A giant bubble machine + links for your weekend

5 February 2016 by Ingrid

Happy Friday, friends! If you are stressed out at all, I recommend watching this giant bubble machine on loop. It’s like a visual meditation!

In any given week I see much more great stuff than I can post, so I thought I’d bring back my link list. Here are some reads for your weekend:

And that’s it! Have a joyful weekend, friends.

Are round logos more joyful?

2 February 2016 by Ingrid

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What’s in a logo? It turns out, quite a lot.

That’s the takeaway from a recent study in the Journal of Consumer Research, which suggests that the shape of a company’s logo can have a strong influence on how we perceive the product or company that logo represents. The study examined the difference between circular and angular logos on the way participants assessed product attributes and service experiences, concluding that the logo’s shape had an unconscious influence on participants’ judgments.

In one experiment, participants were given an image of a pair of shoes with either a circular or an angular logo (or no logo, for the control condition), and asked to rate the shoes on a number of dimensions. Participants who saw the circular logo rated the shoes significantly more comfortable than the other groups, while participants who saw the angular logo rated the shoes as more durable. The researchers then replicated the experiment with sofas instead of shoes, finding similar effects.

Researchers speculate that angular forms have an unconscious association with durability because many angular objects are made of hard materials that wear out more slowly. And they believe that round forms tend to be softer, and therefore comfortable. These associations support earlier research (some dating back to 1921!) that has shown people will spontaneously draw angular shapes to represent ideas like hard, harsh, and cruel, and curved shapes to represent ideas like weak, gentle, and mild. 

Based on these associations, the researchers speculated that logo shape might have an influence on perceptions of a company, not just a product. They concocted a scenario in which a customer was struggling with an airline’s checked baggage policy. Participants who had been primed by looking at circular logos were more likely to believe the airline would be empathic and accommodating to the passenger. This suggests that circular imagery might make a company seem more customer-focused. (A word of caution here: this particular experiment was muddied by the fact that the logo wasn’t assigned to the airline itself; participants saw a series of twelve circular or angular logos before they heard the story about the airline passenger. So the mechanism here is priming rather than direct association.)


None of this research, of course, directly implies that a round logo is more joyful than an angular one. But it tends to be true that companies with empathic, flexible service tend to have happier employees, so perhaps there is a link. And I’ve written quite a bit in the past about roundness and joy, and the power of neutral curves (like the ones found in circles) to evoke playfulness. I’d love to see a study where participants rate fictional logos of different shapes paired with a generic company name on a range of different emotional attributes. Certainly, it’s an area ripe for more exploration.

After reading about the study, I also spent some time thinking about round logos that stick out in my memory, and enlisted my better half (who, lucky for me, is a graphic designer) to do the same. He reminded me about the many circular logos crafted by legendary designer Paul Rand, which you see at the top of this post. Rand’s body of work is one of the most joyful in the world of graphic design (and you can expect more words here about him in the future). But for now, I wanted to highlight the classic, joyful identities he designed for companies ranging from Westinghouse to ABC. He made abundant use of circles in his logos, but he also did identities with helical s-curves and spirals, as in some of the below.

Feel it out for yourself: how do the logos make you feel? And how do they affect your perceptions of the companies they represent?

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Images: Identity designs all by Paul Rand; top set, clockwise from top left: XGA technology for IMB, ABC, Westinghouse, Hub TV; middle: Gentry Living Color; bottom set, clockwise from left: Smith, Kline and French Laboratories, Borzoi Books, Helbros Watch Company.
Study: “Does Your Company Have The Right Logo? How and Why Circular and Angular Logo Shapes Influence Brand Attribute Judgments”
Via: FastCo

Joyful fashion: Viktor & Rolf’s Picasso-inspired SS16 Couture

1 February 2016 by Ingrid

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One of the most striking features of humanity is our propensity for turning necessities into pleasures. From our need for shelter, we’ve created wildly divergent styles of architecture. From our need for nourishment, we’ve developed a rich, exciting culinary industry. And from our need to meet and mate, we’ve seen the rise of many arts of courtship: flirtation, kissing, and swiping left and right.

