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Technicolor Skylines
Why can't our cities be clothed in the colors of the world?
By Dave Eggers
August/September 2002
Many people wonder why there are not more red skyscrapers, and I'm among
them. I know of one, in Chicago, on Wabash Avenue. It's a beautiful red,
pregnant with lust and courage; and I spent many of my formative years eating
lunch along the lakefront between weekend classes nearby, looking back over
Grant Park at this building, wondering why all other large buildings are
gray, or gray-blue, or black. I had no answer then, and now--15 or so years
later--I still have no answer. Why are there not more buildings in the red
of blood and barns? Or in deepest ochre, an ochre of wheat and corn and
the setting sun, an ochre of force and quiet dignity? Or a tower in the
green of pine? It would offend no one. People would dance.
I recently asked two architect friends why buildings were almost invariably
black and gray, but their explanations, concerning custom and cost, were
unconvincing. In all other areas of design--reflecting even the most
minimal aesthetic--we look for and accept color, even the most controlled
bursts of color. But in urban architecture we retreat, we cling fearfully
to Banana Republic basics, and are unwilling to go any further than that
metallic blue popularized in the eighties--in Chicago at least--by Helmut
Jahn. It was timid, and it hasn't aged well.
But I'm not advocating controlled bursts of color. I'm advocating cities
of symphonic color: subtle but rich color mixing and complementing as colors
do in nature, in our homes, in our minds. Velvet blues next to leather browns
next to rusted oranges. I don't want to make any sweeping statements about
cities and alienation, but I do think we could ease our sometime sense of
dissonance and disconnect by camouflaging our buildings in the colors
of the world. |
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