Larry Speck Helps
Me Look Around
Resting
in comfortable silence in my room, late at night, I am reading a beautiful book
for class. The author is describing a young girl in
Lost in Translation: The
Novel I am Reading[2]
Pearl St. Co-Op[3]
Even though I have had plenty of raucous fun in this new place, I am wondering what is keeping me here. Often, when I sit like this in my messy room, I wonder why I am not somewhere else (preferably a place which is clean).
I continue reading
my novel. The girl has now moved to
The thoughts don’t seem to stop. Pearl Street Co-Op, Shmur Shtreep Co-Shmop, La di la la, wksjfkxhfiofudsf (sic). I deconstruct the place. Maybe, this place means nothing to me. Maybe I am only attending college to please the arbitrary society in which I live and, in the process, I am failing to create my life’s meaning; But then again, maybe not.
Pearl St Co-Op www.collegehouses.org
I remember the August transformation of my place. Looking
around at the stark white brick walls, my tapestries, and my colorful rugs, I
grimace at the thought of the room’s state on move-in day, grimy and covered
with stains. My parents and I toiled endlessly in the August heat to make the
room feel homey, and I believe we have
succeeded in making this once-nasty pit into a respectable and lively place.
All of a sudden, though, I feel trapped and isolated by these four walls. I’m
sick of analyzing them. I feel a sudden urge to leave for a while and escape
this homework and these thoughts. Should
I go downstairs and socialize? I wonder, but suddenly, a more adventurous
idea strikes me. I should take a walk on
campus! Strolls through the anonymous streets of the
Briskly walking
toward campus, my strained brown eyes peer at strangers who pass me coldly with
emotionless faces. They all seem caught up in their own concerns, resolutely
hiding meaningful expressions from their countenances as if they were well-kept
secrets. Who are these people?
The West Campus apartments seem unnaturally empty, and as usual, trash is covering the ground, emitting a distinct putrid smell. I view this neighborhood as a ghost town and the pedestrians as its phantom inhabitants.
As I cross the sleepy street of Guadalupe, a voice calls out to me. “Got any change?” a ghostly elderly man in a dusty blue cap and a ragged t-shirt asks. His eyes spark strangely. I do not answer him, but instead keep walking, trying to reach my destination as fast as possible. Unlike this man, I have somewhere to go, and somewhere to return to, so I try to shrug off his homelessness from my thoughts. I reach the tree-covered South Mall, feeling a bit more comfortable. No ghostly men will pester me here! I think, and closing my eyes, envelope my senses in sounds of dry rustling leaves. I begin to watch the leaves- each leaf blowing in the howling wind, wriggling through the air until it slowly settles in the ground.
My body approaches
Rainey Hall, and I step into this dark building. Cramped and dark, the hallway
displays remnants of the day’s activity: papers are scattered on the ground,
flyers for study abroad programs are falling off the bulletin boards, and the floor
is marked with impressions of rushing feet. I reach the auditorium doors and
enter the spacious dark space cautiously, the door shutting behind me with a
loud bang. Slowly, I make my way to the front row. The room feels eerie, but I
find myself enjoying the stately wood and velvet textures, and promptly sit
myself down in a rich maroon velvet chair. It is time to relax and escape into
this somewhat familiar yet somewhat foreign territory. I should just sit here for a while and meditate, and maybe later I can
go to the library to finish up my reading. I am usually not one to loiter
around UT classrooms at night, but I must admit that it feels calming, this scholarly environment which requires no
scholarly thought whatsoever. Last year, I always loved coming in here for
class, because this room exuded a certain dignified air not often found at this
university. I begin to feel queenly in my comfy chair when suddenly, I notice I
am not alone. On the edge of the low-lying auditorium stage sits none other than
my old architecture professor!
