Field Trip

The local Pool Hall.

In the afternoon I reflect further on Fridays review, giving a brief lecture about material reasoning and the transformation of concept into form. I encourage the students to know when to disregard their teachers. I illustrate the lecture with examples drawn directly from the work I saw Friday. I outline, in simple language, the limitations of the pedagogical underpinnings of their design studio; I tell them the ways in which they can shift their own focus within the boundaries of a studio that is too broadly drawn. I explain that as teachers, we too are under great pressure, and often attempt to do too much in too little time—a nod to Wang Fei, who is undertaking a herculean task. The subtext of the lecture and the mornings critique is to empower the students as partners in their own education. As I conclude my lecture, I connect the discussion to one of the unique words Wang Shu has taught me. It is an effort to close the circle—to connect the nurturing but subversive energy I am offering with the Master himself. I remind them that I am here at his invitation, and it is my role to help them understand things that might not be taught in their regular classrooms.

The lesson continues as I introduce the next problem—in describing the work, I let them push back, and negotiate some of the terms on which it will be done. I outline the first three pedagogical aims in the order they will appear to them: 1) to understand the implications of choosing a single section cut, 2) to explore the narrative as an important part of architectural drawing, and 3) to build a relationship with a living context over ten years old. The topic of the drawing centers around the movement of water, and transforming a piece of the nearby mid-rise fabric through montage. They are to add to and transform what is there rather than replace it. My hidden aim is to encourage them to value the existing community and urban fabric. I inform them that the terms of the project are negotiable, providing the result allows us to explore my stated aims.

We walk into the neighborhood; instantly, our group swells as people in the community gather around with the students. I describe what I see in the neighborhood as the class asks questions about the boundaries and limits of the problem—can they work in groups, what should be drawn, how it should be drawn. I take the opportunity to describe the way the street section works—how it acts like a river—and let them see the neighborhood through my eyes. It is fairly clear that the larger crowd that has gathered does not speak English, but they nod their heads, and act as though they too are participating in the discussion. Young women in high heels and impossibly short skirts cock their hips as they munch on corn cobs—old men sit side saddle on their mopeds. It seems I have offered everyone a break from the monotony of the day—I am sure they will be late on the way to somewhere.

Negotiations complete, I divide them into groups. They want me to create the groups, so I deliberately do a poor job, simply splitting the group as it stands. I place poor English speakers together, create unnecessary gender divisions, and all manner of problem. When they protest, I agree with their criticisms and suggest that they modify their groups to suit their needs. They see what I am up to, and quickly get to business, rushing off to choose and document their sites of study. Tomorrow I will likely return to the river, and tell them stories about the Cuyahoga. I am not sure I can do Gary Newman the way I did Paul Robeson, but I may try. It will tie nicely to my original discussion of people and the land, and will allow me to quietly introduce a few principles of public policy to the discussion.

In anticipation of Junichi’s arrival I buy a three dollar bottle of booze. From the laughter of the women in the store, it seems I am in the company of the best Chinese winos. It will serve the purpose for the necessary toast, and, when the time comes, Junichi and I can drink on another dime.

Curriculum

Translucent blankets protect grass seedlings; the care taken for the landscape throughout the city is incredible.

Spent a good deal of time working on an essay I may never finish. Friday’s critique re-awakened several deep felt concerns about education. This is not the place to describe them. What Wang Fei is doing with his students, introducing analysis and mapping, is very important. I question, however, whether certain methodologies adopted from Western schools are important in general, and if they don’t obscure a more vibrant thread of investigation.

I am speaking directly of Material Reasoning, a process I have taught many times, in which students work through direct action in one medium, and come to know it to such a degree as to be able to transform the very thread of project into the medium of architecture. It is a process that requires discipline, and requires an understanding of the difference between transliteration, and translation. Translation being at once faithful to the original, but, by necessity generative, in that one language might not posses the vocabulary of another. To my eye, aspects of Material Reasoning that had found their way into the studio work I saw on Friday were given too little time to be of meaning. The notion of teaching mapping alone would be enough to fill a semester, much less teaching mapping, engaging in a process of translation, and confronting a highly complex functional program. The students simply emphasized the mapping and the organization of the building; any teaching value of moving from one to the other was largely lost.

Beyond the organization of one studio, it raises a larger question in my mind that has to do with the way in which architectural education becomes culturally specific, or if it should be culturally specific. It bothers me that the morays of American graduate schools are directly appearing in Chinese schools. In some ways, these methodologies might obscure the uniqueness of the students, their relationship with language, and the Chinese conception of space.

Many of my colleagues in the United States now have steam coming out of their ears—but I will continue anyways. I will describe three things that are culturally specific that could contribute greatly to the curriculum if they were addressed more directly:

I

Narrative

The halls of my classroom building are lined with drawings the students have done, what first seem to be roof plans of a traditional village. To examine the drawings more closely is a delight—as each has a series of idiosyncrasies. In many cases, elevation and plan are conflated, such that the drawing takes on a narrative quality—structures and trees bend to tell you what they are. My mainland Chinese students in the United States also did this, and seeing these drawings brings back warm memories. While the assignment likely intended that they render an objectively projected roof plan, the possibilities of the narrative drawing as a tool for exploring the city are great.