Fashion is perhaps the most lush and extravagant example of this phenomenon. Being hairless apes, it’s a given that we’ll need to cover our bare skin with something. But the creativity and cleverness devoted to garments that are rarely affordable and even less wearable is intriguing. At the far edges of any aesthetic endeavor, be it food or fashion or something else, there is a sense that the medium is just a jumping off point from which to swim out beyond the shores of pragmatism and into wide-open waters of possibility. At which point the concerns of wearability or edibility or habitability are irrelevant. But fashion designers seem to be particularly adept swimmers.

All of which is an overblown way of saying that I don’t much mind that Victor & Rolf’s clothes never seem like something I could actually wear, because the Dutch duo tends to bring such joy to the art of thinking them up. I often complain on this blog that fashion, a pursuit of such wonderful fluffiness and frivolity, always seems to be presented so seriously. (Heaven forbid that a model should crack a smile on her way down a catwalk. She might be banished from the industry for life!) But Viktor & Rolf bring a playful exuberance to the clothes that undercuts the seriousness of fashion week and at the same time shows how fashion can cross the line from clothing to art.

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This collection, for Spring-Summer 2016, is the first since the fashion house decided to drop its ready-to-wear lines to focus on couture. The inspiration is Cubism, and the influence of Picasso in particular is apparent. The dresses start out tame enough: a little white polo dress with the profile of a face down the front, an eye pressed into relief pasted on top. But as the show progresses they become increasingly sculptural, with giant fans or swirls of fabric resembling hair obscuring the faces of the models, and then huge abstracted faces covering over the faces of the models completely. Instead of dresses, they become sculptures walking around on human legs.

I love these designs, and yet I understand how some might not find them joyful. Cubism has a violence to it, it disrupts the harmony of a symmetrical face, and turned into garments, it severely distorts the symmetry of a healthy body. In some ways, it is grotesque. At the same time, it tells a story of the relationship between the senses and the mind, rendering the image not as it is seen but as it is felt. For example, the human brain devotes far more energy to searching for and analyzing faces than the rest of the human body. The giant faces seem to me to amplify the significance of the face in line with the way the human brain naturally perceives it. The faces become avatars of the girls themselves.

Viktor & Rolf often choose to walk the line between discomfort and joy. My previous favorite collection of theirs was full of tulle ballgowns that looked as though they had been hacked into with a chainsaw. I know that sounds violent, but the bright candy colors and fluffy skirts compensated for the hard edges, making for a pretty delightful vision. Looking back, it strikes me that that collection launched in the wake of the recession, when we were all feeling a hollowed out by the unforeseen loss. Meanwhile, this current collection appears at a time when violence is surging, breaking into once-peaceful places, rupturing the frameworks that help us understand our place in the world and how to move through it. Which makes me think of Picasso’s own words: “The world doesn’t make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?” Perhaps distortion is a way to flow with the anxiety, a way to signal that in tough times we bend but do not break.

Or another way to look at it: if clothing is the layer between our vulnerable nakedness and the world, perhaps uncertain times call for a bit more volume, a buffer of space between ourselves and the rest of the world, and some masks to hide behind. That could (and often does) manifest as spiky, metallic armor. Given that, ruffles and curves and faces seem like a far more joyful way in. And many of the details are charming: the stick-like eyelashes that make the eyes seem so alert; the abstracted breasts, one shaped like a cinnamon roll, sitting by the model’s knees; the curlicues of hair, particularly the one on the round-faced piece that looks like the corkscrew of a piglet’s tail. Done all in white, there is a sweetness that modulates the distortion of these Cubist forms.

Over to you: Do you find this collection joyful or disturbing? What do you think makes it so?

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Images: via Dezeen

Play as process: the joyful wax sculptures of Helmut Smits

25 January 2016 by Ingrid

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Helmut Smits is a Dutch artist based in Rotterdam whose work includes a range of playful experiments that all seem to start with the musing, “I wonder what would happen if…” He attempts to draw a circle with straight lines, applies paint to the bottom of a door to create a fan-shaped painting on the floor, and prunes trees in line with the top of a building to create a perfect diagonal. Years ago, I posted another of his joyful works: a rainbow made by a windshield wiper. For these wax sculptures, Smits starts by burning the lowest candle until it creates an opening the size of the next candle up. Then he extinguishes the lower candle with the upper, sealing the two together, and lights the next one up. This introduces some randomness based on the way the candles burn, leaving pieces a little bit off-center, or slightly angled.

