A confession or Guilty pleasures or I blog therefore I am

xo

bb

p.s. caught you by surprise, didn't i, in the last frame. the essence of the guilty pleasure is of course guilt. knowing me, you know the guilt is not that i didn't attempt to bake these from scratch (don't have the skill or patience), but is instead eating something from a box when i have a baker around the corner. but while the local boys are magicians with muffins and even brioches, they have not mastered the croissant.

p.p.s. speaking of guilty, i have been very remiss at posting and reading your blogs. i'll be back to it soon! the fluguelbindery made me an offer i couldn't refuse - a one week work trip to india in exchange for a week of holidays, all decided at short notice. i've just finished the holiday, and now i have to pay the bills...

The problem with the view

This is one for the kvetch committee if ever there were one. Take a look at the views below, taken at breakfast on various days this week. You'll see the problem immediately.





You see my point? No one is willing to believe that I have been working hard this week. I tell them about my offsite, and they sound sympathetic for a moment until I tell them the location. And if I make the mistake of sharing the view, then sympathy seems to go out the window. Why?

Is there anything more maddening than to be locked into a darkened room and forced to talk about flugelbindery when you know such a view is hovering at the window? Is there anything more painful than breathing the stale air of a meeting room when you could be inhaling the fresh breezes rolling in from the sea? Is there anything more cruel than being forced to hear the cheers of the boys and girls watching the Italy versus Slovakia in the neighboring room, but not being able to watch?

When I'm finally done for the day, I'm supposed to catch up with a day's worth of office e-mail since apparently and in fact I am working. And of course then you're coping with a slow internet connection (imagine trying to suck a block of ice through a straw -- that's roughly how it feels).

And then you stumble from the building just as the sun is setting and some of the boys from accounting want to take you out for a drink. And then they won't stop talking about the latest office gossip. And then it's dark and late, and you've had too many drinks and too little food. You stumble off to sleep, wake up feeling groggy, and start the whole thing again...

All right, this is probably the moment to admit I've exaggerate a bit, a wee bit -- I did sneak off for a few hours yesterday and stroll down to the sea. But you get the idea: there's no sympathy for hard working folks...

bb

Food for the stomach and mind

Am I little embarrassed by my food obsession? I am. But not too much. An Italian friend of mine worked for a while with a travel agency in Boston which arranged guide tours of Italy. She the most common question that she would get is: what will we eat? It can cut both ways. I have known Americans who must travel with their Oreo cookies (and not just to single out Americans, Gujarati's - my people - are known to travel with their own snacks, dry chutneys, and if they can afford it their own chef) and those who are more excited about the food they will eat than what they will see.

For me Naples has been mostly about work (sadly, but the Flugelbindery is paying the bills) and meeting friends (much happier -- and the nice thing is that this a small town in the end - you meet people everywhere - crossing the street, in cafe, walking home late at night...). But I can't deny a thrill when I go to the local cremeria and see little balls of mozzarella floating lazily like fat fish in a tank. And I won't deny the thrill of seeing a cheese platter when I'm invited to dinner.



But for me also food for the mind (less fattening, you know?). Below a picture from Rita McBride's latest exhibition in Naples. Can you guess what the shapes are?




The neon versions were constructed by an aged neon master in Naples who I had the chance to meet.

Though I haven't read them before, Rita McBride is famous for her "faux" novels. Her first was a faux museum catalog / romance. She has also done faux science fiction. Very cool woman.

Thursday lunch box, Naples

I have no nostalgia for the lunch box. Lunch hour at school was a difficult experience for me. I was a finicky eater and was usually stuck with food that I didn't really like (Is it really my fault though? Is Havarti really the best cheese for a child's lunch box?) or that I liked but that was so bizarre that the other kids made fun of me (I recall one really great day when my mother gave up and gave me a piece of cake for lunch -- I realize now that my classmates were probably jealous, but that's not the way it came across then -- and in case you are worrying about my health -- don't -- my mother did that only once).

