A recent newspaper report revealed how the organisers of the Stirling prize for architecture have been accused of harbouring a bias against traditional design, contrary to public preferences. Apparently, a YouGov survey published on October 16 showed that more than three-quarters of the public prefer traditional buildings. Robert Adam, described as a prominent traditional architect, champions the public. In the same newspaper (The Guardian, Saturday October 17) is a report People Say The Building Hugged Them by Aida Edemarian.
It concerns a charity called Maggie’s, named after the late Margaret Keswick Jencks, who died of cancer. Maggie’s is a countrywide chain of advice centres for people that have been diagnosed with the disease. Chain is perhaps the wrong word to use here because it denotes a string of tacky, poorly-designed hutches built as quickly and as cheaply as possible. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
The late Margaret Jencks was married to Charles Jencks and the Maggie’s buildings have been designed and built by the most prominent architects of the day; Frank Gehry, Zaha Hadid, Richard Rogers, Piers Gough and others. The Maggie’s building that the feature is concerned with has been designed by the Richard Rogers’ firm, Rogers Sirk Harbour & Partner and is nominated for the Stirling prize.
The name of the article is a giveaway – the building hugged them - explaining the reactions of certain visitors to earlier Maggie’s centres.
My puzzlement with the ‘general public’ disdain of ‘modern’ architecture will continue as long as the general public continue to prefer so-called traditional buildings. This, I suspect, will last my lifetime.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Saturday, 10 October 2009
The Power Generation
I hear that power bills may rise by 60% in the next decade. This is because of Britain’s dwindling gas supply, and the costs of buying in fuels from abroad. There are alternatives, wind power, solar and so on, but implementing them will cost, and those costs will be added onto our bills. Even so, we can expect frequent power outages on our overloaded system. The future augurs bleak for most of us, especially those on low to moderate incomes. How could this have happened?
In 1976, I followed a series on television called House Of The Future. It was what we now call a reality show, wherein a group of people renovate an old house to make power efficient, with wall insulation, water recycling plant and – surprise, surprise! solar panels on the roof. It was perfectly possible then for household to generate their own power, and it is perfectly possibly now, using photovoltaic panels, to generate enough power to sell the surplus to the National Grid. Ye gods, we don’t plan to fail, but may have failed to plan.
A generation ago, legislators had a glorious opportunity to ensure that all homes were built with solar panels. By now we should see them a feature as mundane as walls, and windows and timbered floors. But no legislation ever went through. Since them, homes have become enormously expensive. Solar panels are still seen as an added extra with builders forecasting even higher prices if they are added at building stage.
However, we are all wise enough to know that house prices are not affected by physical features so much as ‘location’ and overall market forces. Indeed, it is because house prices are so high that solar panels should be fitted to all new homes – a boon to people on low incomes. Here, I repeat what I wrote about failing to plan and wonder – will someone else be writing a column similar to this in thirty years’ time?
In 1976, I followed a series on television called House Of The Future. It was what we now call a reality show, wherein a group of people renovate an old house to make power efficient, with wall insulation, water recycling plant and – surprise, surprise! solar panels on the roof. It was perfectly possible then for household to generate their own power, and it is perfectly possibly now, using photovoltaic panels, to generate enough power to sell the surplus to the National Grid. Ye gods, we don’t plan to fail, but may have failed to plan.
A generation ago, legislators had a glorious opportunity to ensure that all homes were built with solar panels. By now we should see them a feature as mundane as walls, and windows and timbered floors. But no legislation ever went through. Since them, homes have become enormously expensive. Solar panels are still seen as an added extra with builders forecasting even higher prices if they are added at building stage.
However, we are all wise enough to know that house prices are not affected by physical features so much as ‘location’ and overall market forces. Indeed, it is because house prices are so high that solar panels should be fitted to all new homes – a boon to people on low incomes. Here, I repeat what I wrote about failing to plan and wonder – will someone else be writing a column similar to this in thirty years’ time?
