Frank Lloyd Wrong

This is the story of Frank Lloyd Wrong.

Frank Lloyd Wrong, was an architect. OK, so he wasn't a real architect--he's a fictional character, who I am making up as I type in this rather sad story. But if he did exist, he'd be an architect. OK, he still wouldn't be an architect, according to some. But in his own mind, Frank Lloyd Wrong was the greatest architect who ever lived; a towering genius who made fellows like ChristopherAlexander, GustaveEiffel?, and MichaelGraves? look like second-rate hacks who build outhouses out of plywood.

Of course, Lloyd Wrong never studied architecture. He'd taken a class in it as a freshman, before dropping out of college. He had a couple of books on the subject, mainly by various "revoluationary" architects who seeked to demolish the whole edifice of architecture as currently practiced--and who had designed something once. His travels occasionally took him into a building or over a bridge which is hailed as a work of art--though Frank often thought that these works were pedestrian and uninspiring. Surely, he could do better, he told himself and his friends, and the poor beleagured folks on an online architectural forum. And he had the designs to prove it.

Except, of course, for the fact that he wouldn't ever show them to anybody. They were never complete--always subject to change when he read the latest manifesto or broadside from one of his aforementioned muses. Plus, he was afraid that some bumbling hack of an architect might happen by, recognize his manifest genius for what it was, and pilfer the design (and the credit, and any financial gain that might result--Frank often, for various reasons, found himself short of money), fleshing it out in the process.

Of course, that would require a good deal of fleshing. Frank had never in his life, touched a drafting table, or a CAD program, or a T-square, or a stencil. His designs--entire buildings and bridges, revolutionary in their approach--would fit on the back of a cocktail napkin, which is where they were frequently rendered. His bedroom was littered with crumpled-up napkins, as he rejected design after design as not worthy of his high standards, and set to work on the next great design.

But it didn't matter. The aesthetic beauty of architecture, after all, could be fully described by a small pictoral rendering. Such things as construction details, selection of materials (beyond general terms like "glass" or "steel"), fabrication techniques, interior details, engineering analyses, cost analyses, and such--were well beneath him; piddling details for pencil-pushing drones to work out. The fact that he knew little, if anything, about these subjects wasn't a hindrance--indeed, it was liberating, as he could conceive of designs free of the shackles that constrain the minds of lesser architects. A skyscraper that was 1 km high! Done! A single-span suspension bridge across the English Channel! Brilliant! He considered protests that such things couldn't be done as as attempts to limit his academic and intellectual freedom--pushed by meddling incompetents who clearly wanted to derail his genius before it bore fruit.

Yes, Frank Lloyd Wrong was the greatest architectural genius who ever lived. Except--he didn't even call it architecture; for what he did was a whole new field, a new paradigm, which would overthrow architecture. Monumental Design was the name he gave to his new-found field, cribbed from the title of one of the manifestos he possessed. Frank Lloyd Wrong was no mere architect--he was a Monumental Designer, and the greatest who ever lived.

Not to mention, the only one who ever lived.

That's it. I told you it was a sad story, didn't I?

I'd laugh, but that would only encourage you.

Besides, Eiffel built outhouses from steel.

Bwahhhahhahahahahaha!

Sorry.

Lovely tale. Had it been lunchtime, I'd have coughed crumbs on my keyboard....

What an effort for such a sad purpose. Maybe I should say StopUsingMetaphors...

CategoryStory