By Laura Zajac
"What does it mean to be a wall?" asked architecture student Bradford
Watson.
Watson lives in the world of architectural theory, a world in which
buildings breathe and parasites are more than pests. "It's an investigation
of a way of doing architecture. The idea is to strip down a building
into a kind of essence that answers a question." This type of architectural
imagination was central to Watson's fifth-year thesis project, a
theoretical "suturing," or uniting of new and old structures, of
an abandoned building in Pittsburgh. "There is an amount of energy
embodied in the structure. Bricks, masonry — all the work that
went into making a single brick," said Watson. He stressed the need
to use this energy and build upon structures that already exist
rather than just tear them down.
The
building Watson has in mind is an old Police and Fire Station on
the South Side of Pittsburgh, built in 1900 and abandoned in the
late 1970s. With collapsed floors, a caved-in roof, and trees growing
out the top, the building was essentially a masonry shell, the perfect
model for Watson's project. Armed with photographs and measurements
of the building, Watson was ready to answer his first question,
"How to take the shell and build a site-specific suture?"
The idea was to shore-up, or stabilize, the masonry shell to prevent
the building from falling down. So he designed walls and beams to
wrap around and inside the original structure to "prevent further
decay." The next step was to add the basic functions of a building
to the suture: an elevator, bathrooms, stairs, corridors, and electrical
wiring.
With the suture completed, at least on paper, the building could
theoretically "breathe in," explained Watson. "When the abandoned
building no longer had any need to exist, it was allowed to go back
to nature; to be free, to breathe out. But before it was abandoned,
it breathed in and had its life. The suture is a way of going between
these — it provides for the next life of the building."
Watson then concentrated on imagining characters (or in architectural
lingo, "parasites") who would move into the building, giving it
new life and purpose. These parasites are people, specifically a
caretaker, writer, photographer, and musician, who theoretically
take up residence in the sutured building. "You imagine what kind
of person should live there," explained Watson. "You invent characters
as a means for designing."
For example, a writer is "someone who takes two things and weaves
them together. A story, a narrative." So Watson set the writer's
"house" within the building between two floors. The musician's "house"
is hung from an inside wall, so that as wind flows through the building,
the house vibrates and fills the entire space with sound.
While all this is mainly theoretical, Watson is also interested
in the practical value of working with a "found object." He has
been designing and actually building furniture from unwanted items.
Whether the object is an abandoned building in Pittsburgh or a rocking
chair at a garage sale, it represents what he calls the "notion
of a found object as an energy or a groundwork. I'm interested in
how these things establish rules. You can't just do anything to
it."
Bradford Watson graduated in May 2000 with a B.Arch. and honors
from the College of Arts and Architecture and the Schreyer Honors
College. His adviser is Darla Lindberg, Ph.D., 303 Engineering Unit
C, University Park, PA 16802; 814-865-1572; dvl2@psu.edu.
Writer Laura Zajac graduated in May 2000 with a B.S. and honors
in biobehavioral health.
