Every weekend for as long as I can remember, my father would get up on a Saturday, put on a worn sweatshirt and he'd scrape away at the squeaky old wheel of a house that we lived in. I wouldn't even call it restoration; it was a ritual, catharsis. He would spend all year scraping paint with this old heat gun and a spackle knife, and then he would repaint where he scraped, only to begin again the following year. Scraping and re-scraping, painting and repainting: the work of an old house is never meant to be done.
Svakog vikenda otkad pamtim, moj otac bi ustao u nedelju, obukao iznošenu majicu i strugao bi škripavu straćaru u kojoj smo živeli. Ne bih to čak nazvao ni renoviranjem; to je bio ritual, katarza. Proveo bi čitavu godinu skidajući farbu tim starim toplotnim pištoljem i dletom, a potom bi nanovo farbao gde je sastrugao, samo da bi sve ponovio sledeće godine. Struganje i sastrugavanje, farbanje i prefarbavanje; radu na staroj kući nikad nema kraja.
The day my father turned 52, I got a phone call. My mother was on the line to tell me that doctors had found a lump in his stomach -- terminal cancer, she told me, and he had been given only three weeks to live.
Kad je moj otac napunio 52 godine, dobio sam telefonski poziv. Majka je bila na vezi kako bi mi rekla da su doktori otkrili izraslinu u njegovom stomaku - zloćudni rak, kako mi je rekla, i predviđali su mu svega tri nedelje života.
I immediately moved home to Poughkeepsie, New York, to sit with my father on death watch, not knowing what the next days would bring us. To keep myself distracted, I rolled up my sleeves, and I went about finishing what he could now no longer complete -- the restoration of our old home.
Odmah sam se preselio kući u Pokipsi u Njujorku, kako bi sedeo uz oca na smrtnoj postelji, ne znajući šta će dani koji slede da nam donesu. Da bih odvratio pažnju ocu, zasukao bih rukave i otišao bih da dovršim ono što on više nije mogao - obnovu naše stare kuće.
When that looming three-week deadline came and then went, he was still alive. And at three months, he joined me. We gutted and repainted the interior. At six months, the old windows were refinished, and at 18 months, the rotted porch was finally replaced.
Kad je taj zloslutni tronedeljni rok istekao i prošao, i dalje je bio živ. A za tri meseca mi se pridružio. Očistili smo i prefarbali unutrašnjost. Za šest meseci su stari prozori završeni, a za 18 meseci, truli trem je konačno zamenjen.
And there was my father, standing with me outside, admiring a day's work, hair on his head, fully in remission, when he turned to me and he said, "You know, Michael, this house saved my life."
A moj otac je bio tu, stajao je sa mnom napolju, diveći se dnevnom radu, s kosom na glavi, imao je potpunu remisiju, kad se okrenuo meni i rekao: "Znaš, Majkl, ova kuća mi je spasila život."
So the following year, I decided to go to architecture school.
Pa sam sledeće godine odlučio da upišem arhitekturu.
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
But there, I learned something different about buildings. Recognition seemed to come to those who prioritized novel and sculptural forms, like ribbons, or ... pickles?
Ali tu sam naučio nešto drugo o građevinama. Priznanja su dolazila onima kojima su prioritet bili novi i izvajani oblici, poput trakica ili... kornišona?
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
And I think this is supposed to be a snail.
I mislim da bi ovo trebalo da bude puž.
Something about this bothered me. Why was it that the best architects, the greatest architecture -- all beautiful and visionary and innovative -- is also so rare, and seems to serve so very few? And more to the point: With all of this creative talent, what more could we do?
Nešto u vezi s ovim me uznemirava. Zašto su najbolje arhitekte, najznačajnija arhitektura - sve što je lepo i vizionarsko i inovativno - je i tako retko, i čini se da služi samo retkima? I da dodam još: šta bismo još mogli da postignemo sa svim tim kreativnim talentima?
