The joys and sorrows of work...

Unhappy in your current job? Feel like your creative potential is not tapped into?... That your career is not allowing you to flourish and become who you really are?

Before you quit your job and join the hordes of North-European backpackers in saving the world, read this short story. I hope it may offer some consolation on a hot Friday evening, while you diligently draft away that toilet-wall detail into AutoCAD's black oblivion...

The joys and sorrows of work...

I’m calling a well known number: 9-5. In certain countries of the world, a mere thought of these two numbers will get people sighing deeply. In others, dialling the same number prompts an automated voice to tell you current local time – precise to the second. I live in the second bunch.

It is also one of the few numbers that work here.

The phone rings once.

- It’s 11 o’clock 23 minutes, 5 seconds.

The female voice hangs up.

I’m irritated by having been hanged up on. A robot shouldn’t hang up on people. I dial again. 9 followed by five, making sure I don’t dial a four or a six instead (police and emergency or something, I can’t remember).

The female voice is on again.

- It’s 11 o’clock 24 minutes, 7 seconds.

The voice hangs up again. It doesn’t sound quite as I would imagine a female android to sound. I’m curious. 9 – 5 again.

- It’s 11 o’clock 24 minutes, 59 seconds. Click. Beep-beep...

Sound of grenades exploding is heard in the distance. There is a war here after all. Nine – Five.

It rings twice this time.

- 11 o’clock 26 minutes, 6 seconds. Click. Beep...

This automated voice starts to sound ever more agitated. Robots don’t have feelings. 9.5.

- 11 o’clock 26 minutes, 57 seconds. The voice stutters a bit then pauses.

- Hellooo! Are you suuure?!

- Fuck off you little bastard! And stop calling here lest I come and stick this receiver as far up your butt and teach you to bother people. Oh God, what have I done to deserve this, to sit here all day and...Click!...Beep-beep...

Another grenade is heard. Much closer this time. Someone’s dead, no doubt.

I go up to see my best buddy – Eddie and tell him all about my phone conversation with a time teller. We may call again later, for fun.

School’s been out for a whole year, yet adults had never ceased to amaze us...

By Z.Basic

9-5

Most young architects (especially graduates) will complain about the bulk of their working hours spent on tedious drafting, endless days in front of that dreaded three-letter acronym known as CAD. It appears to be intrinsic to this profession.

Sure, we all wanted to be next Fran Gehry or better, if you're like one guy who studied architecture with me. "I'll show them all!" he proclaimed in a moment of megalomanic outburst while gulping down his fifth coke of the night and starring into black-screen abyss of CAD. But soon enough came the first job after graduation and the disapointments struck. Disapoitments that we were told about during Uni but thinking about which we always put off 'till later. After all we were busy dreaming away and spending night after night on making those dreams a reality, albeit only on paper. We struggled with that too, as our designes kept changing till the day, hour even, the presentation was due...

Engineers and others more rooted in "reality", were probably less shocked. They never spent their nights trying to make sense of subjects as disparate as literature, structure, sociology, fashion, economics and law, and combinging their insights into coherent design presentations, all while being told to learn and use as many software applications as possible. They were preoccupied with more practical concerns, such improving sensitivity of surface infrared spectroscopy or optimising the performance based method of structural topology. Things that multinational companies paid them handsomely for, in their first years of professional work.

For graduate architects this sudden change was particularly hard. It has prompted many of these CAD monkeys, as they are known in the industry into leaving their jobs in search of more elusive "creative" pursuits, thinking that they have somehow made a wrong career choice, even to the point of questioning the whole point of architecture etc. Some have grown increasingly insecure, something that makes me wonder about world's suicide rates among young architects.

This is where the architect - the idealist entered the world of the engineer - the realist.

Specialisation is inherent in the world society has created. Open any job site and you will be entering the world of obsure jobs agencies offering career progression, creative outlet, recognition etc. Positions such as statutory planner, financial analyst, corporate copywriter, or assistant cost estimator - residential projects up to $500, or Software solution architect specialing in SAP. That reminds me, even terrorists are labled architects nowdays. But that's another story. The point is that It was always inevitable this kind of work arrangement would occur in a globalised market economy (the 'free' market society as it's known).

In our pursuits of worldy gains, when the politicans think of economic growth with ever bigger zeal, when international competition and resource grab is reaching new hights, it is only logical that this trend will continue. Specialisation will become only more pronounced. Who was once a CAD operator in a firm specialising in hospitals, will become a REVIT 2011 (a certain brand of software) CAD operator specialising in dental surgery projects between $1 and $2 M. And to add insult to injury, they will need a good 5-10 year excperience in this field, locking them in the "field" forever (or until a newer version comes out). What consequences this may have to architecture will be discussed in another article.

What is obvious is that this is only the beginning of the death of the generalist...

