The Garden is the web as topology. The web as space. It’s the integrative web, the iterative web, the web as an arrangement and rearrangement of things to one another.
I’ve come to think of software applications as a form of digital architecture: some are places of concentration, others of collaboration, others clearly just for fun. Software’s emotional dimension is crucial: how it feels dictates how it’s used. (Architects hire environmental psychologists; tech companies hire user-experience researchers.) Microsoft Word is the quiet room at the university library; personal Gmail is a dirty kitchen, yesterday’s plates stacked next to the sink; Twitter is an overcrowded bar. Throughout the day, I’ll move from room to room, alternating between solitude and socializing, work and play.
Web browser design, however, has stagnated: we surf one page at a time, with back/forward buttons to travel through recent history. Tabs let us explore many pages at once, but retain no information about their relationship to one another
In fact, many architects, urban
planners, sociologists, psychologists, geographers, and scholars and practitioners in related disciplines argue that as our media have
become ever more virtual, the design and development of our physical spaces—through architecture, landscape design, and urban and
regional planning—have become even more important. If our media and our built spaces do not follow the same evolutionary paths,
what is the relationship between these two fields of production and experience?
In fact, I would argue that the introduction of metaspheres—of online and offline spaces that are both real and different worlds—have bifurcated these concepts so that we have more than one notion of public or of private. There can be private acts in public space, public records of very private information, an insistence on privacy that stands parallel to a persistence in frequent public disclosure.
Designed for human beings, it supports a mind, living in the dimensions of space and time. They are Interfaces that are sensible about where things lay. Like a well designed building, they’re easy to traverse through. One space flows into the other, without surprise.
“You know how an architect doesn’t just design the visual façade of a building, but the whole thing? – from the materials to internal construction, how people navigate the space, and how the building as a whole will affect the environment and the people in and around it? That’s what I do, but for software.”
It’s the deindustrialized locations that lend themselves best to raving. Architectural exoskeletons of buildings that once were full of people and their work—beautiful ghosts, just like exes. Tonight, the warehouse is lit blue and there’s just dance.
"One of the most arresting performances on Sunday (just when the worst of the smoke and burned ash in the air is starting to lift) was from Billie Eilish, who was born three months after 9/11. There were plenty of festivalgoers around my age—who were leaving high school around the time Earl left for Samoa—and plenty near Eilish’s—who likely view Odd Future’s early, self-consciously provocative work as either a status quo to branch away from or as something crass to be rejected, or at least heavily qualified. The offspring of Tyler’s weirder, softer records, like the aforementioned Rex Orange County, seem like a natural pairing for the pastels that once defined OF’s visual aesthetic. Now, the kids are wearing clothes that skew a little darker, but are no less preeningly on-trend, having molted old streetwear like snakeskin and having dropped the cartoon-donut polka dots for gestures toward couture. Nearly a decade after Odd Future became an avatar for youth culture in Los Angeles, the Camp readily admits that time marches on and that nothing lasts forever except novelty socks."
Brutalism was an attempt to create an architectural ethic, rather than an aesthetic. It had less to do with materials and more to do with honesty: an uncompromising desire to tell it like it is, architecturally speaking.
Usually, electronic dance music is all about the sound; songs succeed when they feel good on the dance floor. Sprinkles’s songs are more like essays—through their samples, they make an argument, usually having to do with the recent history of gender, sexuality, race, capitalism, and/or dance music.