slight change

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abstract

poignant

Working on the abstract and slipped poignant in, but got unsure as to what it actually implies/means so I checked it out online- and it's way more interesting than I thought it was.

I also like how it kind of sounds like it means, like a pin-prick. And isn't it oh so close to, but not quite, repugnant?

Anyway, I don't think it really works the way I'm trying to use it but oh well.

(from here: http://thesaurus.com/browse/poignant)

one:
Part of Speech: adjective

Definition: affecting, painful

Synonyms: agitating, agonizing, bitter, distressing, disturbing, emotional, heartbreaking, heartrending, impressive, intense, moving, passionate, pathetic, perturbing, piteous, pitiful, sad, sentimental, sorrowful, touching, upsetting

Antonyms: calm, numb, pleasant, soothing, unaffecting


two:
Part of Speech: adjective

Definition: sharp, bitter

Synonyms: acrid, acute, biting, caustic, keen, penetrating, peppery, piercing, piquant, pointed, pungent, racy, sarcastic, severe, snappy, spicy, stinging, tangy, zesty

Antonyms: blah, blunt, dull


Yes, look at this too!
(from here: http://www.thefreedictionary.com/poignant)

poign·ant (poinynt)

adj.

1.

a. Profoundly moving; touching: a poignant memory.

b. Physically painful: "Keen, poignant agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward" (Ambrose Bierce).

c. Keenly distressing to the mind or feelings: poignant anxiety.

2. Piercing; incisive: poignant criticism.

3.

a. Neat, skillful, and to the point: poignant illustrations supplementing the text.

b. Astute and pertinent; relevant: poignant suggestions.

4. Agreeably intense or stimulating: poignant delight.

5. Archaic

a. Sharp or sour to the taste; piquant.

b. Sharp or pungent to the smell.

dragonslayer*

*All from Sunset Rubdown's Dragonslayer - all directly from their website. I want my thesis to read like these... but I don't think DM would be cool with that... also, I don't think I could manage it

Idiot Heart. Stay away from open windows, and put the telephone down. Can you run as fast as this house will fall when the alarm bell sounds? No, I was never much of a dancer, but I know enough to know you've got to move your idiot body around, and that you can't settle down until the idiot in your blood settles down. So move around... If I found you in this city called Paradise, I'd say, "I love you, but I hate this city, and I'm no prize." You want to walk around like you own the joint, the way that Icarus thought he might own the sky. I say, "You can't settle down until the Icarus in your blood, in your blood, drowns... And if I was a horse, I would throw up the reins if I was you."

But look at you go (into the fire-star). Look at you go (you are a meteor). Look at you go...

And you know your heart, and you know your heart... but it's an idiot heart. And you know your heart, and you know your heart... but you can't settle down. No, you can't settle down. So just move around...

I hope that you died in a decent pair of shoes, you've hot a lot of long walking to do, where you're going to...



Black Swan. There was a black swan outside the palace - it was appointed by the king. People took it as a sign that he needed more time, but you said, "I ain't afraid of no blackbird." There was a rumor of a ghost in the bedroom - hanging in and around the bed - but by the time the moon rose, you has taken off your clothes and had the pillow under your head. There was the face you saw above you in the fever of a hot black dream, but it was made out of paper and glue, and you were hoping for something a little more realistic. You were hoping for the head of the queen.

My heart is a kingdom where the king is a heart, and my heart is king... My heart is a kingdom where the king is a heart, and my heart is king, the king of hearts.

There was the matador who said he would have you, if you could only give it up and walk away. He has carved out an avenue for you, from the palace to the palisades. But now it's half destroyed, and you are half destroyed. I see you running down a washed out road. I see you running between the dream and the void.

There was a rumor of a ghost in the bedroom - hanging in and around the bed - but by the time the moon rose, you has taken off your clothes and had the pillow under your head. You got mascara all of the bed sheets!* You got mascara all over your clothes! You got mascara making broken-hearted shapes on your face, and you have yet to see the ghost.



