of the Meetinghouse
by Doug Coots
Three years ago, when Wayne and Carol and the other members of the building committee asked Bergmeyer to help them build a new meeting house for you, I suspect there were several reasons why they thought they needed an architect. I’m sure they thought they needed someone to listen to their lists of needs, wants and hopes, translate them into a building design that was functional, affordable, meaningful and beautiful; help you find, hire and direct a contractor in this building’s construction and, perhaps most important, make the whole process of getting UU’s to agree on some-one-thing less like, say herding cats.
But principally what they asked us to do, really, is to describe. To describe what was then not yet real but, what was wanted. This is, I guess, what architects can do that no one else can do. Describe what isn’t real. We describe it to our clients, of course, and to builders, building officials and banks. We describe it with pictures, sketches and models. We describe it with words and with waving arms.
At best—and this becomes particularly apparent later on as construction begins—our descriptions are approximations, intimations of what might be. Still, it is exciting to begin to see what had, up until then-been only notions, needs, inklings of a building.
But now. This is real and being here, actually here, makes all the drawings, the verbal imagery and excited gesticulations seem somehow passé.
I once said to Carol, early on, before we had really gotten into it, that building a building is one of the hardest and most rewarding things people can do. She was worried, I think, that I didn’t quite understand what I had gotten myself into, and to quiet her concern and show her that I was up to the task, I told her with a smile on my face that all building was difficult, whether you are working with Unitarian Universalists or not. Architecture requires optimism. It also requires trust – especially of one’s self.
Gio Ponte, a mid-twentieth century Italian architect, writing to would-be architects in his 1957 ode to architecture (Amate l‘architectura) had this to say:
"The architect must also learn from the artisan how to love his trade, how beautiful it is to do something for the sake of doing, doing without minding whether one succeeds or not. One is happy to sing just to be able to sing, and never mind how one sings; what matters is to sing; once in a while one of us will sing well."
Three years ago, when we started working together on this meetinghouse, we all wanted to sing well. It is partly true that doing for the sake of doing is enough.
But, for architecture, there is more to consider. First and always, there are the people who will use and view this new building. Gio Ponte goes on to say…
" The architect must imagine for each window a person at the sill; for each door, a person passing through; for each stair a person going up or down; for each portico, a person loitering; for each foyer, two people meeting; for each terrace, somebody resting; for each room, somebody living within. (The Italian word for room is stanza, a beautiful word; it means "to stay;" somebody staying there; a life.)"
When Carol asked me to speak today, in addition to feeling nervous at the prospect of talking to this sizable congregation, I also felt somehow superfluous and wondered what I might say that could be meaningful to you. At some point in a project’s life, the architect begins to lose his purpose and usefulness. At some point, usually well after the building is occupied, the architect realizes that the job he was hired to do is done, the builder has gone home, the grass has grown, the owners have moved in.
This is, of course, what we architects want and work toward. All along we envisioned such a time – real sun falling on real walls, real people looking through real windows. A real meetinghouse in a real world.
And, if we had presumed any sense of possession for the building, we must do it proportionately. This new meetinghouse is yours, has always been yours, but it yours especially now.
This makes me feel a little empty-handed. But not in the way you might think. I feel like I have come to a house-warming without a house-warming gift.
It would’ve been arrogant of me, at any time, but particularly now, on this wonderful day, to presume to ceremonially hand over the building to your care. As I said, I am only now realizing that my job is over here – you have known it for some time.
But I can bring you this. I wish you well. I hope this new home of yours will be everything you want and need it to be. I hope it will be a good place to worship in, to sing in, get married in, for finding truths and for counting your blessings.
I also want to thank you for giving us and me this chance to help you make this very real meetinghouse yours.