October 31, 2019 § 2 Comments
The Council on Tall Buildings and Urban Habitats’ “First Skyscrapers/Skyscraper Firsts” symposium takes place all day today at the (still shiny new) Chicago Architecture Center, where a dozen or so skyscraper historians will ‘debate’ the question of which building, exactly, qualifies as “the first skyscraper?”
That question is one that goes back to the 1890s, when William Le Baron Jenney and a handful of his former employees conspired to have the Home Insurance sanctioned–by the Bessemer Steamship Company, of all things–as the primeval ‘skyscraper.’ But, as I’ve pointed out in more than one of these debates previously, the answer depends entirely on what you mean by “skyscraper,” or “first,” or, probably, even “the.” Like anything that emerges out of an evolutionary process–fish, say, or sandwiches–we only recognize species like ‘skyscrapers’ in hindsight, and trying to unweave the complicated forces that went into shaping them makes it necessarily impossible to point to a single ancestral structure that set the genetics for all members of the species to follow.
But, if I’m asked to name the “first,” I’d go back to a set of criteria elucidated by a team of experts assembled by the Western Society of Engineers in 1932 to examine the Home Insurance as it was being demolished to determine, once and for all, whether it was in fact the original high-rise. They were the second of two investigative teams–the first, led by historian Thomas Tallmadge, was a ringer, assembled by the Marshall Field Estate to rubber-stamp the Home Insurance, which they were in the process of replacing with the 600-foot tall Field Building. The engineers came to a different conclusion. The Home Insurance, they said, failed to meet what had become, in the almost fifty years since its construction, the formula for the ‘modern skyscraper:’
1. We find the steel [sic] skeleton was self-supporting.
2. Structural members were provided for supporting the masonry, but on account of the size of the piers it is probable the load was divided between the columns and the piers.
3. The wind load was carried by the masonry as the steelwork was not designed to take wind bending.
4. The masonry work could not be started at an upper floor without providing temporary support for the eight inches of masonry in front of the cast iron columns.
5. The walls were not of the curtain type but were, as previously described of the ordinary bearing type. It is apparent that the designer of this building was reluctant to give up the known strength and security of heavy masonry walls and piers for the untried curtain walls and steel wind bracing of the modern skeleton building.”
It’s that last bit that I find most interesting–that the “modern skeleton building” consists of “curtain walls and steel wind bracing.” I’d argue that’s as good a formula as any for the “modern skyscraper,” and if you had to pick a building that exemplified this combination first, you’d look at several possibilities.
(Yes, I know, all of these are in Chicago.)
The Tacoma, by Holabird and Roche and finished in 1889, was a first proto-curtain wall, made possible by the very clever rotation of the structure’s masonry wind-bracing walls inward from the facades. The four heavy brick walls stayed the building against wind in any of the four cardinal directions, but left the exterior free for large, daylight-gathering windows. The Tribune noted the appearance and the hidden nature of these walls in its coverage of the structure:
as now standing, there is no masonry whatever on either front of the structure, where space is most valuable…take away their glass and steel beams and terra cotta, and nothing would be left except the iron columns…[but] The structure is not without heavy masonry. In the centre is a strong buttress of solid brick, and from this heavy walls run to the four sides, giving the structure a solidity not suspected by those who examine only the shell-like exterior.“Chicago’s Sky-scrapers: They Are Not Beautiful, But Are Wonderfully Solid and Convenient, and Are Absolutely Fireproof.”
Chicago Daily Tribune, Jan. 13, 1889. 2.
The problem of space-gobbling masonry shear walls was solved when steel became commercially viable around the time of the Tacoma’s opening. Its ductility allowed for precise drilling–not possible with brittle cast iron–and riveted connections that could match the tight joints of expensive wrought-iron railway bridges that had been built throughout the West in the 1880s. Jenney himself described the vertical cantilever trusses of his 1891 Manhattan Building in exactly this way–they were “built like bridges,” he said, comparing the Manhattan’s wind bracing scheme to a giant truss bridge set on its end.
Burnham and Root’s 1892 Masonic Temple Building, at Randolph and Washington, was the most dramatic example of such a wind truss–it was for a short while arguably the world’s tallest building, and its wind bracing system made it, for some historians, a prime contender for a “first.” But Root’s preference for a heavy, Richardsonian Romanesque meant that it was clad in a brick and stone exterior–a “veneer,” in the words of the New York Times, which argued that such a combination was a typically Chicagoan effort at throwing up a cheap, flimsy structure that only pretended to be sturdy and monumental.
