teatrical.

Balloons

I've always had a fondness for balloons, particularly yellow ones.  For years I've carried with me the vision of driving my uncle's truck cross-country dispersing yellow balloons along the way--thousands of balloons set free like they used to do at my elementary school on Balloon Day.  Onto a notecard we would write our names and the address of our school, and for the coming weeks, even months, balloons would arrive back to the office to be pinned with the envelopes they arrived in onto a great big map in the office.  There we would see whose balloon had returned, and from where it had come. I would yearn to one time have the balloon that traveled the farthest and would sit on pins and needles for the entire season to follow. But alas, my name was never called.

In this picture I'd say I was about 7*.  I remember that feeling so vividly and associate it with all kinds of things--anticipation, the hoping, the longing to see my balloon return.  It was like Christmas, but with the very real fear that it might simply be gone forever. I suppose it's not much different than what we go through as designers, or at least those of us who enter competitions.  We make our projects, sign our names to them with such care, and send them off...to wait.  Some come back as 'recognized' by some far off person, but others simply land off to the side--which is the story of Watertower Bulletin, my submission for the 2005 Chicago Prize. 

In 2005, the Chicago Architectural Club sponsored its annual Chicago Prize competition, an international call for ideas that respond to a specific problem facing the city.  The question put to designers that year focused on the preservation of the beautiful, iconic watertanks that dot the Chicago's skyline. Because many of the tanks are privately owned and now defunct, their survival has a direct cost/benefit relationship: their utility to the property owner versus their financial and liability risk. Yet for the public, their value as a symbol of the city's industrial history has "long contributed to the urban flavor of Chicago and their disappearance is a civic injury suffered by all. (CAC 2005)”

My submission was a small brochure folded to 9x12," in which was advertised 14 different suggestions (like a kit of parts) for transforming the life of a watertank.  The Bulletin was meant as an catalogue, a catalyst for asking "What would you do?" In hindsight, I think I was heavily inspired by two things, also tied to Chicago.  I'd grown up listening to my mom tell stories about the days she'd worked for Sears as a catalogue copywriter for their juniors department; and my attraction to these old-time advertisements I had in my possession at the time, also an homage to the company who for over a century had in large part helped define the city's role as an industrial superpower. Having worked at one time on the renovation of a Sears-Roebuck house, I liked the mail-order vibe.

I was also admittedly disinterested in practical solutions driven by worries of litigation.  Instead, I chose to focus on my memories growing up outside the city: fieldtrips and family visits downtown, and the image I have of Chicago as a wildly imaginative yet grounded place. Tool maker, Stacker of Wheat, City of Big Shoulders, yes. Social and cultural identity has always been more my thing.

I wasn't interested in solving the problem logistically (although this would have helped); nor did I develop any of the ideas in great detail (which also would have helped). But I had great fun exploring the relationship between the proposals and the city of my childhood, as well as the role of the graphite line. I could have drawn 50 more, it was so great to simply to draw.  The project was, by nature, schematic.

Of course none of this heartfelt babble mattered as when my family and I arrived to the exhibit at the Art Institute, I found my entry shuffled in a corner, partially overlapped by other projects.  Uhhhh!  It was disappointing, but the evening as a whole was a realization on two fronts:  the love you have for your work can't depend on others' acknowledgement (although who's kidding, it's nice to win); and whatever the case, you just have to get on with it.  In this instance, my momentary rush of dejection was soon eclipsed by my family's much bigger concern: it was the last game of the Sox World Series and where were we going to watch the game?

