“We (the indivisible divinity that works in us) have dreamed the world.” Jorge Luis Borges
On my desk sits a sturdy gravity bookcase I made in Grade 7 Shop at St. Mary’s Junior High in Calgary over 60 years ago. I have kept more for sentimental reasons than practicality. It holds a handful of books, not for reference, but because they help inspire, aspire, and encourage me to ask difficult questions – how can I better think, write, and practice architecture? (For those of you unfamiliar with gravity bookcases, they are a simple yet clever affair. One end is elevated, in my case by a piece of dowel affixed to the underside of the base. This forces the books, via gravity, to lean against the vertical support on the opposite side of the bookcase. Though not particularly practical, mine has travelled with me from place to place to remind me of home.)
beauty is more than skin deep
Books and buildings – both are objects we inhabit. I am not alone in this thinking; Neil Gaiman, in reference to genres, wrote that ‘Writers live in houses that other people built’. Books and architecture can have gravitas or whimsey; each occupies space, has structure and weight, and their dust jackets, their façades, serve the same purpose: to draw you in.
However, the backs of buildings are often more interesting than the front. Instead of showing what the building wants to be, it shows us what the building actually is. The back cover of a book gives us insight into what the interior, the inhabited space, holds. Jorge Luis Borges reminds us that a book “is more than a verbal structure or a series of verbal structures; a book is a dialogue with the reader”. Similarly, good architecture is more than simply a structure; like a good novel it creates a dialogue and a connection with the viewer.
connections, relationships, dialogues
We tend to think our relationships, whether in love or business, are unique; however we are often surprised to find there is commonality in how relationships begin, flourish, endure, or in some instances end.
I have three close friends with whom I discussed the architect’s library: I grew up in Calgary but architectural work and university had me living in the United States for many years – Cincinnati; Pullman, Washington; Montana; Los Angeles, California; and various parts of Indiana; as well as travelling to China, Italy, and other lands. Brett Pawson, a past collaborator, is a 3D architectural animator and researcher in animation and media in Vancouver. My former classmate Tom Schilb has a practice based in Seattle, but has done work all along the West Coast, most recently in northern California; The late Tip Scott, initially a philosopher, was an architect and builder – we worked together for many years in California, Indiana and other places in the States. He had a large library –but tended to prefer magazines such as Domus over books about or by other architects. We all have very diverse interests and architectural and design practices, but share a love of books and their connection to the works we produce. Tip loved Frank Lloyd Wright; I am a huge fan of Carlo Scarpa who was a fan and friend of Wright. There are connections.
objects of our affections
1 Dennis Rovere
What are these objects that attract, entice and compel us to gather, collect, and in some instances hoard? I have always loved architecture books – architects, theory, history, drawing speculative and unbuilt design, especially contemporary Italians, Tadao Ando, and Tom Kundig. I buy books; I have not borrowed a book from a library in over 35 years. I have a rather large collection of several thousand – according to my wife several thousand too many; she tolerates my collection because she knows that even though I love my books, I love her more – and my books, I am sure, know this too.
Books are in bookcases in my library and studio in the basement. They are in multiple languages (i.e., English, Italian, and Chinese); some are loosely organized by theme, for example writings by Umberto Eco – but right below him are Tadao Ando, Italian and contemporary Chinese female architects and reprints of comic books such as the three volume set of Magnus Robot Fighter. Over the years, I have remained faithful to most of them, particularly my art, architecture, and children’s books – primarily because of the illustrations. Fickleness or various and diverse writing or design projects cause my affection for certain volumes to change. Sure I still love them all, but the competition for my affection is fierce. As a result, I rearrange my shelves two or three times a year as certain texts become more important or fade in relevance.
