A few years ago, L'Architecte and I spent the day in Liberty, NC, at the large flee market there. For those who have never been it is a giant production. A vast, grassy pasture, with row upon row of tents and tables, vendors selling treasures and junk, antiques or crafts. He loved the place. He was constantly searching for old carpentry and building tools to add to his collection.
I remember this day was particularly clear and warm. He was meticulous in this search. Every tool he came upon he gingerly picked up in his shaking hands and studied, often trying to explain to me why it was designed in such a way, and how each piece's form lent to its function. My uncle's passion was contagious. One couldn't help but be enthralled when he began to speak about all that a tool could create! He was so passionate about precision, the fine line, the perfect angle. In his mind's eye he saw the potential for beauty. At his fingertips he saw the possibilities were endless. And at his fingertips, they truly were endless....
Working with him in F, I was lucky enough to see firsthand the passion breathing life into house after house after house. He loved the farm animals in this place and the tall trees and the high ceilings and the fine lines angled perfectly in order to bring in the most sunlight.
He loved sharing his vision to create a place of rest and of pleasure, to create refuge at once functional and comfortable for the countless folks he designed for. He loved to create a home.
But it wasn't only the architect driven by his life's task that I knew, but a gentle man. A man who molded beautiful, creative pieces such as the gorgeous wooden frames that would house his beloved wife's paintings or a graceful rocker in the shape of a lone swan meant to gently sway a grandchild to sleep. He poured his soul into so many fantastic projects he never spoke of. He designed so many buildings with a humble yet insatiable yearning for precision and the accurate reach.
I knew him to live his personal day to day life in this way also. Never to complain or to be slowed by imperfection, but to forge ahead to create, and to produce the beauty he was always seeing in his thoughts, in the project yet to build, in the house yet to live in. Unwavering in his devotion to his craft and to an ethical, straight line.
No doubt, if it had been left up to him, his body would have been of a sturdier design, more rigidly strong and impervious to disease. But it was not meant to be. And as his health declined and his body haulted him, his mind grew with more and more ideas, only to fade away, as he stumbled over them time and again, no longer able to give them life, he shed each one and it was a gracious and slow letting go.
Coming home from that afternoon in Liberty, I still remember him. The windows of his little, grey pick-up truck are open and his black hair is desheveled in the passing breezes. Both hands on the steering wheel, he drives quickly home, staring straight ahead..."I have an idea" he tells me and I can barely hear the words as they bounce into the wind.
8/8/10 - le dimanche dernier, pleint de chagrin, et malgre tout, de lumiere aussi.....
