Musing over a cuppa and a biscuit, as I often do, I wondered why I have so few architect readers – or at least, architects who are willing to leave comments. I have collected quite a few police officers, either serving, wannabe or retired, an American piano tuner, a supermarket operative, a nature watcher, a PhD student, a couple of architects who can put keyboard to screen and one of my faves, B2A – who I believe is an architect but never leaves comments. I am honoured any of you even bother - and delighted.
I considered some of my colleagues – by that I mean architects who are in a similar situation to myself, working alone or in micro practises. They are a sombre and silent lot, and will only speak freely to other architects, usually in the form of a good old moan over a lunch provided by a seminar organiser which comes free before the afternoon plug of some product they will never use. Why? Because their jobs consist of tiny loo extensions, which do not warrant the latest in glass staircases. So why go to the seminars? Even architects need company occasionally, and the prospect of a free lunch and a good moan will often tempt even Alice here away from the drawing board.
These micro architects sit in a tiny office or at home, alone in the coldest room, with a steam -driven old computer for company, running an outdated version of AutoCAD salvaged from their previous employment. They sit on an ancient adjustable office chair from Viking Direct, which has lost its adjustability, surrounded by 1970’s office furniture and second hand filing cabinets, scratching a living from tiny loo extensions. They are terrified of the ARB, the RIBA and their insurance company, and live in fear of being sued and struck off. Many look forward to retirement, counting the days before they can tell the clients to find some other miserable, black clad, worn-out professional depressive.
Pink Floyd were architecture students – need I say more?
Those who work for the mega practises, such as Rogers, Foster and other starchitects, are so far up themselves - er - in the stratosphere that they can hardly see the architectural bacilli on the earth below, and even if they do use a microscope occasionally and peer at the swarming pond life, they wonder how such bottom feeders can possibly survive. In any case, they won't find Alice's blog remotely touches their world of huge sheets of bonded aluminium sheeting, granite floors or glass staircases.
On the other hand, police officers seem to have no trouble at all stringing a few words together. Just look at some of the police blogs – hundreds of comments, some of them paragraphs long, little novelettes in their own right. If you don’t believe me, have a look at TUPC’s comment on this post.
Of course, not all architects are mute. This one isn’t, anyway.
*With thanks to Sutherland Lyall, writer for Architectural Review (a glossy with lots of good pictures - just what architects like) and inspiration for this post.
31 January 2008
24 January 2008
Deca- gone.
Sorry to keep banging on about Grand Designs, but I can't help it after seeing last night's episode. The whole thing was based on a lot of 'decagons', except where they wouldn't fit. As the owner said 'you can't stack decagons' because you get empty spaces. Well, as an architect, I would either use the 'empty spaces' as cupboards, or loos; or I would use a shape which would stack, such as a hexagon. I may even use 'gasp!' a square, so the furniture will fit.
The whole thing cost one and a half million quid including the overpriced and titchy site in the middle of Oxford and ended up looking like a conservatory builder's show room.
20 January 2008
Mea Maxima Culpa
What happens if I make a mistake?
Here is the lesson from the Bible of Reality TV:
Squinty Specs*, the black suited and booted architect, has just designed the ultimate in modern living for Him ‘n’ Her and two sprogs, a house in the back garden of a listed Regency house in the posh part of Cheltenham, in the space where they usually park the second four by four. Because there have been so many complaints and planning difficulties, Squinty Specs designs the house to be mainly underground. Of course, concrete, huge expanses of ultra expensive glass and impossible–to–clean cooker hoods which look like chandeliers are de riguer, as well as living in a cellar with the bedrooms opening nicely onto the ‘outside space’ on the upper floors. Shame you spend most of your time in the bedroom asleep, in the dark. Come morning, you can go down to the ‘family living space’ and sit in the cellar. 'Lovely', says Squinty Specs to Him 'n' Her. 'its the latest thing - and you won't be able to see all those nasty, complaining neighbours'.
Along comes Kevin McCleod and an ernest Grand Designs TV crew. The architect is either sacked or buried in the huge pit currently being formed in the garden. Anyway, he does not appear in the programme at all, for reasons unknown but Cynical Alice here suspects money is the root of all absent architects.
The contractor starts work on the concrete, which of course, is super duper waterproof, vermin proof, cold proof, everything proof and does not appear to need tanking. Except, of course, it does. Oh, dear – in front of Kevin, the thing leaks like a colender and has to be sealed with resin. Exit contractor, after quarrel with Him over extra costs. (note – an architect running a contract would, most likely, say that the leaky concrete was the contractors fault, and must be put right at his own cost). Oh dear.
