Ready, Set, Render!

I have a project due Monday at noon. I have two presentation boards almost completed, and part of a model to finish. For once, I managed to cut all the pieces for my model well before the date of presentation, and my almost-completed model is awaiting its context (a.k.a. the site) and possibly a bit of sanding before it is finished.

Possibly a bit of sanding. Possibly not.

What concerns me, right now, is the fact that I am about to import a model from a dumb yet wonderful program called SketchUp (it's free, by the way) into Rhinoceros so I can render it with a fancy schmancy expensive program called V-Ray.

Okay, so it wasn't that expensive (the student version cost $250. Yes, I actually purchased it. Legally), but every penny counts when you're a student.

When you spend upwards of $1000 per month on medical bills, every penny counts even when you're not a student.

I'm nervous about rendering, so I'm putting it off. Procrastinating.

I have no experience with rendering. I don't know how to add lamps/lights to my model to make it look its best. I don't really know much about textures and creating them. It's all confusing, and there are so many variables.

So I'm writing a blog post. The first in two weeks by the looks of it, and listening to thrash-metal, and pondering calling it a day and going to sleep so I can wake up early tomorrow morning and get to work feeling fresh as a daisy.

Or fresh as a petunia.

Or some fresh little flower.

(Insert "flower power" joke here).

The Rhinoceros in the Room

There is a Rhinoceros in the room. And a Grasshopper. And two vizslas.

The vizslas are being quiet.

No. I take that back.

They were being quiet, until I got up to remind the female vizsla (Miss Scarlett) that her sheep toy is an inside toy, and she cannot take it outside. Her half-brother (Butler) decided to try to distract me while his sister made her getaway, but failed. He is now trying repeatedly to climb into my lap.

He's a 50 lbs. lap-dog.

I am currently dog/house-sitting for my sister and her husband while they take my niece on her first real vacation. It's kind of strange, having this big old house to myself, but also enjoyable. It's a nice break from my own little apartment.

What about the Rhinoceros and the Grasshopper? you ask.

Well, they're both in my computer, which doesn't look like a Rhino could squeeze in, but it's possible, trust me.

Rhinoceros is actually a 3-D digital modeling program. I used it for the first time about 5 years ago, during my last semester of undergraduate study. In all, prior to this semester, I had approximately 2 weeks of experience with it. I eventually gave up on it and used AutoCAD, instead.

This time around, I have to use Rhino, because I have to use a sub-program/plug-in called Grasshopper that goes with it.

Neither of them are easy to learn, but I'm getting there. It's a heck of a gear switch, going from a program like Revit, which essentially does everything for you, to having to write algorithms of a sort for Grasshopper.

My new professors are devotees of parametric architecture: architecture that responds to its context in mathematical ways, in other words. It's the sort of architecture promulgated by the likes of Zaha Hadid and COOP HIMMELB(L)AU.



Until I began my Master's work, I frankly didn't understand parametric (aka generative) architecture. The professors I had in my undergrad days were all die-hard modernists. They were obsessed with Le Corbusier and Mies van der Rohe. I admire both of these architects (except for Le C's city planning ideas: those were just bat-s*** insane).

Now that I understand more of the theory behind parametric design, I have a greater appreciation for it and a greater desire to continue studying it.

Time to see if my model has finished generating, yet. (Let's say a little prayer, shall we?)

A Strange Day, Indeed

Today was odd.

MORNING:

After my classes, I was conversing with some fellow students in our studio space (which holds all 34 of the Level II Graduate Students) when a middle-aged fellow and a thirty-something fellow came into the studio. The thirty-something demanded to know whose studio we were in.

"Uh, Dirk's, Vicky's, and John's," my studio-mate replied (I was standing right next to him).

"Who told you-" he said, thrusting his finger at a table we'd brought down the day before from the 4th floor "-that it was acceptable to steal other people's things?"

The three of us being addressed looked at each other quizzically. "Um, Dirk told us it was ours and to go upstairs to get it," I replied. I could feel my hackles rising. Stealing? What the heck?

