaries with their thick walls and small windows. Its wood roof floating above the nave takes the shape of a traditional ceilings found in these churches, while also resembling the underside of a ship (which is where the word 'nave' comes from). Spans are short, further emphasizing the weight of the stone, even as they maintain familiar rhythm suggestive of the old ambulatory aisles with the repetitive row of vertical windows. It follows more of a classic basilica typology than the popular theatre-in-the round, which indicates a desire to focus on the liturgy as opposed to the priest. But more than merely echoing the churches of the past, this chapel appears as a direct architectural metaphor for the creation of the church itself: "And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church...(Matthew 16:18)" While obviously an abstract design, Cunningham manages to endow the chapel with an important phrase from the Gospel and thus Christian revelation. Sleek details and delicate connections between the roof and walls betray its contemporary origins, but the way it highlights the split-faced texture of the rock wed the chapel to the church's long institutional history, and the countless number of people who dedicated their lives in building structures fitting to God's glory.

Cistercian Chapel by Gary Cunningham, Irving, Texas

And that, to me, is what is necessary for a compelling Catholic worship space--a connection not only with the divine, but just as importantly with an institution comprised of people throughout the ages. Its walls should reveal human intent, either through a man-made texture or through an ornament that is the work of genuine human input. Machine-smooth de-personalizes this experience. As any human institution that is an essential part of catholic identity, it carries a rich artistic and architectural heritage that brings with it a kind of unassailable authority not found in Protestantism, which devalues the human institution in favor of interpreting directly from the Bible. The result of of relying on scripture, however justifiable from a theological standpoint, seems to lead towards a breaking down of a rich visual language and an embrace for abstraction. A small cultural vacuum subsequently takes root, which grows to consume what's left of symbols, music, and eventually the walls. The ultimate result is either a television studio black-box with no windows preferred by evangelicals or a zen-like meditation space with no walls and a subtle symbolic indication that it's even Christian (such as Ando's church).

I'm sure that Piano's and Le Corbusier's clerical clients were pleased with the result, and fans of high-design with no opinion on proper Catholic aesthetics are moved by their examples, too. But I wonder if these exercises in abstraction, lightness, and trying to stay relevant in fast-changing contemporary culture win much in the way of converts. People who seek the church want their souls nourished by the church's message in as many forms as possible. When many of these forms are abstracted or simplified to an incomprehensible level, it leaves such people feeling unfulfilled, and causes many of them to leave the church for a place that offer a richer, more visually arresting environment of the older historic sanctuaries. At least these modern ecclesiastical masterpieces continue to open their arms to the perennial pilgrimage of people most interested in them: architecture students.

I'm Glad Newt is a Catholic Convert and Not A Recommitted Protestant

2011-12-15T07:04:00.000-08:00

I'm no huge fan of Newt Gingrich for all the reasons that have been said time and again in the last month. He has lots of baggage, both politically and personally, and it is hard to nail him down on exactly where he stands. It seems that he far prefers and excels at the role of the underdog, but has no idea how to succeed once he is the victor. For committed political conservatives, that's worrisome, and it explains why he has achieved so much with so modest expectations as a candidate, but could destroy his own presidency once he wins.

He may very well flame out in the coming weeks or days (so I better type fast!). But if he doesn't and if I feel compelled to vote for him in my Texas primary, I will take some heart that he is a Catholic convert and not a recommitted Protestant. I say that as a mainline Protestant, all too aware of the failings of both the mainline branch and the evangelical branch of my side of the aisle. The weaknesses of the Protestant movement do not help men like Mr. Gingrich: restless, intelligent and ambitious men who, in the end, find it hard to have much respect for Protestantism.

Protestantism, especially the American version of it, rarely offers a coherent understanding of man's bondage to sin, his need for forgiveness, and the Church’s role in proclaiming that forgiveness objectively. Therefore, Protestants often find themselves alone with their sin, with little framework and no real teaching authority shy of their pastor. Emotional highs and lows have become the norm for American evangelicals, and for men who are chronically undisciplined, the emotional high of recommitment fades quickly.

For men like Gingrich I suspect, there is also little respect for the historical and intellectual foundations of Protestantism. Sure, it has its giants like Luther, Calvin, Barth, Bonhoeffer, and on and on. But a book of America's Protestant heroes would be thin reading indeed. Even John Wesley was a failed American preacher before returning to England where he would found Methodism. Our history is more often filled with heretics or lone ranger types who stir up crowds, men who create discontent and leave no legacy of vale behind.

This American history finds its triumphant apex in today's Church Growth Movement, as the thin gruel of Joel Osteen and his many, many competitors can turn the most open-minded of men into the most hardened of cynics. “If this is Christianity,” they might say, “it must be for those incapable of complex thought. This is clearly a self-fulfilling, financially motivated operation that has virtually nothing in common with historical Christianity.” They would be right. At some point, I keep waiting for the veneer of this thinly veiled Christianity to wear off. Sadly for those who believe themselves to be in the fold of traditional Christianity, it remains a power.

But is Rome any better? Doesn't it offer the same thing, just with more formality? Certainly, one could quibble with Rome. Protestants and Catholics continue to have theological disagreements, and even Rome's cherished Magisterium (the teaching authority of the Church) doesn't always get it right. (That is, if you ask a Protestant.) Indeed, I find myself frequently disappointed that Rome doesn't actually exercise its Magisterium on a more regular basis! So I am not saying that Rome is perfect, or that any expression of the Faith is capable of perfection

But Newt's conversion to Catholicism tells me more about him than it does about Rome. For a man as bright as Newt to consider such a conversion tells me that he did not merely recommit to the Christian principles he already knew he had to live by. It tells me he was willing to place himself under the authority of Rome. For the restless intellectual, Newt and countless men before him finally found his match, an institution he could deeply respect, an institution he was actually willing to repent to belong to. It tells me that for all of his bravado and his ego (which remains healthy), he is a man capable of some maturity, introspection and humility. He is not perfect by any means, but he has found an expression of the Faith that will speak to him in a way Protestantism never did, and never could. It simply didn't have the clout.

To see where a recommitted Protestant may end up, one may only need to look at Mr. Gingrich's former sparring partner, President Clinton. President Clinton no doubt recommitted to his Christian faith many times in the wake of his adulterous affairs. But there is little evidence any such commitment stuck. I suspect it is because there is little real fear of the Baptist Church among men as intelligent as President Clinton. They know its history and theology and techniques are thin, even as in every expression of Christianity resides very bright stars. But for some men like Mr. Gingrich and President Clinton, they will only listen to the authority of Rome. Newt seems to have placed himself under that authority, and for that, I can more easily support him.

The Tyranny of the Story

2011-12-10T09:14:00.000-08:00

Below is a sermon preached to a congregation December 4, 2011. Usually, I don't publish sermons, but this had enough commentary on society's embrace of subjective stories that I thought it would work in this medium as well. The picture is actually from a congregation, New Life Church in Colorado Springs, CO.

It seems that nothing is complete today without someone adding their personal story to it. Nothing has any value at all unless someone’s story accompanies it to give it that personal touch, a story that brings an event or an occasion down the personal level. So prevalent is the demand for personal stories, I am starting to see this demand as a kind of tyranny, a fruit of our relativistic age that tells us that nothing has intrinsic value unless someone feels that it has value.

I was watching a competitive cooking show the other day, and the challenge was not only to cook a great dish, but to connect the dish to a story. The chefs, who are masters of their trade, were judged on their ability to connect a story to their dish as much as the dish itself. This wasn’t the first time I’ve noticed this. Indeed, the Food Network is constantly coaching its talent to partner their life story with their food. Somehow, they believe that if we know a TV cook learned a lasagna recipe sitting at the feet of Aunt Maria during summer vacations to Naples, the food will taste better.

Maybe it will. But in the end, the food should speak for itself. I don’t care what long-lost relative concocted the recipe…I just want to know if it’s tasty or not. So interested are we in the personal story, though, that the media demands the personal touch. News reporting is no better. An event is reported on, then a microphone is placed in the face of a bystander and they’re asked how they feel about the event.

And yet, perhaps no institution has become as corrupted by the tyranny of the story as the church. Starting as an American phenomenon in the mid-1800s, the testimonial came to be the way the Church validated its ministry. After all, what good is the Gospel or the Bible or even the Law if human beings don’t experience a changed life and live to tell the tale? The testimonial became the personal story that proved the good news of Jesus to be true. Never mind that the faith had been preserved for almost two millennia on the facts of Jesus’ ministry, death, resurrection and ascension. No, in America, we also had to have personal stories validate Jesus, or else, the Church would just be seen as another tired institution with nothing new or interesting to say.

Now I’m not saying that stories are bad! Stories are wonderful, they are truly the language of the human race. Stories help us make sense of the world, they entertain us, and they separate us from every other of God’s creatures. God has gifted us with the ability to tell stories, and that is a good thing. But stories have their limits, and in our narcissistic time and place, they can easily become a cheap substitute for the truth. The demand for stories to validate the truth cripples the church’s proclamation of the Gospel, because instead of proclaiming what is, we end up arguing who has the better story: you or the atheist, you or the secularist, you or the naturalist, you or the Buddhist.

That’s the difference between news and a story. News happens, whether we like it or not. News is not particularly personal, and news is equally true for all people. Stories are personal, and they may be true or false. News is objective; how we feel about it can’t make it untrue. Stories are often subjective, and they are often intended to change the way we feel.

We need to appreciate the difference between news and stories, so we can fully appreciate what Mark is saying the first sentence of his gospel. He writes, “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.” The Gospel, according to Mark is not a story, but news of an event. The stories found in Mark or any other gospel reveal the Gospel. It is not the purpose of the Gospel to reveal a story.

The word Gospel actually derives from the Old English words, “good spell” or “glad tidings.” These are both literal translations from the Greek Word euangelion, from which we get also get the words “evangel” or “evangelism.” The Greek understanding of euangelion was good news, mostly in the wake of military battles. If a general or a king arrived home after being away in battle with euangelion, that meant the enemy had been defeated.

So when Mark begins his gospel by saying, “The beginning of the euangelion of Jesus Christ,” he is not only using military language, he is declaring victory from the outset. And he is saying that it is true, it is done, and we live in the wake of the news. It’s like hearing a paper boy on the street on August 15, 1945, when victory in World War II had become official. You hear the news, you rejoice, and you can’t change the news or lessen it. You can’t become the news or live the news. You can only hear it, rejoice in it, and retell it. The same is true of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. You can’t “live the Gospel or “be the Gospel”. It simply is. You can only hear it, rejoice in it, and retell it.

What Jesus Christ did on the cross, when he bore the sins of the world, and died, and was buried only to be raised from the dead…that’s good news. Too much teaching and preaching today is built around trying to connect that news to our personal stories. But that is a trap. What happens when our stories don’t turn out so well? What happens when we can’t live up to the standard of perfection that God’s demands?

Our personal stories, far from being heroic, are usually shameful or embarrassing. We selfishly act in our own interests instead of the interests of others. We idolize other men and women. We encourage and participate in a culture that is obsessed with sexuality and the superficial. We love to tell stories about ourselves that place us in a great light. But the truth is that the stories we don’t tell usually are not very impressive. Indeed, they are convicting of our constant falling short of God’s standards.

But the good news of Jesus Christ, that news is good, no matter the shortcomings of our own stories. And that is truly what makes it good! God intervened in our lives, not to partner in our own amazing stories, but to save us from our sins. While we are trying to figure out where our story fits into God’s story, Mark comes to us with news that transcends our stories, surpasses our stories, and exceeds our stories.

And that news is that in the person of Jesus Christ, God has come to you in the flesh. He has died for your sins. And he has been raised from the dead. And in your baptisms, your sin has been defeated, and you are given the promise that you too will be raised from the dead. The good news is true: Christ is the victorious king with euangelion, the savior who has won for you the war against sin, death and the devil. Amen.

Thou Shall Not Covet

2011-08-31T06:47:00.000-07:00

Imagine a political climate in which politicians urge citizens that murdering one another might actually be a moral option worth pursuing in the event of a disagreement. Perhaps they would suggest that in unusually difficult times and only in moments of exceptional rage, murder could be overlooked, or even encouraged. Or imagine a climate in which political leaders subtly defended our right as citizens to steal. After all, consider what has been stolen from you via interest from greedy banks or profits from big business. Theft is a way to get even, to level the playing field. Of course it isn't the ideal way to solve a problem, but it is justifiable when you're up against enemies that don't play by the rules.

It is hard to imagine such a political climate precisely because we know murder and theft to be wrong. Even if not for the fifth or seventh commandments, no human civilization lifts up murder or theft as virtuous. Sure, we explore times of moral confusion when we want to justify such sins, or when we are legitimately unsure when the difference between, for example, "murder" and "kill" emerges. What about soldiers on the battlefield or a battered spouse in self-defense? Is that murder? Or I think of The Bicycle Thief as an exploration of how desperate people behave in ways they otherwise would not. The point is, the commission of such acts, even in extreme cases, is almost always considered wrong. We know it to be wrong instinctively, and our Judeo-Christian culture certainly reinforces it.

Murder and theft, of course, are not the only commandments we are to live by, even in a secular world. They are, perhaps, the "hardest" of all the commandments. That is, society feels the effects of these broken commandments, although not honoring our parents, committing adultery, and lying rank pretty high as well. The first three commandments pertaining to our relationship to God (no other gods, do not take the Lord's name in vein, and honor the Sabbath) effect society if broken to be sure, but not as directly as murder or theft. The first three are what you might call "soft" commandments; following them is a relatively private affair.

That brings us to the ninth and tenth commandments: you shall not covet your neighbor's wife, and all his possessions. Some church traditions yoke these commandments together, making no distinction between your neighbor's wife and his stuff. Most Protestant (and I believe Roman Catholic) traditions separate these commandments, but that makes it easier to correlate them to the "harder" sins they lead to: adultery and theft.

These two commandments make up 20% of the great Ten Commandments, but get scarce attention, probably because they are "soft" commandments. Certainly society benefits when we are obedient to the commandments, but we often don't follow the ball long enough to see how they are a great detriment to societies when we are disobedient. We focus on the hard sins of murder and theft because we can legislate and prosecute them. But such hard sins always have their roots in the soft sin of coveting.

This commandment needs special attention in our day. It needs such attention precisely because we do live in a political climate where politicians encourage us to covet. For some reason, we will not tolerate politicians who subtly encourage us to murder, but we elect them to represent us when they invite us to covet.

Perhaps we overlook this because no politician will come out and tell us to covet. But they do encourage us to covet every time they engage in demagogic class warfare. Whenever a politician speaks about certain members of society paying their "fair share", coveting is being encouraged. Wherever the welfare state is lauded as salutary, we should expect that coveting will be the end result. The recent debt deal stalled precisely because one side wanted to use coveting to force tax increases on those who "could afford it," those who needed to put more "skin in the game."

More examples abound. The rioting in London, where entitled children of the welfare state justify their crimes because the business owners are rich, are prime coveters. Flash mobs here seem to operate on the same premise, that it is okay to rob a store because the corporation never did any good anyway. I would also go so far as to say that a spate of racial crimes of late, and indeed the entire racial victimization phenomenon is rooted in covetousness. White, in some circles, is synonymous with rich, privileged or entitled.

It is no better to encourage coveting any more than it is good to encourage one another to kill, steal, or lie. Politicians and the culture can feel free to ignore the first three commandments; they deal more with man's relationship to God. But the next seven speak to how we live together as a community, and even most secularists would endorse them as good. Just because the softer of these commandments, mainly those pertaining to what happens in the mind, exact a cheaper cost on society doesn't make it acceptable to encourage them. Because the soft sins lead to hard sins, politicians and cultural leaders should do everything in their power to speak about service to one another, showing honor to one another, and respecting one another. That is how the polis survives. Encouraging us to covet only destroys.

Why don't we hold politicians who encourage us to covet to account? I suppose because we like to covet. Politicians are surely complicit in our sin, but we're the ones who love to commit them. If we can't rely on our elected leaders, we will need to rely on ourselves to know what coveting is, when we commit it, and how to stop. Coveting can only lead to resentment at best and hard crimes at worst.

Learning from the Jura: Musings on life and architecture in France

2011-08-09T22:21:00.000-07:00

Grande Salines in the town of Salin-les-Bains

Much like lectures, vacations are a good way to step back, relax and evaluate things more clearly. It helps to find oneself in a completely foreign place, as familiarity breeds bias and lazy thinking. This summer I was able to spend a little time in France, mostly in the Jura mountain region near Switzerland's north border. This beautiful place can be characterized by verdant cliffs, rolling valleys, dairy cows, delicious cheese, pine-scented wine, and an almost Swiss-like dedication to specialty industries, such as clocks, pipes and eyeglasses. Its regional capital, Besancon, contains an attractive historic urban core surrounded on three sides by a meandering river (le Doubs), and topped by a stone citadel designed by Vauban. Louis Pasteur and processed cheese giant La Vache-Qui-Rit (Laughing Cow) hail from this area. On the Swiss side, the Jura mountain region can lay claim as the birthplace of the most influential architect of the twentieth century--Charles Edouard Jeanneret, better known as Le Corbusier. The region's proximity to Geneva elevates the city as the Jura's commercial and cultural center. From my perspective, going to that Geneva feels more like an extension of France than as a perceptible foreign entity. But overall, the Jura's rippled landscape ensures a mostly rural character and serenity.

Given this splendid experience, certain realizations come to the fore that seem to either reinforce some of my own beliefs while reintroducing me to things I've long forgotten:

There is no better way to travel through Europe than by car. Traveling strictly by rail limits visitors to experiencing mostly the centers of larger towns and cities and narrow vistas of the landscape. The most beautiful views and scenic outlooks I drove through were completely inaccessible by rail. Renting a car is far cheaper and allows one much more flexibility in planning or following an itinerary. I had the option of taking the high-speed-train directly from the airport to Lyon, but the ticket prices were so high that two of them would have covered the car rental for an entire week. We would have never made it to our final destination by rail anyway since rural rail stations are few and far between. Highway driving in France is quite nice, since they bypass the major cities and are well maintained due to the toll revenue they collect. The numerous signs along the way that point to major landmarks and attractions and there are well appointed rest stops. And contrary to what most rail champions Stateside will tell you, most Europeans rely on cars for almost all travel, with sole exception for those who live in cities big enough to provide urban rail and bus systems. I can't tell you how many times when I was a much younger traveler how ignorant my native hosts were about using the local train and bus system due to the fact that it had been a long time since they had last used them. Once they could drive, they never went back.

In France, living freely here is in truth more about plugging into a sophisticated yet intransigent way of life. In the land of the 35 hour work week, managing your time wisely is important. Life here forces you to conform to sort of predetermined routine-when to work, when to play, when to shop, etc. All businesses are closed on Sunday; All offices and retail that are don't serve food are closed between noon and 2pm. The whole country shuts down the month of August. Your foreign credit card will work in most places, but not for the most essential transactions, such as buying gas or paying the toll. If you are the spontaneous type and prefer to live outside the agreed parameters of French life, endless frustration awaits. If, on the other hand, you agree to this order and adjust accordingly, harmony and a refreshing simplicity awaits. The risk is that life becomes quickly predictable and less serendipitous. Add to this a social welfare system that allows everyone to live in relative comfort and health and thus allowing a sort of stress-free existence, and the inevitable result is a sort of boredom. It's no coincidence that the French are among the largest consumers of anti-depressants per capita.

It doesn't get any better than this- historic street in Besancon

The most satisfying solution to complementing the natural landscape with man-made structures was achieved during the Medieval and Renaissance periods in Europe. For someone who designs large commercial buildings under the vein of the trendiest modernism and who scours the country photographing beloved architectural masterpieces of the past 70 years, and who has taught classes in 20th Century Architecture, the above statement seems to undercut everything that I've done up to this point. Why not hang it all up and dedicate my life to designing buildings similar to that period and place? It's a good question, but I don’t see it as a call to repudiate all modern architecture than to draw lessons on how to improve it. Walking and driving through so many beautiful French towns and provincial cities reinforces some immutable principles about buildings by and for humans: scale matters, natural materials please us best, and there is much wisdom to be learned on how to use light, shade and natural forces to create a timeless building. Simple, straight-forward structural systems enable the most pleasing spatial clarity within, and an even more pleasing volumetric purity from the outside. It also allows for remarkable flexibility in adapting to changing functions over time from workshop, to a modern retail or restaurant space, office or aparment. There is something deeply primal about our fondness for the pitched roof over rectangular plan that rises no more than five stories.

Masonry exteriors are a good thing. In Europe, there is a clean break between everything built before 1930 and everything built after. Buildings built before that date would be what we would consider as "traditional', in that it uses a classical proportioning system that governs the size of all elements which are closely tied to long established practices in masonry construction. Even if the façade did not use masonry and used stucco instead, there is an obvious sense of heaviness and permanence. Buildings built after that date are all about accentuating the thin but long-spanning structural frame made possible with concrete and steel. Cladding becomes a matter of lightly protecting this frame, either with glass, aluminum, or thin terracota, cementitious or phenolic panels. Even if natural materials are used, they are reinterpreted to conform to a machine-like smoothness and accurate dimensions. This obsession in processing natural materials to precise man-made specifications has the effect of alienating objects to natural surroundings. The expression, "...as if a UFO landed here" is a really an exaggerated way of saying that something doesn't belong to the prevailing natural order of a place. To rationalize that highly abstract building is natural is to argue that humans' understanding of nature is itself highly abstract, and that one kind of construct is not in any way truer to nature than another. But that's one of the most intractable problems of Modernist creations, is that it requires sophisticated rationalization to justify that something is 'just right' for the time and place. Most traditional design doesn't have that problem, appearing as if it were simply an organic extension of a place.

Air conditioning changed the way we build as well as raised our preferred comfort level. Europe's mild climate is pleasant enough to make one forget about air conditioning until the occasional heat wave occurs. At that point there is no recourse to such unbearable heat and humidity and one has to put up with it. While in the southern US a house is expected to be completely sealed to retain the cool and de-humidified air, the European house breathes through lots of operable casement windows. The difference in conditions between inside and outside are minimal, as small insects, dirt and dust blow in throughout the day. More food can be stored absent refrigeration, which results in stronger smells coming out of the kitchen. In larger scale construction, the lack of a robust air conditioning system means no furring or dropped ceilings, and thus the chance expose the structure and the underside of the roof deck, which allows the designer more freedom to create beautiful ceilings. The drawback is that there is nothing to collect and filter dust and grime floating in the space over time, which then collects onto the structure and becomes difficult to keep clean. Architecture of the "high-tech" style, with its celebrated steel framing and sophisticated glazing systems suffers in particular, and many of the once gleaming train stations and airports built in this style are looking pretty drab and filthy. Thanks to the almost mandatory use of air conditioning, US construction seems to be significantly driven by the mechanical engineer and, to the frustration of many architects, must design around their needs. This leads to more generic ceilings, simpler detailing and tighter non-operable windows.

Much of American architecture might look dull, but it is often more functional and easier to use. Case in point-Charles De Gaulle Airport (CDG) is a collection of architecture an planning experiments gone awry in one way or the other. Charlotte Douglas Airport desperately needs updating, but wayfinding is much more straightforward and the public spaces and concourse a bit more generous. Terminal 1 at CDG seemed really cool when I was a kid, with its crisscrossing escalators floating in the main lightwell, but its circular plan has proved far too inflexible to growing passenger traffic over the years. Terminal 2, with its curved concrete shell roof, is looking really old and dirty, and has clearly not adapted to changing security protocols since 9/11. Maybe it's my increasing dependence on suburban comforts taking over, but big spaces where hundereds of people either sit on the floor or loiter, or queue behind ticket kiosks that barely work don't meke me appreciate that kind of hustle-and-bustle of big city life. Sure American airports are comparatively placid, even somewhat sterile, but for the most part, they're ocmfortable and easy. Returning home, the clarity, space and charm of the Austin airport was a welcome relief the flamboyant and confusing CDG.

In the realm of private residential architecture, the US has everyone beat when it comes to function and convenience. Most private houses in Europe follow the timeless formula of fitting all rooms within a masonry box topped by pitched roof (hipped roofs are common warmer regions). From a formalistic standpoint they allow lots of flexibility at the urban scale, forming elegant blocks and streetfronts, and offer a range of housing types, as entire levels can be rented out as flats. But the twentieth century house has changed a lot, mainly due advances in mechanical systems and appliances. Plumbing has now become standardized to such a degree that bathrooms can be organized as cohesive units. Kitchens are now designed as a system as well, in which the optimal distances between the stove, fridge, oven and sink have become standard. I have yet to stay or live in a European house that incorporate these kinds of improvements I have long taken for granted. The kitchens in the nicest homes are haphazardly layed out, the cabinets are shabby, there is very little counter space, and the appliances are relatively small to nonexistent. Bathrooms often have the same problems, in which sinks, tubs and toilets are afterthoughts. They are usually shared, meaning that I don't recall any bathroom located adjacently to a bedroom for exclusive use. Storage spaces hardly exist, even as the average European, just like Americans, have continued to accumulate more stuff over the course of their lives.

The post-War suburban ranch home and subsequent American styles have proved to be eminenty flexible in adapting to a rising standard of living. Its use of an open, asymmetrical plan ensure that there will be a direct transition between dining, relaxing and sleeping while maintaining a division between public, private and utilitarian areas. Clearances moving through are maintained, so you are not left dodging furniture sticking into hallways. This is hard to accomplish with a rigid rectangular plan that characterizes most European homes, even those in semi-rural, semi-suburban locales where there is presumably a bit more space. Everything must be crammed in, resulting in tight and steep stairways, small bedrooms, and shared bathrooms. One anecdotal example of this was when I stayed with friends in Germany who lived in a four-story Swiss-chalet style house. I had lived an entire year in that house as a teen and thought it was pretty big. When I returned fifteen years later, the owners had added an expansive glass-enclosed "winter garden" space to the back. I noticed that everyone who still lived there spent their entire day in this new living room, due to the generous amount of space and the abundant light. Suddenly the rest of the house, which once was lived in all of its nook and crannies, was mostly vacant as they had all coalesced into the new living room. All the older rooms in the house looked tiny and dark in comparison. My four-year old refused to sleep in the house's tiny bedrooms, opting instead to sleep in the new "winter garden" instead.