II

Words

The Chinese language is well equipped for describing space, and the better equipped for describing the ‘energy’ of space than the English language. Last night, I learned a word for which there is no English synonym. It specifically deals with the notion that to paint the visage of something, one must paint the interior energy first. To move right, one must first move left, to move back , one must first move forwards. It is at once gesture, counterpoint, energy, and interior spirit. To describe the concept in English seems only to reduce the magic of the fact that in Chinese there is a word for what in English is nuanced or indescribable. The availability of this vocabulary is an incredible opportunity for exploration that exceeds the limits of Western conceptions of space.

III

Void

Wang Shu has helped me, through well chosen words and his work, to understand the degree to which the Chinese conception of space centers on void rather than form. By this he means more than negative space, he deliberately seems to use the word void to imply absence (I will have to confirm this with him—if he does not intend the meaning, he should). One senses this hollowness in many places, especially temples, in the way that they seem to dematerialize as one moves through them. Shadow is essential to the concept of the void. Corners and details—the connective tissue of perspectival space—are obscured. It is the embrace of ambiguity, layered depth, and indescribable limits.

In relationship to the current curriculum I make a simple proposal: 1) make a more direct connection between drawing, writing, and design, and 2) run the analytical program in parallel. Abandon the complication of translation in favor of a more direct and painterly approach that would foster the direct incorporation of the above concepts. [At a minimum, design a material reasoning problem around the question of void.] To that simple change, I might add a second parallel track—to engage things that can not be directly controlled through the exploration of natural materials—either done in intermittent sessions, or continuously. The method seems much more in keeping with the way Wang Shu practices architecture, and seems much more likely to nurture those tendencies that are culturally relevant, and relevant to the agenda of the school.

After Dinner Saturday, I broach the subject with Wang Shu and colleagues: a lively discussion ensues between all present. After I suggest I might be crazy for proposing such a thing, Wang Shu confirms that he is crazy too.  Red wine and tea consumed.

A long day

The critique space an hour before the review. Like most critique spaces in Asia, there is little provision for pins, acoustics, or heat. Perhaps it is an encouragement for brevity.

Arrive to an empty critique space.

Met Wang Fei (turns out I had been misspelling his name all this time). He is a little younger than I am, is practicing in Shanghai, and has taught at UNC and U of M. He is surrounded by four friends, all from Shanghai—well educated, but inexperienced as critics. Why I thought he was an old Chinese man is beyond me—perhaps it is the respectful tone that is used for all of the faculty.

The students are more late for Wang Fei’s presentation than they are for my class. Hau Ru explains that tardiness and absence are endemic to the school. In fact, he reports that my class is very well liked. I now understand that it is a high compliment that most students arrive only half an hour late. It is further explained that the Chinese, despite being subject to many rules, generally despise them, conforming only when truly necessary. It is a freeing realization: lessons for next time.

As the review begins I am in my element. At the conclusion of the first presentation, the critics are hesitant to speak. I have three distinct points based on nothing more than observation of the drawings—in the midst of silence, I simply begin speaking. My comments are translated several times, and, despite my having heard the presentation in Chinese, set the tone for the review. Wang Shu’s entry to the room draws attention and a crowd—but we simply continue the review, until Wang Shu interrupts to introduce me to the Dean. It dawns on me that any doubts I have had about what I am doing or my position here are misplaced.

Wang Shu joins the next review, translating and expounding upon my comments. In a flash, he calls for ‘Teachers Tea’: “Has Tagiuri (my friend to whom I owe this trip) told you about Teachers Tea?,” Wang Shu asks. It is a relief to have the warm cup. The review space is cavernous and unheated—I can see my breath, students gather around us closely. Wang Shu asks the students to attempt to present in English, but I protest, and the presentations proceed in Chinese—with my comments translated by the other critics. It is remarkably easy to understand the work based on drawings and body language. After several more projects, we break for lunch.

Lunch is a sea of discussions—again, I am happily in my element. Much warmth with Wang Shu, Lu Laoshi, Hau Ru and Joe, a colleague teaching another workshop. I broach my morning quandary regarding suburban mid-rises with Hau Ru—we vow to walk the subject neighborhood together—he confirms that there is no respect for the urban fabric I am concerned about. Great discussion on Foucault and the way in which his writings are framed in graduate schools. I outline the philosophy of my course, and Wang Shu confirms all of my suppositions about nutrient pollution in the adjacent stream. Addressing the larger group of critics he says, “The food here tastes good, but the materials it is made from are very poor . . . even in Hangzhou, where there is water everywhere, we do not have enough water.” Some talk of Chinese Government policy follows. I lay out my core principles: use water many times, move water slowly, disperse rather than concentrate.

We return to the hall, and the critique continues. Hau Ru and Wang Shu take their leave to attend a meeting, but the crowd remains. It is a pleasure to see more of my students’ work, and a pleasure to be able to have a high level discussion with them without employing pantomime. I talk to Wang Fei’s critics about the nature of development in China, and encourage a young woman to forgo a PHD and pursue practice.

Bus back to Nanshan and noodles in the room—attempt to make further dent in bottle of bad wine. Too tired to go out, but too restless to read. Will hopefully see Hau Ru tomorrow. Dear Friend Frank Chow comes in a week for a last minute visit.