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finding the love story

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In Denmark, my studio instructor was a young (20-something?) urban designer named Ulrik. In addition to the cultural barriers between student & instructor and the USA and Denmark, Ulrik also was saddled with a class of all women. Despite the challenges, urlik was a fine designer and earnest teacher. These eight odd years later, several teaching attempts of my own under the belt or underway (I’m now on the roster for 2017-2018 K-2 Sunday School), I appreciate his lessons all the more.

One of the key themes I remember from his classes was the project we spent crafting a love story.

The exercise started as a precursor to a large urban redevelopment design project. Instead of focusing on site history, geometry, access diagrams, or other common tropes, Ulrik wanted our attention on the human element. So that first day, we spent our studio time outlining the story of two star-crossed lovers who happened to fall together because of our brilliant site planning and building programming. And once the bare bones of a story were in place, we were instructed to trace the narrative through each iteration or revision of the project. “But where is the love story?!?” he would implore.

After two years (two years??!!) with my current employer, some of the honeymoon period has worn off–or, more accurately, if there ever was any initial blush of romance, it has long faded to dusty. The day-in-day-out administration, obfuscated by posturing I only grasp as shadows, leaves me feeling loveless.

This summer I marked the end (well, almost-end, we still have a few receipts to submit) of a project I began in my first months with the city. I learned the new community quickly while I walked its width and breadth as part of a sidewalk inventory. After many meetings and Sidewalk Project iterations, work was completed last month, and the city finally agreed to fund the entire project with grant funding rather than a 50 percent property owner assessment. Well over 100 property owners were spared the direct cost of the project, and exactly 4 have come or called to voice appreciation.

Of course there is reward in a job well done, regardless of recognition. But it is also too easy to lose sight of the larger story behind the mundane edits and adjustments and less minor exchanges and antagonism.

Which makes it that much nicer when a glimpse of a ‘love story’ does emerge. Whenever my role has a chance to prod someone closer to love, the reward is sweet. Though I miss past days of baking fresh Sunday afternoon cookies to welcome new campers and especially work-worn counselors, and I miss the subtle mastery of being able to apply the right lineweight or highlight and shadow to make a project sing, there is equal satisfaction in starting to deploy the delicate applications of my new trade. To set the groundwork for new livelihoods; to unearth the quiet narrative of a love story laid low by authors who are long gone from the city. To write poetry of spare efficiencies, to summon the sources to patch a sidewalk or replace a playground swing. It’s a new sort of authorship I am learning, a strategy for ghostwriting sequels to narratives countless others have begun. Tracing the spark of passion through the grand narrative of setting and character changes weaves a love story full and complex like red wine.

Something to love will serve you well. And absent that, the assurance that the lessons taught and learned today may still bear fruit years into the future. (If I had any idea what Ulrik’s last name was, I would send an email with my thanks. Written records of those years are spotty; all I have are addled memories, a smattering of photos, and several wire-limbed nisse ornaments.)

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Song I’m playing on repeat this week: “Something to Love” by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit

 



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