Charlie Brown has been called the most sensitive child ever to appear in a comic strip, a figure capable of Shakespearean shifts of mood; and Schulz’s pencil succeeds in rendering these variations with an economy of means that has something miraculous about it. The text, always almost courtly (these children rarely lapse into slang or commit anacoluthon), is enhanced by drawings able to portray, in each character, the subtlest psychological nuance. Thus the daily tragedy of Charlie Brown is drawn, in our eyes, with exemplary incisiveness.
To elude this tragedy of nonintegration, each psychological type has its strategies. The girls escape it thanks to an obstinate self-sufficiency and haughtiness: Lucy (a giantess to be admired with awe), Patty, and Violet are all of a piece; perfectly integrated (or should we say “alienated”), they move from hypnotic sessions at the TV to rope-skipping and to everyday talk interwoven with sarcasm, achieving peace through insensitivity.
Linus, the smallest, on the other hand, is already burdened with every neurosis; emotional instability would be his perpetual condition if the society in which he lives had not already offered him the remedies. Linus already has behind him Freud, Adler, and perhaps also Binswanger (via Rollo May); he has identified his baby-blanket as the symbol of a uterine peace or a purely oral happiness—sucking his finger, blanket against his cheek (if possible, with TV turned on, in front of which he can huddle like an Indian; but he can also be without anything, in an oriental sort of isolation, attached to his symbols of protection).
Take away his blanket and he will be plunged once more into all the emotional troubles lying in wait for him day and night. Because, we must add, along with the instability of a neurotic society he has absorbed all its wisdom. Linus represents its most technologically up-to-date product. While Charlie Brown is unable to make a kite that will not get caught in the branches of a tree, Linus reveals suddenly, in bursts, dazzling skills: he performs feats of amazing equilibrium, he can strike a quarter flung in the air with the edge of his blanket, snapping it like a whip (“the fastest blanket in the West!”).
The conservation room at the Whitney Museum. Photograph by Richard Barnes.
Almodóvar has a fitful friendship with America, the world’s dominant cinematic culture. After “Women on the Verge,” he got many offers from Hollywood. He turned down “Sister Act,” the 1992 comedy about singing nuns, and in the early aughts he nearly agreed to direct “Brokeback Mountain.” He said of these demurrals, “Maybe it’s because I didn’t trust my English. Or maybe it’s because, even though they always tell me I’ll have artistic liberty—final cut—there is always a moment when I don’t believe it.”
He appreciates the fact that American film critics championed his work from the start, but one aspect of their support confused him: many defined him as a gay director. It was a useful label for him—the gay press helped to make him well known in the States—but an ironic one for an artist whose films had done so much to suggest that sexuality was not so easily defined.
How do you feel about architecture prizes?
I’m a bit punch drunk on the whole subject of prizes as you can imagine given my history with them.
I felt very bitter about prizes like the Pritzker and the AIA Gold Medal. I couldn’t even be nominated for the AIA Gold Medal for about 30 years. We kept getting our submissions sent back because they wouldn’t give it to two people and we wouldn’t take it separately.
For a woman like Zaha Hadid – who had her own identity – it was easier for her to get a prize when people began to say ‘we really should give a woman a prize’. They look for the same things they are looking for when they are making a single genius man. And in Zaha they have found a single genius woman. It may take a long time to find many other women who fulfil that role.
Is there still a problem with equal recognition in architecture?
I think so. I wanted to work with Bob because there was so much we had in common and we had so much fun together. We could evolve and think about so much stuff with our two minds being in sync the way they were, while having our two roles which added to each other. We also made other people around us creative. It was a wonderful way for me to do architecture.
You wrote an essay entitled Room at the Top: Sexism and the Star System in Architecture about your struggle to ensure equal recognition. How did you try to overcome it?
The essay was about special problems when you get to be someone who everyone thinks is a genius – not me, but him. It is very easy to make that happen – to look around, find the man, and say he must be the genius.
I had all the same problems other women have before all that too, and it still went on. People would say ‘she has to be his business partner’ or ‘maybe she is a decorator – it can’t be that she is a partner in design with her husband’.
By giving the Pritzker just to Bob, was it made worse for you?
Much worse. Its very sad because the award originated out of admiration for one of Jay Pritzker’s teachers at Harvard. But Philip Johnson was brought in as an advisor. He was the one that would give penguin parties at the century club where no women were allowed. He would always say ‘just the men – no wives invited’.
Has the Pritzker decision and the subsequent petition changed architectural history?
Yes. It is probably one of the reasons why the AIA finally shifted and allowed the Gold Medal to be given to two people. They still haven’t got as far as giving it to a group.
I was very touched by the Pritzker petition – and that is my prize in the end. 20,000 people wrote from all over the world and every one of them called me Denise. It was young women and also young men and sometimes the young men said ‘we have it hard but not nearly as hard as my girlfriend’. I found it all very heartening.
