Introducing New Colections Home Interior Design

I'm still trying to decide if I like this house or not, but it seemed like a good practice to combine the curves, straight lines, and shadows that I've been practicing into one particular sketch. It did not come out as well as I'd hoped. In sketching it, I found the scene to be far more complicated to sketch than what I'd thought it would be.

I did rather poorly on the pool, and the arches on the right-side are laughable. My inner lines for the windows on the right are off as well. However, drawing without a ruler, compass, or any other tools, I am happy with how straight and evenly curved the structure turned out. I think the strongest part of the sketch is definitely in the left-hand side.

Our class took a field trip out to the Dallas Art's district and I got some incredible photos. I'll be sharing them as soon as I can edit them.

Here's another house by my favorite architect, Diego Villaseñor. Rocas Rojas, or "Red Rocks" is a beautiful work of art that almost appears carved from the red cliffs it crowns. In this house, he has mastered the harmonious relationship between the structure and the context of the surrounding environment.

I think the sketch came out fairly well, but as always, I can see all sorts of ways it could have been improved. Sorry for the lack of entries lately, class has really kept me busy!

This is another masterwork by Diego Villaseñor. This is at a resort in Punta Ixtapa, Mexico (click it to see a larger image), which will almost certainly be our next vacation once I am a millionare. The reason I chose this scene is because Villaseñor shows here an amazing command of simple geometric shapes, shadow, and natural elements. My mind isn't forced to comprehend anything except the view and how nice a dip in that pool would feel right about now. Just looking at this photo makes me feel more relaxed. His counters are present, such as the clay pot in the arched window, but they are subdued, and appear to belong there naturally as part of the context, rather than something contrived to simply be "different" for the sake of being different.

Anyway, here's my humble attempt at sketching his work. (click to see a larger image)

I'm learned a few more interesting things while sketching this. One is how to vary my soft, medium, and hard shadows a bit more. Another is that when you view a ceiling fan, one side will look fat, the other will look skinny, because of the angle of the blades. I never quite realized it before though in retrospect I have no idea how I could have missed it. While sketching, I spent a good deal of time wondering what was in the basket. Soap? Rocks? Bread? I eventually decided that it must be very tightly rolled towels. Considering the pool and the deck chair, that's the most logical choice.

The coup de grace, however, is the tree trunk on the left. The more I thought about it, the more brilliant it became. It is ironic, because it is a softer shape than the architecture, yet it is a dead tree. The curves and verticals beautifully transition from the floor, up the stairs towards the pool and arched window. The very idea of the dried out, dead tree makes me long for a dip in the pool. But the most brilliant part of the whole thing, that I only just now figured out is that it also acts as a convenient towel or robe rack.

Lastly, this sketch was actually one of the most challenging yet. My sketches are supposed to be freehand, so I can't use a ruler to do my straight lines with. Getting relatively straight, parallel lines, or lines at the proper angles, took many, many tries. And no project is complete without at least one mistake. While scanning this in, apparently the corner got folded up in the flatbed, which explains the white square in the lower right. All in all though, I rather like this sketch, but I love the scene.

So on our very first day of class, the Professor hands out several stacks of xeroxed architectural drawings and tells us to pick on that we like. I thumbed through them for a bit and found this one of a Shinto Shrine in Japan, by James C. Watkins. It was large enough to fill an 8.5x11 sheet of paper and very nice. I've got a soft spot for Japanese architecture, despite my ignorance of its technicalities so far. Perhaps at some point I'll get to the local Japanese Water Gardens and snap off a good photo spread for the blog. Anyway, after we'd all chosen our pictures we were instructed to grid them and then enlarge them. aCk! After I got home, it took me two hours just to grid both pages with an accurate grid. For the original, I used 0.5 inches, for the enlargement I used 0.75 inches. We were actually supposed to do 1.0 inch enlargement, but our medium was limited to 11x17, and it would have been impossible to satisfy both requirements, so I adjusted my measurement to scale. The result turned out okay, I suppose.

Not counting the two hours spent gridding the thing, the actual drawing part took me about six hours to do. I apologize for the messy scan. The enlargement had to travel rolled up and it's also so large my flatbed required two scans to get it all, then I had to reassemble it in Photoshop. But for the most part, this is what it looked like. I couldn't possibly upload the original pixel size to the blog, so I reduced the sizes to 400 width and 600 width to simulate the enlargement that took place. Of course neither will be evident from the blog post as it resizes them, you'll have to click the images to see the "actual pixel" size. Anyway, the professor was satisfied with the result and she gave me a 49/50, which is very encouraging, though now I'm wondering which of the many flaws my grid enlargement sketch actually lost me a point.

