"Great cities are not like towns, only larger. They are not like suburbs, only denser. They differ from towns and suburbs in basic ways, and one of these is that cities are, by definition, full of strangers."
-- Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities
File this under "living vicariously," a piece of direct mail on very tasteful letterhead, sent from 165 Charles St. Ignoring the fact that someone really screwed up the database pull on this one, it's worth blogging in its entirety for the pure jaw-dropping lack of irony in its salesmanship.
Dear ___________________,
We are pleased to report that Richard Meier's residential masterpiece, 165 Charles Street, is nearing completion with occupancy scheduled for early this summer. The simple, elegant beauty of its shimmering glass silhouette can now be experienced firsthand. A limited selection of 2 bedroom plus study and 3 bedroom homes remain priced from $5.150 million, as well as one spectacular 4897 square foot full floor residence with an 1160 square foot Great Room. All enjoy breathtaking Hudson River and cityscape panoramas and benefit from the privileged Pure Richard Meier lifestyle, including 24-hour concierge, 50' infinity-edge lap pool, state-of-the-art fitness center and screening room. Private wine cellars and storage are also available.
Enclosed please find a recent article featured in The New York Times portraying not only Richard Meier's undivided attention to every exterior and interior detail, but also his love for this collection of private homes. We invite you to make an appointment to come experience his masterpiece with a private tour of 165 Charles Street.
Kind regards,
______________________
Just a few notes, because I can't resist...
And in case you missed it, this building is a masterpiece. Because they said so. Twice.
Via Jerry Michalski, a presentation by Jay Cross titled Another Pattern Language: Real Life Patterns Chez Christopher Alexander, which details the patterns of Alexander's own house in the Berkeley hills.
Warning: not for the architecturally faint at heart.
Fascinating piece in the NYTimes about people building new homes that are designed to look like they've been converted from industrial uses.
Mr. Binkley predicts that factory chic will become more popular, partly for nostalgic reasons: these designs will remind Baby Boomers of architecture they loved - though not necessarily lived in - from a time gone by.
I'm imagining an entire neighborhood of these. The faux-converted firehouse next to the faux-converted cannery next to the faux-converted warehouse next to the faux-converted barn. All with exposed beams, exposed brick walls and exposed duct work. All containing piles of newly purchased, artfully stacked coffee table books filled with images of actual firehouses, canneries, warehouses and barns that have been converted to residential use.
Update: a kind reader sends a link to this glorious MetropolisMag.com piece, "I am the Uncool Hunter," complete with photos of a Frederick, Colorado development filled with faux-conversions.
If you ever have the opportunity to either seriously renovate or build a house, whatever you do, pay attention to where you put your light switches. Otherwise you're in for one of those daily annoyances that will eventually drive you to...walk across the room to turn off a light.
What you need to do it right is a patient architect, an informed electrician and several uninterrupted hours of time. Walk through every (framed or unframed) doorway, and do your best to visualize that instinctual reach for the throw. Stand at your imaginary sink and think about your disposal. Imagine you're doing your last rounds before going to bed -- what's the sequence of shutting down the house? Review the drawings that come out of that session. At length. And then do the whole thing again. And then again.
Our architect was fabulous at laying out the big picture; cluing us in to how the rooms would play against one another, why this doorway needed be here, why this ledge needed to be this high. But we (collectively) just couldn't get it together on this particular fit and finish detail. At the point in the project (a) the house was barely framed (and always dark), (b) schedules were tight and (c) budgets tighter. We didn't afford ourselves the time to do it right. We were stuck with one initial draft of schematics, one one-hour walkthrough, and an offsite review of the final schematics.
There's one switch that drives me batty. Our back hallway has an overhead track. Its switch is near the back door. But I'm about ready to have an electrican rip up out the wall and run conduit to create a second switch for that track at the near end of that hallway, so that when I'm doing my nightly rounds I don't need to trek that extra six or seven feet. It's not that I don't need the exercise, it's that it reminds me -- daily -- that we rushed that part of the project, and that we're paying for it now in the annoyance factor.
Wow. Maureen Dowd tees off on the memorial designs for ground zero, in an aptly titled op-ed: Unbearable Lightness of Memory.
The ugliness of Al Qaeda's vicious blow to America is obscured by these prettified designs, which look oddly like spas or fancy malls or aromatherapy centers. It's easy to visualize toned women with yoga mats strolling through these New Age pavilions filled with waterfalls and floating trees and sunken gardens and suspended votives. Mass murder dulled by architectural Musak.The designs are reflections of our psychobabble culture, exuding that horrible and impossible concept, closure. Our grief and anger have been sentimentalized and stripped of a larger historical and moral purpose.
(The site so desperately needs and deserves Maya Lin. Not something from Lin herself, but rather from this generation's Lin, that transforms the space and the discussion about the space the way Lin did.)
Bryan Boyer reimagines Chap Lap Kok Airport.
Security has become a lost concept. The impotence of metal detectors and x-ray machines has become such a point of shame that they have been adandoned altogether. Passengers are allowed to carry with them whatever they like, but they must first pass through the flooded terminal. There are no regulations on luggage because nothing survives the passage through this lake. One never quite manages to float their luggage to the other side, the change finds its way out of one's pockets, and passports gets all wrinkled. Passengers no longer worry about forgetting toothbrushes or important documents: nobody wants a water-logged contract anyways. In the water one leaves their possessions, their identity, their worries...