To offer some consolation, however, I have written a short story based on my own experiences, as a 13-year old in Bosnia at the peak of the war that ravaged that country. Perhaps after reading it you will manage to find some pride, if not megalomanic ambition, in starring at that damned black screen.

There are after all worse things than drafting up a 2.4 metre high toilet wall made of timber studs and plasterboard...

Little men, big pyramids...

SBS Television (Australia) recently aired "Uncle Sam and the Bosnian Dream", a documentary about a Bosnian-American man called Semir Osmanagic, and his "discovery" of pyramids in the heart of Bosnia and Herzegovina.

This poem is about men such as Semir, their exploatition of a wounded land and its people, shaken with a recent war. It's also about war criminals of whom many are still at large, who have in their own ruthless ways managed to cast a spell on neighbours and friends, communities that have for hundreds of years depended on one another.

Rather than physical objects, pyramids of Bosnia are a symbol of manipulation people of this region have endured and continue to endure to this day. They are a symbol of petty criminals, profiteers and war mongers.

Bosnian Pyramids

Your people have fought

Like two French lovers,

Quarrelled over lunch and

At dinner made up again.

And while you looked away

In those moments of despair,

Little men have come

To tell your people proud,

To write a history

That will tell the world aloud:

Thy is the oldest nation

Never mind the present moment,

Ignore the sorrows!

And dig the burrows!

Grab the history for its sake

Lest they say - they are fake!

Pay no heed to the

World around you

To your waters, air and soils

With your toils dig on further.

Until you find


Yourself in there...

by Z. Basic

A different tour of Melbourne...Part 1

Melbourne, known as the Victorian city par excellence, its streets lined with an eclectic mix of late 19th Century buildings, an array of glass towers and more recent architectural experiments...

The usual tour of Australia's first capital will start at Fed Square. A hop on a tram will take the new arrival up Flinders Street and around to Parliament building, through Carlton and its Royal Exhibition Building, Australia's only UNESCO-listed built structure. It will then stop by some churches, cathedrals and so on. The usual stuff. The visitor will no doubt unwind in serenity of the Botanical gardens, and imagine a more Romantic time, a times when the Wurundjeri tribe camped around the old River Red Gum, standing proud among the tiny preserved patch of native grassland by the cafe.

The tourist will see Melbourne that was shaped by European settlers' yearn for their distant homes, great buildings with intricate facades and nothing behind them (there wont be John Wayne on hand to complete the film set). A few will wonder on technological marvel of corporate towers (not if they are Asian) made possible by an old mustachioed Sicilian guy by the name of Grollo. The more curious souls will ask themselves what that weird green and purple building is. Some joke perhaps?

Anyway.

Chances are you come from a place where you can see all of that anyway. And it is probably much older, bigger, higher etc. It may have been damaged in a previous war, rebuilt, extended, had its owners changed...

If you are local, then you really need to read further.

To go and do the above would not do justice to the city. Instead try these itineraries that really make Melbourne what it is today: Worlds "most livable city". For this trip you will need a Bike or (for the more adventurous urban hikers) a sturdy pair of shoes, perseverance and a mountain of self-confidence. A car is not recommended.

You may occasionally want to hop on a local bus and join the lonely driver of south European origin (or Wog as they are known here), couple of teenagers, recent arrivals from the Horn of Africa, and a local Greek grandma in black.

After all, there is nothing deceptive about distances in this part of the world.

City to Footscray via Footsray Road

Start your way in the City on Collins Street's southern end. Cross the bridge into Docklands. Marvel for a few minutes at what greed and human stupidity can do. Take a few deep breaths as this will be the final time you breath is composed of a high proportion of Oxygen. You'll find in a moment, Melbourne as you've known it finishes abruptly here.

Welcome to the real world. The world of giant warehouses where you can fit 20 jumbo jets. The world of container cities, gigantic cranes and oil tankers. And the supporting service industry composed of seemingly mobile, though in reality, quite permanently docked - Kebab Shops.

And labour.

Slowly make your way along Footscray Road. Listen. Observe. This is Melbourne.


Footscray

Real fun starts here. You are now entering Footscray. A short detour to Barkley Street is OK. They say you will find best Kebabs in the southern hemisphere here. While you wait on that perfect Lamb Shish admire the central plaza which was recently "rejuvenated", although nature seems to be reclaiming it faster than local politicians would like...

Footscray is a mixture of equal parts Addis Ababa and Saigon, with some imaginative adaptations of Victorian terraced-buildings. By definition this place is very un-Australian, yet it is probably the only place in Australia that lives this countries' motto, quite to the bone.

Make sure to find your way back to Whitehall street, past an array of Petrol Stations, Car repair shops, car dealers, and a lone nondescript furniture store with the ad proudly proclaiming "new arrivals", though upon closer inspection it's obvious that nothing in there could have been in existence for less than 30 years.

