Last Fall I had the fortune to travel twice to Boulder for weddings. September is a great month along the Front Range. I took a few photos that I that captures the peaceful mood of the place that makes it so appealing to me.
He who knows, without seeing, does not understand the mystery. Even should every detail of beauty be accounted for by the intellect, does such a tabulation lead to beauty? Is the beaut that can be neatly reckoned really profound? The scholar of aesthetics tends to base his ideas on knowledge – or rather, he tries to make seeing proceed from knowing. But this is a reversal of the natural order of things.
Sōetsu Yanagi “The Unknown Craftsman”
An enclosure, a ground, even a carpet, define a field. What is included with the field is distinguished from what is outside it, even if the elements within are heterogeneous.
Pierre Von Meiss “Elements of Architecture – From Form to Place”
In mid-February of this year I visited The Huntington Library in San Marino, California, a quaint little town north east of Los Angeles. The 500 acre estate was purchased by Henry Edwards Huntington about a century ago and currently contains a rare manuscript library, an extensive art collection and several botanical gardens and landscapes set across 120 acres. One of the most frequently visited areas is the Japanese garden. Having lived in Japan for a while prior to obtaining my Master’s Degree in Architecture, I was curious to visit this garden and see what design lessons it holds that I first experienced while abroad.
The former American Folk Art Museum is one of the finest buildings in the United States and a masterpiece by Tod Williams and Billie Tsien Architects. Sold to the Museum of Modern Art due to financial difficulty, the new owners plan to demolish the building because it contrasts with their adjacent facility. The AFAM is only about 15 years old and deserves to stand for 1500 more. Please consider signing this petition.
a poem is a city filled with streets and sewers
filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,
filled with banality and booze,
filled with rain and thunder and periods of
drought, a poem is a city at war,
a poem is a city asking a clock why,
a poem is a city burning,
a poem is a city under guns
its barbershops filled with cynical drunks,
a poem is a city where God rides naked
through the streets like Lady Godiva,
where dogs bark at night, and chase away
the flag; a poem is a city of poets,
most of them quite similar
and envious and bitter . . .
a poem is this city now,
50 miles from nowhere,
9:09 in the morning,
the taste of liquor and cigarettes,
no police, no lovers, walking the streets,
the poem, this city, closing its doors,
barricaded, almost empty,
mournful without tears, aging without pity,
the hardrock mountains,
the ocean like a lavender flame,
a moon destitute of greatness,
a small music from broken windows . . .
a poem is a city, a poem is a nation,
a poem is the world . . .
and now I stick this under glass
for the mad editor’s scrutiny,
and night is elsewhere
and faint gray ladies stand in line,
dog follows dog to estuary,
the trumpets bring on gallows
as small men rant at things
they cannot do.