hold it in your hands, rub your fingers across its grooves


by way of entry you sit with an object, hold it in your hands, rub your fingers across its grooves. you close your eyes, not so much an act of faith as it is an attempt to focus the senses, to see what knowing might be made available through a haptic relationship. it is only a wallet. it is empty. Reginald Jerry Clark would leave this for Regina, she in turn would leave this for you. she teaches you not to speak ill of the dead, to not speak of them at all, so there is no ceremony around the absence. 

a black rail worker was born in 1913, served as a porter for The Great Northern Railroad for 25 years and retired without pension. he died some time later. in 1913 there was a rail worker, a porter he served on The Great Northern Railroad and died some time after retirement. a black rail worker died and came back a porter, he retired without pension he died. a black worker was born a porter for the railroad he died and came back as a quarter mile of track. a black rail worker worked and railed and died and retirement was always later, later. 

you work with words, which unlike the wallet, is not a material you touch, but you wonder if in reordering them you might disrupt what is presupposed, if you might work something other than emptiness from their grooves. you’ve only failed at this. you are not yet a skilled enough practitioner of failure, and so you keep reordering them, to see what casts a shadow.

[by way of entry you sit with an object], Chaun Webster

Learning from Las Vegas

Fifty Years of “Learning from Las Vegas” by Christopher Hawthorne. New Yorker, January 27, 2023.

The cool appraisal of Denise Scott Brown and Robert Venturi’s revolutionary book has a lot to inspire the architects of today.

Most architecture students over the years have read the shorter second edition of the book, a paperback published in 1977, but the 1972 large-format hardcover version is the livelier and more revealing document, if also the more contentious editorial product. It is divided into three parts. The first largely reproduces the Architectural Forum essay and includes a close study of the Strip’s architecture, signage, and street furniture. The second provides an analysis of how trends visible in Las Vegas relate to larger developments in architecture and urbanism. This section is anchored by a tribute to “ugly and ordinary” architecture, including a now famous distinction between buildings that are “ducks,” which is to say, commercial structures that take the shape of what they’re selling—a Mexican-food shop in Los Angeles resembling a giant tamale, for example—and those that are “decorated sheds,” or expediently made buildings that gain energy from signage and ornament. In short, the duck is a symbol; the decorated shed applies symbols to a more conventional architectural frame.

[…]

twenty-first-century readers tempted to brush off “Learning from Las Vegas” as a neutral travelogue risk missing the real power of its analysis—and the ways in which its approach might make today’s architecture of activism and political urgency sharper and more effective. We forget it now, perhaps because the effort was so entirely successful, but the book’s larger goals went far beyond understanding the quickly growing cities of the American West. Scott Brown and Venturi also wanted to accelerate a changing of the guard in architecture. In that sense, the smoke screen of non-judgment allowed them to plausibly claim a kind of “Who, me?” innocence as they worked to make room for their own generation to start running things.

After all, their frustration wasn’t with the revolutionary nature of the modernist project so much as with how it had grown stagnant and pleased with itself. As they write in the acknowledgments of “Learning from Las Vegas,” “Since we have criticized Modern architecture, it is proper here to state our intensive admiration of its early period when its founders, sensitive to their own times, proclaimed the right revolution. Our argument lies mainly with the irrelevant and distorted prolongation of that old revolution today.”


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“The entrance to Pavillon du Chef de l’Etat (House of the Head of State), which was turned into the Musee de Opéra on the western facade of Opéra National de Paris Garnier, is framed by two granite columns by Henri Alfred Jacquemart, surmounted by Henri a bronze eagle(??) and adorned with lamps and the masts of ships.” via flickr. I hope to find a better source for this.


1870. Le Siège de Paris contraint Charles Garnier à interrompre les travaux. L’Opéra est réquisitionné et transformé en hôpital puis en magasins d’approvisionnements militaires. Lorsque Napoléon III est renversé, Charles Garnier est prié d’enlever de l’Opéra les emblèmes et les chiffres de l’Empereur. via operadeparis.


1871. The Paris Commune, the short-lived workers’ regime that controlled the city for two months. It was a moment of barricades, red flags, and, as music scholar Delphine Mordey writes, a series of concerts. The concerts at Tuileries Palace [were] held between May 6 and May 21; [another] planned … [for] the Paris Opera, on May 22. Mordey offers a fascinating read of how the Communards took over the Opera. Via daily jstor.


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“what I am saying right now is secretly built over

              a love poem, the fossils of a cupola,

pink buildings with red hyphens and dashes

              and three red dots …” (Alexandria Peary, The Architecture of a Love Poem)