La Tourette Dominican monastery
in Eveux near Lyon.

I can understand why Le Corbusier was obsessed with the notion that 'the shortest distance between two points is a line'. The Jura region along the French and Swiss border where the young Mr. Jeanneret grew up features some of the windiest roads imaginable, where towns only a few kilometers away take a good half hour to reach (though it makes for some exhilirating driving). Add to this the fact the most of these roads are narrow allowing only one lane for each direction and you can understand why Corbu was a big fan of the multi-lane highway. The challenges of the existing terrain would be transcended by monumental viaducts, as shown his rejected masterplans for Rio de Janeiro, Montevideo and Algiers. There are a number of beautiful stone and concrete viaducts connecting small towns in the Jura, and it wouldn't surprise me if that they inspired him to in embrace the engineer as an important part of his design philosophy.

View from underneath monastery

The Jura offers amazing views of the surrounding landscape, and it's clear to me that Le Corbusier understood this when situating his building on a rural site. I visited his Chapel at Ronchamp du Haut about eight years ago and observed how the form rose above the town below and while hugging the hillside as if it were an integral part. The traditional buildings in the Jura region do the same thing, understanding the opportunities provided by this hilly and mountainous landscape. On this recent trip, I had the chance to visit the Dominican convent of La Tourette northwest of Lyon that he completed in 1960. There Corbu skillfully located the building on the steep hilltop site in order take advantage of a spectacular view out to the Northwest. Like his Villa Savoye built 30 years before, the architect carefully frames his views, this time with a musical array of vertical brise-soleil. Another aspect worth noting about La Tourette is its suprising relationship to the ground. For such an overtly massive-looking structure, it hovers gently over the surface, as you can walk under much of it, thanks to the use of pilotis and cantilevered wings. You find yourself immediately within the convent's terraced courtyard, bound by ramped hallways covered in green roofs, which lends the effect of nature going under through the building.

Director's House at the Royal Saltworks
designed Claude
Nicolas Ledoux, 1779

Main Entrance to Royal Saltworks

Claude Nicolas Ledoux was a genius. Along with Etienne Boullee, they were at the forefront in creating a dramatic neoclassical style in the late 18th century. I was somewhat surprised to find that one of the best preserved examples of his work was standing in a town not too far from where I was staying. His Saline Royale in the small town of Arc-et-Senan, features bold proportions, clean lines and volumes, and a timeless symmetricality even as it is overtly mannerist in details. I was familiar with this project when reading about it during the architectural history survey at school but I was not aware that it had actually been built. It was particularly significant in that it was the first attempt for an architect to design an entire industrial city along the lines of a single masterplan. The salt works was planned in an era in which salt was an extremely valuable commodity, and was most conveniently extracted from underground saltwater springs and later evaporated. The government generated a lot of revenue this way, and appointed Ledoux to create a new salt-extraction facility 20 kilometers away from the original saltworks facility in Salin-des-Bains. Ledoux designed all the necessary buildings, including workers' housing, the salt works and the director's house, within a formal semicircle. Given the autocratic social structure being conjured by enlightenment philosophers at the time, the director's house lies at the center, with a view of all the worker's housing wings beyond, presumably to enable tighter control. It was hoped that the town would expand, demonstrating how industry would change the way cities would look and function. It never came to be, but Ledoux beautiful documented his ideas and related theoretical projects in an influential treatise (L'Architecture considérée sous le rapport de l'art, des mœurs et de la législation) published in 1804. There is a very impressive exhibit on Ledoux's projects featured in that treatise inside one of the worker's buildings in the Saline Royale, featuring elegant plaster and wood models in addition to enlarged fascimiles of pages from the treatise. As any art historian will tell you, Ledoux's architecture was all about going 'back to basics', stripping classical architecture to its bare essence while employing a monumental scale to the orders (this was partly due to archaeological discoveries of ancient Greek and Roman architecture taking place during Ledoux's lifetime.) The effect is an architecture that appears a bit more essential, timeless, and more severe than the baroque and rococo styles that preceded it. It's a bit refreshing to look at these buildings after having seen countless baroque and neo-baroque city blocks throughout France.

Too Big to Solve: When Architecture Lectures Try Too Hard to Change the World

2011-06-06T10:23:00.000-07:00

Sao Paulo-will our future be the 'favelas' or the high rises?

In my field of work, it is always a good thing to refresh one's mind with the work and research of others, especially from those who have aligned their practice towards theory and experimentation. The irony is that the more you practice as an architect, the harder it is to do just that. Therefore a thoughtful lecture given by an architect known for his or her scholastic ambitions is a real treat--the pretty pictures, the colorful diagrams, the project backstories--these things offer a kind of escape from the unglamorous nature of an architect's daily responsibilities. They also remind me why I chose to practice architecture in the first place.

However, among most of the architecture lectures that I've gone to, there is a nagging tendency to justify the work presented as part of a solution to the world's biggest problems. Whether it's a Pritzker winner or a local boutique architect, they can't help but remind the audience of the dire situation that confronts the world, and how their designs reflect far more than just a personalized response to set of problems and client demands. Their work is supposedly a direct extension of their all-encompassing world view, the result of having considered overarching realities, contemporary trends and developments. According to the designer, what to me looks like another elegant apartment tower is really a kind of prototype solution to global problems such as overpopulation, environmental degradation and climate change.

While many in the audience find such presentations inspiring, I can't help but consider it another half-baked attempt at a solution that will fall well short of its promises. It's not that I don't want them to succeed, but rather that they accept a set of highly dubious assumptions to construct what seems as a compelling argument at first, but which inevitably collapses like a house of cards once you dig a bit further.

In spite of the breadth of issues these designers and academics try take on, they rely on a predictably narrow set of sources and data that are prone to exaggerate and are devoid of empirical analysis. A typical red flag for this is when they cite left-of center sources as authorative voices on their subject, even if all of them are merely dilletantes in the form of opportunistic politicians, activists or op-ed editorial writers. It's not unusual to hear the names of celebrity dilletantes such Al Gore, James Howard Kunstler, George Monbiot, Thomas Friedman or even Barack Obama during these presentations. Some even fall into using sensationalized Newsweek or Time magazine covers to highlight the urgency of the problems that need to be solved. They are probably unaware that all of these sources have been discredited over and over, and some have suffered big hits to their professional integrity during the last few years.

These lectures have become formulaic, and they all seem to touch consistently on a similar set of themes. They are each framed a bit differently from presenter to presenter, but the arguments are pretty much the same. Allied with slick graphics, these presentations pack a hefty rhetorical punch, and it takes time for those who disagree to come up with reasons why they aren't persuaded. I try hard to supress my tendency to roll my eyes out of their sockets, but let's look below to see why I struggle:

Complaints about the cost of the current status quo

Usually, this kind of lecture starts by highlighting aspects of contemporary life that later inform their work. For those designers who orient themselves towards global issues, they love to use bullet points, with attractive bold graphics to list things like:

The costs incurred in planning infrastructure in low-density urban areas (roads, water, sewage, heating). Municipal spending in response is supposed higher per-capita to build and maintain these services.

The costs incurred in driving and automobile ownership. This is then loosely tied to the cost of using petroleum

The costs incurred on the medical system in the forms of heart disease, allergies, asthma, and metabolic syndrome (obesity, high blood pressure, diabetes, etc.)

Along with other dubious data points, the implication is always this: The status quo is not only costing us too much money, it's literally killing us.

What is not mentioned when discussing costs are the trade-offs from doing something else. If we did not plan our cities along the lines of auto-centric sprawl, would the alternatives be all that much cheaper, or could they possibly be more expensive? What are the unintended consequences of a more dense walking and transit-centered policies? Would it massively inhibit the potential economic growth that car-centric development provides?

Beyond the monetary question is the larger question about control: is the inevitable cost to personal freedom and the pursuit of wealth really worth having shiny new trains, long waits at stations and bus stops and having retail shops at the ground-floor of your apartment?

It can't go on forever

We are reminded in these lectures that nature has its limits and the way humans exploit it will cause an impending scarcity that will threaten our civilization if we don't collectively act quickly enough. Climate change and Peak Oil should remind us that we can't continue to live the way that we do, but that we ought to live in a way recommended by our betters in the architecture and planning community. Peak Oil is a favorite theory of theirs, in which oil will run out sooner than we think and car-based civilization will come to a halt. People will head for high-density cities and rely on public transit while the suburbs will turn into ghost towns. Unmentioned is that oil reserves continue to grow almost exponentially due to technology advances that allow more oil to be recovered (re: Eagle Ford discovery). The production of shale oil is ramping up, and is fortunately plentiful in North America. Also unmentioned is the current natural gas boom from shale deposits that can provide up to 100 years' worth of energy for the U.S. alone (Michael Lind writes in Salon that we might be entering an age of fossil fuel abundance).

Efficiency has doubled during the past two decades and there is room for even more efficiencies, especially as direct-injection and hybrid engines become more mainstream. The desire for automobility is too ingrained in our modern world for it to go away, and demand for it will continue to grow in developing countries for the forseeable future. Most spectacularly, they fail to credit market price signals that influence consumer behavior and allows people to adapt to changing levels of scarcity in one resource for abundance in another. Finally, they show pictures of urban blight and Third World misery, and point to them as not as the economic or social failures that they are, but as the wasteful byproduct of excessive car dependency or inadequate use of mass transit.

Markets, what markets?

As part of their general anti-market worldview, these lecturers completely avoid rational discussions on economics or market mechanisms in general. The only time such things are mentioned is when they are abstractly criticized as being inadequate in solving the problem at hand. Markets or capitalism are objects of blame for the failing status quo.

Just as they blame markets, they will never point to bad government policies, unless such policies were tied to fostering economic and capital growth. Bad government policies are ones that engender wealth, plutocrats and economic inequality. They will never mention government policies that have destroyed livelihoods, stable social structures (families), and have chased away business and real estate development-- never. Apparently, good architecture exists outside this reality.

Detroit, MI- Red shows population
decrease, blue is expansion.

For example, cities that show clear signs of decay indicate that the market-based status quo isn't working. Detroit is shown as evidence of the failure of unenlightened urban planning and the capitalistic forces that led to creating an unsustainable urban model. There is no mention of possible political reasons for Detroit's current blight, or how it may have been the result of its legendarily misguided economic and social policies (taxes, corruption, unions, crime, race relations).

Why are markets the culprit? It's because they do not follow any kind of intelligible design. To a designer, most social and economic failures are do to a poor design or lack of one. Never underestimate the faith that architects and planners have on design, even as policies that exhibit a high level of design tend to harm people more often than not.

If they have it, why don't we?

According to most designers, some solutions are universal. Local factors that complicate an outside solution's effectiveness are merely a nuissance. It is not believed that different places throughout the world come up with their original solutions to planning their built environmental based on rational decision-making, geography, climate and the technology available at the time. In older denser countries that were scaled to human or animal-based travel, linear transport systems based on fixed nodes such as rail make a lot of sense for passenger travel. In more recently created nations, faster modes of travel than rail will take precedence if it is affordable and economically beneficial, and will logically determine city planning there. If the automobile and airplane are sufficient to meet the transport needs of society, there will be no real demand for slower, less flexible types of transportation like rail. Instead, every time urban or intercity rail is built in a place where cars have long been commonplace, it ends up imposing tremendously high and permanent costs to taxpayers.

From the designer's point of view, when a place doesn't have all kinds of taxpayer-subsidized modes of transport in one place, it presents a lack of choice. What is not stated is that collecting taxes to fund these 'choices' denies the taxpayer's freedom to choose how to spend their money on matters of transport. In addition, many rail-based mass transit systems exist as a way for cities scaled to walking to compete in efficiency and productivity to newer cities that are scaled to the car. Without these, a walkable urban area is nothing more than an isolated village.

At the national scale, one thing that these design lectures like to shame the U.S. on is the lack of high speed rail network. France, Germany, Spain, Japan and even poor little China has one. Why can't we? There is no mention to what makes these networks run--lots and lots of state money ultimately extracted from its citizens, whether they use them or not. Beyond being huge money pits in which the cost of operations will never be recovered, their impact further urban development is negligible. The mere notion of transit-oriented development (TOD) gives lie to the fact that preferred modes of mass transit actually generate real development at all. Instead, TOD is code for government help in areas next to stations that could not be privately developed due to the inadequacy of that mass transit's ability to provide reliable consumers/users. It is never mentioned that greater automobility begets greater prosperity and economic freedom. Paradoxically, the supposed choices offered by a rail-based national transit system depends on the denial of rights to property owners.

Megan McArdle from the Atlantic Magazine perfectly encapsulates this problem, writing about her own experiences in Chinese high-speed train:

Viewed from a purely technological perspective, America's high speed rail is an embarrassment compared to China's: shaky, slow, and not particularly sleek. But viewed in another way, our slow rail network is the price for a lot of great things about America: our limits on government power, our democratic political system, and the fact that we're already rich enough to have an enormous amount of existing infrastructure, in the form of houses, industrial plant, and roads, that would be very expensive to tear up in the name of building rail lines. All in all, I think these things are more valuable than even a really cool train system.

Back to the City

Design lecturers repeatedly spout the mantra of the inevitable triumph of the dense centralized urban core and the withering away of the suburbs. Large cities are more sustainable, more resilient to energy scarcity and have an overall economic advantage over smaller communities due to the proximity between all kinds of economic players. They recycle the same statistics that show the rapid rise of urbanization throughout the globe and conclude that the development of megacities is likely, and that solutions are needed to deal with this unstoppable flow of migrants. Nowhere in these statistics is there a breakdown in the distribution of which cities are growing, and how much of it is in reality suburban development. There is no doubt fewer people are still farming, and are indeed moving to more urban locales for work. It is not clear whether this always takes the form of Bladerunner-styled urban development.

If anything, the big elephant in the room is the general fact that the population of urban areas have been dispersing at an accelerating rate. The 2010 US Census provides incontrovertible evidence, showing almost all the nation's metropolitan centers have seen their inner- and outer-ring suburbs continue to grow while their core continue to stagnate or decline. Whatever new developments that have occurred in central cities has only managed to attract upper-class singles and professionals, thus inflating property values while chasing out the middle to lower-middle class to the suburbs. In fact, I predict that the main challenge for planners and architects in the coming century will be on how to retool the suburbs to function more efficiently while still offering residents "a place in the sun", an inherently natural human desire.

Still, I think most designer-types will stick to finding ways to leave their mark on central cities, which are increasingly resembling resorts that cater to a uniformly wealthy leisure class who like to work in pretty environs. These gentrifying areas have long ceased being transformative economic zones accessible to people in all walks of life. Such basic functions have gone to urban peripheries.

There is a recurring irony here: these designers and lecturers take urban problems seriously and come up with serious solutions resulting from a highly reflective and sober design process--yet share an unserious understanding of actual urban trends and reality.

The future will be compact and geometric

The solutions presented is in a way the biggest letdown of these lectures. One hopes for something truly new and imaginative, but one is presented with nothing but a warmed-over urban scheme reminiscent of what architectural prophets like Le Corbusier or Tony Garnier were drawing up a century ago. The concepts that are often floated consist of a highly geometric pattern, either linear or radial, with dense blocks, often anchored to public transit or other means of centrally managed conveyance and keep automobile use at a minimum .

No suggestions are ever made on how to get from here to there. No mention of what the cost will be to implement these ideas. For all their talk about their plans' sustainable advantages when it comes to the environment, there is little said about their inherent financial unsustainability. They propose a massive realignment of infrastructure for mass transit lines that are highly dependent on public subsidy; cost more to maintain and operate over time; become more inefficient over time as a result of the inevitable increase in labor costs due to unionization. They propose transit systems that have historically never come close to covering their operating costs from fees charged to riders, and have instead looked to outside sources of public funds (i.e. taxpayers) to keep running.

Such an enormous amount of money and bureaucratic power to achieve these goals leads one to conclude that many architect lecturers pine for some kind of benevolent leviathan state. For all the material progress that we have enjoyed from market capitalism during the last century, and for all the unparalleled bounty it has provided to architects, it seems that many of my colleagues won't be happy until as much private wealth can be taxed to subsidize a more designed, and thus more beautiful tomorrow.

There is nothing wrong with lectures and books that show these designers are engaged. It's just that I wish they would be engaged with a cultural, social, and especially economic reality most people outside the profession have to deal with. In those lectures that focus mostly on innovative masterplans and ambitious urban concepts, it would help to ground them a bit more in the challenge of actual urban economics-- why and how certain urban densities occur on their own; why some districts thrive and others decay; What are the actual observed usage patterns of certain buildings, and to what extent they can be reshaped by the designer (designers architects LOVE creating diagrams--abstracted graphics explaining how a design ought to work but rarely about how it actually will work).

For every new idea that they propose, they need to think what the tradeoffs will be upon implementation. A nice park system or extensive bicycle path network would no doubt be nice things to have, but how does one ensure that the budget for their maintenance and expansion will be there year after year? It's doesn't suffice to simply declare to let all cars go to hell and the roads decay, since all that does is to weaken the necessary economic base upon which public funds depend. If they plan with the sole focus on a high-density future, is there an alternative if the future turns out to be less populated and more suburban in character? If self-driving cars take off, thus solving major dilemmas such as traffic, accidents and even parking, will they be willing to abandon the classic transit-oriented model of development?

As someone who is repulsed by the idea of an all-controlling centralized leviathan state, I tend to take the view that a designer should aim to solve a set of problems that don't involve a radical overturning of the status quo. If that makes me "not part of the solution" and thus "part of the problem", my answer would be that I don't find our world all that problematic, compared to the alternatives. Fully accepting of the fact that humans are fallible with a tendency towards the tragic, I don't subscribe to the notion that society is somehow perfectable. I also reject the notion that because architects weave a variety of disciplines from the artistic and philosophical as well as the scientific, they are in a special position to offer grand solutions to the way in which we live. Advances in our quality of life throughout human history have been spurred by unpredicted technologies, spontaneous social revolutions, and military conquest--not by some elegant grand design. For human beings to spurn such grand designs should not be understood as a failure of human beings, but as a failure of planners to understand them.

Let's go back to architecture lectures in which the projects are a poetic and sophisticated solution to problems posed by the site and the client's needs. There's a lot to be explored and think about within these simple parameters. When a lecturer tries to make the discussion go beyond these parameters, I sometimes suspect it's a means of covering-up a rather shallow and unworkable design. The architecture that moves me most examines building's most fundamental forces, such as gravity, weather, light, and human memory.

Just spare me the alarmist statistics, please.

Hang On To Your Ego: How Big Heads Created Big Problems for Protestantism

2011-05-25T15:41:00.000-07:00

It should come as no surprise to regular readers of this blog, or even a casual observer of American Protestantism that we have big problems. The mainline protestant churches are shells of their former glory, to put it nicely. In terms of numbers, finances and theological prowess, many mainline Protestant church bodies are stuck in a morass of decline and relativism. For non-mainliners, the Church Growth Movement has so hopelessly watered down evangelical Christianity that it is impossible to determine the difference between Oprah Winfrey and Joel Osteen (and the legions of wannabe Joel Osteens).
Then there is the Emergent Church, or Emergent movement, or whatever it chooses to call itself these days. This pitiable attempt to reconcile postmodern philosophy and traditional Christianity has displayed numerous heresies and a total lack of humility, all with a wink and a nod towards irony. The postmodern "best of all worlds" approach of the emergents is very attractive to young adults, who are pretty sure that because someone quotes a church father from 340 A.D., they must be wise. Focusing on love and all things touchy-feely, the emergents have tried their very best to respond to vapid megachurches with an embrace of "authenticity", rawness and getting back to what Christianity "really" is about.
Like all movements, there is some good coming from both the Church Growth movement and the emergent movement. For the Church Growthers, at least some folks have moved from the couch to a church pew, or, theatre-style seat. I think that is a good thing. For the emergents, at least they call traditionalists to not get too rigid in our theology and hide behind it. "Organized" religion can indeed be so provincial, so shortsighted, that it does indeed become the grumpy uncle no one likes to have around. Perhaps both of these movements, fatally flawed though they be, can remind us stodgy, orthodox Protestants, to think outside of the box on occasion.
But observing these two movements, I have been compelled to try to discern exactly what the roots are. Why are these movements unique to Protestantism? When did this all begin? Without trying to provide an exhaustive history, and knowing that much has contributed to these movements (including the revival movements, the embrace of the law that the mainliners left behind, etc.), I'd like to offer at least one foundational principle that has led directly or indirectly to these two movements: the emergence of the super-theologian in the early/mid 20th century. Major theologians, including but not limited to Karl Barth, Rudolf Bultmann, Paul Tillich, the Niebuhr brothers and more recently Jurgen Moltmann, had profound influence on Protestant theology, and they were all advancers of new ideas.
Of course, there were many theologians, including Dietrich Bonhoeffer, C.S. Lewis, and Albert Schweitzer that were super-theologians, but they had no interest in advancing a cause, but in preserving the Church. (Some say Bonhoeffer was a neo-orthodox super-theologian but I strongly disagree. His “religion-less Christianity” comment was fleeting and has been overblown.) They were influential, but more for apologetic reasons than fomenting theological revolution. It was those listed in the previous paragraph, and their many disciples, that created something in the Protestant Church that has been a cancer ever since: competition.
While I am not so naive as to think that competition hasn't existed in the Church forever (remember the disciples asking Jesus which one was the greatest?), I do think that the emergence of the super-theologian created opportunities that simply did not previously exist. Mass media and the possibility of achieving celebrity status converged to teach many a young man and young woman that being a theologian offered one the opportunity to become known, and to have influence. But this celebrity status would be available only to those who had something new to say. And now we arrive at the nub of the problem: theologians quickly embarked on a race to find something new to say with the hopes of being seen as a super-theologian.
It isn't just book sales or fame that led to this problem. The academy itself is largely to blame, even though its blame comes as a result of unintended consequences. Think about this logically: to earn a PhD, one must have a new thesis to present. In the world of theology and scripture, there are only so many new theses that can be presented before many of them start leaving the rails of orthodox Christianity. One can only read so much into the gospels or the letters of Paul before one sees things that aren't there, things that Paul never intended, or things that cast Jesus in a radically new light. If the academy demands that academics find something new in theology, they will. And before long, these will be the patriarchs and matriarchs of a new Christianity.
Fortunately for the Church Growth Movement, it cannot be criticized of having theologians that have gone down this path because it does not have theologians. It has marketing experts that pose as theologians. The emergent church does have many leaders who have embraced no-orthodoxy, however, and have swallowed it whole. Their leaders are following in the footsteps of the super-theologians by being heavily published, widely read, attractive to secular media, and influential to skeptical postmoderns.
While I hate to be so cliché as to say this all could have been avoided, much of it could have been. It is not the theologians task to present anything new; it is his or her task to proclaim what the Church has always proclaimed. The entrepreneurial and independent spirit of American Protestantism causes grave problems when it forgets its calling to be faithful and insists on being “relevant” or “contemporary”.
To the super-theologians of our age, I simply say: the gospel is always contemporary. Your superstar status is not needed to make it so. Cease trying to reinvent the Christian faith. Use your charisma to proclaim it, not redefine it.

Give Me My Mission Back

2011-04-26T13:53:00.000-07:00

Several weeks ago, I enjoyed a long visit with a friend of mine from Germany. He is, like me, a pastor, so we naturally had all sorts of conversations – er, debates – about our different church systems, which one was better, etc. In Germany, church members pay an 8% tax to the government, which then issues money back to pastors and congregations. This is obviously different from the American system where members support their individual congregation through offerings. Our system carries a lot of uncertainty, and it can be exploited by a less than honorable pastor. Hence, the prosperity gospel movement, sleazy televangelists, etc. But it does connect, in very tangible way, the mission of the Church/congregation with the stewardship of the individual.

The German system, meanwhile, is probably an efficient system, but I would argue it facilitates a separation of the member from an intimate involvement in the life of the congregation. My argument is supported by low attendance by church members in Germany, possibly as low as 1% in some areas and perhaps as high as 10% in other areas. American church attendance is somewhere between 30-40%.

But as the consequences of the church tax system began to dawn on me, and as the size and scope of their government became more apparent, I began to wonder if it was only the tax system that has an impact on low attendance. At one point, I asked this: “What can the Church do for the poor, the needy, and the homeless, that the State doesn’t already do?” His answer was pretty clear: “Nothing.”

So while I spent a lot of time arguing against their church tax system, assuming that was the reason for low attendance, I came to think that the problem was probably much larger: there was not much for the Church to do! There is a disconnect between the words of scripture compelling us to care for our neighbor and the need of the Church to do so. After all, much of what the Church would surely do is already being done by the State.

Indeed, much of the ministry of the historic Church had been co-opted by the so-called “welfare state” all over Europe, and the Church has been a willing participant in this. That should not surprise us, as taking care of the poor and needy is hard work, and the Church would often prefer to focus on the niceties of preaching, worship, and fellowship. The attitude can quickly become, “We’ll do all the pretty stuff, and we’ll let the State take care of the safety net.”

Now, I am not arguing against our transcendent tasks (what we call Word and Sacrament) for mere social improvement. The Church still has vital tasks only it can fulfill, found in Word and Sacrament ministry. It should go without saying that the value of Word and Sacrament ministry is priceless. But if opportunities to show love for neighbor cannot become an outgrowth of Word and Sacrament ministry, congregations will almost certainly become places where faith becomes a mere concept and where theology in the mind replaces fire in the belly.

Without trying to sound cynical, it seems obvious to me that the welfare state is at least an unaware competitor to the Church. The further the welfare state gets along the socialist state road, the less "unaware" the state becomes. That is to say, the State is, in many places, doing “ministry” that not only should be done by the Church, but would actually empower the Church. This kind of ministry would connect the words heard in the “mouth house” of the nave to the deeds we are called to perform. The Church should actually be hungry for doing this kind of work.

