“The Met is overwhelming” is often what friends and fam have said when I ask them how they feel about my fav museum in New York City. The Metropolitan Museum of Art IS overwhelming, but there’s a little bit of everything for everyone: crowd-pleasing Impressionist en plein aire flowers, the meditative water fountains in the Japanese art wing (by Noguchi!) and Islamic art wing, historic musical instruments from the beginning of music as we know it, the original Chicago Stock Exchange staircase by Louis Sullivan that you can actually use, and turn of the century earthenware and glassware that are the stuff of dreams.

The Met’s many facades (including ones that were exterior facing and are now interior facing) tell an extraordinarily rich history of this museum and its collection over the years. Not many folks know this, but the glass enclosed European sculpture garden is flanked with an original facade that once enclosed the bounds of the museum. The fired clay brick and white limestone masonry mass wall in this glass enclosed space was The Met’s original front entrance. It opened onto Central Park with a curved driveway so that visitors could pull right up to the door in their horse-drawn carriages. Over time and other expansions, that area became enclosed to great an interstitial space between the existing to a new expansion. Why not tear it down? Well…. Personally, I’m clearly biased, but there is beauty in facades. Why not embrace the look and celebrate The Met’s history? But also, this is an excellent segue and transition space as the wall is part of the Petrie Court, which is designed to look like a French garden with sculptures that were once displayed outdoors and is also the transition space to The Met’s collection of European decorative arts (aka historical interior design – to grossly simplify).

Food for thought: owner-operators (that is what we in the biz call clients who own and use their buildings like hospitals, schools, civic, etc.) that start with one building and expand with additions end up with buildings that are a rather unfiltered reflection of their institution’s history. It is like a physical timeline and manifestation of the institution’s function (or dysfunction) and day-to-day operations.

In contrast, campuses are a luxury afforded by some hospitals and universities that own or can buy continuous land and build from the ground up. Or, some institutions will start with one building and buy a building nearby.

The ones that have the choice to, do try to expand to existing buildings.

Think about this: Humans? We’re lazy! I sure as hell don’t want to walk across the street when I can stay inside and walk down the corridor, especially during the famous NYC rainy season, which these days… that’s year round. In short, these buildings look more like a plate from a summer BBQ where everything is touching. Campuses on the other hand? They’re like bento boxes with dividers. Which is lovely, but why not have everything touching? For this food analogy, I’ve been told mixing everything together is the surest way for flavor.

The tastiest bits I think on my summer cookout plate are when two good things touch to make a great thing. For me, cornbread and mac and cheese come to mind – absolutely bangin’.

For facade engineering, the interfaces at expansions to existing buildings are the most challenging and interesting. Tasty morsels for the brain – excellent food for thought.

To bring together two separate things, architecturally there is usually what’s called a narrative, a story that is told by subjective experiential concepts like look and feel, achieved with engineering – system design, materials, and etc.

For two pieces to come together and more than just fit together but function together, can require a whole team of folks. For facades, that means making sure that the enclosure is weather tight and structurally supported, and that differential movement is resolved. Separate structural systems will move differently (built at different times with different materials), so to make sure the facade doesn’t clash at the interface is a big deal. 

With its imposing, symmetrical, monumental, and unifying Fifth Avenue facade, you’d never guess the extensive history of expansions that The Met has undergone. For a little history, The Met’s Beaux-Arts Fifth Avenue facade (the main entry as we know it now!) and Great Hall were designed by the architect and founding Museum Trustee Richard Morris Hunt. Originally opened to the public in December 1902, by the 20th century, The Met had become one of the world’s great art centers.

A comprehensive architectural plan by the architects Kevin Roche John Dinkeloo and Associates was approved in 1971 and completed in 1991. The Met was constantly undergoing capital improvements and expansions during that time. Once the expansion of the building completed, The Met has continued to refine and reorganize its collection. On the north side of the Museum, The Met’s New American Wing Galleries for Paintings, Sculpture, and Decorative Arts reopened on January 16, 2012, signaling the completion of the third and final renovation phase of The American Wing, which is clad with the saved and reconstructed facade of a old building by Architect Martin Euclid Thompson. The Second Branch Bank of the United States was located on the north side of Wall Street, between Nassau and William streets, and in the 1850s, it was converted into the United States Assay Office. It was demolished in 1915, but the facade was saved and reconstructed as the front of the Museum’s American Wing in 1924.