Thursday, 24 September 2009
The tyranny of the tie
Earlier this year, for the final weeks of The Apprentice television contest, the pretty features of contender Kate Walsh were underpinned by a tie, not a fashionably feminised one, but one that would not have looked out of place with a male ensemble of suit and shirt. Later on, during the summer’s hot spell, a City employee complained about his firm’s discriminatory policy, namely that men were bound to wear collars and ties at all times, whereas women did not have to.
In 2002, BBC newsreader Peter Sissons came in for censure when he didn’t wear a black tie to announce the death of the Queen Mum. Gordon Brown was accused of ‘bad manners’ in 1997, when as new Chancellor of the Exchequer, he failed to dress appropriately for a black tie affair at the Stock Exchange.
What is it about the neck and shoulder area of the male – equivalent to the leg zone in females – that causes so much contention and is it a coincidence that the hangman’s noose and the serfs’ collar attach themselves to the same area? In the nineteenth century, a middle-class male tied a large floppy bow about a stiff, white collar. By the twentieth century, this had morphed into the necktie that we know today. As well as adding the finishing touch to male dress, ties are often used as badges of identity. Attendees of exclusive schools hang onto their uniform ties and air them at formal reunions. Engendering this sense of belonging and subsequent networking, along with the wearing of ties, are seen as male traits. So, what was Kate Walsh trying to tell us?
In the early twentieth century, various ‘liberation’ movements gave rise to the new woman, a creature that had the right to work alongside a man, to go to school and be seen as his equal. To denote her male status, the new woman put on a tie. A century later, female school uniforms still incorporate ties – I actually wore one. By wearing a tie, the new woman was endowed with a capacity to think intellectually, and when at work to subsume her thoughts and ideas from individual pursuits into those of her corporation.
One century later, women have won the right to put their necks into the same noose that has ever been provided for men. And this brings me back to Kate Walsh. She didn’t win this year’s Apprentice. That honour went to non-tie wearing Yasmina Siadatthan. Kate is now pursuing a television career.
In 2002, BBC newsreader Peter Sissons came in for censure when he didn’t wear a black tie to announce the death of the Queen Mum. Gordon Brown was accused of ‘bad manners’ in 1997, when as new Chancellor of the Exchequer, he failed to dress appropriately for a black tie affair at the Stock Exchange.
What is it about the neck and shoulder area of the male – equivalent to the leg zone in females – that causes so much contention and is it a coincidence that the hangman’s noose and the serfs’ collar attach themselves to the same area? In the nineteenth century, a middle-class male tied a large floppy bow about a stiff, white collar. By the twentieth century, this had morphed into the necktie that we know today. As well as adding the finishing touch to male dress, ties are often used as badges of identity. Attendees of exclusive schools hang onto their uniform ties and air them at formal reunions. Engendering this sense of belonging and subsequent networking, along with the wearing of ties, are seen as male traits. So, what was Kate Walsh trying to tell us?
In the early twentieth century, various ‘liberation’ movements gave rise to the new woman, a creature that had the right to work alongside a man, to go to school and be seen as his equal. To denote her male status, the new woman put on a tie. A century later, female school uniforms still incorporate ties – I actually wore one. By wearing a tie, the new woman was endowed with a capacity to think intellectually, and when at work to subsume her thoughts and ideas from individual pursuits into those of her corporation.
One century later, women have won the right to put their necks into the same noose that has ever been provided for men. And this brings me back to Kate Walsh. She didn’t win this year’s Apprentice. That honour went to non-tie wearing Yasmina Siadatthan. Kate is now pursuing a television career.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Leg zone or battle zone?
It is a commonly accepted thing that female fashion is always changing, and that women are obliged to go with the trend, or else be deemed second-class citizenry. I don’t know if this has anything to do with an extraordinary event involving me, a decade and a half, ago.
I had been made redundant and was dutifully doing the round of employment agencies. To mark the occasion and to counter the frightful weather at the time, I kitted me out in navy wool jacket and brand-new, ultra-conservative black Alexon trousers, teamed with flat, black shoes. I looked every inch – I thought – the creative professional hunting for the perfect position. One spring afternoon, during yet another agency interview, a chippy female recruitment consultant told me that I might increase my chances of employment if I was to wear a skirt.
