Concrete Utopia, 2004/Essay von Susanne Schindler

My other car is a Ferrari. I don’t really own a Ferrari, but if I could, I would. Or rather: You would be looking at it now, and that car wouldn’t need any bumper stickers. Yes, it’s a positive take on life, somehow. A merry way to deal with potentialities. To imagine the things that could be, while including all that is. By sticking that thing on the car I do own, I’m giving it a slap on it’s little back side. This is it. I love you too.

He couldn’t have made it, I know, he was too outspoken, his rash temper eventually disquali- fied him for running for highest office. Howard Dean for America. But he was the one who said what he saw. Opened his mouth. Bring the troops home. Health care for all. Kerry Edwards. A stronger America. In time, yes, I grew to like John and John. But for all their middle-of-the-road electibility, they really didn’t get their message across. In a twist of reality, windsurfing beca- me an elitists’ sport while running an oil business qualified as a popular pastime. In the end, I admit, I was most disturbed by the fact that I had believed they would win. Feeding the poor is the first step to peace. There is no more room for bumper stickers on this car. Fuck the car. Wear the scar.

The most recent addition to the world of bumper stickers is the yellow ribbon. It is not a ac- tually a sticker, a permanent addition to your vehicle. It is a magnetic piece of material, thin enough to adapt to the curvature of your car. The yellow ribbon it depicts demonstrates your support of the troops. There is no writing on it, it’s just a yellow band. Like the little pieces of red ribbon held together with a safety pin on one’s lapel, worn to show support for victims of AIDS. Scaled proportionally to be seen on the road. The message seems so clear. And yet, the fact that it can, at any time, be moved or removed without a trace, undermines just that. In my other life, it seems to say, I fight for liberty and freedom. But don’t let that mess up my car.

T. wants to build, not draw. T. wants to leave a trace in this world, get things done. Mess with politicians, developers. Users, too, if need be. T. doesn’t talk about design, or architecture, though talking is what T. does best. T. talks about efficiency. By taking the client seriously, T. says, by taking economics seriously, the firm will arrive at a better product than by designing according to an aesthetic principle. Planning first, T. likes to say, aesthetics later. Inevitable, that is what T. believes a project should be. Show the economic logic, and you’ll win over any client. T. does not believe there can be architecture without a client. There is no architecture for architecture’s sake. At home, in his back yard, T. has installed a French garden. The lawn requires continuous attention.

When he hears that the parliament building of Bangladesh is to be featured for only a few minutes in the film “My Architect”, the man almost breaks into tears, then channels his asto- nishment into some of the most convincing words ever spoken in support of architecture. This building has brought democracy. This building has enabled a new civic order to grow. This buil- ding is the most important contribution your father has made. The son, having searched for traces of his father throughout the making of this film, finally understands. His father hadn’t built before the age of fifty.

C. had just proposed a subliminal reading of the profession, of subconscious elements influen- cing choices, had suggested, in fact, a structural similarity between the architect being spoken about and a certain psychologist. C. had observed them while presenting the paper. X. hadn’t once looked up, shaking his head continuously while jotting notes down on a pad. Y. had turned towards the corridor, directing his gaze toward the ceiling, leather shoe tapping against the next chair over. Z., at least, was able to articulate his aggression. Z. shouts: How does practice meet theory? C. responds that theory itself is design, theory is speculation, and therefore theo- ry is always linked to practice. Z. insists: The real building, the built form. Isn’t this the starting point? The meeting is adjourned.

It has become somewhat of an obsession. M. checks whether “M.” shows up at the top of the list of results in the online search. It has been, and yes, M. has been happy about it. It means that M. can be identified with M.’s work, at a glance. And it means that many people have been linking to M.’s name. Recently, however, someone who happens to have the same name appears almost as frequently as he does. Unfortunately, this other person not only shares M.’s name, but works in the same field. M. is concerned. M. does not want to be confused with the other M’s work, nor does he want the other M. to take credit for M.’s accomplishments. M. tries to concentrate on the work at hand. But he knows it’s all only worth the number of links that point to it. M. used to be amused by people who signed up their goldfish on Friendster. Truth created by popularity. M. feels ill. Will the Real Slim shady please stand up?

So what has changed? A. had always said that the European city where he was selling vegetables was supposed to be only an intermediate step between A.’s home country and where A. was actually headed. When it became clear that A. would most likely never make it there, the idea still kept him going. Plan B had always provided a certain comfort. Certainly, a lot to dislike, fat people, superficial acquaintances, ridiculous waste, of course, needless to say. And yet: the land of the free, the land of the brave, the land of plenty. The place to shed your skin, reinvent your story, and give yourself a different name. Now, now that nothing is as it was before, what had been an option for so long, has suddenly vanished. A sobering, not entirely negative experience. Plan B no more. America. Being a perpetual alternative is, in a way, what had been its purpose.

The film tells the story of a failed marriage. Five key episodes are arranged back to front: divorce, domestic life, birth of a child, marriage, first encounter. S. watches the film intently, looking for that one reason, the one problem, which must have been there from the start, unre- solved, leading, inevitably, to the end. When the film ends at the beginning with the two lovers swimming into the sunset, S. still has not found the one reason for the relationship to have failed. One scene in particular replays in S.’s mind: As she leaves the hotel room where they have gone at his request, after the divorce is finalized, she insists: “C’est simplement fini”. It is the same line that she had said when they first met, referring then to her previous relationship. S. understands that the film is not at all about what could have been. It is simply about what is.

[2014: Susanne Schindler ist Architektin und Autorin in Princeton, NJ und arbeitet zur Schnittstelle von Politik und Entwurf im Wohnungsbau.]