an idea had become an urge to be practiced. the musician reached for a scratched up ibanez bass guitar in the corner of the apartment. the musician plugged into a small dirty practice amp. fingers moved over the strings, and vibrations filled the air with noise. the sounds were halting, annoying even. the musician didn’t quite hear the music yet, but the noises of practice were
here, now, out in the open, naked in the real
an idea had become an urge to be practiced. the architect reached for a fat koh-i-noor leadholder and a piece of tracing paper lying on the drafting table in the corner of the apartment. the architect turned on a laptop full of site photos. a hand moved over paper drawing lines. the architect reached for the dusty site, but it wasn’t lying a few feet away. the architect got up and looked for the scratched up client in the other room with a program of spaces and a budget, but there was no one standing there. the architect couldn’t see the architecture, because there were no noises of practice
here, now, out in the open, naked in the real
and there is no difference in the art of music and the art of architecture, none at all, except that. the practice notes float in the air just like the notes of music they will eventually become, but the practice architecture lives in minds and hard drives, and can’t ever stand haltingly in the rain. and is that difference the obligation of professionalism, or is that difference a creative masochism, a constipation of the noise of practice…
heat flow 