For over a year now, all the lighting consultants from Boston to Providence – over 35 of us — have been working on a lighting festival for Boston, christened illuminaleBOSTON08.

Patterned after Luminale, a much bigger festival accompanying a massive, every-two-years trade show in Frankfurt, ours was originally slated to coincide with the May 2008 AIA convention, but city politics presented a denser thicket than imagined and we failed to get ready for that date. Serendipitously, a better date presented itself – the City of Boston had scheduled an outdoor party to celebrate the “completion” and handover of the Rose Kennedy Greenway for October 4th and asked that we put up our festival around that. Darker sooner, a captive audience, City alignment – more better. So we did.

The tale of getting there — the obstacles overcome, the favor chips cashed, the debts incurred, the vast amounts of meetings and work — would take a novella. Suffice it to say that it was a more massive undertaking than we could have imagined, and we were called far beyond any commitments we thought we’d made. It almost crashed and burned many times, and frictions threatened to sabotage it. But when it was turned on in a ceremony with Mayor Menino “throwing the switch” at Rowe’s Wharf on the 1st of October, and we got to drive and wander around and see the 10 sites we’d all done, it was pretty thrilling. The Custom House tower, not quite complete when the pictures were taken, and the Moakley bridge are permanent things, and there are already noises about implementing two of the other sites permanently as well.

It only ran 5 days and is already over. I apologize for telling about this after the fact – it was pretty all-consuming at the time, and what advance notice I did give at the time didn’t inspire a wider broadcast. But at least I took pictures. Of some sites, anyway — mostly my own, including some behind-the-scenes prep work (Site 6, the Congress Street bridge, executed in conjunction with Horton Lees Brogden Lighting). One can see a great deal many more by going to Flickr and searching for “illuminale” – you’ll get 16 pages of images; every night I was out there I was tripping over tripods – all the city’s nocturnal shutterbugs were busy. One in particular, though, and that could only be seen opening night (perhaps the best story of the festival – but for another time) is this, which my partner Lukas did in conjunction with Sladen Feinstein Lighting.

And there it all is — a glimpse into a unique, exhausting but rewarding chapter in the lives of Boston’s lighting community. For those further interested, also check out the festival’s website – in particular, if you scroll right for each site under the Sites link, that’ll show you some before images of each site, a few the sketches and renderings done by each team, and photos and bios of the team personnel. Enjoy!

Adam

Tricia and I recently popped in on my parents to see how they’re doing, lend a hand about the house and yard, amble through a few galleries, and sample the ample takeout opportunities of the southwest. Just a quick visit, bracketing a weekend a few days either side. But always with time for a few photographs — many of which were taken from the airplane window — great cloud formations just one of the many things to see from aloft (though whereas rakkity got landforms topography, I got pretty much the opposite). And as usual, I’ve willfully (and inaccurately) rendered a world completely unpopulated by humans …

Adam

Some of you will remember the “Wee Beastie” post of two years ago, in which a tree-destroying vehicle shows up on our neighbor’s lawn and the next day begins some deforestation leading up to demolition of their split-level ranch, to be replaced with better, as you’ll see.  As I got into my car to go to work each morning (and sometimes on weekends), I’d snap a picture of their progress (though the intervals lengthened as the process wore on — it kind of ground to a halt last spring for reasons unknown before a final landscaping spate).  The hydroseeded front lawn is where I leave it last September.

The curious factor for me is that their children are coming of college age — arguably an odd time to decide to rebuild, especially at such scale.  The in-ground pool needed $40k of work, Tricia gleaned third hand, so I guess that’s reason enough for some to build themselves a half-million manse — kinda like buying a new (and much bigger) car ’cause you need brake work …

Without a trace of self-consciousness he said, “I am from Iraq,” but the declaration seemed brave to me anyway, as blue as the state through which we drove is.

Unless someone’s waiting for you in the terminal, I consider it a ridiculous sign of addiction (or posing) to turn on your cellphone or Blackberry and call someone while the plane’s still taxiing in from the runway — rude, even, if you’re too self-absorbed to have set your device to vibrate when following the flight attendant’s reminder to turn it off before the plane took off, the cabin thus chirping with all these little pacifiers ringing back to life, each in their “declaration of unique individuality” mass-produced ringtones*. So I was still engaged with checking my own messages curbside when it came my turn to climb into the next waiting taxi and head into Dallas from DFW, my driver assigned to me by chance.

He made some chitchat before noticing I was bidactily absorbed in composing emails, so he gave me some space before resuming his gregarious interrogative about where I was from, what brought me to Dallas, had I ever been here before, etc. It seemed only friendly to respond in kind, hence this sudden knowledge of his ancestry.

