At Cooper Union, the crucible was second-year design. If you could survive Eisenman, you were home free. Sadly, this meant that fifth year, thesis year, was something of a joke. Most of the projects were abstracted to the point of nothingness, the product of overworked minds and a cynicism that had worked its way into every pencil stroke.
I only watched one fifth-year crit, and it was because I wanted to see John Hejduk in action. As project after dismal project was presented, he vacillated between explosions of rage and a silence that was even more frightening. At one point he sank back into his chair, shaking his head with an utterly defeated expression. "No, no . . . " he repeated, over and over. Finally, he looked the slacker student right in the face, his large frame imposing even when folded into a too-small seat.
"You had a year. A year of time. Do you know what a gift that is? And what do you have to show for it?" His hand waved, taking in the hurried sketches, photocopied multiple times to look artistically grainy; the models cobbled together from found objects; the art prints and essays pinned up through the justification of "inspiration" for a project that was never given a fair shot.
His words were sadly prophetic, as he did not have a year left, himself; cancer claimed him the following year, two days after the end of the term. It is difficult to describe the kind of influence he has had on me -- words do not do it justice, certainly not here -- but something about him felt heavy, significant, and his words seemed to sink in deeper with each passing year. I have never forgotten this remonstration. "A year of time."
I feel it most keenly at the start of the summer.
I only watched one fifth-year crit, and it was because I wanted to see John Hejduk in action. As project after dismal project was presented, he vacillated between explosions of rage and a silence that was even more frightening. At one point he sank back into his chair, shaking his head with an utterly defeated expression. "No, no . . . " he repeated, over and over. Finally, he looked the slacker student right in the face, his large frame imposing even when folded into a too-small seat.
"You had a year. A year of time. Do you know what a gift that is? And what do you have to show for it?" His hand waved, taking in the hurried sketches, photocopied multiple times to look artistically grainy; the models cobbled together from found objects; the art prints and essays pinned up through the justification of "inspiration" for a project that was never given a fair shot.
His words were sadly prophetic, as he did not have a year left, himself; cancer claimed him the following year, two days after the end of the term. It is difficult to describe the kind of influence he has had on me -- words do not do it justice, certainly not here -- but something about him felt heavy, significant, and his words seemed to sink in deeper with each passing year. I have never forgotten this remonstration. "A year of time."
I feel it most keenly at the start of the summer.
