Our new Penis

“It is said to be penile, which can only mean that there are some odd-shaped penises out there”

As an extensibility covered topic already, in variety of different media, from the news, blogs, the radio, talk shows, documentaries, public enquires, field trips, reports, general gossip, post cards, instagram, facebook, newspapers, journals, talks, lectures, whispers, poster campaigns, adverts, websites, hate campaigns, support campaigns, books, letters, walking tours, and bus tours, general fan fare and telepathy, the story of the Shard is enough covered that it need not have another joe blogger writing about it, but tuff, today I’m joe, and here it is.

To hate this building, you’ll need to shout a good resounding ‘Fuck off’, clear cut, decisive, and with resolute confidence to rumble the foundations (pun entirely intended) of this spiky spike. A polite ‘go away’ will merely dissipate onto deaf ears, and your irritations of this supposed penile giant will be forever forgotten. Even a disparaging article in the telegraph illustrating a consortium of well scribed gripes with the site is splintered by a mid article graphic showing their very own online poll suggesting their readers are in overall support of the shardy tall glass thing. Reality is, it’s a new London love affair, and theres no way of fighting it.

The biggest crime however is that this thing not only can be seen for miles, but most ghastly of all, say the English Heritage, is that it can even be seen from Hampstead Heath, god forbid. Our friends from English Heritage up hold the already widely held idea that they’re stuffy grey humpty nostalgic mufflers that seem to constantly act ruffled at the very sight of anything with an air of 21^st century. The world of English heritage is a world stuck 200 years ago. I do love a bit of nostalgia, but even better, is nostalgia riddled with a splattering of city fresh, something that chimes a brilliance of anything but the then.

With a healthy supply of bodies and comities keeping us in check, from the now unfortunately defunct CABE to national lobbyists, there’s a tiring incapacity for the policy makers to actually make any policy. Tea on they other hand they can make…Tea yes, policy no. Policy for the daring new is just a little beyond the tips of their fingers, beyond their whispers, instead it’s an open invitation for master Barrat to lay siege to the lovely and we’re left in a sort of modern day limbo, a step down from the stunning classical, three steps away from the elegant modern, and about twelve step down into architectural bollocks where Lewisham looks unpacked from an IKEA flat pack.

Whilst the Shard can arguably splinter a community of onlookers, from the haters and the admirers, to the political supporters, and the conservative poopers who wince over the numerous scout huts it could have easily have financed, it does stand as a glimmer of something brave. And that…that I like. But what of the folk that utter a consistent muttering of discontent, of those that put up with the constant hoo hah of gasps and gauping mouths, of silly plebs pointing in awe, and stuffy nosed pricks regurgitating endless anecdotes of it’s unfounded awesomeness, of it’s big leap forward to burst open the skies of the greater city of London, what of those that aren’t from the 18^th century, that still despise the white glassed frontier into the south.

There is no doubt that the sheer scale of the build undermines the cosmopolitan feel of this ancient city. The city skyline has lived with a certain rhythm that has been delicately chaperoned over the years. It’s been nurtured, moulded, burnt to a crisp, and bounded back with a character that no other city has. It screams a certain prowess that is accentuated by its quiet obedience. It hums along to the day to day activities of its inhabitancy, and delivers secrets from one street to the next, it waits patiently for it’s next visitor….it is utterly diverse, and in being so, utterly London.

On the other hand, The Shard shouts…and this seems to be brilliantly un-London, but maybe, just maybe, we're in need  of a good old shout.

This i fear, could go on for a while, so for snippets by people that know how to write, and are better informed than the whittled together shambles that is above, try the below.

Oh, and the top quote was from the Guardian too.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2012/apr/22/shard-london-bridge-irvine-sellar

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/art/architecture/9198020/The-Shard-the-only-way-is-up.html

Two hours in Victoria and this is what you get...

I’m walking around Victoria station, waiting at Charing Cross, lingering at Waterloo, sprinting up the causeway to London Bridge, drifting outside Euston, cursing my delayed train at Hither Green, yearning for shelter in the snow covered and blustery platform of Dulwich, I’m sodding bored, desperate, uninspired, emotionally shattered, and want anything other than to be peering into the WV show rooms that blight my view from Haywards Heath Railway station. One un-inspirational station to the other, they’re all different, they all have their place, and they’re all, frankly…rubbish!