After one or two other eensy weensy problemettes and a no doubt expensive few sessions with a planning consultant, Kevin is touring the new building with the usual ‘oooh’s and ‘aahs’, but is rather more muted than normal. The only criticism he seems to have is that there should have been two slabs of glass in the ceiling, rather than one. He could have added that a bit more light might have made it more bearable to live in. Cost, says Him, was the issue. Never mind, says Her, we’ve got two cooker hoods costing three and a half grand each, as well as his ‘n’ her ovens and hobs. Yes, two ovens and hobs, all in the name of symmetry. Quite frankly, when I want symmetry, I put just one in the middle. That is what seven years' training does. As an architect, I am used to giving the client a bit of a ‘wow’ factor without completely busting the bank with unnecessary extra ovens. I wonder what His ‘n’ Her bathroom was like? Does it have two loos, for the sake of symmetry? Hmmm.
I looked at Grand Designs website for the architect’s name. I was interested to see his other work, to see if this double-oven-double-hob-double-cost motif was a kind of signature, but a quick search of the Architects’ Registration Board reveals that this 'architect' Clint Jones*
is not registered.
If you’re not in the ARB, you’re not an architect. Simple as that.
If you’re not an architect, you don’t have to obey the professional code.
If you don’t have to obey the professional code, you don’t have to have indemnity insurance.
If you don’t have to fork out for the truly mind boggling indemnity insurance premiums, you can undercut the real architects’ fees.
If you are el cheapo, the client thinks they can save money for that all important double vision.
If you are not regulated or insured, and practice from a limited company, you can design leaky cellars and double oven heaven to your heart’s content, knowing you are not worth sueing and cannot get struck off.
So, what happens if Alice and her brethren make a mistake?
I am insured of course, for gasp-inducing premiums every year, after filling in a huge and complicated renewal form. I fear the ARB and the possibility of being found professionally incompetant. I abase myself before the alter of my professional code.
Therefore, if things go wrong, I try and put things right, without charge. I am as careful as I can be with the design and do not tend to specify wacky concrete or right on roofing materials. Boring, but safe. I hope.
*I am just stereotyping of course. I don’t actually know he’s got squinty specs and wears black. How un-PC of me!
*I am not saying this chap is incompetent - just that he is not an architect. If Him 'n' Her had used a proper architect, a proper main contractor and carried on with their own business of stirring non existant soup and showing the kids the laptop, all would have had a much smoother ride. But would it make good TV?
* My fellow bloggers, B2A and Norman Blogster have written excellent posts, much better than mine, on this episode of Grand Designs - see the links on the sidebar.
Here is the lesson from the Bible of Reality TV:
Squinty Specs*, the black suited and booted architect, has just designed the ultimate in modern living for Him ‘n’ Her and two sprogs, a house in the back garden of a listed Regency house in the posh part of Cheltenham, in the space where they usually park the second four by four. Because there have been so many complaints and planning difficulties, Squinty Specs designs the house to be mainly underground. Of course, concrete, huge expanses of ultra expensive glass and impossible–to–clean cooker hoods which look like chandeliers are de riguer, as well as living in a cellar with the bedrooms opening nicely onto the ‘outside space’ on the upper floors. Shame you spend most of your time in the bedroom asleep, in the dark. Come morning, you can go down to the ‘family living space’ and sit in the cellar. 'Lovely', says Squinty Specs to Him 'n' Her. 'its the latest thing - and you won't be able to see all those nasty, complaining neighbours'.
Along comes Kevin McCleod and an ernest Grand Designs TV crew. The architect is either sacked or buried in the huge pit currently being formed in the garden. Anyway, he does not appear in the programme at all, for reasons unknown but Cynical Alice here suspects money is the root of all absent architects.
The contractor starts work on the concrete, which of course, is super duper waterproof, vermin proof, cold proof, everything proof and does not appear to need tanking. Except, of course, it does. Oh, dear – in front of Kevin, the thing leaks like a colender and has to be sealed with resin. Exit contractor, after quarrel with Him over extra costs. (note – an architect running a contract would, most likely, say that the leaky concrete was the contractors fault, and must be put right at his own cost). Oh dear.
