I arrived at university
facing two mandatory requirements for freshmen: we had to be able to swim twenty-five yards and we had to write English to the
faculty's satisfaction.
Swimming twenty-five yards was
not a problem for me. Convincing an English professor that I could write, however, was a
challenge.
The challenge was intensified by the fact that if you didn't
get a B in Freshman Composition the first semester, you had to take another
semester of it. The heat was on, and the heat was turned up when the
English professor failed nearly everyone's first composition.
The professor chose architecture
as the theme for the class, and we had to read a book of
architecture essays. It was the first time I had to think about
architecture in my life.
The first assignment was to write an essay
about Lever House in New York. The guy who wrote the book thought it was a marvelous
building, so my essay praised Lever House.
The guy who wrote the book
thought that the Seagram Building was uninspired, so my next essay degraded the Seagram
Building.
We were given an assignment to choose a building
on campus and write about it. Some buildings were bland; a few campus buildings were exuberant - in a style that a friend nicknamed
"nosebleed Gothic". My essay mocked one of the exuberant buildings.
I climbed from an “F”
to a “D” to a “C” to a “B”. I had convinced the professor that I knew how
to write.
When sophomore year
rolled around, it was time to choose a college major. I was torn; I
enjoyed both liberal arts and science. To help me choose, I took an
aptitude test. I was hoping the test
would point me in one direction or the other.
The test figured me out,
and suggested a career that combined both liberal arts and science: architecture. You needed liberal arts to design buildings that please the eyes; you needed science to make sure those buildings don't fall
down.
Choosing architecture as
a career was problematical: my university did not teach architecture. The
nearby art college did teach architecture, but it was a five-year course.
At that art college all the painting, ceramics, and sculpture students dressed as if they were beatniks who spent endless hours in coffeehouses discussing philosophy; the architecture students, however, dressed differently. They dressed as if they were were going to an important business meeting.
At that art college all the painting, ceramics, and sculpture students dressed as if they were beatniks who spent endless hours in coffeehouses discussing philosophy; the architecture students, however, dressed differently. They dressed as if they were were going to an important business meeting.
I did not want to attend an art college; I did not want to spend five years studying one single subject;
I did not want to figure out how to dress differently.
I did not become an
architect. But the seeds had been
planted.
Thirty-four years after
graduating from college, I was at an outdoor music festival where they announced a short architectural walking tour of the
neighborhood. I went on the tour. I noticed that the person leading
the tour was reading from note cards. These were the kind of note cards
you can buy at Walgreens.
So, I decided that I
would go to Walgreens, buy some note cards, and volunteer to be a St. Louis
walking tour guide. I went; I bought; I volunteered. I have been leading tours for thirteen years
now.
The seeds had finally sprouted,
not into an architect, but into an architectural tour guide.
- . - .- . - . - .
Why do architects insist
on dressing differently from everyone else? A 5 minute Pandemonium video:
- . - .- . - . - .
NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath. Price = $11. You can purchase a copy at http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com
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