It's an oldie but goodie, folks...
Sitting and studying the blooming bush from my seat in the Oregon coffee shop was not a designated plan for that afternoon's activities. There was something about it. As I sat there brainstorming a multitude of questions about Architecture and our existence as judgmental beings, my eyes were drawn to the dramatic display of foliage directly across the street. As they so often do, answers seemed to unfold in front of me, as though in that moment I was exactly where I needed to be to dig up the solutions to my social inquisitions. I sat, happily accompanied by my latte, and observed the lively plant. I noticed a drastic variation in color between the bush's new growth and that of its older offspring. In fact, the difference was so apparent that it compelled me to abandon my cozy cafe seat to get a closer look. As I crossed the street, the beautiful disparities of the bush’s natural state were nearly overwhelming. It seemed to have created its very own pattern and in-depth system by which it organized its own elements. Taking the bush out of its pragmatic classification of a bush, I began to analyze it as a social creature. The initiative to do so came from the newly sprung leaves’ attempt to reach out to the sidewalk. I found this interesting for several reasons. It is normal to understand growth in general terms, but I would have to say that when we as people understand or observe the ‘growth’ of something else, we are typically studying and anticipating an escalation upward. In the first few minutes on the sidewalk, it became obvious to me that the bush was exerting much of its energy on producing both a growth upward and outward. In fact, it appeared that the majority of new development on the vegetation was pushing out toward the sidewalk: the super-social avenue of exterior space as we understand it.
It was then that I began to question myself. There I was, interacting with this bush on the sidewalk…perhaps I was over-evaluating such things? Maybe it becomes easy to see these things as interesting and interconnected, but do they really exist? I was tempted to head back to my seat in the café when another pattern caught my eye. New growth set aside, there was something to be said about the way that the old growth was choosing to die. Or, possibly, the bush’s systematic way of ridding itself of old forms. There was an intriguing and palpable disconnect between the new and old leaves…visually and seemingly otherwise. The older leaves were a much duller, darker green; their liveliness nearly consumed, their buoyancy practically deceased. There was a noticeable visual pull inward when I looked at these leaves. Though it presumably goes against scientific logic to do so, the leaves seemed to be growing back into their roots, almost as though they were regressing back through the phases of their life cycle. What promoted such degeneration in these living leaves? In addition to these observations, I took note of the various locations of blossoms on the bush—where were they deciding to reside? Ironically enough, nearly all of the flowers were growing on the darker, seemingly dying areas of the bush. Consequently, the vibrant pink blossoms were tucked away toward the deep center of the plant and up toward the far reaching ends. Though the enthusiasm of the bright green baby leaves was, to me, more dominating than the dark leaves and flowers combined, the blossoms added a definitive level of splendor to the otherwise inert, older forms.
Quite the find for an accidental incident. As I walked back to my chair, latte, and sketchbook inside, I thought about the ways this applied to what I had been thinking about just days before. With heavy consideration and questions in regards to adaptive reuse running through my mind, I had been on the lookout for inspirational outside sources. The bush seemed like the perfect outlet for my mental impulses. I had been trying particularly hard at that time to evaluate the reasons behind my near obsession with modern design, conceptual thinking, and abstract forms. It seems odd: my love for nature and the preservation of her beauty quite contradicts the love affair I have with urban, raw modernism. As a young designer I have respected both of these passions but have never quite found the trick to combining them into what I believe to be idyllic harmony. I had been keeping my mind and eyes open with anticipation of better understanding not only my magnetism to new, intangible shapes but also pinpointing what it is in architectural or other development that I dislike specifically. What I found was a newly-developing respect for older structures. Every time I was certain I wanted to be hunting down a cutting-edge form in the landscape, I would stumble across a profoundly simple statement of time and progress. These physical proclamations are not only remaining visual elements of years passed, but also manifestations of our cognitive and social growth. Am I joining a small collection of people who believe that old is, in fact, beautiful? It seems as though the opinions on such matters are clearly divided. What is it that turns something rich with history into a public eyesore?
After the day that I saw the bush, I couldn’t help but continue to ask questions and make connections. I determined strongly within my own mind that our society today is one built upon vanity and material desire. Beauty is youth, and youth is power. Whether I apply this to human behavior or architectural development becomes irrelevant. Out with the old, with the new. New leaves, new building. I believe it is true that we begin to neglect, if not blatantly then subconsciously, that which is aging in our society. How common and natural it becomes to pressure that which is deteriorating into reversing its progression through any means possible. It makes me think about the mechanistic ways of the bush. The outward growth of the new leaves provides them with more sunlight, ample moisture, and generally speaking, more attention from the passing public. The older leaves were once in this high-reigning position, but have now been secluded behind the beauty of the newer growth. They wilt and decay with less sunshine, water, and affection. It is almost as though, once again disregarding this organism as an actual bush, it is ashamed of its older elements. It places what it is most proud of, what it will be more loved for, out front for all to see and experience. It also places its most beautiful attributes, its flowers, on the lonely wilted leaves. As mentioned in my initial observation, the flora created a heightened sense of beauty for the dark green leaves. Is this a sort of natural, universal compensation? Do we too go to certain sorts of radical means architecturally and otherwise to consume that which we consider to be lesser due to its age or appearance? Maybe this is a realization that people…well we, anyone… have become encroached with the brimming technological advancements of our day. Just last week I picked up a visually stunning magazine called Beautiful/Decay. It hosts a collection of artistic pieces embodying the concept of man versus machine. The design introduction, written by Sasha Lee, was exquisite to me. Categorizing the current culture as one that is significant because, “we are the first to grow up immersed in a world saturated, permeated, and inflected by the spector of an electronic landscape”, Lee touches on the idea that we as modern day humans may become displeased with less advanced notions, objects, or subjects because of our predisposed ‘techie’ mindset. We are, “the so-called prodigal digital natives…” of our era. With so many options available to us, ones that can manifest unimaginable structural systems and details, what can older edifices offer to keep our excited minds engaged?