Just as I was about to start my final exams, I decided to take a break from an all-nighter and go to a lecture by Dr. Paul Farmer, a leading health activist for the global poor. I was surprised to hear a doctor talking about architecture. Buildings are making people sicker, he said, and for the poorest in the world, this is causing epidemic-level problems. In this hospital in South Africa, patients that came in with, say, a broken leg, to wait in this unventilated hallway, walked out with a multidrug-resistant strand of tuberculosis. Simple designs for infection control had not been thought about, and people had died because of it.
Baš dok sam se spremao za završne ispite, odlučio sam da napravim pauzu od neprospavanih noći i odem na predavanje dr Pola Farmera, vodećeg zdravstvenog aktiviste za siromašne širom sveta. Bio sam iznenađen da čujem doktora kako govori o arhitekturi. Zbog zgrada se ljudi osećaju gore, rekao je, a najsiromašnijima u svetu ovo uzrokuje probleme epidemijskih razmera. U ovoj bolnici u Južnoj Africi, pacijenti koji dolaze, recimo, slomljene noge, kako bi čekali u ovom neprozračenom hodniku, izlaze sa simptomima tuberkuloze otporne na većinu lekova. Jednostavan dizajn za kontrolu infekcija se ne podučava i ljudi umiru zbog toga.
"Where are the architects?" Paul said. If hospitals are making people sicker, where are the architects and designers to help us build and design hospitals that allow us to heal?
"Gde su arhitekte?" pitao se Pol. Ako je zbog bolnica ljudima gore, gde su arhitekte i dizajneri da nam pomognu da sagradimo i dizajniramo bolnice koje nam omogućavaju lečenje?
That following summer, I was in the back of a Land Rover with a few classmates, bumping over the mountainous hillside of Rwanda. For the next year, I'd be living in Butaro in this old guesthouse, which was a jail after the genocide. I was there to design and build a new type of hospital with Dr. Farmer and his team. If hallways are making patients sicker, what if we could design a hospital that flips the hallways on the outside, and makes people walk in the exterior? If mechanical systems rarely work, what if we could design a hospital that could breathe through natural ventilation, and meanwhile reduce its environmental footprint?
Narednog leta sam bio na zadnjem sedištu džipa sa nekoliko kolega, truckali smo preko planinskih padina Ruande. Naredne godine ću da živim u Butaru u ovoj staroj gostinskoj kući, koja je nakon genocida bila zatvor. Tu sam bio kako bih dizajnirao i sagradio novi tip bolnice sa dr Farmerom i njegovom ekipom. Ako su pacijenti bolesniji zbog hodnika, šta ako bismo mogli da dizajniramo bolnicu u kojoj su hodnici izmešteni napolje i zbog kojih se ljudi kreću po eksterijeru? Ako mehanički sistemi retko funkcionišu, šta ako bismo dizajnirali bolnicu koja bi mogla da diše putem prirodne ventilacije, i da istovremeno umanjuje sopstvenu štetu po okoliš?
And what about the patients' experience? Evidence shows that a simple view of nature can radically improve health outcomes, So why couldn't we design a hospital where every patient had a window with a view? Simple, site-specific designs can make a hospital that heals.
A šta je sa iskustvom pacijenata? Pokazano je da sami pogled na prirodu može drastično da poboljša zdravstveno stanje. Stoga, zašto ne bismo dizajnirali bolnicu u kojoj svaki pacijent ima pogled kroz prozor? Jednostavnim dizajnom karakterističnim za dato mesto, bolnice mogu da leče.
Designing it is one thing; getting it built, we learned, is quite another.
Dizajnirati ga je jedno, sagraditi ga, kako smo otkrili, je nešto drugo.
We worked with Bruce Nizeye, a brilliant engineer, and he thought about construction differently than I had been taught in school. When we had to excavate this enormous hilltop and a bulldozer was expensive and hard to get to site, Bruce suggested doing it by hand, using a method in Rwanda called "Ubudehe," which means "community works for the community." Hundreds of people came with shovels and hoes, and we excavated that hill in half the time and half the cost of that bulldozer. Instead of importing furniture, Bruce started a guild, and he brought in master carpenters to train others in how to make furniture by hand. And on this job site, 15 years after the Rwandan genocide, Bruce insisted that we bring on labor from all backgrounds, and that half of them be women.
