I had pretty much written Tevye off as nothing more than amusing anecdote. For two weeks I heard nothing from him. And then out of the blue he called yesterday with work! Unbeknownst to me I was in a bake-off with four other designers for an architectural client of his, and when the dust settled I was awarded the job. Unfortunately it meant another hike back into LA for a meeting this morning. Tevye is a man of few words, which ordinarily I find admirable in people. But driving 2 and a half hours for a ten minute meeting made me wish he was perhaps a bit more conversational. At least I had NPR all the way.
The job is actually perfect for me, a series of glossy ads that will run in Architectural Record. Ever since I was a child, my life's dream was to be an architect. Since the other kids on the block were vicious to me, I spent countless hours inside drawing fantastical skyscrapers and palatial homes. On my 13th birthday my parents gave me what every boy dreams of... coffee table books of the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, my idol. OK, maybe not every boy. In hindsight, that was pretty gay. It seemed my path was set and my senior year of high school I was accepted into a couple of prestigious architecture programs. I thought I'd give myself a leg up on the competition by interning afternoons in a local architect's office
And that's where the dream died.
First of all, nobody said anything about math. Not that I'm not good with math, but c'mon. The first assignment I was given was to calculate the total square cubic yards of cement that would be needed to pour all the curbs in a parking lot. What does that have to do with architecture? Where were the skyscrapers, the cathedrals, the cantilevered homes jutting out over the Hollywood Hills? Think again. Ninety eight percent of the work in architecture is total drudgery.
And then there are the architects themselves. A more depressed group of people you're unlikely to meet. Every afternoon when I came in it felt like someone was going to have to be talked in off a ledge. The most cheerless, morose group of Debbie Downers I've ever met. I took me awhile to figure it out. One day I walked into one of the architects offices and there on the wall was a stunning rendering of a church that looked vaguely familiar. "That's beautiful" I said. "Was it ever built?"
"Oh sure. Right down the street" he said.
I then made the connection to a drab, boxy church a block away. I could see a slight connection in the silhouette and some window details, but otherwise it was a mess.
"The Methodists. They ruined it".
He then added that every day he had to drive past it, and every day it was like a stab to the heart.
"Architecture is like that" he said. "Nothing but heartache."
I switched my major to graphic design.
I figured it was still very creative, the turnaround on jobs was weeks, not years, and I'd never have to drive past any of butchered designs. At least until I did movie billboards.
And years later I was able to get my Frank Lloyd Wright fix. Or at least Frank Lloyd Wright... Jr. We found a Lloyd Wright fixer up in the hills that was in horrible disrepair. The owner had inherited it from his father, the man who commissioned it, and he had rented it out for 25 years with no upkeep. Where other people wisely saw an endless money pit, I saw a jewel in the rough. We picked it up cheap and created what appeared to be a very generous budget for renovations.
The first thing you learn about owning an architectural home is they are usually beyond fucked up. Maybe it was built using unconventional or untested means. Maybe the budget ran out and sacrifices had to be made on the less showy parts like, oh, I don't, know, the ROOF. Or maybe the person who commissioned the house in the first place was a certifiable lunatic whose every erratic request had to be honored. In our case, it was all three.
Four years later, the house still wasn't done. The renovations had already cost twice our original budget and decimated our savings. When the economy tanked we were sitting ducks. And yet through it all, I still miss that house. Every screwy part of it. I guess I'll always be an architect at heart.
And at least now, one of my childhood dreams with be realized. My work will be featured on the pages of Architecture Record.
Selling ceiling tiles.