You go on Ahead (Trumpet, trumpet II). You go on ahead for a while. I would like to follow you a while.... I would like to just follow you a while. I'd like to watch the white flash of your heels as they take turns breaking the desert heat, to beckon me in languages I've never learned. I'd like to have you navigate to hills where no musicians live, and on the way decide what 'bendings' of your will you're willing to forgive. And I'd like to think the actors never banded. I'd like to throw this trumpet down and go on empty handed. I'd like to think I am not one of them, but I know I am, so I'd like to just follow you a while.

When me and the boys were out we killed a thousand butterflies, so I put their wings into my mouth and said a prayer for our safe arrival. Then a big black car crossed our path, and I wondered whether or not that shit was empty.

See the sirens and the lizards flick their tongues behind the stage. See the actor keep a ritual to keep them all at bay. He would like to come home naked without war paint on his face, and appear before you virgin white if virgins are still chaste. So wait, you've got to wait... you've got to wait for me. I'll appear before you virgin white if virgins are still chaste, then I'd like to just follow you a while.

And if there are two eyes in my head, there are four seasons in a year, and reflections on the water of a burning yellow sphere. And the days add up to weeks, add up to months, and add up, and add up... to years. And if reflections on the water sometimes look like burning tears, we can watch them changing shape without pushing off the pier.

Dragon's Lair. I'm sorry that I'm late. I went blind. I got confetti in my eyes. I was held up at yesterday's parties. I was needed on the Congo line. But my dear, oh, my dear, I'd like to fight the good fight for another couple of years. Because to say the war is over is to say you are a widow. And you're not a widow yet...

So this one's for the critics and their disappointed mothers, and for the cupid and the hunter shooting arrows at each other: Ain't no such thing as a saint, ain't no such thing as a sinner. But there's a swan among the pigeons of Barcelona's floor. There's a Samson with Delilahs lining up outside the door. If you are sharpening your scissors, I am sharpening my scissors, and I am sharpening my sword. So you can take me to the dragon's lair, or you can take me to Rapunzel's windowsill. Either way it is time for a bigger kind of kill.

I see your face when I close my eyes. I see the muscles in your legs from the way you always rise to the occasion of catching things that fall, like the statuettes on pedestals I tend to build to tall. But I have navigated Iceland, I laid my claim on Portugal, and I have seen into the wasteland of the future of us all. And I kicked up a whole country of dead, dead leaves last fall...

Seen from the back of a train I rode away from your station, they drifted in the air like memoirs of old conversations, sprung from a leather case you opened in the wind, to watch the papers chase each other into oblivion.

You're such a champion. I hide behind your sun. You are the champion... So you can take me to the dragon's lair, or you can take me to Rapunzel's windowsill. Either way it is time for a bigger kind of kill...

300 words

This is more like 400 words... apparently I can really spit it out when it's about me, my insecurities and lack of confidence. How frustrating for everyone. For a refresher on what I'm talking about, thesis-structure-wise, check out this post.

I've been feeling pretty out of sorts this past while and I want things to change. Or is it more active for me to say, I want to change...? Because I do...

Other thoughts: I go back and forth in my mind and in conversations with people about the role of scent in my thesis. Another thing that comes up now and then when I think about it is design... it's not that I think this should be a "DESIGN" thesis but I feel that there's something missing. Could that thing be design? I don't even know what I'm talking about. In any case, it is kind of nice to be posting again. Here are we go.


300 words on the danger of my thesis stand, July 21st, 2009- eclipse!

I think I’ve already complained that I’ve been seeing everything in nothing these days- how I’m concerned that this whole thesis endeavour has been smoke and mirrors of my own doing... (undoing, desire, delusion?) The danger of seeing everything in nothing is that it inevitably turns to the worry or realisation that perhaps there is nothing to see when looking at everything. Is it possible to see the void that connects matter without addressing the matter at hand? (Where is the substance? Is this like a figure ground thing? Can everything be made architectural-sounding? Why am I resistant to this?)