Why is this joyful? I could point to the proportions: the juxtaposition of short, squat shapes with the long skinny ones. Or the mix of bright colors, and the occasional quirky pattern. But for me, the most joyful aspect of these sculptures is that they serve as a tangible a reminder of art as play. So often, when making something, we sit down and say, “I am going to make this thing now.” We feel we need to see it in our minds before we make it in the world. But there’s another approach, which takes a set of materials and an idea, and says, “I am going to try some things until I discover something I like.” There’s an inherent serendipity to this second approach, which recognizes that accidents and mistakes might lead to something new. It’s the difference between executing on a vision and exploring your way to a vision. It’s a more intuitive, less rational process, and it opens up so much space. But it’s also risky. This approach promises no outcomes. You might break new ground, but you might end up with a total mess. The only guarantee is the joy of the process itself. 

This approach is at the heart of invention, but so often we forget this. My best work always bears little resemblance to the kernel of an idea I started out with. But for some reason when I have to create something “serious,” like a presentation, I find it impossible to remember this, and often I end up ploughing through in a joyless way. One of my biggest new year’s resolutions for 2016 is to keep a playful approach to my work even when it gets hard (especially then!). I’m trying to ask myself, “What is the most joyful way I can approach this challenge?” I’m not sure how it will go, but if nothing else, I hope at least it will be more fun than my normal way of doing things. And success or failure, there will be some interesting experiments to share along the way. If you’ve tried anything similar, let me know how it went and what you learned!

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Images: courtesy of the artist; prints are available for sale here 
Via: Sight Unseen

Joyful fashion: Chinami Mori’s colorful weavings, and her model-grandmother

19 January 2016 by Ingrid

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Japanese artist Chinami Mori weaves vibrantly colored and textured scarves using a technique called Saori, which eschews rigid rules, allowing the weaver to incorporate colored yarn, string, and fabric in a freeform way. Her 93 year-old grandmother Emiko stops by her studio regularly, and in a delightful twist, often models her creations for Chinami’s Instagram feed. The combination of Emiko’s joyful personality with the playful, multicolored weavings is enough to snap anyone out of a bad mood.

I love how this challenges the convention of models having to be pre-teen and sour-faced to be fashionable. There are many times when I want to feature clothing on this blog and then think twice, because the expression on the model’s face is so grumpy that it seems to undercut the whole thing. Seeing these photos, it makes me wonder why more brands don’t use smiling models: don’t they want us to believe we’ll be happy when we buy their stuff?

Chinami says of Emiko, “She’s my favorite person in the whole world. I make grandma happy, and that’s just so much fun for me, too.”

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Find Chinami Mori’s creations and Emiko’s delightful poses on instagram: @1000wave. She doesn’t sell internationally yet, but hopefully soon!
Images: Chinami Mori @1000wave

Why beauty matters

18 January 2016 by Ingrid

Ellsworth Kelly Fondation Louis Vuitton Paris

Lovely read by David Brooks in Friday’s NYT about the power of beauty. In it he describes a worldview that echoes the fundamental premise of this blog: that beauty’s connection to emotion is what makes it so powerful.

This is the view that beauty is a big, transformational thing, the proper goal of art and maybe civilization itself. This humanistic worldview holds that beauty conquers the deadening aspects of routine; it educates the emotions and connects us to the eternal.

By arousing the senses, beauty arouses thought and spirit. A person who has appreciated physical grace may have a finer sense of how to move with graciousness through the tribulations of life. A person who has appreciated the Pietà has a greater capacity for empathy, a more refined sense of the different forms of sadness and a wider awareness of the repertoire of emotions.

Beauty is so often dismissed as superficial that it’s nice to see a significant acknowledgment of its depth. Aesthetics (a term I prefer to beauty, because something can be aesthetically pleasing by being whimsical, surprising, stunning, etc., without necessarily being “beautiful”), break through in ways that rational appeals do not. It travels from the senses to the emotional brain and stirs both body and mind.

Brooks suggests that we seem to have lost this connection—that beauty is something we appreciate without connecting to it in a deeper way.

These days we all like beautiful things. Everybody approves of art. But the culture does not attach as much emotional, intellectual or spiritual weight to beauty. We live, as Leon Wieseltier wrote in an essay for The Times Book Review, in a post-humanist moment. That which can be measured with data is valorized. Economists are experts on happiness. The world is understood primarily as the product of impersonal forces; the nonmaterial dimensions of life explained by the material ones.