2 Tom Schilb
Tom Schilb, a consummate artist with a strong engineering background, is an architect who tends not to collect books on architecture – rather his books are inspirations from places other than design. He has very few books on architecture, but many Italian cookbooks, books on philosophy, forensic facial reconstruction and paleontology, graphic novels, poetry and field guides. Tom is truly in love, or as he puts it “…crazy and neurotic about books”, and considers buying them as a form of self-reliance knowing that he’s assembling his own library of treasures – sometimes twice when he realizes that somehow he’s lost a book he once had. To him bookcases are furniture, a major part of almost every room in his house as well as tables stacked with books. His books are everywhere. Although he tries to organise and stow them tidily in bookcases, they mysteriously migrate to appear within arm’s reach, no matter if he is on the couch, sitting in his favourite chair, cooking in the kitchen or lying in bed. Like all good partners, books bring Tom comfort knowing they are there.
no romantic liaisons here
The internet now displaces the need to maintain a physical library of Sweets Guides, binders from manufacturers and vendors, code books, and so on. It’s difficult to find outdated material online, whereas years ago, keeping up to date with current products and code changes was never ending. The downside is, as Tom sees it, too many distractions; ‘every web page is filled with pop up ads, videos that ‘need’ to play when all you want to do is read some bit of text, which inevitably is poorly written and not actually intended to tell you much of anything’. While Tip liked the distractions, I avoid them as much as possible and spend much of my time on the internet researching books to add to my library
In terms of shifting loyalties, we all consider online liaisons more as acquaintances rather than long-term, serious relationships. Tom sums up our collective feeling that ‘the internet is not the place for inspiration and getting in the right frame of mind to be at your best creatively. This duty still falls to getting lost in a book – shutting off the outside world and taking a journey that resets you with yourself ’.
3 Brett Pawson
Brett has books on eastern metaphysics and more ‘practical’ subjects – everything from ‘…gardening to archery to construction to animation’. Most of his active collection is piled on the floor within 10 feet of his desk, which is clear except for his laptop, paper and pens. Books on his shelves are stored in a mix of the horizontal and vertical; horizontal piles frequently serve both as bookends for the vertical books and as independent horizontal stacks; what one sacrifices in removability from the pile one gains in easy reading of the spines. He borrows from the library, and buys used books.
4 Tip Scott
We all use words such as pervasive, active, and passive to describe our ongoing relationship with books. Brett’s relationship is both active and passive – he uses his books in his design work and maintains an active research library. He also maintains a passive resource collection in a different city – one that has not been touched in years. Tom’s relationship is pervasive and never as active as he would like. Late in his career, Tip would also use the word indifferent.
Tip’s passion for books was initially active in that they provided a deeper understanding for his architectural projects, primarily through his life-long romance with philosophy via DePauw, the Sorbonne, and Oxford. The first project we collaborated on was the Tibetan Cultural Centre in Indiana. By way of design research he gave me a copy of The Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation, which, because of its connection to Tip and this first joint venture, still holds a prominent place in my library.
Tip’s studio had few books; those present were stacked, in no specific order, on tables and custom designed and manufactured moveable sets of drawers. Magazines and journals stood, again in no specific order, on the long work table in his studio. Most of his library was in his house on bookshelves that spanned the length of one wall and up through the upper floor to occupy two storeys.
Late in Tip’s career rumors began to circulate he was carrying on affairs with books outside his home; casual affairs, to be sure, with audio books from the public library. He claimed these were not serious encounters but only undertaken for companionship and to provide background ‘noise’ during his solo, late-night studio design sessions. However, I knew his relationships were changing when he packed almost all of his books into boxes. They were labeled and placed in storage, never to be opened again during his lifetime. In his studio, his collection of design magazines were put in cupboards and the only books that remained in the open were those actively needed for construction, pricing, or detailing.
During all of this, he did stay faithful to one book – a copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass he carried along with a sketchbook and drawing tools in a handwoven Ecuadorian bag. One particular summer day we stopped for coffee on our way to dinner with a client. As we sat and chatted, he began to read from Leaves and at some point began to cry. After learning from his ex-wife that Tip had died suddenly, I purchased the best hard cover copy of Song of Myself – the core poem in Leaves of Grass. This act was a way of commemorating Tip’s love of Whitman and our long and close collaboration and friendship. Despite its emotional value, Song still does not sit on my desk. It resides beside the Great Liberation in the architecture section of my library. No longer a book, but akin to a paper gau, it stands as a reminder for Tip, now gone
(All photographs by the author, except for the image of Tip’s stored books & cane – photo courtesy of Adrienne Rovere & used with permission)
Since this piece was published my friend, Tom Schilb, has also passed away