nThis project has been fourteen years in the making. The frame is made by Jeff Lyon in Oregon. It was purchased for $300 from Recycled Cycles in 2003. It started life red with a single white panel, which eventually came off—so it was just red for many years. It also started life with a matching steel fork which was destroyed in a car wreck, but somehow the frame was undamaged. The front wheel survived too, and is the same one you see here. Campagnolo record ... feels like magic sometimes.
A couple fun features: the frame has Ritchey-branded rear drops, which unfortunately are harder to read through the new paint. It is also made with a blend of Reynolds 725 and Deda Zero-Uno, with a flattened top-tube for shouldering comfort (not sure this makes that much of a difference, but it is unique), and canti-specific wishbone rear seat-stays. There are gussets under both the top and down tubes where they abut the head tube, which is likely what kept it from crumpling in the car accident. The fork is a Alpha-Q 1" threadless full carbon cross fork, which, needless to say, is nearly impossible to find anymore. A first-gen Sram Rival shifter (alloy) and mid 2000's XX derailleur handle the power at 42 x 11-32, but that is about to change with some 10 speed Campy record on the way. The headset is fun too: Chris King before the laser-etching era. The Selle TT saddle is at least as old as the frame and still hanging in there. The crankset is Dura-Ace 7700 that was branded for the peloton with large Shimano letters, another bike-shop find.
The guys down at Austin Paintworks did a spectacular job—hand sanding the clearcoat from the fork and painstakingly trying multiple decals for the head-badge to get it right. Everything else is masked. The lettering began as a stock font but has been carefully modified as a vector path to simulate hand lettering.
30k SqFt for Austin Energy Green Building HQ
My goal is to turn buildings inside out. The built environment should consist of more than inhabitable, conditioned space and a purely visual relationship to the exterior surface. The outside of buildings, in other words, should be as livable as the inside. The problem is geometric: if the building is construed as a closed figure (however elaborate) its exterior angles will each, definitionally, be greater than 180 degrees — what is called a reflex angle — and where no one, instinctively, wants to be. The typical street condition across the country is made up of these spaces, almost exclusively. It could even be said that streets are geometrically hostile.
The most obvious solution is to use other buildings conjunctively to define unconditioned spaces. Below is a project I worked on with a classmate where we chose to subdivide two lots into four and turn the buildings toward the inside to create a courtyard. Naturally, the municipal street condition remains at the perimeter, but the interior problem at least is alleviated. Furthermore, by rotating the structures off the orthogonal site plan, view corridors were maintained even in tight quarters. The buildings thus face each other to contain the space without doing so directly, which I believe allows them fit more comfortably (as private residences) so close together.
This is a geometric solution to a social condition. And it is one that quickly begins to challenge the notion of private ownership so intrinsic to the American ethos, which, frankly, could be approached with a little more nuance than the generic strain of socialist antipathy admits. Buildings do not exist in isolation, but beyond fire code the policies that regulate their construction act much as if they do. I grant that the issue is complex but the point is the built environment is both an effect and a cause in the cycle of social alienation we experience today. Buildings are deeply complicit in the communal behavior of human beings; the failure to heed this at the political level is an insidious cultural hazard.*
Breaking away from the orthogonal grid creates fascinating relationships. We explored one above primarily in the horizontal plane. Another that interests me also regards light but in the vertical axis, namely how the shift permits penetration through multiple stories of the building (visable in these early sketch models). Above is a parti diagram I developed whereby the unconditioned staircase jumps across the ground level passage over atrial bridges that permit movement between the two halves of conditioned space. Breaking away from the orthogonal grid (especially twice) is also structurally mad, I learned, if you want to maintain a semblance of order. I was not at all prepared for this challenge.
The other unique aspect of this building is its experimental double facade system. The idea is to separate the solar load from the insulated envelope — quite simply to shade the building, especially from the late, violent western sun which no roof overhang can combat — so that the same material does not have to perform both tasks. Without this air gap between, a normal wall system is continuously stressed conductively by the solar load. What is worse, glass (which we love so much) is a miserable insulator, with only the most extreme quadruple-paned systems achieving R-value equivalents of greater than 4, and typical double-pane IGU's coming in around half that. In comparison a two-dollar 6" fiberglass batt is already at R-19 even without the enclosing wall system. In hot climates, it would follow, glass-in-the-sun is just stupid, and patently uncreative.