When I had recovered my surprise, I pointed out the necessity of dressing for the weather, for serial pavement pounding, and the importance of not eroding one’s redundancy pile purchasing fripperies such as nylon tights. She waved my arguments away, insisting that the non-show of leg, from knee to ankle, greatly lessened a girl’s chances of worthwhile employment. When she had finished speaking, my interviewer stood up and moved from behind her desk to reveal her feet in slippers; not the elegant, heeled kind but the good, old carpet variety with fur about the rims – what was this? Comfort for her, and pain and suffering for me.
I stared pointedly at them, trying to cause her as much discomfort as possible, in return for the put-down she had thrown at me. I still gag at the surreality of the situation and of her argument, especially when I now see a tidal wave of women going to work in comfortable, sensible garments. I have lost touch with corporate employment and sincerely hope those days are over forever – but I’m not sexist. My next feature will be on the subject of that male manacle, the collar and tie. I promise.
I had been made redundant and was dutifully doing the round of employment agencies. To mark the occasion and to counter the frightful weather at the time, I kitted me out in navy wool jacket and brand-new, ultra-conservative black Alexon trousers, teamed with flat, black shoes. I looked every inch – I thought – the creative professional hunting for the perfect position. One spring afternoon, during yet another agency interview, a chippy female recruitment consultant told me that I might increase my chances of employment if I was to wear a skirt.
When I had recovered my surprise, I pointed out the necessity of dressing for the weather, for serial pavement pounding, and the importance of not eroding one’s redundancy pile purchasing fripperies such as nylon tights. She waved my arguments away, insisting that the non-show of leg, from knee to ankle, greatly lessened a girl’s chances of worthwhile employment. When she had finished speaking, my interviewer stood up and moved from behind her desk to reveal her feet in slippers; not the elegant, heeled kind but the good, old carpet variety with fur about the rims – what was this? Comfort for her, and pain and suffering for me.
I stared pointedly at them, trying to cause her as much discomfort as possible, in return for the put-down she had thrown at me. I still gag at the surreality of the situation and of her argument, especially when I now see a tidal wave of women going to work in comfortable, sensible garments. I have lost touch with corporate employment and sincerely hope those days are over forever – but I’m not sexist. My next feature will be on the subject of that male manacle, the collar and tie. I promise.
Monday, 7 September 2009
The externalising entity that is the emoticon
For many years, I have drawn a little ‘face’, i.e., a circle, with dots and an arc for eyes and mouth respectively, beside entries in the notebook that I always carry with me – vital for anecdotes from other writers, sudden insights of my own, and simple reminders of things to do. When I am in a happy frame of mind, the arc points are turned upwards, gloomy and down they go. When I am perplexed or puzzled, I draw a wiggle for a mouth, with the orbs of the eyes pointing in a different direction. Sometimes I give my face a strand of hair or two, and sometimes I don’t.
Aeons down the line, I find that there is an exotic word for my little faces: the emoticon. It is what it sounds like, a pictorial device to externalise excess emotion that cannot be better expressed in words – hardly surprising. What is surprising, though, is that according to my sources, the emoticon dates from the nineteenth century.
NEVER!
The emoticon is as ancient as mankind. What about those masks, Comedy and Tragedy, used by the Greeks? These are only a few thousand years old, but do not tell me such sophisticated devices were the first of their kind. From bored monastic scribes drawing cartoons in the columns of their codexes, to The Scream by Edvard Munch, to the ubiquitous smiley – and frowny – face, the emoticon has had a long and chequered history. This way of externalising has grown ever easier, what with entire sites devoted to supplying emoticons for downloading. But my most beloved babies will always be the ones I have given rise to with my own fair hands.
Long may they live.
Aeons down the line, I find that there is an exotic word for my little faces: the emoticon. It is what it sounds like, a pictorial device to externalise excess emotion that cannot be better expressed in words – hardly surprising. What is surprising, though, is that according to my sources, the emoticon dates from the nineteenth century.
NEVER!