I allowed as how he must find it difficult to live in the very state from which our Commander in Chief chooses to currently hail — he who invaded his homeland on a pretext, casting it into deadly chaos. But my cabbie (I didn’t get his name clearly at the time and don’t now remember what I thought his name was – no matter), was more philosophical than that. He knew the common man’s fate is largely chosen for him by others and with nary a hint of aggression, he wondered how it was for me to have George represent me. I assured him I didn’t feel that W in fact DID, and we spent the next while discussing American politics — how we come by the people from whom we get to choose the next POTUS, what it’s like for Americans abroad to be considered representative of America and answerable to the follies and crimes of our leadership, how it is that we vote against people we don’t want in office as much or more than we vote FOR someone, how only the rich or their designates will ever be POTUS, and some of my vague understandings of the historical reasons why we’re a representative federalism more than a true democracy, even though technology now allows the latter.

We also talked about family and patriotism and living abroad, I having grown up in Venezuela an American, he now having been here 15 years but with family in Iraq to whom he sends money. Bonds of family, torn allegiances, prejudice, finding belonging. The miles from DFW to the architects’ offices fairly flew.

And then we were there. We both got out, and he helped me with my bags then gave me his card – generic, just the name of the cab company, not his own. He thanked me for our conversation and my insights into this country, that he had much to think on, and he said he’d love to drive me back at the end of my trip if that worked for me. I told him genuinely that I had enjoyed our conversation, wished him luck, and then summoned the only Arabic I know, torn between presumption and respect.
“Salaam aleikhum,” I wished him, hands clasped before me, hoping that was all at least close to appropriate, and with a broad smile, hands clasped before him in a small bow, he wished me the same. And I wheeled my bag inside the sprawling modernist building, feeling more like I’d just arrived from an international trip than a cab ride, and thinking this must be a little like what it must feel like to travel as Michael.

* I only ever heard one ringtone I thought was truly original – a landscape architect had recorded the night chirpings of crickets and had used that as his own.

Dear Mr. Miller,

Nice day for one — I hope you were out, too, ideally at the beach of which you recently spoke.  I posted some pics.

Your Humble Servant,

A.K.

 

Here you will find a selection from my camera (some by Bill).

The captain stood there with his arms crossed looking upwards. “Doesn’t look safe. I wouldn’t do it.” His men silently nodded knowing assent; my confident explanations fell on deaf ears. We said a few more words, but I wasn’t inherently their problem — there was no fire, and slowly they drifted away, back to their waiting trucks, another alarm call resolved with no risk to life or limb. Not yet, anyway — and my stupidity wasn’t going to happen on their watch.

After they’d left, my clients all stared at me questioningly. “Are you sure about this? This isn’t worth anyone getting hurt. Maybe we should try something else … ““Nope,” I said, “I’m sure. Let’s see how this lighting’s going to work.” And rung by rung I started up.

Okay, I’m writing this, so I didn’t die, and no, I didn’t set off the beam detector again – I think we called the insurance company and got them to authorize us to shut if off for the duration of our mockup, I forget. But I did miscalculate a couple of things …

At that steep angle, and with my notable weight inducing the inevitable curve to the ladder, by about 30’ up it’s becoming tangent to the wall. Barely enough room to get my fingers around the rungs, and oh-so-little purchase for my toes. Standing tippy-toed in size 13’s, in other words. Oh, and it’s hot. Heat rises, and 40’ in the air I was into a whole other climate zone. So there I am having a high-dive moment, my clients now toy figures below me, dripping sweat, holding a 10’ pole with a small but not weightless light on it as steadily as I can while holding on with one hand to a ladder effectively applied to the wall. On tippy-toes. Shouting back and forth to people far below who want to evaluate the effect from multiple positions, having me aim at various locations, each change requiring lowering the pole, adjusting the light, raising it again ….

It worked, the lighting concept was a good idea, I survived. But the firefighters – duh – were right. Just not about the aspect they’d identified. Just in general, it wasn’t safe. But I was never afraid, exactly. Wearily anxious towards the end, maybe, but after all — and especially given where we were — we already knew the eyes of god were upon us.

