More on Barcelona

I arrive here by magic. Barcelona: the name jangles heavy in my throat, laden with expectation.

Awash in the sensual possibility of Gaudi, I scribble: don’t take convention for an answer. Write stories like Gaudi and poems like Gaga; disrupt and redefine and have boundless confidence. Hang chain from the ceiling to locate architectural stress points: stop hammering away at physics formulas.

Why shouldn’t every door handle be crafted lovingly for the human hand? Why shouldn’t every courtyard creep to the roof in a mosaic of undulating underwater blues? Seats contoured to the spine, rooms with adjustable folding partitions and stained glass different from every angle, windows of different sizes and orientations to best distribute the light of day: the Gaudi houses are truly made for human beings. They appeal to our senses, to our bodies and imaginations. They note our caprices and oblige them, rather than demanding that we sink subhuman to adjust to a shapeless, characterless box of concrete.

Why is this such a unique idea? Most people live and work in buildings. People, then, should be our primary concern when constructing buildings, no? All we do is slap up more concrete boxes, to minimize materials and maximize building profits. Why have we forgotten the wisdom in the hanok, the wigwam, the Spanish courtyard? There are too many of us, and comfort is expensive. Better a concrete box than a cardboard one, right?

It takes thought to design, effort to produce, and conscientious concern to maintain comfort. I understand that Gaudi’s details are expensive, but I don’t grasp why we all go so quietly along with the idea that everyday dignity and humanity are only promised to the wealthy.

Average people should be comfortable and happy in the spaces where they work and live. Artistic detail thrills us, color delights us, design inspires us. This is not frivolity chipping away at the bottom line: this is the difference between living like chattel and living like people.

The only limitations that exist are the ones we recognize. We are lulled into mediocrity by the conventions and habits we submit to. We can do better than concrete boxes - there must be an efficient way to deliver Gaudi-style concern for the physical and spiritual needs of humans outside the circumstance of extreme personal wealth.

And even if it isn’t efficient, we should do it!

(The pipe dreams of fruitcake.)

Can I get a hanok high-rise?

Seoul’s skyline is crowned by a jagged sweep of cranes. Many are employed in the construction or reconstruction of ugly, anonymous buildings designed for pure utility. These behemoth boxes of concrete have been thrown up overnight, every night, for more than fifty years. Within them thrive an incredible diversity and density of commercial, industrial, and residential life. Such practicality of form seems appropriate for chasing Miracles on the Han, but it doesn’t make for beautiful architecture.

Korean structures didn’t always sacrifice form for function. Traditional hanok houses were built to be both beautiful and practical. Constructed of stone, wood, paper, tile, and soil, these houses were designed not only to provide shelter but to subtly accommodate seasonal shift. Ondol heated floors in winter, cool shade and paper-shuttered windows thrown wide open in the summer; hanok architecture used natural materials and smart design to ensure comfort all year round.

Hanok are lovely. Outside they sweep and arch to nestle the horizon’s mountains, and inside they curl to hug sweet courtyards pond-wet and dark under kiwa roofs. Last week I toured one kept as a sort of hotel room for wealthy visitors.

I was charmed by the effortless union of old and new. Bronze cookware stood stacked on richly lacquered tables beside a miniature refrigerator and dishwasher. Storage space hid behind sliding rice paper panels concealed a vacuum cleaner and department store bags of swag.

Everything modern was tucked away or tastefully integrated into the ancient and traditional. I imagined the reverse, some quaint traditional handicrafts worked into a thoroughly contemporary complex of brushed nickel and glass, and the effect seemed no where near so pleasant.

I've seen similar juxtapositions feel forced or confused. I had the sensation that this place was self-assured, never boastful, and perfectly comfortable.

Does the Miracle still demand pure practicality? Korea is so advanced that beauty should be something architects can at last afford to remember.