Spaniard in Scotland

Miralles was no ordinary Spaniard. He hailed from Catalonia - a once proud kingdom whose history, I concede, I know little about, but whose fame I do have an inkling of.

Like Pugin, Miralles passed away at a considerably young age. When most would have just been coming into their own in their 40s, he had already amassed an impressive body of work and the parliament building is a testimony of his precocious ability.

The Scottish Parliament stands out and yet sits well in its context. The old tour guide who brought us around thought otherwise. He was a Scotsman. Nevertheless, for someone who'd only scaled the streets of Edinburgh (and I do mean scaled) for two days, I can't help but sense a certain connection between the old castle and the new parliament building; a raw and fierce and potent spirit resides in the two.

It's a powerful experience walking through its halls. Interestingly, the elaborate technical array that hangs from the ceiling in the debating chamber actually behaves, in principle, like a truss. More pictures at my flickr account.

Her tears like diamonds on the floor

Maybe this ain't your cup of tea, but I'll invite you to take a sip anyhow.








He's been a source of distraction the past couple of days. For someone who's achieved so much, it's surprising Rob's not a household name.





The way he speaks, the way he pens his thoughts while holding on to his cigarette oh-so-delicately, reminds me of a once avid poet by the name of Mr Jared Kok, and taken a step further, of Damien.

I share his sentiments when he confesses at 02:15 that he doesn't know anything else other than songwriting. I don't know anything else other than architecture. It's all I've got. But that also means I never have to look back and wonder 'what if...', except maybe for that one time when pap accidentally drove over Cadbury's thigh and sent him howling in agony. Alas, a Veterinarian, I am clearly not cut out to be.

I love the title of his sophomore solo album - Cradlesong. A quick google of it led from one thing to another and I stumbled upon this poem which struck a chord,

(Disclaimer: It's from the Romantic Age)

"She Was a Phantom of Delight"

She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warm, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright,
With something of angelic light.

- William Wordsworth

Summer Shows

Photography by jonolist

The postcard shot.

BD's running a series of reviews on the summer shows going on in the UK.

This is pure speculation, but I think their M.Archs take greater ownership over the exhibition because of competition. If you put yourself in their shoes, wouldn't you want to show what you've got if other M.Archs from rival schools were strutting their stuff?



My jaw dropped when I saw this pencil drawing. Now I understand what Florian meant when he referred to the spatial imagination of the Bartlett. It does look like a terribly exciting space.

Although, Barbara Ann Campbell-Lange did have this to say,

"The physical models – handmade, factory-made, rapid-formed – are exemplary (thanks in large part to a superbly equipped and run workshop) but by contrast the aesthetic tyranny of Photoshop-Studio Max-Rhino – coupled with obsessive framing – is anesthetising and one can’t help wondering if some of this print-out gloss substitutes for thinking."

A Lost World

One of the unique qualities of Dempsey is its state of transition. You've got high-end lifestyle destinations atop the hill and yet untouched history in the surrounding environs of Harding Road, Loewen Road and Ridley Park. No doubt a very idyllic setting for that occasional tea for two, it also makes good fodder for contemplative walks alone. I chanced upon this beauty while waiting for church to start last Sunday. Having explored the old barracks along Loewen Road, on impulse, I veered off the main road, trekked through a clearing and there she was.

My heart skipped a beat.

Tucked away amid dense tropical jungle, you do get the palpable sense of crossing over into another time stream; a real-life 'Bridge to Terabithia' encounter, right down to the threshold of having to cross a waterway, in this instance, a storm-drain.



The architecture stems from two periods, the consulate buildings at the front of the complex look old enough to be pre-war, whilst the newer extension at the back recall the sincere RC experiments of the 1970s. Its construction is simple and clearly expressed - utilising an age old strategy of extending the beams beyond the floor slabs thereby achieving a tectonic quality of one thing supporting another and a visual language of horizontal and vertical linearity. Closer inspection of the individual rooms reveals a sensitivity to climate and affordance. Each room is bestowed with an enchanting view of the surrounding green through sliding windows that reach from a cill height of about 600mm to the ceiling, thus creating the impression of a room enclosed by three walls and fully opened on one side - another strategy known as 'prospect', as termed by Glenn Murcutt. Even rainwater disposal gets accorded attention - a rectilinear protrusion breaks the horizontality of the roof slab and connects to a hollow square section pipe, similar in profile as the railings though of understandably larger dimensions, which then proceeds to decant rainwater into a receiving RC trough on the ground floor.



As much as the building has been lost to the onslaught of the jungle, so too has the architectural heritage that first gave it form. It is a masterful work that combines clear-headed planning, collected concrete construction, climate, comfort and controlled composition - qualities that defined the age of Peter Blundell Jones, Sonny Chan Sau Yan and Geoffrey Bawa, when schools still trained competent architects who could call the shots and inspire confidence in their clients.

To the unknown ancestor who crafted this gentle beast, I tip my hat to you.