Having peeled away the facade for you, for the next time you go, I recommend looking at the moments in the facades where new meets old and where newer meets new. Where things touch? That’s the good stuff – just food for thought. – KC

_{Katherine (Kat) Chan is a facade engineer with more than 10 years experience in the built environment, hyperlocal to NYC, where she calls home, and internationally. Her self-propelled desire for thorough analysis and a propensity for detail has enabled her to advocate for innovative approaches and materials. Her aim is to make facade design and engineering concepts accessible for more people, so they can have an engaged experience in the environment they live in. Kat has a degree in Structural Engineering from Columbia University, where she teaches as part of Adjunct Faculty in the Graduate School of Architecture, Preservation, and Planning.}

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Stress is a unit of pressure, which is defined in the field of physics (and engineering) as a force acting over an area. Usually stress is looked at on a small scale, like a specific point pushing down. In physics or structural engineering, it is kind of like the scale of a slice of bread out of a deliciously freshly baked full pullman loaf. Stress is usually looked at as a moment at a specific location across a greater element working hard to keep a building up. 

Imagine trying to stack multiple cakes to create a tiered cake. If the cakes are too heavy, they will cave in! However, if you have a sponge cake (like the paper wrapped steamed ones from Chinatown/my childhood), it can spring back if the load isn’t too heavy. There is a delicious elasticity and delicate nature to that sort of cake. We love cake for how delicate it is – that light and luxurious mouthfeel is present in some measure across all types of cake.

Steel’s elasticity (the ability to bounce back) is why it revolutionized architecture and the building industry. Biting into a cupcake or a sponge cake can momentarily compress the cake, but how much physical force can we really impact with our mouths (assuming we’re not circus artists)? Steel can withstand an extraordinary amount of force in a small area (lots of stress), in both tension (stretching) and compression (squishing).

And unlike stone or concrete that can crumble relatively suddenly under tension, steel maintains its elasticity in both tension and compression. Looking at the American Museum of Natural History’s north facade, the Weston Pavilion houses the Rose Center for Earth and Space. Designed originally by Polshek Partnership (now an architectural practice called Ennead), this glass clad steel space frame facade was an extraordinarily innovative and impressive piece of architecture – light, airy, and shiny. It was particularly so, given the contrast to the existing West and South elevations. The south elevation is a 1897 Romanesque Revival project with a variegated pink and red granite facade designed by Cady, Berg, and See. The aesthetic and functionality of dimensional stone as I had mentioned previously is intimately tied with traditional monumental stately architecture historically associated with particularly distinguished institutions. It’s heavy, weighty, and shall we hazard – intimidating (much like the bureaucratic organizations these sorts of buildings house).

The north facade’s transparency creates this otherworldly awe as you can see the planets in the Solar System suspended within the glass enclosure – suspension of the same disbelief that enables us to expand our minds and understanding of the natural world around us, which fits in with the mission of the museum (AMNH) quite well. It’s inspiring to see the vastness of space and its educational representation as you walk past the museum. That’s the power of facades! And, the steel here is doing an extraordinary job withstanding the wind loading that acts on the glass facade and the weight of the glass itself. The slenderness of the facade support really wouldn’t be achievable by another material – for sure not stone or concrete. That minimal structural is allowed to wiggle – because we know it will wiggle back into place. In technical jargon, it is called deflection. When the wind blows, it will push against the glass which in turn pushes against the brackets that connect back to the steel elements. In that moment when the wind blows, the glass, brackets, and steel will move and even stretch or compress. But once the wind stops blowing, the system will go back to its original spot. It’s pretty freakin’ cool.