In any case, here at the Flugelbindery in Naples we have a pretty basic cafeteria. But basic in Naples includes at least three freshly cooked contorni and fresh mozzarella on offer. Oh, and a coffee bar manned by Pepe (who smokes while he draws the coffee and who is constantly rolling up the sleeves of his half-sleeved t-shirt even further, but I digress).

But one of the boys (ok - I mean older gentlemen) brought in some nice pasta and an apple for lunch. So I got to thinking, perhaps I should bring my own lunch with me. You have Exhibit A above: olives, arugula, fresh tomatoes, mozzarella (hidden underneath, you can't see it), olive oil that put at at the bottom of one of the cups, a piece of bread, and in the bag a small little cake).

My mother doesn't read my blog, but you can bet that I'm going to send her this picture!

xo

bb

Back on the ground (or The summer adventure begins)

The boys at the flugelbindery have been kind enough to let me do a few traveling gigs over the summer. Normally this isn't my kind of thing -- you know, the sleeping alone in a king size bed at the Double-8 Motel on route 182 routine, the bad coffee and stale muffins for breakfast lifestyle, the zombie channel surfing in the hopes finding an episode of Seinfeld, Friends, or Frasier that you haven't seen twice in the last two weeks. But this is different. This is the kind of on-the-road flugelbindery that will take me to Naples for month and Germany for another month with a few weeks in India to recharge BB's cells.

(You notice that it's Naples and Germany, not Italy and Germany, or Naples and Cologne. No Germany seems to be state of mind, whereas Italy is a specificity of lifestyle.)

Maybe this the ultimate revenge against all those boys and girls about town who I tried and failed to emulate. (Did I mention an off-site in Ischia? Take that you white-wine sipping, sockless loafer clad*, impeccably dressed, and already-well tanned boys and girls about town...)

In any case, I'll keep you posted as usual!

More soon...

xoxo

bb

* Summer gives you many footwear options, both open and closed. But the one combination I just cannot pull off is wearing shoes without socks. I admire those who can and do. I envy them. But I just can't emulate them. Perhaps it was the way I was raised

The flowers that bloom in the spring

It's springtime. The sun is shining. The flowers are blooming and singing their siren song to me, as I try to focus on the flugelbindery. It looks something like this.









Every day I tell myself the same thing: today I will be that person about town I always yearn to be. You know, the one sipping white wine with lunch a sidewalk café in SoHo. The one reading a book and sunning without a care in the world at 11 a.m. on a weekday. The one calmly doing groceries at 2 pm in the afternoon rather than doing the after-work frantic-pile-up-in-your-arms routine. The one discreetly sipping rosé wine from an opaque plastic cup and having an early dinner of roasted and marinated vegetables in the park.

bb

Don't you want to take one home with you?

Spotted the new Tata Nano in Ahmedabad yesterday. Billed as the 1000-dollar car, it is meant to carry a family of four. I wouldn't mind one of these some day. Last year I drove a grand total of 600 miles or 50 miles a month or 12.5 miles a week. Hey boss, in case you're reading this, it's not that I'm not going to the flugelbindery regularly... It's just that I like public transportation. I wish I had a picture of the way that the Indian family of four gets around now... I'll try to snap a picture and post it soon...

And apologies for the delay in posting. I've been on the road in India. And gotten a year older. And a year wiser. And certainly a year more fabulous...

xoxo

bb

(Art) Miami (Vice)

I'm in Miami! For Art Basel Miami! A strange concept this, Basel Miami, but lots of art to see. Will try to post some pictures soon.

But actually at this minute I'm in a Starbucks -- some last minute flugelbindery came up -- I'm being driven crazy by early Christmas tracks...

Must get out and see some art!

b....b....

At last a few words

You've noticed the obvious by now, and made your deductions: more pictures, less words. Not that there's anything wrong with that, not at all. Some of the best blogs are only pictures. But my thing has been words (all told a wise choice given my limited skills with a lens).

So today I promise you words but no pictures...

