THE ARCHIVE

The final saga in the five-year architecture program at Cornell is an independent design thesis. For the majority of our undergraduate lives, this looms far in the future and is conceived vaguely as a ritual act performed by the most mature members of the architecture cult. Then, the moment arrives when you too must prepare for this rite of passage and become one of the deranged and sleep-deprived creatures known collectively by the younger generation in Rand as “those thesis students.”

In the spirit of Cornell, we tend to place a lot of pressure on ourselves when considering the thesis – hoping that it will be a shinning culmination of our extended tenure in Ithaca, but worrying that it might fall short. At his birthday party a few weeks ago, I told Richard Meier that we’ve been staying up at night with thesis nightmares and he responded humorously “who doesn’t have those?” Apparently, he continues to suffer from the same anxiety fifty years after his own undergraduate thesis at Cornell.

Today, we put aside anxiety and took our first official step in the thesis process by submitting posters for public display in Sibley Hall. Using a combination of text and visual material, these announce our intentions to professors in Ithaca and help us solicit advisors for the upcoming spring semester. The deadline caused a fury of activity throughout the week and a number of late nights, but forced us to solidify our ideas into a single, compelling proposal.

I have chosen to pursue an interest in destruction and intend to claim this process within the realm of design. Although slightly morose, I think the theme raises a number of interesting questions regarding the life-cycle of buildings that production-driven architects tend to neglect.

My site is on the southeast periphery of Rome along the New Appian Way and I am proposing to redesign an auto-demolition facility that caught on fire there last summer. If you’re curious, here is the first paragraph of my thesis statement:

In the summer heat of 2009, hundreds of discarded cars along the new Appian Way caught on fire, sending plumes of smoke into the skies above Rome. The pyre of automotive waste frightened residents throughout the capital city and called attention to a striking discontinuity in the historic and increasingly populated landscape of Rome’s periphery. The flames marked the site of an existing auto-demolition facility, where the traces of consumer culture have been awkwardly lodged between the expansive park of the ancient Appian Way and a developing residential district. Within this context of permanence and growth, how can architecture accommodate volatility and destruction? How might the internal metabolism of waste positively contribute to the life and economy of the Eternal City? READ MORE >>

With poster and proposal complete, the real work is about to begin. Before next semester, I hope to assemble a thesis committee that draws expertise from a variety of different disciplines. So far, I have enlisted a Roman architectural historian who has provided me with some fascinating information about the funerary monuments that once lined the ancient Appian Way. Now I am looking for people with expertise in material properties,  the (de) manufacturing process, and the automobile. Let me know if you have any ideas!

The Cornell architecture students in New York recently discovered the Myers-Briggs personality test and have been consuming the descriptions of “personality type” like scientific fortune cookies. The classification system assesses an individual on the basis of four categories that, when combined, describe 16 unique personalities. We each took a brief online questionnaire and found how our cognitive functions align with the following dichotomies:

• Extraversion vs. Introversion
• Sensing vs. iNtuition
• Thinking vs. Feeling
• Judging vs. Perceiving

Myers-Briggs defines each of these terms in a particular way that might differ slightly from their normal connotation. According to the theory, each person has a preference for one quality over the other similar to right or left handedness. Preferences are innate or developed and can be slightly expressed, or dramatically so. In sum, they gauge how individuals perceive their environment, interact with others, and make decisions.

My friends have a variety of personality types, but I noticed a strong preference for intuition over sensing (described by the letter “N”). This category differentiates between people who draw information from their five senses (focusing on the present) and those who see patterns and possibilities in the information they receive (focusing on the future). Architects benefit from both qualities, but it appears that we at Cornell are disproportionately inclined toward the later.

My personality type is ENTP with strongly expressed “iNtuition” and “Thinking” and weakly expressed “Extraversion” and “Perceiving”. Apparently I share this personality with Walt Disney, Julia Child, Steven Spielberg, and Julius Caesar. Try to make sense of that! It sounds like I’m destined to lead an autocratic cooking show.

The descriptions of each personality can only go so far but these tend to be more accurate than the placemats at Chinese restaurants. You might be surprised how much you can learn about yourself by taking one of these tests. The theory and terms presented by Myers-Briggs also provide a good point of reference when considering group dynamics and decision-making. Thus, it’s an invaluable resource for architects who spend the majority of their careers working with teams.

I scoured the internet to see what various researchers could tell me about my personality and found some amusing relationship advice. My natural partner is an INFJ or INTJ. So, if you’re a twenty-something girl reading this and want to talk about the future… I might be your type.

Saturday morning, those of us studying history with Mary Woods wrestled ourselves out of bed and headed downtown to the Staten Island Ferry. On the other side — after a free ride past Governors Island and the Statue of Liberty — we climbed aboard a Park Service bus and headed toward Freshkills Park.