More to the point, it should demand it! Because love for neighbor as the motivation for serving the poor, the homeless, and the lost is the best motivation of all. And this motivation is finally and truly found only in the Church of Jesus Christ.

Am I suggesting that we should not have a social net? Of course not. There are things only the State can do, and should do. Government is ordained by God, just as the Church is. But if the answer to my question above really is “Nothing,” then the State is simply doing too much, and the Church is being deprived of a portion of its mission. In America the State certainly has a role as does the Church. But if our society begins to march towards the German model, I hope Christians will join me in saying to the State, “Give me my mission back!”

200,000: Celebrating a Milestone

2011-04-04T21:39:00.000-07:00

One Saturday morning in the summer of 2005, I began this blog thinking that I had something to important to say. All I knew was that I would name it after an early-eighties pop music album from an influential synth band, just because it sounded profound yet cool. It took a while to find my voice, writing about a variety of topics, before finding a niche exploring the intersection between politics, economics and architecture. I soon recruited fellow writer Relievedebtor on this little endeavor, who provided his valuable philosophical and theological insights and in the process invited readers to learn more about all things related to the built environment. In time the content grew and started to inadvertently fulfill the implied meanings of the blog's name.

Today (April 4th, 2011) Architecture + Morality will have welcomed its 200,000th visitor. While other more popular architecture an religion blogs have attracted far more, it's no small accomplishment either. This blog started during what I call blogging's "heyday", when everyone believed they were the next great online journalist by writing a popular blog. With a variety of free online software (e.g. Blogger, Wordpress, etc.) they could bypass the established online magazines and potentially draw far more readers than even the old established newspapers. Soon enough, it became obvious to most people that this was hard work and pretty time consuming, and many naturally gave up not long after their blog's debut. Social media sites like Facebook and Twitter would later offer many of the same benefits of blogging, but without the need to consistently deliver quality content on a timely basis. Since neither Relievedebtor nor I know how to make clever pithy statements nor do we like talking about ourselves, the traditional blog format still remains our preferred outlet in sharing what we're thinking about when we don't find ourselves consumed by the non-stop demands of daily life. We are proud that this blog continues to be updated, albeit less frequently, and that many people come to read old posts and find them still relevant. We are also humbled that our blog has become a kind of resource for students, newspapers, magazines, and online encyclopedias.

To mark this milestone, I've updated the look of the site, changing the graphics while adopting an updated blogger template. The most important change to take note of is the Twitter feed on the top right portion of the window. I am constantly browsing articles that interest me and that I feel are worth sharing to our readers. While waiting for the next big post on the blog, I recommend following @archmorality on Twitter in the meantime and checking regularly. Twitter allows me to catalogue articles and websites that I might later use to help me write for the blog, and it's really the best way to track what I'm thinking at the moment. We also encourage you to share our articles to your friends by clicking on the buttons below each post.

As you may have noticed, Relievedebtor and I have found it more difficult to find the time to write pieces for this blog, even though it's still one of the more enjoyable things we do. We are consumed by our growing households, our professions and our ommunities. We will continue to post when we have the chance, so long as the topics and ideas we come up with are worth the time and patience of our wonderful readers. Many times we express views that run counter to the orthodoxies of our profession (architecture and religious pastorship). Even so, we appreciate the countless number of readers who disagree with much of what we believe but still read our articles.

It's been an interesting little side project, and we look forward to sharing more with our readers in the years to come. Six years ago I would have never envisioned the breadth and attention Architecture + Morality now enjoys, especially considering how little we have promoted it and how infrequently we contribute to it. We are grateful for your comments, and we look forward to fostering a meaningful dialogue with our readers on topics regarding architecture, morality and everything in between.

Real Faith for Real Life

2011-02-17T13:42:00.000-08:00

I know that tradition has its limitations, but it still strikes me as shortsighted for pastors and congregations to show a hostility towards it, especially pastors who hail from long-standing church bodies with adherence to liturgies. Why, I wonder, do these pastors insist that it is the tradition that is the problem with their congregations, not the solution? Why are they willing to separate something as important as traditional worship from older parishioners for their new vision?
Certainly, anyone should be able to admit that if tradition means that we use a certain doily sewn by a certain member from the 1950s, then tradition can be problematic. That breeds an ownership mentality in the church , and that is surely not what we mean by “tradition.” If tradition means doing anything, including worshipping, a particular way just because that is how “it has always been done,” then tradition can be problematic. Even an old soul like me abhors meaningless clinging to tradition because of a fear of change.
That kind of traditionalism aside, it is not hard to find an antagonism to even the best that tradition has to offer. Those sentiments seems to be rooted in the belief that our new day demands a different kind of church, and certainly a different kind of worship. One pastor put it this way: “The danger for the church today isn’t the challenges of the modern world but the temptation to escape reality by hiding behind tradition. We want to help people find a faith that really works for them in their real lives.” While I appreciate this pastor’s zeal, his love for his people, and his earnestness in helping a troubled world find answers, there is at least one assumption that calls for redressing.
That assumption is this: there is a “real life” somewhere out there, so far removed from the traditions of the Church, that only a contemporary faith can speak to it. What do these real lives look like? I suspect only this pastor can fully answer, but I would guess a “real life” is something like this: a life that is burdened by busyness, burned out on work, in conflict with family and neighbor, skeptical of God and consumed with the day-to-day tasks of keeping a home and raising a family. You see, tradition doesn’t really help people solve all the problems of this “real life,” because tradition is only really concerned with lofty doctrines and dry solutions. Tradition and this real life are like ships passing in the night.
What people need, the argument must surely go, is a church/pastor that helps people cope with this “real life.” As Rick Warren often says, people need “fewer ‘ought-to sermons’ and more ‘how-to’ sermons.” Sermons then might focus on healthy marriages, stress reduction, conflict resolution even things as mundane as time management. People aren’t looking for a re-posting of any 95 theses; just give them something that will get them through the day.
To be fair, sermons without application can be awfully dry. And while they are necessary at times to teach and instruct God’s people, sermons that only focus on doctrine will not communicate that God’s word is indeed living and active, sharper than a two-edged sword (Hebrews 4:12). But how does the pastor know when to stop descending into the real lives of people, who are, after all, sinners? What is the criteria that a pastor might use so he or she knows when to stop digging? What is a reason that a pastor might refrain from abandoning the gospel in an effort to speak to the “real life”?
Good preaching, it seems to me, can be at the mercy of tradition and still speak to the modern life. The problems that plague us are not new, nor are the solutions; there is nothing new under the sun. So good preaching doesn't just comment on the mundane problems of this world, but actually peels back the curtain on the mystery of God's kingdom. It invites the faithful to a glimpse of the transcendent.
Our day-to-day life is, in fact, not our real life. It is, as Paul says in 1 Corinthians 13, like looking through a mirror dimly. In our real “real life”, the eternal one to which the baptized look forward, we will then see God face to face. In the presence of God, all the promises of salvation and mercy fulfilled, we will be in awe at the throne of God and declare: “This is the real life.” And we will more fully understand Mark Twain’s quip: “Why do we cry at a funeral and rejoice at a birth? Probably because we’re not the person involved.” No point in crying for a person who is finally experiencing the real life.

Visionaries, Unlike the Rest of Us: How to understand elite designer architects

2011-01-28T09:52:00.000-08:00

Louis Kahn, who had a lot
of personal drama, standings
inside his most magnificent
creation.

There's a common French expression that turns up everytime the topic of conversation turns to the differences between a work and leisure-centered lifestyle: "in France, we choose not live to work, but work to live." Most people indeed want and do find work that lets them 'live', in which one can spend precious time with family, friends, and hobbies. And yet there are certain professions where this ideal is a non-starter, such as my own. To put it simply, architects who care about design excellence frown upon those who innocently seek a work-life balance. They don't see practicing architecture as a job that occupies eight hours in the day only to forget about it when they come home. Rather, one should live to work, be passionate about what one does and take as much time necessary to do it well. Architecture demands it!

Well, about half of us have failed to heed this calling and have managed to carve out a comfortable work-life balance in this profession, usually by foresaking design responsibilities for dryer technical roles. The less individual input and investment the task requires, the more likely one can go home at a reasonable hour. Construction administration, which takes place near the end of the project (where the architect's involvement is most limited), and consists of following an automated routine of answering emailed inquiries and checking shop drawings, is especially helpful in getting one to leave at 5pm. Similarly, I often notice that our consulting engineers also enjoy this luxury, delivering the bare minimum drawings and happily pasting in stock solutions, without making any effort to consider alternatives or out-of the box ideas. Those who are happy with this arrangement don't seem to envy the constant late hours spent by designer-types preparing the perfect competition entry with piles of sketches, models, renderings and gallons of coffee. After an extended period of doing roles that require such different amounts of time and energy, those who work to live no longer understand those who live to work (I strongly suggest reading a related post here).

It seems that among all professions, architecture is one of the very few that has to confront, albeit uncomfortably, such opposing mindsets about how to balance work and life. Half art, half science, sometimes a completely non-profit endeavor and other times a strictly commercial service--architecture is torn between being a life-long, semi-religious vocation for some and just a day job for others. This split seems widen the chasm between who speaks publicly for the profession and those who don't due to their preference for a quiet private life. The kind of architect we tend to admire--one who does a competent and honest job within a 40-hour workweek, spends time with family and is involved in private social clubs-- is not the one sticking his neck out in public forums, masterplanning committees, speaking to the press, or teaching the next generation of designers. Interestingly it's the kind of architects we love to hate--aspiringly philosophical and frequently ideological, a lover of grand urban schemes at the expense of private welfare, self-centered yet unaware of it-- that dominate unopposed the overarching public discourse on architecture even as they labor 100-hour workweeks.

This was especially brought to my attention with the personal interactions I've been fortunate to have with a number of high-profile architects in recent years. The roster includes a couple of people who worked under one of the twentieth-century's greatest masters, another one having designed the world's tallest buildings, and others who have won numerous prizes and are published in the most prominent magazines and books. These individuals are generally regarded as leaders in their field, visionaries in every sense and will be remembered as pioneers by their peers. Yet, when I spent time with them, for all their accolades and admiration, they came across and as extremely tired from stress and frustrated. At first these traits lent these individuals a refreshing humanity about them, but over time I came to understand that these traits were symptoms of an overall melancholy that afflicted all of them. You could see on their faces the huge sacrifices they had to make to earn their coveted reputation--the decades-long exercise of pulling all-nighters and lost weekends and their inability to stop doing it, knowing that to maintain relevance they will have to keep working as long and as hard as ever before, where 'burning out' happens on the day of their death. These people can't imagine ever retiring.

Unsurprisingly, a trail of wreckage in their personal lives usually accompanies their rise to professional acclaim. Stories of late and short-lived marriages, bitter divorces, custody fights, much younger girlfriends/second wives, delayed parenthood with nanny troubles, or the wackiness of permanent bachelorhood are common with this set. For those who do have children, they will admit to not being able to be there for them. Outside of the office, their life is mired in precarious personal situations, and they obviously feel most at ease working. They proudly reminisce of the times they would practically live in the office and chide those who weren't willing to stay as long, rejecting the reason that it was important to have a life outside the office. Though these kind of architects are at their core well-meaning, even charming, their justifications in how they had to make insufferable demands on their staff reveals a slight psychopathic tendency, even as they themselves are largely blind to such a diagnosis.

Shouldn't we disregard these personal failings and judge these individuals solely by their works? After all, none of us are perfect and it is part of human nature to be fallible in all kinds of ways. Such personal tensions and stress is a normal part of a creative life, and have always been, so why does it matter?

It matters because what these architectural visionaries do eventually affects everyone else and how we live. They rarely ever reap the financial benefits of their ideas, and they continue to play second fiddle to their clients, but at some point we will ultimately have to deal with, without ever being asked, the built manifestations coming from these people's minds. One could easily go through life completely uncultivated, never having to see a painting, listen to music or read a book. For those who are cultivated, we can freely choose what we want to see and experience and vice versa. The one thing that doesn't give us much of a choice is the built environment that we are forced to live in. Though our built environments are the result of a good-faith attempt to rationally organize what should go where, the look and feel of a place, what our senses perceive, is the work of a designer, both architects and urban planners.

Louisville Museum Plaza by REX/OMA.
A new viable paradigm for urban life or
a giant middle-finger to the Midwestern
way of life?

When these special individuals set forth a vision, they draw from a lifestyle and a collection of experiences that are unlike almost everybody else's. Along with their denial of much of a balanced emotional or social life, they are also adamant in living within a very narrow slice of urban life. Settling down in a car-based suburb with a wife and 3 kids, attending weekly church services while going to PTA meetings at the neighborhood public school is almost proudly shunned by this elite. Rather, one often finds them living in an apartment in a walkable city like New York, San Francisco, Boston or Chicago, sending their kids (if they have any) to an expensive private school they can't afford while eating epicurian fare and purchasing pricy locally grown produce. Instead of spending time volunteering for the boy scouts, church committees, or coaching youth soccer, they present lectures at a local architecture forum (attended chiefly by urban bachelors like themselves) or critiquing student projects at the local architecture school. For a group that proclaims a keen sense of place, they proudly confess a complete ignorance of the world outside the one they inhabit. If a place cannot be walked to or accessed by public transportation, they deem it unworthy of knowing anything about it, much less respect it. In their minds, any place that doesn't foster walking, dense neighborhoods, extensive transit, a university, or artistic cashe is of no interest to them. Rather, these places are the targets of their scorn, embodying all the things that they loathe about modern post-industrial life: auto-centric sprawl, excessive consumption and a low-brow cultural superficiality.

As visionaries they are steadfast about living in a way that conforms to what to the images they conceive in their heads. If they design projects that consist of mixing uses in a large superstructure regardless of functionality, you can bet that they live a life where all their needs are met within a few blocks. If they imagine a future where people grow food on the sides of buildings, you can be certain that they practice locavorism with a tenacity that disregards the expense, energy and time such a lifestyle requires. You will see them argue that their daring design for a speculative condominium tower that caters exclusively to wealthy customers is actually a a coherent response to impending crises of overpopulation and environmental destruction. They will point to their recent museum of contemporary art in an opulent emirate as their heart-felt contribution to enriching the cultural life of the community. And that multimillion-dollar private house expresses their commitment to a model for sustainable design for all. These visionaries are men and women of conviction, in spite of the contradictions.

Such committment to a set of core ideas tends to distort one's judgement on what works. It doesn't matter if their design didn't maximize a client's leasing goals, or effectively controlled the flow of traffic through its main spaces, nor even made a place that is comfortable and practical to its users--no, what matters is that their design achieves more worldly goals such as solving society's most pressing problems such as environmental destruction, social injustice, and a scarcity for genuine art objects expressing the Zeitgeist in world mired by crass commercialism. A project can be considered a 'success' if it embodies highly developed forms, evocative materials that lend an overally lyrical visual quality. If it can incorporate sustainable measures, or arrange the owner's program in as dense a footprint as possible, then it's even better. In the end, what works depends on whether a designer's moral program has been fulfilled.

Contrary to the ideal of form following function, so much what is considered great contemporary architecture doesn't seem to function all that well. It may convincingly function in a more symbolic way, such as how it rethinks ways in which the private and public interact the residential design, or how spectator and performer connect in an eye-opening way, or how it subverts our own assumptions about urban form and context. But things like convenience, comfort and ease-of-use is given short shrift. Two recent local examples illustrate this classically: Norman Foster's Winspear Opera House here in Dallas has garnered rave reviews about how well it functions in its urban role and how it rethinks the idea of the isolation versus transparency with regards to the peforming arts hall typology (I shared my own praise here).

Yet opera-goers close to me complain of grossly inadequate restrooms that produce extremely long lines during intermission; narrow public stairs incapable of handling the crowds coming down to the ground level after the conclusion of a performance; and the forcing of all visitors to queue outside a single pair of front doors to get into the building. Rem Koolhaas' Wylie Theatre across the street is revolutionary in the way it recasts the programmatic relationship between the backstage and the stage itself by setting it vertically, allowing a level of flexibility unimaginable in more conventional buildings of the type. Yet, the restrooms look like they belong in a subway station, access to the brutalist-styled lobby requires visitors to decend down a hair-raisingly steep ramp (handicapped users will need to zigzag down a set of shallower ramps the length of a football field to get there) before climbing up by a narrow and unceremonious stair up into the main auditorium space. The bright green chairs are wretchedly uncomfortable and have scratched and bruised my knees due to their lack of leg room from being fixed to a large suspended steel platform that can be raised and lowered by cables. I guess that's the price one pays for having most gorgeous aluminum-sheathed box in the world.

To such criticisms, the architect will cheekily reply that they intended to make it a bit uncomfortable so that that spectators would stay alert and pay attention to the performance, or meditate on whatever thematic function the architect really cares about. And what they really care about is that it furthers "a conversation about architecture in the city".

And therein lies a larger though unstated truth about these designer types--they do not want to make the lives of those using their building any easier. Instead they believe it is better to make things a bit harder, since it disciplines users to live in a morally correct way. You can't expect to do as you please in their buildings--the architecture imposes its will on you. Foster openly admitted that queuing up outside before a performance was a good thing because it forces a camarederie to develop while waiting, much like lining up to watch Star Wars at the cineplex (Is he saying that opera houses should be more like movie theatres?). This lack of ease, or more fundamentally, of freedom, is no accident, and has a lot to do with the way the designers of such special buildings choose to live.

Re:Vision Dallas imagines a future of
farming on the sides of buildings and
tolerating the drones of inefficient
wind turbines--Pretty, but it won't work

Contrary to their bragging about how great life downtown in a big cosmopolitan city is, they are not all that free and independent. They only can function within a tight and fragile urban and institutional footprint where everything the need is exactly in place but no more than that. They are highly vulnerable if one of the pieces to their life suddenly disappears, whether it's a transit line or stop being closed, a sudden job loss or a spike in crime that chases away retail businesses. One former Rem Koolhaas protege who now is dean at an architecture school in a highly auto-centric city proudly admited to me not knowing how to drive a car, and gladly is given rides by her students and colleagues. Mind you her reputation has been built on her original ideas about how cities need to be reimagined. She showed up to a function in a city four-hours drive away and gladly decided to fly in. These types tend to fly a lot, which gives a clearer meaning to phrase "fly-over country".

What does this all mean? It means that much of what they come up with, no matter how enchantingly beautiful, will not work very well. Some of their projects will fail gloriously. Almost all of them go wildly overbudget. Hopefully their ideas go no farther than a charming rendering. They gravitate to where their ideas don't have to be tested by reality. They are safe from failure when they take on projects in which the opinions of financial risk-takers or end-users doesn't seem to matter too much, like cultural palaces and university buildings. But In every other situation, where profitability of development matters and the everyday lives of users is enhanced in real identifiable ways--beware of certain architects promoting ideas of "rethinking" and "re-envisioning" at your own peril.

The New Battle for the Liturgy

2010-12-16T07:34:00.000-08:00

In the 1980s and 1990s, congregations across America were divided over how to worship. One side said that times were changing and the church should also change to become more culturally relevant. It was okay to use popular music in church, they said, because traditional organ music and hymns are passé and driving away those ubiquitous “young people”. Others said, form must follow function, and traditional music and liturgies are the best way to objectively proclaim what the Church has always proclaimed: the gospel.

In retrospect, we can see that music was the whipping boy for larger issues. It was the tangible change that was occurring in the congregation, but plenty more was changing, too. The role and authority of the pastor, the mission of the church, even the necessity of the cross were all being redefined in the contemporary movement. All of these things were silently being debated as the drummer set up his drums and the guitarist tuned his six-string. In truth, these debates continue to rage. But most of the congregation dividing and conquering has already happened. Now, congregations are either “traditional” or “contemporary” or some weird combination of the two.

I have begun to envision a new battle emerging in the future and it is between those who share a similar liturgy, but mean very different things in saying or singing them. It would not be hard for me to point you to several congregations, possibly scores of them, who love and use very “traditional” liturgies. The creeds and collects are said, the scriptures are read, the Eucharist is celebrated weekly, and centuries-old hymns are sung, perhaps even accompanied by a pipe organ.

But like in earlier debates, the pastors and leaders of congregations are redefining the very language they utter. The uniqueness of Christ and his saving work, the name of God, and even the role of baptism in a Christian’s life are all undergoing transformation in some congregations that use traditional liturgies. Generally speaking, the bent is towards more "liberal" liturgies that seek to minimize the need for confession of sin, and include social justice language of all stripes. As an example, if you are a member of a more "liberal" but liturgical congregation, do not be surprised to hear more and more talk about how Jesus' death and resurrection was for all of creation.

This is certainly true, but this is a classic case of over-appropriating one theological truth to make a more general statement about a political point-of-view. To state it bluntly, this is a prayer for global warming legislation or a moral covering for the green ambitions of the pastor. By saying that Jesus died for all of creation, he is stating a truth, but slyly removing the whole "he died for your sins" reality of the crucifixion. Anything to hide sin is advantageous in our postmodern age.

In that same vein, baptism has been given a larger and larger role in the liturgy over the years. Baptism is now used, I would argue, as a shield against the need for repentance. Again, it is true that in baptism, our sins are forgiven. But the hope is that if we just focus on that reality of baptism, we can hide that we are really preaching cheap grace. Baptism becomes a magic act/"get out of jail free" card all in one swoop. And once baptism becomes that, confession and repentance can go as well.

Again, if you know how to look for these transformations, you’ll see them. One of the changes in my denomination's new hymnal was the removal of the Athanasian creed. (My congregation will use it on Holy Trinity Sunday; it is on page 54 of the LBW and absent from the ELW). Read it sometimes. It's harsh. Therefore it was on the liturgical chopping block. The Intercessory prayers may begin to resemble a wish list for social programs as well, depending on who actually writes them.

I don’t know how the new worship wars will shake out over time. They may shake out in individual conversations rather than mass exoduses or congregational votes. Something like this: a visitor asks a pastor why he should join church A or B, because they use the same liturgy. The pastor will then take time to explain how the theology that undergirds the liturgy is in place at one congregation, but not another. Or perhaps a member of a congregation will, over a period of months or even years, begin to detect a different bent to the preaching and praying of her congregation. Only by researching the pastor’s library will that member begin to know why things have changed.

One thing is sure: you cannot separate the theology of the liturgy from the proclamations of the liturgy. The historical, objective liturgy proclaims the truth about God and the truth about us. It is our nature as sinners to try to twist that truth for our advantage. Many congregations have done that, slowly but surely, even while using the historic liturgy. I don’t know when or how, but I can see new worship wars in the future. But the fight won’t be traditional vs. contemporary, but liturgical congregations who live by the theology of the liturgy, and liturgical congregations that have altered the historic liturgy just enough to suit their theological predilections.

The Grass is Indeed Greener: How I gave up dreaming about the big city and learned to love the suburbs

2010-10-05T12:14:00.000-07:00

Rod Dreher, a self-declared "crunchy con" and editor of the Dallas Morning News editorial page, let slip some opinions about suburban living that was a bit surprising coming from him but all too obvious in my own experience. To understand where he is coming from, Dreher has been a major proponent of living a way of life that combines holding conservative political beliefs and choosing to live an authentic lifestyle that rooted that is cherishes nature, traditional family life, community, and faith. "Burkeans with Birkenstocks", in which back-to-the earth values of hippie movement are grafted onto bedrock conservative principles of self-reliance, independence, religiously-based virtue. They like to consume market-fresh organic produce, protect the environment and live in historic walkable neighborhoods. They agree with most liberals on a whole of host of lifestyle and cultural issues, but depart from them on issues such as taxation and the level of government involvement. It's rather a private choice to live this way, and policy should be designed to grant independence to people who choose it, while encouraging everyone else to be better connected with nature and eschew crass commercialism and sprawl.

Since popular examples of crunchy-cons are still too few, Dreher openly refers to his own daily life to illustrate. He insists on eating food from the farmer's market or at Central Market (an upscale grocery store, which sells both organic products and exquisite foreign brands) while raising chickens in the backyard. He home schools his children, belongs to a small orthodox Catholic parish, and has purchased and restored a small craftsman-style bungalow in a historic yet transitional neighborhood in Dallas. Reading some of his more anecdotal columns, there is an inevitable air of sanctimony when talking about himself, but the benefit to the reader is that he lets you peer inside into how he thinks about a variety of topics as it relates to his life. His writing makes his personality accessible, which allow readers to see someone who constantly confronts doubts about his beliefs and witness how his opinions change.

Recently, Dreher admits that he has been rethinking some of his positions on urban life, prompted by his move from Dallas to Philadelphia:

I have surprised myself by how much I've fallen out of love with idea of living in the city, over the suburbs. With kids, it's just too exhausting. I'd have to make a lot more money than I do now to make it worthwhile. Whenever we get ready to buy our next house, it's not going to be in the city -- here in Philly, there's a four percent tax added to your wages -- but in one of the suburbs. I'd be lying if I said schools weren't a big part of it. We can't afford private schools where we live now, and the urban public school in our neighborhood leaves much to be desired, for the usual reasons. We're homeschooling, so that's not a big deal now. But the fact is, we don't have any practical options now but to homeschool. It wouldn't be that way in the suburbs. Besides, life with kids is just easier in the suburbs. I hate to admit it, but it's true. The older I get, and the older my kids get, the less tolerance I have for the kinds of things that I didn't much mind when I was younger and in love with city life.

Rod Dreher's house in Dallas

Dreher is admitting to the trade-off that comes when choosing to live either in the city or the suburbs-the cultural and social dynamism of the center versus the predictability and calm stability of the fringe. Such differences make the comparing of city to suburb akin to comparing apples to oranges--neither can embody all such characteristics at once.  In the U.S., at least, it seems to be accepted as a given that large traditional cities have problems with crime, poorly run schools, political corruption and social inequality which are compensated with superb cultural facilities, fine historic architecture amidst walkable neighborhoods and major landmarks, all summarized in the term "character". The suburbs around them are usually considered bland, sprawling, and ugly cultural wastelands balanced by being quite safe, uncorrupt, great places to raise and educate children. There are exceptions to this, with well-run large cities (New York City under Giuliani) and poor, chaotic suburbs here and there, but overall, the choice essentially remains taking the good with the bad. What is important depends on one's stage in life, what the needs of the household are, and to what degree does one need to be surrounded by a sense of cultural sophistication.

