Chutzpah…

I’m not normally a big TV watcher, but lately that’s shifted a bit and I’m finding some pretty cool stuff. Not a big fan of “reality”, TV or otherwise; nor do sitcoms or cop shows make the cut. I generally head for the documentary channels first, and last week chance brought me to a terrific documentary about the George Washington Bridge.

For some reason I’ve been thinking about the GWB a lot lately. I’ve lived in the circumference of NYC my entire life and have always loved that bridge. One of my very first memories is driving south on the Henry Hudson Pkwy and my Aunt Norma telling me to wave to George and Martha living up there, at the very top of the east tower (if you squint just right you will see them, of course). I would look very hard for them and wave with just a little skepticism. Now I cross it weekly to see my own granddaughters who live five minutes away in Harlem (upper deck preferably, I have my system in place). I’ve traveled over the GWB probably fifty times a year over half a century, been tortured in extraterrestrial traffic jams, bemoaned a forgotten Yankee game and marveled at the view in both directions. I‘ve admired its beauty as an object- how it spans the river; the contrast between the urban New York side and the pastoral Palisades in New Jersey. I’m designer enough to get excited by how the odd asymmetry in its connection to the earth on each side is a physical manifestation of that dichotomy. But I took it for granted, as we do so many of the incredible man-designed, man-built monoliths among us in this place where building has always been scaled for giants.

Watching the history of its construction, I was more and more amazed by the brilliance, prescience and pure chutzpah of those who built this bridge. To create a structure capable of carrying millions of pounds of weight in shifting and complex conditions every day for 70 years; to see future and build in capacity for expansion to double the volume, to do so in the age of slide rules, and to make it something so incredibly beautiful takes nothing less than New York scale balls. And a New York story it is.

Othmar Ammann, an émigré from Switzerland and a Port Authority employee, was the engineer responsible for the GWB and many others of note in our amazing region- the Verrazano, the Bayonne and the Whitestone are also credited to him. Clearly he was a man who was inspired beyond the ken of the rest of us normal and average thinkers. In true New York fashion, the back story of power brokering and posturing is an interesting one, but what struck me in this story was that- unlike the “Robert Moses” of the world, or the “Donald Trumps”- until now I have never heard his name. A quiet and reserved man with remarkable vision, a biographer described him as someone who intuitively understood and….felt…how bridge structures function.

It’s that “feeling” thing that stopped me. Because that’s exactly the key, isn’t it? When experience intersects with instinct to overrule “good judgment”, when we know in our gut what is right- despite all appearances to the contrary, despite all arguments against it. When we see the tree- clearly- within the forest…and have the confidence to know it’s the tree. When we build the bridge that by all accounts is foolish…

In design- as in life- there is intuition. Some of us have it for structural or spatial decisions, others for business or science. Malcolm Gladwell wrote most eloquently about the root of intuition in “Blink”- that gut feeling we follow when we know a truth from somewhere in our center despite the odds against it. One of those interviewed in the program on Ammann pointed out that others have followed his logic and his formulas only to find failure. It’s like watching a great athlete or performer- there is that extra modicum of “mojo” that takes it beyond the ordinary, and you know it when you see it.

1931 was a challenging year- not unlike what we are going through right now; the financial collapse three years earlier had left tremendous insecurity and financial suffering in its wake. Interestingly, both the George Washington Bridge AND the Empire State building were completed that year. And even more interesting? Both of them were completed on time and under budget.

Point of contrast? In 1940 “Galloping Gertie” (so christened by construction workers) was born across the Tacoma Narrows in Washington. She lasted four months before one of the most spectacular bridge failures in history; it took 10 years to rebuild and a mere 40 for her capacity to be overstrained, requiring another parallel bridge to be built.

So? here’s my thought about all of this. Tough times bring creative solutions and less room for either waste or foolishness; financial leanness means there is little margin for error and much need for that creativity, and these times give birth to great ideas that last. It’s the chutzpah to channel resources, the mojo to see past the present struggle and the moxie to take the risk that will build a better bridge.

Gotta love New Yawk.