I watch him. Crouched down, his back leaning against the wall, he is staring up at the ceiling and tapping his fingers rhythmically on the floor. Apparently, he did not notice me come in. From my angle, he should hardly have been visible, but his gaudy light-blue plaid suit gives him away instantly. He is deep in thought, and his tall lanky body seems relaxed. Oh man, I wonder if I should leave. This is so awkward! I think while I fidget with my hair and attempt to bite my short nails. I would have never thought I’d find such a distinguished professor here at night! And to think, Larry Speck has been one of my heroes since I took his class, but I have never approached him because of his elusive and distinguished, almost snobby nature. I have never seen him from up close, except for one time, when his white-haired figure sat behind me in a screening of the documentary “My Architect.” Even then, I was too shy to approach him. I remember him watching the film intently, almost glowing with his bright white hair and brilliant suit, resembling an apparition. I always thought he was a person one should look at from afar, being simply too prestigious to approach for a one-on-one talk. Conspicuously inhuman, I feel that he inhabits a plane far above my trifling existence. Maybe that’s a good reason to leave; yes, I should leave.
But
suddenly, the apparition speaks to me. “Gad! (Sic) Would you look at this
place? It’s so spiritual at night,” he utters, surprising me. Staring at him
wide-eyed, I ask, “Are you talking to me?” “Well, yeah. You are a college
student, just starting to really
understand your surroundings, and you must have come to this particular room
for a reason,” he states in a Southern drawl. Yikes! He noticed me! Well,
what the hell? I’ll just show off my architecture skills for a while. Why not?
I get ready to
impress Mr. Speck and reply to him in my pretentious formal voice (using a bad
British accent), “Well, actually, I have always found this particular space to
be immoderately analeptic, with its
furnishings’ exquisite lush textures and rather amiable lighting contraptions. Mmmm, (sic) Indeed.” I figure, Hey, I took Architecture and Society! I know
the response he is looking for! Placing my index finger on my chin, looking
up and slightly pouting my lips and furrowing my eyebrows, I exclaim
thoughtfully that “this is one of the
places I associate with my life at the university. It is spacious, grand, and
distinguished, just like this fabulous institution.”
Really, though, I have never seen UT as either grand or distinguished. Mr.
Speck, slightly perplexed, says, “‘analeptic;’ I thought that word is used to
describe drugs,” but then shrugs his shoulders and simply nods in a confused
reaction to my response. He sighs, and begins to narrate in an excited yet
grandfatherly voice, “Actually, I gave a tour yesterday afternoon for
Voltaire's Coffee… I was trying to give the students a sense of how the
architecture of the campus affects them. One of the things I was really probing
them about is how they decided where to go to college. One of them volunteered that
he had gone to the
Truth be told, I have had a lot on my mind
lately. I have been quite stressed. For the past few months, I have considered
dropping out of college and moving back to
“You know, Larry… can
I call you Larry?” I ask. “Yeah, sure,” he gestures nonchalantly. I continue,
“What is it that you love about UT? What made you stay in
When I open my eyes, I find myself in a small dimly-lit room. Larry is still here, but I have a feeling that we are no longer in my familiar campus. “What is going on?” I ask, bewildered. Larry replies, “Well, I think that for you to understand why I love UT, you should first see my other home, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. You know what it’s like to have two homes, don’t you?” “Yes,” I answer soundlessly, confused about Larry’s surprising insight into my personal matters. What is this crazy night turning into? I ponder. Maybe the glimmering silver hair, zany suits, and eerie power of Larry Speck could give me a clue. Maybe he is a warlock, or a ghost who has snatched me off to his alma mater for some mysterious reason. How should I escape? I wonder, fidgeting around in my chair while trying to exude a sense of calm.
Larry Speck, a Warlock?[6]
“Don’t worry,” Larry assures me, as if he can read my thoughts (and can he? Oh, God, I hope not!), “I just figured that as your guide, I should ‘introduce [you] to many good mentors and hope a long-term friendship results.’”[7] “I guess I can see that,” I say, feeling comforted by the soft lighting of the room and animated sounds of conversation outside. It seems like we are in a dorm, but I cannot be sure. “So what building are we in, exactly?” I implore. “Baker House,” he states nonchalantly. I put my hand up to my chest and gasp “Ohhh, (sic) I got it now. I thought you kidnapped me to some dungeon or something; silly me!” We chuckle uncomfortably.