And, the transparency of glass makes this all the more inspiring. It’s melted sand that gets to congeal-ish…Glass as a material itself is actually neither a liquid nor a solid. It is an amorphous solid—a state somewhere between those two states of matter. And as science-fictiony as it sounds, it can further be strengthened by getting heated up and cooled, in a process called tempering, much like tempering chocolate. In this tempering process, the glass molecules get super duper stressed and in the cooling process those molecules get into this uber compression mode and its this uber compression mode that results in extra strength (up to more than twice as strong as your regular picture frame glass!). It’s this stuff that is on most buildings. Unlike humans, glass gets stronger from that constant stress.

While our capitalist society drives us to want to be strong like steel or glass, I would say it takes more strength to remain soft and formless like water. “Be like water,” Bruce Lee once said. Water can penetrate any building, given enough time and sussing out of vulnerabilities in detailing. So in a world that pushes us to constantly produce while stressed and stretched thin, remember that there is resistance in rest, and that while we use materials to build awe-inspiring buildings and facades that offer glimpses into the amazing world around us, we can maintain our essence as humans to be in awe of and curious of the world around us and to be like cake – delicate and delightful. -KC

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We talked last time about Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum and whether or not building with giant stone blocks would make a comeback. Well, I still don’t have the answer (it’s only been a few weeks!), but I can say that we ought to take a look at a new building, which is an expansion of an old one. 

Going across Central Park to the West Side from where the Guggenheim sits in New York, the American Museum Natural History (AMNH) has a new expansion called the Gilder Center Expansion. When I worked on it, I already had an interest in the museum, but I really dove into the history of the building once I got on the project. With this issue of Karjaka’s being rebirth, a couple anecdotes come to mind.

Rebirth can sometimes require mourning the end of what no longer suits you. Part of living is change. Part of growth is change. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable. Sometimes it is way overdue (hopefully when it is overdue, maybe it can be a touch less painful). 

Many say that physical art and architecture not only capture a moment, but they do so with monumentality. But, they needn’t be stuck in time like a beetle in amber. That’s the beauty of being engaged with the built environment, we are active participants! We have agency to shift, modulate, demolish (even!) what no longer reflects who we are. For facades, that actually means a lot – you never get a second shot at a first impression.

AMNH’s historical facade facing Central Park had previously featured a statue that embodied the (racist) public sentiment of the times. The statue featured Theodore Roosevelt on a horse, and on either side of him, one figure that had been understood to be depictions of a Native American Figure and an African Figure. AMNH website reads, “The statue itself communicates a racial hierarchy that the Museum and members of the public have long found disturbing.” Even contemporary to Roosevelt, there was opposition towards Roosevelt’s racist beliefs. Much of his conservation work and contributions towards the natural sciences were done through seizing of Native American land. In addition, the depictions of the dress, accessories, and hair styling for both standing figures were inaccurate even by the standards of that time. Keeping that statue as the first sight entering a museum dedicated to the natural sciences and contemporary sciences seems fraught and incongruent with the museum’s mission. It took several years and many conversations that we can’t be privy to, but the statue has since been removed and is getting shipped to a recontextualized exhibit, with help from equity advocacy groups. To learn more, I do recommend a gander through AMNH’s website where you can find diverse perspectives of folks far more intellectual and eloquent as well. 

Besides the statues, we really studied the stone that clad the original building facade that faces Central Park – Milford Pink, which is one of the historical New York architectural stones. It might be a coincidence that both the Guggenheim and AMNH wanted their stone cladding to be pink, but stone cladding on institutions is not a coincidence, especially one of great renown or with the want of establishing a presence (think of palaces, castles, fortified walls). Unfortunately, the Guggenheim ultimately couldn’t afford the stone, but both the old facade and the new expansion at AMNH did succeed in achieving the dream of stone on their facades – Milford Pink Stone no less!

So, what’s with this fascination with stone? It’s that je ne sais quoi about stone that keeps folks transfixed. And as a historical material, it can tie a facade to the past and still inspire awe in contemporary ways. 

During the research of AMNH’s history and the design process for the new Gilder Center, I learned an extraordinary amount about stone. From about 300-200 million years ago, the continent we now know as North America was contiguous with Africa, South America, and Europe. They all existed as a single continent called Pangea. Because of Pangea and its eventual rupture into the separate continents, many of the coasts along each continent have stone that share similar qualities down to the molecular level, because at one point they were one and the same! Science is cool y’all!

