"This book is dangerous."

That's what I thought when I read the synopsis online. That's what I thought when I picked it up from the library. That's what I thought as I read the opening lines and quickly shut the book again. Two chapters in, I can't help but think it again.

The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath, is the first person chronicle of a young girl's experience in a big city. As of only two chapters in, she is unnamed but characterized by her cynicism of the city, of the other girls in her life, and of herself. She has a practiced observer's eye for detail.

I knew a little bit about this book and its author before I began reading. The Bell Jar is supposedly a fictional autobiography (a genre I have just created), which tells the author's story as a fictional narrative, placing made-up characters in her own experiences. I knew that Plath was a poet and a feminist, who suffered from suicidal tendencies and depression throughout her life, and had attempted to kill herself on multiple occasions. I also knew that she succeeded a mere three months after the publication of the very book that lies beside my computer right now.

That knowledge made me wary, but in actuality, the trepidation that grips me as I considered this book is tripartite.

The first is Sylvia's soul. From what I've read about her, depression, cynicism, and suicide followed her relentlessly. The theme of hopelessness pervaded her life. The second is Sylvia's tongue. The words I read on the pages of The Bell Jar undoubtedly sprung from a gifted writer. Plath's words are sculpted and captivating, and therefore powerful. I knew from that cursory glance at her opening sentences that it would be difficult to stop myself from reading, once I'd begun. This was a woman who knew her way around the English language. The third is nothing other than my own soul. I know the power words have on me. Plath used the beautiful vessel of her words to convey the writhing mess inside her soul. And good on her for doing it! But do I want to allow such hopelessness, regardless of the way in which it is expressed, to enter my own being? I am not invulnerable; that scares me. This book is dangerous.

I am only two chapters in. But already I have been captured. I have no conclusion yet; that will come later, and we will see what it brings.

Best wishes,
Nicole

Postmodern Architecture

Guys, I'm gonna be an architect.

Not really. My base in geometry is far too meager to allow me to go into the field, despite my genuine interest in the design of buildings. But recently I was privileged to receive a guided tour of the constructions around Chicago's Elevated Loop, affectionately dubbed "The L" by locals and Hollywood movies. Chicago, of course, is one of the greatest architectural cities in the nation, but the Chicago that we see today, due to the great fire of 1871 that utterly destroyed the downtown area, is not the original version. For that reason, it is sometimes called "The Second City." Many of Chicago's most unique and most impressive buildings literally rose from the ashen remains of one of America's fastest growing cities. Some of these buildings are world-famous icons such as the Sears Tower (because nobody calls it Willis; even our tour guide used its original name), some, like the Trump Tower situated on the bank of the Chicago river, are statements of wealth, power, and prestige, and others are just plain weird:

 

This parking garage is designed to look like the grill of a Rolls-Royce

Embarking on this tour as an architectural ignoramus, I had to familiarize myself with some of the styles and general terms experts use when they talk about buildings. As explained by our most-knowledgable guide, the Art Deco style is very linear, often tall and geometric. 

The Chicago Board of Trade building exemplifies the Art Deco style. Everything about it is linear, up to the Oscar-like statue of Ceres (the Roman goddess of grain) adorning the pinnacle. 

Next is the Neo-Classical style: its buildings are essentially throwbacks to the ancient constructions of the Greeks and Romans. The thought behind it was that public buildings ought to have that sense of grandeur and antiquity that the Neo-Classical style exuded. 

Columns, arches, symmetrical design, and the peaked pediment creating a prominent main entrance identify the Art Institute of Chicago as a Neo-Classical building. 

The third style of architecture to which I was introduced that day was the Modern. This style is easily recognizable by its abhorrence of decoration. The buildings are frequently black or chrome, rather rectangular, and practical. 

Just because the building is largely without decor doesn't mean that it can't be striking. The Sears (Willis...whatever) Tower is a prime example of Modern architecture. 

Naturally, following the Modern is the Postmodern. In the words of our guide, Postmodern buildings are a reaction to both their Modern predecessors, and their neighborhoods. Postmodern buildings are characterized by decorations and details that double the buildings around them. 

This building is the Harold Washington Public Library. As with almost everything else about the city, half of the locals love its eccentricities, the other half think it's hideous. The outside of this building looks old. In fact, it mimics the style of the Home Insurance building next to it: a ten-story, 1880s construction that Chicagoans claim (and several academics agree) is the first proper skyscraper. The library mimics it, but in fact over a century separates the erection of the two structures. The Harold Washington was built in 1991. Looking at a few of its details, the Postmodern style protrudes even more prominently.

Four elements, pictured above in the three images, identify the library as Postmodern. The exaggerated arched windows in the first image are a nod to a nearby building that also features arched windows, though not nearly so inset. The woman's face in the decoration of the center image, which is replicated around the sides of the building, is Ceres: paying homage to the Oscar-like statue adorning the Chicago Board of Trade. The details running above her face are depictions of corn, because as anyone who has been to Illinois in a warm season can testify, corn is absolutely everywhere. The third ornament depicts two faces of men, their cheeks inflated as they blow outwards. One might say they are creating wind. As "The Windy City" is one more of Chicago's monikers, those puffed faces are yet another testament to the library's Postmodernism. 

How I cringed at the cruel depiction of our society in a Postmodern library building. Nevertheless, it is. How fascinating, I thought, that a piece of Postmodern architecture finds its identity not in itself, but in the features of those around it. 

But wait. There's more.

We continued our walking tour, seeing so many amazing things. I never used to like cities, having lived half my life between the ocean and the mountains. But I've grown to love Chicago. What can I say? I like architecture.

The guide stopped us for a few moments and pointed to a massive steel-framed, reflective building rising high above our vantage point. At first glance, or even second, I would have said Modern. Or perhaps a composite of Modern and Art Deco. But I was wrong. 

This is the CitiGroup Center building in Chicago. Would you believe me if I told you that it is a Postmodern structure? It is. By adding the variation of color in the glass and the flowing decorations, called cascades, the architect thrust his building into the Postmodern category. In fact, those cascades, found at the top and bottom of the Center, are nods to the interior of another building, the name of which has unfortunately escaped my memory. Additionally, the reflective material ties the building to both the sky above it and the nearby Chicago river. 

How would anyone look at these two buildings next to one another and say that they were designed in the same architectural style? It amazes me that they are placed in the same category--until I remember that that category is Postmodernism. That's the key. Suddenly it makes all sorts of sense. In Postmodern architecture, as in Postmodernism, there is no single absolute. These vastly different buildings can both represent the same style because that style does not hold to a consistent entity for its attributes: it pulls from whatever it wants in order to create its identity. 

This is not a commentary on the aesthetic of Postmodern architecture. Mulling over the unexpectedly philosophical tour of Chicago's architecture, I recalled many buildings that I found incredibly beautiful, and many of the same architectural style that I disliked. But the Postmodern variety, even as it should have been incredibly obvious, surprised me into bewilderment. I was yet again impressed by how comprehensively an individual's worldview really does shape everything that person chooses to pursue. 

If your worldview were a building, how would it be designed?

Best wishes,

Nicole