"And you just do whatever he says, do you?" he shot back. I could see my studio-mate's muscles bunch up in his forearms: not a good sign. "If he told you to jump off a bridge, would you do that?"

Apples and oranges. There's a big difference between relocating a table and committing suicide, and my studio-mate pointed this fact out to him. It didn't go over well.

"Look, Dirk told us it was ours and to go get it since we didn't have a crit space. We did," another class-mate said, obviously aware that large studio-mate (as in, imposingly tall and somewhat terrifying) was not going to be able to keep his cool much longer if he bore the brunt of the unwarranted criticism.

The irate guy finally left when we told him we didn't care about his table, he could take it, we had work to do, thankyouverymuch. We proceeded to loudly criticize him within earshot in none too flattering tones.

One of our studio professors, John, heard us and came to see what was going on. We explained, not holding back with the criticism and calling our berater "incredibly unprofessional", and he asked for a description of the fellow. We gave it. He frowned. "That was Bill Pruitt," he said, "He's one of the assistant professors."

"That jacka** is a professor?" I asked. I received a surprised look from John, mostly because I usually keep it civil and ladylike, insofar as language is concerned.

"Yeah. If he really upset y'all and was as bad as you say, go report him to the dean." He paused. "It probably didn't help that you told him Dirk told you to go get the table: they hate each other. That's not something that you need to get involved in."

Ah, the politics of higher education.

AFTERNOON

I had an assignment to document someplace that was either a utopia or a heterotopia (someplace describable as "other": either a place where "others" are kept, like an insane asylum or a jail, or a place that is out of place within its context, i.e. a Chinese temple in the middle of the barrio).

I decided to document a "utopia": Sugarland, TX.

If you've never been to Sugarland, you're not missing much. So-called because Imperial Sugar was (is?) located there, it's a bedroom community like no other. For instance, in one part of town, all the signs are the same dimensions, mounted at the same height, and constructed out of the same dark brown metal.

The Mercedes-Benz dealer's sign is the same size and quality as the McDonald's across the highway.

It's creepy.

So I drove to Sugarland to document this "utopian" American community. En route, I was almost run off the road by a guy with dealer plates who was weaving in and out of traffic like he was involved in a high-speed chase.

I snapped some photos, returned to my apartment, and created a montage including crepe-myrtles and images from 1950s female-targeted advertising along with screen shots from The Stepford Wives. Because the place just has that kind of quality to it: Stepfordian.

Look out, Paula Prentiss: Sugarland is gunning for you.

Not Exactly Relaxing In the Sun

Saturday was an interesting day.

I had lunch/brunch with the BIL and my beautiful niece at a restaurant called Guadalajara, and then went up to the College of Architecture to meet up with some of my studio-mates. One of the girls from my studio called, and informed a nice - and large - fellow that she was going to visit the sites assigned to us by our professor for our first project. Did we want to join her?

Of course we did! Particularly as the large fellow had no car, and I had no idea where we were supposed to go. She and her friend arrived and we all climbed into her 2-door Honda Civic to head out for Discovery Green in downtown Houston.

We were about 5 blocks from campus when we realized the air-conditioning in her Civic was not working. Down went the windows, and we continued on, growing stickier and smellier by the minute. At some point, I realized I was not wearing sunscreen and did not have a hat, and I resigned myself to getting a mild case of sunburn.

Discovery Green was interesting, to say the least. There was a lawn where a Hispanic radio station was setting up an inflatable screen in preparation for a showing of Spy Kids. There was an amphitheater with a permanent stage built out of cypress (I think) and steel. There were strange boxes covered in glossy colored cubes that led down into parking garages below the surface of the ground.

Then, there were two nearly identical pavilions that sold drinks and food and housed public restrooms. A small pond hosted very small kayaking experiences for tourists. And there was a playground (almost deserted in the 109-degree heat) and a water plaza, with jets of water that arched over its granite surface.

The water plaza was packed.

