Ms. Strangelove... or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Architecture... 3/

First semester in the architecture program is a BIG eyeopener... for everyone... unless you've done this kind of thing before. Regardless if you're at ISU, MIT, Princeton, or SCI-Arch... it's a different college experience from the others... especially those outside the design and art disciplines.

First semester of the program was about introduction to the routine of studio ("formal" class was 3 days a week, 2 hours each... but WAY more hours outside of that spent working in studio on your projects) and setting up your new base... a drafting table and a corner of a studio in the ol' Design College building (what a fucking architectural disappointment that POS was... another story for another time). There was Materials and Statics (basically, fundamentals of structural analysis... which took me two tries to understand), History of Architecture, and a couple other classes. At the same time, I made a rather impulsive decision, after only a month in the dorms, rooming with a friend, to join a fraternity (Yeah, possibly more stories for other times). So, life was full of transitions, changes, and new experiences. My first studio was with Walter J. Toporek (1935-2015)... a portly, older man with a white mane... his mustache and chin hairs always stained from his pipe smoking habit... always well-dressed... even uniquely styled. He was nice and pleasant for the most part... sometimes a little too handsy (the unsolicited shoulder massages while hunched and slaving over your drafting table were... unsettling), but not a bad guy. He had his own quirkiness that you might find endearing, if you were willing to know him more. We didn't really know anything about his work, but we all kinda thought if he was here, and we hadn't heard of him before, he wasn't the next Walter Gropius. Basically, it was a semester of figuring out studio life sprinkled with some design exercises... nothing really lasted in my mind... except for the park project (but not a story significant enough to recall here).

But it was second semester, Spring 1990 that fundamentally changed my life... forever.

With a few exceptions, most of the students from that first semester returned to classes (there was always some attrition due to a variety of circumstances)... all reassigned to different studio cohorts with new instructors. By then, most of us at least knew of our fellow classmates, if we weren't on a more friendly basis. So, a new studio also meant another opportunity to forge new relationships... friendly, intimate... or adversarial.

As my newly formed squad gaily and noisily tumbled into our studio, we were met with a force sitting front and center... a force that emanated a foul mood, like the dark fumes from the perturbed characters in a Japanese manga/anime. Perched atop a studio stool, a diminutive woman engulfed in a faux fur leopard print short coat, with matching pill box hat... a pale, gaunt face emerging from the furball, framed by wisps of blonde hair, punctuated by a set of tight lips pursing a cigarette (SHE WAS SMOKING INSIDE THE BUILDING!!!! OMG!!!! AND DIDN'T HAVE ONE FUCK TO GIVE ABOUT IT!!!!), smoke streaming out like the water of a firehose after taking a deep drag. The cigarette was held between two small slender pale fingers, like talons of a raptor, able to cut you open from top to bottom or side to side with one stoke... But it was those eyes... I don't remember the actual color of her eyes at that time, as you could only glance at that face before reflexively turning away... like you had been slapped across your own cheek so hard your noggin spun on your head like a prayer wheel. Those eyes... full of anger, contempt, disapproval, disappointment... a voracity a bunch of dopey Midwestern kids could never fathom coming from an architecture instructor... ANY instructor... she was more like an interrogator, an instrument of the Spanish Inquisition, set to rip a confession from your body, while taking your soul at the same time. Who was this compact specter, this pocket wraith, this harbinger of doom for unknowing innocents? We all got really fucking quiet, really fucking fast as she just silently roosted there and intently gazed at us as we walked in and sat down. The mood quickly changed... gaiety to sobriety... bewilderment... intimidation... a touch of fear...

By the gods, what had we done?