Radili smo sa Brusom Nizejom, briljantnim inženjerom, a on je razmišljao o gradnji različito od onog što su me učili u školi. Kad smo morali da kopamo ovaj ogromni vrh brega, a buldožer je bo skup i teško ga je bilo dovesti na to mesto, Brus je predložio da to ručno radimo, služeći se metodom koji se u Ruandi naziva "ubudehe", što znači "zajednica u službi zajednice". Na stotine ljudi je došlo sa lopatama i motikama i iskopali smo taj breg za duplo manje vremena i po duplo nižoj ceni od buldožera. Umesto uvoza nameštaja, Brus je osnovao esnaf i doveo je majstore stolare da bi podučavali druge kako da ručno prave nameštaj. A na ovom radnom mestu, 15 godina nakon genocida u Ruandi, Brus je insistirao da dovedemo radnike raznih profila, i da polovina njih budu žene.
Bruce was using the process of building to heal, not just for those who were sick, but for the entire community as a whole. We call this the locally fabricated way of building, or "lo-fab," and it has four pillars: hire locally, source regionally, train where you can and most importantly, think about every design decision as an opportunity to invest in the dignity of the places where you serve. Think of it like the local food movement, but for architecture. And we're convinced that this way of building can be replicated across the world, and change the way we talk about and evaluate architecture.
Brus je koristio proces izgradnje kao lek, ne samo za bolesne, već za celokupnu zajednicu. Nazivamo to lokalno fabrikovanim načinom izgradnje iliti "lo-fab", i on ima četiri oslonca: upošljavanje lokalaca, regionalno snabdevanje, obuka gde god je moguće i najvažnije od svega razmišljajte o svakoj dizajnerskoj odluci kao o mogućnosti ulaganja u dostojanstvo mesta na kom vršite službu. Razmišljajte o tome kao o lokalnom pokretu za hranu, ali za arhitekturu. I ubeđeni smo da ovakav vid gradnje može da bude preslikan širom sveta i da može da promeni način na koji govorimo i ocenjujemo arhitekturu.
Using the lo-fab way of building, even aesthetic decisions can be designed to impact people's lives. In Butaro, we chose to use a local volcanic stone found in abundance within the area, but often considered a nuisance by farmers, and piled on the side of the road. We worked with these masons to cut these stones and form them into the walls of the hospital. And when they began on this corner and wrapped around the entire hospital, they were so good at putting these stones together, they asked us if they could take down the original wall and rebuild it. And you see what is possible. It's beautiful. And the beauty, to me, comes from the fact that I know that hands cut these stones, and they formed them into this thick wall, made only in this place with rocks from this soil.
Upotrebom lo-fab načina izgradnje, čak i estetske odluke mogu da budu dizajnirane da utiču na živote ljudi. U Butaru smo odlučili da koristimo lokalni vulkanski kamen koga ima u izobilju u toj oblasti, a koga zemljoradnici smatraju za smetnju i gomilaju ga pored puteva. Radili smo sa zidarima kako bismo izrezali to kamenje i oblikovali ga u zidove bolnice. A kad su krenuli od ovog ugla i obmotali čitavu bolnicu, toliko su bili dobri u slaganju ovog kamenja, da su nas upitali da li bi mogli da sruše prvobitni zid i izgrade ga nanovo. I vidite šta je moguće. Prelepo je. A njegova lepota za mene potiče iz činjenice da znam da su ruke rezale ovo kamenje i da su ga oblikovale u ovaj debeli zid, napravljen samo na ovom mestu kamenjem iz ovog tla.
When you go outside today and you look at your built world, ask not only: "What is the environmental footprint?" -- an important question -- but what if we also asked, "What is the human handprint of those who made it?"
Kada krenete napolje danas i osvrnete se na svoj svet građevina, ne pitajte se samo: "Kolika je šteta po okolinu?" - to je važno pitanje - no kad bismo takođe pitali: "Gde je ljudski otisak onih koji su ga gradili?"