Or is the danger actually that I hope to look at ‘everything’ (or at least a lot- a diverse lot) but say nothing? If I were to present a book with no thesis- that is, a thesis book with no overarching statement or intent, would it still be a thesis? I imagine a book of short essays- writing on topics loosely filed under the physical constraints of curiosity cabinet, garden, and places of worship.

Perhaps the real danger of my thesis resides in its passivity- not only my listlessness in doing (trying to do) it, but the emptiness of a thesis without an explicit statement; will there be anything to grasp or hold onto? (defend?) Is there magic in a cabinet waiting to be filled, a plot of soil to be seeded, a wonderful place with no inhabitants? Even when these spaces are filled and subsequently described, it will still be up to the viewer to overcome the inertia of only seeing in order to be touched. Does the premise of my thesis rely too much on the reader to make sense of it, to see the point of it?

Sure, a book in itself is a passive object, waiting for someone to open its covers and give its existence purpose. But what to make of a book that only kind of shows (hopefully revealing something unknown/unacknowledged?) but remains largely mute? Is it too much to ask the reader to feel, think, remember, and look beyond the words to make/find their own meaning in the work? Because as the creator of this work I’m already confused before I’ve really begun. I feel too lost to begin. While it’s not necessarily dangerous (and perhaps even good sometimes) for a reader to be confused, it’s dangerous if it leads to boredom. (indifference, paralysis.)

before I forget

From all those possibilities posted the other day, and a long talk with a friend the day after, here is the latest deal, or iteration of the deal:

curiosity cabinets
(cultivated??) gardens
spaces of worship/commune (temples, churches, etc)- the term "sacred spaces" doesn't feel right

either in general (freedom to go in any direction I want)
or through a specific site/example for each (if I am so compelled)
or through corresponding/parallel examples, ie, evolution through history? primitive to modern interpretations? ranges and changes in scale? (would involve more decisiveness, planning, focus... intent... things I've proven not so good at)

and if possible (if it still feels right to/makes sense to) use scent to tell the story, or set the tone, or as something to go back to... ? Not sure how it fits/what its role is... don't want to lose it though.

What I imagine is a matrix, however structured or amorphous, that will cover and somehow connect all the little things, all my little words, into a string that A) I like, and B) that will get me the fuck out of here. C) as soon as possible!

The idea is to go through the possibilities posting, try to figure out what I was thinking at the time, and see where it fits (or doesn't) into the matrix. I should give myself one day to see which hat fits the best for now. Or which hats are the best options for my price range.

vomiting in public

A peculiar thing happened recently. A few weeks ago, when I was going through a rather turbulent (both exciting and anxious) patch, I was overcome with nausea. I was at my desk at school, just back from dinner. I don’t usually vomit. In fact I remember trying to remember, in that moment, the last time I threw up without alcohol being involved. But I couldn't. I recall recalling that I’m not the kind of person with a weak stomach, that I don’t have the type of body that expels its contents easily. Walking, half running, to the school bathroom I was thinking about the absurdity of it all as my stomach pushed at my throat, begging for its release.

Vomiting, blushing, sneezing, coughing, crying, smiling- these are the remnants of our instincts. These are the external actions we do not own and activate willingly. (too untrue to say like that?) Of course there is urination, defecation, and the passing of gas- but these we can somewhat control, at least for the majority of our lives. Crocodile tears and alligator smiles… It’s interesting that we use animal imagery to describe such distinctly human behavior. When was the last time you ran in fear for your life? Or had to stalk and kill your meal?

[By the way, today I saw a bird of prey (falcon/hawk/eagle?) kill a pigeon mid-flight, swoop down to pick it up in its talons a second after it hit the ground, dead! Needless to say, it was amazing.]

Our human lives, through thousands of years of evolution and progress, have developed into existences of relative comfort and convenience. Safe and secure in our warm houses, we shiver at the thought that bad things do happen, that hardship actually exists, that life can be precious and precarious. We rely on the hope that ‘they’ (crime, hate, violence) will not, cannot, happen to us (and also the ominous having less/lacking wants). We feel content (do we?) that we only have to fear the simulated emotion and artificial friendliness of our peers. Seeking authenticity but largely unable to judge.