And because of this, at one time, for cost and schedule reasons, stone in Portugal was considered as an alternative to the historical Milford Pink. But, as you can imagine the story (or the narrative as we call it in the biz) wouldn’t have been as compelling to use this stone as using true Milford Pink would connect the new Gilder Center with the historical facade overlooking Central Park. And, if you’ve been to AMNH, you can tell that before the Gilder Center, each wing and expansion of the Museum has looked a touch different than existing parts of the building. So, connecting the new facade with the old was important. Ultimately, the historical Milford Pink won out, and the same quarry in Massachusetts provided the stone for both the original facade and the new. We also conducted strength testing to ensure the stone from this section of the quarry was still as strong as we needed it to be.

You never get a second chance to make a first impression, so removing what no longer suits (outdated and racist statues) and celebrating what does (Milford Pink!), is quite imperative to communicating what your values are and what folks can expect from you. Using Milford Pink is a nod to the museum’s original main entrance and its history, much like keeping Roosevelt’s name on the Hall of Biodiversity (but not that statue). If this isn’t a rebirth I’m not sure what would be! – KC

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Extracting stone from the earth to build with it is a tale as old as time. 

In the past, we would build with whatever we had on hand – sticks, mud, hay, etc. If you’ve ever played the popular board game the Settlers of Cattan, you’ll be familiar with the concept of resources as direct means for building and for establishing’s one’s presence. If your building stands the test of time and attack (of mother nature or of the human sort), your dominance was asserted. So, from sticks, mud, hay, we graduated to stone (before industrial firing made modern brick masonry an accessible and popular construction material). With stone, we also could build taller too. A great example is the original skyscrapers, of medieval Italy, where feuding influential families would assert their dominance over each other with taller and taller towers – which sometimes resulted in the dumping of waste and other unpleasant things (ew) from the taller tower to the shorter tower. 

So, this is why humans have generally congregated in resource rich areas. Of the earth, gifts from mother nature enable us to survive and maybe thrive. But, sometimes we get a bit greedy. 

The original design for the Guggenheim Museum of the architect Frank Lloyd Wright included pink marble panels to cover the concrete round geometry, which was inspired by Native American Pottery, achieved with the cutting edge technology called gunite. We now know gunite as the predecessor to shotcrete, which is as it sounds – concrete shot out of a hose unto rebar, contained with form work to create non linear and expansive structures. Not all concrete can be used in this process. Generally, while concrete is extraordinarily damaging to the environment, shotcrete can be even worse because of the additional ingredients required to keep it liquid enough to go through a hose. Concrete is made up of cement, aggregate, sand, and water; the cement is like egg for cake batter – it holds the cake together. However, while there isn’t much of it in the mix, it is disproportionately responsible for contributing to pollution. Much like egg alternatives such as flax seed, apple sauce, or egg replacement for those with allergies, aversions, or vegan diets, you can change up the mix itself, but you’ve got to work at perfecting that recipe to literally see what sticks, concretely. 

Concrete is of the earth, but a product of more human processing than of mother nature. That processing results in pollution, global climate change, and global warming, which we in the industry quantify as embodied carbon (EC). EC refers to carbon dioxide arising from the manufacturing, transportation, installation, maintenance, and disposal of building materials. 

EC is different from operational carbon, which are emissions that result from energy use during the lifetime of the building. And even though energy efficient appliances lessen energy use and our energy grid is getting cleaner through renewables, you can’t go back to replace the carbon that results from the current grid. So, there has been this shift in the industry towards contemplating going back to basics – dimensional stone, which means large blocks of stone.

Recently, in New York, organized by the Architectural League, a panel discussion called From Field to Form:Stone, which highlighted tensioning and using stone structurally. Unfortunately, I couldn’t attend. But, I spoke to my colleagues afterward, and we pondered the question together – why not dimensional stone?  (Instead of crushing and processing stone to make concrete, just to reform into a cementitious form.) 