* * *

I was out last night for dinner with a group of Italians. My friend M was in town (or more precisely my friend's wife's sister, but my friend's wife is also my friend, and she being Italian and I Indian her sister is my friend too -- you know how it is). In any case, she had her own flugelbindery going on, so I joined a group dinner, trying to blend in and managing like a turkey among penguins (strange image, doesn't really fit, but just liked the image).

What I noticed immediately that everyone was dressed the same, the men at least, and not the same in the sense of a uniform (though that would have been fantastic!), but in the sense of very similar choices.

It was a mild day in Boston (for November... 14C). Most people on the street were without a coat. I had my coat open, as I'm a bit sensitive to the chill. The Italians were all wearing down-filled coats, like the Michelin Man, but more stylish, and no one was was opening that zipper an inch... Those who wore glasses all had heavy squarish frames (I was thinking Marcello Mastroianni in 8 1/2 but looking back I see that his frames were less square). Beneath the coats, most had sweaters with a particular collar (which I have an instinct is mock something or the other...) There was less uniformity in the shoes, but more than a few pairs of suedes.

Another undeniable fact was that all these office penguins where pretty stylish, as penguins go. Or what I mean more precisely is that they were more stylishly dressed than their American brother flugelbinders. The basics were right: good material, well pressed, and the right size. On this theme, impressive how men with little bellies and thinning hair manage to convey that slightly dapper impression as well.

I'm sure there's something to be learned here, but I'm not sure what. That if you're in the right herd, the herd mentality can be good? Or perhaps the opposite -- no herd is worth following. Or perhaps it was emblematic of what office work can do to you. Not sure, not sure at all.

But when the professor began singing after taking a big sip from his Scotch, I knew everything would be fine.

bb

Oooooo... I've been bad

Sorry loyal readers, I've been bad, bad, bad. This is one of the longest gaps in my postings ever... I've had good reasons. The flugelbindery has been working around the clock, and I've been binding harder than in a long time... Excuses, excuses.

But I do have this for you... From my early morning drive to Montréal, and part of my child hood that I miss living in the cities that I now do: The cold autumn air that greedily strokes your face, reminding you that soon you will be in his dominion. And the melancholy squawking of birds as they flee south toward sunnier climes.

A friend of mine asked me recently, why don't the birds just stay in the warm south? A question I am contemplating myself these days...

BB

bb in b, or back on the road

I was back on the road this week, but a different kind of trip. Those of you who have been reading along since the beginning know of my flugelbindery road trips (think very short trips, at someone else's expense, the kind of trip where everyone you encounter at the airport is suddenly very polite to you, and you keep reminding yourself "It's not me. It's not me.")

This was mainly personal. Well, there was some work in Barcelona, but the two extra days weren't hard work, not all. And the two days in Germany, doing some wine tasting (of the swallowing, not spitting variety), and the 3 days in London (among other things visiting the Frieze Art Fair --more pictures soon), all of this was just for fun!

But now the somber time approaches. The return journey. True, cheered by glass of the bubbly, but still, time to get home, back to work, and back on that torture machine known as the elliptical trainer...

But more soon!

xoxo

BB

Hello cutie pie!

I can't help it, but this is the phrase that pops into my mind whenever I see my car. I don't drive every day, indeed sometimes once a week if at all. When I'm walking toward where I know it is waiting in the parking garage, it is usually hidden from view behind other longer cars. So after I pass the giant SUV that often parks nearby there it is! Staring out at me like a cute puppy.

Since my last gushing post about my car, I have not yet had to refill the gas / petrol / benzine... So since October 1st, I have filled the tank only once.

(Needless to say, that isn't actually my car, but I've only every taken one picture, which I've already posted.)

All this leads to the very natural question of why I own a car. It's true, I imagined I would have more places to go. But at the moment, I drive it to work, which is a 8 mile round trip drive. Now, if you're sharp on your maths, then you'll have figured out by now that I don't drive to work everyday. That's because, in the manner of a modern flugelbinder, I work from different office on different days. Some of those are walking distance from where I live, others require a plane ride, occasionally but not often I work from home. So I suppose on average I make the trip less than twice a week.