All I can now vaguely recall from her first words on that fateful day was that her name was Natalie Fizer, she was from New York, we were her first teaching gig... and she was NOT interested in what we thought we were doing... she was going to tell us what we were going to do... her way. We were going to draw ONLY with graphite and lead holders... and CORRECTLY... no ink, PrismaColor, colored pencil, or watercolor "renderings"... as that was nonsense. We would make things, lots of things, and get our hands (and the studio) dirty... very, very, very dirty. We would be expected to be in studio if we weren't in another class, or eating... or sleeping (although, many of us spent many nights sleeping on or under our tables trying to finish projects... or sleepless, slogging through what we could get done before a crit). We would wrestle with the reality of being there and question or ability to continue the path. Yeah. So much of it is a blur now, except for that initial impression... one of intimidation... and utter terrified uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Natalie was young, only 11 years older than us dopey kids. Two degrees from Cooper Union in NYC (art history and architecture). CU had a reputation for being VERY intense and VERY difficult. It's a scholarship-only university... notorious for highly competitive admissions and balls-out, cutthroat academic performance 24-7. It graduates some of the finest minds in America and the world, across a whole swath of professions. She came to us, through her own Dorothy-to-Oz-via-tornado story... landing bewildered (and caught in the middle of Iowa without her own car... or even a drivers' license! Who needs to drive in NY? Owning a car is a bigger hassle), hidden behind a facade of anger and toughness that most unaware people equate with New Yorkers. A little bit later into the semester, we would eventually uncover that she was also wrestling with her recent divorce... a struggle that the males in our studio would bear the brunt of for a time... though not indefinitely. Her life was as complicated as ours, in many different ways, and required as much empathy and patience from us as we wanted from her. From our side, Natalie seemed to think this ragtag band of intellectual toddlers (were we Munchkins?) was NOT of CU caliber (I mean really, she wouldn't be necessarily wrong, if that were the case)... so she was going to either whip us into shape or mercifully flush us out and save everyone the time, money, and anguish of trying to become another mediocre professional architect the world didn't need.

And boy, did we learn... at least those of us that stuck around for the entire semester (again, attrition was not unusual... but her studio managed to have a high number of "casualties"). Every day she was on us... either already in studio as we staggered in... or popping in unexpectedly at nearly ANY hour if and when a few of us might be in there (heavens forbid anyone was NOT in there without a reasonable excuse). Every day she was roaming around the studio, stopping to ask each person what they were doing, how progress was coming, where did you need help... were you going to be done in time... could you do this, at all... should you even be here if you weren't up to the challenge? Ooof. As if you didn't have other classes and life's general challenges to worry about. We learned to draw... using simple graphite lead, of all grades of hardness, in an attempt to not just document our designs, but breathe life into them so they could speak for us on their own. We learned to make models of all kinds, complexities, and sizes... with materials standard and familiar, to those we'd never previously thought of using... objects, sculptures, that might even be able to stand on their own as beautiful, or intentionally ugly, pieces of art. We stretched our intellects, emotions, and very sanity at times, to answer her questions, meet her expectations, demonstrate we were potentially capable, even if not immediately worthy. We worked hard trying to impress her, coaxing some kind of positive affirmations from this serious, dour mistress. But through her persistence, the constant attention, the cajoling, sometimes berating, she made some of us discover talents we had no idea we had inside us... and soften up a bit herself.

She introduced us to what architecture could be, not just what many thought it was... that it wasn't just about "buildings". In reality, architects don't build... they only ideate and draw what they, and their clients (usually) hope to be built... but very rarely to they actually build it themselves (hats off to my design-build peeps... looking at you, Travis 😉). But that also meant architecture included designing and creating lots of different things, but from an architectural perspective... one which melds art(s) and technology(ies)... intent, expression, and experience... meaning given vs. meaning derived... the physical and the psychological... manifested in building designs, or paintings, or sculptures, or furniture, or photography, or text... or... or... We were challenged to look past the immediate physical nature of what was in our view and consider "the other", if not metaphysical, the perception, the understanding, the semantics, the semiotics of what we saw or were trying to create. But we also had to understand that even if we poured all our souls, our hearts, our minds into a creation, no one else might be able to see or interpret it themselves as a validation our process and expectations... and that was OK... IF it still inspired, it delighted, it made the viewer curious. But we also had to be prepared if it elicited an opposite reaction... and annoyance, an anger, or worse... complete indifference.

This was no cult (though sometimes our attitudes and humor could be a bit... let's say... bewildering, or annoying, to an "outsider"), but it was a holistically intense experience. Under Natalie's guidance this was like discovering a suppressed "second sight". How was something constructed? What did the colors mean? What is the quality of the light... the shadows? Why was the space configured that way? Does it touch you in some way... good or bad? Does it anger you... inspire hate? Does it make you sad? Does it bring you joy (long before Ms. Kondo)? Are you indifferent... should you be? Could you see flaws? What does it say? What does it mean? What would've you have done differently... or better? Can you see what you are doing? Would someone else be able to see it? So many questions asked.

From then on, everything you looked at, you read, you heard, you ate, you drank... every person you talked to, you befriended, you loved... everything you believed to be true... all now tainted with a new knowledge, new set of observational skills and biases, new references of measure, new expectations...

... of ourselves as much as of the world we were immersed in.

Next, Part 4. How to Love... and live with... the Bomb.