He goes on to suggest that we have perhaps accidentally moved away from the ethos he describes, one where beauty is a conduit to bigger things. We’ve stopped valuing art that is purely visually arresting, believing instead that it must have some political message to be important. I think this may coincide with a larger ambivalence to pleasure in our culture. Pleasure must either be purposeful (justified by science as a route to health or creativity, for example) or guilty. There is no enjoyment that is acceptable simply for the feeling it gives us.

Yet, seeing the outpouring of grief at the recent loss of true artists, of the ilk Brooks describes—this past week David Bowie, and late last year Ellsworth Kelly, whose work is seen above—I do think we still know, deep down, the importance of these kinds of experiences in our lives, both on a cultural and a deeply personal level. Perhaps there is something about this tumultuous, uncertain time that makes us grasp for logical attempts at sense-making: art that is blunt, direct, and clear. But as anyone who has stood in front of an Ellsworth Kelly canvas will know, as they felt the colored forms swell and morph, and felt their own soul swell and morph with it, this kind of beauty penetrates far below the surface. It may not be timely, but it is timeless.

NYT: When Beauty Strikes
Via: Ashlea

The squeaky shoe cure

10 January 2016 by Ingrid

By now you’ve probably seen this adorable video of a little girl who tries to be mad but just can’t fight the joy of her squeaky shoes. Each time she stamps her feet down in anger, a funny little squeak comes out, and eventually her frustration dissipates into spinning and jumping and laughter. Why be withdrawn and angry when there’s something as wonderful as squeaky shoes to be excited about?

The video is cute, for sure, but it’s also a reminder that how intense our emotions get and how long they last is often determined by things around us. Violence increases with heat waves, for example, and recent research suggests bright light intensifies our feelings, whether positive or negative. We tend to think our emotions are ours alone, but in reality there are lots of ways the environment can amplify or short-circuit a feeling. In this video, the shoes are so effective because the movements used to express anger (foot-stamping) automatically trigger a joyful response (squeaking). It made me think that there must be other ways we could design automatic responses to negative emotions that lessen their severity and move people towards joy.

For example, car horns have sounds that range from unpleasant squawks to ear-piercing blasts. Effective in an emergency, yes, but in the much more common scenario of frustrated drivers stuck in traffic, it just serves to amplify the road rage of the horn blower and everyone around them. What if a car horn played a warning tone on the first blow, but repeated honking played music or random animal noises or sweet, chiming bell sounds? What if the noises from all the cars came together to ease the tension instead of ratcheting it up?

Apple actually thought about this when it designed the startup sound for the Mac. You may remember the old startup sound, which was a tinny, jangly chord. A designer at Apple, Jim Reekes was also a musician. He believed that the sound was not just unpleasant, but problematic, because the machines crashed so much that people were hearing the sound over and over again, increasing their frustration with the machines. So he composed a new sound, meant to sound like a gong or the meditative chant “omm.” He sneaked it into the prototype of the new machine and the rest is history. (You can hear the full story and hear the sounds on “The Sizzle,” an episode of 99% Invisible all about the fascinating world of sound design.)

I don’t know if the car horn idea is really practical, but what I’m suggesting is that there might be ways to design stimuli into common products and places that take the heat out of tough situations. Just like the little girl with her squeaky shoes, maybe there are ways to infuse joy into angry moments, help us take ourselves less seriously, and shorten the lifespan of painful emotions.

{the joy of} Island culture

2 January 2016 by Ingrid

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When Kara showed up to teach me hula, I almost missed her. Barely five feet tall and sixteen years old, she was not exactly what I pictured when I set up the lesson. But once we got upstairs to the apartment we’re staying in, she was all business. Out of her bag came a large tupperware box filled with yellow-centered plumeria flowers (harvested, show told me, from her grandma’s neighbor’s tree) and two five-inch long needles. As we strung the flowers onto cotton twine to make leis, (through the center of the flowers, not the stem end, which she told me tends to grab the needle), Kara played hula music to start tuning my ear to the kinds of melodies we’d be dancing to in a few minutes.