I suppose I could cab it everywhere. But taxis are expensive in Boston, closer to London prices than New York prices. So I had figured that it was roughly break even between cabbing it everywhere and owning a car. But this misses two important facts. First, I still end up taking more than a few cabs, especially to and from the airport. Second, as they say, I have option value. Or to put it my way, if I had somewhere to go, I would be there -- and in style.

Actually I did use the car a bit yesterday. I drove to Symphony Hall. On a nice night I might have tried to walk, but it was too cold and it is difficult-to-impossible to get a cab after the symphony. Initially I used to use the car to buy groceries, but that struck me as undignified in my own I-wish-I-were-living-in-a-cute-European-town but-am-not but-will-continue-to-behave-as-though-I-am sort of way. Does Hannah drive a car for her groceries in Venice? No. Did I when I lived in London? (Lola, what about you?) No. Do I when I am in New York? No. And what about Lucia in Rome, and Clementine in Paris, and G in Berlin? No, no, no. (Nancy, tell me you walk to the traiteur on the corner and return with a baguette tucked under your arm...)

As I digression, I must confess that I do use a car for groceries when I'm Bombay. But that's just because friend, relatives, neighbors, and bystanders on the street think I am mad to do otherwise. It's really quite walkable if you don't mind breathing pollution and dodging buses, which really I don't.

So back to the car... Why do I have it then? I suppose after all is said and done, it's that puppy-in-your-face look it gives me after I've been away for a few days. Priceless, really.

xoxo

BB

Friday the 20th Movie Marathon

I was flying back from Tel Aviv to New York today. It's a 12 hour flight. Wait, let me try that again. It's a 12 hour flight. You can guess what I was thinking. Perhaps you're thinking it too. Twelve divided by 2 equals 6. But of course no one can watch 6 films in a row, but I did make it up to four. Of course you might recall my New Year's Eve Movie Marathon...

But first a digression. I do feel a little bad about not reading a good book. I had a good one with me, some short stories by Roberto Bolano and some poetry by William Merwin. Regular readers might recall I was reading the same two writers over Christmas in India. But I had spent five full days working 12 hours a day with almost no going out. I had woken up at 6.30 and had been grilled by airport securuity for a full hour.

A brief digression within the digression. For reasons I have never fully grasped, they grill you even more thoroughly when you leave Israel than when you leave from this end or arrive. I've done this before and don't really mind too much, since the people questioning you are young and lively college students or recent graduates. But at some point they asked me to turn on my computer and actually show them the work I had been doing. Needless to say, they couldn't make much of the flugelbindery (either)...

But getting back to it, I was ready for a break so I set aside the book and turned on the screen.

I wonder whether I should try to justify my choices somehow -- by explaining that although there were many choices there weren't that many good films. Actually, the selection was strongest among Hollywood classics.

So without further prevarication here is the list:

1. Quantum of Solace. I had missed it in the cinema. It wasn't ideal for the small screen, but Daniel Craig is growing on me.
2. All About Eve. One of those true Hollywood classics that I had never seen. It's not light viewing at all -- all about ambition and age. A fantastic set of performances.
3. Bullitt with Steve McQueen. McQueen is growing on me as well. There are these names that were huge stars in their day, but some aged well and not others. Elliott Gould for example I don't quite get. But Steve McQueen I certainly get, laconic, steely, and cool. The film is famous for the classic car chase of cinema, and the original San Francisco car chase sequence that all others are trying to best.
4. Pillow Talk with Doris Day and Rock Hudson. Another pair of big stars from their day that I'm still coming to terms with. This will seem unfair, but when I see Rock Hudson, I cannot but think of Silvester Stallone. I think Doris Day was perfect in this role. And as I've mentioned before I love films set in New York where you can really get a sense of the city in a different ere. I must watch this on my projector when I'm back in Boston.