I
suddenly understand everything. Larry Speck would ramble about Baker House in
every part of our architecture course, partly because it’s a dormitory where he
stayed as a student of architecture and management at MIT. Its architecture,
based “on the relationship of space design to friendship formation” apparently
had a great effect on him.[8] My
disappointing freshman housing experience at the Castilian, a huge dormitory
with none of the conscientious design of Baker House, always made me jealous of
Larry’s experience at his prestigious college. I know that some of my peers
felt alienated having to hear about Larry’s exotic experiences while inhabiting
dismal bureaucratic rooms in
The
Castilian[9]
Boston as seen from Baker House[10]
After I realize
that I am in THE (sic) Baker House, my inquisitiveness surges. I want to
explore this famous building which I have heard so much about- to walk along
its corridors, running my flimsy hands along the textured walls. Quickly
jumping up from my chair, I look out the window, peering at the famous Baker
House view of the 
Looking
out at this urban scene reminds me of my meditations last year, when I would
stare at the
Back at MIT, Larry
motions me to go into the hall, in which I see “open study areas and lounges”
which seem very conducive to a fun dorm atmosphere.[12]
Many students are gathered around low tables, studying intently (probably what
I should have been doing before I started this whole escapade) while others are
talking and laughing. I can easily see why Larry is always so impressed with
this dorm. It seems like a friendly and social place in which to live. I am
very impressed with the MIT students. Whenever I think of MIT, I imagine a
bunch of nerds (sic) sitting in secluded cubicles, but these students are
actually socializing among one another! What
a concept!
Baker House External View[13]
“So,
you lived at Baker House as an undergraduate, right?” I interrogate Larry. He
replies intently, “I slept in Baker House my first night in
magnificent building! Since it aims ‘to address problems in the humanitarian and psychological fields,’ it ‘has worked magnificently for [fifty] years [and] it is consistently among the most popular dorms on campus despite periods of egregious physical neglect.’ It is pee-your-pants (sic) exciting to see how ‘configurations of student rooms, small group lounges, general circulation routes, and larger common rooms [are] all carefully orchestrated to promote casual student encounters and personal interaction.’”[15]
I reflect upon these statements for a while (still in disbelief over Larry’s use of ‘pee-your-pants’ as an adjective), and figure that I have never had such a connection to a place as Larry has to Baker House. For me, the concept of home always came from people, not places, and I gage every relationship with the question of “can I call this person my home?” I have always assumed that my family members are my home since they have accompanied me through such a multitude of transformations. However, no place ever feels quite comfortable enough for me to really connect with it, and when I think of home, I never see it as actually resembling a concrete physical form. I reply to Larry cautiously, stuttering over my words. “You know Larry, I can’t think of one place I can call home the way you do when you describe your old dorm,” I say. I glance ahead at the spacious winding hall and begin to walk slowly. The curvy shape of Baker House creates a fluid enjoyable stroll. Every minute, I discover another lounge or another living area different from the one before it, and it’s nice, “the way the halls widen into [these] numerous welcoming lounges.”[16] I remember from class that Alvar Aalto, the designer of Baker House, tried to incorporate different student lifestyles into his building. He created fluid communities of seniors with single rooms and freshmen with triples all in the same dormitory in order to form a sense of community.
Larry interrupts
my racing mind and says, “Well, I know that from Baker House, I learned the
importance of a ‘sense of place,’ and a ‘responsiveness’ to site, something Alvar Aalto insisted on creating.”[17] I
reply, “Yeah (sic), I think that in my life, I tend to see things dogmatically
instead of taking a look around and responding to my environment.” As usual, I
turn a simple technical conversation into a psychological analysis. Awkward! My revealing comment makes
conversation stall, so Larry and I continue to walk in silence.
Staircase at Baker House[18]
Larry and I walk down Baker House’s famous northern staircase. This social
staircase (unlike the stifling Castilian elevators) helps students interact as
they get from one place to another, creating “easy movement between floors.”[19]
It also offers a “dramatic view of MIT,” which I appreciate.[20]
”Wow, this place must have really inspired you as an MIT student!” I exclaim.