Anyway, that's all for tonight. Friday I'll post a bit about the Golden Ratio.

Architecture separates space. Before the structure, there is only the client, the environment, and space. The plan must meet the means, needs, and desires of the client. The structure must durably transcend the challenges the environment poses to achieve those ends. An engineer considers this before designing a structure. An architect makes an art of it. A great architect evolves it. Great architecture beautifully and timelessly defines space that serves both man and environment. The greatest achievements of both are as elegant in simplicity as a bowl of soup.



Architecture is not about the structure itself, but rather the space it separates. This is the primary difference between architecture and design. Design focuses on the structure, how it will appear inside and out, and its aesthetic appeal. The most beautiful house in the world can yield an ugly life. The most impressive looking office can prove an inefficient loss. The grandest church can provide an unsatisfying experience. So important is the separation of space that poor execution of it can ruin anything. The Book of Tao explains, “by the existence of things we profit, and by the non-existence of things, we are served,” (Lao-Tzu, 2:11) For instance, a bowl is not useful because of its material; a bowl made of wood will function as well as one made of gold. A bowl is not useful because of its décor; an unadorned bowl will function as well as one painted by Michelangelo. A bowl is not useful because of what it contains; a bowl may contain nearly anything that will fit within it.


What makes a bowl so useful is the hollow space that is defined and separated by the existence of the bowl itself. The space within a bowl was always there, but undefined and unusable for the purposes of holding soup until the bowl encompassed that space. A sphere might look the part of a bowl if it is only considered from above or below, but would be just as useless for holding soup as a solid half-sphere would be if the bowl were viewed from the side. What makes the bowl useful is the hollow within. One might be tempted to wonder then why most bowls are round and semi-spherical. It is because the natural use and primary function of the separated space usually determines the shape of what bounds it.


“Form ever follows function,” according to Louis H. Sullivan (Lippincott’s Magazine, March, 1896). Before the space becomes separated, the architect must consider the needs of the client. Is the space to be a home? If so, how cold is the environment in winter, and how hot are the summers? What are the physical needs of those living within it? How many will be expected to live there, and what cultural considerations must be taken into effect? How will the neighborhood lots be allocated? What about once the buying family moves out and another family moves in ten years from now? Fifty years? A hundred? A thousand?


A home is so much more than a few walls, windows, and doors. With every consideration of client, environment, means, and future needs, it is as complex as trying to figure out the end of a game of chess after only ten moves. Yet a house is probably the simplest structure to design. It is not unlike the bowl of soup. If one examines the soup bowl, it might be flattened on the bottom, to serve the need for stability. The curvature of the bowl might be roughly the same as the edge of an egg, to serve the need of using a spoon. The walls of the bowls might be about a quarter-inch thick, so as to remain thick enough to keep the hand from burning. The size of the bowl might be about the size of a hand with splayed fingers, so as to cup it comfortably from underneath.
Or, it might be none of these things if the need was for a dog’s water bowl. If the standard image of the dog’s water bowl and soup bowl were switched, both would give an overall unsatisfying experience to the user. The dog would continually knock over its water, and the human would have trouble picking up and holding the soup. If one approaches architecture first from a functional standpoint, the form becomes more naturally apparent as each fundamental need is resolved. An ascetic shrine with great consideration towards function will fulfill more than the ostentatious cathedral that forgets its reason for being.


Nature prefers order and simplicity to chaos and complexity. A spider’s web achieves uniformity not through complex equations, but because the spider uses its own body for its primary unit of measurement. Likewise, architecture has for the last few millennia relied on divisions of circles to achieve that which materials alone could not. The ubiquitous arch is beautiful in its own right, but was designed as a pragmatic solution to bear weight while conserving materials and allowing passage through a wall that separates two spaces. Arches are not beautiful because of their existence. They are beautiful because the solid wall that would otherwise be there no longer exists and a permeated one remains.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery claims, “perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.” Applying this to architecture, one may conclude that facades, columns, pediments, and arches may be well and good, but that the core of the structure should be elegant in its simplicity. Styles will come and go, owners will change hands, and the surrounding area will be renewed and rebuilt over time. Sentiment aside, what allows a building to remain a permanent part of the locale is not an overabundance of design, but rather simplicity and timelessness. Even in massive structures with gargantuan internal spaces this is the case.



