It was a misty morning late in October. Autumn weather (or what passes for autumn weather in South Dakota – cold winds, usually some bit of snow, most leaves off the trees, and winter-like apparel required at least in the mornings) had held off for the most part, and this was the first time it felt like the season was starting to change.
I dropped my three oldest kids off at school at 7:45 a.m. and made my way toward I-29 to head north, excited and a bit anxious about how the day would unfold. It was a Wednesday, so I had a couple of internal meetings to call in to that would occupy a good chunk of the 3-hour drive. Unfortunately, one of those (the longer one) was cancelled. I tried to find something to listen to on the radio, but not being a fan of pop or country, coupled with intermittent radio signals, I shut the radio off and was eventually left with my own thoughts.
On every project there are successes, but often times there are failures as well. The successes are great, but the failures are more important, as painful as they sometimes might be in the moment. On this specific day, I was afraid of failure. And here I was, alone with my thoughts, wondering if I had failed… and nervous that I was about to find out.
I arrived early, about 30 minutes before the students from SDSU would show up, so I hung out across the street from my ultimate destination, which happened to one of my projects that was full of successes (and only a couple minor failures). It also offered a great perch from where I could watch for the bus that was bringing the SDSU students.
11:30 rolled around and still no sign of the students, so I made my way across the street to the School for the Blind and Visually impaired. Upon checking in, I made my way into the light-filled lobby, and there was greeted by the new superintendent for the school. After general introductions, our conversation quickly turned toward the eventual tour of the building that would be happening shortly and some “questions” she had regarding design decisions (that she was not a part of). I answered as best I could, but I too questioned some of the decisions made. I often do on projects – there is always room to improve my craft – but usually it is right after construction is complete, not taking a critical eye years after completion.
But a critic I was, nonetheless. That’s what I do – never settle, never grow complacent. In complacency lies the pathway selfishness, and in selfishness lies the pathway to darkness. So I picked it apart, and questioned each decision. Luckily, on many such decisions, I generally came back to the same or similar solutions. There were approaches I definitely would change or would do different (some of this project required letting others run loose and take ownership over portions of the scope), but many seemed to be logical resolutions to the problem at hand.
Even so, I kept hitting the same roadblock. Does it work – is it successful – for the people it was designed for? The general answer was, when asking the users, yes. We received a lot of feedback and input during design on what does and doesn’t work for individuals with low-vision or who are totally blind, including input from a blind architect. But, not being blind myself, how could I know for sure the success of the slight acoustic alterations, the variations in texture, the filtering of the light, articulation of the sound? Is the feedback from faculty and students enough, who (no offense to them and not meaning to generalize) have likely only experienced the same world as the rest of us sighted individuals, not a space that is designed especially for them?
Two items stuck out as I went through my existential analysis;
One was the visual contrast between perimeter and field tile in the hallways. The intent was more of a visual contrast, not just in texture, but due to some of the selections made at the time by the client and some changes in offerings for the flooring specified once construction started, the result didn’t seem to hit the mark.
The second was an alcove underneath the main stair just inside the lobby. A small “seating” element was developed to double as a cane rail below the stair so that someone wouldn’t hit their head. However, to frame the space below the stair, part of that bench was extended further out, defining the circulation path separate from the under-stair lounge area. However, upon revisiting the decision years later, it became clear that this likely was awkward for students with vision disabilities to navigate around this little peninsula and have a good understanding of where they were going.
The students arrived for the tour, along with their special guest. The architect we had consulted with during design – the blind one – had just given a special lecture for the SDSU architecture program the evening before. On this specific day, he was joining the students for a tour of this school he helped design… for the first time. Someone with an architects discernment (and personality), who had helped design and who had experienced numerous other such facilities was going to be navigating his way through the building (and likely providing feedback).
As we toured the building, the superintendent gave her synopsis of some of the features of the building, and I chimed in on some architectural “behind-the-scenes” moments and details. And then our consultant jumped in.
Gulp.
To my shock, he actually started describing the alcove that I was second-guessing and the intent behind it during design (he has a better memory than I do!), and how it made both a visually interesting space but also provided the necessary barriers to ensure that someone could navigate both areas, without favoring the circulation over the lounge or vice versa – a proper balance.
And later, he discussed with the students the specific detail of the border tile, and how that is a common aesthetic approach, but doing it in a way that makes a tactile difference for a cane-user (so they can sense when they are near a wall without hitting wall) can also help blind individuals.
I left that afternoon realizing that at some point during my visit, the sun had come out. I had much more pleasant thoughts on the drive south. Often times I think that more humility is needed in the industry; we need to admit and learn from our mistakes and shortcomings so that we can continue improving our craft and so that we can developer deeper, more human relationships with our clients. But sometimes it is just as important to have faith. We engaged the right stakeholders and followed a good design process, I needed to trust that process.
Trust the process. If you follow the right process, it will give you confidence and courage in the decisions you make – both in design… and in life.
Chase Kramer, AIA, is the Director of Design for TSP Inc. in Sioux Falls. He received his M.Arch from ISU where he focused on urban design and sustainability. Before that, he received a degree in Art from Augustana University. He lives in Sioux Falls with his wife and four children. Beyond Architecture, he is an AI early adopter, musician, art lover, and fan of cheese and beer.
What a great series of insights, Chase. Thanks for sharing these thoughts and sharing our tour with us!