The weekend excursion followed in the footsteps of Gordon Matta-Clark, who gained fame in the 1970’s for artistic mischief in the outer boroughs. Like all of us, Matta-Clark studied architecture at Cornell, but he rejected the discipline and launched himself into the New York art scene with works that he dubbed “anarchitecture”. These exposed the volatility of the city (and its structures) through building cuts, social and culinary experiments, and other acts of creative recklessness.

With irony and respect, our history of architecture class now honors Gordon Matta-Clark with the unofficial course title, “What Would Gordon Do?” Besides obviously referencing Jesus Christ, this title captures the essence of our course. Throughout the semester, we look at a series of neighborhoods in New York through the historical and theoretical lens of Matta-Clark. His life and work pervade the city and provide a launching point for discussion and debate. What would Gordon do if he were presented with the largely gentrified city that exists today? Do the changes over the past thirty years represent progress? Where do opportunities for intervention still exist?

The weekend field trip to Staten Island provoked all of these questions.  The bus took us to Fresh Kills landfill to explore a site that gained fame as the world’s largest trash heap. In 1972, Gordon Matta-Clark visited this same site under much different circumstances and produced a video documenting the mountains of residential waste, the machinery that moved them, and the seagulls that feasted on the decay. (click the image to play film)

In 2001 the landfill officially closed and became New York City’s second largest park – three times the size of Central Park. The landscape firm Field Operations developed a site strategy and the land will be incrementally re-purposed over the next 30-years. Although the park remains closed to the public, there are many opportunities to visit with members of the park service, who lead weekly informational and bird-watching tours. More information is available on the park service’s website.

The site today is strikingly clean with four man-made hills covered in long grass.  One might not think twice about the rolling landscape if it weren’t for the occasional metal well-heads that vent gas from the decomposing rubble underneath. These, however, cause little disruption to the sprawling views and reflect the cool austerity of much larger infrastructural fragments below. Gordon Matta-Clark may not have envisioned a park here, but the idea now seems well within reach.

Images of a landfill: past, present, future.

Rarely do I rub elbows with world-famous architects, but this Friday night I found myself chatting alongside Richard Meier at Cornell’s studio in Chelsea. As strange as it may seem, the encounter didn’t involve a lecture or design review. It involved cake.

The evening festivities were organized to celebrate Richard Meier’s 75^th birthday. Dean Kleinman hatched the idea a few weeks ago as a friendly gesture to Meier (who serves on the Dean’s council) and as a fun occasion for students in the NYC program to meet one of Cornell’s more prolific architecture alums. In preparation, students designed an interactive birthday card (above) in Meier’s own style and decorated (ahem, cleaned) the studio space to avoid offending the well-known king of clean.

After a brutal week of mid-term reviews and presentations, we welcomed the opportunity to unwind with a bit of free food and drink. And although none of us had much experience throwing birthday parties for celebrities, everything went quite smoothly. Feelings of trepidation were overcome and Richard (with whom I now consider to be on a first name basis) proved to be friendly, gracious, and surprisingly easy-going.

Upon his arrival, he congratulated us on attending the #1 architecture school in the world and suggested with a smile that we might even be the best architecture students. We laughed – awkwardly — to avoid any misplaced vanity that his comment might have provoked. After the ice-breaker and a few words from the organizers, the evening proceeded informally with ample quantities of food, song, and conversation.

After conducting a proper survey of the buffet table, I landed myself in front of Richard Meier and tossed him my first piece of conversational bait. He eagerly spoke about the Ara Pacis museum in Rome and the adjacent (and neglected) Mausoleum of Augustus. This led to a conversation about Cornell’s Rome program and the comparative merits of that versus “AAP in NYC”.

Along with newly appointed chair of architecture Dagmar Richter, we engaged in an interesting discussion about the future of architecture courses and coops in New York City. Meier offered plenty of advice and we brainstormed various ways that the program might be improved or expanded in the coming years.

As the evening wore on, Richard Meier and the other mature folk parted ways, leaving us with left-overs to eat, a sound system to pump, and projectors on which to play an assortment of youtube videos. It goes without saying that an impromptu dance party commenced. My only regret? That Richard Meier never showed us his moves.

The two-year Solar Decathlon saga came to an end this weekend with Cornell’s Silo House in 7^th place overall. Team Germany won the competition again with a power-churning photovoltaic box and Illinois claimed second with their well-insulated “vernacular” mobile home.

It would be a lie to say that these results were well received by Cornell or the architectural community. The Solar Decathlon competition – which has always been extremely restrictive – seemed to be rewarding the wrong things. Brawny photovoltaic systems collected a windfall of points whereas creative architectural solutions were all but overlooked.