After one or two other eensy weensy problemettes and a no doubt expensive few sessions with a planning consultant, Kevin is touring the new building with the usual ‘oooh’s and ‘aahs’, but is rather more muted than normal. The only criticism he seems to have is that there should have been two slabs of glass in the ceiling, rather than one. He could have added that a bit more light might have made it more bearable to live in. Cost, says Him, was the issue. Never mind, says Her, we’ve got two cooker hoods costing three and a half grand each, as well as his ‘n’ her ovens and hobs. Yes, two ovens and hobs, all in the name of symmetry. Quite frankly, when I want symmetry, I put just one in the middle. That is what seven years' training does. As an architect, I am used to giving the client a bit of a ‘wow’ factor without completely busting the bank with unnecessary extra ovens. I wonder what His ‘n’ Her bathroom was like? Does it have two loos, for the sake of symmetry? Hmmm.
I looked at Grand Designs website for the architect’s name. I was interested to see his other work, to see if this double-oven-double-hob-double-cost motif was a kind of signature, but a quick search of the Architects’ Registration Board reveals that this 'architect' Clint Jones*
is not registered.
If you’re not in the ARB, you’re not an architect. Simple as that.
If you’re not an architect, you don’t have to obey the professional code.
If you don’t have to obey the professional code, you don’t have to have indemnity insurance.
If you don’t have to fork out for the truly mind boggling indemnity insurance premiums, you can undercut the real architects’ fees.
If you are el cheapo, the client thinks they can save money for that all important double vision.
If you are not regulated or insured, and practice from a limited company, you can design leaky cellars and double oven heaven to your heart’s content, knowing you are not worth sueing and cannot get struck off.
So, what happens if Alice and her brethren make a mistake?
I am insured of course, for gasp-inducing premiums every year, after filling in a huge and complicated renewal form. I fear the ARB and the possibility of being found professionally incompetant. I abase myself before the alter of my professional code.
Therefore, if things go wrong, I try and put things right, without charge. I am as careful as I can be with the design and do not tend to specify wacky concrete or right on roofing materials. Boring, but safe. I hope.
*I am just stereotyping of course. I don’t actually know he’s got squinty specs and wears black. How un-PC of me!
*I am not saying this chap is incompetent - just that he is not an architect. If Him 'n' Her had used a proper architect, a proper main contractor and carried on with their own business of stirring non existant soup and showing the kids the laptop, all would have had a much smoother ride. But would it make good TV?
* My fellow bloggers, B2A and Norman Blogster have written excellent posts, much better than mine, on this episode of Grand Designs - see the links on the sidebar.
12 January 2008
But the Money's No Good
The man on the phone sounded quite reasonable - he wanted a large extension at the back of his house and was not in too much of a hurry. Almost always, I will go and look at a possible new job - even one which sounds far too small to make any kind of a profit can turn into something wonderful. This one sounded good, large enough to make a nice little bag of money for Alice, but not so large I would not be able to fit it into the rest of my rather packed programme, and it was not too far away. Besides, smallish, bread and butter work is always good for the cash flow - at that time I had a couple of large projects on, which would pay good money eventually.... eventually. I needed money now.
I washed the car, as I do not like to approach a new client with the caked filth from the muddy farm tracks laughingly labelled 'drives' by their owners, and set off. It was in a pretty village not far from here, all little cottages with a beautiful, ancient church and a long, low, gabled red brick pub, the sort which serves large portions of British comfort food such as braised lamb, chicken pie and mash, mackeral with mustard sauce....
I digress, but with these thoughts in mind, I was in a good mood when I began to look for the turn off to my new client's house. As I drove down the lane, the houses were spaced further apart, and as is often the case in villages, terminated in a row of large, 1930's council houses just before the speed limit sign and the parish boundary. I crossed the railway and turned off immediately past the end council house. There was a narrow, potholed and muddy lane, with some smaller, rather less pleasant council houses on one side. They had obviously been sold off to their tenants as they were no longer homogenous in style - some had new plastic windows, some with hideous 'Georgian' glazing bars; all had new front doors, some had new porches... the effect was messy and tacky.
I found my new client's house, on the end of the row, with a large patch of land (I hesitate to use the word 'garden') fenced with anything he could find - from old sheep enclosures to bits of timber, logs, sleepers, wire and baler twine. A huge pair of high gates and timber fencing enclosed God knew what on one side. There was a BMW and a huge, almost new, pick up truck parked outside. My good mood began to evaporate as I got out of the car to find it caked in mud from the puddles and holes I had just driven through.