There seems to be no respite from the dull drudgery that has found undisputed sanctuary around our stations. They stink of the same nothingness that is echoed in the Barrett home developments from the tips of Scotland to the seas of our southerly shores, to the…well, every Barrett home development seems to lack any sense of creativity. The word ‘new’ only seems to be chanted in their HQ when there is demand for fresh toilet rolls. As for charm in our stations, it is too few in our remaining depots and mainly to be located in the countryside and far reaching lines rather than our ringed suburbs and inner city stops which are frequented most…frequently.

This is where I’m quite confused…

 

Whilst I will heed and bow to the delights of St Pancras, glammed up for its new status as international stop point, a glitzy smooth and Sauvé entrance door to London central, it is our other grisly beasts, that while don’t have ‘international’ on their placards, play host to thousands of wide eyed travellers every day. For our international guests, it is these stations that they first lay eyes upon, it is the gateway to London and I couldn’t think of anything worse…well that’s a lie, I could think of plenty worse. Margaret Thatcher for starters, being water boarded for seconds, having your fingers chewed off by a starved mouse for thirds, buying a packed of wine gums with just green ones in for fourths…actually, maybe there are plenty more “worse” things…but then if I went on like this there would be no point to this hopefully point full blog...just a thought, loosing a company owned book on the train is pretty annoying.  

Back on the stations, there seems to be an overwhelming discouragement to have people waiting in a place that by is nature, asks you to wait. You wait for your train to arrive, wait for it leave, wait for you’re friends, your family, your colleagues, your girlfriend. You’re waiting for the faster train, the next train. You’re waiting more because a snow flake touched a near by stone…hundreds of people waiting.

So the logic of removing every chair, stall, bench, any horizontal service from knee height up that remains relatively clean, excluding coffee stained metros and old McDonalds’ cups, seems a little odd at first. But that’s just a small aggravation of an irritating repetition of unimaginative design executed by the lords of these grand warehouses. 

Trains, the journeys they took, the steam they bellowed into the roof tops, it used to be a place of wonder. Harry Potter doesn’t use an electrical, or even a magical powered train to transport him to Hogwarts, he jumps through a solid brick wall to take him to a magical hall of grand archways, Victorian brickwork, rich red carriages, and a gleaming, beastly, beautiful train that beats and shouts it’s way to its destination. It was an event! The buzz of the people about to board for their adventure away, luggage being hauled, people waving, crying, singing, falling, hugging, shouting, kissing amongst a rabble of others doing pretty much the same thing. It was a celebrated moment, and the magic shouldn’t be lost. 

It’s a still a moment to watch people arrive and depart. To see people leave forever, for a day, for a couple of hours, for holidays, work days, wedding days. But our love affair with the train, the station and the whole event has been ripped so unkindly away and we’re left with consumerist crap, from the Upper Crust, Nero, Burger King, Costa, everything that you can find every where else. 

Shame…

These places are the kings of golden opportunities, and we are most, and whole heartedly, steaming past them on our quest to be somewhere faster. Victoria station is reamed with places to have people stop and stair, to share a coffee, to linger with an old love affair, to delve into a book, to have one last lunch with a distant living brother. They scream out to host the tales you’ll one day bore your grandchildren with. Yet we allow them to host the very worst of what’s on offer…another chain store that promotes the age of the generic, and stamps in the face of the independent charm. I’m not one fore living in the past, but most adamantly not wanting to cherish the current.

How much does your building weigh Mr Esposito?

Buckminster Fuller, or Bucky to the few, once asked his under the wing compatriot of architecture, how much does your building way? Mr Foster was duly stumped by the question, but with his much envied handle on the profession he commands, within a day he was able to answer.

As an employee of Foster and Partners, I live and work in the shadow of the companies’ commander and chief with the aspiration to be as dedicated, as skilful, as phantasmagorical as he is. But after watching the film of which is entitled by the aforementioned question, I was able to answer in seconds out stripping my hero in his ability to answer so promptly. (Below is me trying to be him...poorly)

The answer was zero, the building weighs nothing because it simply does not exist. I haven’t a house to call me own, nor a rented place that I would regard as home. I’m in a state of limbo with little in the way of a positive and stable direction. With the step into the wider world from the general safety of a life of study, the requirements of moving out, finding a job, and learning the trade in the workplace is a reality for most. But London is starting to bring up some rather challenging hurdles, ones which I’m stunningly tripping over on a regular basis.