The emoticon is as ancient as mankind. What about those masks, Comedy and Tragedy, used by the Greeks? These are only a few thousand years old, but do not tell me such sophisticated devices were the first of their kind. From bored monastic scribes drawing cartoons in the columns of their codexes, to The Scream by Edvard Munch, to the ubiquitous smiley – and frowny – face, the emoticon has had a long and chequered history. This way of externalising has grown ever easier, what with entire sites devoted to supplying emoticons for downloading. But my most beloved babies will always be the ones I have given rise to with my own fair hands.
Long may they live.
Thursday, 3 September 2009
In dreams, we drive.
There is a television advertisement for a car – the make and model escapes me – and every time that I see it, I squeal aloud: that’s a piece of genius!
In this ad, there is no driving at all, no self-conscious male winning himself an alluring female by having the most fashionable motor on the block, no Mum piling her school-going kids into and out of her sturdy vehicle – no. In this montage, the vehicle has been carved into its components; door, bumper, engine, and so on. Each part has been transformed into a musical instrument, and each instrument is being played by a spooky little chamber orchestra, the idea being that if you own this vehicle, you’ll never lack harmony in your life. Aaaah!
The car is a consumer durable that strikes me as awesome within the confines of a telly advertisement, and as being crap in a line-up of honking, stinking similar vehicles on a public road. Why do advertisers show their Volvos/Audis/Porsches speeding on deserted motorways, through open countryside, with never another driver in sight? Of course, there is never a speck of rust, or smear of oil in view, never a whiff of petrol fume or the hint of a flat tyre. My response to this ‘carnography’ is my desire to place a brand-new, motoring dream-machine on a revolving pedestal, and to keep it there, undriven, forever.
In this ad, there is no driving at all, no self-conscious male winning himself an alluring female by having the most fashionable motor on the block, no Mum piling her school-going kids into and out of her sturdy vehicle – no. In this montage, the vehicle has been carved into its components; door, bumper, engine, and so on. Each part has been transformed into a musical instrument, and each instrument is being played by a spooky little chamber orchestra, the idea being that if you own this vehicle, you’ll never lack harmony in your life. Aaaah!
The car is a consumer durable that strikes me as awesome within the confines of a telly advertisement, and as being crap in a line-up of honking, stinking similar vehicles on a public road. Why do advertisers show their Volvos/Audis/Porsches speeding on deserted motorways, through open countryside, with never another driver in sight? Of course, there is never a speck of rust, or smear of oil in view, never a whiff of petrol fume or the hint of a flat tyre. My response to this ‘carnography’ is my desire to place a brand-new, motoring dream-machine on a revolving pedestal, and to keep it there, undriven, forever.
Sunday, 23 August 2009
Vital Vidal
Seven years ago, I bought a Vidal Sassoon hairdryer for the princely sum of £12.99; 1800 watts, folding handle, 2 heat/speed settings, worldwide dual voltage, cool shot button, 2-year guarantee. Seven years down the line, it is still in perfect running order. In all the time I have had it, it has never given any trouble; coughed, spluttered or conked out while in use. Indeed, its lack of temper and even temperament is in direct opposition to the hank of hair that it routinely grooms.
Compact and streamlined, the brand name emblazoned in plain, white lettering on its shiny black casing, using it is rather like being in the company of one of those maddeningly well-spoken, ex-public school kids who never err, whether by word, deed, or gesture. How you long to see these scions of the well-to-do betray emotion, sprout dishevelled hair and effect slurred speech, just for once.
I am certain that these people have vices. Indeed, I know it. Yet somehow, they keep their private personae just that, private. Maybe that is the essence of good breeding? Meanwhile I have my hairdryer for company – and example.
Compact and streamlined, the brand name emblazoned in plain, white lettering on its shiny black casing, using it is rather like being in the company of one of those maddeningly well-spoken, ex-public school kids who never err, whether by word, deed, or gesture. How you long to see these scions of the well-to-do betray emotion, sprout dishevelled hair and effect slurred speech, just for once.
I am certain that these people have vices. Indeed, I know it. Yet somehow, they keep their private personae just that, private. Maybe that is the essence of good breeding? Meanwhile I have my hairdryer for company – and example.
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