The small-group desiging both began and ended today; we produced clay models and beautifully drawn and colored renderings of our proposals. The models were a product of our intimate research and many, many sketches. As an artist and designer, I have never felt more free, creative, liberated and stimulated. I cannot stop drawing and writing. Working with clay has been an eye opening experience. My spatial thoughts flow fluidly with the liquid earth medium. My sketches come to life and my fingers make discoveries that my mind could not articulate with words or sketches alone. The model we produced (one Russian, three Koreans, a Chinese student and I) is a complete synthesis of all our complex and diverse ideas about the site and the park that we will be building. The model would not exist as it does right now had any one of us not been present.
We started this morning by laying out all of our personal sketches. We looked for a common rhythm and flow. We had a giant lump of clay waiting for us to dig our hands into it- but we waited patiently, and tried to find our common language first. From this initial sharing, some important ideas and common desires were evident. First of all, all of our personal park design proposals had some sheltering, protective elements. The site is subject to powerful and persistent weather phenomena: strong winds, blistering temperatures (both boiling and freezing), strong sun and even stronger rain. Also evident was a need to embrace the sea. Our designs reached towards the Pacific in their own unique ways. Lastly, stone was a main material element in our proposals.
The task was daunting, but our process felt so natural and organic. With our discussion fresh in our hands, we began sketching in plan view, trying to figure out where the dominant parts of our "structure" could come out of the earth. We drew and redrew simple curvilinear lines over the site plan. The arching, fractured lines produced a circlular, inflected energy: a shell of sorts that reveals itself to the sea but creates in itself intimacy, protection and a certain level of transparency. What was missing from our original proposals was mystery and strategic ambiguity. For example, my personal design ideas Incorporated too much transparency.
I was focusing on the mountains behind the site and the ocean in front, all while trying to maintain transparency along the path that perpendicularly intersects the site. There was no mystery. Before entering the structure, most elements were visible. The act of entering was not processional. The form itself felt right: it was rooted in the earth and its curves felt responsive. As an object, it may have worked. But as an experience, as a space, it was missing something.
So the small group and I paid close attention to this need for mystery.
We pulled two of the main arched movements closer together, creating an entrance from the back (the road-side) that existed between the two curving forms. It is tight and intimate. Upon entering, a visitor would flow through it. After rounding the slight corner the structure blossoms and blushes, revealing itself to the visitor. The curves pull the visitor in, reveal the ocean- now framed between two crescent masses (both of which from that perspective, open to the sky). Above and to the left lies the pearl. It rests peacefully between the two massive curves. The two stone, earth and tiled walls reach towards the sky then bow towards each other. They never meet. Instead the pearl rests between them. The energy of these massive forms is transferred through the pearl- for it is the keystone. (the keystone is the stone in the middle of an arch, it keeps the arch from collapsing). Without the pearl, the waves crash, never to rise again: the walls could not sustain. Its placement here and its structural quality is richly symbolic. The pearl is not visible from the road; it is nestled in the top-most tip of the half arch closest to the sea, and it is below the tip of the half arch closet to the mountain-side. It is however fully visible from the path that flows through the site (a hiking trail frequented by many that encircles the whole island). The pearl is also exposed, most importantly, to the sea and the lady-divers (woman who continue with the Jeju tradition of making a living through diving for food; once they dove for pearls). They hold the most intimate knowledge of the site. Even though I have not had the opportunity to connect with the divers, my design ideas orbit around the goal of creating a space within which they can connect, a shelter that embraces the elements and sends them into the earth, rather than into the people. I hope that we are able to connect with them in the three weeks of construction and "continuous design" (a term and design philosophy that I learned from Kyle and Jim last year) that we have ahead of us. They could be the stewards of the park.
We worked collectively as a group carving, twisting and smoothing our lump of clay into the materially manifested synthesis of our personal ideas and commonly shared goals. The project is a reminder to me of the infinitely complex and beautiful work of an architect. That which must be considered when designing seems infinite- as it should, especially when designing on earth as sacred as our site. Everything must be considered. The sun, the shade, the winter wind, summer wind, the moisture, the moss, the road, the beach, the history, the sorrow, the joy, the culture, the Pacific, the building codes (?), the limitations (three weeks and a budget of some sorts (? again), the force of time. How will the land accept our park? How will it mature? What will it speak? What story will it tell? Dealing with the complexities is at the heart of this design/ build. There is nothing formulaic about the design journey we have embarked on. It is not as simple as saying: 'a strong north wind means we do this', 'traditional Jeju architecture is this, so we must...'. It is not that simple. What this week has been to me is feast (not in the way the food pictures would have you believe). I have taken in so much about the site, the culture here, the history, and the Pacific. It is only after beginning to digest all of this that we can rightfully and responsibly begin the designing. And that is what we have been doing. I am rarely referring back explicitly to the vocabulary and discoveries I had made this week. Rather, they are so deeply a part of my thoughts and feelings right now, they manifest themselves in ways so organic that I don't realize that the intimate knowledge is present until I step back and look at what I have drawn.
For example, my initial sketches described a form whose mass was centrally grounded in the earth but whose energy was sent far out to the sky and eventually back into more distant earth. Pair of splitting curves and arches kept appearing in my sketches. The arches were strong and elegant, frozen in a moment of suspended flight. I looked at one of my design proposals then flipped back through my sketch book. At the Natural History Museum, I could not take myself away from one stuffed bird. It was once a hawk or eagle of some sorts.
It was incredibly fierce and muscular, intimidating and strong- even thought it was stuffed, dead and behind glass. The wings were so gracefully articulated. Every subtle curve and massing meant something that was essential to its ability to fly. There was nothing arbitrary in the wing- yet it was complex and rich in diversity of form and texture. What was most striking was how it appeared to be both fragile and fierce. I sketched this bird, over and over. In drawing my initial design ideas, I opened up to the sketch of the site that I had drawn (I posted the sketch on the blog a few days ago). My eyes gravitated towards the dominant curves (of the land, sea, and stone wall). I pulled those curves out and let them form the skeleton of my structure. The structure became the bird, but I had "forgotten" about the bird. I did not consciously refer back to it. Rather, it had become a small piece of this intimate understanding, which although limited, is crawling out of me onto paper and into clay.
My sketches have become more free and fluid too. Drawing from life, I read the life in the stone and earth. I love drawing rocks and landscapes. My sketches try to feel the texture. From life, I typically draw with pen. Every line counts, so no lines cannot be arbitrary. I have been looking at what I am drawing more than I look at my paper. Back in our make-shift basement studio, we are given drawing challenges that are very abstract and open. These challenges have awoken something in me.
For example:
"Draw an island that is the center of a flower. The petals are the the islands of the Pacific. But the island has no petals. It is simply the center. Draw it"
"Draw what you are feeling right now about the site. use only several lines."
I feel like I am exploding with creative energy. I am so stimulated by everything: the challenges, the international energy, the stones, the green, the salt air, the ocean that I can hear right now, the languages, the food, the crosswalks, sidewalks, the paint on the roads, the layout of towns, the wood in restaurants, the way people move.... What a wonderful experience.
-mike meo
