CHRISTOPHER CLARKSON
40
That is to say, there is no writing on the wall itself, but the writing on the topic of wall is indeed, very superstitious. In this essay I aim to explore the significance of the written architectural review. What is this thing that we’re doing when writing an article; why do we do it; and what do others gain from reading it; are all questions that seem quite significant not only to the essence of the magazine but to the essence of the students that write and read it as well. The idea of putting my relatively ill-informed opinions about the built environment into words and letting roughly 1600 people read it seems almost absurd. Especially considering the fact that I’m merely a first-year student – in fact most of the current magazine editorial team is comprised of first year students. So, I must ask myself on what authority do I write the things I do? For what purpose, and what influence does my writing have on other people? Generally speaking, my reason for reading any kind of review, be it on architecture (thanks ArchDaily, and Dezeen), film (thanks Criswell, Now You See It, and Every Frame a Painting) or art (thanks The Art Story) is to try and understand the concept of ‘why is this thing good?’ and why should I like it? In this way, I try and understand the reasoning behind the reviewer’s subjective stance on a work of art. What is key to understand is that at the end of the day their review is indeed, simply subjective. But by using their methods of reasoning it means I later gain a sense of agency when talking with friends about whether
or not I thought the film we just watched was good. I think a similar principle is applied in subjects such as Vormstudie or design subjects. In this case instead of reading a review, your own work is given a face to face review with an expert. I’m sure you’ve all heard someone at some point in your life saying the following words verbatim: ‘This is a damn fine cup of coffee.’ And you sit there silently nodding your head while you try desperately to grasp at any clue of what on earth makes a cup of coffee good, because to you this coffee just tastes like coffee. Meanwhile, it’s impossible for you to know until someone has defined the criteria by which they assess their drink – I think Shaffer (2005) captures this pretty brilliantly in the play Equus:
“That’s the feeling. All reined up in old language and old assumptions, straining to jump clean-hoofed on to a whole new track of being I only suspect is there. I can’t see it, because my educated, average head is being held at the wrong angle.”
Of course, here the character, Dysart, is not exactly talking about trying to understand what makes a cup of coffee good, but it creates a similar angst; being aware that there is some kind of knowledge or understanding to be had, a ‘whole new track of being’ and yet not even knowing by what criteria that thing can be understood, because your head is being ‘held at the wrong angle’. So, in that sense I might flatter myself and say that I’m
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