As a Princeton student, I had been a raging Post-Modernist, drawn to the poetry and colliding style of architectural elements that had evolved through centuries—gutsy, living, discoverable things swelling with history and beating stone hearts. The soulless Modernist architectural movement we studied left me cold. Frank Gerhyd’s illogical and disconnected designs irritated me; Mies van der Rohe’s minimalist concepts felt unfinished.
Then I met my mentor Professor Willie Graves, who became a leader of Modern architectural theory. He quoted the poetry of architect Glenn Murcutt: “I tell my students, you must put into your work first effort, second love, and third suffering,” and Cecil Balmond: “Architecture is dangerous. A mixture of power and impotence.”
I slowly developed a love for the M