For a great clip of the Tacoma bridge collapse:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mclp9QmCGs

Headstands…

This is without a doubt my favorite time of year. As spring’s defrost button melts light and earth, and color returns to outdoors blasting lime green, soft pink and vibrant forsythia yellow, I shrug off blankets, both literal and figurative. I used to love winter- still do for a bit, but its charms wear thin by about December these days, and for the first time I actually “get” the concept of the “snowbirds.” (oh dear…do I see early bird specials in Ft Lauderdale looming in my future??) I welcome this time of open windows and chilly nights, somewhere between frost of winter and promise of summer. My heat still kicks on occasionally, but that’s just fine- the best is yet to come. There is something magical in that smell of wet earth and possibility (once it wasn’t coming from my basement) and my brain begins to thaw as I come full circle with the cycle of the seasons.

I’ve been thinking about the nature of creativity and the challenges we come up against when we hit road blocks in life or work. I was thinking, actually of the whole concept of “road blocks”. Although I’ve been writing, my blog’s been at a standstill for the last couple of months while I tended to other business, much of which was pretty uninspiring- and uninspired. So to “jumpstart” my sense of the possible, I escaped to the Catskills for a remarkable opportunity to take a deep breath, remove myself from “figuring everything out”, and just spend a few days breathing and listening. No decisions, no computer or phone, no work, no sump pumps or problems. Just listening….and breathing- with some pretty inspiring people. I recommend this kind of moment to all- a break in the action.

I hate road blocks. I will howl against them, dig at them and crowbar them, pick at them and relentlessly focus on them when up against them. This time I decided to let my roadblock sit there, not try to get around it or climb over it; just lean against it like an old friend, pop open an imaginary beer, raise my eyes to the sun, wait and see what happened next. For a change, I figured I’d shut up and listen. Hah. Not a strength of mine…

What I began to realize in this past year is that the people who get where they want to go don’t perceive road blocks in front of them. I, on the other hand, see them like a steeplechase course in which I’m a little pony surrounded by Appaloosas. Those damned blocks which loom in my life like ten foot brick walls are somewhere in their peripheral vision, so life takes them where they want to go despite all the obstacles and problems. They just head in that direction.

One of my roommates in the Catskills was a woman whose story crystallized that thought for me. Beautiful both inside and out, she grew up on a kibbutz in Israel and as a young woman was in NYC for a visit. While there, for no apparent reason, she read the “Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” and at the end knew exactly what she needed to do next in her life. She investigated college programs, booked a flight to Colorado, showed up at an admissions office mid-summer with no application, no visa and no money for tuition, and told them she planned to go there in September. She did, and spent the next five years studying with the some of the “best and the brightest” in the field of her dreams.

Hmmm. How to bottle a little of that sauce, I wonder?

What seems to happen to me when the blocks show up is that confidence drains through this little passage at the base of my neck-drip, drip, I can feel it slipping away until every idea I have looks shallow, dull or just plain boring, only to be discarded. So I’ve learned to save those potential gems in a growing file of rough cut diamonds just waiting for the day when perspective returns and my wit and work are remarried.

In the meantime, I’m learning to live with that proverbial elephant- not ignoring it, just letting it rest comfortably with my feet on its trunk. I figure we’re old friends now and it’s much harder to move an elephant than to hug it.

Life transformative moments seem to happen to other people- those brilliant moments of incandescent inspiration that drive them to purposeful exploration. I keep waiting for that to happen, like listening for an echo in a vacuum. While I wait, instead of wasting time I do some stuff like stand on my head and write a blog. And maybe for most of us that’s what life consists of- not that radiant explosion, but just doing the work we love and seeing where it takes us.

Of course I did buy a copy of the “Tibetan Book on Living and Dying.” Hell, who knows? I figure if I spend enough time inverted I'll figure it all out… not unlike a quote I found recently: “overnight success in 30 years.”

What I Learned In Kindergarten…

With much chagrin and a sense of the absurd I read an article in the NY Times about test preparation programs for entry to kindergarten. Kindergarten. There are waiting lists for these programs in NYC. I dashed off an email to my daughter warning her to, quick, get my two year old granddaughter on the waiting list NOW, lest she miss her window for Harvard! Her response? She’s already having trouble finding her a pre-school for next year, should have started looking before Julia was born. No kidding. Not long ago I had a three year old in my office with her own laptop- great, right? Except she was doing homework. Seriously, what are we thinking? Makes me long for another Maria Montessori...