The goal is to permit light while reflecting heat. This is the basic challenge of all insulated, inhabited structures.** The brise-soleil (exterior louver) is a classic solution. Additionally, there exists a panoply of ingenious materials and systems that are being developed to facilitate this exchange, many of which use mechanical, chemical or even biological mechanisms to modulate the solar energy to which they are incident.*** The trouble is that no matter how clever a system is, architecture makes a poor prototype upon which to deploy it.**** The structures are too big, too expensive and too enduring to warrant the risk. Thus I do not find that the primary obstacle is technological, but rather the inability to exploit technology in an architecturally relevant way. The problem, essentially, is to make architecture prototypically feasible.
To this end I devised an external system of bays into which could easily be installed new or existing, passive or active, chemical, biological or mechanical shading systems without compromising the integrity of the building's structure or aesthetics. The system I chose to represent in the model below was basic foliage (I imagine bamboo screens in easily serviceable trays) but the point is any number of things could be used. Different systems could be employed on different solar aspects, or even patched together on the same facade in mosaic or collage, behind all of which a lightweight glass storefront could be employed, happily unstressed. As the headquarters of the Austin Energy Green Building department it would be a beacon for innovation, even allowing the public to circulate along the open corridors between the two 'envelopes' to participate in the experiment. The building would be able to grow, to adapt, to remain relevant.
PROCESS: Despite what the photos below indicate the majority of my time was spent in Rhino, modeling in the digital environment. One of the downsides of this approach is that little evidence remains of the work other than screen shots. Below you can also see the formative sketch of a figure-eight staircase that circles in two directions, which I determined to be an interesting way to resolve the collision of the two twisted grids. At the other (east) end of the building I was able to use the stair landings in a more typical uni-directional staircase to bring the two irregular halves together. The foam models are early; you can see the development of the double-twisted grid as a strategy for opening up the corridor. What was apparent at this stage is that those terraces would be scorched from the west in this southern climate. Since the site begged for this orientation, it became apparent a vertical shading system was needed.
* Ironically, the positive side to this is that we are less morally responsible in an immediate sense for our increasing social alienation than some more empathic types might tend to think.
**In cold climate the heat source is different and the direction of heat transfer is reversed, but the problem is the same.
***Cf. Michelle Addington & Daniel Schodek, Smart Materials & Sustainable Design, 2005.
****Cf. The well documented 'failure' of Jean Nouvel’s kinetic facade on the Institut du Monde Arabe is of particular interest because it is so astoundingly beautiful, and we really want it to work. It could easily be said that it was just "ahead of its time" — which is to say that the technology was too advanced for the architecture: the very crux of the issue. Architecture, by nature, will always be "behind." It is a thing rooted in the past and this is one of its finest and most beloved qualities, but it can also present a challenge when the rest of the post-industrialized world is steaming madly ahead.
The winter sun is low in the Seattle sky, casting long still shadows with dry, shimmering highlights (see how the blades of grass and the tips of the bare branches glisten). Capturing these ancient trunks in the rare winter sun and in the winter of their lives, as it happens, is a gift, especially for all the memories spent among them over summers past. I also enjoy seeing these trees — so famous for their verdance and their champagne shades of pink — stripped to the raw form in black and white.
The contrast with the built structures behind is overt and that pleases me, too. For me, the meaning of art suffers with obscurity — yet when there is depth in what is simple and direct, that is something exquisite. I will be chasing that forever.