Andy Warhol, famed queer pop artist and entrepreneur, lived as big as he made and created as much as he consumed. He showed us that we can and do exist somewhere between life and art, reality and fiction/image, production and reproduction… proved that the lines we’ve drawn around ourselves can be pushed, obliterated, and redrawn at any moment. In any case, he was and continues in his death to be a mythic figure. It is interesting that he was very aware of his day-to-day memories and their containment for future recollection. He sought to keep them by preserving smells.

“My collection of semi-used perfumes is very big by now, although I didn’t start wearing lots of them until the early 60s. Before that the smells in my life were all just whatever happened to hit my nose by chance. But then I realized I had to have a kind of smell museum so certain smells wouldn’t get lost forever.” (A. Warhol, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (From A to B and Back Again), p.151)

Was his scent museum a way to preserve his personal self/ private identity? Was it something for only him to have and know intimately as his life became increasingly public and his image the territory of others? Was it simply another instance of his interest in the mundane and banal, discarded and forgotten? Or was it a narcissistic show for posterity, a part of his legacy-in-the-making? Perhaps a little bit of both? Are we all like this, roaming between our private and public selves, our past and possible futures, looking for meaning in the incidental? (or should it be looking to separate significant from irrelevant, distilling them from one another?)

Smell scientist Avery Gilbert has this to say on the more technical side:
“Memories fade and get harder to find amid the mental clutter of a busy life. For a given smell, the odds that it will produce a riveting flashback shrink with each resniffing. That special scent becomes less special, its links to the past grow steadily weaker. Warhol’s solution was ingenious: he would wear a cologne until it built up strong emotional connections, then retire it to his personal smell museum. Once out of active rotation, the cologne’s memories were locked in, never to be confused with others. The Warhol wear-and-retire method was unusual but effective. By not switching back and forth between scents, he avoided the loss of memorablility that psychologists call interference.” (Gilbert, p. 205)

Interference in psychology can be described as the following:
“A prominent theory of forgetting at the behavioral level is anchored in the phenomenon of interference, or inhibition, which can be either retroactive or proactive. In retroactive inhibition, new learning interferes with the retention of old memories; in proactive inhibition, old memories interfere with the retention of new learning. Both phenomena have great implications for all kinds of human learning.” From Encyclopedia Britannica, online here.

Inhibition:
from the Oxford English Dictionary:

1. The action of inhibiting or forbidding; a prohibition (with reference to some act expressed or implied), esp. one formally issued by a person or body possessed of civil or ecclesiastical authority.
2. The action of preventing, hindering, or checking. Now esp. in Physiol.
3. Psychol. A voluntary or involuntary restraint or check that prevents the direct expression of an instinctive impulse; also colloq., in looser use, an inner hindrance to conduct or activity.

And from Wikipedia:

“Social inhibition is a conscious or unconscious constraint or curtailment by a person of a process or behaviour that the person may consider objectionable in a social setting. Inhibitions can serve necessary social functions, reducing or preventing certain antisocial impulses from being acted on. Inhibitions vary greatly from person to person, and may be closely linked to a person's confidence. An extreme lack of inhibition may be antisocial and a symptom of a mental disorder, such as hypomania and mania. On the other hand, a high level of inhibition may also create personal problems, including an inability to feel or express certain emotions.”