He answered the door, a beefy man in his fifties, wearing a suit, and shook my hand in a huge paw. 'My wife' he said, indicating the bottle blond beside him. She grinned, showing smoker's teeth and said 'I've done some drawings! We know what we want!' My heart sank. Almost always this ends in tears. I have to explain why the sketches they have slaved over simply cannot be built, usually because they would contravene every planning and building regulation on the statute book. Sure enough, I looked at a badly designed, poorly proportioned proposal for an enormous extension which would have covered a plot the size of an airfield.
Ever so gently, I suggested I might be able to save them money by designing something a little smaller. They looked at each other and then at me - 'Of course!' said the man. 'That's why we want an architect, isn't it?'
Feeling very slightly more positive, I asked them to show me around. The house was not too bad, but a little small. I asked to look from the back garden and the woman looked nervous. 'I'll stay here' she said. The man glared at her.
He opened the back door and I noticed she had disappeared into the living room and shut the door. I soon found out why. The door opened into the fenced enclosure, a filthy yard covered with pieces of meat, bones and dogs' doings. The smell was incredible, even in the open air. A cacophony of barking started - yes, dogs. Huge black ones with those disgusting, tan coloured, exposed bottoms. Five - five! Dobermanns.
I am not fond of dogs, as anyone who has read this blog for any length of time knows. I believe that a dog is a working animal and not a pet. I also believe that most people who have them do not train them properly, and have the strange delusion that everyone in the world must love their dear doggies as much as they do. I believe a dog can never be trusted, no matter what its owner may say (unless they are in a police uniform and have a highly trained Alsation, well under control, on a lead). I believe the Devil makes work for idle dogs, namely barking, pooing, peeing, smelling, biting, jumping up people and ripping small children into pieces of stewing steak. Almost everyone who has a dog like this calls them 'guard dogs'.
I froze with horror. The wretched animals were loose, and there was nothing between me and them.
'Oh, they're all right as long as I'm here' shouted the man above the din, drawing himself up and puffing his chest out. What is it with some men? Do they think they have to prove their manhood by having enormous and semi wild dogs? Do they all have tiny... well, anyway.
'They're guard dogs' he said. 'My wife isn't keen, but living out here, what do you do?'
I wondered if he thought he was somewhere in the wild west, and had a shotgun tucked away somewhere. 'I think I've seen what I need to see, thank you', I said, hurriedly backing away as one of the foul beasts advanced, glaring at me, barking and spitting. After some more small talk that I could not remember afterwards, I left and sat in the car, trying to calm down. I was literally in a cold sweat. I would have to survey the building, inside and outside, and it would have been impossible, completely impossible, with a pack of slavering hell-hounds baying for Alice's blood. Even if he shut them out, I would have to walk all over that filthy yard in my nice new boots and end up transferring dog poo into my car.
Back in the office, I considered taking on the job for about two nanoseconds. I wrote a letter saying I had 'reviewed my workload' and 'had too many other commitments at present' and 'felt unable to provide a service at present'.
One advantage of working for myself is I can just say 'No'.
I washed the car, as I do not like to approach a new client with the caked filth from the muddy farm tracks laughingly labelled 'drives' by their owners, and set off. It was in a pretty village not far from here, all little cottages with a beautiful, ancient church and a long, low, gabled red brick pub, the sort which serves large portions of British comfort food such as braised lamb, chicken pie and mash, mackeral with mustard sauce....
I digress, but with these thoughts in mind, I was in a good mood when I began to look for the turn off to my new client's house. As I drove down the lane, the houses were spaced further apart, and as is often the case in villages, terminated in a row of large, 1930's council houses just before the speed limit sign and the parish boundary. I crossed the railway and turned off immediately past the end council house. There was a narrow, potholed and muddy lane, with some smaller, rather less pleasant council houses on one side. They had obviously been sold off to their tenants as they were no longer homogenous in style - some had new plastic windows, some with hideous 'Georgian' glazing bars; all had new front doors, some had new porches... the effect was messy and tacky.
I found my new client's house, on the end of the row, with a large patch of land (I hesitate to use the word 'garden') fenced with anything he could find - from old sheep enclosures to bits of timber, logs, sleepers, wire and baler twine. A huge pair of high gates and timber fencing enclosed God knew what on one side. There was a BMW and a huge, almost new, pick up truck parked outside. My good mood began to evaporate as I got out of the car to find it caked in mud from the puddles and holes I had just driven through.
He answered the door, a beefy man in his fifties, wearing a suit, and shook my hand in a huge paw. 'My wife' he said, indicating the bottle blond beside him. She grinned, showing smoker's teeth and said 'I've done some drawings! We know what we want!' My heart sank. Almost always this ends in tears. I have to explain why the sketches they have slaved over simply cannot be built, usually because they would contravene every planning and building regulation on the statute book. Sure enough, I looked at a badly designed, poorly proportioned proposal for an enormous extension which would have covered a plot the size of an airfield.
