Fare Forward (16 page)

"That's really not necessary, Emily." I kiss her on the cheek and give her a quick hug, then point her toward the seats.

The program, the
Design of a Spiritual Retreat for Scientists,
was remarkably similar to many things in my own life. I had spent hours over the last few weeks discussing my design ideas with my grandfather. Even though he was traveling, we spoke frequently. I remember sitting at my desk in the studio and looking out at the campus. I held the receiver to my ear and listened to his voice.

"Papa, where are you? On the other side of the world again?"

"Almost. Actually, I'm
inside
the world."

"Near Geneva right? Back at the Supercollider."

"Yes, under the surface of the earth."

"I wish you were here, in New York. You would understand the nature of this project, the challenge of a spiritual retreat for scientists. I mean, do these places even exist?"

"I'm at one right now."

"I can't do it."

"Of course you can, you
already
have. My beautiful library in Gloucester. Besides, this is an ironic opportunity for you, to design a place for the souls and minds of members of the scientific community."

"Those like you, Papa, who I admire most."

"And?"

"The project is completely consuming all of my waking and, of late, sleeping hours. I have had many dreams about it."

"Tell me." I heard him sigh.

"I can't explain it; I guess it's how my mind works, in three dimensions. As if I was there, actually walking through the space. But I could never tell that to the critics. They would laugh me out of the room."

Yet I had dreamed this space, seeing a perfect vision of what I wanted my project to look like.

"You are like your grandmother," he had said, "living so much of her life through her dreams."

"Sometimes I look in the mirror and I barely recognize myself."

"Nonsense."

"No really, there is something different. I'm changing in ways I didn't expect."

"Well, my dear, things don't always turn out as you expect them to."

"I know—"

"Maybe better. Things might turn out better than you could have even imagined."

That comment stayed with me.

O
UR ARCHITECTURE critic stands at the front of the room. Introductions are made and she explains the charge given to the students so that all those present would understand the scope of work. The visiting critics and guest jurors listen, and the reviews begin. The first student is often the sacrificial lamb as the invited guests try to evaluate the level of the student's presentation and understand the intricacies of the challenge. I feel uncharacteristically drained and am not in the mood to defend my work, especially to describe its very illusory inspiration.

"We asked the students, in thinking about this project, to question everything. How we perceive ourselves and our place on Earth at this moment in time. What can modern architecture learn from the art and science of the past? And most importantly, how can we look at the world in an original way. Add something new."

The first two students take their turns in front of the jury. They painstakingly present their projects, showing drawings and models as they point to their work and answer questions, challenges, inferences. Each review takes over forty-five minutes, and I realize that with ten students in the group, we are going to be here all day. I try to listen to the exchanges and comments, which end with somewhat disastrous results for the students.

Just what I expected.

"What a bitch," Meghan complains as she drops dejectedly down into the chair next to me. "That critic thinks she can rip into us. Did you hear what she said? That this could never be built? She hasn't been out of school that long herself."

"When your father is one of the most prolific real estate developers in the United States, you can open your own firm, design, and start building," someone responds to her as the student group huddles together, trying to gain support from our shared misery.

"Well, she's also amazingly talented," I add, hoping to channel some good karma my way by saying something nice about her.

"And my own critic." Josh looks over at the panel of jurors, disbelief on his face. "Yesterday he loved my project, then today, he didn't defend me at all. I hate going at the beginning of the day." He holds his head in his hands.

Exhaustion and defeat. A rough combination.

"Well, it's only the beginning of the semester, so take it in stride," Suzanne says cheerily. She is lucky enough to have drawn the spot to present last. Usually a good omen as the critics have run out of criticism and are ready to end.

I knew I was next and could see that the panel had replenished their coffee and were ready for me to present my project. I take a deep breath and look out at the jury, my classmates, and the other guests in the room. Philip slowly nods his head to indicate that I should begin, encouragement in his eyes.

"My name is Gabriella Vogel, and this is my project for the scientist's retreat," I begin, my voice low.

I turn around to look at everything pinned up on the wall behind me, making sure it's all still there. I stand before the carefully constructed models and large drawings, assembled through a digital collage of images and text, then overdrawn by hand. Quite miraculous, given my distractions of late.

"Our task was to create a space for scientists pushing the boundaries of what is known. These are the people who are looking beyond commonly accepted theories and laws. We were asked—what would encourage their research? I chose to investigate the internal spirit of the occupant. A space that changes the experience of time. Lit from above, with constantly evolving light and shadow, altering perspective. This is what could encourage creativity. Invention."

I pause to catch my breath and gauge a reaction from the jury. They look straight ahead as they take in what I'm saying, matching the model and drawings meant to accompany my words. Their eyes move from the table to the wall then back to me.

Nothing. No response, no questions. Silence.

I continue and answer some initial questions about the process. I describe, in detail, the shape of the glass roof and the interior two-story wall that would act as a giant screen, a large surface on which shadows would be cast, creating a theatre of darks and lights. A living, breathing chiaroscuro. Seating areas would encourage quiet contemplation, using monastic ideas of silence and solitude for introspection. The only light entering would come from above, providing views of the sky, passing clouds and stars. All of this is linked together by an enormous glass staircase that ascends through the space. I purposely try to avoid any statements that much of the vision for the design had come to me in a very specific and vivid dream.

"It is meant to encourage the varied experiences of the passage of time, the elements that make up reality. I think—I believe, that is—that this is what science is trying to explain."

I want the work to stand on its own. In the painting studios, we had always been taught that the work needed to speak for itself. To deliver a powerful message through the complex interplay of form, color, and scale, without any specific explanation from the artist. Sometimes, there is no place for words.