Cornell team members returned to Ithaca this week proud of their accomplishments but frustrated with the competition. In an attempt to shed light on the situation, the Cornell Daily Sun asked me to write an article exploring some key issues. My feeble attempt at doing so appeared in today’s paper and is linked below:

SOLAR DECATHLON IN THE DARK

Oct. 21, 2009

Shock and disbelief were the only two feelings stronger than nausea when judges announced the results for architecture at the recent Solar Decathlon competition in Washington, D.C. After a two-year, Herculean effort, Cornell’s Solar Decathlon team (CUSD) had produced an innovative house of remarkable craftsmanship. Its peculiar form and materiality exerted an uncanny architectural magnetism, attracting the press and public and eliciting praise and pride from everyone involved.

So it came as a surprise last week when this dynamic work of architecture earned 16th place in a pool of 20 solar-powered homes >> go to full article

The long awaited competition has arrived and Cornell looks poised to claim its fair share of attention – and points – on the National Mall in Washington, DC.  For those uninitiated to the idea of “Solar Decathlon,” let me briefly explain: Every two years, the Department of Energy invites twenty college and university teams to design, build, and operate a home completely powered by the sun. In October, these houses are transported and assembled in DC, creating a “solar village” between capital hill and the Washington monument. Teams are then judged throughout a two-week period and assigned points in ten categories ranging from architectural design to engineering and market viability.

The Cornell Solar Decathlon team (CUSD) participated in 2005 and 2007 with varying degrees of success. Combining the experience of returning team members with the talent of new ones, the CUSD 2009 team gathered together two years ago and resolved to push at the limits of the competition — to literally break the mould. Up until that point, the “mould” had been rectangular houses that looked more or less like decorated shoe-boxes on wheels (They had been criticized as such by more than a few architects). Thus, we organized a design studio with veteran professor Jerry Wells who fueled the collective architectural ambition of the team. The top design would be selected by a closed jury and executed by CUSD.

The jury chose a project that secured either the wild success or horrible failure of CUSD.  There would be no middle ground. The 2009 design, now dubbed the “Silo House,” departed dramatically from the typical solar house.  It consisted of three circular living zones clustered around a square courtyard with horizontal photovoltaic panels hovering above.  The novelty of the shapes, compounded with the transportation and assembly requirements of Solar Decathlon, presented a logistical and technological nightmare. Less than a year ago, there were still many doubts that a bunch of students could really pull it off.

Somehow, despite early setbacks and a nagging recession, the CUSD house arrived on the National Mall in spectacular condition earlier this week. Students, faculty, staff, alumni, and local professionals worked collaboratively to turn early sketches and ambition into physical reality.

The resulting house is currently on display to the public throughout the week at the National Mall. I am heading down this weekend to check it out and see what the other 19 teams have been working on over the past two years. This year’s Solar Decathlon should be a good one and anyone in the area ought to check it out.  Information about tours and events can be found online at solardecathlon.org.  Also, you can track the team’s performance on the continually updated scoring page or find out more about the CUSD house on the team website.

A few weeks ago, I traveled downtown to see and explore the empty site of the World Trade Centers—now commonly referred to as Ground Zero. I heard that they had built a viewing platform near the site but discovered a situation of disorder and ambiguity.  The pit (a description that remains accurate eight years after-the-fact) is entirely wrapped in chain link fence and canvas, blocking all but slivers of activity from sight. Signs led me around the construction to the Battery Park City sky-walk where views were tangential at best.

In the end, the thing that affected me most during my brief visit to Ground Zero was not the site itself.  Rather, I was moved by the actions of a silent Asian woman selling an ensemble of books and brochures with charged images of the twin towers before their collapse.  Bold letters across each cover spelled out a single, marketable word: T R A G E D Y.

After this first scattered and unnerving encounter with ground zero, I jumped at the opportunity to visit the site—and hear about its future—from two Cornell architecture alumni in a more organized format.  A trip was arranged by Stephanie Goto for all interested students at the AAP in NYC program. We gathered at the newly constructed WTC 7 where we met Osamu Sassa, an architect who works with the Japanese firm of Fumihiko Maki.

Mr. Sassa brought us up to the tenth floor of Tower 7 where the World Trade Center design teams have been pooled together. From the higher vantage point, we were able to see and delineate the newly formed footprints of towers, museum, and memorial. In the Image above (click to enlarge), it is possible to see the new “spine” crossing what was once a mega-block.  This is the nascent Greenwich Street which will eventually be flanked on the left by towers and on the right by the park and memorial fountains. The far right of the image shows the initial steel members of the Freedom Tower, which is expected to rise over the next four years to the symbolic height of 1,776 ft.