We’d all like to hearken back to the “good old days” when “children had a childhood.” But the reality is, that’s never been the case. Parents have put pressure on their kids to perform for as long as there have been parents and kids. The good news is that whatever we do, however hard we press, our kids will grow up with their own way of thinking, and that is fortunate. It’s the engine that drives our creativity, that makes for Cooper Hewitt award winners and inspires the rest of us to keep trying.

But the question is, are we fostering that creativity when we’re so focused on quantifying a three year old’s “success”? How far do we push and how young is too young to put them on the treadmill? What happened to play? Are flashcards and math drills really more effective than Play Dough for preschool? And if they are, so what? What’s the cost?

If you have lots of money and a kid who can’t seem to walk that narrow line, you can send them to a private school that fosters a more creative approach to learning (what a subversive concept- learning should be fun!) Some look at these “alternative” schools dismissively, concerned that their unconventional approach is more circuitous and less quantifiable. True, but, oh how I envied their approach as a child, when trying to make my left brain meet my right.

I grew up in Brooklyn, in a neighborhood of brownstones and artists. I was lucky for that unique experience, although I had no idea at the time. My parents- educated, loving and positive- sent me off to a very good Catholic school, blue jumper and all, giving me the best of tools to set me on my path. Alas, I wandered afar- right down the street from our house to a brownstone that housed the Woodward School. In its massive windows hung clotheslines; attached to those clotheslines were enormous sheets of newsprint with an ever changing display of bold, messy paintings hanging like flags of freedom. I walked by those windows every day, yearning, as I struggled to stay inside crisp looseleaf lines. It took many frustrating years until I finally found my voice and figured out how to use it. Those paintings in the window inspired my search- that and the crazy artists roaming that neighborhood, canvases like kites.

Recently I was a panel member for an architectural jury at which two students ended up in tears, partly because of my critique. I felt terrible, and wondered what I said or did to create that much stress. What I perceived as great dialogue, and questions intended to be encouraging, left them feeling overwhelmed and pressured. In truth, their presentations were two of the most intriguing solutions to a challenging project, and two that most engaged the entire group. Afterwards I spoke with them, explaining that they did a great job- they grabbed our attention and made us think twice, much better than the “perfect” solution. And I thought back to my own student days, the power that critical commentary can have in our lives; how withering it can be, or how empowering. Are we teaching our children to think for themselves, or to just give us back the “right” answers?

Positive dialogue about ideas starts when a two year old first picks up a crayon, and teaching a child to find her own voice is critical to learning, to confidence in challenging perceptions, and to creative pursuit in our lives, wherever that may take us. What we stand to miss is that power of "art" is not in the product, but in taking the risk to put forth something different, though-provoking and perhaps unresolved. The most eloquent projects are often the incomplete or imperfect. They're the balls we can bounce around, mull over, fill in, respond to... imagine.

We live in a society that measures everything. We wear monitors when we exercise, carefully quantify our learning, our fitness, our height and weight and breadth and depth. All those Weights and Measures are of value, necessary systems that give structure to our lives. If we didn’t measure, we’d have no means to build a building, know a healthy heart rate, check cholesterol levels, and evaluate who should get into Harvard. But even in science, there’s art in interpretation, and without creative thinking, without critical analysis, without interaction, intuition and instinct we often misdiagnose.

For years we’ve bemoaned the effects of technology and pressure on our children. Some will take to it, others won’t. Some types of creativity are fostered within the lines, others are not. And we can worry about what they learn and what they don’t, but growth and learning happen in their own pace and time, and aren’t limited to the years before the age of 21. Thank God, or I’d still be SOL.

Towards Singularity…

Curious about the title, what’s up and where we’re headed in design, I made a trip to the Cooper Hewitt Museum in NY for an exhibit called “Design USA: Contemporary Innovation”; a retrospective honoring their design award-winners of the last 10 years. It was quite an experience, and I’m still mulling over the incredible collection of ideas, running the gamut from search engines to sneakers, physicists to plastics. Oh, foolish boy, if Benjamin Braddock only knew…

The categories themselves were intriguing: Craft, Experience, Technology, Materials, Method and Design Mind. Recognition that “design” is a very broad term, “space” is more than what’s between four walls, and “innovation” affects everything.

