The Ugly Ducking, Part II

The Ugly Duckling is a children's fairy tale written in 1844 by Hans Christian Andersen. The story is about being ostracized for (disagreeable) looks. It traces the life of a duck who, after spending years desperately trying to fit in, becomes suicidal.  One day while attempting to drown himself, the duck is attracted to his own surprisingly handsome reflection; an image not of a beautiful swan.  At its best, The Ugly Duckling is a story of transformation, revealing both the extreme hardships and joys of life. Yet, at it's worst, Ugly is a commentry on the shallowness of "image".  After all, the duckling never really did transcend his inability to cope with the world as an aesthetically unpleasing creature.  He simply evolved over time into a more socially beloved image.  Rather than teaching me to empathize with those less fortunate than me, Hans Christian Andersen has taught me that we all must all look appropriate to fit in with society.  

These themes play out in architecture just as much as they do in our lives.  The politics of taste are most prevalent in historic districts where everyone from preservationists to urban design review boards to gentrifiers and gentrifiees (?) have an opinion regarding the modernization of the city.  The Ugly Duckling suggests that over time, the ugliest object can transform into an object of desire.  This can occur either by retrofitting an "ugly" building to conform to "beautiful" buildings, or by being absorbed into the mainstream consciousness as a symbol of civic identity: something that was once ugly is now pricelessly iconic.  

We introduced this architectural version of the ugly duckling as a widly painted brutalist building juxtaposed with a traditional victorian home.  It attempts to fit in, while pretending to be something it is not. To take this idea one step further, I dreamt up a few variations on a vacation home. 

Figure 1. Pop-Brutalism. Here, a castle-like CMU block bunker retreat is covered in what can only be described as dazzle paint. Further detailing around the lone window suggests this otherwise serious building has a very loving owner. 

Figure 2. Floodplain Steamboat Gothic. An awkward building at best, this squat, yet top-heavy building dares floodwater to take it on with an aggressive saw tooth skirt.

Figure 3. Neo-Green challenges the idea of a green building by employing a sophisticated array of symbolically earthly ornamentation. From the stylized bushes atop a gable roof (the new green roof), to the fake ivy attached to a flower-patterned exterior wall paper, to the solar panel picket fence siding, this cottage screams, "I am mean and I am green."

All three of these curiously bizarre case studies empathize with the Ugly Duckling character. If built, they would surely never fit in with the other neighborhood homes. Would these obscure buildings eventually be embraced by the homeowner, the real estate agent, and the critic? Would their story have a fairy tale happy ending??

The Ugly Duckling

Figure 1 Charmingly historic victorian architecture encounters a wildly inappropriate variation on brutalism.

In this scene, we see the latter attempting to blend in with the former: a "painted lady" and a want-to-be painted lady. This sets up what I would consider to be a sort of "transvestite" architecture. This simple sketch arises out of a curiosity for historic districts and their overarching control over architectural style and image. These two Painted Ladies raise some interesting questions. For instance, eclecticism (as exhibited on the right) can be a rather complex and witty endeavor. A purely minimal and honest building decorated with vivid layers of paint would make both modernists AND preservationists sick to their stomach. The result of such a pairing of historicism and modernism is something both curious and radical. I wonder what would happen if this situation were reversed: a victorian home force-fed a steady diet of concrete and modernism? Ultimately, the case of the Ugly Duckling is about buildings attempting to be something they are not. Is honesty and authenticity required in architecture today?

My answer to my question is NO - buildings have been lying to us for quite some time now...and we like it! They falsely tell us we have beautiful wood floors when in fact we have cheap, mass produced laminate laid over God knows what. They scream, "I am a brick building," when in fact they are a wood frame box with brick paneling. If such buildings resembled the children's tale, Pinocchio, the awnings over their entryway would project 50 feet outward...a growing nose for every lie they tell us. Perhaps false front buildings are just that: an exaggerated extrusion of the facade.

We live in uncertain and inauthentic times. Consider botox, viagra, and prescription drugs. Miraculous weight loss pills. A food industry with questionable food production, safety, and cleanliness issues. Also consider our suburban homes - especially McMansions - and their simulation of inflated wealth and success. Now everyone can own a mansion! (...or manor, or estate). Perhaps the ultimate image of inauthenticity in contemporary society is last years housing crash and the bursted bubble of wealth so many Americans were led to believe they had.

The Ugly Duckling - in this case a brutalist building forced to become a historic Victorian home - will undoubtedly be the loner of the neighborhood street. It may be laughed at and bullied by other homes in the neighborhood. It will be considered a poser and perhaps even a "Transvestite" Painted Lady. But ultimately it's eclectic image was simply generated by the context of the site: the desired uniformity of historic districts where Painted Ladies reside. For lack of better terms, the Ugly Duckling is successful because it is complex and contradictory. It's presence among Painted Ladies should be celebrated, not shunned! In the end, maybe historic districts are not so bad after all...

[images courtesy of N_O_R_T_O_N, EW and Laser Kit]