Most of the water plaza's inhabitants were obviously low-income families, with the parents sitting in folding chairs or on the grass nearby, a few dads supervising their kids, and squealing happy children. Oh! How ecstatic they were to be playing in the water! It was wonderful to watch, and I took a lot of pictures of the kids in the water.

Then, we headed for Bayou Bend Park, thinking it would be easy to find.

It wasn't, yet it was. See, the thing is: Bayou Bend Park is long, following Buffalo Bayou (duh) for a few miles. It's impossible to know where to park your car to get there.

Eventually, we settled on parking near the City of Houston's free public skate park (helmets required). We got a bit bogged down, admittedly, watching the skaters fly over the ramps, swoop up through the half-domes, etc. Once a few of them realized they had an admiring audience, the tricks flew faster and more furiously. Fortunately, we didn't witness any accidents!

Then, we wandered off to look at the rest of the park.


It's kind of creepy.

There are circles of Bald Cypresses arranged at random, with "seats" made of triangles of granite arranged in their midst. I say "seats" because they looked more like altars for slaughtering animals. Most specifically, slaughtering goats while wearing black hooded robes and chanting in Latin.

We came across a steel structure that encircled rectangles of granite for sitting/slaughtering, and had images of eyes overlaid with clear plastic protractors, among other demonic illustrations, fitted between the metal of the trusses. It was about this time that we decided to leave.

It was also about this time that the beagle puppy ran by.

We thought it belonged to the jogger it was chasing, at first, but when we saw him try to shoo it away, we realized otherwise. Then we heard a man calling for his dog, which was obviously not responding.

Hmmm...

The upshot was that one of the guys in my group ran after the dog, caught it, and lured it back towards us, where I grabbed its wriggly little wet body and carried it 1/4 mile back to its owner. Apparently, "Hunter" the beagle puppy had gone for a swim in the bayou before he wandered off...

Good deed accomplished, we headed back for the un-air-conditioned Civic, all of us sweating, covered in puppy mud, and tired.

I got home and took a cool shower, fretting over the fact that my skin was blotchy from the heat. Then I lay in bed reading, drinking water, and eating cornichons to help replenish all the salt I'd lost during our treks. Eventually, I got up and put some clothes on so I could go grocery shopping. When I did, I caught sight of myself in the mirror: NO SUNBURN.

A year ago, I would have been beet-red all over, looking absolutely terrible and preparing myself mentally for the inevitable peeling and itching to come. This time, there was no such problem. I'd heard that the Paleo Diet decreased the likelihood of burning in the sun, and now I'm a believer.

Maybe I don't have to hide from the sun, anymore! Though it's a good excuse to use for leaving if I ever find myself surrounded by satanic structures in a public park again...

Back to School: Progress Report

I pulled an all-nighter, Tuesday night, so my earlier graphic was somewhat prescient. I skipped on the skimpy bathing suit, though, and wore a shroud-like sweatshirt and jeans.

My review in class Wednesday afternoon went fairly well; I was the first person to present the idea of a knot as a mathematical concept - strictly ordered - instead of as an indicator of chaos, and my takes on the other two "tiny projects" seemed to garner a bit of respect from the professors.

Let's hear it for research and nerdiness winning the day.

I feel better, now, about my ability to succeed in grad school. Quite frankly, I was so unhappy with my project on Wednesday morning that I was having thoughts of "just give it all up and get a job." The somewhat baffling respect from my classmates ("How did you have time to do all that?" and "Oh, I know I'm not going to like you: you're going to make me look bad.") gave me a much-needed boost of self-confidence.

I slept for 6 hours, Wednesday night, had a migraine by Thursday afternoon (ugh) and slept from 6:30 pm Thursday evening until 10:00 am Friday morning.

I feel much better now.

And now, I'm going to head to Office Depot to pick up a few things, then go up to the school for my Friday evening classes. Yes, my only classes on Friday are from 4-6 pm. Ridiculous!

At least my apartment isn't a total disaster area, now. I did manage to clean it up a bit, Thursday evening, after my all-night design-a-thon.

Back to School!