Root’s successor, Charles Atwood, took a different approach to the exterior of the three skyscrapers he designed as Burnham’s partner. With a new material–enameled terra cotta–and a glut of cheap plate glass from factories in central Indiana, Atwood designed the Reliance Building in a vertical Gothic style, detailing tight terra cotta cladding around a moment frame designed by engineer E.C. Shankland that eliminated the diagonals of earlier wind trusses, replacing them with stiff, riveted connections between oversized columns and girders that spread wind loads throughout a network of steel elements. The Reliance was certainly remarkable in its light, transparent appearance–New York critic Barr Ferree wrote, horrified, that the Reliance was:
…scarcely more than a huge house of glass divided by horizontal and vertical lines of white enameled brick…
The Reliance could make a good claim, therefore, on the Society of Western Engineers’ formula, certainly a better stylistic choice than the ponderous Masonic Temple. But if you’re a nit-picker, it’s worth pointing out that this ‘huge house of glass’ was almost half brick on its exterior. The two party walls of its corner lot had to be clad in an absolutely fireproof material to meet the city’s code, and while they’re curtain walls, the Reliance’s south and west elevations are, quite visibly, made of heavy, fireproof brick.
Atwood’s last building for Burnham before his death from opium addiction (seriously!) in 1895 was the Fisher, at the corner of Dearborn and Van Buren. The Fisher had just one party wall because of its narrow lot, and its client, Lucius Fisher, fully intended to buy out his neighbor and expand. The party wall was thus made of lightweight, enameled terra cotta instead of brick.
Shankland again relied on the ‘table leg’ principle to support and steady the Fisher, using Gray columns in two-story lengths connected around the building perimeter by deep edge girders. The Fisher’s exterior was rendered in a bright orange enameled terra cotta, detailed, like the Reliance, with vertically-piped neo-Gothic ornament “rich as the tower of St. Jacques itself,” according to the Inter-Ocean, while its interior was laid out in a more rigorously ordered structural grid than the Reliance.
The Fisher also featured high-speed elevators, ‘automatic temperature control’ for its advanced steam heating, pneumatic clocks, and chilled drinking water in each office. Its agents claimed it to be the “finest finished building in America.” But it was the Fisher’s curtain wall that brought remarkable insight from Inland Architect’s editors, who noted that Atwood’s choice of Gothic style matched that era’s dissolution of mass into spare, light-filled skeletal structures:
“The fronts are covered with cellular terra cotta on the outside, not in imitation of a wall, but following upward the steel supporting members, and closing in the transoms between the windows, leaving two-thirds of the exterior to be inclosed with glass.”“Technical Review, The Fisher Building, Chicago–A Building without Walls.” Inland Architect and News Record
. Special Supplement. Vol. XXVII, no. 4. May 1896.
The skeletal appearance of the Fisher impressed Inland as the culmination of advances that had appeared over the previous generation: steel framing, wind bracing, and curtain walls. With its self-braced, skeletal steel structure and its transparent cladding, the Fisher represented the first comprehensive collection of modern skyscraper techniques that had been deployed piecemeal in earlier buildings. “If they have dispensed with front walls, they have retained often rear walls and those adjacent to other property,” Inland noted of previous skyscrapers, a direct reference to the Reliance.
“They have had division walls [the Tacoma, e.g.] or stacks of vaults rising like towers within [the Rookery, Burnham & Root, 1885], and even in the fronts have had encasements of heavy bricks, outside of the frames, and stone basements set as if for ballast at the lower stories.”“Technical Review, The Fisher Building, Chicago–A Building without Walls.” Inland Architect and News Record. Special Supplement. Vol. XXVII, no. 4. May 1896.
This last description was a particularly neat summary of the Home Insurance’s hybrid conception.
For Inland’s editors, however, what separated the Fisher from its predecessors was that Shankland, Burnham, and Atwood had eliminated masonry almost entirely in its structure and cladding.
In the evolution of the modern office building there is nothing more wonderful than that the fact should have been accomplished of erecting a building literally without walls….here, for what we believe to be the first time in human experience, one of the highest commercial buildings in the world has been erected almost without any bricks.“Technical Review, The Fisher Building, Chicago–A Building without Walls.” Inland Architect and News Record. Special Supplement. Vol. XXVII, no. 4. May 1896.