“Actually,” he says, “It… play[ed] a big role in
influencing me to study architecture.”[21]
I have never thought about a
building as a teacher, one who can influence your life or your choices. If it
can exist as such, architects take on a great responsibility of creating
mentors for others. “Larry, when you create a building, what do you try to
influence people to do? How does your style create a certain atmosphere?” I
ask. Larry, as usual, has a witty answer. “Well, I try to create designs which
‘transcend the flash and pizzazz of the moment,’”[22]
he pauses and says, “I try to let the work’s visual character grow out of its
cultural and physical situation… This seems a more creative and dynamic process
than simply promoting a ‘style’ that I work within.”[23]
Larry’s commentary reminds me of my own situation, oddly enough. Because I,
through experiencing many living environments, have learned to consider each
situation’s background, culture, and geography before making judgments of it, I
feel that I don’t work in a particular style
either. Larry’s situation-based design philosophy has a profound effect on me.
He depicts design as having no absolutes, no dogmas. Instead, he works
intelligently and conscientiously to create a building’s character. This perspective could be used in other
fields, I figure; maybe even the
field which I end up choosing for myself!
I notice more than ever that Larry’s knowledge is not only a
technical understanding of architecture, but a distinct way of looking at the
world. His vision creates his persona, while his technical skills help realize
it. Having a vision begins one’s intellectual journey, I suppose. I wonder if I’ll ever have a vision.
I stand erect, holding on to the
bars at the side of the stairs, looking out excitedly on the MIT campus. Suddenly,
I realize that Larry has not answered the question I asked him when we were
still in
In
front of me, I can see the glowing UT tower, bathed in magnificent orange
lighting but still failing to resemble anything but a big bureaucratic square
block to me. In a way though, its large size reminds me that I do not attend a
dinky unimportant college. Looking behind me, I spot the
bet you’re wondering why we’re even here,” Larry, as
usual, interrupts my introspective reflections. “Well, yes,” I answer,
bewildered. I really am a little confused. Even though I appreciate the
colossal structures of the university, I am a sad to leave MIT. After all,
what’s the
Larry Speck in Battle Hall[25]
I
have always loved walking in the South Mall area, especially at night. I
reminisce about nights last year when my roommate and I, exasperated by our
homework and latest dating problems, would take a walk through this part of
campus in order to relax. Nature has always calmed me down. Walking around in a
grassy area, listening to rustling leaves, is a favorite pastime of mine. “It’s
so beautiful out here!” I gasp. “It seems like whenever I feel upset with my
university experience, I can come out here and feel at home again,” I say without
thinking. “Yeah,” Larry answers, “it’s like ‘how a neighborhood can be a
collection of pretty rotten little houses but, through a leafy canopy of trees,
can take on a powerful identity as a place.”[26]
“Nicely put,” I reply, and we walk on.
I
begin to notice that the natural environment of UT has really made an impact on
me as a student. As a scholar, cooped up all day with books and papers, lying
down outside and staring at the sky feels so rewarding! Students crave it. I am
glad I attend a school which is located in such a sunny environment. Even if I
were at the prestigious MIT, I could not simply step outside and feel the sun
on my skin during winter. At least at UT, I always have the South Mall, or the
Turtle Pond, or the backyard of
The
South Mall at UT[27]
When Larry and I get to Battle Hall,
I enter first, having a hard time opening its huge wooden west-facing doors
with my weak arms. The door slams behind me quickly after I enter. When I turn
around, Larry is inside with me. Strange,
I think, I didn’t hear him open the door.
Too many weird things are happening tonight, and, deliberately deciding to
ignore them, I simply smile at Larry and politely ask him where we should go.
“Lets’ go up to the architecture library. It is by far the most beautiful area
of this building,” he exclaims. I have to agree. I have always enjoyed the
ancient-looking wooden walls, soft lighting, and detailed decorations in the
architecture library, and I often go there to study. Whenever I am there, I
feel like I am in my own little nook. It is so thrilling, exploring this
mysterious building at night! I, of course, have to ask Larry a bunch of
questions about everything!
