02.12.2019
Winter weather has given me pause, enough to wipe the dust off my glasses. It's difficult to tell whether I've done something or if the Old Church looks the same as it did when I bought it. My mind and body feel sore from about 8 months of attention paid to this fossil of architecture, yet the smell of animal and abandonment linger.
Nevermind the rush for progress. I savor process.
Although, to be honest, I don't really know what I'm doing. I've been searching for answers since my first year of architecture school in 2011. At the time, this felt symptomatic of my self-doubt. It wasn't until my fourth year that I realized the opportunity embedded in not knowing. A number of variables caused me to pivot at that moment, one being an introductory sculpture class in which I read the essay "Not-knowing" by Donald Barthelme.
"Without the scanning process engendered by not-knowing, without the possibility of having the mind move in unanticipated directions, there would be no invention."
While aspiring to invention, not-knowing is, more simply, the prerequisite for learning. A lack of knowledge motivates one to know and is the origin of discovery.
In this fourth year I courted the discomforts of not-knowing. Eschewing the traps of perfectionism and universal acceptance, I spit-shined my own guiding principles. I began to understand the making of a building as an integrated process from conception to construction. The act of building reinforces the act of design. And by engaging the physical world with design sensibilities, materials themselves make up the vocabulary of design language. When confronted with a new project, a blank slate, these principles underpin how and why I proceed; they constitute my "style" as Barthelme might suggest, providing a compass for navigating the unknown -- I am the sailing vessel.
Cut to early 2018, I had spent the year and a half after graduation throwing myself at projects that resonated with my values, living with future close-friends and future not-friends while bartering for rent. I was in the midst of a cross-country road trip, funded by a University grant and a swath of generous family and friends, the aim of which was to learn from experienced design/builders and design/build educators. Having met and resonated with an architect in Trumansburg, NY, I felt inclined to secure a job that would ground me after my travels. Coincidentally located near my Alma Mater, Studio Ferrari Architecture seemed to embody the process I craved, so I was enthralled to earn a position on their team. I turned my attention toward the prospect of having my own place. I thought I might explore the option of buying a cheap house as a canvas and test ground for my attitudes toward architecture -- what the DIY community might call a fixer upper.
A quick internet search revealed few properties in my very conservative price range, I brushed over the thumbnails of a couple of vacant lots and a spooky looking building, also vacant for all intents and purposes. I scrubbed the price range to the right for kicks and found that the next tier of purchase prices was nearly triple that of the spooky building. What was that one exactly? I scrolled back and clicked on it and jokingly sent it to my friend in Buffalo, who replied "when are you buying it?"
I closed on the Old Church on May 31, 2018; however, the task of even procuring a bid was less than certain. Since I was in Tennessee preparing for the next leg of my road trip when I found the Old Church lising, I called a close friend who still lived in Ithaca to tour the property as my surrogate. He documented the structure in a way that allowed me to make sense of the floor plan and offered some wisdom that I was already anticipating -- "it's going to be a lot of work." Right-o, John. Next, I addressed the financial wall, and very soon realized its height and its heft. The local bank rejected my application for the same reason they rejected approximately 16 other requests on the same property: the building was uninhabitable.
Ultimately, I was unable to secure a traditional loan. After a month of effort, those closest to me were still urging me forward. Even my grandparents, who always consider what is best for me, endorsed my vision; moreover, they made it possible. I eagerly entered a bid with their support into a pool of 3 other prospective buyers. Considering I was probably the youngest and least financed and least experienced candidate, I didn't know how the town would receive my proposal.
I'm standing in the Old Church, struggling to make sense of the structure I've exposed, meditating on a vision of its future form without knowing exactly how to spin it. I smile, lifted by excitement, as I pitch the thousandth bag of historic church decay into the dumpster.