Of course, architects and designers were recognized, especially for solutions to meet changing spatial and environmental demands. There were imaginative “brownsite” redevelopments, most notably the High Line in Manhattan, and much emphasis on prefab technology, green design and sustainability. But equally lauded were those who think “outside the box” across the board. Nike has conquered sluggish feet with shoes weighed in grams; Aveda, a makeup manufacturer, was awarded for creativity in environmentally sound product and packaging as well as their third world economic contributions. The New York Times graphics department was noted for their interactive media applications- Sunday morning sections may soon go the way of milk delivery. Patagonia’s recycled plastic “fleece” has saved millions of sheep from the indignity of shaving, turning half liters into hoodies. The meeting of mind and material has made for innovations that are changing what and how we produce, and I started to think of how these innovations are shifting our concept and use of space.

Most intriguing were the “interaction” designers who have had such profound impact on all our lives, even for those of us whose only contact with technology is the touch screen at the ATM. Their connections between the digital and the physical realm, ubiquitous in those elegant IPhone applications, are radically changing our means of communication. Being of an earlier generation and far from technologically proficient, I only have the vaguest understanding of how this all works. But the good news is I don’t have to- someone very smart from MIT has my back. I just have to show up and use it.

Little mention in this exhibit of “space” as we think of it, but technological innovation is profoundly impacting how we live, and how our businesses and homes will respond to it. Yes, they are dealing with space as well- abstract space tied more tightly to time and less sensitive to place than we’re used to, but quite pertinent to any discussion of how we live. It’s “space” we didn’t really consider as little as ten years ago, and it’s changing how our physical space functions as well.

I think of my own connectivity; I am “linkedin”, “twittered”, “emailed” “facebooked” “googled”, and that’s before I pick up the phone. Not so long ago, I lost my daughter on a ski vacation and was terrified- now I could call her from the top of that mountain, assuming that she’d answer. I take a picture and email it while finding a restaurant on 145^th Street. All this communication can be intrusive, but it’s a powerful tool for connection, for building business and for exploring ideas. I can work from just about anywhere, talk just about any time- and there’s something quite freeing in that.

I was pushed headlong into my own technological Waterloo about four years ago when working on a project in Georgia. Time sensitivity and construction constraints forced me to make a leap I had for many years resisted- from hand drafting to CAD. The poor guys I worked with can attest that they pushed an 800 lb gorilla over a 10 foot wall- I had to change my entire way of thinking about space and form. Result? Four years later I no longer own a drafting table, having abandoned it for my little Mac Powerbook, and that roll of yellow trace has become wrapping paper. Many a detail was drafted on a Continental tray table and emailed from the arrival gate. The transition changed not only how I design but how and where I work. Coupled with the vast internet library a click away, my “office” has been downsized to any small surface and a chair; add my IPhone, it’s behind the wheel of my car (yes, I know). All else is extraneous clutter that I just can’t seem to help.

Demarcations are shifting and with them the spaces we inhabit. We work nationally and globally in our slippers on the coffee table. And how we design needs to respond to these changes- offices morph, organizing systems adapt, home and play and work intersect in ways we didn’t imagine, all changing the function of our spaces, how we fill them and with that, fundamentally, how we live our lives.

This shift to instant information and immediate response makes me wonder how long before we approach that hypothetical “singularity” where mind and machine finally merge? Doesn’t seem so far-fetched now, we’re only one small step into this world of technology. A generation ago my mother spent her Saturday mornings cleaning kerosene lanterns and went to church with heated bricks under her feet. I stand on a subway platform and plan a vacation, make a bank transfer and download a CD in seconds. And that’s me- what of the three year old recently in my office with her “Princess” laptop? For her it’s already there.

It’s all good, just different. Changing with the times, right? Something to be said for continued adaptation…keeps me young, at least at heart.

Eat, Drink and Be Merry...

I’m sitting in my kitchen listening to Dave Brubeck’s rendition of “Silent Night” as snow falls into the purple light of dusk. We’re supposed to get a foot; it’s the first time in my fairly long memory that we had snow so close to Christmas and it’s magic. I’m baking cookies, making certain to remember the favorites of each of those I love. A very small gift, crafted from a million pounds of butter and sugar.

