Delicious Architects in the new Buffet City of Damascus.
[Note: MediaFire no longer wants to host my pictures - therefore: link here and here. Thank you.]
so as I give up and give in to the biological orders of my city I find out she has been flirting with every other #architect #big #balls #big #pockets. Ofcourse blame it on the lacks of all things for not knowing, and blame it on everyone for not having anyone to play with the big-ballers. And just as there is always something about eating alone that feels terrifyingly lonely, it’s the same with reporting on Damascus. But ofcourse there’s always the amount of drama in the city of brown concrete that keeps it entertaining.
The buffet city we’re turning into is now inviting everyone in. The people who are ‘in’ are not invited ofcourse, because they’re already in - so no taste of candy. Fine. The archifeast started with the Larsens after they competed with ‘everyone’ for the privilege of designing Massar Discovery Center. The ‘Rose’ is now under construction replacing a part of the ex-social ex-Fairuz ex-happiness ex-notorious Damascus Int Fair site along a stretch I prophecize would be a solid urban manifesto of the new-cool. But we knew about Henning Larsen, we wrote about it. There’s a billboard and everyone is aroused - so we’re not surprised.
So then the nation decides to replace the parliament’s building with a newer one: Let’s Compete! They competed. They excelled. A nauseating catastrophe to which everyone contributed a squared six meters of architectural shitness which even Zaha piled with by donating a minor effort which was awarded an honorable mention since the winner was a circus design with a much larger eagle front and a colosseum skin patch. Bravo. Everyone was happy. They all went home. The designs also went home, with cash. And someone picks up the phone, dials a number, dials an extension, asks for the bitch - Zaha is on the line. They apologize, they put the past behind, they tell her how cute she looks. come over - do the parliament. Zaha is commissioned. This is how cocktails are served in the gourmet city of mine.
There used to be a garage in Baramkeh, a large nothing which occupied empty grounds locking inside a bit of the 60s, one-legged Charlie, Dodges and old cabbies licensed to curse and to drive each other’s cars - a large nothing that ported everyone to destinations visited for no reason. a large nothing which now ports a larger nothing journeying vertically in a twined adultery skinned with glass committed by Architecture Studio. Souria Towers they call them. They bring happiness, they claim - and smiling suited men with cellphones and laptops. They’re meant to “renew the architectural landscape of Damascus”. Well, we don’t have one - merci beaucoup.
Jacques Herzog waved goodbye to the Meuron as he took off with students of ETH to the northern ends of the axis of evil. Intrigued by the Larsens, Herzog hiked with the scouts along the vacant Damascus Int Fair site with one eye down at the Larsens. They shopped and workshopped. Suggested things and left a note, we’re home - call us. Someone picked the note and put it next to Rem’s: “we, at OMA, can do Small, Medium, Large and Extra Large things - and justify them.”
Meanwhile, Bernard crosses effortlessly to skin a Lebanese cash sanctuary. The BLF project made up for the abortion of Abu Khalil Qabbani Cultural Center five years ago. But we like the BLF project, we like the taste of its skin - so welcome, sharref 3al Buffet.
Meanwhile, we nag. why? For reasons. Good reasons. Yet, we can’t just nag - but we do and it’s getting boring. But it feels lonely not to. So we nag, together - collectively. Buffet w cash w balls w 3aj2a w cement trucks. Soon there would be a lot of buildings for everyone to lick and take pictures with.
