Early in my studies at the University of Oregon, I learned a lesson I
carried through my life in architecture. It came from Bill Kleinsasser, whose
design studios were equal parts instruction, exploration, and gentle
provocation. Bill believed deeply in process, in the idea that early design
moves were not precious artifacts but simply commitments meant to evoke response.
One afternoon during a final review, a student presented her carefully
crafted chipboard model. Without warning, Bill reached into his pocket, pulled
out an X-Acto knife, and began cutting the model apart. He did so calmly,
without malice or theatrics, as if he were demonstrating how to sharpen a
pencil. The student was in tears. The rest of us were stunned.
But Bill’s point was neither cruel nor dismissive. He wanted us to
understand that he regarded physical models as tools—temporary expressions of
an idea, not something to cling to. Moreover, he used the act to reveal a
design possibility the student hadn’t considered. By taking the model apart, he
revealed an alternative way to approach the problem, one that was latent in the
work but obscured by its completeness.
I don’t remember how that student ultimately felt about the moment. I
only know that I’ve never forgotten it. And I’m not sure how I would have
reacted if it had been my model on the table. But the lesson stayed with me: in
design, as in much else, holding on too tightly to early ideas can keep you
from discovering better ones, especially when letting go opens the door to
something new.
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