But do these pluses and minuses truly cancel each other out? Don't the bad characteristics cost municipalities more than they gain from the good ones? How bad does crime have to get before residents flee elsewhere? How dysfunctional must the schools get before private schools become the defacto 'public school' and one has to pay quite a bit extra to receive a minimally decent education? How much more taxpayer money must be wasted to finance projects, bribe parasitic special interests, and inflated salaries? Or one could flip the question by asking oneself how close, how often, and how great must a museum or concert hall has to be and still tolerate alarming signs of urban decay in one's daily life.  How important is a safe, clean and quiet neighborhood compared to resigning oneself to shallow neighbors, dull strip malls, tacky chain restaurants, and cheap architectural fabric?

For Dreher, it seems that more basic, pragmatic concerns have finally won over his qualitative ideals. Even if it felt right to his conscience to live in a part of the city that was charming, rich in history, and filled with culturally and socially enlightened neighbors like himself, it became over time impossible to disregard that area's serious drawbacks.

In Dallas, we lived in a gentrifying neighborhood, and loved our neighbors, but we'd see gang tags from time to time on our sidewalks, and sometimes we'd lie in bed at night and hear gunshots in the near distance. This is not conducive to bourgeois serenity, especially if you have kids. As I've gotten older, and as my kids have aged, I've come to appreciate the virtues of basic social order more than what you might call "vibrancy" in my community. I would love to have both, but it seems to me that in many large cities, if you are going to have both, you have to be willing and able to pay a premium.

As part of a profession that plays an essential role in the making of culture, architects seem to have a natural tendency to gravitate to places that are major cultural magnets. Like many of my peers, I find it important to surround myself in culture and absorb it deeply, and I continue to relish the idea of regular pilgrimages to places of cultural significance, no matter how obscure (travel with any architect, and you'll find yourself waiting around for hours as your friend take hundreds of pictures and draw dozens of sketches of a building in locale devoid of visitors or businesses). Early in our careers, especially, we are known to forgo more secure jobs in the more economically dynamic, yet less glamorous cities, for a chance to work in a low-paying boutique firm barely scraping by, maintaining an office in the more established cultural capitals with a cost of living so high as so as to render the job no better than an unpaid internship (or even worse, an actual unpaid internship in exchange for working with some 'master'). Economic rationality is not a frequent trait of ours, judging by our inherently unprofitable business structure and the willingness of too many to work for peanuts, or even for free.

It gets no better in the private sphere, either. Architects tend to marry their own, forfeiting any kind of financial security that comes from having a spouse in a different and hopefully more stable industry. After tying the knot, the newlyweds, will actively seek to live in an over-priced yet historically charming neighborhood near the city center. On top of the inflated monthly mortgage, the numerous repairs and renovations required in many of the historic houses they opt for, they then begin to panic when the time comes to educate their kids, since public schools nearby are usually bad, and private schools keep raising their tuition. If they are lucky enough, there might be an independently governed municipality within city limits (e.g. Highland Park in Dallas) that offers first rate public schools. Naturally, the cost of admission to those schools translates to an escalation in the price of acquiring residency there. Add to that the car note of 'cultivated' European brand and installment payments for their pricey modern furniture from Design Within Reach, and one makes the startling conclusion: Architects and like-minded designer types make perfect citizens for cities riddled with budgetary recklessness and institutional mismanagement, since in many ways they embody such traits at a personal level.

I openly confess to being bitten by the same bug in wanting to live that kind of lifestyle. For a while, a few years into moving into a suburban community a half-hour away from downtown, I yearned to live closer in, purchase and renovate a 50s-60s ranch home (which qualifies as 'historic' here in Dallas), enjoy walking or biking around the lake and indulge in the more eclectic dining establishments nearby. The light-rail station would be just a stone's throw away, not to mention all the transit-oriented mixed-use developments predicted to come. In addition, I would be surrounded by neighbors with whom I share a lot in common, from a preference for the more tasteful architecture of the immediate Postwar period to a greater acceptance of slightly offbeat personalities.

Eventually this bug was drained out of my system. Where did it go? To begin with, though my wife and I were a bit better off than the traditional architect couple, such a move still did not add up financially. The cost to renovate would be considerable, and the return on the investment would not materialize in a market characterized by a very shallow growth in prices. The schools in the area were problematic, and the thought of having to pay private tuition on top of the outrageous property tax rates within Dallas city limits was unappealing, to say the least. On top of that, I've found myself sharing less in common with my potential neighbors than I would care to admit. Over the years (if my writings on this blog are any indication) I've become more of a curmudgeon, as my socio-political leanings have turned more conservative to the point of overriding any appetite for the company of liberal neighbors. Though I tend to feel more at ease socially among your garden-variety liberal than your typical conservative, I cringe and find myself trying hard not to have my eyes roll out of their sockets when the discussion turns to politics.

But more importantly, the more I examined this kind of urban lifestyle, the more suburban life looked better by comparison. As more time went by, we became more deeply connected to the surrounding community. In the last few years our town was becoming more diverse, and retail and leisure options continued to expand. Though most people in our community often didn't share our intellectual curiosities and tastes, they seemed to cherish our core values all the more. One of these values is an intolerance for senseless governance, whether it be in enforcing laws, running the school district, or enticing businesses. I've come to realize that this value is critical in sustaining a healthy and growing community. It explains for much of the difference between suburban and urban living, as Dreher remarks here:

But there were differences, and important ones. The educational choices were more appealing [in the suburbs]. The government was more rational (Dallas city government sometimes seems like a bargain between the poor and the rich to squeeze out the middle classes). No place is an Athenian republic, but considering the dysfunction of the Dallas city council, and the prospect that city taxpayers were going to be paying more taxes for fewer services, and the guarantee of dysfunctional government, I developed a Strange New Respect for the boring dependability and competence of suburban government. The restaurants were often better (far from being a franchise-eatery wasteland, the 'burbs often have the best ethnic restaurants). The idea that American suburbs are white-flight havens is antiquated and false; a colleague at the News who covers the Dallas suburbs showed me census stats showing that the suburbs are highly diverse in terms of race and ethnicity; it's just that they're all middle-class people. Because of that, crime was much further away. Nobody lays in their bed in Plano and hears gunshots half a mile away.

Whether one attributes the suburban advantage to fiscal conservatism or to the radical idea that local government should be competent or accountable, it seems to exist in places where all residents are part of an aspiring middle class. In this place, social hierarchy has been flattened, elitism is openly scorned and equality between all individuals fiercely defended.   People here in the 'burbs are for the most part cordial, and overall social relations in the public realm are horizontal. It is relatively easy to interact with government officials, with your mayor or city council representative living in circumstances not too different from their constituents, such as down your street. Civic involvement by serving on boards and commissions is relatively easy, and their impact on is more significant due to the suburb's smaller size. Disgruntled citizens can make themselves heard, since council meetings and zoning meetings are sparsely attended, and the microphone is set up for you to use it. Since the suburb's basic infrastructural obligations are small, concerning only with a few streets and utility easements, its expenditures are always being scrutinized. Public amenities such as a park or a library often are rejected by voters several times before they are finally approved. Simply put, one has an easier time making a difference and improving the quality of life of a community in a small suburb, for the simple reason that one is not hindered by all the bureaucratic red tape, cozy and clandestine political and business arrangements among the leadership and overarching hostilities between rival political factions. If some architects wish to make a positive and more direct contribution to their communities, I can't imagine a better outlet than civic involvement in the suburbs.

Dallas City Hall- a brutalist fortress
for thethe city's political opportunists
and rentseekers.

Even though their ideas seem to hold more currency there, Architects have few outlets to influence what goes on in the big city. Their scope seems to be limited to designing on behalf of the city's elite, which limits their independence of action. Much of the problem lies in the social inequality that characterizes so many large cities. As Dreher mentions, Dallas is no stranger to this problem, and instead has accommodated it with tacit arrangement between the city's wealthy elite and the careerist ethnic chieftains that claim to represent the poor. Though the middle class still exists in pockets around the city, it has mostly fled to the surrounding suburbs over last few decades, thus leaving city issues in the hands of clashing factions of the rich and poor. The merit of any new capital expenditure or even repair is no longer determined by what's best for the middle class, but rather to what extent it makes the powerbrokers of the rich and poor satisfied. For the wealthy, that means some financial help in paying for cultural palaces, landmark bridges and parks, and tax breaks or subsidies for high-end residential or commercial projects. For the poor, money flowing to low-cost housing or business development in their sector is appreciated so long that their brokers get enough kick-backs from the deals. For the middle class, they get nothing but to hit with high taxes, under performing schools and a lousy police force.

In such circumstances, many urban architects take sides, and are usually the pockets of the wealthy faction, since that is where there livelihood comes from. The wealthy also help fund the architects' professional associations and other related nonprofit groups. Architects consider themselves a vital part of the their city's cultural infrastructure, and thus work in tandem with major art patrons to further enhance their city's stature. They have no use for fiscal conservatism, especially considering that much of the work is paid for with borrowed money, either through municipal bonds or bank loans. It's beauty at all costs, and many of them would approve of the Medici model of governance. And so many architects shun the more democratically-run suburban communities at the fringe, since many of them would nix their grand plans if put to a vote. Plano, one of the wealthiest cities in the country just north of Dallas, still does not have a decent performing arts facility, since it seems to get voted down every time it's proposed. In my own town, the incumbent county judge lost his own primary for pursuing the construction of a new courthouse no one seem to want.

Paris in the 1860's- those boulevards
didn't just suddenly appear. A lot of
demolition and expropriation was
necessary.

Daniel Burnham, masterplanner for the city of Chicago a sort of god to the urban planners, is famous for saying "make no small plans". Small plans or for the little towns, the result of democratic compromise and accountability to citizens who are equal to each other. Big plans require top-down leadership, the marginalization of elected bodies, pay-offs and a highly mobilized political machine to twist the right arms. Big plans have clear winners and losers which require a long time to erase the pain and loss that is often experienced. Hausmann's changes to Paris seem splendid to us now, but this was far from evident to expropriated Parisians 150 years ago. Moses' urban renewal schemes were indeed grand and probably enabled New York to continue to thrive today, but Jane Jacobs and her allies continue to remind us of the tremendous toll that was exacted on the city's historic fabric and neighborhoods.

Contrary to many of my peers think, choosing the suburbs to raise my family did not make me a 'sellout' in the fight for more enlightened urban planning and architecture. Rather, it has been empowering by allowing me to act independently in the community. Instead of siding with the elite urban factions of a big city on almost every issue, I can relate with others on a more equal basis, and the debate is not marred by class division. Suburban living can broaden one's outlook about how a community of equals come together, what makes them work, and what local government is expected to do. One learns that local government is about serving their constituents as fairly as possible, and not simply about bending to the will of a small group's costly fetishes. Institutional competence and economic competitiveness comes takes precedence here, and no amount of pretty facades and beautiful hardscape can conceal it. Victories for enlightened design are admitted small in the suburbs, but you can claim them as more virtuously accomplished, taking little from taxpayers or compromising the town's financial health.

More importantly, as Dreher alludes, the prosperous American suburb has become a beacon to bourgeois stability and social decency. Without this social glue brought about by bourgeois values that tempers the interaction between different individuals and groups, public life becomes mired in tribalism and politics reduced to us versus them and who can grab the most money from the coffers before anybody notices. I sincerely wish architects and planners could champion the bourgeois order, or at least to take it into account even if they disagree with it. On paper architects are solidly middle class, and we inculcate many bourgeois values to our children even as we put up and feed off the balkanization of city life. The bourgeois mentality should guide not only what we should build, but who are building it for on how it will be cared for (and paid for) in the long term. We should design for wealthy clients without pressing them to take on more expense to result in a crassly indulgent building. We should design for those much less wealthy with the understanding that other social problems may overwhelm the benefits of what you do for them, and that a minimum level of responsibility on their part is necessary for your project to succeed.

Architecture is about giving a visual order to a physical space. It far too often ignores the social order that animates and gives an emotional significance that space. To furnish a beautiful space for a community in which order and decency has broken down is similar to clothing a terminally sick person with fashionable threads. Suburban life can teach the reverse, in which a healthy body can always benefit from additional embellishment. The most important thing, though, is that this body stays healthy.

Breakdown of a Megachurch Viral Video

2010-10-01T08:07:00.000-07:00

What is it that makes the megachurch click? There are so many answers, and since the megachurch phenomenon is relatively diverse, no one can point to any one thing. In a scant few cases, they offer theological certainty to a relativized world. In others, they offer entertainment and a commitment-free faith. In others, they offer a "power of positive thinking" sort of message that resonates with folks beaten down by the sin of the world. In far too many, they offer a "name it and claim it" empowerment to people who feel alienated from their government, culture and even currency.

But a recent viral video highlighted one more reason megachurches have become (at least for now) the pinnacle of the American Church experience: they notice, appreciate, and celebrate the suburban lifestyle and the middle class grind that most Americans experience 6 days a week.

Megachurches notice and highlight what traditional, liturgical churches seem to ignore (but in fact do not). They know what middle class America watches on TV, so they build sermon series around MMA, superhero movies, or sitcoms. They know how middle class America spends their money and free time, so they pay special attention to pop culture, mortgage troubles and hobbies like yard work. They know that for most folks in the suburbs, raising children is a priority and life-consuming task. So they preach and teach about parenting not in grandiose or holy terms, but in carpooling and homework language.

The paradigm shift is nothing short of epic: the "traditional" role of worship and liturgy was to bring the laborer, parent and sinner into a place of transcendence, to offer a "foretaste of the feast to come." The nave took years if not generations to build, the sermons were contextual but "high" enough to speak to a transcendent God. The music was not base pop music, but as close to angelic as we can imagine and the height of western culture for centuries.

In sum, church elevated the senses of man and thus spoke to a transcendent God. Now, it is the exact opposite. The transcendence of God is lost and the daily life of man is celebrated. Church not only has lost transcendent aesthetics (granted, those are impossible to strictly define, but rock music is not it), it rarely mentions Jesus Christ or God's history of salvation. In other words, base teaching and preaching has followed base aesthetics.

Maybe the church ignored the daily life of its people and the megachurch is essentially payback. Or maybe the megachurch is exploiting a creeping narcissism among the American middle class. Either way, the celebration and appreciation of the middle class lifestyle has to be one of the primary reasons the megachurch appeals to suburban middle class.

They should think twice about this approach. The entire gospel is on the line when this kind of pandering takes place in the Church. It delegitimizes those of us that hold fast to transcendent traditions and it forces the church into a marketplace it has no business being in. It openly creates competition between congregations because they take credit for being the Church when they are not.

Perhaps nothing epitomizes this more than the above viral video. The video is a simple celebration of suburban fatherhood, seen by about 5 million people on YouTube and a product of the Church on the Move in Tulsa, OK. I can relate to it. I have a daughter. I have an SUV. I spent lots of time doing yardwork. I don't buy gas station sunglasses, however; I find the far better deal is the dollar store.

But what is missing? The gospel! There is no mention of God, Jesus, the cross, or even a shameless plug for their own congregation. (Isn't Sunday worship, even at a megachurch, part of "the dad life"? I guess not.) Why should this video kick off a sermon series at a church? Wouldn't it be more appropriate at a PTA meeting or sports team parents get together?

And then there are the rather "trivial" problems of the church highlighting the secular calendar (Father's Day) while ignoring the liturgical calendar (say, the 9th Sunday after Pentecost), and middle age white guys appropriating gangsta rap to achieve postmodern street cred. I know, I know, I'm just an old fuddy duddy. Ten years ago, those might have been the only complaints about this video. Now, they just deserve an afterthought.

In sum, I suppose I would ask these questions, with my own biased answers shamelessly provided: what is the mission and purpose of this congregation, or the Church at large? (To proclaim the gospel of Jesus Christ.) Does this video help in that? (No.) Of all the videos that could have been made, why one that celebrates this lifestyle? (People want to be recognized for the time, energy and sacrifice that goes into creating a successful middle class life.) Is this a dangerous video? (No, but it distorts the religious "marketplace" in favor of congregations willing to pander to the inherent narcissism of the sinner. That puts those of us willing to proclaim Christ and him crucified at a disadvantage.)

Glenn Beck: An Ego in Search of a Message

2010-09-01T08:25:00.000-07:00

Glenn Beck has annoyed me for the eight years I've known of him. I couldn't fully articulate why until this weekend. I always thought his over-the-top antics would fizzle out on radio as more people yearned for serious analysis and less sarcasm. When he went to CNN, I figured he would be the next in the long line of radio personalities who wouldn't translate to television. But Fox intervened and his celebrity has taken off. Now he's writing novels and becoming a religious crusader. Don't think Mr. Beck hasn't noticed that his level of influence is at an all-time high.

Just as it is obvious that Mr. Beck is in over his head, it is just as obvious he has no clear understanding of his limitations. While I am glad he is informing large swaths of the public about subjects I have come to know and despise (liberation theology, for example), he is quickly turning into a clownish figure who would probably endorse a third party if he could figure out how to benefit. Couching behind his newly-found religious voice which gives him the pretense of humility, Mr. Beck appears to be every bit the narcissist our president is. Not only does he presume to be a political expert, he is now some sort of preacher of an ambiguous gospel. And why has he adopted this new religious tone?

Even the most crass among us would have to admit that the world of politics has final limitations. There is only so much influence one can exert as a politician. Even presidents rarely get all of their agenda passed. People of genuine faith are not cowered by politicians, which is why most dictators want to kill off as many priests as possible. Religion, specifically Christianity, and its transcendent truths stubbornly resist the promises and threats of politicians. So if you want to rise above politics, there is only one place to go. I think that explains Mr. Beck's sudden and extremely shallow religious diatribes: his ratings and influence have peaked, and his ego needs a larger outlet. But instead of actually learning about theology or humbling himself, he is now simply using the Lord's name in vein to promote his own brand. He is weakly and inarticulately talking about some kind of god to give credence to his self-proclaimed role of Tea Party leader.

But to what God is Mr. Beck referring? As a Mormon, does Mr. Beck share the same God as me, a Christian? Is he speaking about Father, Son, Holy Spirit (Christianity), or some god that was once a man and had sex with many goddesses, including the virgin Mary to beget Jesus (Mormonism)? Unless he is stealthily trying to convert the Tea Party to Mormonism (which would make him more intelligent than I think he is), I am not convinced he knows or cares what god he is invoking from the heavens. He just likes that three-letter word and all the assumptions of holiness and innocence that come with it. Anyone who talks about God can attract an audience for a while, because God is generally of interest to us all.

But if you ask any preacher about the crucible of the pulpit, you will quickly learn that preaching is a dangerous and perilous venture. You are proclaiming the Word of God, no small task. It requires the best of your heart, soul and mind. And above all, it demands humility. If a pastor is not humble, he should be after trying to figure out how to create a relevant, interesting and faithful message on scriptural texts. I sense no humility in Glenn Beck. Just lazy, shoddy theology from a careless Mormon who desperately needs to be seen as necessary to the conservative renaissance in America.

Worse, I wonder if he is trying to write himself into the history books. He rightly observes that these years are a possible turning point in American history and he wants to be remembered as important when the history is written. He knows that if he stays in the political arena, his influence will be moderate. But if he can combine politics and religion, perhaps he has a powerful combination. But he won't go down as a great leader. His lack of substance will catch up to him. He borrows from the best American minds and now from God Almighty to prop himself up. But, Lord willing, he won't be standing much longer.

Are House Churches the Future of American Protestantism?

2010-08-04T08:42:00.000-07:00

If you can get everything you spiritually need from a small group, why would you ever attend an established congregation? That's the question before many American Christians who have turned to the ancient practice of the house church, a gathering of about 10-15 Christians for fellowship and worship. One report indicates as many as 9% of American Protestants attend home churches. There are no paid clergy, no sermons, no organs, no sanctuaries; just a small gathering of the faithful to get all they need from church without all the hassle: prayer, Bible reading, community and the sacraments.

The time might be right for a serious house church movement, but we should remember these sorts of movements have come and gone through the centuries. Lutheran pietists in Norway and Sweden established house churches when they felt they could no longer participate in the state church. Certainly, those in house churches now would tell you the first congregations met in homes, essentially as small groups. Even megachurches, ironically enough, have taught millions of their own members how to have house churches as they have refined methods and published books outlining best practices for small groups. What is a small group but a house church? Serious community, Bible study and the sacraments are almost impossible to find at a megachurch, so the need to supplement with small groups became apparent.

Those in megachurches and dormant Protestant congregations began to draw obvious conclusions: "If the real 'church' we experience is in our home, why do we need the megachurch? It is basically comprised of flashy music, manipulated scripture passages and an entertainment philosophy. And the megachurch, drowning in debt, is always asking for money. Why don't I just cut out the middle man?" Then there are the disgruntled mainline Protestants who draw their own conclusions: "We haven't had a great preacher here in 15 years. My denomination is theologically bankrupt. I don't feel like my church has any sense of the Holy Spirit at work; we're just a bureaucratic organization. I want to experience authentic Christian community."

The house church may be the solution to the lack of substance from the megachurch and the lack of vitality from the mainline church. It proposes to have a real community of the faithful that will finally get it right. And it has history on its side. Or maybe its just a gathering of the cheap faithful who do not want to pay for clergy, building maintenance, organ repairs, etc. More likely, in a postmodern context and in a climate of religious failure, these are people searching for authenticity and unable to find it. They want to cut through all the superficial and find authenticity.

In time, house churches may not be a choice as much as a necessity. Mainline churches are facing tipping points all over the country, especially in rural areas. As the cost of clergy increases (health benefits alone for a pastor's family make them less affordable all the time) as mainline Protestantism continues to dwindle, and as the older generation simply dies off without replacement, American Protestant congregations will slowly but surely decrease in number. But for the faithful that remain, unless their congregation chooses to share a pastor with another congregation, merge with another congregation, or simply filter off to other congregations, the house church will be the only option.

So if house churches solve so many problems, why were large congregations ever allowed to exist in the first place? The answer cuts to the Achilles heel of the house church: Christians were always meant to be in community, and in Christ, the bigger the better. House churches are inherently limited to 15 people or less. There is a built-in limit to the community. And because even Christians are sinners, with a group that size, you will invariably find personality conflicts, unhealthy leadership, and the perfect Petri dish for isms to flourish: legalism, pietism, liberalism. (These common errors can be cut off at the pass with proper theological education, but once you decide on such an educated clergy, you are committed to structure, seminaries, and paid clergy. That is precisely what those in house churches want to avoid, so they must trust in their own ability to teach the faith. At present, they cannot do much worse than mainline Protestant seminaries.)

Over time, the model may be that house churches will litter the landscape as fewer and fewer Protestant congregations will survive. The surviving congregations, meanwhile, will probably be marked by architecture with integrity, orthodox preaching and teaching, and a liturgical, objective style of worship. These are the antidotes to relativism, so some will surely survive. House churches may be effective if they become satellites to these congregations with pastoral oversight and some training. They may be wonderful faith incubators until full-scale congregations can once again flourish.

In the meantime, a house church movement strikes me as premature. There are still plenty of solid Protestant congregations one can join and influence. Escaping the megachurch or the lifeless mainline church is understandable. Just don't expect paradise at home.

Distillation in the Desert: climate, the environment and how we build

2010-06-25T08:32:00.000-07:00

Having been lucky enough to immerse myself in climatic biomes such as tropical forests, mountains, oceanfronts, prairies and temperate forests, it has only been since last week that I finally got to experience a very important one--the desert. Driving through northern New Mexico, I was struck by how such radical environmental conditions, with its extremely dry air and sunny skies, provoked an equally radical response by people in how they built a suitable man-made environment. Though humans have made deserts habitable since the dawn of time, the reason I consider the desert a radical environment is due to its distinct lack of what makes human life (or any life for that matter) possible: water. Without water, either in the air or on the ground, the whole equation to how we build changes dramatically.

It's useful to remember that though our bodies are made up mostly of water. We therefore must consume even more to stay healthy, it constitutes only a small fraction how we use this resource. Most of our water goes to irrigating our man-made landscapes either in the form of farms or private lawns. Still, our direct physical need for water comes first, and in extremelty arid climates like New Mexico, there is little or no irrigation to speak of. It makes one realize how much of the built environment relies on channeling water resources towards mostly leisurely ends. A fountain here, flowerbeds there, green lawns, shaded parks-- they all have the important function of softening the hard and coarse surfaces of urban life. We have a natural aversion to living in something completely manmade, as evidenced by the common complaint of some cities being nothing more than "concrete jungles". Greenery, ponds, and displays of flowing water all contribute to a intrinsically human need for calm and repose in a city, even if it is only intermittent. Though not as important drinking or flushing, this urban role for water is not completely wasteful, even as it requires lots of it.

But in places where water is too scarce to soften the urban environment, what is one left with? Rocks, mud brick and drought resistant shrubbery, if my time in Albuquerque showed me anything. To my pleasant surprise, the city was tastefully landscaped by means of colorful gravel, rocks, cactuses and yucca plants and then some more gravel. The warm yet earthy colors of the adobe walls tempered the hard natural textures, while the ubiquitous turquoise trim elements on windows and doors provided further visual relief. A shallow Rio Grande runs through the city, providing a fertile quarter-mile wide zone from its banks comprised of taller shade trees. It is along this zone that Albuquerque's more pedestrian-centered parks and gardens, such as the zoo, are located. In the context of the desert landscape that characterizes most of the city, the "lush" banks of the Rio Grande feels like an oasis. Though any green space offers refuge from the noises of the city, it is unusual for most of us who live in wetter climates, what with all the weeds forcing cracks through the pavement, to regard them as fragile havens of life. Life hangs by a thread here, despite all kinds of manmade improvements, and it makes one wonder about the resiliency of large urban agglomerations in the desert Southwest.