Maybe because I’d worked there before and had a dim memory for a prompt, or maybe just from a lucidity I could have used a few minutes earlier as foresight, I knew instantly what we’d done. In very tall spaces such as this, smoke detection as part of a fire alarm system usually takes the form of what are called beam detectors, a transmitter and receiver placed at opposite ends of the space at a height determined by geometry and building code. Electric eyes, in essence. If the beam is interrupted, as by smoke, the alarm goes off, and unless a pigeon gets inside, 40’ off the ground nothing other than smoke is expected to interrupt it. But the wobbling tip of our giant ladder just had. We leaned the ladder on the side wall and went outside to await Boston’s finest.As a national historic landmark, The Church of the Covenant merited 3 response vehicles, which arrived in well under 5 minutes. The captain approached us with that unique blend of aloof intensity, prepared to save a treasured building and/or its occupants but naturally expecting the ubiquitous false alarm. We told him what we thought had happened, which the annunciator panel confirmed, and after some fossicing about looking for the shutoff, a gaggle of firefighters assembled at the scene of the incident, gazing thoughtfully up at our ladder, now in its intended place and awaiting my attention.“I wouldn’t send anybody up that,” said firefighter # 1. “It’s not safe”“Yeah, that angle’s too steep,” said # 2. “See that symbol on the side? That should be straight up and down, not leaning back. You start to go up that, it’ll come away from the wall. You could fall. It’s not safe.”Mind you, these are guys who live ladders that are going to very not safe places and know their craft. But I’ve been many a dicey place on a ladder myself, albeit in theaters; wobbling side-to-side a couple of feet (literally) while 40’ in the air on the Loeb Drama Center’s old, massive, center-extension A-frames; snaking up into parts of sets on extension ladders set vertically; or hanging out over a 3-story drop on the Agassiz’s bendy fiberglass shepherd’s crook extension ladder hooked over the rim of the ceiling electrical trough. Besides, one simple fact of geometry was in my favor, as I earnestly explained to the assembled group of dubious clients and firefighters. Though 4’ or 5’ out from the wall IS indisputably too close to set the base when you’ll be 40’ in the air, it’s still 4’ or 5’ of space that’s INSIDE the ladder’s feet. I am indisputably getting wider, but I’m nowhere near that wide. The ladder’s entire (and considerable) center of gravity is to the wall, and once I got 15 feet up or so, all of mine would be, too. No way I could fall backwards, even trying. With someone ballasting it on the inside for that first bit, I was totally confident. Which made one of us.

Many years ago I was privileged to work on relighting The Church of the Covenant on Newbury Street in Boston. It boasts some of Louis Comfort Tiffany’s finest windows, as well as a gorgeous and monumental chandelier, which — if I recall correctly – was his first light fixture. It hangs at the crux of the transept, beautifully transposed upon the archwork of the chancel and altar and is spectacular in its Art Deco details (the ancient, scanned-slide thumbnail above does not do it justice). While we added theatrical lighting for weddings, a good deal of architectural detail lighting to highlight features previously invisible, and designed lanterns for the side archways to greatly boost the light levels, the vast and lofty space remained, shall we say, “moody” …A year or more ago I was asked to come by and offer suggestions for further augmenting the light levels, as their aging congregation was finding the dim interior increasingly unworkable. From numerous suggestions made, we chose to mock up a scheme involving tiny, directional low-voltage spots mounted high on the sidewalls, partially camouflaged by column capitals and a ledge under the clerestory windows, and aimed in to the center of the space, where light was needed most.The church has a long extension ladder to get to the uplights we’d added years ago, which are on other column capitals perhaps 30’ in the air. These new positions would be almost 10’ higher, that ladder’s theoretical limit. Knowing I wouldn’t be able to get to the spot directly, I mounted the test light to a pole which I could hold aloft from the top of the ladder, and we began.The pews are securely bolted to the floor, the end of one making a better footing than any well-meaning human (albeit a bit closer to the wall than ideal). It took three of us to get the massive beast vertical, and with the base in place we began extending the upper section by pulling on the integral rope and pulley, the latches of the extension rattling off the rungs of the base section as it went up. A rung or two at a time. Slowly, carefully — heavy thing, wobbling but more or less in control. Almost there … Then came a really big noise. The fire alarm.

For Michael.  From a story in today’s Boston Globe on the Carpenter Poets of Jamaica Plain – 18 men and one woman — and their weekly Thursday night gathering at Jame’s Gate Restaurant to share words on their craft over beers.

 

Too Slow for Demolition

by William Thibodeau

 
These days

I still do a bit of the demo work

Though I tell myself I’ve paid my dues

That I prefer construction to destruction –

Reminding myself that most of what I know

About putting things together

I learned by taking them apart.

Truth is …  I’m just too slow to make it pay.

And while I complain, saying:

Who needs all that plaster dust in the face …

The chaos …

The scramble to get it down and get it gone … ?

I still find myself wading into that mess.

Taking my time

I erase the work,

Of those who came before me –

All the detail and sweat

By nameless men –

With their crude tools

And materials I still can’t identify.

Men who’d be dumbstruck to see

The tools I’ll soon be setting up.

I see their spirit in the chalk-white dust

I feel their life force vibrating in each cut nail I pull –

And their hard learned lessons

And subtle chiding through the endless splinters

That come from that gnarly lath.

It all ends up in the truck.

And as if facing one of a pair of opposing mirrors

Looking at once ahead and behind me

Seeing an endless past and future stream –

No trick of light – no mere illusion

I can see them all on down the line

From the Colonial post and beam man

To the very one

Who’ll someday strip

My own work from this job.

Where will I be then … ?

Will I still be … then … ?

Or will I have become another half-heard voice

Murmuring between these rafters and studs?

It’s the movement of time

The skill of past carpenters

And the stories in voices that flow through a steam of generations:

(When heard by the pure of heart)

Voices that thunder like Brahman

Within and without these plastered walls and ceilings

That light my eyes and guide my hands.

No, I don’t make a very good demo man.

I’m just too slow.

I owe them that much.