We started a new practice based around these questions, and we tested it around the world. Like in Haiti, where we asked if a new hospital could help end the epidemic of cholera. In this 100-bed hospital, we designed a simple strategy to clean contaminated medical waste before it enters the water table, and our partners at Les Centres GHESKIO are already saving lives because of it.
Započeli smo novu praksu zasnovanu na ovim pitanjima, i testirali smo je širom sveta. Na primer na Haitiju, gde smo se zapitali da li bi nova bolnica pomogla da se okonča epidemija kolere. U ovoj bolnici sa 100 kreveta osmislili smo prostu strategiju da se zaraženi medicinski otpad prečišćava pre nego što dođe do podzemnih voda i naši partneri iz Les Centres GHESKIO već spašavaju živote zahvaljujući tome.
Or Malawi: we asked if a birthing center could radically reduce maternal and infant mortality. Malawi has one of the highest rates of maternal and infant death in the world. Using a simple strategy to be replicated nationally, we designed a birthing center that would attract women and their attendants to come to the hospital earlier and therefore have safer births.
Ili na Malaviju: zapitali smo se da li bi akušerski centar mogao radikalno da umanji smrtnost majki i novorođenčadi. Malavi ima jednu od najvećih stopa smrtnosti majki i novorođenčadi u svetu. Upotrebom proste strategije koja bi se preslikavala nacionalno, dizajnirali smo akušerski centar koji bi privlačio žene i njihove pazitelje da ranije dođu u bolnicu i time imaju bezbedniji porođaj.
Or in the Congo, where we asked if an educational center could also be used to protect endangered wildlife. Poaching for ivory and bushmeat is leading to global epidemic, disease transfer and war. In one of the hardest-to-reach places in the world, we used the mud and the dirt and the wood around us to construct a center that would show us ways to protect and conserve our rich biodiversity.
Ili u Kongu, gde smo se zapitali da li bi obrazovni centar mogao da služi i kao zaštita ugrožene divljači. Krivolov slonovače i divljači uzrokuje globalnu epidemiju, širi bolesti i rat. U jednom od najnepristupačnijih mesta na svetu, koristili smo blato i prašinu i šumu oko nas da bismo izgradili centar koji bi nam ukazao na vidove zaštite i očuvanja našeg bogatog biodiverziteta.
Even here in the US, we were asked to rethink the largest university for the deaf and hard of hearing in the world. The deaf community, through sign language, shows us the power of visual communication. We designed a campus that would awaken the ways in which we as humans all communicate, both verbally and nonverbally.
Čak i ovde u SAD-u, tražili su nam da osmislimo najveći univerzitet na svetu za gluve i nagluve. Zajednica gluvih, preko znakovnog jezika, nam pokazuje moć vizuelne komunikacije. Dizajnirali smo kampus koji bi oživeo vidove na koje svi mi ljudi komuniciramo, i verbalno i neverbalno.
And even in Poughkeepsie, my hometown, we thought about old industrial infrastructure. We wondered: Could we use arts and culture and design to revitalize this city and other Rust Belt cities across our nation, and turn them into centers for innovation and growth? In each of these projects, we asked a simple question: What more can architecture do? And by asking that question, we were forced to consider how we could create jobs, how we could source regionally and how we could invest in the dignity of the communities in which we serve.
Čak i u Pokipsiju, mom rodnom gradu, razmišljali smo o staroj industrijskoj infrastrukturi. Pitali smo se: da li bismo mogli preko umetnosti, kulture i dizajna da oživimo ovaj grad i druge bivše industrijske gigante širom naše nacije, i da ih pretvorimo u centre za inovaciju i razvoj? Prilikom svakog od ovih projekata, postavili smo jednostavno pitanje: kako da dodatno arhitekte doprinesu? A postavljanjem tog pitanja bili smo primorani da razmotrimo kako da stvorimo poslove, kako da se snabdevamo regionalno i kako da uložimo u dostojanstvo zajednica kojima služimo.