Though the climate is mostly inhospitable to human habitation, the desert is ironically very hospitable to the preservation of manmade structures. Water is the mortal enemy of all construction, and to repeat a basic truism: water wins. Driving through Central Avenue, the portion of the old Route 66 through Albuquerque, I was struck by how many old buidlings and classic signs from decades ago were still in great condition. The same buildings in my hometown would have long been falling apart due to the moist weather, with the cost of restoring them often seeming futile. In Santa Fe, adobe structures hundreds of years old betrayed little to no wear and tear, fooling one to think that they were constructed within the past year. Old stone churches, such as the the Saint Francis cathedral and the Loreto Chapel, were in pristine condition, spared from deterioration that afflicts their French cousins in their cold and rainy climate. Likewise, the roads were in excellent shape, with narry a pothole to be found. Flat roofs are ideal here, since there is so little precipitation (9 inches/year), which suggests that the Modernist appetite for using such roofs actually makes more sense here than any place else.

From the perspective of Modern architecture as mostly an abstract formal exercise that disregards the natural forces by means of technological fixes, the desert Southwest seems to be ideally suited. The simple cubic masses and the blank unadorned adobe facades of traditional pueblo vernacular predates the Modern style by hundreds of years, even as it was a practical response to the arrid climate, with its diurnal temperature swings, the need for shade and scarce timber resources. With its intrinsic indifference to how to most naturally shed water from a structure coupled with a deep reliance and on mechanical equipment to cool spaces, a Modernist architect can get away with practically anything in such an environment. It seems to partly explain why Modern architecture was so easily embraced in the southwestern U.S., and why the most fertile laboratory for modern design is still centered in the dry but constantly pleasant Southern California. Albuquerque itself is the home of the great Antoine Predock, and other architects that employ a similar aesthetic in Phoenix such as Will Bruder and Rick Joy were unmistakeably influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright's own reinvention at Taliesin West in Scottsdale.

This freedom to forge a natural Modernism has much to do with the overpowering landscape. New Mexico's geologic intensity, with its sharp mountain ridges, mesas, boulders and volcanic formations exhibiting a broad spectrum of sandy to pinkish colors commands such a presence so as to overpower anything built on or near these elements. Among so many breath-taking natural monuments, buildings look so small in comparison. The primary visual interest is the landscape, not the architecture. The landscape compels a certain discipline on the built environment, since the story of a place is not centered on the civilized parts of the landscape, but rather on the terrain and its dramatic contours. It creates a grand visual order that overwhelms any other generated by people, and encourages a desire to build structures that harmonize with it by complementing the natural forms, textures and colors. Detached homes are sprinkled along the base the mountains, their cubic masses imitating the rocky outcrops above (refer to image). There is such poetry when experiencing this visual harmony that to build in any other way would be quite disruptive.

Where the landscape is generally flat, the natural order is easily supplanted by a manmade order. A rugged mountainous landscape will always have more emotional sway than a flat grassland, the latter almost beckoning us to instill it significance by building on it. Our biggest and most beloved cities often lie on flat terrain and their allure is due entirely to the human ingenuity in forging a habitable environment. A flat site is whatever you can make it, while a sloped one already imposes limits and forces an occupant to respond to it. If one ignores these limits and builds however one pleases, one gets the impression that it's a violation. At the urban scale, to observe unfettered development overwhelm a dramatic natural landscape is to witness undesireable encroachment. There is a tendency to want to visually contain development from picturesque hillsides, and thus edges are more cleanly defined. Albuquerque, in spite of its steet grid, has very identifiable boundaries which helps anchor it to the landscape. The monumental cliffs of Sandia Mountain serves as Albuquerque's signature landmark, and the relative shallowness of the city's buildings appear to almost bow to its magnificence. Man and the pride embodied in his buildings is instantly humbled by such geologic grandeur.

The extremes of such a dry environment have a way of making one think about the fundamentals in living. We are forced think about what we have, but we realize that how we interact with our natural environment depends where we are. For example, xeriscaping is the default way in which people plan private outdoor spaces in New Mexico, as the scarcity of water in these areas demands it. In lusher environments, I observe many of instances of xeriscaping less about using native species of plants creatively and more about lazily mimicking the landscaping techniques of the desert Southwest. Another is constructing buildings with heavy masonry walls in humid climates. Such walls work well as a thermal mass, and are most effective in arrid climates, where temperature swings are more extreme. Humid climates experience relatively little temperature swings, and instead are best dealt with an architecture that is thin, light, encouraging air to flow through.

Whatever the differences, it 's a good thing for an urban dweller such as myself to get reacquainted with ancient and majestic landforms. In a way I revel in the contrast, enjoying the peaceful and unblemished character of the mountains or the desert only to eagerly return to the congestion and pandemonium of the city.

A Modern Timelessness: Kahn, Piano and the Kimbell Art Museum

2010-05-31T20:50:00.001-07:00

In keeping with the ongoing tradition of architectural rivalry with Dallas, the latest addition to Fort Worth's world-class cultural district was unveiled late last week. The Kimbell Art museum, which is housed in what is arguably Louis Kahn's greatest masterpiece built in 1972, has presented the final design of its long-awaited addition realized by Renzo Piano, an architect who has earned the reputation as the world's premier designer of museums. The addition more than doubles the exisiting exhibition spaces, provides additional lecture halls, and most importantly for its Texan patrons, abundant parking below ground. The news follows a rather eventful year for high-design in the metroplex, beginning last fall with opening of two brand new buildings in the Dallas Arts District, the unveiling of the Perot Museum of Science by Thom Mayne (currently under construction), and the recent opening of one of Ricardo Legoretta's stronger works to date, the Fort Worth Museum of Science and History.

Compared to Piano's numerous other museum commissions over the years, Texas has been of special value to his success and development. The state has now four of his projects, including two in Houston (the Menil Collection and Cy Twombly Gallery) and one in Dallas (Nasher Sculpture Center). It was in the Menil in 1986 that Piano established his most recognizable architectural prototype, the multi-layered roof that lightly hovers over a single-story art pavilion and bathes spaces underneath with diffuse natural light. The Twombly across the he street expanded further with the addition of motorized sun controls and fabric, and the Nasher exhibits an innovative eggcrate-like system of sunshades. Having closely followed his career since going to the Menil for the first time while in college, it seems that the Italian has blessed Texas with his best work. It's certainly a bold statement, but it has much to do with particular aspects to which I think Mr. Piano excels that are coincidentally rare in most of his projects elsewhere. Upon examining the drawings and images of his latest plans for the Kimbell, it seems he is reinforcing those aspects further, endowing these projects with a timeless beauty, yet preventing him from doing likewise for other projects of differing scales and function.

What are these aspects? His Texas museums exhibit an intimate scale, an exactness of proportion between all constituting parts and a simple repetition of spatial modules to accomodate various museum programs. They convey a gentle rhythm as one moves through, and they engage the street with an inviting transparency through the abundant use of glass and expansive porticos. Beyond these museums' pioneering experiments in the channeling of daylight, Piano's current effort at the Kimbell reveals something increasingly obvious though ironic for a famous popularizer of the "high-tech" style: an emergent classicism of tremendous rigor. Having first made a name for himself with the subversive Centre Pompidous in Paris, Piano is now beloved by museum owners for his increasingly conservative sensibility. This has brought about accusations of creative drift, in which Piano no longer surprises, and that he wins these sort of commissions precisely for his 'safe' designs.

In an era of starchitects, in which museums and performance halls by the likes of Gehry, Hadid and Libeskind are expected to function as a transformative engine of urban regeneration, Piano's buildings are quiet, self-effacing, and his more recent work, partly buried from view. In his scheme for the Kimbell addition, he deliberately makes it look smaller to Kahn's building 90 feet away, submerging major portions of it below grade and setting its roofline equal to the existing building. Even the supposedly spare Tadao Ando refused to defer to Kahn's masterpiece, his Modern Art museum across the street being significantly taller and more massive overall. In spite of Ando's masterful employment of concrete and repetitive structural bays that obviously reference Kahn's architecture, Ando departs by making orienting his spaces inward (to a large reflecting pool), and disengaging his building from the street with impenetrably thick concrete walls, a largely anonymous aluminum paneled wall fronting a surface parking lot.

What explains Piano's deferential approach to his museum designs? For his Kimbell scheme, the reasons seem evident given the architectural context- Louis Kahn's building achieved an inspiring union between the modern and the ancient. The existing building grounds its distinctly modern materials and structural systems of the modern era with the primal volumes, symmetry, elegant proportions, and the permanence attributed to mass. Its concrete barrel vaults, with daylight bathing the ceiling unmistakeably reminds one of ancient Roman baths, while the travertine infill walls, though hung as panels in typically modern fashion exude permanence in time. Outside, Kahn's museum, sitting on a shallow podium reminiscent of Greek temples, romantically alludes to a classical past, with a front entry portico extending out to a shady green lawn. The trickling sound from the symmetrically- arranged reflecting pools along the podium's edge greet the visitor, preparing him for serene experience of viewing art beyond.

Except that this highly formal procession into Kahn's building is completely unknown to almost all visitors to the museum. Foolishly believing that visitors would parallel park their cars along the quiet drive several hundred feet across a green lawn, Kahn did not foresee a large surface lot across the street behind the museum (part of which would later become Ando's modern art museum). The dozens of times I went to see an exhibit, our car was parked at that lot, we would cross the street and descend down a ramp, walk around a Juan Miro sculpture to a car drop-off at the bottom and enter through the main back door and once inside climb up the stairs to the main gallery level. It never occured to me that one was supposed to come in from the opposite side until I was told of this during a field trip for architecture school. Like everyone else I knew, the front side was more of pleasant kind of 'backyard' feature.

If anything else, Piano's new addition will correct this major oversight by virtue of placing an underground garage that forces visitors arriving at grade level to face Kahn's intended entrance. Yet it is the reserved character of Piano's scheme juxtaposed directly across that will make Kahn's building appear even more 'classical'. According to the recently released elevation renderings, the new addition will be divided in three bays to near exact proportions of the existing building across from it. Like Kahn, these bays are articulated with seemingly thin columns supporting very beams. Like Kahn, Piano reserves the middle bay for public circulation and flanks it with bays containing exhibit galleries at both sides. Like Kahn, water is used as compositional element in the plan, strengthening the space between the old and new and a transforming it from a 'backyard' to a formal court.
Aside from his typical use of delicate building elements and transparent views, where Piano departs most is in the design of the addition's sides at the south and north. He screens them with columns, which support twinned wood beams carrying his typically elaborate multi-layered roof. The rendering of the south elevation instantly harkens to a breezy Greek colonnade, while Kahns' arches infilled with solid walls adjacent to it alludes to old massive structures from Rome. Though still far from the Lancaster Street to the south, the addition's south colonnade still serve as a gesture that engages it at a distance. Those driving by the major Fort Worth traffic artery of 7th Street whill be treated to the addition's north colonnade before seeing Philip Johnson's classically-inspired portico for the Amon Carter museum just beyond to the West. Piano's scheme seems to reinforce the overall identity of the city's cultural district as an collection of pavilions in a park. The addition's colonnaded porches finally program the lawn areas in way that Kahn's massive aesthetic was far too insular to do.

Judging from the released drawings and models alone, it is apparent that Piano took steps not to overpower Kahn's original. By drawing on an incipient classicism and a high personal regard for the twentieth-century master (he once worked for Kahn early in his career), Piano's traditional approach to prior museums in Texas seem to ensure that Kahn's building will be tastefully complemented, or even futher enhanced. But will it be any good?

For as widely admired and accomplished as he already is, it is very difficult to deem any of his projects as bad. But my own personal estimation of Piano's work depends largely on aspects that make his work unique and sets it apart. These aspects consist of his exquisite attention to detail, the clarity of his spaces, his sophisticated proportions and naturally, the ingenious modulation of daylight. A weak project is when he drifts away from these qualities, usually because the program or the scale of the project. A strong project is when all these aspects are integrated harmoniously, which seem to found mostly in Piano's smaller cultural projects. The criteria that has been set is not completely arbitrary, but it correlates to how Piano himself describes his practice-that of a workshop. The official name of his firm is "The Renzo Piano Building Workshop" and the first image one sees upon visiting his website a wall covered in assorted wood models and mock-ups of detailed building components. In an exhibit in his own Nasher Sculpture Center, dozens of elaborate models were on display, less of entire buildings than of structural systems, exterior wall and roofing cladding studies, much of it made with wood. Coming out of that exhibit, I marveled how much his firm must of have budgeted for such nice materials to make models that are often not reimbursed by the client. The firm I work for, among the world's largest, has almost completely abandoned building physical-models in-house, thanks to better modeling software and outsourcing.
Moreover, the copious amount of detailed models testify to an attitude towards architecture as more of a craft than as art. These models reveal an obsessive examination of how parts are assembled and how they relate to each other functionally and aesthetically. By calling his firm a workshop, he alludes to the practice of building design as it was done during the middle ages. Gothic churches were not the result of beautiful detailed drawings prepared a master artist (which began to happen during the Renaissance), but were rather the accumulation of shop secrets and mock-ups made by the master mason and his apprentices. The masons were concerned with how smaller components of a building were crafted, and how to solved the transitions between them in sculptural way. Few if any new what the final building would look like, and often they would not be completed in their lifetimes. Therefore most attention to parts that would look attractive on their own, namely the typical structural bay of piers, windows, and ribbed vaults. Classical proportion, which precisely sizes all elements of a building in relation to the overall size and shape of the building, was of little use to the master masons and gothic churches in general. The result was nonetheless beautiful style, exalted precisely for qualities that were antithetical to classicism-it was capricious, assymetric, distorted while not honestly acknowledging the forces of nature in its aesthetic. But because it was highly sculptural and fluid, the gothic style could be applied to a variety of shapes and volumes, especially when a vertical solution was required.

This quasi-medieval devotion in detailing elements is what ties all the work in Piano's long and illustrious portfolio of built projects. From giant airports to temporary gallery installations, one cannot fault his relentless pursuit in crafting each and every component. He expresses himself in the language of modern architecture and engineering, but he chooses to work in a gothic mode. The problem is that Modernism is a completely different language than the Gothic, and cannot replicate the latter's flexibility, fluidity and ornamental depth. The Modern language is difficult to scale properly, at times being to dull or brutal if made large and other times consisting of too many unintelligible parts if made too small. I find that Piano errs towards the latter, especially in his larger projects such as his New York Times skyscraper or his multi-storied addition to the Chicago Art Institute. The facade of the Times building is amazingly intricate, consisting of a meticulously conceived exterior sunshade screen--but to what end? From afar the tower is similar in shape and effect to countless others in New York. The fine detailing isn't appreciated 40 stories up in the air from those passing by outside on the street below. And I wonder how many of the occupants enjoy not having an unobstructed view of the city, but instead are street to thin metal louvers quickly collecting grime. In Chicago, Piano's trademark multi-layered roof is on display, but it has the problem of providing wonderful daylight on to lucky galleries on the top floor. The galleries below the top level completely miss out from the phenomena, and thus rely on artificial lighting. The detailed richness of the roof canopy is lost to those on the street, floating four stories above on spindly tall columns, resembling more a corporate KPF building than a Renzo Piano original.

By contrast, his best projects are ones low and small enough to allow visitors to see the sophisticated handiwork up close. The Menil Collection does this very well and the Nasher even more so, due to its shorter proportions. To enjoy Piano's buildings is to enjoy his roofs, and those two projects encourage this. At the Nasher, you don't squint at all to marvel at the thin cables, the custom joinery, and the eggcrate pattern of his sunshade, and how they all function together. This also applies to more vertically oriented small projects as well, such his Tjibaou Cultural Center in New Caledonia. The assembly of the wood slats to wood fins is low and close enought for all to absorb and appreciate. It is a very physical experience, in that one can only appreciate the architecture as completed construction, and Piano is one of the rare architects in which his completed project looks better than the artisitic renderings that preceded it. That is saying something these days, as a number of notable architects build their reputation on artistic imagery before they are complete their first commission. In that situation, the architecture is based on the power of a rendering, and the final built product is usually a letdown. With Piano, you can't judge any of his projects until they are finished.

With that in mind, my intial judgement on Piano's addition to the Kimbell will have to wait until it opens in 2013. Still, I can be confident that the result will be pleasing, even if it may seem subdued to many others who expect a museum to make a bold statement. Given the preliminary facts that the addition applies a lot of the features that make his other Texas museums successful, such as their relative smallness, their simple, yet symmetrical plans (quite like Kahn) and their elegant proportions, Piano's design should complement the Kimbell nicely. The outdoor experience around the original museum is sure to be enhanced as well as its engagement with the surrounding urban fabric. Kimbells' design has achieved a timelessness that still make it a destination for architecture enthusiasts. In my own pantheon of great architects, Piano is one of the few who can likely achieve timeless designs as well, even in in his own precise architectural language. Fort Worth can only be so lucky!

Why Conservatism is So Counterintuitive and Ideologues are Lazy, Part 2

2010-04-09T14:54:00.000-07:00

America may soon embark to do something few nations have ever done: reverse the inevitable statist march. Nations have overthrown Communist governments in heroic and history-making fashion. Think the Berlin wall coming down or the Ceauşescus running for their lives. When things get bad enough, governments either adapt, as China has, they fall of their own weight, or they are overthrown. But rarely is there pre-emptive change, to use a notorious word. Rarely does a nation catch sight of what is coming and do something to reverse course. That may be changing.

There are reasons no nation has done this. In essence, citizens get in the habit of delegating more responsibility to the state, and most states are all too happy to comply. The citizenry grows lazier and chooses to take less responsibility for itself. They lament the unpredictable nature of life - where will my healthcare come from? Is my retirement secure? - to the point where they are willing to trade more liberty for more security. There's also the inevitable class envy that propels "spreading the wealth around." Couple that with Frederich Hayek's prediction that the worst in society always seem to end up on top (because of their naked ambition) and you have a recipe for increased state intervention every time.

Faced now with a rather lengthy onslaught of government debt and over-reaching, the American public seems poised to embrace conservatism in a way that transcends the Republican party, and may actually work to repeal legislation and shrink government. Well, one can hope. Conservatives achieved this for a short (and glorious) time during Bill Clinton's presidency, but the gains were modest and did not last. During Bush's and especially during Obama's term, the sense that our currency is unreliable and jobs are disappearing has grown exponentially, and the pattern of delegating responsibility to the state may begin to end in November.

But the larger question of why people delegate in the first place is hard to answer. Why do people relinquish control over their own money, their own property, or even their own way of life? The only answer that makes sense to me is that when conservatism is explained in policy terms, when its shortcomings are highlighted, a bleak picture of it can be, and is, painted. A system without the proper controls, a system with loopholes, a system that leaves the most vulnerable without guarantees…these are the results of the free market. To support such a system, then, could hardly be considered moral. Every time something goes wrong in a free society, the lack of central control is an easy explanation, even if inaccurate. It's an easy solution to a complex problem. It's intuitive, even if false.

People need to know, it seems, that someone is at the switch. Someone needs to be in charge of providing housing, someone needs to be in charge of food, someone needs to be in charge of jobs and healthcare. And when the natural business cycle (and/or government regulation) results in high prices or inavailability, the market is the scapegoat. There aren't enough controls and we need someone who can guarantee me what I need. That need for control is so intuitive, its practically biological. So when conservatism refuses to answer the question of who will provide food/shelter/healthcare/etc. with anything more than a shrug, it is considered morally delinquent. In truth, it trusts that someone will provide the service needed. That service may be provided imperfectly, but it always does so more perfectly than a central planner.

That trust is a delicate political commodity. The ideologue knows that trust is fragile, especially when times are tough. The ideologue, who seeks to solve no problems, exploits that trust and tries to make the citizen feel foolish for trusting a system that has resulted in problems. For example: "What I won't do is return to the failed theories of the last eight years that got us into this fix in the first place, because those theories have been tested, and they have failed." And what are those theories? While not apologizing for the Bush presidency, the theories Obama seems to have in mind are these: people, through voluntary and cooperative means can procure and supply for themselves the goods and services they need, and that a central planner of any magnitude is almost wholly unnecessary.

In one sentence, he vaguely and brilliantly pecks away at our trust in the free market system. To what exact policies is he referring to? Government corporations like Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac? Government bailouts of banks? The 48 months of continuous economic expansion and microscopic unemployment during the Bush years? This is another brilliant sentence that is both non-committal while destructive of a straw man all at once.

It is admittedly somewhat difficult to trust that with no central planning, goods and services will be provided, even if we have centuries of proof that they will be. It is far easier, and lazier, to trust that someone else will provide it, that some point person somewhere is on top of it. That laziness is now being explored on a mass scale. The solution to every problem this nation faces has been met with the same solution from this administration: more government. Be it through regulation, bureaucracy, control, or legislation, this administration refuses to trust that problems might be solved by doing less. And for now, we're going along, because, well, it's intuitive. If there is a problem, we should do more, right? The hard work is to say, no, we, as a government, should do less. The easy answer is for the ideologue to say yes, let me do more through laws, fiat and unproven solutions.

Designing for the Apocalypse: why many architects love a crisis

2010-02-10T08:02:00.000-08:00

As reports and revelations about the diminishing credibility of Anthropogenic Global Warming (AGW) continue to unfold daily, there is no question that it has major implications. If the science behind AGW were beyond doubt, it would provide a powerful argument for greater government regulation and economic participation. It would empower a worldview geared against greater personal liberty and a rising standard of living. Accumulating wealth would depend more on subsidies and catering to a marketplace in which supply and demand are dictated by government policy rather than actual needs and wants of free people.

As professionals who try to address such needs and wants in all of its variety, architects are very much subject to AGW's affect on buildings, both in the way they are designed and engineered and in the way they respond to government mandates. In fact, architects are very much wedded to AGW, as it justifies their guiding design philosophy and helps structure their firms' core values. Many signature designers, including a few that I personally know, have put global warming at the the center of all that their work aims to be about--whether it be in the aggressive employment of green technologies in their buildings, to their promotion of a planning solution (e.g. smart growth) or building type that can be shown to be earth-friendly (e.g. skyscapers). The issue's inherent demand for greater control over the environment in the hands of an enlightened elite complements well with architects' own (and as yet, unrealized) ambitions of becoming the major shapers of the built environment. Idealistic architects ultimately want to transcend the rough-and-tumble, at times crass, reality of the free market, and if the global warming issue makes this possible they will quickly jump on the bandwagon.

Now that the bandwagon's coming apart due to the quickly evaporating authority of AGW's leading scientific gatekeepers, will these same climate-fearing architects insist they won't be fooled again? Will they gladly go back to merely designing pretty buildings that hopefully fullfill a client's programmatic needs and budget? Such has been the reality for architects for most of human history, but the last couple of centuries seem to indicate that many designers will latch on to other issues that rely on the self-serving promotion of mass hysteria. These manufactured crises have helped spawn major architectural evolution and innovations we enjoy and often take for granted. However, they have also served as excuses for the abandonment of aesthetics that have bred public contempt for modern architecture and the oppressive dullness that it has wrought to our cities worldwide.

If anyone is bookish enough to read about the history architectural theory, one is struck by how the discussion changes dramatically around the late 18th century. Up to that point, when an architectural treatise was written, the question they tried to answer was simple but profound: how should one build to satisfy Nature or God? Before Vitruvius's Ten Books on Architecture was written in first century BC, architecture in the academic realm was pretty much a religious matter, often done by priests, and rules were created for the proper design of temples and tombs. After fall of Rome (and with it, obscuring Vitruvius), a return to the religious question reemerged during rise of European Cristendom until around the 14th century. Then the Renaissance kicked off 500 year-long stream of architectural treatises that tried to answer another seemingly inescapable central question: What was Vitruvius trying to say?

Far from being some sort of narrow academic obsession with the ruminations of an unremarkable Roman military engineer, the study of the Ten Books of Architecture actually provided a highly practical basis on which it was possible discuss and debate about architecture from a secular point of view. Vitruvius plainly stated the values that architecture should embody: beauty, firmness, and commodity. The basis from which these values could be achieved was suddenly subject to all sorts of secular interpretation, whether through math, science, or some sort system of universal taste. Squabbles between architects over the minutiae of classical proportions may seem petty and a bit arbitrary to us now, but they were a part of a highly serious exercise in trying to figure out how to make good buidings and pleasant spaces. This fixation on Greco-Roman classicism left us a built legacy of undeniable appeal that continues to beloved by people the world over.

Before the industrial era of the latter half of the 18th century, architectural design neglected something else just as important as beauty: function. It wasn't because it was deliberately ignored, but rather because life up to that point was relatively simple. Wealth was small and highly concentrated, physical comfort was unknown, people died like flies, and everyone was at the mercy of nature. The most a building was expected to do was to shelter the occupant from the rain, and have rooms big enough for a couple pieces and furniture, and, if you had the funds, some servants. Staying warm was futile, plumbing was non-existent, and you interiors were dark and draughty. The most an architect could do was to embellish the exteriors and interiors, which is partly why arguments about the Greek orders mattered so much then.

The industrial revolution completely upended this state of affairs. Technological advances made it possible to live in a way that transcended what until then was nasty, brutish and short. Industrialization unleashed exponential increases in productivity, and with it, wealth, which then became more widely distributed and created a new middle class. The modern mentality was born, in which one was influenced by the idea that things are so new and changing that nothing from the past applies. Closely tied to this mentality was that the problems that afflicted man since the dawn of time were not immutable facts of nature, but capable of being solved or improved upon. Poverty, hunger, sickness and social injustice were no longer accepted as part of the natural order of things, since Reason, coupled scientific empiricism that made industry possible, would show the way towards a better, more enlightened future.