It was also a datum on social conditions in architecture. The petition was people giving an account of their vulnerability and difficulties which showed where architecture was at in 2013. It is very fascinating and people should study it. The two young women at Harvard who organised the petition have done a great service to the profession.
I said I would like to see a counter ceremony. I suggested they have small ceremony in Philadelphia, where I live, and make it a very modest thing and call it an inclusion ceremony. It would be really nice to have that. But Lord Palumbo said, ‘you can’t rewrite history’. Lord Palumbo isn’t thinking straight. I never said I wanted to rewrite history – it would be a comment on history.
What effect do you think it had on the prize’s reputation?
Prizes’ values are also demonstrated by who they choose. I feel that the RIBA Gold Medal is devalued because it was never given to the Smithsons. Similarly the AIA gave the Gold Medal to Frank Lloyd Wright very late. It is not good for its reputation when it does something like that. The prize needs to think about whether it is maintaining its standards.
How do you stand up for yourself without being dubbed a feminist or a whining woman?
I was dubbed all those things. I felt bad and I didn’t like the nasty person I became, but sometimes you have to step forward and say some rather harsh things.
Are things getting easier for women in architecture?
Yes – it is getting easier but it is still not easy. There are all the questions about why we pay young architects so little and set them up on such a treadmill of work, work, work.
What can be done to tackle the glass ceiling in architecture?
I’ve always said ‘judge me by my work’. What I would say to a young woman is as a principal if there are six problems on a project, I want you to make sure there isn’t a seventh. I want you to be thorough. I want to be able to trust that when you tell me something, you have done enough thinking to get it right. Once I have that sense that I can rely on you I can give you more responsibility. Also if you love architecture and you are here not to get a prize but because you love drawing, you now have to prove to your boss that you can offer reliability. Show how damn good you can be at doing the very thing you want to do and you are likely to get it. You will also be happy and nice to be around.
What legacy has your work created?
When we first started saying all of these things most of our generation thought we were dreadful. But in about the year 2000 young architects started to discover our work. They began to look into all of the things we had been doing.
It’s very hard for architects because if you really want to understand the social and community aspects, then you have to branch out of architecture in ways I cannot get architects to do. When architects want to know about urban design they look to Le Corbusier and now Zaha. They do what I call navel gazing. They don’t learn what the basics are.
Did you expect Learning from Las Vegas to have the impact that it has?
No we didn’t. People have learnt from Las Vegas but they haven’t learnt the half of it yet.
Is there still a place for Postmodernism in this day and age?
For us there is Pomo – which is Philip Johnson’s thing and is a forced use of style – this is different from what we have. We have Postmodernism which started in philosophical and religious thought, and then spread to literature, art and social sciences. I see us as modernists. Postmodernism is a reformulation of some very wonderful principles that evolved from Modernism. Those were the principles of facing a new world which was conditioned by industry, destruction and war, and saying that these things called for a new outlook on the world and therefore for new architecture. That is still a very good set of principles. As loyal modernists we have to update Modernism for today.
I think we have had three or four revivals of Modernism from the new brutalists, Team 10 in Europe, the neo-modernists – they are PoMo but using a modern style. I’m not sure what is coming now. We are between all sorts of eddies and flurries. Everyone has their own little ways of doing things.
Posters by Bráulio Amado
Clare Bucknell mentions that the young Jonathan Swift was taught to eat asparagus in the ‘Dutch’ fashion at court, adding parenthetically: ‘whatever that may have been’ (LRB, 19 January). Is it not more than likely the ‘Dutch’ fashion refers not to the way the asparagus was eaten, but to the way the plant was cultivated by depriving it of natural light. This is a practice still common in northern Europe. It produces a white stalk with a yellowish tip much prized for its delicacy of flavour. We may live in hope that, post-Brexit, the dining tables of Britain will be spared such outlandish and unnatural practices.
Dirk Bogarde, R. W. Fassbinder, Despair (1978)
Interiors (1978). Production Design by Mel Bourne.
In 1995, the curators Julie Lazar and Tom Finkelpearl asked the artist Mel Chin to take part in “Uncommon Sense,” a group show at the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, dedicated to exploring art that engaged the public sphere beyond the confines of the museum. At the time, Chin was already known as a Conceptual artist whose wide-ranging, community-oriented work often extended far beyond the gallery or the studio. (In the sculptural-environmental project Revival Field, begun in 1991 while Chin was in residency at the Walker Art Center, for instance, he collaborated with botanists on the design of gardens of “hyperaccumulators”—plants that are able to draw heavy metals from tainted earth, cleaning it in the process.) In response to Lazar and Finkelpearl’s request, Chin invited students and faculty from the University of Georgia and CalArts (schools where he was teaching at the time), along with additional artists and friends from across the US, to form a 102-person-strong collective that they dubbed the GALA Committee. The work that Chin and his group created over the following two years for the LA MoCA show, installed in 1997, was a blend of long-game Conceptualism, Dada-esque intervention, and whoopee cushion–style pranksterism—all played out against the highly unlikely backdrop of the wildly popular prime-time soap opera Melrose Place.