When I first visited Hawaii two years ago, I thought it was going to be just another tropical paradise. What I didn’t know then was how deeply the culture here would seduce me. I heard my first Hawaiian music within hours of landing, and though you might have heard it in a movie there’s nothing to describe how the gentle licks of steel guitar and ukulele wash over you when the sky is golden with the sun’s last light and the air is a breezy seventy-seven degrees. It was the sound of every knotted, winter-braced muscle in my body easing. It was as if every song was composed by someone with a smile on their face.

The language was the next thing to hook me. People always look at me strangely when they ask what the best part of Hawaii is and I say the language. After all, I don’t even speak it. But from street signs to business names to the conversation of kama‘aina  (locals), the place is full of lilting syllables, arranged in charming sequences. Lilikoi (passion fruit), mahalo (thank you), mele kalikimaka (Merry Christmas), Haleakala (a Maui volcano, literally “house of the sun”), kakahiaka (morning): the words feel like they have song embedded in them. I’m not a linguist, but I think it might have to do with the fact that Hawaiian has only seven consonants (h, k, l, m, n, p, and w), and that consonants are always followed by vowels — the constraints seem to give the words a light, joyful rhythm that makes the tongue dance along the palate. I find the words so fun to say, that I unconsciously find myself speaking the street names out loud as we drive around the islands. Kaiwahine, Piilani, Kanakanui, Hoohalahala. I don’t know what effect it might have on the mind to be steeped in this language, but for me it seems to speak (or sing!) directly to my inner child.

And then there’s hula. I had always thought of hula as kind of a cheeseball art, the stuff of Elvis movies and bad postcards, and dashboard ornaments favored by a particularly seedy sort of truck driver. But after seeing it performed a few times, I started to realize that the movements of hula, like the music and the language, are a part of the whole languid, watery Hawaiian culture. The slow, hippy movements and wave-like arm gestures seem to come right out of the sea. So I was curious to try it and see if it felt as joyful as it looked.

We covered footwork first, the basic side-to-side kaholo, the front-and-back lele, and hip-swiveling ‘ami. Every movement is sinuous, curved. It’s a little sexy (certainly the missionaries thought so when they came to Hawaii in the 1800s, and insisted that hula be performed in high-necked dresses with long sleeves) but it’s also playful. I’ve written before about how curves are the language of play, how both children and animals use curved movements to signal and invite play. What I hadn’t thought about then is how much curved movements make you feel playful when you do them. It keeps the mood light, and makes it ok to be silly.

Which is good because I definitely felt a little silly doing some of the arm movements at first. Going into the lesson I thought the arms were just another set of moves to learn, but in fact they’re a whole language of their own, translating the story of the song through the body. Kara showed me how to listen to the songs for cues to the moves: when to make the sign of the fish, when to swirl my arms like fishing nets, how to make a mountain with my arms, and the graceful sweep to the side that indicates “a place.” Much more than a dance, hula is like a physical history of the islands, of gods and myths, of the aina (land) and the ohana (families) that make this place what it is.

Compared to Kara, whose movements seemed to flow as if guided by the ever-present island breezes, I felt gawky, my limbs too angular, my transitions too jerky. At first I found myself constantly thinking about the next movement, but when I stopped focusing so hard, I found it was actually easier to get into the flow. The real test, though, was the video I took to keep a record of the movements and stories so I could try them again on my own. I played it back after Kara left to see how it had come out. The video is terrible, partially silhouetted and at a funny angle. I’m with the beat only about half the time, and I was about as gawky as I’d thought I was. But the real story was on my face: I was grinning the whole time.

I’m interested in the idea that some cultures seem to naturally exude joy. I believe we’re all born with the same innate potential for joy, the same impulses towards it. But in certain cultures, joy seems to be more accessible. It lies closer to the surface, and is absorbed into the customs, language, rituals. Warm weather cultures seem to have a joyful edge, perhaps because of the abundance of sunshine, the vibrant landscape, the proximity to nature. And island cultures also seem to have a joyful quality, whether tropical or temperate. Isolated from the land, islands seem to have their own rules, their own freedoms. Though the mainland is a quick flight or ferry ride away, the watery channel in between creates a psychological oasis. Put together island and warm weather cultures, and you find a common thread between so many vacation destinations: the Caribbean islands, the Bahamas, Jamaica, Barbados, Polynesia… When we take a break from our everyday lives, we want not only sun and sand, but an inescapable pull towards joy.