A digression again -- Aren't you simultaneously annoyed and enchanted at the musical interludes in older films? These changed over the decades. For example, Doris day always had to get her bit of singing in from what I can gather. But by the early 1970s, you have these films where the characters go to a restaurant or club and all dialogue stops for about 5 minutes while the music plays on. In Bullitt the music was by Lalo Schifrin, with jazz flute. Now there's another wonderful throwback, the jazz flute. Actually one of my favorite jazz musicians was a master both on saxophone and flute, Eric Dolphy, and one of my favorite tracks of his is where he is backing up John Coltrane on a version of My Favorite Things, except that at some point he switches to the flute. (Not quite it, but take a look at this and this. Wait! Just found it: here.)

After all of this my brain was a bit fried, so I didn't do too much in the 3 hours of the flight that remained. All right, I'll admit it. I watched an episode of NYPD Blue...

I feel a little embarrassed admitting my binge behavior... I'm not much of a binger in other things, but there are times when there is nothing better than a movie binge.

Now I'm back in New York, trying to keep up so I can adjust to the jet lag... Hmmm, perhaps what I need is another movie marathon.

BB

BB meet Bibi

Some on the road flugelbindery this week. More when I'm back or hopefully sooner (if I can figure out how to switch blogger back to English from Hebrew!

BB

Weekend exertions

It was a brief but intense weekend for me here in NY. On Friday I caught up with a friend at a wine bar downtown. Somehow a one hour-one drink evening ended at 2 am and after a bottle and half between the two of us.

Saturday was an opera marathon - truly an extreme sport version of the art. First I saw Tristan at the Metropolitan opera, the matinee, which normally beings at 1 pm but on this occasion began at 11 am since the opera is 4'30" long. Tristan contains two very famous bits - the prelude and Liebestod - two glorious, achingly romantic pieces of music filled with overwhelming longing and desire (indeed! hot stuff!) But to hear the 4 hours of music that is between these was rewarding. You approach the end in a kind of delerious hyponosis, and when Tristan and Isolde die you cannot but shed a tear (and honestly be a bit relieved -- it takes Tristan about 45 minutes to die after being stabbed). Then I came home, napped, and went to hear Elektra, which is another 2'15" without interval. This opera is a lurid, expressionist masterpiece, and leaves you a little dizzy at the end. A few drinks with friends downtown cured that nicely.

Today I went to Port Authority to pick up a piece of furniture that had arrived for my apartment via Ebay and Greyhound. Port Authority is a crazy place. When you enter, you are transported into some bizarre world that exists by its own laws -- you feel like you are at a spaceport in a science fiction movie. The fact that there was a naked man - apparently changing his clothes - near the entrance doesn't bother you or him or anyone else one bit. Then I descend two levels into an underworld where lost American and European tourists are wandering to and fro -- trying to leave every manner of luggage at the counter.

But into this world my mover manages to make it and get my piece home. A word on the movers. For small moves like this I've used a company called NYCityVan. The first time I used them the mover was an Israeli who was into technoraves and offered (several times) to hook me up, with what he never specified. The second time the mover was a raffish American who tried several times to get the phone number of a friend who was helping me move. This time the mover was a would-be filmmaker who moves by day and goes to lectures by night.

After all of this I finally managed to set up my divider, which is shown below, and my dining table, also below. The divider is designer unknown, from the '50s or '60s. The table is by Bruno Mathsson and the chairs by Hovmann Olsen.


(The table may not look special, but it quadruples in length, from the 3' above to 12' if needed.)



Thus ends my weekend -- tomorrow back to flugelbinery.

Hope you've all had a lovely weekend.

BB

Having given thanks

For our European friends, this is the Thanksgiving weekend, my favourite American holiday. Unlike festivals which have been commercialized ( you know the drill: Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day, Mothers' Day, Fathers' Day... summer), Thanksgiving remains about family and friends, about cooking rather than buying, although the day after (Black Friday as it's called) things take a turn in the more natural commercial direction and Americans being their Christmas shopping. (My father would be proud of that sentence, though not my English teacher: he likes them long and multi-claused.)

