This past week, my sister had a wedding reception at our home, and the family has been working very hard to prepare the yard and home for the occasion. Because of this, my dad has not been able to get his Cityscape article ready. Inasmuch as I will be leaving in one month to go to Ecuador for two years, and my father is trying to recover from the exhaustion of the wedding, I asked him if I could write this week's column. It's not often that the child gets to voice his opinions about his father.
I must admit that my childhood has been different than most, at least from an architectural point of view. One learns a lot from a father who has so many personal convictions and ideas about the way architecture should be.Often I remember proudly telling friends that my father was the architect of the Geneva State Bank (the rusty looking cube in Orem). Immediately they would ask, "Was it supposed to rust like that?" I would reply, often quite defensively, "Of course!" (as if I could even conceive my dad making any kind of mistake!) Their next comment was often no real comment at all, only a muffled chuckle as they walked away.
This hurt my ego slightly, but it was somewhat constructive in that it slowly dissolved the image of the perfect father.
A few years back, when most of the things my father said were still considered law, I remember him playing a game with the family. This game had some architecturally positive sides but was very tough. It involved Utah schlock.
I know that if you have been a faithful reader of my father's column, you will remember what Utah schlock is, but for the less dedicated and new readers, I will explain it in my own terms. (It is probably a little different definition than my father's, but essentially they are the same.) Utah schlock is an epidemic of monstrous proportions that is often expressed in buildings. It is an attitude where there is no attitude. These buildings have no aesthetic value. They only serve their purpose. They are blah buildings, undramatic buildings; when one looks at a definite schlockish building it is not inspiring, just rather boring.
You must understand, however, that to everyone but the definitive eye, schlock is hard to identify. This is where the game came in. While the family would drive around town, we would see a building that we thought was different. One of the kids would pose the question, "Is that Utah schlock?" The next move was in my father's hand. He would answer yes or no. But then, as part of the game, he would have to say why. He was forced to defend himself and would consequently ramble on with words we sometimes didn't understand.
I now wonder if that was a tactic to keep us off his trail. Anyway, after a while, the game would lose its fervor, and we kids would become daring and venture to say, "That is Utah schlock!" Sometimes we were wrong, other times right; but we slowly started to remember which buildings were the better buildings (there were so few pure unschlock buildings in Salt Lake City that we soon memorized them and could win the game every time).
This demented game that my family played, however, is not the main reason that I wanted to write this article; I would like to say a few words about something more important.
Since I first remember, hiking and backpacking have been a part of my life. The first outing of the season usually took place during spring break. It is still chilly along the Wasatch Front in March and April, so the family would pack up the car and head for the Utah desert. Hiking in Canyonlands, Zions and Arches are some of my fondest memories.
Often, however, we would get off the beaten path and go into the Esca-lante Basin of Coyote Gulch and Maime Creek. Here I would ask my father about nature, the greatest architect of all.
Later on, during the summer, just the boys would head off for the Uintas. One could always count on its being nice and cool, unlike the sweltering valleys. With such myriad trails, it wouldn't take long until a person was far away from all other hikers. The crystal water cascading over large volcanic rocks that resembled hunched-over trolls and the luscious green moss and algae spreading over everything made carpet for one to sit on and contemplate sweet nothings.
Isn't this what life is truly lived for? Peace and harmony with nature? A still like no other, with only the melodic trickling of water in the background. All this in our own mountains and wilderness. All of it is truly our own. No one else is going to take care of it.
Step out of your house. Right now. Look at those mountains, blanketed in the beginnings of autumn splendor. Not a building in the world even begins to compare with the beauty of that immovable and massive, yet graceful mound of Utah earth. Remember it is yours; yours to enjoy and yours to care for so that someday even my children will have the chance to revere Utah's exquisite and most beautiful architecture of all.