BULLSHIT.

Dear Professor,

Looking back on my previous project, I can finally say with certainty that my work makes absolutely no sense. I've always had a problem with defining the things that I make (a sort of self-opaqueness that can only, oddly, be matched by my sensitivity to the immediate environment--but correct me if I'm wrong because I seem to be making a lot of mistakes lately), and this previous project had only exacerbated my sensitivity to nonsense. What am I learning? Who am I really? And what actually matters in life? These stupid philosophical questions plague me to no end, creating the edge of a cliff over which there is nothing but uncertainty and a complete lack of control. I am forever questioning the ground upon which I work, when, for example, I am asked to design a "Meditation Space" for downtown Syracuse, when over half the population is under the poverty line and would rather be approached with jobs than some pretty artifact inside which they may be able to contemplate the joys and sorrows of life, as I seem to have the free time bought by government loans to be plenty acquainted with. 

Propelled by no less than a stressful work load, high (but unfulfilled expectations), and the sudden death of a close friend, I am by no means trying to gain pity, but am simply trying to convey my absolute sophomoric confusion at the blending of boundaries between school and life. A divided personality I am, trying to balance studio, manage Freedom by Design (where I came into office regrettably with angry predecessors and clients), working at the reading room in which I have developed no other skills than scanning barcodes, repeatedly telling students to use the one stapler that works, and notifying unfortunate freshmen that we indeed carry books on Le Corbusier. So far, my life has been an absolute joy coated in nothing but the sweetest memories of pulling all-nighters in studio (not yours, of course) to produce work that will never make it into my portfolio. (Oh yeah, and other classes? What other classes?) I feel as though I am constantly working out of my depth, because the logic that exists in my head is far too complicated to realize through the mediocre and unpracticed skillset that I have. And simplification just doesn't seem to work for me, as you may have been able to tell from the length of this email. (I'm trying really hard to remember that there are starving children in the world as I write this elongated complaint about my irreparable personality flaws.)  

But more about this specific project. For some reason, I started obsessing over the geometry of the hexagon (not because any cult-ish religious affiliations, don't you worry), but because of their sexy multi-surfaced and multi-faceted function and form (how often do you get regular geometries that actually fit on a surface without residual space?) But you were definitely right in that the project was more of a personal research in form-finding than anything that I could say, came from the particular site conditions. But how can you make the argument that something just has to work, that it's the best solution, when we don't even know how structural systems really work yet? We have a bunch of formulas that we can look up, none of them which we can apply to our design because it's always more complicated than a box. And the ones that are a box, never stay as a box because they're deemed "too boring" or "uninteresting" by different professors. And one professor likes nothing but box buildings. I find the critique culture largely unhelpful in developing anything but a thick skin in terms of weathering undeserved verbal abuse (not you, but many professors that you and I can both agree to place on this list.)

And then I have another critique, one that I brought up in an earlier class. Why is it that we are so irreparably wrong when we conduct site analysis, yet we have to pass our work off as the product of confidence and the absolute laws of the universe in order to rid ourselves of critiques on our uncertainty? Places that we deem as "ghetto" (remember that this was used by someone to describe Park Slope in Brooklyn) and "overpopulated" (used to describe the abandoned Gowanus canal area which has a highway, a dumpster, and a subway station) suddenly make decisions for us in our projects. Because we have started off with wildly inaccurate assumptions, we continue to act upon those assumptions because our work is not questioned. And when we are questioned, it feels more like a personal attack than an objective statement on the quality and accuracy of or proclaimed assessment. How can we remediate these in order to find the perfect balance between accepting criticism and not losing confidence in our work? The answer, it seems, is nonsense. When people don't understand what it is that you're doing, they would much rather nod and pretend to know what you're talking about, fill in the knowledge gaps with their own prized imaginations than question the bullshit that you put on the table. I'm wondering if this failure at communication is a common problem, or a defect specific to myself.

Maybe I should pull a Jimenez Lai and make a rectum for this next project. I think he'll quite appreciate the mimicry.

All the best,

Ruo.

P.S. Here is my favorite nude picture of Le Corbusier, just for kicks.

Chasing Shadows

There it is again. The shadow. The person that it belongs to has long since departed, but residual memories haunt me still. The memory carves ever so deeply with each recall. Uncontrollable physical responses to your lack of presence catch me off guard, and navigate my body outside of my control.

Why is my hand picking up another glass of drink?

Her name was Jessica, and I cannot say that she was my best friend (though I insist that that tag is mostly a meaningless social construction...), but I can say that she has touched my soul in ways that I still awaken to, today. Through text messages, chat logs, snapchats that were effervescent and full of your Californian optimism, I learn more and more about who you are. Who are we to believe that our generation can digest the vast amount of information we receive on a daily basis? I feel like an idiot when I've finally realized, a month since you've left, that the wallpaper on my phone was one of your drawings...Give me a couple more years to review these thoroughly. 

Sometimes, when one of your favorite songs come on, one of us would unleash the waterworks fervently and without warning. Just moments later, everyone else would match her expression, and all of us would completely shut down, regardless of how much we were laughing and joking around previously. We all weep for you, as synchronized as the best choir in the world. In this zone of collective individuality, each of us chases our individual memories with you, a love by association. A group love though recall.

Memories grow fonder with time, but they also fade into diluted, psychotic versions of what they were before. We sink deeper and deeper into the constructs of our own mind, convincing ourselves that the most recent version is the accurate version and that everything else is less than true. We intoxicate ourselves with these self-induced substances, and convince ourselves through the inebriation of our cells and the purge of salty tears to the outside world, that you are still okay. No, that's not quite right--that we are still okay.

Because there was no defining moment of tragedy on which I can pin all of my restlessness, I often find myself floating out of my body watching a blonde-headed Asian make decisions that I claim no part of.

Is my body me, or am I me?

Your situation was so differently from last year, when the girl who jumped from the window on the 6th floor splattered right in front of my window on the 1st floor. Nor do I have a roommate now who is so distraught as to scream or lose it. I think I need to lose it in order to find myself again. Can you make me feel again? I'd rather see your body than torture myself in a state of abyss and vague reconciliation. You leave me no visual to remember you by, leaving me to chase nothing but your shadow. But still, I will pick up my feet and run forward, because any action is better than standing in this quicksand of reminiscence.

Ah, everything is beginning to mix together...And yet I cannot find better words to describe myself than cheap metaphors and sickened cliches.

I lavish my belly with drinks and my mind with tasks, but a certain organ feels that its involuntary repetitive motion which has guided me since birth is suddenly little more than a chore. I am conscious of the processes that are happening to keep me alive, and wonder which of your organs had let you down in the end. What can you say? If we could keep an active dialogue with our internal selves, couldn't we then be a little more in control of our own lifespans?

Sink into sorrow. Understand the environment that is guiding your body and perceptions. Only then can you re-learn to swim. I hate to admit that your encounter was the only way for us to appreciate ourselves and the people around us. No longer self-sacrificing puppets of work, we think of ourselves as a renewed community. Through your unintentional sacrifice, you have left only hidden treasures of good feelings in your wake. I don't think everybody is capable of that, and I applaud you.

The hotfaced comfort of drink sets me at ease, but only briefly. Intensified emotions stun my tongue but my mind is finding words on its own, as my fingers struggling to document these words without disrupting their flow.

Currently on the train heading to a place conventionally called "home." But I know better now than to accept its permanence as truth.