After all, we are still enamored with stone. Look at Rex’s Perelman Performing Arts Center or the American Museum of Natural History Gilder Center Expansion by StudioGang Architects. We’re still hella into stone – there is romance in its unpredictability; we try to control which stone panel goes where to make sense of and to develop a pattern from stone’s natural and innate qualities such as veining and coloration. That’s the human in us, making sense of the earth, what it has to offer and beyond, much like how stargazing led to navigation. 

While this variety in performance is the price to pay for this material’s beauty, as stone is a naturally occurring material, that’s part of the reason why traditional pre-industrial stone empirical construction had such wide stone walls – using extra material to account for the inconsistency of the material itself was an “easy” approach to take when there was so much left to the unknown. Science at its core is the identification and application of trends that result from doing the same thing over and over again, so that the results become predictable. (And, on the contrary, that adage of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result is insanity. Maybe that is the joy and wisdom of mother nature – try as we might, there will always be some unknowns, and we should let that keep us humble.) And much like stargazing was the precursor to cosmology, advancements in mechanics of materials and materials science have enabled us to apply the scientific method to anticipate the strength of a stone, given ample specimens and repeated results from the same tests (breaking the stone repeatedly in specific and creative ways – think like Leonardo Da Vinci meets Mythbusters).

So, is there a future of using giant blocks of stone to build again? I’m not sure. But, for the sake of the earth, we have to confront our aesthetic leanings towards complex geometry and stone. Even the Guggenheim was originally conceived to have pink stone cladding over its now iconic concrete structure (that is blotchy due to issues in the finish consistency – Frank Lloyd Wright was livid that the stone was deleted due to cost and not pleased with the diagonals from the wood formwork, even ground down). Stay tuned for part two, when we take our critical looking glasses towards a new building. – KC

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I quickly fell in love with architecture even though it was a Hail Mary for post graduation career aspirations. Architecture engulfed me and would not let me go. I fell into the rabbit hole in an overwhelming, consuming sort of way, much like Alice did as she chased the White Rabbit into Wonderland.

The architecture, engineering, and construction (AEC) world is as mad as any tea party hosted by the Mad Hatter. In order to combat the long hours and stressful situations, I was extraordinarily caffeinated, sleep-deprived and definitely drinking a touch too much (caffeine and alcohol, after hours, sometimes at the same time – espresso martinis were all the rage). What captivated me about architecture at first (and has kept me here) is this idea that I could impact the world around me. Depending on who you ask, architecture can extend to the built environment. The built environment is a term used to encompass any space made into a place by human intervention. This can include gardens, train stations, playgrounds, greenhouses, etc. Tiered farming could even be classified as part of the built environment if you really wanted to make a case for it.

People say it takes a village to raise a child. I can say it’s about the same for any building. Many folks in the industry joke that projects are their babies. The idea that so many people have to come together to build a project is extraordinary. It’s empowering and historically with a master builder at the helm driving the progress forward. A master builder in the western tradition envisions the project, designs, secures funds, and actually directs the folks that will build – put the literal stones and bricks on top of each other to create the building. I think of the Renaissance masters such as Brunelleschi (of the Duomo in Florence) and Andrea Palladio, the Venetian architect whose writing is still required reading in architecture curricula to this day. 

Besides the obvious of being men, traditional master builders all had two things in common: drive and influential contacts. The concept that one person’s idea is better than another’s can be subjective. Who is to say what order of priorities should be? So, I think back to the playground. And like any industry, it’s the bullies who get ahead (at first) by being louder, more intimidating, and more conniving. And do the ends justify the means? 

Who is to say what will happen when an idea turns out to be a mad one? We are human after all, even if the most arrogant of us will not admit that even in our most intimate of moments. But, it is this ambition for building, legacy, and lack of compassion that causes this trickle down of people treating each other poorly. People talk about workaholics; well, folks in the AEC industry are definitely frequent offenders, especially architects who are trained to constantly rework and iterate through different designs.