Just two bricklayers had been employed during construction, to build stub walls to back up terra cotta sills. The Fisher thus marked a fundamental break. Eliminating brick in a tall building had distinct advantages: it reduced the building’s weight, easing pressure on the supporting structure and foundations; it made for more efficient floor plans by replacing walls and piers with thinner columns; and it saved time and reduced reliance on expensive and strike-prone bricklayers. The Fisher was assembled rather than laid. Its steel, terra cotta, and glass were all factory produced rather than crafted by hand. It took advantage of machine production and assembly at every scale, allowing the structure to be erected and clad in just three months, from October to December, 1895.
The Fisher was, therefore, the first structure to meet the criteria imposed by the Western Society of Engineers in their critique of the Home Insurance. It has a self-supporting skeleton that carries both gravity and wind loads. Its exterior ‘walls’ are cladding carried entirely by the building frame. These are thin, lightweight, and they were assembled ‘in the air,’ leaving the ground floor to be enclosed last. Unlike the Home Insurance, the Fisher’s ‘walls’ do not assist in any aspect of the building’s structure. Unlike the Reliance, they do not rely on brick for structure or enclosure. Combined, these present us with a departure from buildings of just a year or two prior; the Fisher is more like the self-supported steel frames and thin curtain walls of the twentieth century than the iron and masonry hybrids and thick piers and masonry walls of the nineteenth. Modern skyscraper construction is distinct from that of previous eras’ tall buildings in that it is skeletal rather than massive, that it divorces the structural frame from the cladding, and that it relies on assemblies of specialized components for its skins, rather than on the skill of masons in laying identical units into various forms. The Fisher Building was the first to realize these criteria together—to be wholly composed of an enclosed frame rather than of ‘walls.’
Legitimate arguments can, of course, be made against the Fisher as a true ‘first.’ Its foundations represented a failed experiment in short friction piles by Shankland. The building settled unevenly—it leans toward the east—and a 1907 extension was built in part to install stabilizing caissons under its northern end. Shankland’s was one of several efforts to improve on the imprecise grillage foundations that underlay most of the city’s skyscrapers, but Dankmar Adler’ successful use of caissons under the Stock Exchange in 1895 meant that these, and not friction piles, became the preferred method of supporting tall buildings in the city. It is also true that enameled terra cotta was short-lived as a cladding material, replaced by metals such as bronze, stainless steel, and aluminum, all of which proved to be more exacting and durable. Finally, brick did see a re-emergence as a cladding material in tall buildings. The Chrysler in New York (1929) used white enameled brick to achieve its Reliance-like reflectivity, as did any number of apartment and commercial towers by postwar architects such as Emery Roth in New York and Al Shaw in Chicago. These suggest the complexity of the evolutionary process, which in architecture as in nature is full of false starts, reversions, accidental discoveries and missed opportunities. We recognize complex types such as the “skyscraper” only in hindsight, after enough examples have come into being with similar enough qualities that, on reflection, they seem a single, nameable species. Working backwards to determine the ‘first’ of these applies narrative logic to processes that, in the skyscraper, are far more diffuse and complex. While the Fisher’s claim to being a “first” is debatable, the criteria that it does meet are informative, showing how quickly advances in materials and techniques were marshalled toward meeting the functional and economic impulses of light weight, transparent skins, efficient planning, and rapid construction.
October 29, 2019 § Leave a comment
The Council on Tall Buildings and Urban Habitats is celebrating fifty years this week in Chicago–appropriately enough–with its annual international meeting. This Thursday, they’re hosting a debate on “First Skyscrapers” at the Chicago Architecture Center. I’ll be one of a dozen or so historians and critics discussing the long history of “firsts.” Anyone who’s seen me talk about my research knows that I’ll be putting forward one example in particular that I think deserves more love and attention than it’s received from historians in the past.
In honor of the celebrations, the Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians has put a collection of recent skyscraper scholarship online–very happy to have a couple of articles in this group.
Much more to report on later this week–hoping to see many architecturefarm regulars there and to continue a debate that “is unanswerable but worth having” in distinguished surroundings…
October 18, 2019 § 1 Comment
Reading up on the 1958 Development Plan for the Central Area of Chicago, a foundational text that encoded the Daley administration’s efforts to keep the city’s financial and institutional activity in the Loop and to prevent it from fleeing to the suburbs. While, not coincidentally, also keeping their political power concentrated downtown.
