Wicked
Seven Yrs Later are stories on change, in dialogue with Seven Yrs Ago.
It started in Harris. An auditorium of faded teal and white, it set the stage for infinite lessons memorized, but not learned, except for wicked problems. Wicked problems are conundrums so massive and elaborate that they require iteration upon iteration for each approach, so the stakes are endless, and so was a 10am class. Heads dipped and posed as we were reinformed of the revelations of the Northridge earthquake and the many methods of passive cooling (open your windows). Lectures on sound and lighting did scintillate, but they were manacles from finishing before studio, so some of us skipped a talk or ten, or casually raced out before the end, because, again—endless.
You moved through the courtyard, a small miracle of intention, as faculty crossed and students collected for morning smokes and midnight vending machine English Toffee. Vice in hand, you passed the inscrutable “art” school and descended to the basement for the real work. Behind pink double doors, Watt Hall represented architecture school in a truthful way. The open floor was game for disheveled rearrangement and the darkness covered a nocturnal populace by protecting their right to nap. Programs were dictated, but even when studio was pulled out of focus, Watt reiterated that you could extend far and deep with a design education. The evidence was in the library next door where I’d exploit the free Photoshop and sneak hi’s to the ginger behind the desk. I’d slip into the loft and draw Serpentine Pavilions and Issey Miyake pleats to reverse engineer the tectonics of first year.
Studio was established by a door in the dungeon, beautiful, but incomprehensible, instructors, and manically good TAs. My Catmates and I braved bus times across the county and strung multicolor lights at Christmas. We went all night, going in circulations, pushing it to the maxi-cure until it was x-actoly right. A sunrise signaled an omelet break at Parkside, the swanky dorm they tricked you into living in with everyone you already know. Creating tens of drawings and models a week, we were gods in the making; the eye bags made solid mortal masks. But even gods need fresh air, so we dug up to the second floor of Harris, second year.
The walls were the canvas for odorous experiments and stretched the gap to lifesaving laser cutting and the woodshop where you had to go with the grain. 4am remained the hour for next best ideas such as starting your first rendering or gluing scraps from the floor to an egg crate. The oohs and aahs over my chipboard cladding verified the hunch that design is a decision and art is an accident. Making it to third year and back to Watt rewarded you now with light. While the undergrad studios abided grimy with toil, Upper and Lower Rosendin let the hot shine in. The galleries shimmered with the maturing confidence of a masterclass, but some points do vanish in the horizon. Drifting too high, I laid down my wings and walked not with a bye, but a whisper. Accidents awaited. Years continued till Founders Park awarded degrees that diverged on the ceremonial grass.
Refeeling the blades and feathers, I take this tour because as someone in the pursuit of another happiness, I’d like to think the stops I made empowered wicked purpose. There was my predilection for perfection and my irrepressible internal clock which architecture school wound up nicely. I dared, then did, what my younger self couldn’t dream of, and while I never fantasized about fabrication, I kept the finesse to make what I want materialize. If we are though to discuss plans manmade, I have to show you our city.
For all its determination to keep you inside, architecture school urged you as much to take off. The Walt Disney Concert Hall swooped and scooped you; the Schindler House sat in repose as you waded in. The Getty sent the help to pick you up but told them to take their time since the journey is important, but the destination is audacious. You were not just a guest, but a steward of insight because you were trained to see. Then the Starline slows for Frank’s Place (no flash photography please), then at last, drops you in line for the plotter.
Between 7am and 1:59pm, the collective consciousness clumped to ensure that all you worked for would come out. There were somehow extra hands for pin-up and hoisting fragile 2-ply, the same hands that poured you drinks in Harris Courtyard because no one Balls like drunk workaholics. Chianti, sake, sangria, we went abroad for the good stuff—the privilege to survey continents, a vacation version of how it really was to move over borders and seas. Los Angeles was the first city I was unfettered by preconceptions, where I could be punky, persnickety me. When I met other individuals as committed, talented, and kind, it meant more than the world to me. It meant home. And I’ve been invited to innumerable places since, for every person houses a community, but I speculate about my original now: the go-getters hustling towards licensure, the litterateurs pushing through grad school, the fellow expats justifying the grind, and anyone else doing what won’t be categorized. Boxes need to be broken.
I didn’t say bye then because I didn’t know how, and it seems I still don’t, because a part of me never left that light. When it fell and flooded Blue Tape, I followed it to every corner, to every point of pride it instilled. So to USC Architecture: hey again, and thanks. It started with you.
This essay has been shared by USC Architecture: In the News and their newsletter.