In any case, I usually travel but this year I had some friends from the Flugelbinder Academy visiting me here in Boston, so I joined them at a local Thanksgiving dinner. Wine was had, turkey eaten (by others - I'm a vegetarian), pie consumed, children entertained.

Now they've all gone home, and I'm here watching Breakfast at Tiffany's and wondering what to do next. I must learn how to answer that question in here in Boston.

BB

Brain teaser

Time flies (there's that theme again...) when you're working hard. In addition to keeping the flugelbindery running, I've been setting up my New York apartment. I'm not trying anything fancy, just looking for something to sit on, somewhere to sleep, something to make coffee with, and of course somewhere for my clothes. Sounds simple, doesn't it?

Every time I move I'm amazed by how you very quickly get yourself tied into some kind of catch-22, Gordian, Escheresque knot. So here's a brain teaser for your perfect Saturday morning.

I was working on the flugel frontier the whole week, but flew back Thursday evening because the cable company was going to come by to set up my internet and phone connection, which I need if I want to work remotely from New York. I took an appointment between 6 and 9 pm on Friday, certain that I could be there (and safe in the knowledge that you can still head out for dinner at 9.30 in New York). I was (and am) going to fly back to work on Saturday.

My friends Montse and Jerry came by. We opened a bottle of wine. Ate some wheat thins. The clock ticked, and tension mounted... Soon enough it was 9 pm and there was no cable man. No. cable man. No. Cable. Man. I called the company on my cell phone.

The automated system asked for my accout number. I entered my cell phone number, but the automated message said, "You have enterred a cellular number. Please enter a valid phone number." Now by way of background, for those of you who don't live in the US, the cable companies here have heavily pushed their telephone service, along with cable television and internet. In other words, many people, like me, are trying to set up a phone number but are being asked for a phone number to do so. Recalling this paradox, I realized that I had given my Boston land line. After getting through the menu, I reach an operator and was told...

"I do apologize for the inconvenience. Our technician came by at 7 but you didn't answer." And I: "BUT I WAS HERE!" "Our records show that he called you at 7 pm, but there is no reply. We've rescheduled you for Wednesday next week between 2 and 6 pm." So here it is.

The cable company wants to set up my phone service, indeed boasts this as a great service, but in order for me to do this, I need to have a phone they can call to confirm I'm at home. Does not compute.

* * *

But I've got a plan. My friend Vinny lives three doors down. I am going to run a long phone line along the street. Or perhaps she can just stick her head out the window and shout to me. Or perhaps I can give a home phone number in London, Venice, or Australia and one of you can e-mail me when the cable guy knocks at your door.

BB

Jet lag and 3 firsts

I don't usually complain about jet lag, because I don't really suffer from it. I was on flugelbinding trip to the Americas (just when I thought I was out... they pull me back in -- is that quote from The Godfather or Seinfeld?) and got back Saturday morning. I had a busy-ish day cleansing the accumulated pockets of excess papers around the house (my father would be proud!)

In the evening my friend Clementine introduced me to her new bicycle and tried to persuade me to take her old one. I declined (I prefer to walk -- better exercise for point A to point B travel and I'm nervous about bicycling on the streets of London), but I did agree to take it for a spin to join C at a tapas place in Clerkenwell. I was following C through the streets of London as she zigged, zagged, went around a bus, cut through one-way streets, and occasionally through pedestrian sections. I was concerned, alarmed, panicked, thrilled, drained, and pleased to be alive.

This morning I couldn't get up. Must have been the jet lag -- really. I am morning person, without any trouble getting up in the morning. I recall at about 8.30 my apartment was so bright. Then I dozed a bit, and then a bit more. It was not the delicious extra 30 minutes you sometimes steal if you wake up earlier than needed or after your partner has vacated the bed. It was an exhausted, heavy-head sleep. It was like trying to escape quicksand. Finally I did. At 9.30. My father would not be proud.