The same scents smell different on different people. The individuality of our bodies, our skin oils and sweat and personal odor, mix with the bottled perfume to produce a unique fragrance that is inimitable day to day, hour to hour. Perfumes are designed and created, for the most part, with a structure that can be likened to a pyramid. This pyramid expresses both the character and time of the perfume. The top notes, at the pyramid’s peak, are the most striking scents- the notes you notice and recognize first. These notes, also called head notes, are the most fleeting and are the first to disappear with time. The middle notes are next in line, propping up the top notes. Also referred to as heart notes, these linger beyond top notes. Base notes are the foundation of a fragrance, serving to carry the scent and give it its lasting essence. These three notes together form what is called an accord. (give examples of typical notes, elaborate, etc)

A beautiful (successful?) accord is very elusive and when found, can bring a perfumier much fame. See Chanel No. 5. Presently, the perfume industry seems to depend more upon marketing and celebrity cache than the design of the actual fragrance. (elaborate)

One fashion house, Comme des Garcons, is refreshingly daring and (post?)modern in the construction of their perfumes. Often referred to as “anti-fragrances”, their work plays with and interprets candidly notions of beauty and desire, amongst other ideas.

See the following online reviews of some of their fragrances:

Comme des Garcons, reviewed by fragrantica.com
8 88, reviewed by hintmag.com
Odeur 53, reviewed by The Independent

Scent

Every building (or place for that matter) is simultaneously an archive and generator of scent. Our homes, schools, banks, buses- they are filled with the scent of bodies, sweat, dust, food, cleaning products, chemicals. They are born and decay, live their lives in tandem with ours. They give and receive odors freely; some unselfconsciously, some with deliberate intention. Some places have more obvious and idiosyncratic identities than others; flower shops, perfume counters, bakeries… others are more notorious in character; public washrooms, hospitals, locker rooms. Scents, ranging from the sweet to the putrid, form an invisible landscape in which each of us is an agent and actor (transmitter/receiver?), giving an intangible yet infinite (subjective? individual?) texture/structure to our cities and lives; one we don’t often notice until it is lost.

Smell, despite being the most elusive and ethereal of our senses, is the one most deeply connected to time (inherent in its ephemeral nature) and memory, emotions and instincts, the unconscious and general well-being. It acts in the most primordial and immediate way. It is the sense that is the most accessible to the brain; its signals are not mediated by secondary routes or the thalamus, going directly from the olfactory bulb to the cortex.

It is also our most animalistic sense – a chemical sense, it “was the first sense to appear in mobile life-forms that emerged on the earth, and it is the only sense that the most primitive single-celled creatures share with us today” (Herz, The Scent of Desire, p13). Paradoxically straight-forward in its operation, smelling occurs with every inhalation of air, setting forth instinctual reactions in our bodies unwittingly and involuntarily.

In certain cultures the tight relationship between time, place, and scent is deep and explicit: “In the Andaman Island, time is conceived of as a succession of odors. The seasons of the year are named after the fragrant flowers in bloom at the time- a calendar of scents. Among the pastoral Dassanetch of Ethiopia there is also a succession of odors, alternating the sweet smell of new grass in the rainy season, with the acrid smoke of burning old growth in the dry; the good and bad smells of life and death, renewal and decay.” (Lyall Watson, Jacobson’s Organ and the Remarkable Nature of Smell, p80)

Marshall McLuhan, in his Understanding Media, describes how time in non-literate cultures is not known as uniform incremental units to endure, but as something inseparable from the “rhythms of human experience.” Acts such as eating and sleeping served bodily needs, not the abstracted mechanized time of clocks.

“The most integral and involving time sense imaginable is that expressed in the Chinese and Japanese cultures. Until the coming of the missionaries in the seventeenth century, and the introduction of the mechanical clocks, the Chinese and Japanese had for thousands of years measured time by graduations of incense. Not only the hours and days, but the seasons and zodiacal signs were simultaneously indicated by a succession of carefully ordered scents. The sense of smell, long considered the root of memory and the unifying basis of individuality, has come to the fore again in the experiments of Wilder Penfield. During brain surgery, electric probing of brain tissue revived many memories of the patients. These evocations were dominated and unified by unique scents and odors that structured these past experiences. The sense of smell is not only the most subtle and delicate of the human senses; it is, also, the most iconic in that it involves the entire human sensorium more fully than any other sense. It is not surprising, therefore, that highly literate societies take steps to reduce or eliminate odors from the environment. B.O., the unique signature and declaration of human individuality, is a bad word in literate societies. It is far too involving for our habits of detachment and specialist attention. Societies that measured time scents would tend to be so cohesive and so profoundly unified as to resist every kind of change.” (McLuhan, p146)

