CREJ - Building Dialogue - March 2017
“I have also thought of a model city from which I deduce all others,” Marco answered. “It is a city made only of exceptions, exclusions, incongruities, contradictions. If such a city is the most improbable, by reducing the number of abnormal elements, we increase the probability that the city really exists. So I have only to subtract exception from my model, and in whatever direction I proceed, I will arrive at one of the cities which, always as an exception, exist. But I cannot force my operation beyond a certain limit: I would achieve cities too probable to be real” Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities. One evening, while waiting on my bike for the light to change at the corner of 18th and Arapahoe, I watched a pair of tourists pause to take a photo. I turned to look at what they were trying to capture and I was surprised to see a stone staircase with a ramp woven into it, a sloped zigzag that blurred the separateness of each incline. Ironically, I was already aware of stairs like this in Barcelona, Berlin and Buenos Aires, but did not realize there was a set I passed on my daily commute. Directly in front of me was something I regarded as exotic; something that I believed would require a trip around the world to see, when, in reality, I only needed to stop and look. Every day, the brain, which is the real mechanism of vision, tackles the daunting task of distilling what is important in the world around us, a task for which it is particularly well designed. It culls what it deems distracting or unimportant, so that it can focus on the tasks ahead; the stoplight changing, the right turn in 1,000 feet, the truck in your rearview mirror. To overcome this ever-efficient filter requires pausing and making a deliberate choice of observation. This choice can prove to be as valuable and inspiring as meandering down the streets of Kathmandu. There is beauty all around us. Denver may not be Vienna or Vail, but it can stir your soul, if you pause and look. Beyond the obvious destinations, Denver rewards those who stop and take it in. With tree-lined boulevards, old houses, new houses, the rake of sunlight across City Park, the spectacular backdrop of the Rockies – Denver delivers on beauty and, particularly, in unexpected places. Though wandering the streets of our modern city, taking in the sights and sounds and mosaic of everyday life is rewarding and beautiful, people continue to travel for experiences beyond this place. How could Denver fill in the gaps, satisfy the thirst for worldly experiences and become a destination apart from its promise of snowy slopes and sunshine? How can we learn to find the beauty in our own pedestrian streets instead of someone else's? We have a tendency, perhaps some sort of innate predilection, for touching and being touched by old places and materials. We like the look and feel of aged brick and stone. We enjoy, and perhaps romanticize, the shaping, shine and irregularity of old wood. The same for cities and streets: People love the patina of Paris’s zinc rooftops and Tuscany’s narrow hill town streets built for a world before cars. The lure of the old is present even if it is experienced only through photographs and postcards. Though many enjoy the quaint farmhouse, with mossy trestle fences, rusting old plows and trees big enough for a rope swing, it is important to remember that the tree with the swing began as a sapling, the zinc was once shiny, and the wood, bricks, and stones were new. Comparatively, Denver may be young, but it need not appear shallowly constructed, with importance placed on speed over design. One common complaint leveled by those who stop and look at Denver is the homogeneity and, by design, uniformity of size, scale and character. Of course, a building does not need to be the Tower of London to contribute to the character of a neighborhood or reward the passersby with its presence. One way to add depth to the story of Denver is building with materials that age and patina. We can add exceptions, exclusions, incongruities and contradictions, and consider how our material choices to affect the light and the mood of our city. Our buildings have the capacity not only to draw in the tourist, but also to give pause to generations of Denverites. Another way to add depth to the city is to celebrate the new; it does not have to look old. Zaha Hadid’s architecture of movement and dynamic forms excites us with the possibilities of things so new they may still be from the future. Frank Lloyd Wright’s buildings, though distinctly of their time, are still used as the sets for science fiction films. Daniel Libeskind’s Hamilton Building at the Denver Art Museum marks a moment in Denver’s history; a conversation-starter by its very existence. It is clear that we travel for the new as much as the old. As we stop and observe our city, note the accent and punctuation added by modern influences. Consider how we might add more modern poetry to our practical, background prose. Much like the difference between taking a jog and listening to background music, versus actively listening for the individual instruments in a symphony, some days we may float through the cacophony of the city, paying little attention to the details, while other days, in mindful observation, we can focus in on a singular chord that catches our attention. Each building, then, is an instrument, each street a chord. Some days we listen to the modern brass, and some days we enjoy the clear tones of a single, venerable violin. This city, this Denver, can celebrate the dichotomy of old and new in symphony. Given the opportunity, many of us would take a trip around the world to experience the unknown, to see the new, the old and the unfamiliar. This “seeing,” this opening of our eyes, which is the essential component of a rewarding travel experience, could happen anywhere, anytime, even right here. A tropical beach, an ancient city or signs in a foreign language are not essential in leading us to inspiration and introspection. Inspired by the tourists photographing the staircase, I paid a visit to the writer peddling poems on a classic typewriter outside the Tattered Cover bookstore. This deliberate act of stopping, wandering and observing marked the beginning of a new attitude to Denver’s street life for me. I now make a point of regularly stopping to simply observe the city that really exists before me. I listen to the clatter of the trains and the splashing of the fountain. I smell the city first thing in the morning. Pause, look, listen. What will inspire you?