“So
in what style was this building built?” I implore. “Cass Gilbert, who designed
the university, built it as a ‘reinterpretation of the Spanish and Italian
Renaissance… [Battle Hall] set stylistic modes for [its campus]… that were
followed judiciously for decades and are being reasserted even today,”[28]
he states authoritatively. “How odd to build Mediterranean
buildings in
At
this statement, I begin to ponder. I am
not much like Texas, I postulate. Despite the amalgam of places I have
inhabited, I have never sought to connect them in order to forge a unique
identity. I have always simply cast them off as not quite right. So often, I have wanted to innovate and become original. I never considered looking
into history for inspiration. As a matter of fact, I never even looked outside
myself for enlightenment. I suppose it’s strange that I understood so much from
Larry’s architectural description, but I guess that’s just the way I work. Any
statement about any discipline always leads me back to myself (maybe because
I’m a narcissist?). Larry’s statements have made me stop and consider my own
conduct. For a year now, I have refused to acknowledge the importance of the campus
and life around me. I realize that in the process, maybe I have been missing
out on some jazzy sexy things, as Larry would say.
“I think I understand why you came
back to
I
begin to form a list in my head of all the places which have helped create my
identity. I remember my earliest memories of the kibbutz, where I took walks
with my grandma around shrub-filled streets, feeling every leaf as I walked by
it. I remember rolling down the hill next to the dining hall before kibbutz
meals, which for some reason always consisted of meatballs. I ponder the
laborious walk to my cousins’ fourth floor apartment, the dusty dark abode
where I would spend entire days watching Spice Girls videos. And I begin to
psychologically assemble my first house in Dallas, the one with the fake well
in the backyard. I remember my first day at the house, when I felt that walking
from my room to the kitchen took so long.
I was still thinking in terms of Israeli distances of small spaces. I am
thinking about the long narrow art room of my high school, my tiny
God,
I think as I am pacing through the South Mall, I can’t believe I showed so much emotion in front of one of my
professors! How embarrassing! Thank God I didn’t cry right then and there about
my loss of place, geez! (Sic) I chastise myself.
Quickly, though, I stop thinking about Larry Speck. Instead, I look around and
try to find meaning in every place I see. I walk briskly toward Twenty-First
Street, heading back to the Pearl Street Co-Op. On the way home, I glance at
Metro coffeehouse, which is bustling with people, as usual. I recollect all
those times when I would sit there with friends for hours, supposedly studying.
I continue to tread around West Campus, and recall my leisurely stroll to class
every morning. Walking has always energized me, especially when I am surrounded
by a sea of students walking with me. When I finally arrive at the Pearl Street
Co-Op, I open the door and find a couple of friends socializing in the commons
area. We decide to relax by the pool for a while before going to bed. As I look
out on the lush greenery and sparkling water of our backyard, I feel energized
and happy to live here.
I
go back upstairs into my room. Turning on the light, I sigh. I feel a bit tired
after this long adventure, but continue my thinking. Everything feels different
after tonight! Larry has reminded me that I am not some anonymous student, and
I, too, have a history vested in the places I have occupied. Lately, I have
been calling myself a leaf blowing in the wind, a stray dog. I have been
feeling that I have no home, and that this place I’m in, this university, this
co-op, means nothing to me. But does it? It certainly feels like home now, or
at least like a place which could become home one day. The memories of this
room rush into my mind, and suddenly, those nights of dancing around to The
Smiths in my pajamas and laughing about that picture on my wall (the one which
shows me with a mullet) become crystal clear. I also suddenly recall the boy
who used to live in this room last year, who my family and I scolded for making
the room a complete mess. This room is
not anonymous, May, I tell myself. It
has a history just like you.
I
plop down into my comfortable cream chair with a sigh. I pick up my book again,
and when I open it, it mechanically opens to the last page. I decide to read a
few lines. Apparently, the girl has done some thinking by this point. She tells
herself, “Right now, this is the place where I’m alive. How could there be any
other place? Be here now, I think to myself… Then the phrase dissolves. The
brilliant colors are refracted by the sun. Time pulses through my blood like a
river… I am here now.”[32] I
look at the white brick walls, my tapestries, and my colorful rugs and repeat,
“I am here now.” This time, however, thanks to my fortuitous meeting with Larry
Speck, the statement holds greater meaning than ever before.
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