Life prepares us for many things. The imminent threat of death, grief, the departure of our favorite character from our favorite TV show. It does not, however, give us even a tiny inkling of what happens before an architectural jury. Before I started college, I had chalked up a romantic vision of constructing paper utopias and drafting pristine sheets, wooing all the fine jurors in the land.
The truth reared its ugly head not long after I joined, and the fantasy cracked to reveal a grey picture of elusive norths and chronic back pains. We all have a story that we can laugh at (in retrospect). For me, it was a third-semester project, when I found myself grappling with a highly unceremonious revelation.
‘Your plan looks like toilet paper!’
The more I looked at it, the more it became an indubitable fact. The stringent circular geometry radiating an undulating curve did make it seem like toilet paper. It did not fail to evoke an extremely visceral reaction.
Whether that was due to a subconscious vision of the juror ripping it to pieces, or the fact that it reminded me of a literal toilet, I will never know. I tried not to give in to the nebulous despair. The clock approached midnight fast and all the second-year batch gathered in the sanctimonious grounds of the hostel gym. I tucked the sheets under my drafting board, ensconcing myself in a corner to escape judgement. I can do this.
And so, a long and arduous night unfolded.
THE NIGHT BEFORE A JURY:
11:00 pm: The Denial
I cannot do this.
The jury is at 10am, effectively leaving me with 8 hours. That is more than enough time. I see a collective imagined reality has been formed throughout the gym, where a mass delusion is propelling everyone to do anything but work for the final jury. Someone is watching Modern Family in a corner. I take this time to conjure up vivid scenarios in which the juror vitriols my project to smithereens.
12:00 am: The Regret
As my friends with better judgments and different majors prepare for sleep, I wax lachrymose. Had I known that this would be life, I would’ve very well not thought my mother’s suggestion to become a doctor as preposterous. There is stirring in the gym, as drafting boards are angled against every available surface and tools are fished through. I decided to reserve my woes for after the jury.
1:00 am: The Solution
The concept sheet becomes my saving grace. With a decorated concept and a verbose presentation, I can turn this toilet paper plan into an assemblage of pure and distorted geometry, a play of forms. There is a fine line between jargon and gibberish, and I teeter very closely on the latter’s edge. I ponder how to fit the word pastiche in there. With a bunch of concept sketches that do not make the least bit of sense and jargon, I am on the path to glory.
2:00 am: The Questionable Music
Drafting a calculated plan is tedious, which is why I seek solace in music. I start from soothing tunes, and somehow end up on Bon Jovi. As my fingers are imbued with pain after countless attempts to properly align French curves, Bon Jovi and I are both living on a prayer. I can feel my brain tugging me into unconsciousness, making me question the infallibility I felt at the beginning of the night. I contemplate risking it all for sleep, but a wise friend shakes me out of it.
3:00 am: The Hunger
To curb our impure thoughts, my friend and I tiptoe to the vending machine. The lack of time denies us our usual luxurious meal of Knorr noodles, so we settle on boxed coffee and chips. We take five minutes to carefully descend and approach the machine, which callously betrays us by rattling in an unholy noise that would cause the Cerberus to rise at the gates of Tartarus. Thankfully, no one stares out of their room in ire. We consider our stealth mission a success.
4:00 am: The Rush of Blood Through the Head
Sleep is duly warded off, courtesy of the cold boxed coffee. I feel alive, ready to conquer lands and to dethrone the bourgeoisie. Ready to do everything but the task at hand. Charged with adrenaline, I French curve my way to victory, marveling at my drafting skills (the caffeine keeps the self-loathing at bay.) Finishing up with the sheets, I attempt to ‘render’ with colors. I am hard pressed to distinguish my architectural project from a kindergartener’s coloring book. Oh well. It will have to do. Carefully rolling my sheets, I turn towards the most treacherous assignment, the model.
5:00 am: The Model Making:
Scratch that. The caffeine is wearing off.
5:00 am: The Nap Time
A one-hour nap won’t hurt. I lay my drafting board next to me, hoping that the imminent threat of the jury will somehow wake me, if my alarms do not.
7:00 am: It was not supposed to be like this
I promptly miss my deadline and wake up, frazzled. I am officially in an alarming situation now. The hubbub around me has either died down with everyone huddled between their sheets or practicing repose in sleep. I try to keep my alarm at bay, gathering my craft sheets and hurriedly drawing the lines. The set squares covered in pencil dust render them a dusty grey, but it is no time for immaculate detail. I hastily draft and then grab my cutter.
7:15 am: The Injury
All architecture school projects demand a sacrifice. As I am slicing the corrugated sheet, my thumb becomes a victim and starts bleeding. For a moment, I am in awe of my battle scar, but I am brought back to earth with a bandage and a reprimand. I am careful to not let it bleed on my model. Architecture school sure messes up your priorities.
8:00 am: Anything Will Do
At this point, nothing matters. Life is ephemeral. Existence is suffering. My body is powering on adrenaline and nothing else. It abandons rationale and moves like the psychic automatism of a dream. My toilet paper is manifesting into a hard tangible reality, but I cannot care less. I am so close, but I am so tired. I use the elliptical machine to curve my sheet, earning weird looks from the unearthly 6 am gym goers. I do not care.
9:00 am: The Abandonment
With one hour to go, I stop my efforts. The sheets are made, the model looks like something, so I decide to stop. I take a shower and the craft paper and glue wash down, the last reminiscence of my tough battle. At this point I am neither thinking nor feeling, I am just drifting with the time and letting it take its course. Trying to make myself presentable, I change and don my Sunday best, rolling swathes of sheets into a giant bag. I try to fit my model in there so I wouldn’t have to parade it in front of the entire university. With a bag big enough to hold all the secrets of the universe, I head to my destination.
10: am: The Jury
The jurors linger, menacingly eying sheets, probably thinking of the best thing to say to crush our spirit. I eye at my sheets and my wonky model, my incorrigible optimism wearing off. As I take one last glance before the jurors approach me, I am yet again hit with a realization.
Where’s the north?
