Through These Architect's Eyes

Oh, the dreams of glass that live in my mind's eye. The magnificence of a steel landscape. To take the basic elements of reality and reshape them in our image is the cardinal act of an architect- not simply content with the world that has been bestowed upon us, but driven to reach further, into the very heavens themselves. This has been our onus, from the great pyramids that reached for the sun like Icarus, to the sublimity of the first Gothic cathedrals, and up to the steel spires that reign before us now. To create a shining testament to the past, present, and future all at once, and perhaps, try to leave a lasting mark upon our earth.

This is precisely the task that I had been given by my patron- a rising financier in charge of a brand new developer, which has recently initiated plans to construct a new skyscraper at the heart of Manhattan, scheduled to be completed by July 1926. "It must be daring. And make absolutely no compromises," he'd decreed in our first meeting, this mandate continuing to echo in my psyche. Indeed, it is a strange world we now live in- a modern society, aching to shed the shadows of the past and build a new century in its ashes. And I am to play my own part in this brave new symphony.

As my gaze swept the preliminary sketches I'd been laboring on the night before, it was this guiding principle that guided my assessment of the work I'd completed thus far. Drawing from the European avant-garde that I'd seen firsthand during my studies in Berlin, I returned to New York exhilarated by new outlooks. From the German Expressionist principle of depicting the inner reality, and thus creating a new outer reality, Dada's statement against conformity to the entropic forces which led to the Great War, to Surrealism's dream of the unconscious mind. The revolution is everywhere, a friend had told me. Not just in politics and in science, but in art too, and it was as clear as day. Best not get left behind, he said. Of course, ideas are one thing. Practice another entirely.

The truth was, the ideas laid before me were unfeasible- they were the work of a dilettante, not a professional, as I was meant to be. Independently, they may have worked, but they never seemed to congeal into a truly coherent whole. Even worse, they were, at their core, woefully uninspired. Yet still I toiled. The distinction between days and nights slowly faded, with my mind drawing a blank as the sheets of paper that lined my desk. Why could I not reach it anymore? The stylemoderne forms and opulent ornamentation, which had once flown so freely, now lay just beyond my grasp. The ceaseless spirit of the city seemed to only add to this crushing sense of paralysis as I walked amongst the towers of iron in the city below, feeling the weight of their shadows press down upon me.

Later that evening, I departed the office at approximately 9:30 PM, boarding the subway to Greenwich Village. The prior day, a colleague had mentioned an unsung speakeasy in the basement of a cafe called The Bitter End, and had generously given me the password. It was a Bohemian sort of place, reputedly. As I descended through the back of an old bookshelf, down a rickety staircase, the air was pervaded in equal parts by a thick smoky haze and the brass chaos of a lawless jazz quartet crammed into the back right corner, each fervent note being quickly crushed by the subsequent ones. It was here that I met Delilah. As I leaned over the bar, an old-fashioned in my right hand, I noted her presence directly to my right. I'd discerned that of every woman in this club, she had been the only one with black hair. Not only this, but where virtually every other patron adorned elegant, bright geometric forms, adorned with exotic feathers and short skirts, the woman beside me adorned a simple, long, grey dress. Yet upon closer inspection, I saw it to be stained with vivid oil paints- hues of deep purple, crimson, gold, and royal azure set starkly against the oily miasma that surrounded us. She'd evidently noticed my examination of her, as her sharp violet eyes shifted to meet my gaze. I took this as a cue to introduce myself, and soon learned she was indeed a painter. We spent the next hour discussing arts of all varieties, first that of others, then hers, and eventually my own. In many ways, we stood diametrically opposed to one another- whereas my work necessitated meticulous planning and forethought, her approach emphasized raw expression and the energy of spontaneous movement. She told me of how she painted alongside contemporary jazz records, her brushstrokes in interplay with their improvisational nature, incorporating their dynamic rhythmatism- "A diagram will only take you so far. They're traps." She remarked calmly, exhaling a puff of smoke and ashing her cigarette into an ornate golden tray as the warm lights danced above us.

After not long, she'd invited me back to her apartment- a small high-rise in South Harlem, overlooking a narrow alleyway. I'd asked to see some of her work for myself. We soon found ourselves in her studio, where I keenly observed the paintings that adorned virtually every inch of space. It struck me that they were all abstract yet intensely expressionistic works. Most landscapes of the city, some portraits- each of them brimming with a pervasive, chaotic beauty. The textures were rough and unorthodox, the lines bold and uncompromising, as though drawn with inordinate speed and crystalline intent. They felt aesthetically timeless, yet utterly unlike anything I'd seen in the European galleries. She spoke of them with an irrepressible zest, yet her words were taciturn. I myself spoke not a word. My mind was instead left racing with an acacophony of possibilities. Afterward, we sat upon a wine-red couch of soft fabric that curved gracefully at each end. She lounged casually with her feet crossed before her, leaning back into one of the cushions. As I sat with my hands crossed upon my lap, the discussion had once again turned back to my ongoing predicament. "Will you take the leap?" She softly spoke, in almost a whisper. The question played on repeat in my mind like a skipping record. I spent that night with her. I can only recall brief flashes- her lipstick tasted of cherries, her eyes burned like a dying star. A fading scent of lilac. Afterward, she lay peacefully in my arms, a blue silk blanket adorning our bodies. Her gaze slowly settled on mine. "You know it won't last," she said."Nothing ever does. Least of all a thing of beauty." Her words hung in the air like a cold breath. I took a drag from my pipe. "Perhaps not," I replied. "But it will make my statement. In the most unambiguous terms." I gathered my belongings and left not long after that. As fate would have it, and indeed, not for lack of trying, I never saw her again.

The next day, however, it was as though an epiphany had spawned. The glimmers of a design began to reveal themselves to me- one which was at once unmistakably modern yet embellished with rich, colorful accents. Soon after, I'd promptly retrieved a leatherbound sketchbook detailing rough depictions of spatial patterns that would cast the building's facade in ways that inspired a sense of vitality amongst the light and shadows- not unlike the paintings that had just hung before me. Intuition took over from inhibition. I soon lost track of the days of the week as I worked with unwavering obsession. That very next week, I presented my completed designs to my benefactor one late night. As fortune would have it, he was rather impressed. The proposal was eventually granted final approval, and after some time, the structure gradually soared proud into the city skyline. Indeed, although the final work proved initially polarizing, it ultimately boded immensely well for my own career. New, fresh opportunities became a dime a dozen. But of course, it didn't last. For just a few short years later, the New York City Stock Exchange crashed like a derailed freight train. Naturally, the developer could no longer afford to maintain the building, and without sufficient funding, it was ultimately vacated and then eventually demolished in 1934- not quite the lasting monument to my legacy that I'd hoped for. Instead, it became far more famous for the fact that one foggy morning, my generous financier, now utterly bankrupt, had thrown himself from a window on the 73rd floor onto the unforgiving streets below. Today, in the building's place, stands the next great American feat of architecture- a parking garage, built to accommodate the growing motorcar traffic in downtown Manhattan. And yet this feat of transience bothered me little- for this was indeed the ultimate fate of the architect's sweet fruit. Sooner or later, it all rots. Some swifter than others. One hopes that it is to be reborn into something greater. But what matters, of course, is that we worked to build something lasting- something that mattered. Anything more is well beyond our power, left instead only to the imperishable chaos that lies in the hands of time.