In this modern outlook, both age-old human problems and new problems resulting from the changes brought about by the industrial revolution were now neatly packaged under the term crisis. What was once the natural cycle of life, death, plagues and famines were now crises of public health, sanitation and unacceptable squalor. As the fecundity of the human population rose with ever greater production of food and improved medicine, there were crises of overpopulation, resource depletion, traffic congestion and pollution. Then later, when the masses were more properous than ever before, new crises were made out of more aesthetic and spiritual issues such as a low quality of life, poor education and more recently environmental damage. Labeling the existence of certain complex problems as a crisis instantly lends a sense of urgency and seem to imply that only grand (and preferably state driven) solutions will work. Those that operate with the crisis mentality attribute problems that afflict mankind to a lack of a rationally-inspired design. Architects of the modern era were naturally quite keen on this.

In the past century, architectural theory changed from plodding treatises on the correctness of the classical orders or the moral quality of materials to blunt manifestoes, written often in an urgent tone and composed of a series of bold assertions and even bolder solutions. The overall attitude in these manifestos, whether it be written by the Italian futurists, the Bauhaus founders, or Le Corbusier himself, was that everything had to go. There were no small fixes. It was fundamental to start from scratch. One notices the term chaos used frequently in these manifestoes, referring to not only the rapid displacement of people and livelihoods due to the machine, but also in the way ideas, art and style continued to multiply exponentially in variety and personal whim. The 19th century was defined by stylistic ecclecticism, embracing romantic notions about a distant past (gothic revival, classical revival) or exotic places (Japan, India, China, Arabia). This had to stop in the twentieth century, with architectural luminaries like Sigfried Giedion arguing that a new more abstract style that harmonizes with the industrial age will alleviate the spiritual chaos unique to modern times. Le Corbusier's own philosophical movement, Purism, began with the notion of a retour a l'ordre, or a return to order. To achieve this, it was necessary for the biggest players in society to take the lead, such as major industrialists and ultimately, the State.

To these Modern idealists, war had a practical benefit. It was seen by many as a way of cleansing, of ridding the old chaotic order of the present. War's aftermath would then bring about the opportunity to begin anew with supposedly better solutions. Closely tied to war was a financial crisis, the Great Depression, which would bring down the unjust, chaotic order of laissez-faire capitalism in which people freely make their economic choices and would then set the stage for the State to engage in centralized economic planning. Once the state was the only agent making economic choices, it would then also decide what gets built and where, assuming it would follow the guidance of enlightened design experts. Ego-driven Nietzchean supermen such as Le Corbusier himself would be at the ready, with plans for a new radiant city, where up to three million residents would be housed in skyscrapers, multi-storied zigzaging apartment slabs, driving on highways, and enjoying abundant greenery and collective gardens. To further prove that these grand plans of his were based on the utmost rationality, he proposed to abolish the traditional urban street, which were emblematic of the chaos in traffic, inadequate daylight and fresh air, and architectural incoherence. Le Corbusier and his Modernist contemporaries were big believers in never letting a crisis go to waste.

For architects of above-normal aesthetic sensibility, their insistence that their design was based on functional considerations alone seems a bit naive to us nowadays. If one trudges through the oftentimes dry CIAM manifesto published in the 1940's, one is stuck by how this club elite modern urban planners were so unflinchingly certain in their diagnosis of existing cities, in uncritically accepting population growth projections that often never panned out, and in their conviction that the solutions offered was the only way forward. And then to couch this all in an aura of objectivity and 'science', it only seems a bit absurd to us today, especially upon taking stock on the havoc the CIAM movement has wrought to urban development in the latter half of the twentieth century. Even the solutions proposed reform movements within CIAM during 1950's and 1960's such as Team X were still fixated on overscaled structures and urban mega-blocks.
In their eyes, they did offer a reasonable solution to all the crises as they were understood at the time. The CIAM city would fix traffic congestion by separating car traffic from people; quality of life would be dramatically better due to abundant parks and greenery; skyscrapers and towers would efficiently organize density while allowing more space for fresh air and vegetation, thus improving the health of its inhabitants. Housing would be of higher quality as well as a lot more equitable. Isolating the workplace from the residence, and confining walking to park-like pedestrian paths would also make life a lot better than what it was before. Still, in addressing the crises at the time, CIAM's practices begot newer crises: encouraging car traffic to bridge the distance between work and home contributed to air pollution due to heavier auto traffic, the giant apartment blocks helped generated a crisis in criminality and ghettos. Modernism's rejection of ornament and the human scale, along with copious amounts of concrete helped spawn an existential crisis, in which much of the public still doesn't accept the works of its cultural elite, whether it be in art or achitecture. For all of modern planning's collective fervor, their ideas seemed to disrupt cohesive communities and produced the most alienating landscapes.
Never learning from the law of unintended consequences, architects and planners responded to these new crises undiminished. Fears of a global population bomb, vanishing natural resources and a potential nuclear apocalypse led some to focus on sustainability, either as a self-sufficient village (Arcosanti, Drop City) or as a new high-tech civilization based modular design (Archigram, Japanese Metabolists). These movements were quite short-lived, due to the fact they tried to address a global crisis in complete isolation from political, economic, and technological realities of the time.
Other architects and planners who were less driven by apocalytpic concerns tried instead to solve the existential crisis of communities and crime by looking backward into a simpler time before modern crises arose. A new classical historicism emerged by the late 1960's, in which the restoration of traditional styles effectively addressed the pressing need for familiarity, security, and timelessness in a rapidly changing world. New Urbanism served as its planning arm, aiming to restore valuable social bonds through structuring streets and neighborhoods along traditional patterns. A popular theory of a "Pattern Language" argued that much traditional design resulted from natural experiences engrained in human memory. For the first time in many decades, much of the public responded favorably. Still, to much of the academic elite in the field, historicism was inadequate partly because it was too engrossed in formalism and surface treatment. Large social and environmental problems that afflicting the modern world were not being more directly engaged by a historicist movement that was busy narrowing the scope of architecture back to preoccupations of the past (eg. embellishing exteriors and interiors, keeping the rain out, worring about a building's 'appropriateness'). This wasn't the premodern era where architects were mere artists-craftsment quietly serving their patrons. Now, architects expected themselves to be agents for radical change.
By the time centers of architectural thought, the schools, had rejected the historicists and isolated them to a couple of programs in the U.S. in the early 1990s, a new crisis began to take shape that would inspire many bright young architects from that point onward. Unlike previous crises, where architectural solutions were a bit out of touch with reality, this new one, anthropogenic global warming (AGW), had the potential of putting the design of buildings at the very epicenter of a broad strategy in combatting it. Since a hefty portion of overall carbon emissions (40%) is generated by buildings, architects were now in position to lead the way in devising critical solutions, and thus saving civilization from impending climate-induced collapse. Instead of wallowing in isolation imagining future fantasies as was often the case in the 1960s and 1970s, in the era of global warming, all things were now aligned for architects to make a difference. Economic and political entities perceive the cost of climate change to be so great so as to fundamentally rethink how we build, how much our structures consume, and in what other new ways our buildings can perform. The technology has also caught up, thanks to modern computing, with new automated systems in adjusting energy usage, daylight, and enabling all kinds of surfaces to absorb and transmitt solar energy. Knowledge of green design had recently become more systematized, with widely accepted ratings such as LEED. And unlike the efforts of a few decades before, most green buildings looked mainstream, differing from non-green buildings only in terms of specified materials and systems.
All these improvements and advances don't come cheap, and like anything that bills itself as environmentally friendly, they have yet to be competitive in the marketplace due to this inherent price premium. Businesses that push green projects can only circumvent this market disadvantage with taxpayer-funded subsidies and intensive government patronage. Supporting these projects thus relies on state policies aimed at regulating the marketplace based on an overruling belief in the public good. As long as AGW presents itself as a crisis that threatens everyone's well-being, then the government sees itself as justified in redistributing wealth towards companies (and the designers that depend on them) that promote its definition of the public good. To put it crudely, many architects saturated in green orthodoxy have become willing instruments of the state. This is nothing new in the profession, but it has become a prevailing pattern in the past century for architects to be joined at the hip with all kinds of ruling regimes. To many idealistic architects (which is at least half of them) serving the goals of the state is fine so long as the policies pursued are enlightened. It beats having to make a living in the messy marketplace, to which many of values architects hold dear have either a high price tag or no worth at all.
If carbon emissions from humans are proved to have no affect on climate change, and thus government-led action is irrelevant to stopping what is a complex natural occurence, is it still a valid public good? It's important to remember that although crisis often bring about a lot of wrong-headed solutions, there are just as many innovations that we could not live without. Making buildings much more efficient over its lifecycle as a means of reducing carbon emissions is clearly a public good, especially as it adapts to growing competition for natural energy resources due to rapid economic development throughout the globe (which is also good). Implementing ways to reduce a building's negative externalities to the environment is also a public good, if it improves air and water quality and minimizes the disturbance on ecosystems.
What is not a public good is expending extraordinary sums of other people's money when the benefits are either meager or non-existent. Nor is it good when the vast sums of money shield producers from the market discipline, thus slowing real innovation. What AGW has done so far is to force lots of money to be spent on measures that achieve comparatively little benefit but incur an enormous burden for everyone whether through higher overal prices, increased taxes, and the uneconomic elimination of perfectly productive and profitable industries that employs millions. It has also apportioned even more gobs of state money towards subsidizing renewal energy, which, by the immutable scientific laws that apply to them, will remain a highly inefficient and expensive means of producing energy. In buildings, it has encouraged designers to integrate wind and solar generation, which dramatically raises construction cost and maintenance in exchange of providing a small fraction of the energy needed to operate the building itself. Another example is that the fear in the carbon produced in the transport of vegetables from farms has gotten a number of young architects to embrace the idea of growing produce on the building, whether through green screen walls or green roofs. Never mind that such practices do not make food cheaper nor make city dwellers better farmers nor our time more wisely spent. And then add to those the extra cost of moistureproofing and reinforcing structures. But of course, the higher the construction budget the greater the design fee.

Once the urgency in AGW sputters to a standstill, what are architects left to do? Maybe what they have always done, before modern crises appeared on the scene: focus on beauty, strutural soundness and the way it functions in relation to what is appropriate to the surrounding circumstances. It does not mean one has to resort to historicist styles or classicism. Rather, we should openly encourage aesthetic and technical experimentation and development, but within the limits placed by reality, such as the client's wishes, the site's urban context, natural properties and climate. For the more politically idealistic, these goals don't go far enough. For the rest of us, it assures a more honest dialogue with the public that we serve, and in return, the public awards us with higher esteem for our creations. An added bonus is that we won't be portrayed as elite dupes.

What Americans Really Want in a President...and Televangelists

2010-02-03T14:04:00.000-08:00

As Sarah Palin reemerges in preparation for her run at the presidency in 2012, she has shown herself to be wonderfully transparent. Contrasted to the cool and calculating President Obama who rarely speaks sans script, Mrs. Palin is good at speaking off the cuff and in a folksy manner. Too folksy, for many. In separate interviews, I was reminded why she will almost certainly not be a viable candidate in 2012. She's folksy to the point of sounding crude or ignorant at worst or as having poor political instincts at best. I'm willing to ignore some of her less impressive moments during the presidential run of 2008, as it was her first time in the national spotlight. One gets the impression the McCain campaign didn't exactly support her and the media was clearly in the Obama camp.

By now, though, she should know better. Two moments in particular have not impressed me. First was an interview on talk radio, in which she used the phrase "screwed up" at least three times. Presidents should not speak that way. Governors should not speak that way. I'm pretty sure I will not want my daughter speaking that way. A few weeks later, she used the phrase "B.S." True, she didn't say the word, and even Dick Cheney famously uttered a far more graphic word, on the Senate floor no less, not to mention Rahm Emmanuel's latest foray into course language. But there's a difference in a Vice President or even President using salty language and a candidate who needs to woo voters. Something about that just seems undignified.

Her appeal for many, though, is not in her brains but in her transparency. Transparency goes a long way with the public, who regularly feel shut out of the political process and who want to know who politicians "really are". They want, or they think they want, people just like them to represent them. It's basic psychology, I suppose. Someone who looks like me and speaks like me, even crassly from time to time, will share my values and fight for the things I also want.

That works for a while, until the person "just like us" reveals the things about ourselves we don't particularly like, like crass language and a lack of intellect. The appeal of the "Everyman" diminishes, and we begin to look for transcendence and vision in a leader. We stop wanting a mirror, and we start wanting a window into a better future than we could envision on our own. President Obama excelled at that during his own campaign, perfectly combining the humble origin routine with the promise of visionary leadership. His biography spoke the "Everyman" story but his language was eloquent and full of promise. Perhaps Mrs. Palin can take some advice and start speaking presidentially. Transparency only goes so far in politics.

I am starting to wonder if that is also part of the appeal of the megachurch preacher. Whereas the churchman of the past followed the political model and never revealed too much for fear that it may diminish his moral or pastoral authority, the megachurch preacher has no such worries. As part of a larger effort to redefine church and remake the image of the traditional pastor, megachurch preachers carve out their own version of the Everyman. They eschew clerical collars and even suits for casual attire of blue jeans and polo shirts. They don't use a theological vocabulary, and some speak of God only in the most generic of terms. There is often little mention of Jesus Christ, there are no lofty words like justification or sanctification. They're unafraid to talk about their personal lives, even their sex lives. Joel Osteen must speak about his wife and children in every sermon.

Like the folksy politician, they earn the trust of the congregation through transparency. They reveal who they are outside of the pulpit. They tell family stories. They're never afraid to be the butt of the joke, an absolute no-no for the preacher trying to maintain an authoritative image. These preachers find, like the politician, that there is easy cache in being transparent. They quickly realize that there is a benefit when the folks in the pews think that their pastor is just like them. It's exactly what the postmodern ethos demands as icons and institutions are remade into a counterintuitive image.

But just like the politician, the preacher who strives to remake the traditional image of the pastor into a folksy storyteller who everyone thinks they know, there are sacrifices. When the charm wears off, people want and need substance. Mr. Obama has found this out, and I think Mrs. Palin will as well. The reason pastors and politicians are stodgy at times is because laws and theology are necessarily complex. Newspaper articles are great, but sometimes only a book will do. Being transparent is a quick way to receive relational deposits, because people always like it when someone else lays it all on the line first. But that cannot possibly last. Eventually, people will trade a little transparency for a lot of effectiveness.

"Imagine": Theme Song for the Morally Vague

2010-01-12T15:53:00.000-08:00

Part of the reason I have not been able to write in several months is because I have been in the process of moving to Houston. Getting settled involves getting acquainted with the city and all it has to offer. To those not from Houston, you may be surprised to learn that Houston has robust artistic offerings, ranging from early music, the symphony and opera, and scores of smaller music and dance companies that perform almost nightly all over the city. Perhaps I’ll write more on that in another post.

The focus for this post is on a song I heard performed at the Houston Boychoir Christmas concert, John Lennon’s Imagine. (The song also enjoyed a recent primetime cover on Fox’s Glee.) I don’t want to cast aspersions on the boychoir, which presented a fine concert. And lest I be accused of picking on young boys, this song was performed by alumni of the Boychoir who were all adults. Besides the fact that the song has nothing to do with Christmas, its selection was disheartening for several reasons. I’ll focus on one: while the song appears to be the ultimate musical offering of peace and goodwill, it is nothing more than a catalog of daydreams separated from reality.

Mind you, this concert took place in a church, and the first lyric of the song is, “Imagine there's no Heaven”. So much for respecting the host. But with respect to the lyric, why would I want to imagine such a thing? Of what benefit is that to me? Of course I understand that many grievous acts are committed against others with the expectation of a reward in heaven. But for the millions, or billions of those who place their hope in the reality of life after death, why would Lennon want to take that away? And what is the alternate life that John Lennon and Co. would propose? A paradise on earth until we die, and then eternal nothingness? What happens if that paradise on earth never materializes (and it never will)? What then? Drudgery on earth, and then eternal blackness?

The song continues with the line, “Nothing to kill or die for and no religion too.” Coming from an artist who would supposedly want us to live life full of zest and vigor, what a disheartening thought. If there is nothing to die for, then there is really nothing to live for, either. Christ certainly understood this when he told those that followed him that they would need to also carry their own cross. But this is gospel, not law; the cost of carrying a cross is far less than the cost of a life without Christ, at least for the Christian. Many wanted to follow Christ, but when they realized there might be consequences, they turned around. They believed John Lennon was right: there’s nothing worth dying for.

Of course, I am not ignoring the other half of the line, “nothing to kill” for. Obviously madmen have taken to immoral acts of murder in the false name of religion or philosophy. (John Lennon’s assassin is probably listed among them.) But what does a life in which there is nothing to die for look like? I can imagine this being a rather joyless existence. Is there nothing so important, so life-altering that might require us to die? Is there no comrade in arms, child, or god that might be served by our death? Soldiers, parents and martyrs through the years would disagree. Indeed, if Christianity is to be believed, God would disagree. Christians profess the crucifixion of Christ precisely because we were worth dying for in the eyes of God.

To look at one more line before making some broader assessments, consider this example of Lennon’s philosophy: “Imagine no possessions…No need for greed or hunger.” In truth, this is muddled thinking, but it passes as genius because it has such high aspirations. Lennon assumes that if there were no possessions, there would also be no “need for greed or hunger.” And what proof of that is there? Wherever this has been tried, shy of tiny communes, the result is exactly the opposite: because there is no private property, there is no incentive and vehicle through which humans can create goods and food. Instead of everyone sharing, the creative imperative so natural to man is squashed, and the result is guess what…greed and hunger. I consider it either remarkably naïve or possibly malicious to assume that because there are no possessions, there will also be no greed or hunger. In fact, the nations with the highest legal protections of property are the same nations with the highest rates of charity and the lowest rates of poverty.

For some, Imagine succeeds as a song in spite of the fact that it offers no coherent vision and no serious insight into the human condition. Somehow, if we can “join” Lennon and Co., we can create a better existence for all. From the Christian point-of-view, however, this is a denial of sin itself, which is what ultimately prevents us from creating the utopia Lennon so desires. While Lennon may be loath to admit it, it is Christianity that offers us real possibilities in the wake of sin. I would go so far as to argue that it is religion that keeps this world in some balance to begin with.

If I have been too harsh on this masterpiece of music, I certainly apologize. It simply strikes me as a song that gets all the credit in the world for being a work of genius, when, in fact, it says next to nothing. But for its aspirations alone, it is praised. The song really is an imagining of a world without human beings that are what they are. Why don't we instead work with the problems of man and aim to fix them? I suppose a song that offered that proposition would not be nearly as appreciated.

Size shouldn't matter...(except when it does)

2009-12-20T08:00:00.000-08:00

In what is possibly the most difficult of times for the architecture profession, firms are scurrying around the globe to land any securely funded project that has weathered the speculation-fueled real estate crisis. With the U.S. market in the tank for at least the next couple of years, firms large enough to have foreign offices are redoubling efforts in snatching projects in markets where money is concentrated by powerful ruling families, business partnerships with large cash reserves, government and entities with close ties to the government. Smaller developers that rely on bank credit no longer available to them are sitting it out, which leaves the overall new project landscape in an ironic state of affairs: instead of an abandonment of large, iconic, sometimes megalomaniacal projects and a return to the smaller, simpler, more socially responsible that the current recession portended, continuing the large and iconic is more important than ever for a large number of design firms. Size matters-the more square-footage, the more fee and the more staff that can be spared.

Bigger is not always better, to be frank. In tough times, the things one has to do to get by can seem a bit below one's integrity. We're in no position to choose the projects we want to design, and we're ready to do anything to keep ourselves busy. Clients, feeling the financial pinch, are forced to scale back, trimming a project's original scope and thus eliminating what little architectural flourish that is left. As in any business driven by an artistic spirit, the ultimate goal is less about making more money than in building prestige. In good times, competition for big projects is not as competitive since most firms would be trying to pursue opportunities that would enhance their visibility among their peers (other designers). In bad times, competition for these lackluster, yet paying, projects is fierce but few would willingly put this work in their portfolio.

One reason there is an unsavory feeling in doing this work has to do with architects' uneasy relationship with size. Sure it pays the bills, but many designers struggle in making the proposed vastness of a project work decently with reasonable proportions. It takes a supreme amount of self-confidence to comfortably design with extreme size in mind, which probably explains why certain 'starchitects' and heroic visionary architects (eg. Le Corbusier) were able to embrace projects of significant scope (often with disappointing results). From most architects' perspective, the greatest buildings are rarely huge or well-known, with many of the profession's most beloved gems remaining unnoticed by common people. They like to assume as much control on a design, which smaller projects tend to offer, even as building is really a collaborative endeavour between many disciplines. When a project grows to a certain size and scope, many other players are brought in to complete it, which takes more from the architect to coordinate and less time and focus to solve design problems. Bigger projects have bigger budgets, with lots of room to find ways to compromise the overall integrity of the design. This is further compounded by the scale of construction, as it is more difficult to closely oversee the quality of what is being erected.

Still, much of the architectural profession as we know it today would be nothing without big commissions. In more market-driven economies (eg. US, UK, Australia, Canada), there has been an inexorable rise in the number of large firms (over 50 people) in response to executing large projects more effectively while managing a steady volume of work. In countries where the government is the major patron, an architecture firm is run less as businesses than as an informal collaborative studio of unpaid designers, unless they are able to win a steady stream of sizeable public projects. There is simply too little private work available to cultivate more than a dozen staff. While growth is generally a good thing, there lurks the perception that as a firm grows in size, its identity and reputation becomes homogenized. What begins as the reflection of a talented individual becomes over time a faceless brand. For example Norman Foster, who conceived of influential high-tech works earlier in his career, is now Foster + Partners, generator of high-quality but relatively conservative work that is less a refection of him than the manifestation of 200+ designers guided by a homogeous melding of slick engineering welded to an ethos of sustainability.

Outside looking in, the general public naturally perceives architects as almost exclusively concerned with big projects. Firms that specialize in smaller projects, such as low- to mid-rise apartment blocks, office complexes, municipal buildings and schools, though profitable and even respected by other architects, seem completely invisible to the public. In news stories about a construction project underway, the architect is often never mentioned, unless when the project's significance partly depends on who was chosen to design it. Big buildings are a major investment in the community, and therefore the selection of the architect becomes worthy of import to the community as well. This leads to a common problem that communities face when planning their built environment: the public's myopic view of what architects are supposed to do (that is, design big, important buildings) tends to neglect the smaller but often more critical pieces that improve one's experience of a neighborhood or city district. These are the urban blocks in between the iconic and monumental buildings, and which contain mundane but necessary functions such as residences, offices, convenience retail, restaurants, cafes and bars and adquate park life. Many of these pieces are relatively modest, being neither tall, nor architecturally distinct. Cities cited for their pedestrian-friendly planning and "liveability" such as Portland and Austin have solidly supported the development of these modest urban infill projects, or what I call architecture with a lower-case "a". All building is architecture to a degree, but there is undoubtedly a hierarchy as to what constitutes important work over everyday and unremarkable structures.

Architecture with an upper-case "A" thus refers to projects of relatively large size or monumental importance. Those include landmark-worthy high-rises, halls of government, cultural palaces and major sacred places. Architecture with an upper case "A" has a potentially high symbolic value, which makes them vehicles for political opportunism, public relations, and civic pride. Successful excecution and completion of such projects bring instant rewards to those who stake their reputations on them, but their impact on the surrounding urban environs can be damaging or negligible at best. Cities that crave instant visibility from outside its limits tend to devote lots of energy in building one significant piece of architecture after another. My hometown of Dallas is especially beholden to this idea, its civic leaders proudly boasting about every new museum, performance hall, stadium and all the Pritzker-winning architects it has recruited to design them. Underneath this parading naturally lies an a feeling of insecurity about whether the city "measures up" to its peers - namely, the world's "greatest" cities. With every new building that goes up, the chatter seems to address the question of whether our city can compare to New York or London. Rather than seeking comfort in establishing a unique and genuine urban identity, we pin our hopes on becoming some sort of "great" city.

Conversely there are a number of cities that are quite comfortable in their own skin, who are quick to highlight their residents' happiness in living there. A "high quality (as opposed to quantity) of life" is what these cities are after, where work, education and leisure are conveniently nearby, and the typical negative externalities of city life such as traffic, pollution crime and innadequate services are avoided. They are often depicted in the media as "charming", "smart" and of course, "sustainable". What goes often missing in such accounts though is any mention of significant pieces of architecture. Portland's skyline is unexceptional and unrecognizable. Austin's skyline has been marred by speculative and dull high-rise condos, and proportionally fussy office towers and hotels. Denver's downtown commercial high-rises are unmemorable, its sky-line completely lacking some sort visual coherence were it not for its elegant state capitol (the same can be said for Austin). Even less impressive is these likeable cities' indifference to the architectural quality of their cultural institutions. Portland unfortunately bought into the iconoclastic strain of Postmodernism of Michael Graves and Seattle succumbed to the irreverant musings of Robert Venturi. Graves can be prominently found in Denver as well, whose library sits adjacent to a strange and dated art museum building by Gio Ponti. The Mile-High city's performance venues are lackluster as well, its opera and symphony hall lacking a decent prefunction space (and its auditorium interior replete with tastless 70's decor).

And not surprisingly in a city that revels in its role as a champion of casual culture, what with its reputation as the "live music capital of the world", Austin doesn't have a real fine art museum at all. It faltered in its effort to build a world-class perfrormance venue, when the budget of Long Center for the Performing Arts was stripped to such a degree that the pre-function space was relegated to the outdoors. Austinites who love the fine arts turn to the University of Texas, and even there, with all its rich endowment, has failed to take advantage of the opportunities. One example in particular involves the tragic mistreatment of Herzog & Demeuron in the design of a museum for the university's extensive Renaissance art collection. After enduring one humiliation after another, the Swiss masters abandoned the commission to go on to better things and earning the Pritzker Prize the following year. What now sits in its place are two neo-traditional Spanish Renaissance buildings that no one cares to visit since no one seems to notice them from the rest of the matching campus architecture.

