I'm going to read a few strips.
These are, most of these are
from a monthly page I do
in and architecture and design magazine
called Metropolis.
And the first story is called
"The Faulty Switch."
Another beautifully designed new building
ruined by the sound of a common wall light switch.
It's fine during the day
when the main rooms are flooded with sunlight.
But at dusk
everything changes.
The architect spent hundreds of hours
designing the burnished brass switchplates
for his new office tower.
And then left it to a contractor
to install these 79-cent switches behind them.
We know instinctively where to reach
when we enter a dark room.
We automatically throw the little nub of plastic upward.
But the sound we are greeted with,
as the room is bathed in the simulated glow
of late-afternoon light,
recalls to mind
a dirty men's room
in the rear of a Greek coffee shop.
(Laughter)
This sound colors our first impression of any room;
it can't be helped.
But where does this sound,
commonly described as a click, come from?
Is it simply the byproduct of a
crude mechanical action?
Or is it an imitation
of one half the set of sounds we make
to express disappointment?
The often dental consonant
of no Indo-European language.
Or is it the amplified sound
of a synapse firing
in the brain of a cockroach?
In the 1950s they tried their best
to muffle this sound
with mercury switches
and silent knob controls.
But today these improvements
seem somehow inauthentic.
The click is the modern
triumphal clarion
proceeding us through life,
announcing our entry into every lightless room.
The sound made flicking a wall switch off
is of a completely different nature.
It has a deep melancholy ring.
Children don't like it.
It's why they leave lights on around the house. (Laughter)
Adults find it comforting.
But wouldn't it be an easy matter
to wire a wall switch
so that it triggers the muted horn of a steam ship?
Or the recorded crowing of a rooster?
Or the distant peel of thunder?
Thomas Edison went through
thousands of unlikely substances
before he came upon the right one
for the filament of his electric light bulb.
Why have we settled so quickly
for the sound of its switch?
That's the end of that.
(Applause)
The next story is called
"In Praise of the Taxpayer."
That so many of the city's most venerable taxpayers
have survived yet another commercial building boom,
is cause for celebration.
These one or two story structures,
designed to yield only enough income
to cover the taxes on the land
on which they stand,
were not meant to be permanent buildings.
Yet for one reason or another
they have confounded the efforts of developers
to be combined into lots
suitable for high-rise construction.
Although they make no claim to architectural beauty,
they are, in their perfect temporariness,
a delightful alternative
to the large-scale structures
that might someday take their place.
The most perfect examples
occupy corner lots.
They offer a pleasant respite
from the high-density development around them.
A break of light and air,
an architectural biding of time.
So buried in signage
are these structures,
that it often takes a moment
to distinguish the modern
specially constructed taxpayer
from its neighbor:
the small commercial building
from an earlier century,
whose upper floors have been sealed,
and whose groundfloor space
now functions as a taxpayer.
The few surfaces not covered by signs
are often clad in a distinctive, dark
green-gray, striated aluminum siding.
Take-out sandwich shops,
film processing drop-offs,
peep-shows and necktie stores.
Now these provisional structures have,
in some cases,
remained standing
for the better part of a human lifetime.
The temporary building
is a triumph of modern industrial organization,
a healthy sublimation
of the urge to build,
and proof that not every
architectural idea
need be set in stone.
That's the end.
(Laughter)
And the next story is called, "On the Human Lap."
For the ancient Egyptians
the lap was a platform
upon which to place
the earthly possessions of the dead --
30 cubits from foot to knee.
It was not until the 14th century
that an Italian painter
recognized the lap
as a Grecian temple,
upholstered in flesh and cloth.
Over the next 200 years
we see the infant Christ
go from a sitting to a standing position
on the Virgin's lap,
and then back again.
Every child recapitulates this ascension,
straddling one or both legs,
sitting sideways,
or leaning against the body.
From there, to the modern ventriloquist's dummy,
is but a brief moment in history.
You were late for school again this morning.
The ventriloquist must first make us believe
that a small boy is sitting on his lap.
The illusion of speech follows incidentally.
What have you got to say for yourself, Jimmy?
As adults we admire the lap
from a nostalgic distance.
We have fading memories
of that provisional temple,
erected each time an adult sat down.
On a crowded bus there was always a lap to sit on.
It is children and teenage girls
who are most keenly aware
of its architectural beauty.
They understand the structural integrity
of a deep avuncular lap,
as compared to the shaky arrangement
of a neurotic niece in high heels.
The relationship between the lap and its owner
is direct and intimate.
I envision a 36-story,
450-unit residential high-rise --
a reason to consider the mental health
of any architect before granting
an important commission.
The bathrooms and kitchens will,
of course, have no windows.
The lap of luxury
is an architectural construct of childhood,
which we seek, in vain,
as adults, to employ.
That's the end.
(Laughter)
The next story is called "The Haverpiece Collection"
A nondescript warehouse,
visible for a moment
from the northbound lanes of the Prykushko Expressway,
serves as the temporary resting place
for the Haverpiece collection
of European dried fruit.
The profound convolutions
on the surface of a dried cherry.
The foreboding sheen of an extra-large date.
Do you remember wandering as a child
through those dark wooden
storefront galleries?
Where everything was displayed
in poorly labeled roach-proof bins.
Pears dried in the form
of genital organs.
Apricot halves
like the ears of cherubim.
In 1962 the unsold stock
was purchased by Maurice Haverpiece,
a wealthy prune juice bottler,
and consolidated to form the core collection.
As an art form it lies somewhere between
still-life painting and plumbing.
Upon his death in 1967,
a quarter of the items were sold off for compote
to a high-class hotel restaurant.
(Laughter)
Unsuspecting guests were served
stewed turn-of-the-century
Turkish figs for breakfast.
(Laughter)
The rest of the collection remains here,
stored in plain brown paper bags
until funds can be raised
to build a permanent museum
and study center.
A shoe made of apricot leather
for the daughter of a czar.
That's the end. Thank you.
(Applause)