Yule Ramblings #10: The Visionary One

Oh, Frank Lloyd Wright. You funky, wild, erratic, genius, smokey little man.

This particular ornament is a trinket purchased from the Kentuck Knob gift shop around seven years ago. It was a simple, unexpected gift from my mom and dad, to commemorate a tour our family enjoyed together... and watching 6'3 Colby almost bust his head on the dining room ceiling that was designed at a height to suit center-of-the-earth, egomaniac 5'7 Frank himself. The corkscrew still has its original $3.50 price tag on it.

This corkscrew has never been used in the conventional sense for its intended purpose, but man, this bar essential brings back striking memories every time I annually affix it to a tree branch.

I love architects. They are such a strange subculture.

One in which I feel natural proclivity toward.

As a kid, I was obsessed with managing Lego construction projects (Oddly, enough houseboats seemed to be my forte, but I think it's because the Lego set I generally used was a Pirate themed), sketching floor plans of dreamy lodges perched on mountain tops, redesigning dollhouse layouts ("Let's turn this living room into an art studio/gallery"), and maximizing the square footage within a particular particleboard playhouse.

I would imagine and reimagine tree house apartment buildings, and my aspiration for more levels would take me to extreme heights in a neighborhood Eastern Hemlock.

And I never once thought, when I get older, I want to live in this creation. I simply sunk myself way, way into an idea and then I let it go, moving on to my next project. If I could claim a collegiate redo, I'd likely reset my professional trajectory. I'd pursue architecture in a heartbeat. I wouldn't let the fact that I knew no working architects deter me. I wouldn't let the degree's educational demands sway me another direction. And I wouldn't let the anticipated student loan obligations propel me to settle for a quick-return, four-year-degree.

More than a decade ago, I was two weeks away from my graduation at LSU. I perched myself on a concrete bench in the Art + Design building's garden and thought, "Man, I made a mini-mistake..."

My Myers-Briggs is INTJ: Conceptual, Hyper-organized, highly-detailed. Apparently, this means I should either be a super villain or an architect. Go figure.

Five years later, I was accepted into a design program in Colorado. However, my professional goals were derailed by my personal life for a myriad of reasons.

The universe has told me time and time again, "We get it. You are drawn to this, as you should be. But the path you're trying to take is not for you."

So I still honor my interest, but I'm open to where it leads me.

Netflix's "Abstract: The Art of Design" featured architect Bjarke Ingels. He stated (among other brilliant highlights) that "These buildings become interesting scales in your own life. You have to ask yourself, 'Is this going to be worth the next seven years of my life?'"

And nowadays, I apply the seven-year litmus test to all hefty undertakings.