They’re the ones who drive the design process, so as a facade engineering consultant, I recall frequently falling victim to late nights, impossible deadlines, and constant design changes that resulted in an unhealthy work-life balance. And all that sacrifice for what? Is that the food my own ego needs for extraordinary contributions? It is a draining industry. There is always work to be done, designs to be improved upon. A more ambitious, less expensive, thinner, shinier – perfect facade is the quantum concept, constantly receding goal post off in the distance. How do you sustain yourself in an industry that is a selfish lover who only takes?

Well, what is love in the first place? I’m partial to the answer put forth by Captain Holt in the comedy series Brooklyn 99, “Love, it sustains you. It’s like oatmeal.” For those unfamiliar, Captain Holt is a person of consistency, strict rule following, kindness, and a streak of silliness that endears him and inspires the utmost respect and admiration of the folks in his precinct. For him to equate love to oatmeal, is to say that love is an everyday thing, that love is necessary, and that love is consistent. For me, those are cornerstones in my practice of self love. 

Self love is based in self-respect and esteem – it requires believing you deserve good things, things that bring you joy, and that you deserve to fight for the things that bring you joy and for the ones that you love. And, for me, it was the basis of requesting (nay, demanding) a more flexible work schedule. If I had to wake up at 6:30am to run meetings for a project across the world for months on end, I best be able to take the call from home. At the time, I even leveraged to get a laptop while people of similar rank to me only had desktops! I also asked for much needed raises frequently and often. I also would purposely book travel for fun and vacate the premises when I said I would. I honored my needs as I would my best friend with the same enthusiasm, kindness, and affection. Honestly, I treated my needs the way I treated design requirements of any facade I would design.

And, it was a paradigm shift that took years to implement after years of neglect. I finally prioritized me, my loved ones, and my career in a way that suited me – I’m still extraordinarily passionate about my industry (hell I’m starting a branch of the Society of Facade Engineering in North America), but I’ve shown myself over the past few years the importance of taking care of myself. It helps me take care of others and be passionate and pragmatic in my career. It is through my practice of self love that I sustain my love of architecture and facade engineering. It is so fulfilling to point to a building and say, “I worked on that one.” And, it feels extra good when I’m walking with someone I care about. -KC

_{Katherine (Kat) Chan is a facade engineer with more than 10 years experience in the built environment, hyperlocal to NYC, where she calls home, and internationally. Her self-propelled desire for thorough analysis and a propensity for detail has enabled her to advocate for innovative approaches and materials. Her aim is to make facade design and engineering concepts accessible for more people, so they can have an engaged experience in the environment they live in. Kat has a degree in Structural Engineering from Columbia University, where she teaches as part of Adjunct Faculty in the Graduate School of Architecture, Preservation, and Planning.}

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At the start of the new year, societally, I always get this vague sense of a monumentality or opportunity for great change. Many folks make resolutions and reset their intentions for personal or professional growth. Time moves a little slower for building facades than for us humans, but intentions and resolutions can still apply. Much like fashion or music, even building facades have trends and movements. They just can’t really respond or adapt as fast as us. In light of the new year, we’re going to look forward by looking back at arguably the greatest shift in architectural history.

We design and engineer based on past experience, with anticipation of what the future may bring. This can mean anticipating change, which can include change of use, layout, climate, etc.

In the past, we made facades based on what was en vogue and whatever building materials we had. Modern building materials came about through industrial processes that allowed us to build taller, wider, and stronger (quite like that Daft Punk song): cast iron, glass, steel, and concrete with steel rebar are just some examples that enabled buildings to reach unprecedented heights and previously unimagined use. And, the buildings were incredibly ornate; examples specific to New York City would be the Flatiron Building, Grand Central Terminal, and New York Public Library. The visual texture created by all sorts of elements and materials are inspiring, including motifs of mythology and representations of fauna and flora.