It’s a fascinating document for many reasons, and it may have been the single most influential fifty pages in the city’s history, since it laid out the infrastructural program for the Loop over the next five decades. Making the central area accessible to automobile traffic while improving public transit, establishing anchor developments using federal, state, and city/county government office construction, and incorporating residential construction alongside commercial and institutional were all key factors in keeping the city alive and vital during the postwar years–while also keeping voters and allies from moving to Oak Brook and other newly-minted centers of development on the periphery.
One of the goals of the new project is to show how the technical transformations that occurred in the city’s high-rise designs were embedded in these sorts of careful political engineering on the part of the Daley machine–that big developments like Marina City or the John Hancock Tower only could happen because they represented important beachheads in Daley’s efforts to keep an economic and political power base in the downtown wards. Developers benefitted from zoning and building regulations that were either progressive or loose, depending on which side you were on (or where you owned real estate), the machine could rely on a concentration of activity in its voting breadbasket while keeping outlying wards full of people who worked downtown, and the city frankly benefitted from some of the most important urban projects to shape its downtown space–ever.
Among those was the Civic Center, a response to the lack of space in the 1915 City/County Building as Chicago grew. New offices and courtrooms were desperately needed by the mid-1950s, and an expansion was one of the major institutional projects proposed by the 1958 plan that would have kept thousands of government employees in the Loop. After the previous administration’s proposal to relocate these services in the Fort Dearborn development (which would have cleared twenty-some blocks in River North), the Central Area Plan, spearheaded by Daley ally Ira J. Bach as Commissioner of City Planning, focused instead on the block directly east of the City/County Building. That site would eventually become the Daley Center, with its iconic plaza focused on (ahem) the world’s largest Picasso.
But the city’s initial assumptions for this block were, as you can see, radically different. To phase the project in, Bach’s commission originally planned for a large block of courtrooms and offices on the south side of the site, with an open plaza on the north and a ‘tall office building’ constructed above the Greyhound Bus Station on Randolph Street. The plaza, seen in the rendering above, would connect these buildings to the City County Building–which would be remodeled to “conform to the remainder of the Civic Center.”
Given that the great drama of Daley Plaza is the dialogue between the new tower’s Cor-Ten steel and the Holabird and Root building’s massive neo-classical facade, this last bit is especially suprising. But so is the fact that the plaza would have faced the old bus station–today the plaza opens up to SOM’s 1965 Brunswick Building and the 1922 Chicago Temple. The evolution of the Civic Center into a single tower that creates one of the city’s great stage sets involved structural engineering, local politics, and progressive thinking about the role of the courts in the city’s life.
Of particular note in the rendering is the real base of Chicago’s political clout in the post-war years. To the northeast of the sunken plaza you can just see the corner of the Sherman Hotel, designed by Holabird and Roche and built in phases from 1911-1913, which was Daley’s unofficial headquarters throughout his tenure as Mayor. All of his campaigns were run from the Sherman, and many of the backroom dealings that couldn’t take place under the governmental auspices of City Hall itself were decamped to the smoky lounges across the street. The Sherman was demolished piecemeal from 1973 on, and was replaced in 1985 by the State of Illinois Center by Murphy/Jahn–the last piece of the grand 1958 plan to re-house state, federal, and city employees in buildings that would keep them downtown. The State of Illinois is now, of course, for sale and the subject of a growing preservation battle–lost in the discussion is that like most Chicago buildings it was, itself, built on the site of a building that because of its history (if not its quality) probably deserved more consideration than it had when its future was decided…
October 7, 2019 § Leave a comment
Honored to be a part of this publication–faculty and graduate students at the Università di Bologna have just published the first critical collection of essays on Nervi’s 1949/1957 Tobacco warehouse there (Brava, Micaela and Annalisa!). The overall project to document and bring attention to the Manufatura was the basis for my month-long fellowship there in 2017 and an extraordinary (and, to be honest, only semi-legal) day exploring what is fast becoming another ruin in Nervi’s built catalogue.
