Late post: pic + thoughts
Trying in a slightly frantic manner to reach a reasonably finished stage with one of the plates - the one that was added after Friday's session, with a dying Johnson re-reading the brief at his desk. I'm looking at the images of one of my favourite cinematographers, Vittorio Storaro, and the paintings of Francis Bacon, whilst trying to layer the drawing so as to contain symbolic undertones that aren't too obvious. Or are they?
Also a few loose thoughts for how to frame this whole exercise:
Architecture is a matter of life and death.
Buildings are born. Buildings die. And sometimes, you die in the buildings you give birth to.
Sometimes, buildings are even born because you want to die in them.
In 1947, Philip Johnson designed a house in which to die.
Or rather: in 1945, he started to dream up the first in a collection of buildings in which to die, the most important, crown jewel building of the collection, the Glass House.
From late 1945 to November 1947, he went through at least 27, but possibly as many as 79, 'schemes and variations' for this building, the one in which he put the bed where, 58 years later, he drew his last breath.
Johnson devoted at least two full years to the architectural design of his temple. And then he kept it in its final state until the time had come. Nothing changed. (Save for a statue that went missing in Brancusi's studio in Paris). The Mies furniture remained in their meticulously planned positions; the floors were kept in their waxed, purple hue; the paintings stayed in their places. Time stood still. Waiting.
You build a house in which to die, and, in doing so, you build a house in which to wait. A house in which to live until you die. A house that will inevitably outlive yourself. A house of life and death and time and reflections and glass.
Oh, and I'm planning on calling this New Canaan Ghosts & Flowers. What do you think? Too obvious a Sonic Youth reference?
Okay, I'll slide in the text and then try and catch some sleep before the pin-up.
Also a few loose thoughts for how to frame this whole exercise:
Architecture is a matter of life and death.
Buildings are born. Buildings die. And sometimes, you die in the buildings you give birth to.
Sometimes, buildings are even born because you want to die in them.
In 1947, Philip Johnson designed a house in which to die.
Or rather: in 1945, he started to dream up the first in a collection of buildings in which to die, the most important, crown jewel building of the collection, the Glass House.
From late 1945 to November 1947, he went through at least 27, but possibly as many as 79, 'schemes and variations' for this building, the one in which he put the bed where, 58 years later, he drew his last breath.
Johnson devoted at least two full years to the architectural design of his temple. And then he kept it in its final state until the time had come. Nothing changed. (Save for a statue that went missing in Brancusi's studio in Paris). The Mies furniture remained in their meticulously planned positions; the floors were kept in their waxed, purple hue; the paintings stayed in their places. Time stood still. Waiting.
You build a house in which to die, and, in doing so, you build a house in which to wait. A house in which to live until you die. A house that will inevitably outlive yourself. A house of life and death and time and reflections and glass.
Oh, and I'm planning on calling this New Canaan Ghosts & Flowers. What do you think? Too obvious a Sonic Youth reference?
Okay, I'll slide in the text and then try and catch some sleep before the pin-up.
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