Walk It Off, Princess Page 6

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a graphic representation of two swans with their necks wrapped around each other’s. The swans symbolise partnership and the negative space between the necks forms a leaf shape representing growth and the company’s commitment to renewable resources.”

  “We sell toasters.”

  Frank Lloyd Wright never took a course in Designer/Client Relationships.

  “Thanks for meeting us on site, Frank.”

  “No problem, Edgar.”

  “What we’re looking for is a small holiday cabin about fifty-feet from the river.”

  “Gotcha, on the river.”

  “No, fifty-feet from the edge. So we can see the river and waterfall while we’re relaxing on the patio.”

  “You’d still be able to see the river if I built the house on it, you’d just have to stand up and look down over the balcony.”

  “That doesn’t sound very practical. I’d like to be able to see the river while I’m sitting down.”

  “I could add a glass floor bit for you to look through.”

  “That’s hardly the same as being able to see the whole river, is it? We’d just see water running underneath. What about the waterfall?”

  “It’s not that great. I’ve seen bigger ones. Besides, if you’re over the waterfall, you’ll be able to hear it better.”

  “I’m just not sure it’s...”

  “Right, you know what? I don’t think I want to build it at all anymore.”

  “Don’t be like that, Frank. Fine, we’ll discuss the location of the house later and maybe come up with some kind of compromise.”

  “No, I’m going home. There’s heaps of other projects I’d much rather be working on.”

  “Okay, you can build it on the river.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Now, for the materials, we were thinking either cedar or redwood.”

  “Gotcha, twelve-thousand tons of cantilevered reinforced concrete.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing.”

  “We want it in either cedar or redwood, Frank.”

  “Sure. So what’s your budget for this project?”

  “Thirty-five thousand.”

  “Okay, so somewhere between thirty-five thousand and two-hundred thousand. I can work with that. Oh, by the way, how do you feel about really low ceilings?”

  “We’d like really grand ceilings, at least twelve-feet.”

  “Got it.”

  Apparently Frank was a bit of dick outside of work as well. Ignoring ‘accepted rules of conduct’ of the time, he walked out on his wife and six children, leaving them destitute, and moved in with a client’s wife. This well-publicized affair ended when a pissed off butler slaughtered Frank’s mistress and six others with an axe. One of Frank’s relatives described him as, “an embarrassment” and “a torment” to the family.”

  We forgive Frank for his ego and conduct though, given his extraordinary contribution to the world. It’s how everyone in the design industry justifies his or her own dreadful behaviour. I’ve never met a designer who didn’t think they were the most creative human being to have ever lived, and therefore can get away with acting like a petulant child. Except myself of course.

  The design course I was in had six subjects but the Design History component of the course was worth 25% of our grade. Two other subjects, Design Principles and Design Technologies, were pass or fail. There was no end-of-year test for Design History but, rather, a dissertation which consisted of each student giving a ten minute presentation on an iconic design or designer of their choice - to the entire lecture theatre.

  I’m not a fan of public speaking. I’ve experienced social anxiety, in varying degrees, all my life. Sometimes I’m fine, sometimes I won’t leave the house for weeks. Not even to visit friends. It makes no sense and I realise it’s irrational but there are days when even the thought of interacting with other people causes a mild panic attack and I break out in a sweat. Once at uni, I was walking across a bridge between two buildings and a girl I knew stopped to say hello so I ran. There was no logic to my action, I simply stared at her in horror for a second, then bolted. My worst fear is being in one those groups where you’re all sitting around in a circle and the group leader says, “Okay, we’ll go around the circle and have each person tell us their name and something about themselves.”

  Apparently the only way to overcome social anxiety is to join an ‘active behavioural therapy group’ which includes sitting around in a circle talking about yourself.

  “Oh, you’re scared of spiders?”

  “Yes, terrified.”

  “Me too. You should join the therapy group I’m in.”

  “Will it fix my phobia?”

  “No, we just sit around in a circle and the group leader throws spiders at us. Big hairy ones. It’s dreadful.”

  I’ve gotten better at social interaction over the years, and at times worse, but back then, presenting a Design History dissertation to an entire class was the worst thing I could imagine... which was made worse when, two weeks before we were to present to the class, Mr Bruton singled me out as a Spot Robber.

  “David.”

  “Shhh, he’s talking about cantilevers again.”

  “What are you doing your dissertation on?”

  “I don’t know yet. What are you doing yours on?”

  “Charles and Ray Eames.”

  “Nice. I like their chairs.”

  “You haven’t started yet? You only have a few weeks.”

  “I know, every time I think about it, I break out in a sweat and have to do deep-breathing exercises.”

  “David and Jamie, am I boring you?”

  “No, not at all. Sorry Mr Bruton, I was just agreeing with your point about cantilevers.”

  “Oh, really, David?”

  “Yes. I find cantilevers very interesting.”

  “What exactly do you find most interesting about them?”

  “The whole process really.”

  “What process?”

  “The process of... levering the canti.”