The cost of rail travel is constant metro daily number to be brought up by journalists, bloggers and commentators a like. The draining plight of the commuter, the unacceptable standards of morning rush hour, and the increasing cost to endure these daily pleasures. But it is the housing of these people that is most troubling.

Whilst the cost of travel is increasing, it is the cost of housing that is kicking me in the face, hard, over and over again, right in the face, in the nose, stamping all over it. My quest these past few months has been turned to the location of suitable accommodation where I can work rest and play, and have a couple of pennies left over for a near frozen pint of Irelands finest, a packed of Rolos, and a vegetable samosa form the those ‘local’ shops that frequent our underground stations.

But as simple as the desire for adequate accommodation at a fair price might be, the staggering rise in rented accommodation is frightful. But worse than the cost of spare rooms where you may have to remove your lifestyle from a selection of luxuries, are the spaces where the less fortunate find themselves. During my hours flicking from page to page of hovel after hovel, the reality of peoples living conditions in this ‘world leading’ city become troubling rather than frustrating.

With rooms at £70 per that offer little more than a single bed, two stoves, a sink, one cupboard and a shared bathroom in an attic, I would argue a case of there being something wrong. Now at this point I would love to offer up a solution, a joyous revolution to the housing crisis that is seeping into the city. Alas, I have nothing…

… and with all things written on staggeringly large issues, there a far wiser, smarter, and ingenious people to listen to, read about, and question than the Saturday afternoon rattling’s of a confused boy.

Twitter me this

Since the start of the new year there has been much to talk and gripe about, the blistering cold days have started to breach our wintery attire, the FTSE could still do with a stiff drink and a Viagra or two, and Prince Charles is talking. But an old fad has nestled onto my phone as a new thing to indulge in.

Twitter has led me to broaden my lust for information from the worlds of design, satire, F1, and any traveller that has a touch of wit and charm. But more unfortunately, it led me to immediately keep a distasteful watch on ‘followers’ and how this may…or as it turns out, may not grow. Apart from the steady flow of quick links to a vast array of pornographic web sites from @sexy_cindy43 who really likes my abs (I have none), the following is small, but a niche market is perfect for me. No burden on perfection, of pleasing a mass, but there was niggling desire to get a big name ReTweet, or commonly known as a RT.

So I set out in a late night task of @ing some of the big guns, but primarily Mr Fry, the national treasure, the crown jewel of QI and ultimate twitter king. But my problem was that I had nothing of interest for him to bite. I needed to create a hook, a beautifuly dressed nuanced gem, full of delight, humour, insight, intelligence, and flow all in the limited 140 characters permitted. I had nothing…nothing, not a drop of anything...and eventually this was blurted out.

“is it a myth that three the story of the three hedgehogs from Rotterdam forged their way to devils dyke in a glorious fashion?”

What was that? What was I trying to achieve…as it happened nothing was aforementioned and it was a failed task. But it led me to a new place, a new venture to pursue…what did happen to the myth of the three hedgehogs? How did they make it? Where did they stay? What tools did they use?

It’s all to follow in the next entry….until then please follow for more failed attempts of RTs @petresposito

World Architecture Festival 2011

I just returned from the World Architecture Festival, although it’s only slightly worldly, nor festival-y…it’s a conference of smartly dressed men donning the latest understated greyscale garment, infiltrated by few others...

Regardless of first impressions, there was time to enjoy the mêlée of gorgeous work presented by a unique range of characters, from the witty and charismatic, to the confused and obnoxious. A chance to watch judges challenge the architects with both piercing questions, and less so piercing questions…”Your name is BIG, why are you so small?” to which the slight and well postured defendant quickly retorted “because we’re busy”….love it.

It was a chance to meet and greet the architectural famous, to speak directly to directors, designers, critics, and commentators. It was a chance to rub shoulders, ever so gently, with a group of people that are ever so slightly trying to change the world. But this was not a political rally, nor a dogmatic affair of banners and hard hitting punch lines. There was no over riding motif of radical change, it was a collective of people who made comment, made gestures of change, or hinted at new form. Some dared a little too far into the realms of conceptual design, and some where a little too delicate and floundering. But all the work on offer had one simple, unifying property, to make the world a better place.

Now I immediately shun, or at least squint slightly at token lines such as the one just written, but without churning over reams of text to fully articulate something slightly classier and devoid of cliché, it remains a simple truth.

And with that, I share with you the link to WAF for you to explore the great mass of projects on offer, and in particular, the firm that I have a slight affiliation with, Desitecture.