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Architecture as a profession today struggles with questions of relevance, with core questions surrounding the issue of whether it can create cultural vibrancy and meaning for the diverse world it serves. Within our own design community, we tend to give a lot of sway to an “exclusive tier” of architects who provide leadership and vision. While this leadership is critically important to the profession, it only corresponds to 2% of what gets built. Take it from Frank Gehry, whose 2014 comment still rings in our ears: “98% of everything that is built and designed today is pure sh*t. There is no sense of design, no respect for humanity."
If we embrace the importance and unique value of all things built on a wider range, we need to ask ourselves: how have we served and rewarded our peers responsible for creating this other 98%? Where should we set the bar for the emotional-artistic qualities of mainstream architecture?
"As architects, we often strive to create buildings and cities that have a high degree of cultural activity, authenticity, and a strong sense of community. We desire an engaged population that not only loves their environment, but also participates in its creation, and in its ongoing evolution. The extension of which means they feel responsible for, its maintenance, its improvement, and are inspired and empowered to infuse it with their cultural and artistic energy. Ideally, this vibrancy extends across the full range of socio-economic strata, so that everyone participates and enjoys these benefits. If they are successful, they will extend this caring sense of community beyond the physical environment, towards caring for each other’s well-being, because they sense how each of us contributes to the success of our communities.”
We currently (and rightfully) set the bar high on issues of sustainability, accessibility, material science, and physical comfort. These more technical aspects are a major part of how the profession serves the public - but they are not the whole picture.
Burning Man, the yearly event in the Black Rock Desert, represents a unique opportunity to explore issues of cultural vibrancy on a grand but temporal basis. At one level, it is a “social experiment” gone viral. In part, this comes from the way it challenges various social norms and rebalances the relationship between intellect and emotion. Burning Man sets a stage to see what happens when it encourages 70,000 people to celebrate “self-expression,”, embedding art in their lives and encouraging them to participate rather than merely observe. With some lateral and creative thinking, this is an opportunity for architects to understand what a culture of engagement could truly be and how it can change the way we relate to the people we design for.
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If you haven’t been to Burning Man before, you might be tempted to label this feast of “self-expression” as a bacchanal of “self-indulgence.” But before you fall victim to these common preconceptions, imagine it within a context of architecture and urbanism: 70,000 people gathered to contribute their gifts to a community, each determining for themselves how they choose to interact with their surroundings. The event itself takes the form of 400+ placed art installations, 600+ Art Cars, and 1,000+ themed camps, all offering an opportunity to alter your sense of what the world is and what it can be. Surely this sense of optimism is what designers today should be aiming for, regardless of context or program.
Case Studies for The Range of Cultural Inclusion
This year, a part of the story might be best told as “A Tale of Two Orbs.” This is a tale of one of the most fundamental aspects of Burning Man: the existence of a “Range of Cultural Inclusion.” For a community to feel profoundly engaged, there must be both an openness and an explicit invitation, without judgment, to freely express your artistic spirit.
In many modern cultures, there is a division (perceived or overt) between an “elite” and the "ordinary," where a lack of cultural credentials push the ordinary to a place of lower value. At Burning Man, the lack of this division has unlocked extraordinary art from so-called marginalized places. It turns out that, once you cross that line in the dust, there is an almost limitless spirit of creativity in us all.
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Within the culture of Burning Man, all contributions to the creative spirit are valued, because it came from a place of creative intention and social gifting. People know the difference between “museum grade art” and a bedazzled unicorn doll, but in the context of Burning Man it is all equally appreciated. The lack of judgment invites and enables everyone to actively and freely participate. The sense of community this creates is, at first, overwhelming. But what it also does is create a deeper appreciation for art across the entire spectrum.
This year's museum-grade offering came courtesy of Bjarke Ingels and Jakob Lange, whose Orb project gained widespread public attention and support following a crowdfunding campaign. The final piece (and the 200-person build crew) cost well over $1,000,000. When the Orb finally inflated, delayed by the Black Rock Desert’s notoriously high winds, the results were spectacular.
The 100 feet high, 30 ton, hovering mirrored sphere gave the Playa an ethereal landmark. It stood as one of the Playa’s great “absurdist objects”, creating a sense of genuine awe. At the base was a seating platform which transformed the Orb a shade structure and event space.
Popular criticism has widely condemned the Orb for failing to live up to its rendered reputation, as for only a few still moments did the surface crisply reflect the massive scale of the Playa. It was quickly consumed by the dust, thus becoming part of the desert. In any other context this might have been seen as its ruin, but at Burning Man this only accentuated its poetic allure.
On the other end of this cultural range was a more modest project. One woman, Lekha Washington, created a faux moon entitled, “This too shall pass-Moondancer.” Washington crafted the piece in Mumbai and, with the help of three people in her studio, brought it to the desert in only checked baggage.
Relative to the Orb this was a small piece, unpretentious in its undertaking - but its impact was no less breathtaking than its well-funded neighbor. When you were young the moon seemed to follow you everywhere; Washington's artwork captures this sense of wide-eyed innocence and play. Where the Orb was (due to its sheer scale) a wayfinding point, Washington's Moon was disorienting. It seemed to be both everywhere and nowhere, and yet with each new venue, it brought with it a sense of romance. This made it particularly successful, given reorienting yourself and challenging your notions of normality are the underlying themes of Burning Man. You couldn’t help but fall in love with this moon.
The Challenge Ahead
Can Burning Man’s participatory nature help inspire a more profound sense of belonging to and ownership of places? And are there elements of the event that can be incorporated in community involvement with the architectural process?
A challenge for Burning Man, now that the event has gained considerable international focus, is that artists and architects will create art as promotional pieces rather than as thoughtful contributions to a unique community of culture. Currently, this culture of generosity is very strong and deeply felt. If you visit, be ready to participate, to bring a gift (no matter how small). The creative community the event forms in the desert- and your genuine and heartfelt contribution to it - is what matters. It's a lesson for urbanism regardless of context.
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