Don't be afraid by locals' outfits. The most common deaths here can be attributed to an occasional gas leak in the Yarraville terminal or poisoning due to digestion of its namesake river, if you were keen for that quick skinny-dip at river's mouth near Williamstown at dusk.


West Gate Bridge and Yarraville

Now that you're here, it means you have successfully acclimatised to the peculiarities of the local micro-climate. You are managing the odours of Hydrochloric Sulphur like a Soviet and breathing the fumes from articulated lorries like it's Sassafras on the Dandenong Ranges.

Turn left at Whitehall Street and into Trucking lane galore towards Francis Street. Explore little side streets that offer glimpses of the Yarra River where you may catch a sight of the Shanghai Express, a mere 321 metre long vessel from the Great Athens of China, along with its 80,000 tonnes of cargo of containers packed with LCD TV's, sports goods, toys and clothes, all destined for shops of Melbourne, Ballarat and Greater Bendigo.

Nearby, Ming and his two Chinese businessmen mates inquire about directions to the port: Ming proudly declares that his ship is docked there. The trio's pleasant smile and unlikely dress for this environment (suits and ties) is understandable. They know very well what has made cities like Melbourne so prosperous. They are seasoned citizens of the less-glamorous parts of town, not afraid to stretch their legs and see for themselves the fruits of their labour (and money), in action.

Using the West Gate Bridge as point of reference, and keeping as close to shore as the factories allow, proceed to walk right under it, by the plaque built in memory of the 35 construction workers bearing names such as Tsihilidis, Boscolo and O'Brian, who died building a dream of planners from across the river. Their spirit lives on here, among the egg-shaped gas containers, in the shadow of this great structure, that's not sung about, not written of at length in the Lonely Planet, whose headquarters are - incidentally - a walking distance away from here, on the shores of the neighbouring Marrybyrnong River...




Please check back, next time, as we continue our journey from Yarraville, via Altona and Point Cook, to our final destination, the Werribee Sewage Treatment Plant, where we'll try to make some sense of the mess that is Melbourne...

Judging architectural design - Part 1

Well, if you're like that guy from the poem, that's easy - you'll "dig those concrete stairs".

But what if you're not into smooth-textured concrete? Is there really an objective measure of architectural designs' worth (no pun intended to the real estate valuers)?

Throughout history architects have tried to create objective systems for design of buildings. Vitruvius and Renaissance architects with their application of golden section, and more recently Le Corbusier via his Modulor. All were guided by rational principles, systems for standardising disparate architectural elements and "problems" of proportion. Systems that would unify design and create harmonious cityscapes.

While the older examples were restricted with what they could do with design (gravity), churning out unifrmed cityscapes indeed, Le Corbusier had more his disposal: free-flowing forms of reinforced concrete in copious quantities, as well as other technological wonders of modern age. Yet Corb too got carried away with finding perfect proportions, in endless calculations and ambiguous assumptions, perhaps realising the futility of this exercise in the process.

It's no wonder that many a student from places as far flung as Kuala Lumpur's University of Technologi to Melbourne's RMIT still struggle with these ideas. Naturally, their design proposals reduce the guy known as Modulor to an imprint on an external precast wall. What else could you do with a stylized image of a person who's hardly a perfect specimen anyway (French male and 175 cm tall with extraordinarily large spatular hands)?


The systems such as the Modulor or the Golden section really reduce architecture to a mere two-dimensional shape. They bring to architecture compositional order from domain of fine arts such as painting. Yet we know that architecture is not just a building's face viewed on paper in its abstract topographic layouts (plans, elevations etc). It is experienced in space with all our five senses, with time and reflection. It is part of a bigger context and lives whose identities it helps to shape.

In other words design of buildings is more akin to fashion than it is to fine arts. And hence it also more prone to mass consumption and marketing strategies, to bad taste and general public disinterest to it. After all majority of people really don't give a damn about fashion either. Yet just like we need to be clothed (and feel good wearing those clothes), we also need (good) architecture.

This is where the plot really starts to thicken: The judgement of architectural aesthetic is really based less on rational criteria, but rather on more intangible, intuitive perception. You don't get up in the morning and when putting your clothes on, apply the golden section or the Modulor to guide the composition of the fabrics covering your body, or even to judge others' looks.

While one must recognise the objective criteria, and these usually to deal with project's response to need and functionality, subjective aesthetic tastes are key in perceiving architectural design. Hence we are often at a loss of why certain projects win architectural competition and others, seemingly more innovative and polished, end up as wall decorations in losing architects' offices. Hopefully there will be more democratic architectural competitions in the future where citizens themselves could participate in choosing winners of public buildings.

Architects don't have a monopoly on knowing what constitutes good design, but (in a perfect world) are trained in marrying this gap between (their clients') subjective taste and objective rationale and design needs.

As I always say, architecture is a mirror of society, so in a truly democratic society it should naturally reflect people's own tastes.

Or to use a gross generalisation, when these two clash, we have bad architecture.