Our relationship to scent/smells (and thus our bodies and environments) have become distant in contemporary culture. In the design of our cities and buildings, scent is not considered other than to banish or mask its presence. This condition can be traced to the nineteenth century’s drive to eliminate odors (thought of as carriers of disease) in the name of hygiene and public health. Modern materials and finishes are chosen to give the illusion of odorless blankness. Rodolphe el-Khoury calls this “the aesthetic of cleanliness” and argues that “olfactory vigilance ultimately served to reorganize the environment according to the dialectic of transparency and opacity” (Assemblage, Dec 96, p31).

The flat timeless abstract neutrality of modern architecture is achieved through its deliberate suppression of sensory experience, especially that of olfaction. As Richard Neutra warned in his article The Sound and Smell of Architecture, “we must guard against the notion that the only sense perceptions which really count are those which are easily and consciously perceived. On the contrary, one might say that an environmental influence may be particularly pernicious where the consciousness does not correct it” (Progressive Architecture, Nov 49, p65). Though this was written half a century ago, very little has changed.

The primacy of vision is evident everywhere we turn. This was not slow in the making- from Greek philosophy, to the Renaissance discovery of perspective and Alberti’s winged eye, the visual sense has reigned supreme. And here we are, driving past blinding signage and navigating our lives and cities with our eyes. It is the sense we are most conscious of, and the one we believe we trust most. I understand that this was and still is necessary for the development of our species. I’m just unsure what we are progressing towards. Or perhaps I fear that in our rush to exploit our visual advantage, other dimensions of our lives and selves are left diminished and forgotten.

For example, it disturbs me sometimes that supermarkets and grocery stores are largely devoid of scent. Sure, our produce must be shipped in out of season and unripe to keep things running on time. And I do admit it is more convenient to get my meat precut and packaged. And yes, around the bakery it often smells of fresh baking. In fact, many supermarkets pump the smell of fresh bread by their entrances to draw in customers. The same tactic is used in shopping malls with the scent of baking cookies, even where there are no fresh cookies to be found.

While it may seem ‘considerate’ of the stores to provide positive scents for their consumers to shop to, it can also seen as highly manipulative. Much research and development in the fragrance industry has been centered in the area of subliminal "nasal persuasion". The idea is to project "olfactory character" into commercial spaces to produce a memorable shopping experience (consciously and unconsciously). Muzak LLC (of elevator music fame) is now in collaboration with ScentAir Technologies, Inc. to provide scent and sound installations for retail stores and shopping malls. Avery Gilbert’s What the Nose Knows paints another interesting picture of this: “This application has been fully embraced in one large business sector: the gaming industry. Las Vegas is the trend’s epi-center; half the major properties on the Strip have scent systems. The MGM Grand has deployed as many as nine scents simultaneously around its property, and the Venetian features a corporate logoscent called ‘Seduction.’ In their quest to fine-tune consumer experience, casinos have made sensory engineering a priority. Guest rooms are kept chilly to discourage visitors from spending too much time in them. Complex floor plans channel patrons farther into the gaming areas, where clocks are banished, along with views of the outside world” (Gilbert, p171).

At the other end of the spectrum, the bad smells of our society are channeled discreetly to the edges of our cities and consciousness. The odors of waste, garbage, illness, death and decay are concentrated in our landfills, sewers, waste water treatment centers, and abattoirs. There was a time when this distance did not exist, a time when people lived with their refuse and decay (sure, out of necessity). Ancient Roman streets were designed to accommodate the travel of both goods and waste. Deep with intermittent stepping stones (for crossing without having to wade through garbage), one can imagine the intense stench that accompanied their daily lives. With the construction of the Cloaca Maxima, waste was more efficiently and hygienically diverted to the Tiber. While I greatly appreciate the olfactory comfort afforded to us by our modern infrastructural systems, I also can’t help but feel that something has been lost in the rush to drive out smells from our cities and lives. Now that smell is commonly used to mask and manipulate, our experience of it has become so disconnected from real matter and phenomena.

