I have not loved architects. And at the same time adored them. The late and dearly missed Zaha Hadid features in a new book about London and I am sadly reminded of our one and only meeting.
Why I was invited with others to talk to a few thousand architect students at the newly open Tate Modern some 15 years ago, I have no idea. I think it was about a positive spin on London.
When the Tate Modern, a giant and grim piece of electrical power-stationism, first was opened I was asked what I thought about it. I stood before the whirling TV camera and looked about as if I was thinking deeply, and said: “I can’t help feeling it’s a bit like a redundant power station that’s been turned into an art gallery.” I was extracting the urine. They were puzzled.
But among the other contributors was the formidable Zaha Hadid, who, unlike me, was ‘Beatle’ mobbed afterward. My contribution went down with the audience like a cocktail of rat poisoning mixed with dog’s vomit.
They recoiled when I said that London was being destroyed by artists posing as architects. Trying to turn London into a place where much architecture was fanciful, exaggerated and alienating. And that it would be best if architects left most of their outrageous attempts to turn an abandoned crisp packet – for instance – into a giant architectonic statement on the drawing board.
They recoiled when I said that London was being destroyed by artists posing as architects
Zaha’s only words said about me that night was that I was living proof of why London had such crap architecture.