08/31/2006
It is an education in opposites to watch a crew pour concrete. At
first glance, it appears completely physical, requiring more muscle than
technique. Quickly, though, you begin to see the art. It’s a hidden dance, but
it is there. The juxtaposition of a huge spinning concrete truck shooting gray
sludge down a crusted, rusty chute and two guys on the other end, positioning
the chute this way or that, ultimately smoothing the surface with a quick
motion and nonchalant air, with a grace that comes from motor memory and
repetition, is striking. The whole affair is akin to watching a rugby
match—brutal, physical, yet highly skilled and fluid.
Proof is in the details: a line of bolts belies the thought and
order needed to complete a successful pour. It also reveals the art.
And when the forms come off, when the odd-looking braces and
apparatus are stripped away, you are left with the deliciously familiar: walls.
Ah, here it is. This is what I’ve been looking for. Here is the beginning of my
house.
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