Fragrance has been used throughout history to mask and manipulate in subtle ways. It was used not only to mask but also to reveal. Spirituality and scent have long been associated. Incense plays a large role in many religions and rituals (Catholicism, Buddhism). From Evliya Çelebi's Book of Travels: Land and People of the Ottoman Empire in the Seventeenth Century, a brief glimpse of the scented sanctity is described. “The Ipariye Mosque was built by a wealthy merchant trading with China. He had seventy loads of musk of Khotan mixed into the mortar for its walls, which is why it is called the Ipari – that is, musk-scented – mosque. And indeed, if one sniffs, in humid weather, near its walls, one’s nose gets perfumed with the fragrance of musk.”(p137)

What do I seek to understand about scent and architecture? I like that smells and odors can operate in the same way as architecture does, both occupying and creating space. They physically take up and give form to arbitrary space, but more importantly, they create a sort of imaginary space, encompassing past and present, recalling people and events beyond/outside of themselves. They provide settings for drama and experience. They are in the background, almost invisible, yet they are capable of collapsing and connecting time. I like to imagine a time, imagine myself existing in a time and place when scent and architecture were more obviously intertwined. Perhaps I’d only have to travel back to my childhood, when every smell was novel, new, of substance, deserving of notice… like stepping into a building for the first time. What were the smells of my childhood? My grandmother’s cooking, my mom’s hair, the scent of many bodies living in a small space, confined. The autumn leaves, spring worms. Mown grass in the summer, mixed with gasoline and barbecue coming from the next yard. The non-smell of fresh snowfall, mixed with the dankness of wet hats and mittens that characterized winter.

There are some smells I didn’t appreciate until they were gone, or until I inhaled them out of context. One, a memory of a memory, is how my clothes would smell of campfire and sweat as I took them from my bag. Alone in my room I’d sift through the events of the past days.

My mother goes through bouts of depression, during which she loses her appetite. She appears listless and lost. Not having meals or hunger to punctuate her days, she further loses track of her bodily needs, spiraling more and more into desolation.

Another memory of my mother: as children, when we were sick and congested with a serious cold, she would find her little bottle of medicinal green ointment. I don’t know its proper name – the English translation of what we called it is simply “oil”. This ointment was serious- its pungent smell could fill a room upon opening the bottle. With the backs of our shirts stretched over our heads, she would scrape the oil into our backs with a spoon. The next day everything would stink but we’d inevitably feel much better. I haven’t smelled it in over a decade, and I can’t exactly describe the smell- maybe a mixture of wood, green and hotness? (stings the nose if sniffed too closely). What I do know is that if I caught even the faintest whiff of it now, I could place it in a second.

When my grandfather died, a lot of incense was burned. A lot. Pack after plastic-wrapped pack of sickly sweet incense, bought in Chinatown, silently driven to Kingston, and burned in my childhood house, or at his grave. We were told his ghost or spirit was present if the ash did not fall from the stick, that it was a fortuitous sign that he was with us, watching over us, protecting us. In these moments my grandmother would grow serene, her face calmer in the red glow of the altar.

Memories imply loss, or passing, being lost in memories, time lost and regained in remembering.

I am a bit claustrophobic when it comes to strangers. Being closed in I panic and plan my escape. But I also find comfort in being extremely close with a lover, their weight pressing on me, their smell invading, their heat enveloping me. It feels like home. There is an overwhelming desire to disappear into them, have them breathe me in, hold their breath with me inside.

Is there comfort in losing yourself? Consolation in surrendering to something other to yourself? Why does this feeling of being engulfed in the moment, in the awareness of present, happen so rarely? Details… are they important? We’ve been taught that they are. Do they make experience richer or detract from the more important things… are the details of our experience are largely unknown to us? What if they quickly disappear or were only shadows to begin with?