I have learned that architecture can be a transformative engine for change.
Naučio sam da arhitektura može da bude preobražajni pokretač promene.
About a year ago, I read an article about a tireless and intrepid civil rights leader named Bryan Stevenson.
Pre oko godinu dana, pročitao sam članak o neumornom i neustrašivom vođi za građanska prava, po imenu Brajan Stivenson.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)
And Bryan had a bold architectural vision. He and his team had been documenting the over 4,000 lynchings of African-Americans that have happened in the American South. And they had a plan to mark every county where these lynchings occurred, and build a national memorial to the victims of lynching in Montgomery, Alabama.
A Brajan je imao odvažnu arhitektonsku viziju. On i njegova ekipa su dokumentovali preko 4 000 linčovanja Afroamerikanaca koja su se desila na američkom Jugu. I planirali su da obeleže svaki okrug u kom su se ova linčovanja desila i da sagrade nacionalni spomenik žrtvama linčovanja u Montgomeriju u Alabami.
Countries like Germany and South Africa and, of course, Rwanda, have found it necessary to build memorials to reflect on the atrocities of their past, in order to heal their national psyche. We have yet to do this in the United States.
Države, poput Nemačke i Južne Afrike i, naravno, Ruande, smatrale su za nužno da sagrade spomenike koji se osvrću na užase iz njihove prošlosti, kako bi izlečili psihu njihovih nacija. Mi tek treba to da uradimo u SAD-u.
So I sent a cold email to info@equaljusticeintiative.org: "Dear Bryan," it said, "I think your building project is maybe the most important project we could do in America and could change the way we think about racial injustice. By any chance, do you know who will design it?"
Pa sam poslao bezličan imejl na info@equaljusticeintiative.org: "Dragi Brajane", glasio je, "Smatram Vaš građevinski projekat za možda najvažniji projekat koji može da se ostvari u Americi i koji može da promeni to kako razmišljamo o rasnoj nepravdi. Znate li slučajno ko će da ga dizajnira?"
(Laughter)
(Smeh)
Surprisingly, shockingly, Bryan got right back to me, and invited me down to meet with his team and talk to them. Needless to say, I canceled all my meetings and I jumped on a plane to Montgomery, Alabama. When I got there, Bryan and his team picked me up, and we walked around the city. And they took the time to point out the many markers that have been placed all over the city to the history of the Confederacy, and the very few that mark the history of slavery.
Na moje iznenađenje i zapanjenost, Brajan je odmah odgovorio i pozvao me je da dođem, upoznam njegovu ekipu i da razgovaramo. Suvišno je reći da sam otkazao sve sastanke i uskočio na avion za Montgomeri u Alabami. Kad sam stigao tamo, Brajan i njegova ekipa su me pokupili i šetali smo gradom. I odvojili su vreme da istaknu mnoge oznake postavljene širom grada u vezi sa storijom Konfederacije i svega nekoliko kojima je obeležena istorija robovlasništva.
And then he walked me to a hill. It overlooked the whole city. He pointed out the river and the train tracks where the largest domestic slave-trading port in America had once prospered. And then to the Capitol rotunda, where George Wallace had stood on its steps and proclaimed, "Segregation forever." And then to the very hill below us. He said, "Here we will build a new memorial that will change the identity of this city and of this nation."
A potom me je ispratio do brda. Odatle se pruža pogled na grad. Pokazao je prstom reku i železničku prugu gde je nekad cvetala najveća domaća luka za trgovinu robovima u Americi. Zatim smo pošli do kruga Kapitola, gde je Džordž Volas stojeći na tim stepenicama objavio: "Nek je večna segregacija". A potom do brda tik ispod nas. Rekao je: "Ovde ćemo sagraditi novi spomenik, koji će izmeniti identitet ovog grada i ove nacije."
