STICKS & STONES | STEEL & GLASS
Anthony Poon
one architect’s journey
unbridled books
Unbridled Books
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
© 2016 by Anthony Poon. All Rights Reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Poon, Anthony, 1964- author.
Title: Sticks & stones/steel & glass / by Anthony Poon.
Other titles: Sticks and stones, steel and glass
Description: Lakewood, CO : Unbridled Books, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016033491 | ISBN 9781609531362 (paperback)
Subjects: LCSH: Poon, Anthony, 1964---Themes, motives. | BISAC: ARCHITECTURE
/ Individual Architects & Firms / General.
Classification: LCC NA737.P57 A35 2017 | DDC 720--dc23
LC record available at https://lccnloc.gov/2016033491
All illustrations in this book are the exclusive property of Anthony Poon. All rights reserved. Illustrations are not to be copied or reproduced in any form without express permission.
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Book Design by SH • CV
First Printing
Author's Note
I’ve designed a massive library and a sports complex, sprawling homes and stylish restaurants, projects that took years—and yet this book has been my most difficult project. Not that I have secrets to tell, and I hope nothing here sounds like I’m full of myself. I try openly to laugh at my mistakes. But I do want to see the larger meanings in my life’s work.
The thing is, a book like this is not a straight line from my T-square. Whatever blueprint I started with has changed dozens of times midconstruction. Critiques I wrote a few years ago lost their steam over time and were dropped, while new projects shed a fresh light on topics I wanted to address in words as well as in lines and angles.
There was a time early on when this book was just a diary in which I wanted to write outrageously about architecture, as Anthony Bourdain did about cooking in Kitchen Confidential. Silly me. This book is not a memoir but rather is (somewhat) the trace of my life, my journey in the world of architecture and design—though it is not chronological.
I revel in the scope of exploration; I want to design everything, to be deeply invested in all creative aspects of a project. I want each minute or broad stroke of my architecture and design work to facilitate enriched lives for all who walk through the doors or look in or out of the windows of anything I create. And I celebrate that I have been allowed to sketch out visions for uplifting structures. Once I did so alongside a spiritual leader totally at peace with himself.
Something I’m still striving to be.
Prelude
Sunset over Hermosa Beach
I can’t do what ten people tell me to do. So I guess I’ll remain the same.
OTIS REDDING AND STEVE CROPPER
We won the competition—three times. And we lost—three times!
The three-year affair known as the Hermosa Beach Pier design competition of the early nineties was mostly a hard lesson in personal naïveté, civic dithering, and professional backstabbing. The sunny part of it, however, was that it enabled my design partner and me to engage in an aspect of architecture—public space—that is not discussed as passionately as are tangible exhilarating structures of steel and glass.
Public space is architecture that is shared by all who encounter it directly or who live or work nearby, not just by the inhabitants of a home or office. An individual, a group, a community—they all share and flourish in a public space, no matter how small. I’m not talking just about the great parks of the world, the lungs and soul of any city; they are of course essential to people of all means to spend an afternoon surrounded by trees and grass, away from concrete and noise.
I’m obsessed with plazas, vest-pocket parks, and expanded thoroughfares that give us five, ten, thirty minutes of respite. Even passing by a well-designed urban oasis can calm or energize us. To open up, look up, look around . . . before rushing on to the next destination.
For my early architectural studies, I conducted yearlong research into the public square that defined my growing up: San Francisco’s Portsmouth Square. Often called the “Heart of Chinatown,” it shaped how I look at a city and at how people gather within it.
Portsmouth Square was carved out of the dense urban environment of Chinatown’s old buildings. As a child, I climbed its play equipment; as a youth, I met my friends there after hours; as an adult, I celebrated my wedding there. Imagine my wife’s bright white silk wedding dress against the gritty and grainy city backdrop, people on aged benches staring at us with curiosity, and the old men playing chess, not missing a strategic move, undistracted by a wedding party in tuxedos and gowns. Years later, my children would play in the same recreational areas of that venerable public space.
My photographs of Portsmouth Square went on exhibit at UC Berkeley and were later included in a book titled People Places: Design Guidelines for Urban Open Spaces. That vital public park imprinted on me. And it has informed much of my career’s work.
As I backpacked through Europe during college, the piazzas, church squares, and gardens struck me collectively as an elemental form of architecture. I expected it, truth be told, but in the Piazza del Campo in Siena, I witnessed a civic jam session: children playing impromptu sports, groups dancing to live music, raucous political debates, benchlong napping, art students hocking their colorful creations, and one very romantic couple—and then me, the tourist and student in awe of how all this came together.
The final composition of a public space should boom with the splendor of a city performing on stage for the world to witness. As a city-scale work of cultural and social art, a public space and the activities within it are an expression of a community that is alive.
Southern California in 1992. Economic times were tough, but the sun always shone. We were young, Greg Lombardi and I. I was twenty-eight and he thirty.
We formed a partnership, but we didn’t go the artificial acronym route fancied by our colleagues. For us, there would be no OMA (Office for Metropolitan Architecture), FOA (Foreign Office Architects), or the illustrious Office dA (de, as in from Architecture?) in Boston. Our fancy name? Lombardi/Poon Associates.
Years later, when we obtained our state licenses as architects, we became—this is clever—Lombardi/Poon Architects. Rather than spend money on printed and embossed business cards, we ordered a fifteen-dollar custom rubber stamp and hand stamped our company’s name onto precut card stock.
We were both trapped in miserable jobs: I as a paralegal temp and Greg as a corporate monkey at Universal Studios in Hollywood. We met in the evenings and on the weekends to plan and to sketch, just to keep our creative juices flowing.
We decided to enter a design competition organized by The American Institute of Architects for the redesign of the pier and waterfront of Hermosa Beach, one of the Los Angeles beach towns made famous by surf movies and volleyball tournaments: Hermosa, Manhattan, and Redondo Beaches, the cedar-shingled, salty cousins south of Santa Monica and Venice Beach. The trio of towns was and still is a string of funky pearls along the sweet curve of Santa Monica Bay.