Origami

It is supposed to be fun and exciting, using our professional talents in such a personal way.  I am an interior designer by education; I spent twelve years working in commercial design and architecture, another twelve years after that managing the process. He’s the owner operator of his 28-year-old remodeling business.  Between us we have 52 years of  experience. 

Designing and building an addition for our house should be a seamless, efficient process; something we can do in our sleep. And yet, we’re in the eighth month of design and we’re still pushing pencil on paper.  Literally. I think I might lose my mind.  Why is this so hard?

There have been several times over the course of this project that I have questioned whether we should continue.  As more and more road blocks are thrown in front of us, I wonder if a divine messenger is trying to tell us this is a bad idea, or if we’re meant to persevere despite the challenges we encounter.  I’ve asked myself if this is truly our dream or if we are making it our dream because it seems like it’s what we are supposed to do.

 

Alan Moore, in his book, “Do/Design: Why beauty is the key to everything” is bringing some clarity, showing me, in actuality, I am fighting the very design process I claim to know and love. There is no doubt I am in a hurry.  I moved out of my house and put the majority of my belongings in storage ten months ago.  I lost my art studio in the process, and the current living situation affords little space to spread out, surround myself with my tools and inspiration, and create.  

Living in the Midwest means our construction window is dictated by Mother Nature.  As the grass greens, flowers bloom and die off, as June drifts into July, I am fearful our window will close before the first shovel is pushed into the ground.  I know I should be embracing all the planning.  Instead I’m fixated on getting it done.

 

We are, for the most part, aligned on what “it” is, how we want this new space to look, but how it will all come together can’t be seen yet.  He knows instinctively what will happen in terms of constructability, and I know instinctively what will happen in terms of finishes, but neither of us knows exactly. We need the help of some experts versed in building codes and calculations to assist. Yet we’re perennially confounded and frustrated by the fact that they don’t seem to understand us. We’ve told them what we’re looking for in their vernacular, and in as many different words as we have available to us. We’ve sketched ideas with pen and trace.  We’ve resorted to redrawing portions on our own computer-aided design program.  We’ve gone so far as to use white-out (I know). What we’re really asking for is some unconventional design, we’re asking our experts to change their mindset, to think outside of the box. We are pushing boundaries, but we’re supposed to be in order to bring our vision to life.

 

It's easier and faster to simply go along with the first ideas presented to us.  In the name of speed and a bit of impatient desperation, this is my default position.  I’ll make it work, I tell myself, whatever it is.  Let’s just get it done.  He is the master of his trade and I have, at times, underestimated the strength of his vision. I have misinterpreted his curiosity and persistent questioning of the conventional, chalking it up to a mere difference in philosophy.

He is willing to create conflict in the name of achieving his vision. He is willing to cut ties mid-stream and find a more like-minded expert to take us to the finish.  He knows we need to surround ourselves with those who are open to our vision and willing to share it, even if it means abandoning their own. I don’t show it very well, but I am grateful for his relentless pursuit to be heard, and the courage he invokes to challenge and make a change in favor of what he knows can be done. To cite an example in Moore’s book, if our home addition were a piece of paper, it was doomed to be a simple paper airplane that would never fly. Now it has the opportunity to be folded into a beautiful and graceful bird. Our thing of beauty.

It’s leading to some painful consequences and a protracted timeline that feel a lot like failure. But again, this is the essence of design.  We are going through an iterative process of sharing ideas, talking about them and either enriching them or tossing them out. It’s this constant working of the form that brings what’s in our mind’s eye to the surface.

 

I experience this in sketching class.  In front of an impossibly challenging sculpture, foreshortened arms and legs coming at me, I am furiously flipping fresh pages of newsprint. The charcoal glides across the page, first in thin, light lines, progressing to heavy, dark marks when I’m reasonably sure I have the proportions right. Somehow an image emerges from this fervent application, the working of the form.  Two hours go by in an instant and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself the entire time.  

How do I put myself in this same place as we work on the design of what will become our place?

As a kid I dabbled in the Japanese art of folding paper. If you skip a step or make sloppy folds you end up with something less than the beautiful piece of art you envision. I know firsthand it takes time, patience and precision to create beauty. The divine messenger tells me so.