Making vs. Assembling

I have a huge amount of appreciation and respect for (and some jealousy of) people plying artisan trades, and had a couple good conversations with AIA'08 exhibitors offering that sort of thing.

The John Canning Painting & Conservation Studios goes beyond artisan; check out the featured projects on their website. In my capacity as poster boy for the A Little Knowledge Club, we chatted a bit about lime plaster and mortar while I stood in awe of their portfolio. And I threw some banal chatter at the patient folks staffing the booth for the Stained Glass Association of America, the members of which also provide amazing, timeless, world-class work.

When my cathedral needs repair, these are the people I'm calling.

But the highlight of the conference exhibition hall, for me, was Hugh Lofting Timber Framing.

As a longtime advocate for natural building materials, I approached the booth with a pre-existing soft spot for that craft. But I didn't know that they're still hand-cutting most jobs. I didn't know about their out-front preference for reclaimed, recycled, local, and FSC certified wood. Or that the founder, a leader in the resurgence of the art of timber framing since the '70s, has been a subscriber to Environmental Building News for just ages. Or that they actually get what LEED is really about. I like all those things about this company. (It also helps that timber framing is a little closer to my reality than castle restoration.)

What put it over the top for me was completely unrelated to any of that. The first question out of my mouth was, "Didn't Hugh Lofting write the book Doctor Doolittle?" (I've subsequently learned that I seem to be the only person I know who knew that.) The guy in the booth answered — a little surprised — "That was my grandfather!" That's really what did it — that personal thread, that bit of connection, that slice of humanity.

And that may be why I love people that make, rather than assemble. The old-world built environment had a character of imperfection, a dose of wabi sabi, odd and lumpy bits that represent a connection that's both human and natural. Biophilia begins to recognize this. But there's a material dependency involved — a badly taped drywall joint doesn't evoke the same appreciation as a bit of mortar snot on the wall of an old cobblestone house.