This week I was working on two different blog ideas I’ve been thinking about since before Thanksgiving, when, yet again, I got sidetracked. I decided it can wait till the New Year. All those wonderful ideas will be there, and my mind will return to them, less sentimental and refreshed by a break.

I’ve had many reminders this year, yet again, of how fragile life is, how tenuous happiness, how irrelevant success, and how important the fundamental things are that make our lives truly rich and meaningful. And today, as I bake these damned cookies yet again for about the 45^th year in a row, struggle to untangle the lights, plow my way through the packages and wonder why I make myself crazy every year, I know the answer. It’s what I do to let the people I love know that whatever else happens, whatever life brings, we have each other. The spirit of my parents long gone passes on to my grandchildren newly arrived, and traditions form the circle of continuity. That’s a gift to be celebrated in moments of peace and a source of solace in times of struggle. Little else matters.

If design is about anything, it’s about life. L’Chaim…

and Merry Christmas, one and all.

A Little Thanks…

I was reading and writing, absorbed in ideas, thinking about the “direction of design” when I looked up from my words, saw the date and paused. It’s the weekend before Thanksgiving, I’m the cook this year and I hadn’t really thought about any of it or started to plan. And as my fog lifted, I realized that that’s actually an amazing thing, quite wonderful in fact.

I’m lucky and I try not to take that for granted. My kids still like me and want come home, they like each other, like my friends and don’t really care what gets done or doesn’t. We pretty much have the Norman Rockwell of Holiday Celebrations, whether it’s at home or elsewhere- friends, laughter, too much food and (almost) no meltdowns in the preparation. Which is probably why, lately, it sneaks up on me and I’m unprepared; never painted that room, still haven’t knocked down the wall to make the dining room bigger, haven’t polished the silver or ordered the free range fresh killed organic turkey. As a designer, I know the “devil is in the details”, but on these occasions, of late, they just don’t seem all that important. Sure, I’ll pull out the tarnished silver, dust off the china and it’ll all look and feel like a holiday. Dinner will get cooked, we’ll all sit down, eat too much, drink too much and laugh a lot.

My Zen mindset wasn’t always this evolved. Used to be my type “A” side would kick in big time before the holidays- lists grew lists; rolls had to be kneaded and cranberries strained, at least one pie per person, menus planned, recipes pored over; my fridge overflowed. I would frantically run from work to schools to stores to nights in the kitchen, all to create “Dinner of the Year”. Sure, all that practice has given me an edge, so I can still assemble a reasonably downsized representation of those elaborate productions without too much sweat. But I’m thinking it’s more than that. This year, more than any other, I am most aware of the “big picture”.

The gathered group shifts somewhat each year depending on who’s around, who’s moved, who’s traveling, who’s family in Connecticut decided to host, who’s “left us”, who’s “joined us”, who’s married or divorced. There’s been joy in the additions, sadness in the losses and times when it seemed very, very hard to celebrate. But the datum, the constant, what really matters is that we all stop (on a weekday no less), take a deep breath, look at each other and see the good. Whatever we lost or gained in this year, whatever we’ve struggled with, there is continuity in life and this ritual dinner is a moment to just share. And today I am more aware than ever that what I have is a gift not to be taken lightly.

Much to give thanks for, most important for the people in my life. So, thank you, all of you who read this, those I will see and those I won’t, for adding to my life in ways that have made this year unique and rich in new experiences, and who add to that continuity of connection.

More on design after next week, if I’m not wigged out about Christmas.

The Lessons of Levittown…

A week or so back I got a call from a favorite client, someone I’ve worked with through many projects over many, many years. This particular call told me just how many- his daughter and son in law are renovating a house and he asked if I could help with their planning. I was honored, touched and a little bit depressed. I’m that old, I’m helping the next generation. There’s a wake-up call.

As I start to work with yet another generation, I’m thinking about changes to our idea of “home” in the span of years from our grandparents to our kids; the kind of houses we plan, build, desire, and remember…

The past fifty-plus years brought radical changes in how and where we live, much of that happening in my own lifetime. I grew up in the city (Brooklyn to be exact), and watched as my childhood friends joined the “diaspora” to the suburbs in the sixties, leaving sidewalk chalk and handball for swingsets and bicycles. That great flight outward was fueled by economic, technological and social changes, not the least of which was a combination of visionary (and insensitive) land development on a grand scale, which turned farmland to subdivisions linked by superhighways, all “driven” by our romance with the car. In the years since those early suburban developments, the shape of our lives has changed, and with that, our dreams of "home."