But, the continued advance of technology also ushered in the architectural Modernist movement, which embodied a shift in aesthetic, away from this ornamentation, which had been associated with wealth power status. The shift was driven by the adage form follows function. Away with the ornamentation! No more statues or decorative reliefs of cherubs or lions or clusters of grapes. It was a bad day for terracotta which had been responsible for enabling such ornate decorative reliefs on the faces of buildings. Concrete for its incredible strength (bolstered by steel rods called rebar) would live to fight another day. Note, concrete is great in compression but horrible in tension. Much like a cake, if you have a plate under it, you can top with all sorts of toppings and maybe even add another cake to make a multi-tiered cake. However, much like a cake, if you try to only support it on two ends, it will crumple. The steel rebar bends and helps counter the crumpling effect.

There are some New York Modernist architectural examples that are more austere than others, but the ones I find myself gravitating towards are specific ones that celebrate concrete, metal, and glass with flair. TWA Flight Center designed by Eero Saarinen, is an excellent example of smooth concrete, abstract and inspirational geometric form, and daylighting coming through glazing. It was recently renovated to be a glamorous retro escape, complete with fine dining and hotel.  An example of Late Modernism, the Ford Foundation, by Kevin Roche and Dinkeloo, who took over Saarinen’s firm upon his passing, features an absolutely gorgeous atrium and impressive concrete, steel, and glass facade. A pinnacle of the International Style of Modernism is One Chase Manhattan Plaza by SOM architect Gordon Bunshaft and it includes the sculptor Isamu Noguchi’s Sunken Plaza, a serene space that incorporates Uji River basalt; and Jean Dubuffet’s Group of Four Trees. All of these buildings have undergone extensive renovations, and the path leading to raising funds for said work was a bumpy one, including conversations of complete demolition.

You see, what we didn’t know then is that some of those ornate features (cornices, sills, ledges, lintels) had a function. Those elements would jut out from the face of the facade and help promote water to move off and wick away from the building to prevent leaks. The most common way major leaks happened in the past were through windows, doors, and openings, which were essentially jumbo holes in the facade.

We know now that our assumption that the ornate was completely functionless was incorrect. We were a bit too fast to eliminate window sills and headers. (Maybe we could have even kept a cherub for fun?) Maybe our resolution as an industry to push for the new, innovative, and cutting edge was a little premature? I’d argue that until you take the plunge you really can’t know. What is science in the first place without inquiry? As an industry, we’ve even embraced and modernized terracotta (what a comeback!).

The fact is building facade lifespans weren’t really given too much thought back in the day. It was always a product of what is trendy? And what materials can we use?

But, now we know how geometry and material are integral to facade performance. We also now think of them over a 50 year lifespan. With maintenance and better materials, we can extend that lifespan to 75 years, 100 years, or even more. These decisions cost money upfront, and both maintenance and money through the years to come.

Speaking of lifespans, sometimes we employ the analogy that buildings are kind of like human bodies. Our skeleton is the structure, our skin is the facade, our internal organs and systems are the mechanical, electrical and plumbing systems. We generally take care of our bodies because it feels good, and generally we would like to extend our lifespans. This approach helps explain concepts to inspire and empower anyone and everyone to get invested and maintain buildings, and to advocate for the maintenance of the facade! 

So, as we face this new year together, building facades and I would love you to remember as we shift or renew our intentions and maybe even embark on a trend or movement, be sure to make space for learning. We are quicker to respond and adapt than buildings, so curb that enthusiasm that inevitably sets us up for disaster and instead reserve a bit to keep an eye out for how shifts affect you and make you feel.

LOCATIONS: shorturl.at/adMW4

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So, how did I find myself pursuing a field you can’t get a degree in?

It was kind of out of necessity. I had mentioned the path included heartbreak, existential crises (yes multiple), and #growth. Also there was a dash of theater and copious amounts of drinking.

I was always conflicted – I had always wanted to be a visual artist, likely an illustrator, collagist, or sculptor, centered on community building (very altruistic) but the pragmatic and the very real need to provide for myself and potentially my family steered me towards something a bit more grounded. It all starts with a good foundation, which my family and I thought would be engineering.