It's easy to argue that such criticism is too elite in nature and that what matters are the opinions of the people that live in these places. There are plenty of people who proudly eschew grand monuments to big egos that convey a shallow desperation to show off. But to fastidiously impose this thinking at every opportunity to build big and boldly prevents a city to claim the mantel of greatness. This is an understandably loaded term, but it should remind us of a certain kind of significance that cities (and the many individuals that have shaped them) throughout human history have constantly pursued. There is tremendous risk in building big and boldly because there are tremendous urban and cultural ramifications in doing so. What is the reward? Is it a permanent source of inspiration, or an awe at the vision and intensity of the human spirit when it builds and creates? These are part of what makes cities the most uniquely human of all our creations: they act as a cauldron to our imaginations, a stage on which our social and collaborative natures bring about the construction of a scale that surpasses many times over our own physical size and strength.

By contrast, the countryside is where you will find people at their most natural state, or in a sense, at their least human. Here, engaging with nature takes precedence over socializing with others. Solutions that help solve the fundamental problem of how humans coexist with nature are designed primarily to be functional and modest in scale so as to rely only on one or a few to manage. The world's pastoral landscapes show the beauty and richness in the variety of ingenious solutions that man has a come up with in responding to the land and unforgiving natural forces. In the country, we are humbled by nature, which probably explains why we refer to going to the countryside as a seach for the 'simpler things'. The city does the opposite: it emboldens us. It affirms our innermost yearning to express ourselves and transcend our physical limits. Function has a role as well, but it must compete with a need to make a statement about who we are.

By the urban planning community's own measures, certain cities like Portland and Austin are highly regarded because they function well. They provide high-quality housing, green belts, bike-paths and and multiple options for transit. But from my own judgement, they make few grand and memorable gestures, symbols of a larger economic and cultural dynamism at work. Likewise, some cities like Dubai are all about grand gestures and nothing else. The quality of the urbanism is pretty awful, what with their bad car traffic, unwalkable blocks and segregated population. But for the last decade before the recent real-estate crash, Dubai inspired the imagination of outside observers like nothing else in daring to build structures once considered unbuildable not too long ago. The city served as a mirror of contemporary globalism, mixed with a heaping of superficial postmodernism and a dash of status-seeking. It might not result in happy citizens, but everyone knows that their built legacy will survive. The Chinese know this as well, if last year's Olympics were any indication. The results of this thinking might be awful, such as Ceausescu's palace in Bucharest (the second largest building in the world), but the city would be worse off were it to flatten the one thing that makes it unique to all other places in the world.

It is commendable for architects to understand function, budgets and aesthetics. It is a privilege yet a big responsibility to express the community's hopes and give it a building that serves as an image of that community. Architects should always educate the client and the public about the importance of all pieces of the city both large small. But they should not be afraid acknowledge that size matters, even if they'd rather that it doesn't.

The Architecture of Faith: A Sermon

2009-11-18T11:05:00.000-08:00

The following is a sermon. I am not usually inclined to publish sermons on our blog, but because the jumping off point of the sermon was the architecture of the temple, I couldn't resist. Hopefully, it reads similarly to our essays. The text is Mark 13:1-8.

Architecture has as much to do with religious buildings as any other sort of building. While we might think that architecture is the province of industry or residence, designing skyscrapers and houses, churches also see the need to consult with architects from time to time. They help provide insight on what kind of space engenders worship, how to best use natural light, and how to ensure that Word and Sacrament are at the center of our life together. Indeed, architects are vital cogs in a design wheel that have great influence on where we live, what our neighborhoods look like, how we feel when we’re at work, and of course, how our faith is represented in our houses of worship.

Because worship of our Lord is among our highest priorities as a civilization (or at least it used to be), our worship spaces are often ornate, decked out with stained glass, elaborate pipe organs, perhaps even statues or inscribed stonework. The spaces are often large with vaulted ceilings, full of religious symbols like crosses, and of course home to the altar and the font. Some of the greatest tourist destinations in Europe are churches: Notre Dame or Sacre Coure in Paris, the cathedral in Milan, or Saint Peter’s Basilica. Those buildings may have taken a century to build, and often the best architectural minds in the world lent their considerable talents to get the job done. These days, in a world of scarce resources and the automobile, architects consult with congregations to plan and produce less glorious buildings, but buildings that continue to bear witness to the transcendence and majesty of our God. Lord willing, the result will be a beautiful space that draws people into reverence and awe before the prelude is ever keyed by the organist.

With all of that said, does Jesus tell us we are not to be impressed with such glorious buildings? In the 13th chapter of Mark, Jesus is teaching in the last week of his life inside the great temple of Jerusalem. This was truly one of the wonders of the ancient world, as early historians tell us that people traveled from many miles away to catch a glimpse of it. As detailed in 2 Samuel, Solomon built a temple fitting for our God, using the finest wood, stone, gold and jewels.

Since the disciples lived primarily in northern

Israel

and were poor Galilean fisherman, it is quite possible this was the first time they had seen the temple. And like kids in a candy store, they stood there with their mouths hanging open, thinking to themselves, “Golly, this sure is a nice building, huh Jesus?” Like Little Red Riding Hood standing before the wolf saying, “What big teeth you have”, the disciples stood before Jesus in the temple and proclaimed, “What big stones this temple has!”

“The better to impress you with,” Jesus replied. Jesus saw where the disciples were going, and he didn’t like it. It likely wasn’t just the building itself that the disciples were impressed with. It was the power the building represented; for the Jewish people, nothing epitomized power more than the temple in Jerusalem. It was the site of the holy of holies, where God himself resided. This is why Jesus taught here in the last week of his life, this is why he turned over the tables, this is why he saved his harshest rebukes for the Pharisees until he was in the temple. The temple was the seat of power in the Jewish world, and the disciples were probably thinking to themselves, “Hey, we’re hanging around with the Messiah, so all of this is about to be ours.”

We do the same in our own ways. Jesus becomes our way out, our ally in our salvation. We are set to inherit the earth because we have Jesus. That is true to an extent, but it is not exactly accurate. We are saved by the radical grace of God. But Jesus isn’t exactly our ally, because it takes two parties with a shared worldview to be considered allies. We are, more often than not, enemies to the cause of goodness, and only by grace are we saved, not the inherent goodness within us, as the disciples hoped. Did we get a promotion at work? “It must be because God loves me,” we say. Did we get the new house we wanted? “Must be because God loves me!” we say. Did you get into the college you wanted? “Must be because God loves you!” we say.

Maybe it is! God is the source of all good things! But our blessings are not rewards for our goodness, and the temple was not to be a reward for the disciples, even though they were licking their chops over that piece of real estate. We would do well not to emulate the disciples walking around in the glorious temple, thinking we are about to inherit it because of our friendship with Jesus. In fact, Jesus tells them just the opposite.

Following Jesus not only means for the disciples that they won’t inherit the temple that stood before them, it means a life of cross-bearing. For so long, the disciples thought they were following Jesus because he was the way to glory. But they were only half right. He is the way to eternal glory, there’s no disputing that. But he is not the way to worldly glory. The architecture of their faith was wrongly built on the gilded tabernacle,

Lebanon

cedars and heavy stones of the temple; the architecture of faith in Christ is built on two wooden beams, suitable only for supporting a human body.

It’s not just the disciples’ ill-conceived notions of power and self-glorification that Jesus addresses: it’s also the end times. This portion of Mark is often called the “Little Apocalypse.” But just because bad things happen, Jesus says, doesn’t mean it’s the second coming. You may have seen the previews for one of the worst movies of the year, the disaster film of all disaster films, 2012. Supposedly, this work of fiction is based on the truth that the world really will end on December 21, 2012. This is based on the Mayan calendar, which supposedly ends on that date. Jesus warns us about such movies, er, predictions. He tells us that many will come in his name, and predict the end of the world. But the actual end times won’t look like much of anything compared to the second coming of Christ.

In fact, wars and rumors of wars, buildings crumbling, and famines are just a fact of life for us, Jesus says. Some lousy pastor or conspiracy theorist will always try to capitalize on the human fear of catastrophe by saying that this war or that famine is proof of the second coming of Christ. Cult leaders have been doing it for centuries. That is a narrow view of God, though. Even the images of this new movie 2012, where aircraft carriers pile drive into the White House with a rising sea, and downtown Los Angeles collapses into a heap of burning rubble do not to justice to what the second coming of Christ will be.

See the disciples wanted control, which is why four of them asked Jesus in private what he meant by buildings tumbling down. They wanted the inside scoop so they could live without the fear of God’s invisible action. But Jesus doesn’t give in, and pastors would do well to do the same. We are not in control; we are not the seat of power. The architecture of Christian faith is not built on the ability to predict the future; it is built on the sure and certain hope that God loves us so much he gave his only son to earn a very costly salvation for us. That is about all we can count on for sure, and we don’t even have control of that. It is completely in God’s hands, thanks be to God.

For both of these reasons, because the power of this world does not impress God and because many will falsely come in the name of Jesus, we are called to a faith in Jesus Christ, and Christ alone. In our worship, we express that faith and experience that grace in Word and Sacrament. Far from a false or superficial veneer of faith, we have the scriptures, some water, some bread and some wine as the ultimate expression of our faith. We confess that these things are means of grace, that they are out of our control, and they are not crystal balls we use to look into the future. They are bearers of the promises of God, that even though we do experience difficulties, even though our relationships are broken, even though the job market is bleak, God has not forgotten us.

Sometimes, it’s hard to end a text like this, where the disasters of this world are written off as merely “birth pangs,” by saying, “The Gospel of the Lord.” But it is the gospel. How? Because Jesus is saying that the problems we experience in this life, the wars that we witness and the famines that we mourn are nothing compared to the separation from God the unbeliever will experience. Even though we are like the disciples and we long for powerful buildings and knowledge of the end times, Christ still loves us enough to die for us, to forgive us of our sin and to offer us a life of peace. We won’t ever solve the problems of this world; our sin prohibits it. But we can delight in knowing that our God has divine plans for those who partake in a life of Word and Sacrament, a life in which we give full honor and credit to our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

A Park, not a Neighborhood: the problems and possibilities of the Dallas Arts District

2009-11-07T17:00:00.000-08:00

There has been an air of celebration among Dallas civic boosters, local media and even among many of its citizens these past few weeks. The opening of the $350 million AT&T performing arts center marks the culmination of an ambitious vision set forth by city leaders over 30 years ago in the establishment of the country's largest Arts District. Along a once vacant six-block stretch in downtown just north of the city's gleaming commercial skyscrapers, the Dallas Arts District features museums and performance halls designed by the world's most renowned architects, four of which are Pritzker laureates. The two newest additions to the district, the Dee and Charles Wyly Theatre by Rem Koolhaas (and his ex-partner Joshua Prince Ramus) and the Bill and Margot Winspear Opera House by Foster and Partners, now join the two year old Booker T. Washington School of the Arts by Allied Works Architects, the six-year old Nasher Sculpture Center by Renzo Piano, the twenty-year old (and still sumptuous) Meyerson Symphony Center by I.M Pei, and finally the Dallas Museum of Art by Edward Larrabee Barnes that opened in 1984. Add to those a new SOM-designed city performance hall building under construction and recently unveiled design for the Perot Museum of Nature and Science (yes, that Perot) by Thom Mayne of Morphosis less than a quarter mile away and you have one of the most elite concentrations of contemporary architecture of any city in the U.S.

While impressive, the city's traditional tendency to enthusiastically embrace big-name architects in the realization of its monumental palaces of culture and business (Pei, SOM & Philip Johnson) reveals all the more what is still missing in downtown: day to day urban life. Lurking in all the media attention about the opening of the opera house and the theatre was the question, "will the completed Arts District finally bring life to downtown, by attracting people to live there and sustain viable neighborhoods?" Will it lead to the rebirth of downtown, a pedestrian oasis in a metroplex built on wide spaces and lots of driving?

To any casual observer on the street on any, Dallas feels pretty dead. Other than the handful of office workers walking to their favorite eateries during their lunch break, the sidewalks are empty and many street level businesses close around three in the afternoon. So far the Arts District has fared no better, as few pedestrians can be found lingering outside the museums or performance hall for the reason that there is nowhere else worthwhile to go.

That being said, downtown Dallas in the past few years has become for more 'alive' than at any point since the businesses and people left for the suburbs after the second world war. There is a feeling among the city's champions that all the pieces are finally in place to spur a viable downtown neighborhood. Several older office towers have been successfully converted into apartments and condominiums, a grocery store and a large CVS drugstore have opened, restaurants and night clubs have opened in isolated spots, and a handful of Fortune 500 companies (AT&T, 7-Eleven, Comerica) have made downtown their new home. An urban dog-park is set to open next year, complete with an outdoor cafe for all the yuppie singles and couples to enjoy as the walk out from their lofts.

The thinking goes that now that the fine arts performances and museum exhibits are all concentrated in one area, people will want to live nearby to enjoy an endless stream of cultural events year-round. Restaurants will want to set themselves up to cater to the endless streams of opera, theatre and symphony goers. The 7-Eleven headquarters building that bookends the district is topped by several levels of condominiums featuring balconies and a rooftop pool that overlook into the performing arts buildings next door. A more affordable 5-storey apartment block is currently near completion as well. The performing arts high school may encourage some parents of students to live closer in. But will all these developments amount to much?

Answering this depends on how we understand how cities change and develop. It also forces us to define what makes a city district, and whether a certain balance is desirable. Personally, I'm quite sympathetic to the Jane Jacobs point of view, which focuses less on architectural form and spatial solutions to cities than on the location and synergies of a variety of uses and the observed behavior of people on the street. My views are further influenced by my own experience as a designer of retail projects, which requires an understanding of how different stores and public spaces reinforce each other and draw foot traffic. Dallas seems to have followed the car-based urban planning fads popular from the 50s to the 70s while belatedly embracing current trends espousing walkability, mass transit and dense mixed-use blocks. All have the flaw of being mostly aesthetic and idealized, in that the vision of what could be supersedes the reality of what is actually there as well how things actually work.

In the case of the Dallas Arts District, it suffers from the out-of-date planning concept of the precinct, in which a set of buildings with similar functions are grouped together and set apart from its surroundings. Government entities do this often, forming a kind of citadel where council chambers, the courts, and bureaucratic office buildings are all next to each other, which may be optimal in the functioning in the daily business of government, but offer a dull pedestrian experience. Lincoln Center in New York has been cited as a major influence in the planning of the Arts District, which has struggled throughout the decades in pulling in foot traffic from the surrounding blocks of Manhattan. The idea of an urban precinct goes back since the beginning of cities, such as the Acropolis in Athens. In most instances, there is a sacred role in these districts, and configuring arts palaces in a similar way lends an air sanctity and elitism in spite of the planners' desire to let the entire community take part. For as long as public ritual was important in the daily lives of city dwellers, these areas formed an indelible part of a city's memory. Kevin Lynch, one of the most influential writers on site design and urban geography, popularized the notion that citizens and visitors retain an image of the city that makes them intelligible and familiar. Lynch also chose the site for a new arts district at the request of Dallas city elders in 1978.

While the vision of such a district mesmerized city leaders and benefactors for the next few decades, the reality on the ground was a bit more sobering. Other than the occasional school field trip or matinee performance, the district was dead during the day, drowned in a sea of parking and marred by the ruins of an abandoned construction site for an unrealized mid-eighties high-rise. While the institutions that have made their home in district have endeared themselves to art lovers over time, the district itself has struggled to become a popular destination to most Dallasites. Evidence of this was apparent during the grand opening celebrations on October 18th, where over 40,000 people showed up to take part in the festivities and stand in line for guided tours of the new opera house and theatre. Too many of them were consulting their map hand-outs to figure out where the buildings were, even though all of them are very architecturally distinctive and all face one short downtown street (Flora). For so many thousands of of people who have live here not to be able to recognize their city 's shining cultural monuments is a tad embarrassing.

Despite this disturbing fact, the grand opening offered hints of promise. My impression of those who were not familiar with the district was that they still very much liked what they saw. The lines to see the buildings inside were very long and slow-moving. Cameras were out in full force, capturing views of the giant metal canopy extending beyond Foster's opera house, the shimmering red glass of the opera's auditorium's skin and the gleaming curtain of vertical aluminum tubes that cloak Koolhaas's theatre (Pei's Meyerson symphony hall next door still retains its majestic allure, but its smooth stone walls looked understated in comparison). Children (including mine) frolicked in the large 1/2" deep reflecting pond, with their parents looking on seated on landscaped benches and green lawns, all protected from the hot sun by the canopy hovering above. Although the completed landscape design was not as impressive as when it was first presented a year ago, it helped make the overall space feel much more inviting than all other designated public spaces in downtown.

But the real masterstroke in my view is Foster's canopy. Though I was initially underwhelmed by his scheme for the Winspear Opera House, in which it seemed like he was repeating himself from his other projects (Maison Caree in Nimes) but also looking sterile in massing and materials, standing underneath its canopy I finally got it. Foster seems to have understood something about large outdoor spaces in Texas that up to this point was never realized (probably for budgetary reasons) in our city: the critical need for shade. The canopy was mainly presented as a means of adequately shading the glass curtain wall wrapping the pre-function spaces around the red horseshoe-shaped auditorium. In contrast to the traditional opera house that veils the social spaces within from everyday pedestrians outside, the Winspear takes the veil away thus encouraging those outside to look in (similar in concept to his redesign of the Reichstag in Berlin). Beyond the question of whether it is good to democratize the traditional elite urban role of the opera house lies the more important point that the building reaches out to the public in grand fashion and alleviates to some degree the introverted and sometimes fortress-like character that defines much of the district's buildings. People are drawn to walk under the canopy, not only as a refuge from the sun, but as a comforting place in which to gather. This is further reinforced by the placement of a large grass-covered amphitheatre under the canopy's northern quadrant, which is set to open next spring when the outdoor concert season begins. On a larger urban scale, the canopy sort of functions like a park pavilion, located at the end of a green swath of landscaped blocks that forms that act as a transition between uptown and downtown. Currently this new park is a major 8-lane underpass, but construction is underway to build a suspended "deck park" over it.

And therein lies the best case scenario for the Dallas Arts District: as a kind of large central urban park. Dallas still does not have its own version of Central Park in New York, Grant Park in Chicago or even Herman Park in Houston. And while the Arts District will never offer traditional park amenities such as playgrounds and sports fields, its atmosphere is still quite park-like. Walking on the sidewalks of the district one senses a pleasant calm, the shade of low hanging branches of densely planted trees that separate the sidewalk from the cobblestone paved street, which itself seems as seems to be mostly barricaded from car traffic. The Nasher Sculpture Center is essentially a lush landscaped sculpture garden, screened from Flora Street by Renzo Piano's see-through covered pavilion. Flora Street's hardscaping gives way to copious planting beds and trees, and the plazas nestled in front and in between buildings have more of a relaxed social patio feel than urban squares criss-crossed by the hustle-and-bustle people on the go. I can envision a very green district punctuated by sculptural architecture pieces and pavilions, functioning as a buffer offering visual and sensual respite between the central business district to the South and uptown district to the North.

As for its potential as a 24-hour neighborhood, the chance was missed when the District's founders opted for precinct-like approach. Of all the lots remaining in the district only two have not been developed- one of which is slated to eventually become a 42-story tower full of high-priced condos, and the other whose value has been bid up to such a high level so as to preclude affordable housing or retail. All other blocks are now mostly single-use buildings, forcing any new housing to be built at the far edges. Restaurants, which thrive on foot traffic, are also tucked far enough away from the main draws of the district so as to make them a bit inconvenient for those wishing the dine-in and watch the latest play or opera without a car trip in between. The light-rail stop is about four long city blocks away, which bodes ill for the neighborhood aspirations of the Arts District if the majority of Dallasites cannot find their way through downtown streets to begin with. The Monday after the opening festivities, what were once outdoor spaces containing tens of thousands of people were back to their usual emptiness.

Despite concerted efforts to get people out of their cars, Dallasites are at heart car people. They will walk just a little bit here and there, but the roads are for the most part relatively fluid so as to make the alternative of walking everywhere and taking the bus or train less sensible. City life will emerge downtown, and has already begun in various pockets, but it has an extremely long way to go before it achieves the ideals of a fully pedestrian-oriented city like Boston or Manhattan. As those downtown areas slowly fill up, wouldn't it be nice establish a unique, world-class park featuring masterpieces in music, drama, art and architecture? Everything is already in place and it comes as a relatively small expense to the city (90% of the $350 million price tag for the Arts District's newest phase came from private donors). There are plenty of other places in the city that can foster naturally occuring neighborhoods, but there is only on place that can set the template for a one-of-a-kind art park.

$200K Grants for Changes in Church Policy: Welcome to the New Way of Being Church

2009-10-30T13:56:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I lamented that everyone wanted to be a politician, even those who lead the Church. Simply preaching and defending the gospel has ceased to be enough of a calling; the so-called “social gospel”, enacted by achieving social justice now deserved top billing. This social gospel compelled those who should have been churchmen to become politicians, by lobbying politicians, preaching on the social ills of the world and the building of God’s Kingdom as a remedy, or using plays like The Vagina Monologues to make a “religious” point about the abuse of women. The examples are myriad. It turns out I was more right than even I imagined, especially if one of the hallmarks of politics is behind-the-scenes deal-making and huge sums of money being used for lobbying purposes.

I recently heard about a $200,000 grant to an organization called Lutherans Concerned, a self-described advocacy group that worked for change within the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA). (Details about the grant are here.)

Lutherans Concerned is not affiliated with the ELCA, and the exact cause they supported is not my concern here, though I will say I am not in favor of their agenda. The fact that a seemingly secular organization could so influence the life of a denomination does not surprise me. But it does shock me. It is not the business of any foundation, or in this case the Arcus Foundation, what the ELCA chooses to do with theological issues before it. Yet they got involved, and no doubt Lutherans Concerned was only too happy to take the money.

Why would a secular organization, with seemingly no “skin in the game” get involved in an issue like this? My sense is that the church was merely used as a vehicle to lend moral credibility to the cause. If lobbying efforts were successful (and they were), and a “majority” of ELCA Lutherans voted to approve the action that was lobbied for, then the Church would be seen as speaking in a new way. No doubt this must please many who have been lobbying. But isn’t it a rather shallow victory? Is this what the Church has come down to? Majority votes? Lobbying? Secular foundations dictating the mission and conversation of the Church?.

For many mainline Protestants, this is indeed the case. Liberation theologies have so infested these church bodies, it is almost impossible to distinguish between the “social gospel” and what I like to call the “actual gospel.” Even those who are not in favor of the changes that have come to the ELCA continue to defend the ELCA as though its mere existence was to be celebrated. But this is not the mission of the Church, to state the obvious. Is it possible that Protestants are finally in a context (Postmodernism, relativism, post-Christianity, etc.) in which their Achilles heel is on full display? I think that is the case. Conventional morality and fidelity to the faith that Europe politicized for 1,000 years could only keep the faith relevant for so long. Once secular forces became too strong, the Protestant church began to fulfill every Roman Catholic stereotype: it was fractured, splintered and weak. Who knew? The Magisterium may have been the way to go after all.

Which, as always, leaves us with the question of where to go? There is no new place to go. There is only the truth to turn to, the basics of the faith. Lutherans would say Word and Sacrament. Perhaps Roman Catholics might cite the early church fathers. Some congregations are even talking about reinstituting “thee” and “thou” language in an attempt to recapture the sense of truth from previous generations. However it is done, mainline Protestants would do well to remember that there is nothing new under the sun. So quit voting on it. And for the love of God, quit using secular money to push so blatant a political agenda. It’s rather un-churchly.

The irony is that as the mainline churches get more political and take up every social cause imaginable, the more irrelevant we become. Our numbers are plummeting and our social influence is nil, even as bishops did all they could to “speak truth to power” when President Bush was in office. (Now that President Obama has been elected, speaking truth to power is passé. Amazing how that happened.) Votes and social statements and lame television ads are all but meaningless in our secular age. Any political victory on either side of any issue is sure to be heard as a dull thud by those looking on from the outside.

Podcast 8

2009-10-08T06:04:00.000-07:00

In this podcast , Corbusier and Relieveddebtor discuss a recent trip to eastern Europe and what really defines vitality in the life of a city. Listen and subscribe here!

Beyond the Shell: Impressions of Post-Communist Germany and Romania

2009-09-12T11:30:00.000-07:00

Though it was far too short and hectic for my taste, I was grateful for the chance to recently travel to Europe. Part of the trip consisted of revisiting old haunts while the other entailed exploring a new place of which I had lots of curiosity for. My itinerary through the former East Germany and Romania offered a vivid glimpse of the changes that have occurred since the Communist control. In the case of reunified Germany (or more accurately the Western acquisition of the East) a massive transfer of wealth from the West was infused to rebuild an entire East to the point that it is has become more 'modern' than its Western counerpart. Romania, which went through the typical motions of electing ex-communists before pursuing pro-market and pro-American foreign policies, is rebuilding from a much lower base and a more devastating architectural legacy left by its swiftly executed dictator, yet it it still is blessed with gorgeous landscapes and endearing traditional architecture. Though I've been living in the U.S. for a long time, my background of having lived in Europe and maintaining close family ties there have colored my impression during my travels. It is not enough for me enjoy Europe's visual delights without trying to get a grasp of what goes on beneath it all. If there is one lesson from this trip, it is that what is built and the life that goes on within it are not always harmonious. In one place, what was built was but an elegant shell concealing social rust and decay. In the other, a rusting and decayed shell was giving way to a recovered social vitality and optimism.

Federal State of Saxony, Germany

I returned to this area of Germany for the first time in 12 years, visiting friends that I have known since my year as an exchange student three years after the reunification of East and West (I also share my impressions of the place here). Upon arriving to my final destination in the beautiful hilly countryside outside Chemnitz (pop. circa 300,000), the physical changes to this area was striking. Whereas I had left Saxony with memories of crumbling roads, dilapidated and dull gray building facades, old Trabants and Wartburgs (defunct East-German car brands) and dreary Soviet-era architecture, what I now saw the opposite: the roads were the newest (and fastest) in all of Germany, facades were colorful and painstakingly restored, Trabants were almost nowhere to be seen, the ugly towers were re-clad with aluminum, glass and balconies. Overall infrastructure is well known to be newer than in the West, with better phone lines, broadband and power grids. Giant wind turbines dotted the landscape, standing majestically on the wheat-covered hills (surely the farmers were remunerated generously for them).