Still, I like to think that when all the entries were exhibited again later that summer, someone looked at my little book (which in fact had to be displayed as a board), and enjoyed it.  Here's the brochure, along with details of each vignette:

  unfolded poster

           balloon launching pad

          luxury boutique hotel-each tower its own private room

        aviary (my parents are avid birdwaters)

       platform for debate

blackbox theater

       

observatory

conservatory

wind chime

        

rain water collection + irrigation for rooftop garden

           light installation

art object (perhaps in outer rural landscape) + prairie restoration (paths leading to relocated industrial relic)

pools : spas, saunas, places of restoration

All this came to mind this evening after learning of this year's recently announced Chicago Prize winners, courtesy of Lynn Becker's great blog on all things architectural in Chicago.  I don't know where Lynn got these images, but I think you'll agree that this year's winning project is Pretty. Darn. Fabulous.  The Second Sun is Alexander Lehnerer and team's solution for Mine the Gap, this year's competition that focuses on the big hole left along Chicago's waterfront after the recent collapse of financing for the famed Chicago Spire, now indefinitely on-hold (in this, the great depression at the turn of the 21st century).

 

Oh, what I wouldn't do to see this thing built!  Can you imagine? Chicago: the city of great big wonderful things. I have no doubt this giant yellow balloon would garner as much attention for the city (and revenue) as another loopty-loop, one very amazing giant silver bean. It is simply a wonderful project, idea and drawings both.

And so today I toast to balloons.  To those that transform the cylindrical bones of an object worked 'til obsolescence and those that celebrate inversions: the cylindrical void of something never built.  I will also toast to the hundreds of balloons that seem lost forever--may they be found by someone, somewhere along the way.

*You can say it: my fashion was terrible and I looked like a boy.  But check out my cool Mom with the great glasses and cute pixie cut--beside me, off to my left.  I love the sweater and sweet collar-out. Her style simply didn't transfer to her kids.  

I like those little Ts

LS. Quite awesome

Clean White Walls

Lexington has always had a relatively healthy art scene, yet in recent years there's been an exciting emergence of venues that feature more contemporary work from around the world.  My favorite, of course, is the Land of Tomorrow, a gallery run by two friends from the College of Design, Drura Parrish and Rives Rash. Billed as a space for "exhibitions, performances, public presentations, interventions, academic symposia, and other ruckus events," LOT's primary attraction is the free spirit and anything's-possible approach of its owners.  From the hanging of hundreds of black balloons to more formal gatherings like UK's recent 3&1 panel discussion (uggg! Jeff Kipnis!), the boys at LOT are up for anything--and will more than likely throw in a snowcone or taco stand just for fun.  

Image Courtesy of UK|COD

Another new favorite is a place I recently discovered when asked by my friend Sarah if I'd like to join her for a little Bluegrass at Institute193. Located downtown between AlaLucie's and Le Deauville, Institute193 is in many ways like LOT:  an art space open for just about any creative venture--which on Monday night included music by New York-based musicians Phillip Roebuck and Morgan O'Kane. Talk about amazing. Not only was the music great, but the energy brought by this crew was simply raw and full.  I'm not sure what it was--the drum on his back rigged to the shoes, the tape on the suitcase used as a drum, or the look on these guys' faces as they played--but there was something very honest in that room, the same way a sadness at times can feel like relief.  On the break, Roebuck mentioned that this was his first visit to Kentucky--which I imagine must be a kind of homecoming for a banjo player.  "Clean white walls and pine slat floors," Roebuck began. "This is what I've been searching for my entire life."  

Tonight you'll find me there again, this time for the opening an installation that's right up my alley:  Jessie Dunahoo's Sheltered Environment, a series of 3-dimensional mappings constructed using ordinary fabrics found on the artist's farm--flour sacks, plastic bags, old clothes, and twine--all this by a man who is both deaf and blind. From the sneak peek I stole yesterday, the show promises another great day.