Ever so gently, I suggested I might be able to save them money by designing something a little smaller. They looked at each other and then at me - 'Of course!' said the man. 'That's why we want an architect, isn't it?'
Feeling very slightly more positive, I asked them to show me around. The house was not too bad, but a little small. I asked to look from the back garden and the woman looked nervous. 'I'll stay here' she said. The man glared at her.
He opened the back door and I noticed she had disappeared into the living room and shut the door. I soon found out why. The door opened into the fenced enclosure, a filthy yard covered with pieces of meat, bones and dogs' doings. The smell was incredible, even in the open air. A cacophony of barking started - yes, dogs. Huge black ones with those disgusting, tan coloured, exposed bottoms. Five - five! Dobermanns.
I am not fond of dogs, as anyone who has read this blog for any length of time knows. I believe that a dog is a working animal and not a pet. I also believe that most people who have them do not train them properly, and have the strange delusion that everyone in the world must love their dear doggies as much as they do. I believe a dog can never be trusted, no matter what its owner may say (unless they are in a police uniform and have a highly trained Alsation, well under control, on a lead). I believe the Devil makes work for idle dogs, namely barking, pooing, peeing, smelling, biting, jumping up people and ripping small children into pieces of stewing steak. Almost everyone who has a dog like this calls them 'guard dogs'.
I froze with horror. The wretched animals were loose, and there was nothing between me and them.
'Oh, they're all right as long as I'm here' shouted the man above the din, drawing himself up and puffing his chest out. What is it with some men? Do they think they have to prove their manhood by having enormous and semi wild dogs? Do they all have tiny... well, anyway.
'They're guard dogs' he said. 'My wife isn't keen, but living out here, what do you do?'
I wondered if he thought he was somewhere in the wild west, and had a shotgun tucked away somewhere. 'I think I've seen what I need to see, thank you', I said, hurriedly backing away as one of the foul beasts advanced, glaring at me, barking and spitting. After some more small talk that I could not remember afterwards, I left and sat in the car, trying to calm down. I was literally in a cold sweat. I would have to survey the building, inside and outside, and it would have been impossible, completely impossible, with a pack of slavering hell-hounds baying for Alice's blood. Even if he shut them out, I would have to walk all over that filthy yard in my nice new boots and end up transferring dog poo into my car.
Back in the office, I considered taking on the job for about two nanoseconds. I wrote a letter saying I had 'reviewed my workload' and 'had too many other commitments at present' and 'felt unable to provide a service at present'.
One advantage of working for myself is I can just say 'No'.
07 January 2008
Se7en Things
Another New Year, and don't we all just love making lists? I read the Seven Things post on Random Acts of Reality and just could not resist doing my own. It beats a list of New Year resolutions by a mile, because although the list of resolutions will be broken and obsolete by March, the Seven Things will remain true for the rest of 2008 and beyond. Basically, just put down seven things about yourself which are true but not normally known by others, even your best friend.
As posted on Random Acts... here they are:
1. Long ago, I walked into the Queen Mother. Literally.
2. I am terrified, to the point of frozen immobility, of wasps.
3. Coriander was put on this earth just for me. Thank you God, even if you don't exist.
4. I really, really hate most modern architecture, and I am an architect. What went wrong? 5. I love the film 'Performance' but can only watch it on my own, when everyone else is out or asleep, with the same guilty feelings I get when eating chocolate.
6. Although I'm a laydee, I don't like shoes.
7. When it snows, I have a strange compulsion to make a snow penis.
Now, dear reader, do confide in Alice. What are your Seven Things?*
Keep it clean. Yes, that means you.
As posted on Random Acts... here they are:
1. Long ago, I walked into the Queen Mother. Literally.
2. I am terrified, to the point of frozen immobility, of wasps.
3. Coriander was put on this earth just for me. Thank you God, even if you don't exist.
4. I really, really hate most modern architecture, and I am an architect. What went wrong? 5. I love the film 'Performance' but can only watch it on my own, when everyone else is out or asleep, with the same guilty feelings I get when eating chocolate.
6. Although I'm a laydee, I don't like shoes.
7. When it snows, I have a strange compulsion to make a snow penis.
Now, dear reader, do confide in Alice. What are your Seven Things?*
Keep it clean. Yes, that means you.
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