Photo-speak: I wanted to emphasize this effect (focusing on the trunks) with a close crop by shooting with a mid-range lens (probably a 50 and an 85). The exchange is that in this middle length, which is better suited for separating the subject, I start to lose depth of field, especially at hand-held shutter speeds or on slower film like the Delta 100 above (notice the blurred background—an 85mm at its happiest). Although bokeh like this can be lovely, I think images in full focus are more difficult to compose and ultimately, more interesting. With the Tri-X 400 (below) I did my best by sacrificing what I could in the front. A tripod, as always, would have helped! (Longer exposures / larger f-stops / greater DOF.)
Last summer I went to the Ujigawa to learn how to sketch. I needed to learn so I bought a book on the subject and planned every week to visit this picturesque spot a short 45 minute train ride from my house. It didn't work as planned. I only made one sketch.
I did, however, fall in love with pottery. I walked into a studio across the street and one an hour later signed up for ten more classes on the spot. This was the opposite of drawing. Drawing felt like running my brain in reverse; ceramics seemed hardly to involve my mind at all. For better or for worse I never brought my sketchbook back to the manicured banks of the Uji.
Below are my first two matcha bowls and a cup that turned out particularly well. The effects are a result of a liberal application of iron oxide (rust) above and below a single body glaze.
One of the most exciting things about making in clay is I never know what is going to happen. After I center it only takes a few minutes for the inchoate to take shape, like some infinitesimally minor Platonic flower blooming—similarly when I trim, similarly when I glaze—each step is a fantastic surprise. I was lucky enough to have one of my plates reduce for example: the red and the light blue glazes are the same, only the red one fired in a region of the kiln with less oxygen. I look forward to experimenting more with glaze application, and to playing with other substances like iron oxide which react in unpredictable ways.
Yesterday I found the famous fields of Texas bluebonnet; with a little research it was not hard to do. Some facts:
A) they bloom for nearly a full month from late March to late April across the state -- but not much elsewhere
B) it is no surprise they are the state flower
C) they drive a multi-million dollar tourist industry
D) they are as much a symbol of this state as any.
Some analysis. It is odd that I never knew of this phenomenon nor have seen a single picture during my entire Northern, coastal, liberal life, whereas I have seen pictures of Scandinavian tulip fields countless times. What's that about? I have also heard this too many times since moving here: "At least you're in Austin ..." implying some sort of relief that I am not in "Texas" from well meaning friends who have visited neither. My two cents? Antebellum prejudice remains, and it goes both ways.
If you keep reading you will be far from bluebonnets but this is how my mind works. While much hate remains concentrated in the deep South, with per-capita registered organizations highest in Mississippi & Arkansas, the next highest are in Idaho & New Jersey, and Texas ranks along with Washington State tied at #28 below Massachusetts, California, Colorado and New York. (Data from the Southern Law Poverty Center, analyzed here.)
Back to bluebonnets: I wish you could smell them. They were so fragrant, and humming with insects and birds in the trees. Spring in Texas feels a little like what you'd imagine paradise to be. I tried to take you into the experience with some macro and selective focus. A google image search will take care of the rest, if you can handle the saturation. These were shot on a Nikon D610 with a 28mm AIS at a spot called Turkey Bend on the Colorado River 30 miles out of Austin. Go seek fields of bluebonnet, my friends. You will be glad that you did.
Project TWO, graduation wall
A graduation wall is a long tower that is designed to evaporate a dilute salt solution into a more concentrated one. They were built in landlocked areas of Europe, common in Germany, around salt springs. The dilute solution was pumped to the top of the tower and dripped along the brushwood walls, maximizing the surface area. Water evaporated as the solution was collected below, eventually to be boiled and made into usable salt. Today they are recognized for their health benefits, and people go simply to breathe the air. Our project was to design a modern version of a one of these graduation walls.
The important thing for me was to produce a path that would be compelling to walk along even without the salt-wall superstructure. I used a combination of obscured and revealed views to provoke curiosity, and a three-turned path to exaggerate the experience of distance traveled while at the same time leaving you closer to your point of departure than expected, to facilitate the return trip. The wall is the continuous section along the bottom of the plan. The two other paths do not have a super structure. The bridge above has a deck which is visible in plan.
Project three, wellness retreat in lampasas, tx
For the third part of this studio we were given a site an hour away from Austin on a large public park / nature reserve upon which to situatate our graduation wall and add a wellness retreat / spa.