  “Do you know how many people applied for this course and didn’t get in, David?”

  “Eight-hundred and thirty-six.”

  “Correct, eight-hundred and thirty-six people wanted to sit in the chair you’re currently occupying. One of which didn’t receive a letter of acceptance because you robbed the spot from them. You’re a Spot Robber.”

  “No, honestly, I’m not a Spot Robber. I’m genuinely interested in the subject. Please continue.”

  “What are you doing your dissertation on, David?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your dissertation.”

  “I’d rather not say at this time... it would ruin the, um, surprise.”

  “Oh, it’s a surprise is it? How fun. It must be a truly exceptional presentation if you’re bound to such secrecy. Maybe I should arrange a video camera on the day to capture the moment for future generations to enjoy and learn from.”

  “That’s probably not necessary.”

  “It better be worth the wait, David.”

  I didn’t panic for the first week; I told myself two weeks was plenty of time to come up with something. It was a comforting lie so I embraced it. When I had a week until the presentation, I told myself a week was plenty of time, then five days was plenty, then four... With two days left, I deliberated faking an injury, maybe hiring a wheelchair and wheeling into Mr Bruton’s office wearing a neck brace and explaining, by writing on a notepad, that my throat was crushed in a terrible accident. I probably wouldn’t need the wheelchair for that actually.

  I was capable of forging a doctor’s certificate if the need arose. I’d done it before. I had a decent computer setup at home by 90s standards - a Macintosh IIfx with a large monitor and scanner - and it wasn’t difficult to scan a certificate in and edit it in Photoshop. It would only mean an extension on my dissertation though; I wouldn’t be getting out of it. I had th
e choice of either failing the subject or speaking in front of an audience.

  A friend named Geoffrey had introduced me to Macintosh systems a few years before when we’d both worked at a printing firm together. He became a certified Apple technician around the same time I was accepted into uni, and worked at a store called Next Byte for a while which gave him access to a lot of software. Most of my pirated copies came from him back then as this was before even Limewire existed. We spent hundreds of hours, possibly thousands, looking at new programs while smoking dope and listening to music in his apartment. Most of the music Geoffrey listened to was classical but occasionally he’d let me sneak in a bit of Pop Will Eat Itself or Sisters of Mercy to the playlist with only a small amount of complaining about the lack of structure, balance or beauty.

  I put on earphones and listened to music, leaning back in my chair and staring at a blank page on the monitor in front of me. Reaching for a book on design history, from a large stack I had borrowed from the uni library that morning, I flicked through, put it down and picked up another. I’d already done this several times, it was like opening the fridge to see if there’s anything to eat, then checking again five minutes later with lowered expectations. I glanced back up at the monitor, a screen-saver had kicked in. It showed beach scenes, fading from one image to another with a slow zoom. I watched it for a few minutes, nodding my head to the music. The bass line synchronised with the images as if they were made for one another.

  “Geoffrey. It’s David.”

  “What’s up?”

  “What’s that fade called on screen-savers? The one where it zooms and fades in and out of images.”

  “The Ken Burns effect?”

  “That’s the one, do you have software that does that? Maybe one that syncs to music?”

  “Sure.”

  “What are you up to at the moment?”

  “Listening to Vivaldi while I polish my sword.”

  “Nice. Do you mind if I drop by?”

  “Sure, bring some floppies. I’ve worked out how to turn 720k floppies into 1.44mb ones just by drilling a hole in the top left edge.”

  Jamie finished his dissertation. Halfway through he’d lost his place and stammered a little but it was well written and covered the subject adequately. There was polite clapping from the audience and Mr Bruton nodded.

  “Thank you, Jamie. That was very good. I would have liked to hear more about the relationship between Charles and Ray Eames and Herman Miller but a well-rounded presentation nonetheless. Next up, we have... oh, good, David and his secret surprise. He’s even bought in his computer and arranged a projector. We’re all in for a special treat today. David?”

  I made my way down to the podium where I’d set up my computer earlier. I didn’t own a laptop in those days so I’d taken in my entire system, which included a decent amp and speakers. Someone had tripped over one of the speaker wires earlier so I plugged it back in and cranked the volume to max. A low hum filled the lecture theatre. I mirrored my screen to the projector, asked for the lights to be turned off, and double-clicked a file titled, One_thousand_words.mov

  The opening of Vivaldi’s Winter from Four Seasons flooded the dark room. River rocks and rhododendrons appeared on the screen, then blueprints from Frank Lloyd Wrights Fallingwater, the images merging into another seamlessly thanks to Ken Burns, synchronised to the music. At what was probably the 1700s orchestral equivalent of a ‘drop’, the blueprints were replaced by images of the house. There were over two-hundred images in all, it had taken hours to scan them all. They showed exteriors, and a few interiors, of the house in winter, spring, summer & autumn and matched the edited relative compositions from Four Seasons - timed to be exactly ten minutes.

