Get Inspired by Architecture, #3 Start With What You Love
By Mary Rakow, Ph.D.
A friend texts this photo of a bookstore in Seoul. I love the audacity of it. The architecture saying, “Who says bookstores are dead?!” The audacious joy! It’s gorgeous! I wonder who designed it.
Online I learn it’s not a bookstore but a library in Starfield COEX, the largest underground mall in Asia. Floor to ceiling bookshelves. I read about the architecture firm. The two Principals are so different. But they both “do” architecture from what they love. We do this as writers! I read on.
Jim Olson grew up in western Washington State with its canopies of trees. He liked to make forts in the woods as a child. Tom Kundig grew up in eastern Washington with its high desert, a totally different kind of space. His work is more empty, bold. Olson comes from art. Kundig from engineering and science. They both work from what they love. But they agree on an attitude which they both bring to architecture. That architecture can be a way to make the world a better place.
We can learn from them. When we work from what we love, we can make the world better too. Here’s a 10 min interview with the two of them.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?app=desktop&v=Sj2qe4ygX8w&t=388s
It’s true in architecture and in our writing that sometimes we have to begin with the pain. We’ll look at this in a future post about the building of war memorials. But even in that situation, what one loves matters. Loss and pain are honored and sometimes transformed by architecture, as in our own writing, because we put that violence and loss into the larger context. A context of courage. Of sacrifice. Of hope.
Craig Wickersham, a reader of this blog and former client, is an architect. At the very top of his professional website he proclaims that his work is guided by what he loves. It says, “DESIGN FOR JOY.” No matter what form we’re writing, whether Sci-Fi trilogy, as in his case, or memoir, self-help book or flash piece, we can build from what we love. We can build in light of, in the service of, what we love.
If we’re writing the story we do not want to face, when we place all that is frightening into our own, singular understanding of that thing we love most, then we will write the story that we are made to write. The story that we alone can write. And by doing that, we will contribute something valuable to the world. And we will reach deep and lasting peace. And joy.
As mentioned in the Focus posts, what we love most can change. Sometimes it can build on what we loved before. Layered. And sometimes, it can involve a renunciation of what we loved deeply before.
I was reminded of the renunciation kind of change recently. That we renounce one thing we love for a greater, larger love.
I was struck by the very small display window of a tiny shop, new to this part of the city. Through the open door, I could see it was a clothing store. But what I loved is that the window had no clothing in it but a single elaborate period costume in silk. The rest, small compositions of exquisite objects with no direct relation to clothing at all. That pleased me deeply. I was stuck there for some time, staring at a very small cigarette lighter. It stood upright, very trim, about the size of a BIC lighter. Solid obsidian black with a super thin band of gold at the top. I have never smoked. But have always loved smoking accessories. I felt wistful, because the cascade of beautifully made objects I gave away over these past few years all came to mind. This silk purse, fine clock of porcelain, my diplomas, the sterling, lidded ice bucket for my beautifully appointed bar. So…that was my zone. “Wistfulness happens,” my good friend said when I first decided on this other kind of life. A life he has known for over 30 years.
The mood passed. Partly because I heard angry screaming from a woman across the street and down a few blocks. “Stop doing that!” she screamed again and gain, her arm stretched out straight ahead of her. Pedestrians looked at their shoes, crossed to the other side. Nobody knew what to do. I didn’t know either. I hoped she’d stop or turn up onto the side street. I mostly hoped whatever was tormenting her would go away. But she just got closer and closer. Louder and louder. Nobody stopped. Nobody paused. Nobody did anything. I dialed 911.
“Is it an emergency?”
“I don’t know. She’s really agitated. Maybe she needs her meds or something?”
“But is it an emergency?”
“She’s not hurting anybody. She’s not really hurting herself.”
“If it’s an emergency, then I can…”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing the ropes. And feeling even more helpless.
By now she was directly across the street. “Stop! Stop!” I was so afraid of her. But I also couldn’t walk away. I crossed the street. I didn’t know what else to do.
Hi. My name is Mary,” I said. She stopped walking. Her arm fell limp to her side. She was silent and turned. Looked right at me. At my eyes. It was so abrupt. And then I recognized her. She no longer had front teeth and her strawberry blond hair was grey and pushed under a cap. But it was her. She was so beautiful before Covid. “I remember you,” I said. “You’re Suzannah, right? I used to see you on Montgomery.”
She was so still. Something was happening. And it wasn’t a bad thing. Wasn’t something to be feared. It was something really, really good.
“Yes,” she said,” her voice at a normal pitch and calm. We just stared at each other. “It’s so good to see you again,” I leaned toward her. Because it was.
She was beautiful before. Like some actress in a that old musical “Oklahoma” with its barn dances and corn fields. Freckles on her gorgeous skin. Sometimes she was agitated, but mostly not. And never anything like this. Her body was soft now. All the agitation, gone. At least gone for this moment. In this sliver of time. Peace. A nano-second of us both coming back to who we truly are.
Perhaps by the next block, her affliction returned. Perhaps another person would know the right number to call for mental help intervention. Or she had meds at home and remembered to take them. But this moment was real.
There was the cigarette lighter. That kind of love. And there was Suzannah.
She reminded me that what I love most has changed. I was brought back from wistfulness to what I am now trying to build. To this love. She was that great gift.
Exercises:
1. What do I love most now? Does my current writing project give testimony to that love?
2. A Flash Piece: You’re meeting a stranger in the Starfield Library pictured above. It’s 5 pm. The texts have been great. You’re excited. But now, from a distance, you notice something very alarming about him/her. Nothing goes the way you expected. What happens? 200 words. Present tense. Third person. Have fun!
Note: FYI: a really informative article about flash literary journals, ‘The Top 24 Websites for Flash Fiction” ranked by website traffic.
Thanks so much for your comments, both posted and private. And huge thanks to those who send writer friends my way. It’s a huge help. Most of my clients come by word of mouth so I really appreciate it! Your friends will also receive my SFWC editing discount. More information, more exercises, etc. here: https://www.maryrakow.com
Good writing to each and all! See you next time!
Mary
© Mary Rakow, 2023
“I was brought back from wistfullness to what I am now trying to build. To this love.” Such a beautiful statement after taking me to the lovely accouterments of the ice bucket that depicted a former story. Suzannah’s face is clear. Your spirit is….
Thank you for sharing.
As someone who avoids blogs and other similar material I began reading “. . . Architecture” because the author is a friend. Much to my surprise (and pleasure) I found the topic and the way it was treated to be intriguing. When thinking of artforms I would never have included architecture. Until now.