I went to the market, but more on this later.

After some restorative coffees I went to join my friend Ginny in Islington. I decided to walk. It's a nice walk, but at some point I found myself next to Pentonville Prison. There is a prison in central London? you ask. Yes there is, I reply.

We had a nice cuppa, and now I'm home about to engage in my three firsts for today: the first time I've seen and cooked rhubarb, the first time I've cooked artichoke (the Jerusalem variety), and the first time I've cooked swede (no, not a Swede...)

xoxo

BB

Covering the clichés

Landed.

Through the airport in minutes, like clockwork.

Bought chocolates.

Took the train from the airport to where I was heading.

Train left exactly on time and arrived exactly on time.

Had my first appointment, with a colleague, opposite the train station. I had promised to be there at 9 pm and was there exactly on time. She didn't notice, took it for granted.

Breakfast: ate some (a lot) of cheese.

Some guilt at the large breakfast. Saw some steps leading up the side of the hill:

Climbed them (because they were there, naturally). Not a spectacular view, but did enjoy the clean air on top.



(And my calves still pinch when I walk after going down these stairs...)


Spend the day flugelbinding. Caught the train to my next destination.



Goodbye Switzerland.

BB

P.S. I do love the Swiss railway clocks, which is what this is though it's hard to see...

Beautiful place, indifferent pictures

I really need to stop using my cellphone camera. But I was visiting a friend in Oxford when I wandered into St. Catherine's college, and I couldn't help myself. Well, wandered in isn't being quite honest. I knew it was there and I was going to go, even if meant sneaking into a conference.

Arne Jacobsen designed the college in the mid-1960s, and when I say designed the college I mean he designed it all: the buildings, the gardens, the door fixtures, the chairs, and the cutlery I believe he reused from designs for the SAS Palace Hotel in Copenhagen (lazy or what?)

(The above from an anonymous wiki picture -- it was not sunny when I was there.)


I am having some trouble adding more external images, so first go here and here and here to see the exterior of the college (thank you wiki friends...) Initially of course you just pick up the boxiness of the place. But then as you look closer you feel the beautiful sense of proportion. We all know it is easy to build a boxy building, but to build a well proportioned box is much harder. Then as you pass through the buildings you notice the basic shapes repeat. Lack of imagination? No. The repetition is like a theme and variations. Each reincarnation of the same theme makes you appreciate it more and admire how versatile the design is. Wish I had photographed the columns and (architects help me here!) horizontal supports. Like a concrete box. But then sometimes the box has a double-height lecture theatre or dining hall. Other times it has two levels of classrooms. In some of the buildings the first level is cantilevered over the footpath. In others he outlines the cantilever but it is empty space. There is a sense of harmony.

The building below is one of the dorms. Seems a bit like a modernistic canvas doesn't it? With reach room outlined in its box but the windows varied:



Then to go in, you put your hand on the best door handle ever designed:



I mean it. Think how often your hand fumbles to grasp a door handle. And if you haven't then after today you will always notice this. It's one of my pet peeves, and you will soon agree that most door handles in the world are badly designed. Not this one! It fits perfectly in the palm of your hand, and of course its shape beautifully expresses and underlines its purpose, looking a bit like a propeller.

Inside the dining hall:


I even sat in on a session of hydro-flugel-whatevery to get this picture:


I love how he screens the outside so that you can look out, light gets in, but you don't get distracted by stray movements outside. And of course you are sitting in ant chairs modified for a lecture theatre, with tear-drop tablet arms:


Finally, I slipped into the Senior Common Room unnoticed. And here is what it feels like to be there:



Magnificent! Even the place settings were designed by him:


The only disappointment was the salt and pepper mills - not Jacobsen's fault I know because he designed a set for the SAS in Copenhagen*:




Here are the swan chairs designed for St. Catz, that's right for St. Catz.




Or if you prefer you can always lounge in one of these:



Next trip... Copenhagen where I must stay in the SAS Palace...

BB

* The original looks something like this.



So much nicer, no?