A trip I want to tell you about that you don't want to hear...

The Start:

How do you make a factory trip to Fritz Hansen sound exciting?! I don’t have any videos to show of the automated machines pressing, pumping, cutting, painting, and sanding their products. I have little memory of the ins and outs of the detail of their product. But most of all, I fear that the end reader wouldn’t be bothered for the most part to hear of a whistle stop tour around the Danish firms production facility.

Further more, the fun, jokes, laughs and giggles came about not far and few between, but from the result of the classic ‘had to be there moments’ that then dictated the resulting and unrelenting piss taking.

But never the less, given that it was an out of the ordinary adventure for a new kid in the designery world I’ll do my best to fill in the gabs of one boring anecdote to another with tales of mystery, wit, charm, and a dabble of ridiculousness (actually this never happens) all based on the concrete reality of the two day venture to Denmark…

The Phone:

…The story starts a couple of days before when the demons at work played host to one of the least accomplished, yet successful thefts of my time. Through pure ignorance and content, I (the target) ignorantly and foolishly positioned my phone in a pocket. The evil doers and subsequently and hopefully wholly guilt ridden players targeted my ignorance and called foul play, removing what I owned from previously mentioned ‘pocket’, and allowed my materialistic position to abandon I, it’s owner, and left for the sweaty palms of it’s ill minded and dirty victor of which now claimed ownership.

It left me £150 poorer (gold insurance isn’t as golden as I thought) and without a telephone, and more importantly at this stage an alarm clock. The trip to Copenhagen was due to start at 6:20 when a taxi would deliver me to Heathrow, however through shear fear of not naturally waking up, I attempted to stay conscious for the evening, resulting in 20 minute naps for 5 hours until the hand reached 6 o’clock and I could dress myself.

The Airport:

The missing phone caused further problems once at the airport. Excited about laying eyes upon the gleaming Terminal 5, and suffering swathes of disappointment as the grandeur of the port that I was so expecting seemed never to transpire. I searched for my compatriot travellers that, according to the flight info were waiting at gate A…..or B…., D,…or G. Now as helpful information goes, and given the size of the airport, this was ridiculous, so I paid due curtsey to the automated check-in, collected my flimsy ‘ticket’ and took to security.

After being confidently groped, patted, and shouted at for numerous ill doings in my etiquette whilst attempting to navigate the removal of belts, shoes, jackets, coins, pens, more coins, paper you don’t even need to remove, passport, ticket that you mistake as rubbish, wallet, phone, i-pod, and another coin, I eventually found my group upon the plane and unsurprisingly, and very, o so very thankfully we flew without crashing to Copenhagen.

Plane lands, passports checked, bladders duly emptied, bus found, ‘pimp’ section delineated (see picture), beer opened, beer drunk, Fritz Hansen promo speech delivered, British flag spotted, factory found, bus stopped, we entered the factory for our tour.

The Whistle Stop Tour:

I had previously written a rambling smoosh of nonsensical and ultimately dull anecdotal hopelessness that should be consumed by no good person. So I’ve refrained from describing anything more, will drop a couple of photos in…and leave it at that.

Jans:

We were taken for dinner to a local foodie basement garnished with the stereotypical inhabitants of Denmark, reached the bottoms of a healthy volume of wine, and shown the door. We were then taken for drink to a local drinky basement garnished with the un-stereotypical inhabitants of Denmark, reached the bottom of an un-healthy volume of white Russians, whilst under the scrutiny of a fellow punter named Jans, offering games of tennis, rugby, and chess, whilst convincing us of his submarine selling business and in the process, looking indescribably silly. But I suppose who were we to barge into his local and claim superiority, so we indulged in his anecdotal prowess and licked up the ramblings of a drunk.

The End: 

…so that’s one of the two days…mirror the events and you can build your own idea of the second day. I’ve wasted enough your time, and can only hope that this particular entry doesn’t leave a lasting impact and it can disband from your memory in due haste.

I’m off to waste the time of cat…

(the travelling peeps having a 'casual' sunday lunch on of course, Fritz Hansen product)

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.

Whateva'

Don’t be slow, you can’t be slow, you must be fast. Faster, better, faster, stronger, better…more courageous.

You must be smarter.