"Is this what you think, Miss—"

"Vogel."
My critic helps the guest juror finish his sentence.

A panel of jurors were like sharks in the water. They could sense blood or any weak link made evident by the slightest hesitation of the presenter. They immediately found mine.

"This is very interesting," he continues, his words loaded with sarcasm, "but I fail to see how your forms are connected to the objective of the program. It is such an abstract premise—really impossible, actually. You describe something that is not there. What you call the 'elements that make up reality,' this is
not
architecture. I just can't see it."

"Well." I try to control my frustration and speak calmly. "That's the point isn't it?"

As I turn my back to the panel to point out a detail on a drawing, I catch Emily's worried face watching me defend myself from the continuing verbal attack. I try to collect my thoughts when I hear greetings being exchanged among the panel and the movement of chairs. I realize that the missing critic has arrived.

Great, another voice.
And this one late.

"I want to introduce our guest," I hear the dean say. "A fantastic mind and brilliant physicist—working on some secret research aren't you?" Everyone laughs at the absurd comment. "Yes, well, we are certainly fortunate that you happen to be in New York today. As fate would have it."

"Yes, fate indeed," the voice says.

I know who it is, without a doubt. I can feel him. I turn slowly around and look up.

It's Benjamin.

O
UR EYES MEET FOR a fraction of a second, but it is unmistakable. Recognition passes between us, and I notice the subtle acknowledgement, the intensity of his eyes as they meet mine.

"Thank you, please continue." He quickly looks away and gestures his greeting to the other critics. The power of his presence commands the attention of everyone in the room. He walks around my models, inspecting them before he sits down. "I have been standing in the back for a while. Listening. I didn't want to interrupt. This is quite an interesting project."

He is magnificent. It's that voice, the accent that I can't quite identify. Sitting here with the other critics and students as if he doesn't belong to this space or this time. Everyone stares at him. His amazing youth defies all expectation of what a world-famous physicist would look like. slowly, like waters that have been disturbed by a foreign body, the energy of the group shifts and then settles to accommodate his arrival. Everyone in the space turns back to me.

"Gabriella?" My critic encourages me to continue.

"Yes, well, it's a very personal interpretation of the project." I try to pull myself together. I look up at my drawings, pinned to the wall to find safety in my own work, attempt to steady my breathing and the subtle trembling of my hands. I know that what I have designed has come from a deep part of my unconscious. That it's impossible to explain.

"Gabriella, this is a good start." My critic speaks finally, sounding encouraging.

I see Benjamin and the intense way he takes in my work. His eyes are locked onto my drawings as he sits with his arms folded across his chest, the slightest smile on his face.

"But do continue your investigation into this
invention
you seem to be pursuing," she continues.

I nod automatically, doing anything to expedite the end of the discussion, to allow myself away from the front of the room, back to my seat. But, she is not finished. Clearly, she plans to use my review to make a point. I brace myself for what is coming next.

"May I remind
all
of you that this is graduate school. While exploring abstract and poetic ideas about space is important, we do need to shift into the real world. That, in case you've forgotten, would be things like gravity, friction, and a variety of other laws of physics that apply to buildings."

Everyone snickers.

"Ms. Vogel is pursuing a joint degree," my critic continues as she turns to the rest of the jurors.

I cringe as this unnecessary piece of information is shared. "Really?" Dean Zumi finally speaks up.

"In the Master of Fine Arts Program. A
painter
aren't you?" She looks at me with a smirk on her face. "It is highly unusual to attempt to do both at the same time."

I have not taken a breath. My classmates were well aware of the recent sale of several paintings at a gallery in SoHo thanks to a collage of newspaper clippings near the entry to the studio noting any publicity about faculty, students, and alumni. I can't understand why this information has any relevance to the review and desperately try to find a way to disappear.

"Amazingly
ambeeshious
of you," Dean Zumi states sarcastically as he laughs. "We pride ourselves on how we push our students to their absolute maximum, with barely enough time to sleep or do anything other than architecture. I think you might be the first to attempt this." He turns to the group with a wry smile. Clearly, he is pleased with his own humor at my expense.

"I think her work is strengthened by the clear evidence of the other creative pursuits she has undertaken." It's Benjamin, stopping the momentum of the attack as he continues, "It is clear that Ms. Vogel's work is a reflection of some very deep creative forces, even those surfacing from her unconscious. Perhaps a source that is not understandable, even to herself?"

As I hear him, I think I feel the floor shifting under me. I back up slowly, to lean against the wall. I need to use its force to hold me up, to steady myself. How could he have known that this, in fact, is exactly what had occurred? That I had thought the very words he was saying.

"In many cases, physical science has been built upon the ruins of our spiritual nature. In our rage for technology, we ourselves have become machines. Through this we have destroyed our spirit or our soul, as some might say."

A hush has come over the room.

"Quite interesting, Dr. Landsman."

"Her work, I believe, is an attempt to connect to a part of her inner creativity. Looking for a new way of saying things. Appropriate don't you think? Given that science itself is looking for new things to say." He turns and looks directly at the panel of jurors as his hand points to my drawings on the wall. "After all, was that not the intent of this project?"

I glance at the jurors as I stand motionless in the front of the room.

My classmates, Emily, and everyone else are trying to absorb everything that he has just said about my project. About me. The incredibly accurate and personal nature of his words. I finally get to sit down and will the day to move forward more quickly as the other students in my group present their projects, some with more success than others. I have other things on my mind. Whoever he is, I need to find out why he keeps appearing in my life and everything else about him: the undeniable power of the magnetic draw I feel to him. I try to formulate a plan of how I will be able to speak to Benjamin.