I think this explains much of Hawaii’s joyfulness, but perhaps not all. There’s something else here too. Perhaps it’s the aloha spirit I wrote about last new year, or something else that underlies all the joyful signs: the curvy hula, the gamboling syllables, the tinkling ukes. When a place puts rainbows on their license plates and uses them as the logos of their banks; when their mailboxes are painted with ocean scenes; when the word for hello and goodbye also means love and affection — then joy must truly run deep.

The view from inside a hula hoop

22 October 2015 by Ingrid

Found myself so mesmerized by this new ad for Cos this morning, I had to watch it twice. You may know Cos as H&M’s more sophisticated sister brand, but it’s wonderful to see them break the serious vibe of the clothes with such an exuberant, playful ad.

The ad was made by Lernert and Sander, the team that made the well-loved Sound of Cos commercial, which showed attempts to recreate the sonic experience of Cos clothes using a whimsical collection of objects: using a plunger to make the sounds of buttons being done up, or umbrellas to emphasize the popping of a collar. This ad builds on that one, showing how aesthetics of joy don’t have to be candy-colored and loud, too much of which can feel childish. A limited palette, paired with the joyous orbiting movement of the hoop, brings whimsy without undercutting the sense of elegance. Add to that the contrast between the simple, almost severe lines of the clothes and the fact that it’s basically impossible to look serious when you’re swiveling your hips in a hula hoop, and there is that wonderful sense of expectations disrupted that so often accompanies joy.

But the master stroke is of course the decision to embed a GoPro camera inside the hoop itself, to capture the giddy, almost ecstatic feeling of that wobbling gyration. It makes me think of the constant dance between art and technology. Technology brings us wonders, like a camera small enough that it can fit inside a hula hoop. But it’s art that situates that technology in contexts where it can be wonderful. Art’s curiosity, and lack of inhibition, allows it to ask the absurd questions: What would we see if we put a camera in a hula hoop? Technology is rarely joyous on its own. But when we apply it in the direction of questions, especially the naive kinds of questions a child might ask, we create a space for tech to truly delight.

Flower House

16 October 2015 by Ingrid

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In nature, nothing stays dead for long. A tree falls, and moments later there are fungi, slime molds, and earthworms turning all that bark and pith into food. Nothing good is wasted.

With notable exceptions (composting, estate sales), we humans are not such avid or nimble reconstitutors. But occasionally there is someone who casts an eye on a forlorn structure and dives in headfirst to fill it with new life. And when you think about it, it’s actually not surprising that this someone might be a florist.

Lisa Waud is a floral designer in Detroit who discovered a blighted house, purchased it at auction for $500, and this weekend, in partnership with dozens of other florists, will be turning it into a secret garden of sorts. Known as Flower House, the installation will be filled with 36,000 blossoms and as many as 2000 visitors over the next three days.


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Flower House was inspired by the incredible A/W 2012 Dior show (that I wrote about here) which filled a Paris chateau with floor-to-ceiling blossoms. (It was so extraordinary that the clothes were almost beside the point.) Waud breathed in that idea, and imagined an installation that could show the value in Detroit’s derelict spaces. (Derelict might be an understatement — Waud removed twelve thousand pounds of trash before the structure was workable.) She worked with Reclaim Detroit, a “deconstruction” specialist, which worked to salvage valuable materials rather than doing a blanket demolition.

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The things that spring out of the crevices of Flower House are multifarious: rangy, Miss Havisham-esque tangles of mosses, creepers, and vines; sunny carpets of Gerbera closing in on a broken toilet; small tufts of grape hyacinth sprouting from floorboards, like they just couldn’t wait for spring. But invariably they are lush, the kind of hopeful upwelling that soothes our anxieties about dark, decaying spaces. Like a few sprouts in a landscape charred by forest fire, they feel promising — even if we don’t know quite what they offer yet.

At the end of the weekend, Reclaim Detroit will return to “deconstruct” Flower House. The materials will be salvaged for sale to builders who want a piece of history in their renovation and new builds. Moldings and wainscoting silvered and softened with age. And Waud will turn the soil over and plant an urban flower farm, growing seasonal flowers like peonies and dahlias. And like that, the old becomes fodder, nourishment for what’s new.

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Flower House is on view today through Sunday. Tickets are sold out, but some will be offered throughout the weekend via Instagram.

Images: Flower House
Source: NYT

Oh, and hi! I’m back, and I missed you. More posts soon, so stay tuned!