LA FABRICA

In Residence: Ricardo Bofill on Nowness.com

It's a strange thing, seeing photographs you have poured over so many times you are certain you understand their deepest intricacies begin to move before you.

Yet, Albert Moya has done a beautiful job of transforming the sequence of images - stills, almost stills, and slow pans - into a sense of the quality and sequencing of the space. This short film outdoes the images in ways I could not even have imagined.

Within the raw shell - those curtains, that lush greenness, the furnishing! Suddenly Bofill's place has a denseness to it - it is full of space and possibility.
Bofill says it best himself:

It’s here where I know how to live, here where I know how to work
Where I start to think and project, my life is always made up of projections,
because the profession of architecture leads you to project the future,
so this influences your own mind
My life is always a project moving forward,
more than a story from the past

The idea of a space which helps you to understand what it means to march through life as yourself - a space which just fits  - that's a fairly wonderful thing to search for.

PRINCESS OF WALES CONSERVATORY

India Hobson, via The Garden Edit

It all comes back. Even the dampness underfoot; even that brings it back. I was in Kew Gardens when I first realised how much everything yearns to grow.  I was just twelve, quietly sure-footed in the world. Afterwards we went back to the apartment, and it was raining lightly, and I stood in the bathtub with the white curtain pulled around, ran a shower, and shaved my armpits for the first time.

FRUIT & FLOWERS HUNG THICK FALLING

When Fruit and Flowers Hung Thick Falling

- KATIE PETERSON

Never a gardener, she
became interested

in gardening. The dying
are known to

make estranging
decisions

about the disclosure
of information.

Everyone knew
where the report

cards were, but the marriage
license proved difficult

to locate. Tomato
and potato vines crawled

up different stakes
in the same barrel,

and she tended
equally the decorative

plants, the lobelia and alyssum
fringing and clinging to

the edges, in the sun
under a visor

fuzzy with the terry
cloth of enough

vacations to forget
the number, to wear

the lettering 

into half-glyphs insinuating

but not stating
the location of past

happiness. She knelt,
hinged

at the waist,
thrust

her hands in dirt
feeling for roots

even when 

they no longer

needed
tending, even

when fruit and flowers
hung thick falling.