Imagine the lunacy we would experience if all artists forget the superior importance of their work for the ephemeral empty presence of their names? We would be obliged to refer to some building as someone’s building, otherwise we would be under law penalty. Instead of observing and contemplating the great works of humanity we would have to study biographies, genealogies, prejudices, blasphemies, cliches. (Isn’t that what we have been doing throughout our entire lives? Reading and seeing cliches.) But, luckily, works of art doesn’t care for its authors. They remain alone –in complete solitude as would say Rafael Moneo–, open to passion, love and hate, interest and indifference, and all kind of human behaviors. Continue reading
You don’t need anything but your eyes and your hands. You will not need books anymore. Nothing secondary will help. They will distract you. They have been distracting you since a long time. In front of you will be only the work of architecture, waiting for you to discover it, and to learn from it. How to vary the focus of our eyes? How to vary the ways we use and move our fingers? Observation is a craft, so we need to practice it. Continue reading
En el alba el crítico no se despierta, sigue soñando la obra que desearía haber creado. Pero el crítico no es arquitecto. No conlleva la magia de la metamorfosis de su voluntad en cuerpo. No logra ultrapasar la frontera de la creación. Continue reading
After the State has imposed itself as the only provider of everything (water, energy, garbage and sewer collection…), it had to bear the stupid although logic consequence of “I pay, therefore I spend”, the dream of raise the maximum possible of money from the maximum consumption of resources.
Hey, teacher, you are wrong. You are teaching wrong. We have been taught wrong. I have. (You have.) You are not forming architects, but just a kind of meld between mediocre draftsmen and bad writers. Continue reading
It’s genetic. Or I want it to be so. I like to sleep. I like to dream. An uncle of mine used to sleep a lot in the mornings. I remember that. I was about six or less. I used to spend a lot of time at my grandma’s with my young sister. My uncle used to live there. The door of his room was always closed. It wasn’t locked by key. It doesn’t have any key —I think it was lost, or it has never existed, the impossible key—, but just by an ordinary latch. Continue reading