Campaigns to be noticed, see me, look at me, notice me. I am better, best, the best. I am taller, broader, shorter, quicker. I am quicker than him, them, all of them. I’m more humble, gentle, and gentlemanly. Campaigns to be greater, great, the greatest. The most intelligent, witty, and fantastic. Campaigns to be there, not there, but here, here with you, in front. Campaigns to be ahead, to be in front, to be the highest, first, the winner. To win. Campaigns to win. Win the game, beat the game, be the game. Campaigns to move faster, think faster, consume faster.

Post more, tell more, share more, know more, know the most, post the most, share the most. I am the most. I am the most of everything. Campaigns to better us, to better you, to be better. Know, tell, nurture the future, you know the future. Tell, hold, and command the future. You can’t be behind, you can’t be behind, and you can not be behind.

Struggle, race, fight for the front, push for the front, battle for the front.

I’m Tired.

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

If I could write...

If I could write what I wanted to write to apply for my MA, it might have started like this…

“Dear Good Sir/Madame

I am applying to your course today because I want to know more, understand more, create more. I am desperate to be among those that know, and discover, among those that think harder and more deliberately than anyone else in the field of architecture and design. I want to take from your compatriots that what I hope they can take from me, a sense of perspective that only they or I have.

I wish to discover something within my skill set that I can offer to a greater audience, and work with others to create something unique, interesting, and ultimately…fun. I don’t yet know what this “thing” might be, and I don’t yet know how I might go about discovering what it is that I want to create. I don’t know where I will be in 12 months time, and I can’t comprehend what it is that might appear from much discussion, thought, a dabble of model making, and reams of drawings in some form of media. But I can promise you it will be comprehensive, exciting, and, wish a twist of charm, challenging….”

Like it!

Walking in the cold light of darkness that now comes into existence around the depressingly early time of before work finishes gives me a generous moment to reflect, or more accurately drift senselessly into whatever my mind feels is most comforting.

But yesterdays moment of day dreaming took me to wondering why I like things, but of course, more specifically, architectural things. You would think architecturally lovely things are typically easy to find; type in “awesome architecture” into google and you’re presented with a ream of architectural beauties, from modernist, to hyper modern, classical, post modern, big twisty computer-y things that are big, and other such glossy big giants. But then you study, and you’re told that these aren’t as lovely, amazing, super cool awesomeness that you’ve told your friends that you’ll one day create. No, you’re told that in-fact Robin Hood gardens is an impressive piece (I agree),  La Torette is a master piece (I wouldn’t have said otherwise), and anything Gaudi is stupendous (of course!). But my first feeling towards these three are, knock it down, does anyone live there, and theme park. But now I’ve read a couple of books, drawn a couple of buildings, and talked to a tutor or three, my line of though now echoes rather than rejects those lines…although Casa Batilo still troubles me.

Now this is the dilemma, or not really a dilemmae, but due to my architectural infancy in theory,  I’m going to “put it our there”. If architecture is meant for everyone, as everyone inhabits architecture in some form or another, then should it take an education on the subject to truly like or dislike it? Or does it take the most educated to be the final word on good or bad architecture. Hopefully this (not so smoothly) segues onto the commentators and critics of architecture…

When ever I look at, or experience a building I…typically stumble through the threshold and neatly forget that I should be really investigating the space I’m in. I’ll simply utilise the build for what it’s for, be it the post office, or bank, home, or work. It is really the architecture that is commentd on, criticed…or blogged about that truly grabs my attention, moreover those written by people of high stature that I find myself asking, “If they like it, shouldn’t I?” These are professors or editors with years of experience, with an ability to articulate beautifully the poetic nature of form, the ingenious resourcefulness of materials, or the brutal simplicity of function and paint which ever building that see fit in the brightest of lights….or verbally raze any creation to the ground. They talk of buildings in ways that I could have never appreciated when I was a youngling devoid of higher education. They consider the all and everything, and I would only feel the something or nothing. But to know whether or not I like it? To really know…well it’s a dam sight easier to agree with the leaders and be lead, rather than stand askew and say the opposing…

They are the lead on architectural propriety; they do not scoff, shout, or moan (omitting publications from the Telegraph) about what they have seen. They deliver considered opinion backed by the publisher their words are printed on, of which the design community laps up. But how many settle to be lead and to agree and share the view of the leaders, and who, for that first reason when they walked into a building and saw opposite to the words of their design journal, turn a shoulder, and sticks with that instinctive thought?