  I had no idea how it was going to be received. It was a risky move but a move that meant I didn’t have to speak. I half expected Mr Bruton, at any moment, to turn on the lights mid-presentation and ask, “Is this meant to be some kind of joke?” but somehow, I didn’t care. Something had occurred while I was constructing the presentation. It began as an out, a way to avoid having to do a real dissertation, but as I selected images and timed their appearance to the music, details in the architecture stood out. Window panes went straight into the rock rather than having frames, balconies floated as if defying gravity - metal, concrete and glass merged seamlessly into the natural environment like it belonged there... needed to be there. Juxtaposing forms which I’d previously seen as children’s building blocks were actually structured like a grid. A perfect grid, regardless of angle, distance or detail of the photos.

  The presentation ended on a long violin note and a hero shot of the house surrounded by autumnal leaves before fading out. I heard someone trip on a step and fumble with the light switch and the room was suddenly very bright. Jamie clapped and a few others joined in but not overly enthusiastically. I looked across the room to where Mr Bruton was sitting, expecting to see him shaking his head with disdain, or worse, smirking. He was wiping an eye with his tie.

  “That was beautiful. Thank you, David. ”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “Not at all. I’d actually like a copy.”

  “I can never tell when you’re being sarcastic.”

  “I’m not being sarcastic.”

  “Does this mean I pass?”

  “I’ll give you a distinction if you can tell me what a cantilever is.”

  “It’s a projecting girder fixed at only one end, it’s how Wright managed to create balconies that look like they’re defying gravity.”

  “Very good. Next up is... Jodie.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Language, Jodie.”

  Holly and I held hands as we walked along a path bordered by tall native rhododendrons. It was twenty years since I had graduated, a few years since I had moved to the United States to live. We were with a group consisting of only seven or eight people as we had booked the first morning tour months ahead. It had been a dry summer and the leaves were turning late but there were hints of orange and red as our tour guide led us along the winding path. The foliage blocked sight of the house right up until we rounded a final corner. Holly squeezed my hand hard and smiled.

  “Oh my god, David, are you crying?”

  “No, my eyes just went a bit moist.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, it is. ”

  “The balconies look like they’re floating.”

  “Cantilevers.”

  Judgmental

  We moved recently, to get the fuck away from our neighbor Carl, and our new neighbours are a dwarf and his blurry wife. He might not actually be a dwarf - it’s possible he’s just really short with weird chubby arms and legs - and his wife isn’t really blurry, just so nondescript that ten seconds after seeing her, I forget what she looks like. I think she has straight brown hair. Also, her name might be Karen. Or Jill. I don’t care.

  Apparently they’re artists but I’ve known artists who were capable of using a weed whacker. It’s not all just about wearing black and bringing rusty benches home from the dump to put on your front lawn. A rusty dump-bench doesn’t say, “Look at how bohemian we are”, it says, “Fuck you, we’re taking everyone’s property value down with us.”

  The crackhouse-chique theme isn’t restrained to the exterior either; Dwarf and Blurry don’t own blinds so at night, we get the full experience of what it would be like to live in a third-world country. At some point, one of them must have declared, “You know what would make great living room furniture? A beige plastic outdoor setting from Wal-Mart. And I’ll paint it without primer.” To which the other no doubt answered, “Good idea, it will go perfectly with our cinder-block bookcase and the six-foot papier-mâché giraffe we found in a dumpster behind Pier-1.”

  Also, I once saw the blurry wife dancing in a poncho while the dwarf played bongos. It must have been a bongo song about birds because she was flapping her poncho like wings. It’s easy to be judgmental though. Really easy. I’d probabl
y still bother if it took effort however. I’d have nothing to talk about otherwise.

  “I see your neighbors put a bench on their front lawn.”

  “Yes, a metal one. Looks great.”

  “Really, David?”

  “Yes, it’s very bohemian. They’re artists, did you know?”

  “It’s covered in rust.”

  “Ah, yes, the patina. So much character.”

  “It’s an eyesore. And weird. Who puts an old rusty bench in the middle of their front lawn facing the street? Are they going to sit on it and wave to people passing by?”

  “I do hope so. The neighborly wave is sadly uncommon nowadays.”

  “You’re behaving rather oddly and there’s a large vein on your forehead that looks like it’s about to burst.”

  “Yes, I’m having a stroke.”

  Holly and I actually play a game called ‘The Judgmental Game’ which we made up and somehow don’t feel bad about. Basically, if you’re driving along and you see someone wearing, for example, terry toweling, you declare, “Hey, there’s Terry!” and the other person has to guess Terry’s last name - which in this instance is obviously Toweling. Just this afternoon, on the way to the supermarket, we passed Roger Redpants and argued whether Erin Electric Scooter counts because it was a bit of a stretch. Holly’s not very good at the game.

  “Hey, there’s Sally!”

  “Hmm... Sally who?”

  “Sally Shopping Cart.”

  “We all have shopping carts, Holly. We’re shopping in a supermarket.”

  “And? Hey, there’s Sue!”

  “Sue Shopping Cart?”

  “No, Sue Williams. I went to school with her sister.”.