(Note: This drawing resulted from my PhD research under the supervision of Dr Graham Livesey (chair), Dr Paul Emmons, and Dr Marian Macken, funded by School of Architecture, Planning, and Landscape, SAPL, the University of Calgary, and Alberta Innovates)

 

A few months ago, I received some printed papers. As I went through them, I found some duplicates of Marco Frascari's papers that I had already read. It was then that I remembered the novel "Too Loud a Solitude" by Bohumil Hrabal (1967). In the book, the protagonist, Hanta, grinds books into pulp in his dark basement and engages in imaginary conversations with their authors. Inspired by this, I decided to make a pulp with Frascari's papers. This handmade paper is a memory of my papermaking craft and imaginary conversation with him. Frascari’s life may have come to an end like a finished work of art, but his unfinishing legacy, interwoven into the fibers of this handmade paper, continues to transcend the limits of his biological life, serving as an anagogical force that inspires and shapes the future of the craft of architectural drawing.

"Making paper with my papers has four senses," remarked Frascari. "It is literal, in that you are creating a tangible material from these written papers. It is allegorical because you acknowledge that your invention does not arise from thin air, but rather has deep roots in tradition. It is anagogical because you bring to light the invisible lines hidden between my words on architectural drawing. And it is moral because you do not waste the papers, but instead read them and transform them into the material of an actual paper." Pondering his words, I asked, "What should I draw then?"

"The Tell-The-Tale Detail'," replied Frascari. "I will draw the details of the story of this drawing on itself," I responded. Frascari said "This is called the 'facture' of drawing. Use the tools at your disposal. It reflects four arts of living well, building well, and drawing well."

"And what is the fourth art?" I inquired.

"Patience, my dear friend," Frascari chuckled. "Let me tell you more about that later." Taking his advice, I blended his printed papers, pulping them in my bathtub, and used my bedroom's window mesh to drain and dry them on a garment on my desk. I said, "I will draw the plan of my apartment." Frascari said seriously, "This cosmopoiesis requires using ichnographia instead of cartesian plan. Instead, relate ichnographia to gravity, time, and your body."

I asked "What about the rest of your papers?"

"Use them as a background for the drawing," suggested Frascari. "But be hesitant, make it ambiguous and open to interpretation."

As I conversed, a drop of coffee spilled onto the paper, leaving behind a disappointing stain. However, upon closer inspection, I was surprised by the mesmerizing pattern it created. In that moment, he shared with me the story of the draughtsman in Carlo Scarpa's office whose cigarette ash had accidentally fallen onto the drawing the night before the project was due. Scarpa embraced the mistake and transformed it into a unique design element, incorporating it into the final plan.

I suggested using the rest of my coffee to alter the color of the background papers and create more contrast in my drawing. Frascari's smile widened as he recalled his book Eleven Exercises in the Art of Architectural Drawing: Slow Food for the Architect's Imagination. Frascari said, "And the fourth art is eating well. Aren't you feeling hungry?" I let out a laugh and replied that we could always order a pizza. But Frascari, true to his appreciation for craftsmanship, countered, "No, let's make it."