I.M. Pei’s Fountain Place is a prime example of what architects for hundreds of years have been trying to achieve: height and walls made almost entirely of glass. The very shape of the thing is crystalline and gives the impression of staring at a piece of sky. A façade would ruin it. Externally, it is as near to perfection for the intentions that designed gothic cathedrals, yet internally it is an office building. Layer after layer of floors, internal walls, and supports mean that internally it lacks the perfection that the outside implies.



The Cowboy’s Stadium in Arlington, Texas, is almost the exact opposite. Externally the site is monstrous, far from beautiful. It looks like little more than a naked metal mountain from a distance. And yet, internally it achieves an empty space of such monumental proportions that it encompasses about two and a half times as much square footage as Fountain Place, with little more than a heavily supported retractable shell. Neither achieves perfection, but it is through what they lack, rather than what they have, that defines their best qualities. As regards the serving of soup, a bowl with too much material and excess makes the bowl too heavy to use, too fragile to clean, and too much trouble to do anything but sit on a shelf. For soup, what one needs more than a brazen reliquary is a simple ceramic bowl.


Ultimately, the very definition of perfection in architecture will be forever up for debate. Some will desire a perfectly environmentally conscious building that conforms to the tenant of Feng Shui, and never overcomes the beauty of nature around it. Others will need a fortress capable of withstanding all elements of nature and warfare and make the most efficient use of compartmentalization. Great architecture is the rare occurrence when perfect harmony is achieved between the desires of the client, the vision of the architect, and the needs of the future. Like a bowl of soup, it fulfills not because it is larger than life, but because it is conducive to it.

I can't help but compare Wright to Einstein. Both were once-a-generation geniuses. Both physically and ideological reshaped the world. And both had terribly disastrous personal lives. Now I have to ask myself if I even remotely had the same Spark within me, would I really want to achieve this magnitude of genius in my chosen field?

Smithsonian Magazine's June 2009 issue ran an article about Frank Lloyd Wright and his personal life. I'd never thought to look into the man himself, only his architecture. After reading the article, the comparison to Einstein seems even more poignant. Einstein too had severe marital and parental problems that were a source of scandal and infamy. And as a devoted and loyal husband and father, I cannot help but find my opinion of both men to be diminished as a result.

This is not to say I consider myself better than either man, or any man for that matter. Rather, I do not understand how Wright could have, in his own words "hated the sound of the word papa," or how Einstein could have been so cruelly unfaithful to the wife he once declared “a creature who is my equal and who is strong and independent as I am.”


Everything I do, I do for the love of my wife and child. Certainly the field of Architecture itself is my choice. But the drive to not only excel, but to be the best in my class, and eventually the pinnacle of my profession, is derived from the presence of my wife and child. I want to provide them the best life I can give them, and cannot possibly fathom sacrificing my relationship with either of them for the sake of my career. Family should not be an impediment to one's success, but a pillar of it.


I look at Frank Lloyd Wright's buildings in a new light now. Before, I saw them with the same sort of reverence and awe that one might view any work that so eloquently combines science and art. Now that he is no longer deified in my mind, I look at Falling Water, wonder if I could do better, and no longer think myself arrogant for wondering. These were not gods. These were not avatars of divine purity and perfection. They were flawed, mortal, and deeply conflicted individuals who managed to achieve great things in spite of, not because of, their inner-torments.


How much more than they could I achieve with the love and support of my family? To what greater heights could I soar? What depth of impact could my words, actions, and designs have upon the world when I approach them from a happier point of view? Anyone reading now might scoff, and perhaps even rightly so, for one to suggest they could ever reach the level of Einstein or Wright, but I say why else even enter a field? Should we hobble ourselves and claim we could never achieve even what those who came before us did, then humanity would never progressed. There would never be a Guinness Book of World Records, nor an attempt to break them. It is in our nature to meet and exceed the accomplishments of those who came before. It is in my nature to try my best.

I just have to hope that, should I be blessed, gifted, hardworking, or whatever "enough" it takes to achieve the heights of the giants, that I don't let it change who I am. Was it fame that destroyed the family life for Wright? Was it success that lured Einstein away from his wife? What is it that causes a "Genius" in one's field to completely and totally lose touch with where they came from? Was there something wrong there to begin with? Did the character flaws exist before their elevated status, or because of it? The only thing that makes me fear one day being the best is how utterly it has destroyed those who have been there before. Currently, I am a nobody, but if I ever become a somebody...or as they like to call them now, a Starchitect, I sincerely hope that I never end up like this guy...

The Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, Texas was designed by Louis Kahn, one of the more prolific and celebrated architects of the 20th century. Despite having made repeated trips to see exhibits at the Kimbell for over 20 years now, and spending years hanging out in the western courtyard with others, I had never before even considered the actual structure of the Kimbell before. Kahn's uses of parti and framing are so masterful that the eye itself is never drawn to the structure itself, rather, it is drawn to what is within and around it. It was not until I hit #74 in Matthew Frederick's 101 Things I Learned in Architecture School that I had even been exposed to the concept that it was a great architectural work. It would be like visiting the Sistine Chapel for years and never having actually looked up.

I immediately headed to the Great Buildings web page about the Kimbell and saw that, indeed, it really was impressive. More impressive even than some of the exhibits I'd seen displayed within it. I could not believe that I had never even noticed even the slightest detail of the building before. But looking at photos of a building is never as good as having gone there oneself, so I packed up the family and we drove to Fort Worth to get some good architectural photos. Note that these images aren't the standard photos of the Kimbell, but rather the aspects unique to its architectural components.

These photos are all my own personal work (except the one of me, my wife too that), and all rights are reserved. I have no problem with anyone using these photos for non-profit purposes (such as a school project) provided I am given credit for them. If, for some reason anyone has a commercial request for the photos, please contact me about rights and a higher quality resolution photo, as these have had the quality of the image scaled down for faster load times.


Flash photography is not allowed at the Kimbell, and with a digital camera, getting any good quality photos in the dark downstairs area was not possible. However, on the second floor, as I began to look for architectural qualities, what immediately struck me was how everything framed something else. This photo is of the main central hall on the second floor, from this view, the ticket counter is on the left, the gift shop is on the right, and the northern courtyard is straight ahead. Note how the arch and opening frame the view of the northern gallery, which in turn frames the view of the courtyard, which itself frames the bronze statue L'Air by Aristide Maillol. The entire museum is like this. Every angle frames something else. It is no wonder I never noticed how great a work the Kimbell itself is, because one must literally force the eyes too look somewhere besides where Kahn wants you to look, and Kahn always wants you looking somewhere besides the building.


The Kimbell features two main stairwells placed opposite one another. A few interesting points are that once again we see how the building frames everything besides itself in that the stairway frames the next stairway as well as those ascending and descending it. The travertine tile used throughout the interior reflects the light in a soft, gentle way, and the pockets and imperfections throughout each tile of the stone relieve the eyes of their need to find order. The eyes quite literally slide right off the walls and to whatever they outline. Also of note is the arch-vaulted ceilings. Anywhere two "sections" of the Kimbell can be seen at the same time, one will find a sort of almost-symmetry that utilizes the same elements over and over to reinforce the whole idea. I believe this is part one of Kahn's parti for the Kimbell. Finally, note the wood-paneled wall along the gift shop area on the right. We will revisit that in a moment.


Here Kahn's ideas of served-space and servant-space are well executed by the simplicity of materials. Served-spaces for gallery, gathering, dining, sales, etc, are all surrounded by the gentle unassuming travertine tile, making the contents and people more important than the walls themselves. In turn, the servant-space used for air conditioning, electric, plumbing, etc, is enclosed by plain gray concrete, and brushed steel or aluminum fixtures. The leisurely eye finds nothing of interest in the servant spaces, drifts towards the served-spaces, and is immediately drawn to whatever else exists within the served-space. Further, while at first glance the Kimbell seems divided by the vault in its entirety, after enough looking around I got the impression that the museum itself was more about the half-arch, half-vault, than the whole. Repeated evidence for this can be found throughout, but most notably in the curved half-arches that obfuscate the indirect-lighting system, and the fact that the majority of the exhibits will exist along opposite long-walls of the arch, but one generally only sees one wall at a time. This half-arch vault sectioning also seems in context with the almost-symmetry idea. I believe this is part two of Kahn's parti for the Kimbell.


The panelling along the gift-shop wall is actually storage space. Again, the choice of materials is gentle and unassuming. The very grain and cut of the wood is such that the eye finds it pleasing, but otherwise uninteresting. At the same time, the wood gently diffuses and reflects the harsh afternoon light coming in from the opposite (western) courtyard. It also helps to break the monotony of the travertine tile with yet another form of monotony. Here we see once more how servant-space is unobtrusive, useful, and completely dismissed by the eye unless one is actively looking for it.