Turning away from this panorama, we focused in on Maki’s design of Tower 4. Mr. Sassa explained its sculptural qualities, its engagement with the ground plane, and its subtle reflection of the adjacent memorial. The building is undeniably simple—but in the thoughtful and precise manner characteristic of Japanese design.  This simplicity may prove to be Tower 4’s saving grace as construction begins under financial pressure; the more complex buildings of Richard Rogers and Norman Foster appear to be on hold.

Many of the architects, engineers, and consultants who had been working collaboratively on the tenth floor of Tower 7 have retreated back to their own turf to weather the economic storm. While construction teams work furiously to build massive foundations, no one is completely sure what will appear above.  If lending remains tight, towers face a literal (and figurative) chopping block.

More information regarding the World Trade Center site can be found online at wtc.com

I went exploring the other day and decided to relax a bit in Central Park.  Having studied Olmsted and Vaux’s original plans, I enjoyed seeing the park in a state of summertime activity. Neatly trimmed lawns, winding paths, and grand trees offer a welcome counterpoint to the ruthless grid and rigid materials of upper Manhattan.  Perched atop a little outcropping of rocks near 68^th street and 5^th avenue, I observed the surroundings and jotted a few thoughts into my notebook.

While sitting on the rock, I overheard a brief exchange between a father and his inquisitive son as they walked up toward me on the little mound.  The boy — who couldn’t be much older than five — called out to his father in an excited voice “Look Dad, a real mountain!!!

With a glance in my direction (and perhaps unsure of what to do when he reached the top), he called out again to his father — this time in a more contemplative tone. “Do people rest on mountains?”  Noticing me as well, the father turned toward his son and explained didactically “Yes, some people come up here to read books… or to write books.”  Linking two parts of the conversation in his mind, the boy asked eagerly “Do they write books about mountains?”

Five to ten years from now, I expect that that boy will be pleased to discover that many people have written many books about mountains. I can only begin to imagine his excitement when he discovers what “real mountains” really are!

The Fall semester in New York City kicked off yesterday with orientation events, class presentations, and free food.  After an informational meeting at 10:30, we headed southwest from our studio to the newly opened High Line park designed jointly by architects at Diller Scofidio + Renfro and landscape architects at Field Operations.

Led by a representative from each firm, we learned about the entire project from the initial design concept to the final realization on site. Standing on the elevated platform that weaves through the meat packing district, we were able to see a number of nearby developments.  In the picture below, Frank Gehry and Jean Nouvel loom in the background as we discuss the effect of carefully designed lighting features.

After climbing down from the playful boardwalk, our group took a tour of the quarky “Standard” hotel. The hotel lobby (pictured below) as well as the restaurant and bar are best described as eclectic – with more materials than I could even attempt to name.  The rooms, on the other hand, were bright and open with prime views of the neighbourhood from bed, toilette, and shower.  It seems to have been designed explicitly for exhibitionists.

In the afternoon we met our new professors and listened to brief descriptions of each class.  Today classes begin and I am already dangerously close to being late to my first one!

Rome is famous for her monuments, but unlike Florence and Venice which surrender to hordes of tourists each year, the eternal city marches forward under a double banner as both tourist capital and national capital. These designations leave Rome in a difficult, albeit an interesting, situation. The city exists in a paradoxical state, divided between an undeniable present condition and an unforgettable past.

Living with a family in San Giovanni this summer, I finally had the opportunity to experience Rome as a living city — not merely as a curated one. My perspective changed from tour bus to local bus (number 673 to be precise) and I started to gain a new familiarity with the city’s wonderfully unique and disfunctional characteristics. Using public transit each day on my way to work was not always a comfortable endeavor. On one occasion, I stepped onto a bus with so many occupants that the doors jammed shut behind us and failed to re-open after repeated (and frantic) attempts to make them budge. You can imagine the dilemma.

Anecdotal evidence suggests that the Coliseum looks much less impressive when viewed through the sweaty glass of an overcrowded bus. The same could be said for other important monuments throughout Rome, which in many cases have become nodes of transportion.  Porta Portese, Largo Argentina, the Coliseum, and Piramide (pictured below) are just a few examples of ancient ruins lodged awkwardly into a modern, fuel-injected context.

Cornell introduced me to Rome last Fall and allowed me to make the connections and friends needed to return this summer on my own. I worked each day at an Italian design firm called Labics with two architects who I studied under during their tenure as visiting professors at the “Cornell in Rome” program. At their studio, I met a number of young professionals who had arrived in Rome from every corner of the Italian peninsula between Veneto and Puglia.

In the end it was the people, not necessarily the place, that made the summer so enjoyable. My host family and friends were incredibly welcoming and engaged me on topics as wildly diverse as health care, Mormonism, and Deconstructivism. Getting to know these people while performing the linguistic gymnastics of speaking Italian kept life in Rome interesting.  And if there were ever a moment to spare, a five minute walk would undoubtedly lead to another monument or museum to explore.