All of this talk of age, advancement, and our seemingly fleeting respect for matured material makes me think about the vastly different methodologies of other countries, such as Japan. I remember once studying the Japanese idea of Wabi Sabi. My mind recalls a teaching that supports the natural aging of all things, In fact, Wabi Sabi embraces not only the age, but the transformation of matter as a natural and beautiful process. I think back to hours of reading on the subject, followed by the close examination of my old hardwood floors. The planks were worn and faded from years of foot-traffic and surely a plethora of other fairly destructive activities. The finish on the wood was peeling away, accompanied by slices through the grain made by the knives of design students, not unlike myself, who opted to turn their living room floor into the optimal crafting station. The words of all of my readings rang true when I took time to really see the floors. Their beauty and age was intoxicating; an indication of years gone by…and all that had happened during them. The planks’ ability to withstand the test of time alone made them, albeit enticing, remarkably consoling.
One of my favorite personal art pieces is a large Chinese fan hosting a striking painting of a small village. The scene is incredibly calming. Despite the flamboyant colors, the painting is soothing in the sense that it gives active life to simple natural elements in the painting. The water, trees, and grass are emphasized as key elements of the landscape; quite contradictive to the urban toxicity we have grown so accustomed to in many of our day-to-day environments. The architecture in the painting goes no further than unadorned stick-huts with straw rooftops. Their stilted bases are lifted high off the ground and ladders lead up to cozy gathering spaces. It is in their materiality and supreme simplicity that they have become extensions of the natural landscape. The houses seem to serve a functional purpose while blending in with their surroundings; something that is often lost in urban planning and design today.
It is not just in theory and artwork that the teachings and ideas of Eastern Asia promote respect for that which is growing older. A book I read two years ago and have revisited many times since then discusses filial piety in China and the importance of respect for one’s elders. The book, Watching The Tree by Adeline Yen Mah, revisits memories of Yen Mah’s childhood and life in China as compared to her adult life in America:
Should the west adopt some laws and some Asian values to protect the rights and happiness of the elderly? In America and England the young are often ashamed to be seen in the company of their grandparents. Instead of being treated with honor and obedience, the old are cast aside and neglected. Far from being proud of their experience and wisdom, many seem ashamed of their advanced years. Everything else being equal, wouldn’t it be better to grow old in a Confucian world than in a western world? Without respect, love and affection from their children, what is there for the elderly to look forward to?” (76).
I suppose it may seem odd to compare the western attitude toward elderly humans to that toward old architecture, but I believe there to be a highly relevant connection. If our social basis has been constructed to do away with, hide, and ignore the aging things in our presence, then I assume that to mean all aging things. I question why there is such an onslaught of negativity toward this natural process.
This discussion has been, in no way, to assault modern design, new construction, or any sort of adaptive measures taken on historical structures. When I look at my top-ten list of favorite architects, it is difficult not to notice the fluid consistency between each name. Ghery, Ando, Van Der Rohe, Corbu, Kahn…some of the greatest modern thinkers to have ever graced the industry also grace my favorites list. In fact, I am consumed with progressive architecture and wild design ideas. The latest-and-greatest design inventions these days are truly inspiring and it is staggering to see where our technological advancements have led us. With that being said, I think it is obvious that the common infatuation with the next best thing politely escorts the mind into overlooking important rudimentary elements. The fantastic design of the future will not be about completely new-fangled ideas but rather the most innovative ones; ones that can utilize examples of past accomplishments while respecting as much as they are respected. Aside from observing what worked in former buildings, there are elemental processes in nature that are helpful and obvious. As powerful humans we spend so much time dissecting the perfect way to place, organize, and operate our creations whilst nature demonstrates an elaborate and effective tactic every hour of every day. This is the underlying concept of what is known as biomimicry, a process which calls for the allowance of nature to act as a model and mentor for our constructive processes. It is possible to take existing structures and transform them into the untamed, highly advanced compositions that we dream of as technologically infused beings while still operating by many of laws and guidelines set by nature. Think of the beauty of it: buildings that are symbols of our advancement while living and breathing in harmony with their environments. It is my firm belief that we are not far off from a complete revolution in thinking and application.
…And then there is the bush. That excellent, faithful guide leading me through this extensive mental process. Going back to it in thought, it still seems like the ideal model for my café deliberations and beyond. Whether it is just a simple bush or a truly inspirational display of elemental excellence, it is one of a million beautiful examples of successful, systematic integrity that should be honored and recognized in our modern age. I think it is imperative that the contemporary populace kick-start this rampage of idealism and bring to light the full spectrum of possibilities in architecture and design. When we come to fully respect age, transition, and our environments, we will inherently respect ourselves.