The quiet village where I had stayed also showed signs of transformation. A brand new industrial zone with clean modern factories had been built in what had once been pasture. The main stone bridge over the river had been renovated (twice), a new residential subdivision blossomed with meticulous flower gardens (very German) and all the houses transformed with new facades, additions and of course solar panels on the roof (heavily subsidized, it was admitted). Older, out-of-the-way country roads were being gradually being closed off to cars, left to disappear over time. as newer roads and ramps were opened to replace them. A spectacular 150-year old stoned viaduct bridge ceased servicing trains, remaining now a s a local landmark and the site of yearly festivals in the area.

In other towns the changes were visible everywhere. Local parks with the newest play equipment replaced former abandoned factories. Public squares were graced with gleaming restored city halls (Rathauser) and new paving. The central districts of the larger cities like Chemnitz and Dresden have been subject to a major face lift and some reconstructive surgery. Where once were over sized hard scape plazas flanked by faceless concrete slabs so beloved during the Soviet era, there are now reconstructed blocks built in a modern but conforming traditional style. Sleek shopping malls wrapped in shiny curtain wall now anchor the pedestrian experience in the urban core, and once vacant historically significant buildings have been transformed into new retail spaces. Streetcars and buses gleamed, and the stops increasingly built in the high-tech vocabulary of glass and steel. Even some of the old communist landmarks such as hotels and convention halls were spruced up, looking more like nostalgic 60's architectural relics of the West than the soul-crushing monuments to an oppressive region that they really were.

What was obvious to me and probably to many others is that German obsession for tidiness applies in the East just as much as it applies in the West. Forty years of Communism did little to dampen this, and, given enough resources, Saxony other federal states that once made up the GDR now live up to their current name of the "new" federal states (die neuen Bundeslander). To designers like myself, who imagine all sorts of ideal environments in a new and untainted state, Saxony must have been a feast for the eyes. But just as cleaning one's house is in truth an act of temporarily covering up the uninhibited way we live day to day, I perceived the conspicuous new-ness of everything I saw as covering up a larger more sober reality of this area of Germany. It was a reality that has afflicted all the former East German states ever since reunification with the West nineteen years ago.

Behind the veneer of new facades, new roads and new shopping centers lies a place stricken by chronic high unemployment, low birthrates and few young people. Despite the sacrifices of brought on by additional taxes (e.g. Einheitsteuer ("Unity Tax") that help fund the rebuilding of the East, and no matter how much subsidy the the central government has issued to Western companies to expand their businesses, the unemployment rate still hovers around 15 percent. Many of the youth continue to head to the West for work, with cities like Munich, Hamburg and Frankfurt offering abundant opportunities in spite of their older buildings and relatively worn infrastructure. New apartments remain vacant due to the lack of demand and one major city I visited implemented of planned decline, in which apartment blocks built during the communist era were singled out one by one for demolition to make way for open green space.

If one word could characterize my most recent experience in this region, it would be that of 'quiet'. Beginning with the arrival in Dresden's brand-new but mostly empty airport, to taking a ride on the traffic-less Autobahn and then in visiting the town and city centers throughout, I was left to wonder where all the people were. In the idyllic village where I stayed, a place with a 600-year old history, was planning to close its century-old elementary school building due to lack of school-aged kids. Everywhere there was evidence of consolidation, in which there was a deliberate abandonment and demolition of old roads, factories and apartment blocks and a determination to update and often reprogrammed what remained. From an aesthetic point of view, the results were quite nice, and for the visitor, the stress-free calm was a welcome relief. But in the eyes those who were living there, there wasn't much to look forward to, much less any sense of fulfilling the promises made to them upon reunification.

Romania

Leaving quiet Dresden and arriving in Bucharest, there was an obvious contrast, to be sure. It felt kind of like leaving the U.S. to go to Mexico, which in reality Romania had much in common with the latter country in terms of socio-economic development. But despite many decades of brutal communist dictatorship, and having being situated in the roughest neighborhood in Europe, Romania today seems to be in better shape than our own neighbor to the south. While I was surrounded by an overwhelming sense of insecurity in Mexico, I was at liberty to go anywhere, take any taxi or bus, and trust almost any stranger. Romanians, who speak a Latin-derived language, like to compare themselves to the Italians and Spanish, except that they happened to be stuck in the wrong corner of the continent. After experiencing a post-communist economic rut during the 90's, it was clear that the country was on upward trajectory if one were to judge the abundant construction cranes, new shopping centers, office buildings and the fleet of re-vamped Dacia cars zipping about. It wasn't chaotic as much as things simply felt a bit un-regulated, with people appearing to do things as they pleased that in more prosperous countries would have been curbed by social custom. The cultural and religious traditions of the place ensured a consistent moral order, but the fluid economic circumstances prevented an overriding civic order from taking shape.

Like any post-Soviet survivor that was not the recipient of decades-long generous flows of money coming from a much wealthier half (i.e. Germany), the built fabric of Romania has been struggling to keep up. Car traffic is a problem, express highways are rare, and many of the urban plazas still need repaving. In the larger cities, the brutal, overly monumental and dreary Soviet architecture was everywhere, while in the smaller towns along the Carpathian mountain range, older buildings and charming houses were proudly dressed in the local vernacular. As many who have traveled to Romania will tell you, the countryside is quite beautiful and pristine and more revealing of the country's culture, while the cities' dehumanizing Soviet architecture rob them of their appeal.

This notion actually reveals something about Romania that isn't as obvious in countries to the West, namely its essence as a mostly rural society which is still trying to establish a mature urban identity. In spite of Ceausescu's top-down approach in radically urbanizing the Romanian landscape with mega-housing blocks, broad boulevards and palaces and monuments to his megalomania, the ubiquity of cottage gardens adjoining houses situated in dense city neighborhoods acts a reminder of the peasant origins of many of today's city dwellers. Once these cottage gardens, which produce some of the freshest, tastiest produce you'll ever eat, evolve into flower gardens that have no other purpose other than aesthetic delight, then a mature and authentic urban culture will have truly taken root.

By virtue of being Romania's capital and its largest city by far, Bucharest manifests the most obvious example of an authentic urban identity. Compared to the placid lethargy that characterized the city centers of eastern Germany, the hustle and bustle of Bucharest was strangely exhilarating. If one were to look past the grossly over-scaled boulevards and soul-crushing Soviet style architecture that characterizes much of the city, what I witnessed were the unending stream of cars, buses and trams, with herds of people catching the subways or crowding the sidewalks. Bucharest felt alive, as people who were preoccupied with the daily stresses of work or school were walking and driving in a purposeful way that is characteristic of commercially driven urban areas.

Contrast this with the leisurely, an thus purposeless, way that people walked in pleasure cities such as Dresden. Another major difference is the role of graphics in the embellishment public spaces. One clever way to mask the dreary Communist-era buildings was to drape them with large billboard advertising and neon signs. It’s a common thing to see in most large commercial capitals throughout the world, and it manifests a yearning to play a part in the globalization of commerce. But in more regulated urban environments (such as Dresden), billboards and large lighted signs are eliminated, leaving just the signs above street storefronts. This lends a more orderly appearance, to be sure, but at the expense of taking away surrounding feeling of vitality.

Comparisons: Beauty or Vitality?

My recent trip to these two different countries revealed various aspects of cities that are both important but sometimes remain contradictory. In Germany, the towns and cities exhibit a cultural preoccupation with environmental perfection both in the landscape and in the built fabric. Saxony truly was 'picture perfect' in a way that Romanian cities never could be. At the same time, places like Bucharest illustrate the importance urban vitality brought about by rising economic activity and a low level of regulation, things that won't necessarily arise in eastern Germany now or even in the future. The irony is that Romanians would love to grace their cities with even a fraction of architectural masterpieces found in even in most modest of German cities (which the abundant examples of turn-of-the century Hapsburg-inspired villas in the Romanian mountain towns attest), but the people in Saxony would never tolerate the level of urban vitality brought about by rapid economic development. Judging by the unending series of large illuminated corporate logos crowning the top of mostly faceless buildings, it is clear that Bucharest is an attractive place in which to do business, helped certainly relatively low barriers to entry and a flat income tax. In Germany, the policy since reunification has been to impose higher taxes on everyone while implementing regulations on the newly acquired federal states in the East that have long applied in Western states. This had the effect of dampening the East's competitive advantage over the West and preventing local industries and specializations to develop independently.

In my view, the economy of the former East Germany will remain depressed so long as the mechanism to attract development though lower taxes or suspended regulations. And while the results are visually attractive in the form of new construction, a cessation in the subsidizing of East German economy will spur incentives for locals to form their own companies and eventually become independently competitive. This naturally would have demanded some pain and sacrifice at the outset, as the Romanians know all too well, but it would have resulted in a people proud of accomplishments that can own. Instead, Germany opted for unity and security, ensuring a generous social safety net long before enabling a self-sustaining path toward economic self-sufficiency. The result has been an unending bitterness in the local population, disappointed that the promises made to them upon reunification have not been fulfilled and frustrated that any development in the East was in reality a colonial policy run by West German conglomerates. I didn't detect that same kind of bitterness in Romania, since their perspective is shaped by such a difficult past. Most of them have had a hard life, which makes them quite generous, and there is an overriding desire to open up to the world around them, whether through their embrace of Western alliances (EU, NATO) as well as their extraordinary facility for foreign languages.

Beyond this comparison between two contrasting European countries lies a debate about the kind of things cities should strive for. Is it all about looks, as many urban planners would more or less suggest? Or is it about what lies beneath: businesses, industries, institutions and the policies that beget and strengthen them? It's sort of like the difference between San Francisco and Houston: the former a beautiful destination for the elite leisure class with most of the inelegant hustle and bustle taking place in the outer reaches of the Bay Area, while the latter is a rather architecturally unremarkable place known for its traffic, pollution, energy companies, ports and industry but still a thriving and diverse city with a highly mobile middle class. One is posited as the ideal by planners for those cities wishing to emulate it in the search of an authentic urban feel, while the other is quite urban in every way except in form. One loses an important regenerative demographic (families w/ children) even as it gains more tourists, while the other gains those as well as other groups due its abundant opportunities and affordable lifestyle.

So far in my experience, I've been more drawn to the less glamorous 'cities of opportunity', partly because these cities are oriented towards the future, a kind of future whose appearance is undefined and open-ended. This irks a great share of my architect and planning colleagues, who are vested in the notion that the future must follow a carefully designed plan, its shape already defined by masterplans and zoning regulations. For them, the lives of people must be governed by the constraints of a wisely designed environment, such as forcing them to live in density and take mass transit. By ordering the activities within in a city in such a precise manner, it becomes mechanistic in quality, and ultimately quiet and lifeless. I seem to revel in places where the order sort of breaks down, such as traffic jambs, semi-legal private bus companies, or neighborhood districts that take on a radically different ethnic character. What is so appealing about such nodes of disorder? They are reminders of a genuine, familiar humanity that designers are all to eager to conceal by way of design, which has to do with the art what should be. The honking of horns, the tacky hanging of retail signs and ingenious reuse of forgotten spaces remind me of people at their most resourceful and most improvisational, and hence, at their most real.

This is not to say that the people who live in beautifully manicured towns are any less real, only that there is a far larger social and economic reality to what we see. Most designers could not begin to understand all the things that people do in cities and should not pretend that their designs can completely account for all urban activity. While architecture serves to more concretely express how a place's inhabitants see themselves, it cannot by itself generate more urban dynamism. Buildings are shells of activity within, activities that are the result of business, and government policies and cultural influences that regulate it. The shell can be immaculate, but it does not reflect the human vitality within it for as long as it changes over time. In Saxony, the shell has reached a near-perfect state, but its vitality has yet, if ever, to return. The brutal shell that characterizes Romanian cities like Bucharest has indeed a long way to go, but it was evident that the people have begun come out of this shell. It was fascinating to observe it from eye-level.

Additional reading: This article by Gerald Robbins goes into further detail with regards to understanding the current mood among East Germans. He observes that the rapid growth of the Leftist party, comprised mostly of ex-communists and Stasi officials, may have something to do with an emerging romantic nationalism for the former German Democratic Republic.

The Statesman and the Churchman: Lost American Icons

2009-08-21T08:32:00.000-07:00

Everyone wants to be a politician. Which is rather odd given their reputation. Everyone complains about politicians, most agree that 100 politicians on the bottom floor of the ocean would be "a good start," and we tend to see them as sellouts devoid of principle. For a politician to be trusted in

America

, he or she has to overcome the pre-existing baggage that comes with the job. Yet, it is hard to find leaders that don't seek to be politicians. Even politicians want to be politicians.

Let me clarify as there are alternatives. In the political realm, one can choose to be a statesman. Perhaps this is a man who doesn't accomplish all he might like. He may take the high road, he may compromise some of his own agenda, and most importantly, he always represents his nation before himself or his ideology. He may refrain from defending himself against attacks for the good of the nation. And he governs with the wisdom of the ages, knowing that the problems he faces will never be completely solved by his efforts. (But that doesn't stop him from trying.) The statesman represents the ideals of his state before the ideas of his party, though the two can often work together in legislative efforts. He is modest, but forceful when needed, gracious, but firm. He and the state are not one; but the values of the state are represented by the life of the man.

Compare that with the crowd in Washington, and the contrast is stark. I will be so generous as to say this is true of both parties from time to time. Both sides have policy initiatives they want to get through, and both sides will engage in "hardball" tactics to get them through the slimy, greasy gears of the law-making machine. But there does seem to be little of the statesman in our current administration. Instead of defending the honor and the values of this nation, our president besmirches the good name of

America

while currying favor for himself in Europe and the Middle East. Instead of admitting errors when speaking of police action or attempting to force legislation that would forever change healthcare in this nation, he persists even harder in his original mistake. Instead of respecting the natural, unforced political action of grassroots conservatives, many on the left are remarkably un-statesmanlike in their assessments, even accusing such protesters of being un-American.

But, as I said, one can safely assume that sort of behavior in the political world. Egos and legacies are at stake. It is especially disgusting in the Church. A friend of mine told me of a group of 20 clergy who attended a town hall meeting in Pennsylvania. They arrived en masse, well organized and prepared to support the nationalization of, er, addition of choices and competition in healthcare. At the current Churchwide Assembly of the ELCA, the activists have stuffed the ballot box, redefining what is biblically normative regarding human sexuality. The presiding bishop read a letter from President Obama at a recent youth gathering 36,000 strong, where the president urged the young people to be active in their communities working for change. This is not a church that is afraid to get involved in politics; far from it. Clergy want to be politicians.

So whatever happened to the churchman? You know, the wise pastor who has seen it all before? The soft-spoken clergyman or woman who is content to trust in the Gospel, to trust that God is leading his Church, to defend the doctrines of the Church while mourning the inevitable conflict? The churchman, like the statesman, is willing to sacrifice his own ego for the good of the Church, to sacrifice his own agenda for the traditions and truths the Church has always taught. The churchman is kind and warm, even to his enemies, and he loves those who do not believe as he does, even as he tries to change their mind. The churchman is never too upset by the daily scheming of clergy around him and is happy to serve where he is needed. They are the trusted clergy that may not produce the flashiest sermons or be the most socially popular, but they are called upon when there is a tragedy, or there is a need for clergy to speak to an especially difficult moment. They build up enormous spiritual capital through years of faithful preaching and teaching, capital that they never spend, but instead keep in the bank out of humility.

Like the statesman, the churchman is largely gone. In an age of slick media, protestant seminaries produce effective communicators who tailor a message around the needs of the unchurched rather than the needs of the faithful. Success is not measured in right preaching or teaching but in achieving change, either "prophetic" or by increases in attendance. Wisdom takes too long to accumulate, and the masses must be gathered and counted quickly. ("Quick, start the rock music!") Pulpits are traded in for stages and altars are traded in for trap sets. The pastor is no longer a man pointing to Christ as a good churchman might do; he is squarely in the middle of it all, with props, designer clothes and hair gel aiding in his effectiveness.

Yet it is these men and women, the statesman and the churchman, who are vital characters in the civil society. (I would add that journalists should perform a similar role, yet they also want to be politicians. As two of the greats have passed this week, it is worth remembering them as similarly objective and wise, and needed.) They function as wise grandparents who are able to adapt to change even as they fight for traditions. They are able to be strong when others panic. They are able to speak of deep truths instead of mere sentiment. They are the keepers of knowledge and readers of books, while most of us remember facts and peruse articles. The statesman and the churchmen are our barometers, our measuring sticks, our role models and our mentors. Where have they all gone? Far too many of them are more interested in playing politics than defining and defending core values. I hope they make a reappearance soon.

The New Discrimination

2009-07-27T20:56:00.000-07:00

Political Correctness has brought us some of the more absurd moments in human history. Contrary to common sense and organic checks and balances, it sacrifices the war for small victories, time and again. You see it in the hope of helping minorities and single mothers through the Great Society, only to create more poverty and destroying minority families through perverse incentives. Feminism seeks to create equality among the sexes, yet its adherents are so off-putting, they often become caricatures who demand special treatment. The Gates' case in Cambridge last week is another example of the politically correct class seeking special treatment, and expecting discrimination when none exists. Even if Dr. Gates wins this battle, the impression he and the president have left has garnered no sympathy. And then there is environmentalism, a movement built around the adoration of life that is fundamentally at odds with human flourishing.

We've reached another milestone in contradictions this month. The American citizen is currently faced with a healthcare "reform" bill that would leave no option but to discriminate against those who need healthcare the most: the elderly. Simple reason should help us to see how this is the case. There are more folks poised to go on Medicare in the coming decade and cuts to that very program are necessary to pay for this legislation. Logically, how can we have more, better care, with less money in the system? The math just doesn't add up. Similar systems to what has been proposed (notably Canada's and Britain's) cut back on the care they offer to seniors as they are the most expensive and in the most need.

But aren't we the nation that goes out of its way (and rightly so) to ensure that no employer can discriminate because of age, among other things? I remember working as an executive recruiter when a story swept through the office. Apparently, a recruiter's office had been audited, and this recruiter had written "TFO" on top of many of the resumes that were sent to in. What did "TFO" mean? "Too freaking old"...to put it nicely. Needless to say, that recruiter faced fines or worse for his discriminatory practice. We were reminded that if we were to discriminate, to not make a note of it on paper or in the database. And such discrimination laws can be good, so long as they don't result in quotas or the inability to reject less qualified candidates regardless of their age, sex, race, ethnicity, etc.

So how did we get to the point where we discriminate against certain people on something as important as healthcare while its illegal to discriminate based on virtually any factor in the workplace? Amazingly, it's all part of the same incoherent philosophy. Both philosophies claim the moral high ground, and both claim to be for the people. Discrimination in the field of healthcare is necessary to insure that we can provide healthcare for all those who can't afford it. That's the compassionate thing to do. Right.

And of course, it's equally compassionate to regulate the hiring practices of corporations, even if corporations often have legitimate reasons for not hiring certain qualified individuals. Maybe a more senior candidate would expect too much salary, and would move on too quickly to a different job that pays more for his skill set. Maybe an older candidate wouldn't fit into the culture, an underrated but important qualifier in a corporate setting. Maybe they've been a manager before and would have a hard time reporting to a manager now half their age. Those strike me as pretty acceptable reasons for not hiring someone who is more senior, yet a corporation could never voice such concerns for fear of legal repercussions. But, it's okay to deny that same senior healthcare? I don't think so.

Environmentalism makes similar discriminations. In defense of everything from caribou to spotted owls to fish to the infamous polar bear, human flourishing is prohibited time and again. It must be. If humans cause global warming, and global warming has ill effects on the earth, then carbon must be restricted. And the only entity big enough to do so is the government, and the only way it can do so is through taxation, regulation and the inevitable cronyism that comes with such monopolistic power. Some environmentalists have been so honest as to admit that they care little for the human species at all. (I presume they don't feel that way about themselves.) It's not uncommon for beached dolphins to be mourned while the death of millions of humans via malaria is practically ignored. Yet another contradiction.

I'm sure others could point to data that says the elderly will be better cared for under this plan. If this legislation does pass, I hope that is the case. I just cannot comprehend why we constantly cut off our societal nose to spite our face. We make all sorts of advances as a civil society, respecting the rights and dignity of others naturally and freely. Yet we are in danger of chaining ourselves as a society, binding ourselves to a future with less choice and less dignity. If we just extended the same courtesy to the elderly with respect to healthcare that we do with those interviewing, I'd feel far better about the legislation working its way through congress.

UPDATE: From the American Thinker. Even the word "discrimination" itself is used by one of Obama's top medical advisers, Ezekiel Emanuel. "He explicitly defends discrimination against older patients: 'Unlike allocation by sex or race, allocation by age is not invidious discrimination; every person lives through different life stages rather than being a single age. Even if 25-year-olds receive priority over 65-year-olds, everyone who is 65 years now was previously 25 years'" (Lancet, Jan. 31). Is that not at least a little creepy?

Bound to Nothing

2009-07-20T13:14:00.000-07:00

Postmodern philosophy is finally starting to get personal. No doubt it has been personal for many for a long time, but I have largely managed to escape its grasp until now, always safely hiding in bureaucratic layers and protected locales. But now, it seems that every institution has accepted the poor idea that the person and the civil society need not be bound to anything, except for himself or itself. Power is in the hands of those who espouse relativist philosophy, and they are doing their best to legislate it or sell it across the board. One sees it most clearly in the courts, but it is also evident in the church and in the arts. It is no longer an ivory tower thought experiment; it is becoming policy and it's starting to hamper our way of life.

The hearings for potential Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor are perhaps the easiest example, and one I won't need to dwell on. One either sees the Constitution as the founding governmental document of this nation, and one then that must be interpreted as the framer's intended...or not. The "originalist" position is the only valid interpretation of the Constitution in the same way that the only valid way to interpret your home mortgage is by the original terms of the deal. Yet, Sotomayor is a typical product of the "social justice" school of thought that pervades and animates academia, which essentially argues that the "social good" must be brought about whether it complies with the law or not. Social equality and "fairness" then allow for an alteration of the deal, the concept of the "living and breathing" contract, or Constitution.

So the justice is bound to nothing, but his or her understanding of what is socially fair and just. Others have commented on the paradoxical nature of this construct, but as obvious as it seems to me, others seem incapable of understanding that preferential treatment for one group necessarily comes at the expense of another. Or, as a 4-year-old might understand it, two wrongs don't make a right. But now that she will likely be the next Supreme Court Justice (and sounding more conservative than John Roberts in the process), preferential treatment apart from the law could become a frequent pattern of law. Relativism will be legislated, at the expense of justice.

In a more local level for me, my denomination (Evangelical Lutheran Church in America) has spent the better part of the last decade discussing and debating the role of openly homosexual clergy in the life of the church. As one might expect, this is a highly polemic issue that, even though nothing has officially been decided, has effectively split the church into two camps. As an official vote looms in August, those that refuse to bind themselves to the church catholic, the scriptures, or even the tradition, may hold my future in their hands. Along with thousands of other clergy, I may be in the position of either staying in a denomination that departs from 2,000 of orthodoxy (but it sure is "prophetic!") or leaving to smaller fringe groups that also largely fail to represent the church catholic. (Please note that this is not a political issue, one in which I am fairly libertarian. The Chruch and state having different binding documents when dealing with this issue.)

There is even a distinct possibility that my future will lie outside the church in what's left of the business world simply because there will be no place to go. It is possible that even if the ELCA survives, it will be a shell of its former self, and will have done nothing with this decision to stop the steady decline of membership. Indeed, why should the laity be faithful to a denomination that is not faithful to its own principles because it defends "the bound conscience?" The ELCA is like a host of protestant denominations that has stopped seeing itself as bound, and has started seeing itself as a social justice playground. Only now it's not a pipedream of seminary professors; it will be a vote for the church, a vote that may tear the denominations apart.

The evangelical churches may fare no better, but for different reasons. In a similar effort to be relevant, big box megachurches have played to the culture, responding to "felt needs" at the expense of the gospel. They are equally bound to the whims of what consumers want out of churches, or at least what consumers say they want. In the long run, it will cost them dearly. Megachurches in some form or another are here to stay, but they cannot possibly live up to their own expectations, nor can they proclaim the truth, because they have not been disciplined enough to refrain from culture's influence. Even though these are the sorts of churches that tend to complain the most about pop culture, they have been corrupted by it.

A few weeks ago, I visited Savannah, GA. While there, I perused their local magazine, The South, and I found what I consider to be a rather typical example of an artist's profile. While the artist clearly has good technical skills, I did not discern a great deal of depth in her approach. More to the point, the driving force of her artwork was geared towards a deconstructionist mindset. The artist was predictably at odds with Christianity and vexed over our overuse of the earth's resources. Her most powerful images and themes were borrowed from Christianity and the "green" sentiment so popular in her circles. Simply putting the two together seemed to create meaningful art.

I highlight this simply as a way of saying that this is representative of the art that dominates the landscape, art that is boringly against traditions of all shapes and sizes. The artists of my generation have bought into the myth that they have enough to express within themselves that they need not be bound to any other authority. That's not to say, of course, that all art should be religious, but it is ironic that a use of religious imagery that wasn't sarcastic would be the rebellious act by today's standards. (This article is an excellent commentary on the end of art.)

All of these are snippets that speak of how we are moving further and further from a hold of something. While fundamentalists cling too strongly to their doctrines in some parts of the world, we are often in full-scale retreat, bound to nothing lasting and nothing permanent. We want to shed restrictions on our own ambition. But in the process, we are leaving things worse for the next generation. We are encouraging a fundamentally childish ethos, and we shouldn't be surprised when it starts to affect us personally. It has for me.