Photography was not allowed in the Southern Gallery due to the active exhibit going on. They were, however, kind enough to let me photograph the southern inner-courtyard, which quickly I discovered when my not-quite-two-year-old son decided to start yelling. I'd never even realized the courtyard was there, as before I'd not had a child at all or he wasn't with me. The placement directly in the middle of the Southern Gallery space is subtle, unassuming, and easily accessed. Inside its confines is a relaxing, intimate area where one may sit and relax in contemplation, or alternately, to let your child run some of that energy off around the fountain. A couple of benches are provided, shaded by the trees overhead. And speaking of which:


Again, we see an example of how well Kahn executes servant-space. even outside. The electrical components are run along the same simple, unadorned rails through the top, allowing in sunlight. Cross-wires are provided to allow the branches of the trees to provide the most shade and spread out at rest without poking down into people's faces. Harder still to see, a simple wire mesh follows the arch along the top to prevent anything larger than a sparrow from getting in.

The cafe in the northern half of the Kimbell is what first triggered my thoughts on the half-arch, not the full-arch, being the real parti of sections. The eastern wall of the cafe is an exhibit. The northern wall, again, unimportant servant space the eyes slides off of, the western wall of the cafe overlooks the beautiful northern courtyard.


Where to begin with the northern courtyard? It is an incredible contrast of curves and lines, centrally symbolized by the curvaceous L'Air sitting upon a severe stone-block. The bending, arching trees, in turn, counterbalance the window panes. The open-air roof is again diffused by an even finer mesh that keeps out anything larger than a fly and diffuses the harsh Texas sun, even in the heat of summer. The placement of the sculpture, the trees, the bushes, and tables each provide a separation of space that is easy to navigate and semi-private, and the gentle silence and serenity is a welcome contrast to the hubbub of the main hall.


I was fortunate enough to catch the Kimbell on a day when they had already moved the previous exhibits out of the North Gallery, and had not yet set up their next upcoming exhibit. To the right is the northern courtyard. Later this served-space will be filled with paintings, sculptures, and other works of art, and photography will be disallowed. Note the floor is of the same wood grain and color as the gift-shop wall. This ever-present sense of uniformity and variation exists in every room. This should also give some idea of the importance of natural light to the Kimbell. While there are certainly spotlights and additional lighting where needed, much of the light is naturally reflected from the outside and diffused. This provides warm and even tones throughout every hall.


The space between the western courtyard and the western entrance feels like stepping from one world into another. The shading is expertly performed, as even at 4pm in the afternoon, on the western side of the building, the shade under the arched patio is dark and cool. Here, Kahn seems to play up the harsh lines and segmented rectangles as one approaches the museum, and the further one gets from the museum entrance, the less lined, less segmented, brighter, and more natural the environment becomes. The effect is quite literally night and day. Also, unable to be seen, but hopefully implied, is the second arch on the left, now obscured by the trees, creating that same sense of almost-symmetry that permeates the entire structure.


Once one steps into the treeline of the western courtyard there is no longer even paved concrete tiles to walk upon, but instead a layer of river-pebbles that give off a satisfying crunch as they are walked upon. In lieu of the traditional columns, Kahn has used trees, which provide the same separation of space, shade, and introduction to the structure. Unlike columns, however, the trees provide open air and a sense of a gradual return to nature. The river pebbles also provide an introduction to the waterworks that surround the western patio.


The western patio defines and separates space without confining it. The alternating placement of benches, far from one another allows for different clusters of people to talk privately amongst themselves while enjoying a great view on every side. The constant, but not overpowering sound of the falling water is sufficient white noise to dampen conversations that one is not a part of. The lawn is surrounded by trees in such a way that the surrounding buildings are either completely obscured or only hinted at. A bustling center of interior of downtown Fort Worth is thus transformed into a tranquil, open, intimate setting.


Last, and certainly not least, one of the most modern and least appreciated needs for any structure is that of parking for the employees. Parking is almost always a last-minute consideration, at least in the DFW Metroplex, when it should be something integrated into the very plan of the building. All too-often the beauty and elegance of a building is diminished by endless stretches of cracked, broken blacktop, or dwarfed by a ugly multi-level parking garage. Instead, here is a hidden alcove, easily accessible, yet hidden from view by the casual passerby. Unless one were specifically looking for it, it is never seen.


In conclusion, I am left feeling slightly ashamed for never before having appreciated this fine example of Kahn's work. At the same time, I get the distinct impression that Kahn would have preferred it that way. He seems to have applied the same general principles that the best CGI artists have: if you watch a movie and say "that's some great CGI work," then they have not done their job well. If you watch a movie and a CGI scene happens, and you never once realize it was computer animation, then they have mastered their craft. The Kimbell Art Museum is in much the same vein. The construction of the Kimbell is centered around focusing appreciation of what is outside the building and inside the building, but never the building itself. It is this selfless sort of architecture that makes the Kimbell such a great forum for great works of art. Thank you, Louis Kahn, for your gift.