The collection features essays by some of Italy’s leading scholars in architectural and construction history on the story of the factory and its detailed design and development. My own contribution is a minor–but I think important–note on how the cost and operation of scaffolding and formwork influenced Nervi’s designs here and elsewhere. In this case, a “building machine” (noun/verb confusion intentional) enabled him to set up a multi-story assembly line that produced the gracefully detailed two-way slabs that structure the warehouse’s main floors. There are (I think, anyway) links to a long Italian tradition of taking scaffolding and centering seriously here. Vasari describes Brunelleschi’s achievement in the Florentine Duomo as one of construction as much as structure, and he cites specifically the clever self-centering and self-scaffolding qualities of the process.
Nervi’s achievement (here, anyway) is far more modest, but still worth noting; like so much of his work, his fluency in the languages of structure and construction enabled him to find opportunities for architectural expression and economy that others never noticed. Ferrocemento formwork allowed him to form the gently curving corners of what would otherwise be a banal waffle slab, offering a hint of the shear performance of the joists to those with some static literacy, and simply a visually satisfying detail to anyone else. That these details were seen by only a few workers (and tons of tobacco) in their lifetime has, to me, a truly poetic quality.
Hoping that this book, like similar projects to gain attention for the Stadio Flaminio in Rome and the Torino Esposizione, both supported by the Getty “Keeping it Modern” program, will help make the case for a much-needed rehabilitation and re-use program…
September 29, 2019 § 1 Comment
I’m filling in for Rob Whitehead this year as designated structures professor for our SCI-TECH sequence (he’s got a well-deserved internal fellowship to teach the rest of the University how to do project-based learning–or, as we call it, learning), and like any good substitute I’m calling a few audibles. For a while now, the final structures module in our five-course sequence has covered long spans, and for a cumulative assignments students have done a case study on a classic long span project. While that’s paid some dividends, in particular integrating history into our tech coursework, both of us thought that some hands-on summative work might be a good experiment.
Enter the Long Span Steel Cage Match. For five weeks, students have been proposing model structures to meet a very specific set of criteria: carry a 10-pound weight over a 48″ span at a height that allows a regulation soccer ball to pass under its 1/3 points. They were given height limits and a base condition–two 2×4 timbers forming ‘rails’ that were the only things their structures could touch. We also limited the materials they could use, to cardboard (not corrugated), basswood, string, and hot glue. Final models would be tested and ranked, and grades for the final lab (1/4 of the module’s grade) would be based on how much their structures weighed, relative to the rest of the class.
This last bit was critical. In the past, we’d done competitive model testing to see how much a structure could carry, but this invariably led to models that were way, way over designed. Requiring the class to design to the same applied load and judging based on weight allows us to emphasize long span principles–in particular reducing unnecessary or under-stressed material, and using funicular shapes. It also encourages them to work iteratively to gradually remove material or elements until the structure just barely carries the load.
The five week module had four lab periods scheduled. For each of these, we gave students an intermediate assignment that roughly paralleled how a design experiment would actually proceed: Hypothesis, Modeling, Prototype Testing, and Final Testing. In Week 1, students had to propose, on paper, three possible solutions to the problem. For each one, they had to sketch their scheme and predict possible modes of failure. They presented these to the class, and we gave them feedback–without making any overly specific suggestions.
In Week 2, we tested 1/4 scale models of their designs to destruction, asking them to explain in static terms how each of their options failed. Many teams noted that their models performed better than expected–and most teams understood that this wasn’t actually good news. If a structure carried much more than its required load, it meant that the structure was probably over-designed.
The most productive thing we tried was an optional prototyping session two weeks prior to the final test. We provided exactly the conditions under which we’d test the final models, and teams could subject as many options as they wanted during the lab period. Not every team showed up, but those that did were able to see not only how their models performed, but also how every other teams’ worked. Sure enough, after a dozen or so structures that carried the load and weighed between 600 and 1000 grams, one team came in with a simple four-legged structure that carried the load–and weighed in at just 234 grams. Those teams that were there realized that all of the arches, trusses, and cable-structures they’d brought had been the results of over-thinking; the ten-pound weight was a point load, and the funicular shape for a point load at midspan is a simple triangle. Sure enough, the lightweight option, by following the funicular shape in both the longitudinal and the cross-sectional direction, cut more than 2/3 the weight of the next-lightest scheme. We could not have asked for a better demonstration of long span principles.