I decided to sink my path into the ground 18"-36" inches to provide a sense of containment and security, while purposefully connecting the opposite corners of the park with pedestrian thoroughfares. In plan the covered part of the path comprises the two prominent sections set at a right angle. The other paths are uncovered, but similarly recessed into the ground, providing a continuous bench for resting. I imagine the paths would be gravel.
I situated the overnight spa (12 overnight rooms) in a quiet, secluded, densly wooded area of the park bounded on three sides by a creek. I wanted to continue the feeling of containment and sunk the complex into the ground about the same amount, using the walls of the buildings to creat courtyards broken by sight-lines over lower retaining walls. A secondary entrance is accessed by a separte parking lot on the far side of the sight. Both paths continue with the three-turn theme to create a sense of distance, disorientation, and remove.
Lastly, on the non-overnight side of the complex there is a spa burried under the plaza which is accessed by a descending circular ramp. The spa and pool is entirely dark, clad in dark stone, lit only by glass rods embedded in the ceiling which capture sunlight and bring it down in little specks. As people pass above the shadows will turn off the flecks and they will twinkle like stars. I built a model of this effect which convinced me it would work and be quite fun. The lamp in the first image was used for this effect.
Japan is a great place to ride motorcycles. It is at the same time compact and wonderfully remote, so you don't have to get far out of a city to find winding mountain roads, and you don't have to prepare for much because there will be signs of civilization another half-tank later. During the time I was there from January to June of 2016 I spent two weeks touring on bikes, first with my friend Will (pictured) and the second time by myself. It was a perfect way to see a part of the country not accessible by trains, in the mountains and along the coast.
The shot above was taken on the covered bridge between the two main halls of Jōshōkō-ji (常照皇寺). The first time I visited this temple on a Tuesday in late February, with snow melting on the ground, I saw no one, not even a monk. There was just a plate set out for the ¥300 admittance fee. When Will and I came back a month later we did meet one of the monks (who enlisted Will's help closing various ancient sliding doors before he slipped away), but that was it. It was a privilege to indulge in this quiet, intimate zen fantasy, especially to show it to someone else, when the typical experience involves literal throngs of visitors moving along prescribed paths when visiting, say Kiyomizu-dera (清水寺) or Kinkaku-ji (金閣寺) in central Kyoto.
There were so many beautiful places it was hard to know when it was worth stopping to remove glasses, helmet, gloves, jacket and get out the camera equipment. I was amply rewarded, however, by the rolls I shot at these glassy rice-fields somewhere outside Toyama around 9am. The sky was hazy and it was threatening to get hot; I shot this on HP5 which is what I use to try to reduce contrast. These towns on the sea of Japan side have a different feel than those on the south. They are isolated by those mountains you see, and it was only in the last 30 years that extensive tunnels were bored to connect this part of the country by express toll-road and bullet train to the urban core of Japan (Tokyo - Nagoya - Osaka) on the southern coast of the main island.
On the next trip I knew a little more about the kind of roads I wanted to ride and how to find them based on what they looked like on the map. Basically, the more tortuous the better. Because people have been living in Japan for so long, it is pretty much guaranteed that the straight roads in flatter areas are more developed, and conversely, in the hills (which are very steep), there is almost nothing and almost nobody. The same can be said of the coast, to some extent, which can be quite precipitous. It was not uncommon to find roads that were less then two meters wide (there were signs) that disappeared into tunnels or were cut into the side of the mountains without guardrails. The wide angle mirrors on orange-painted metal poles posted at every corner were a motorcyclist's dream, as they allow you to determine the apex, surface debris and oncoming traffic, all in advance.
I rented this 20 year old Kawasaki ZRX-400 in Osaka for not much more than $300 for the week, pictured here on the "Venus Line," a privately owned mountain-top road east of Matsumoto which accesses a sculpture garden built atop a 2000 meter high plateau. I watched the sun set here, afire among this stand of wild birches, and dropped into Matsumoto well after dark.