Corrosion. Concrete. Combustion. And the indelible lessons of rust.

Carl is a very tall, scruffy-looking and kind dude that I have had the pleasure of knowing for about 10 years. We talk about a range of topics from neurology to the prettiness of asbestos, and our mutual love of vintage construction drawings.

Then there is Sam, a young man whose father reminded me that there are subtle differences in the textures and tones of Pennsylvania Bluestone, and to be aware of them

Finally, there is Patrick- a wiry Irishman who is a walking font of knowledge and can fit into places that my claustrophobic rear will not go.

Carl is my plumber. When I spoke to him last- he was at my home to replace some exterior hose bibs- he gave me a gentle reminder about galvanic action. It was the reason he had to replace my spigots. But in doing so, he also reminded me that there is a lovely textural quality to corrosion.

Sam is my mason. Without his design advice, certain spaces on the exterior of my house would not be as appealing. Besides having a seriously broad knowledge stone, he understands that craftsmanship in masonry is an art.

Patrick is my chimney sweep, who keeps me smiling with his witticisms, his distinct yet delicate dulcet Irish lilt, but mostly with his enthusiasm for the gaseous chemical and salient reactions of ‘internal’ residential combustion and a controlled raging fire.

It long been a belief of mine that learning a trade is extremely valuable. Apprenticing under people that care not only about the technical, but the aesthetic inherent in the craft of the trades, is extremely valuable with these three men.

And I would be remiss if I did not mention how fortunate I am to have Carl, Sam, and Patrick as my teachers.

Inspired by Louis Kahn’s query of brick, I use inquisition for this post with definite purpose and singular intent.

Must architecture always start with a line? No, not at all. For me, however, it usually does. This decision is not at the expense of other design commencement methods. Quite the opposite, as line, and its intense examination and rigorous inquiry, begets (necessary) paths of exploration.

By the tactile interrogation of the aforementioned line, I find that I discover the salient mysteries which are the result from the friction of charcoal or graphite as it is drawn on or dragged across a sheet of paper has left an indelible effect on the way I view the beginning of an architecture or design project.

Does line want to be a part of a section? Or, is it more appropriate for line to be a part of a floor plan as the thickness of a wall or the edge of a floor or as the separation of crafted space?

Repeating the process by sedulously drawing line over and again allows answers to become clearer, even though this inanimate object cannot ‘speak’ with a traditional audible voice.

This process is not arbitrary, though it might be argued that it is. But I do not think it is. Once ‘pencils down’ for the process has occurred, and it is time to make line an anonymous digital element (CAD or BIM), the inquiry changes trajectory. It is then that the wonder of nuance and subtlety begin to emerge.

During my personal training session last Friday, Ron- my trainer- assured me that our focus was on strengthening and toning my muscles. He told me that I was not to worry about building bulk because my stretches and exercises are targeted for building lean muscle mass, not big muscles.

Our conversation would not leave my head. I remembered a photo of Tryvanstårnet that I took while visiting Norway in 2005. Though my workout situation necessarily excludes the result of one (bulk) for the other (tone), this image causes me to contemplate the question of whether a building can be a product of both. From the perspective of an architectural massing language, that is.

As a material, I typically think of concrete as ‘bulk’. Hefty, weighty, and chunky are adjectives I use to describe its essence as an element of an architectural form. Viewing the tower from below, as I did when I captured this image, gives me pause to observe that tone and bulk are equally present. Since the majority of the project is concrete, the use of volumetric toning (base and spire), while keeping the design’s bulkiness (midsection) evident, is intriguing and thought-provoking.

*There are many photos online that depict the entirety of Tryvannstårnet, if your curiosity is piqued.

While driving north on Route 52 recently, I saw a sign. There it was. The familiar feeling of dread that I hadn’t felt since my late teens. A ‘good’ parcel of land is given up to a large residential development. But why dread? Am I not an architect? Is not this what I yearn for in my spirit? A chance to make a mark on the landscape?

With the few seconds that it took for me to choose to look away from the yellow and white-striped asphalt stretching in the proverbial one point perspective in front of me, I began to hark(en) back to a time in my life when I abhorred these signs. Were we destroying the land? My sister was convinced that I was the graffiti artist in the early 90s that spray-painted the words FREE THE LAND all over the signs dotting the landscape in my suburban section of Centerville, OH.

Many years have passed since that time, and I find myself reliving that moment whenever I make a line on a page to start a new project. Is ‘nothing’ better than finding a space to fill with ‘something’? The giddy feeling of changing the very foundation of the earth, and our perception of it, is tempered with a reminder- from my graduate school days- to explore each project with rigor and in relation to its context.

Failing to do this will lead me to doing, and ultimately romaticizing nothing.