On testing day, we saw a pretty solid variety of schemes. Many of the teams who had been present for the prototyping session arrived with some version of the funicular pyramid–which we endorsed. There’s no “stealing” in evolutionary design, just “research,” I suggested. But there were plenty of other solutions that worked–the one above, for instance, which used a compression arch formed of truss elements. But, very quickly, a lead pack emerged that was some version of the pyramid:
Once all the schemes had been tested (only two failures!) we had a near tie for first place at 230 grams, and we allowed teams to keep working and testing throughout the two-hour lab. What finally won (above) was the result of a quick bit of structural surgery, with a team cutting one leg off of their pyramid to create a true tripod. At 163 grams, nothing else came close, and they were clever enough to wait until time was nearly up to test it. Noting that the iterative process had cut about 70% of the weight from the initial round of prototyping, we suggested that there were lessons here not only about long spans, but also about adopting a truly experimental process for design; by introducing real competition, we were able to provide an incentive for innovation. By holding the tests in public, the knowledge gained from testing those innovations was diffused throughout the teams, enabling truly iterative testing until the clearly ‘correct’ idea won out. As pedagogical proof, every team in the top five had attended the prototyping session, which meant that they arrived with a clear advantage over those teams testing for the first time.
Beginning this week, I switch from the fifth class in the sequence to the third, which means less exotic topics–instead of truss arches and cable-stayed roofs, we’re going to spend most of our five weeks on basic beam and column theory. But in among the labs on shear-moment diagrams and slenderness ratios there is one open lab period that seems tailor-made for some beam-busting. As Rob’s new book, Structures by Design puts it, “Think, Make, Break, Iterate.” It’s become our version of medical education’s “watch one, do one, teach one,” and I’m convinced it’s the best possible way to build up intuitive knowledge of structural principles…
September 10, 2019 § Leave a comment
This past weekend I joined an impromptu reunion of my 2013-2014 American Academy Fellows in Pinnebog, Michigan for the opening of Secret Sky, the latest piece by our colleague Catie Newell. Her work deals forthrightly with materials, architectural form, and how these can be manipulated to create experiences that are at once richly engaging and productively unsettling. Secret Sky is one of three barns around Port Austin, in the tip of Michigan’s ‘thumb’, that have been re-conceived by Detroit artists, and it provided a backdrop for a dinner, conversation, and party that provoked some deeply enjoyable questions…
Over two years, Catie and her team sliced through their barn, turning it into a pair of structures with a wedge-shaped gap between them. It’s a subtle move–from the road the barn seems normal at first, and it’s only on approach that the deeply strange geometries of the slice become apparent. The long, wedge-shaped voids seem physically impossible, and from the front the view of the sky through the barn takes a minute to understand–it occurs right where the post-and-beam structure of a typical barn would be most vital, and the combined stoutness of the gambrel-shaped roof and the apparent fragility of the two pieces underneath it make a sort of invitation to figure out what’s going on.
And close up, things get interesting, because it’s clear that the slice isn’t casual, but it’s been immaculately worked over–‘tailored’ was the best way I heard to describe the detailing of the slice’s walls. The void is the result of a careful re-construction, the original siding re-purposed and re-cut to match the faceted geometry needed to make the slice appear like a clean opening through the barn’s volume. Its scale and shape make walking between the sloping and vertical walls an uncanny experience and a structural riddle, which is answered by the last stop on a mowed path, at the entrance to the barn on the opposite side.
Here the ‘tailoring’ is apparent, with new timber and steel rods that do the work of supporting the slanting, re-constructed wall of the slice. Showing off the stitching that makes the clean lines possible is a bold move, but it’s a generous one, emphasizing the fragile construction that the barn shares with most agricultural outbuildings. The inseams are thoughtfully laid out but not overworked, and the ‘reveal’ of the steel rods contrasts with the weathered timbers supporting the roof.
It’s a rare combination of formal, structural, and material virtuosity–a moving meditation on how delicate and temporal building can be, and how much a simple defiance of architectural expectations can affect us. We’re used to buildings that shelter, that are sturdy, and that can be readily understood or appreciated, and coming across such an articulate enigma is a rare thing.
There are comparisons here to the sliced or cut buildings of Gordon Matta-Clark, but Catie’s work goes deeper than the shock value of his controlled demolitions; the attention she’s paid to the reconstruction of the barn into an intentional set of forms adds a sense of stewardship and, maybe, of hopefulness. Plans to preserve the barn by installing a new roof are underway (you can contribute through the Port Austin Artist-in-Residency website here…include in the memo “for Secret Sky roof”), which would mean that this exercise in sublime fragility would be around for a few more generations…