Architecture Bra

Today my old friend @slackmistress tweeted 'I always feel guilty when I wear a crappy bra. It's like I'm underachieving.'  I understand this completely, although I'd say for me it's less a feeling of guilt than general depression.  Nothing can make me feel like I'm living less than the life I'd imagined than slipping into undergarments I wore during pregnancy.  Sometimes it's just time for new gear.  
To hear the Slackmistress discuss such things comes as no surprise. As a child, one of the first times I was over to her house she showed me her Dad's Playboy collection.  We didn't get very far in our viewing, but I knew instantly that this was nothing my parents had in their bedside table.  In fact, my catholic guilt (see? I can still relate) told me that this was most certainly nothing I was supposed to see--although I still enjoyed the transgression of it all and especially admired Nina's bravura. 
Lately, instead of watching T.V. or reading, I'll surf the internet in search of inspiration. So tonight, in honor of the convergence of these two things both involving Nina, yet separated by some 30 years, I typed "architecture bra" into my Google search and hit the first image listed.

Dan Wollmering's The Architecture of the Convenient Brainwave has little to do with bras.  I'm guessing the file extension _BRA refers to Brainwave, but still, I like the suggestion it gives to the topic of bodies.  After some examination, I also began to see some similarities with a most inconvenient little project of ours, Big Pink:  hundreds of hand-cut sheets of pink insulation (thanks, CNC machine) stacked to create an undulating surface.  Looking at Wollmering's work I wonder if he too had a "what in the hell did I get myself into?" moment,  but of course, in the end, we love what we've made, much the same way one might love a child whose simply caused a bit of trouble.

"The Breath of Mastering Convergence" is another Wollmering piece exhibited at the same gallery which in many ways reminds me, oddly enough, of a figure that's appeared in several of my recent paintings. Ever since Celie was born, (or perhaps because of it?) I've been drawn to and drawing much more figural imagery.  While my previous work focused primarily on the making of transparencies, I lately enjoy the push and scale that figures give to the thing.  I fight against it, have conversations with it...

This I painted for my friend Jill and her husband on the occasion of their wedding. They live in San Francisco.  And below, for my son Fionn, two of the paintings I made in the months prior to his arrival. As is the case with so many things for the second child, both remain unfinished.

Moonphase Magic

Today we found ourselves at the Kentucky Sheep and Fiber Festival only moments after I received an email from Kirsha Kaechele of KKProjects with an invitation to contribute an installation to The Eiffel Society. "Every element, from object to energy, will be art," the invitation reads, along with a simple set of constraints.  Curators request that all materials for the work range from dark grey to white, including all metals and perhaps purple/indigo; that artists think 3-dimensionally, as there are few walls on site; and that artwork include no plastic whatsoever. So imagine my delight...

5Gs

Letters

Like the red chair, my website is also on the clock.  I've given myself until the date of our departure for Montpellier to finish it, an activity I've resisted but think finally ripe for the plucking--if only because I'm in need of a creative, if somewhat mindless, anchor in the search for new things.

While it gives some satisfaction, the selection of fonts is particularly painful.  It's as if one has to sum themself up in the simple sway or stop of a capital G.  Good morning (Arial).  Good morning (Some delicate script).  Which would you rather wake up to?

And then there's everything else.  Like the rather 70s 7-11 vibe one finds in Braggadocio. In some ways it's silly.

None of these are me.

In the meantime, I offer a link to the website of one of my oldest friends, whose font selection is beyond reproach.  I'll keep you posted as I choose my letter.

http://www.trs80.com/posters/index.html

The Red Chair

Mike says I am no longer allowed to bring home chairs unless I do something more than pile them up in the garage. So, I have until May 31st to transform this chair into something that will justify (in Mike's mind) any future chair-dragging. As is often the case however, the process has distracted me--specifically, the raw pattern and volume of the debris--so that now I envision taking the chair to the shop, chopping its legs off, and exhibiting the disemboweled chair like a canvas on the wall. I'm not sure how Mike would feel about this.

I love how the chair has become a home, a little nest and repository for whatever the wind or wild animals bring to its body. I like the chair's beads and tucks; the way it appears human, despite it's obvious handicap of general nastiness. On the other hand, I could continue with the original plan: strip the chair, rebuild the seat, and somehow tranform the life of this thing whose public identity is now rather bland and colonial. What to do?