Today, Dear Reader, was my first day back in school.

I have a desk near the window (hooray!), and a couple of the girls in my studio asked me to join them when they went to get food at the University Center Satellite.

The campus is so enormously sprawling that they have a mini-University Center. How's that for "urban planning"?

I made the mistake of wearing shorts, though. Seeing as the university overcompensates for the heat outside by cooling its buildings to Arctic proportions, I will be wearing long pants, in future. At least, until winter comes, when they will hopefully keep the buildings a bit warmer.

I already have oodles and oodles of work to do, Dear Reader, on three "tiny projects," as our German curriculum director termed them, and they're very conceptual in nature. My undergraduate work was more along the lines of "arrange a series of pristine white boxes and clear glass until they look nice."

Here, I'm supposed to define Originality, Innovation, and The New as the first part of our tripartite assignment.

I have my definitions down, for the most part (it's good to be a wordsmith), but the rest of the assignment has me a bit puzzled. I'll be sitting down with some of my books on architecture and design to try to figure out what my Originality, Innovation, and The New examples will be.

Then, there's The Knot assignment (as opposed to The New assignment). We are supposed to think about knots in multiple ways, then create some, and then use our analyses of the knots to design a building. Mine is going to be a String Theory research center.

Thank you! Thank you! I'll be here all night!

And yes, if asked, I will say it's a String Theory research center. I hope they don't ask, though.

The third mini-assignment involves boxes of given dimensions that then collide. Collisions tend to be violent and create mish-mashes of things. I have some brilliant ideas for collisions, and the materials out of which the boxes could be made, but alas! the brilliant ideas are all too time-consuming to pursue, right now.

(sigh)

I'll just have to think of something else that's brilliant!

Royal Pain in the Neck

I had my Botox treatment on Wednesday, as I previously blogged.

"How was it?" a couple of people have asked. "What was it like?"

Answer: I have no idea. I was out like a light. Dr. Pain is kind enough to heavily sedate his patients before injecting them with botulinum toxin.

I know I said I would receive 21 injections of Botox, but I was wrong.

I got 31.

A few of them are bruised, but not badly, and fortunately not on my face. And, yes, I can move my eyebrows, though not as high as they used to move. The muscles of my upper forehead, however, are completely inert, and only move when rudely shoved upwards by their lower counterparts.

I don't know if it was because I slept in a funny position, last night, or what the deal is, but my neck is killing me today. It hurts like a sonofagun, and I either have to let my head drop completely, or hold it up perfectly straight. Anything in between is agony. I bet it's a Botox/bad-sleeping-position one-two punch.

The good news is that I was pretty much completely recovered (until this morning) within 24 hours of the procedure. No, I haven't noticed whether it's caused a decrease in my migraines. I did have one this morning, though.

In other news, I went to my grad school orientation, along with all the other newbies. There were about 16 of us there, and half seemed to be in the Level I program (a three year course of study), and half of us were in the Level II program (a two year course of study).

I'm a Level II.

I was also the only one who had worked in my chosen field. At all. No one had even done summer internships!

As a consequence, they all clustered around me, asking me questions about what it's like in architecture offices (um, not like studio), whether architecture is a stable field of employment (I had to fight to keep from laughing), and where I worked.

When I dropped Oldsmobile's name - usually an attention-getter - nobody blinked.

And did I mention that I was old, compared to my fellow students? Because I am. Very. Most of them are 23-ish. I did not share my age, but at the youngest, they had to calculate that I'm at least 26 (I'm 28, soon to be 29).

And they also seem to be under the delusion that there is no partying involved in architecture.

One lovely young lady was completely shocked when I told her of the typical routine in my undergrad days:

All-nighter Thursday.
Studio Jury Friday.
Bar immediately after Jury.
To a friend's house immediately after bar (with more booze in tow).
Pass out on said friend's living room floor with several other architecture students.
Wake up at 10 Saturday morning.
Get food.
Go back to studio.

Poor little advertising student: she wouldn't have made it with my undergrad crowd.

We would have eaten her alive.