Our two teams have worked together over the last year to design this memorial. The memorial will take us on a journey through a classical, almost familiar building type, like the Parthenon or the colonnade at the Vatican. But as we enter, the ground drops below us and our perception shifts, where we realize that these columns evoke the lynchings, which happened in the public square. And as we continue, we begin to understand the vast number of those who have yet to be put to rest. Their names will be engraved on the markers that hang above us. And just outside will be a field of identical columns. But these are temporary columns, waiting in purgatory, to be placed in the very counties where these lynchings occurred. Over the next few years, this site will bear witness, as each of these markers is claimed and visibly placed in those counties. Our nation will begin to heal from over a century of silence.
Naše dve ekipe su radile zajedno tokom prošle godine kako bismo dizajnirali spomenik. Spomenik će nas povesti na putovanje putem klasičnog, gotovo poznatog stila gradnje, poput Partenona ili kolonade u Vatikanu. No kako budemo ulazili, zemlja će da nam izmakne ispod nogu i promeniće se naša percepcija, gde ćemo da shvatimo da ovi stubovi evociraju linčovanja, koja su se dešavala na javnom trgu. I kako budemo išli dalje, počećemo da shvatamo ogroman broj onih koji tek treba da se upokoje. Njihova imena će da budu ugravirana na oznake koje vise iznad nas. A odmah napolju će da bude poljana sa identičnim stubovima. Ali to su privremeni stubovi, koji čekaju u čistilištu, da budu smešteni u one okruge u kojima su se ta linčovanja desila. Tokom narednih nekoliko godina, ovo mesto će da bude svedok, kako svako od ovih obeležja dobija svoje mesto i smešta se na vidljivo mesto u ove okruge. Naša nacija će početi da se leči od tišine duže od jednog veka.
When we think about how it should be built, we were reminded of Ubudehe, the building process we learned about in Rwanda. We wondered if we could fill those very columns with the soil from the sites of where these killings occurred. Brian and his team have begun collecting that soil and preserving it in individual jars with family members, community leaders and descendants. The act of collecting soil itself has lead to a type of spiritual healing. It's an act of restorative justice.
Kada smo razmišljali o načinu izgradnje, podsetili smo se ubudehe-ija, procesa izgradnje za koji smo saznali u Ruandi. Zapitali smo se da li bismo mogli da ispunimo stubove zemljištem sa mesta na kojima su se ova ubistva desila. Brajan i njegova ekipa su počeli da sakupljaju zemlju i da je čuvaju u pojedinačnim teglama zajedno sa članovima porodice, zajednicom, vođama i potomcima. Sami čin prikupljanja zemlje je doveo do nekog vida duhovnog izlečenja. To je čin okrepljujuće pravde.
As one EJI team member noted in the collection of the soil from where Will McBride was lynched, "If Will McBride left one drop of sweat, one drop of blood, one hair follicle -- I pray that I dug it up, and that his whole body would be at peace."
Kako je jedan član Inicijative za jednaka prava primetio sakupljajući zemlju sa mesta na kom je Vil Mekbrajd linčovan: "Ako je Vil Mekbrajd ostavio kap znoja, jednu kap krvi, jednu vlas kose - molim se da ću je iskopati i da će celo njegovo telo počivati u miru."
We plan to break ground on this memorial later this year, and it will be a place to finally speak of the unspeakable acts that have scarred this nation.
Planiramo da iskopamo temelje za ovaj spomenik kasnije ove godine i to će da bude mesto da se konačno govori o neizrecivim delima koja su ostavila ožiljke na ovoj naciji.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)
When my father told me that day that this house -- our house -- had saved his life, what I didn't know was that he was referring to a much deeper relationship between architecture and ourselves. Buildings are not simply expressive sculptures. They make visible our personal and our collective aspirations as a society. Great architecture can give us hope. Great architecture can heal.
Kad mi je otac rekao tog dana da mu je ova kuća - naša kuća - spasila život, nisam znao da misli na daleko dublji odnos između arhitekture i nas. Građevine nisu samo puke ekspresivne skulpture. One otelotvoravaju naše lične i naše kolektivne težnje, nas kao društva. Sjajna arhitektura nam može pružiti nadu. Sjajna arhitektura može da leči.
Thank you very much.
Mnogo vam hvala.
(Applause)
(Aplauz)