I was talking to a friend recently about his childhood Christmases at his aunt’s house on Long Island. The biggest room was his aunt’s bedroom. Somehow, magically, on Christmas day, the bed was disassembled and a table for twenty took its place. Now, THAT was a resourceful hostess. Talk about a multi-purpose room. Of course, one wonders where the bed was stashed while they all ate lasagne?

Volumes have been written about the post-war Levittown “Cape”. That first mass-produced “dream house for the common man” (because he could actually own one), was a little more than 800 square feet, included 4 rooms and a bath on the first floor and, if budget allowed, a couple of dormered bedrooms on the second. Coming from an apartment in Queens or Brooklyn, this felt positively spacious. It had a special nook for a TV built into the staircase (presuming you could afford the TV.) If there was a basement, and it was relatively dry, you slapped up paneling and stick-down linoleum and called it a rumpus room (what exactly was the rumpus?) No powder rooms, libraries, family rooms, guest rooms, master baths, dressing rooms; no game rooms, wrapping rooms, media centers, home theaters. No gazebos, no gates, no pool houses, no three car garages. If there was a pool, it sat above ground, leaked and wobbled when 15 kids dove off the metal surround, and the over-chlorinated water killed anything growing within 20 feet. A little crowded? Sure. Imperfect? No question. But it was home.

The American “dream house” certainly morphed over those fifty years, along with our other possessions, and nary a new home in the nineties was built without the requisite Jacuzzi (rarely used because it takes a full tank of hot water unto itself) and a vaulted two story foyer with a chandelier the size of a small helicopter. Just heating that space is an engineering marvel of orchestrated ductwork. Then try furnishing it… sectionals to sleep twelve, armoires like little castles, and baby grand pianos that play themselves because no one had time for lessons. The scale was impressive, and a little daunting. How much was too much? What kind of art, short of a Pollack, fills a 30 foot wall?

Will we rethink the need for that? Apparently we already are- as the “baby boomers” retire and we want less stuff to worry about, we’re downsizing in droves, moving to planned communities and looking for someone else to worry about lawn care. I’m wondering how we’ll “repurpose” those palaces when we’ve all retired to the two bedroom condo in Renaissance Estates…

It’s good that we slow down and think resourcefully. I’m getting a lot of that today from those of us who are finally remembering, yet again, that it won’t always “go up”, and maybe we don’t need it to. But we do need and want our space to be special, functional, and reflective of who we are. So how do we make it that way without doubling the square footage, or without disassembling the master bed a couple times a year? Because clearly there’s a middle ground, and one hopes it’s not the Seventies split level.

I spend a lot of my time renovating those post-war homes- capes, splits, center halls. The edges of the subdivisions have blurred and the sameness that was a hallmark of suburban development fades as successive generations place their imprint on the original “bland box”. It’s a real treat to walk into houses that retain their “fifties” or “sixties” identity and we look to see what can be done to make them work with our lives today.

Lesson one in design school, at least of my generation: form follows function. Some will say that’s dated and debatable, but there is definitely a hearkening back to purposeful design.

But what does that mean? The tendency in tight times is to be strictly pragmatic, but we want more from our homes, or I’d be superfluous. The lesson of Levittown is that we turn the “little boxes on the hillside” into places for personal expression. (Ironically, an untouched Levittown house is now a highly prized museum piece. Who would have thought?) It’s actually great fun to look at the imagination of those transformations- from Greek Revival to Gothic Modern, columns, turrets and all, sometimes on the same house.

We look to our spaces to reflect ourselves, and they say as much about who we are as the car we drive or the clothes we wear. Form and function still do work together; It’s a matter of unifying need and expression, whether it’s picking a paint color or ripping out walls. Somewhere between the Levitt Cape and the McMansion there’s a happy balance that’s big enough to fit our needs, considerate of the environment and adaptable to changes in our lives. Maybe in this next generation we’ll get it right…