News Flash:

“Leonard Bernstein’s children have donated the carefully preserved contents of his main composing studio to Indiana University, which has promised to recreate the space. The items run from the deeply meaningful to the banal. They include Bernstein’s stand-up composing table; a conducting stool that may have been used by Brahms, given as a gift by the Vienna Philharmonic; an electric pencil sharpener; a telephone; an ashtray and disposable lighters; 39 Grammy-nomination plaques; and a piece of the Berlin Wall.”
from Berstein's Workroom Will Head to Indiana by Daniel J. Wakin,
Published: March 8, 2009 in The New York Times

Why is there a human compulsion to preserve, to pack away things as they are, to have a record of them as they were? The actual thing we strive to keep or archive is usually not the physical thing being conserved. It is rarely the thing itself that is significant but rather the memories or ideas the thing holds.

Is there magic in re-creation, replication, reconstruction? Are we the only animals who feel this need to memorialize the past? Perhaps as we gradually lost our instincts we gained our capacity for memory. Maybe our need for memory makes up for what we’ve lost in connection to our bodies and environments. Is it that we look to connect to things outside of ourselves, extend ourselves in an effort to again know how it feels to be at home the world?

For the past eight years it seems like I’ve measured time with cigarettes… cigarettes smoked, cigarettes to be smoked, packs of cigarettes to buy, first cigarettes of the day, after meals, smokes with friends, strangers, alone. I’m not sure what paced my days before I fell in love with smoking… perhaps I lived in a zone without structure… It will never cease to amaze me that that a ten centimeters of matter, stuffed with tobacco, somehow disappears into my body, stings my throat on the way down, re-emerging grey blue and immaterial from my lips. In roughly five minutes it is gone, and I carry on with my day for the next hour or two, sometimes already anticipating the next one.

I acknowledge that a part of this has to do with my body’s conditioned need for nicotine. What was once an innocent rebellious indulgence is now one of the only expressions of my bodily instincts. This is kind of sad. Another bodily rhythm of mine that is a bit scrambled is my sleep/wake cycle. Somehow my waking hours are now nocturnal. Like an insomniac, in darkness, perhaps hiding from the clarity of day.

What am I arguing for?

A more immediate way of experiencing world? A portal to the immediate as a break from reality? A deeper physiological memory? More intimacy with our bodies, instincts and environments? Opportunities to engage our more basic, primal, unconscious selves?

I want to design a space (or series of spaces) capable of triggering instinct. A part of this would be rendering palpable smells and exploring/anticipating their effects on the body and mind. How can this forgotten sense can be used in architecture, in conjunction with sight, sound, and touch (with temperature, air movement, humidity), to create spaces that are, in a way, sublime and primordial?

Can architecture help forge a closer relationship between body and mind, the conscious and unconscious? What can it teach us about ourselves? This desire is a response to what I see to be a sense of disconnection in this age of speed, technology and information. I feel the need to reconsider the numbness of our sterile modern lives and environments, or at least find a foil for it; an alternative just as extreme.



2890 words

Vien Nguyen
11/03/2009


major players:
The Scent of Desire, by Rachel Herz
What the Nose Knows, by Avery Gilbert
Invisible Architecture, ed. Anna Barbara and Anthony Perliss




Dear Donald,

This paper is more like purge of my thoughts and feelings on the possible thesis (ones I’ve been holding in my head for the past while) than a real proposal… In parts it is pretty navel-gazing and self-absorbed – sorry! It jumps around a lot, goes into some (unimportant?) things too much and others (perhaps more interesting?), not enough.

I feel good, though, that they are out and on the table to look at and scrap as my thesis develops and focuses. It is just shy of 3000 words – not quite the 5000 you were looking for.

There is sort of a new direction I’m thinking of taking the topic – I’ll try to articulate it better at the group meeting - that has to do more with human instinct than scent/smell in particular.

Anyway, I hope it is not too painful to read. And thanks for making me do this.

V