I was relatively decent in mathematics and science. I had been a mathlete all four years of high school (before it was cool eh em…. a la Mean Girls. I had a Math Team Jacket!), but I was never a mega-smarty-pants. I was super hardworking, and it really helped that my parents invested their time and money to make sure I could learn as much as I could (thanks mom and dad!). But, inside I was also a mega softee. I thought my drive to help people (gasp maybe humanity TM), with a splash of what science-inclined brain juice I had, could propel me into a field where I could make a living and still feel fulfilled. I found out that the biomedical engineering department at Columbia could be just the place for me – I could study and design small machines for medical testing in rural underserved communities. 

I even got into the program! And, I started volunteering at the lab! But, I realized the cutthroat nature of research academic labs was not the place for me. So what does a disillusioned youth do? It’s the tale as old as time – join the theater.

But, actually I did. At that time, I was doing prop and set design/building for student theater on campus to hangout with friends and to have an outlet for that artistic streak. During one of many late nights staple-gunning plywood and painting sets, I asked myself, “what major in engineering school is similar to set design?” Structural Engineering. My friends (engineering and non-engineering) breathed a sigh of relief. Existential crisis toned down for a bit right?

Well, I officially changed my major whilst at engineering school at least four times. Unofficially, countless more, but now I had the plan – structural engineering, and I applied to architecture school, for the artistic flair. 

During this time I also became a bartender for events and got to see some of the most amazing spaces: galleries, townhouses, and penthouse apartments. My love of theater and place-making just gobbled up the ambience of a good party. A tourist in social spheres, I would otherwise not have orbited around, facilitated with copious amounts of drinking, on everyone’s part, I developed this persona that was simultaneously intellectual and angsty as all heck. It unintentionally unlocked the door to rather intimate moments into folks’ lives. 

Holding space for folks during their highest moments (Anniversaries! Birthdays! Book launches! Gallery openings!) and their lowest (At the end of the night! Where is the spouse? Why is your cell ringing? Why is mine ringing?), during a time of great change in mine, helped distract me from my existential questions but moreover from my inevitable heartbreak that loomed at graduation. I was not in a good way. People talk about first love being glorious and tumultuous. I can vouch for both parts. I was a hot mess.

After talking on the phone with Expedia for 8 hours post-graduation and post-breakup to change flights for what would have been a romantic European backpacking trip to a girls’ trip to Spain, I decided I was going to defer a year until attending architecture graduate studies (at my dream school). This decision came about as I stared at clouds and watched the trees’ leaves twirl in the wind. I felt super burnt out and directionless. How could I design spaces for people to celebrate and thrive in when I was barely able to get out of bed and definitely did not have a sense of who I was anymore?

My parents demanded to know what I was going to do for a year (they were particularly unkind about this; although, honestly… fair – I seemed to have an existential crisis every three months or so since the age of 9). And, I totally faked it. I had a plan. It was going to be fine.

I did NOT have a plan. I remembered that a year ago, I met a few engineers at a gallery event (I wasn’t bartending, just a rando who had heard about free wine served at a gallery). I reached out. I was so angsty and scared, but apparently I faked it so well in the interview – I got a year-long internship in facades.  

At this moment, I went back to my roots and remembered that I had gravitated to the visual arts (and theater) because of the joy they sprouted in me and the idea of community really got me going. What I really didn’t get to learn about in school is that designing and then building a building is kind of just like a theater production. There are multiple people all with different jobs coming together to pull off something of proportions beyond our scale as humans. And, the show must go on. The building (as long as it’s been financed and designed properly) will get built. I ended up not going to architecture school, but I do teach at one, so that must count for something, ya?

And looking back, I really was just trying to build a home for the softest parts of myself. That’s growth – figuring out how to cultivate a safe space for the parts most genuine. My safe space’s facade is built from engineering – structural, materials science, and thermodynamics. And, it opens up when I collaborate and talk to architects, other engineers, and contractors. 

In the past ten years, I’ve battled countless moments of imposter syndrome and of being underestimated by how I look – age, gender, and race. And, it is my expertise and tenacity to design the best solution that protects me. It is my skill to not only design a bangin’ facade but actually my ability to listen and understand what people actually want for a building at large is what sets me apart. The latter are the softest parts of me, the parts that make me, me. They’re what empowered me when I couldn’t quite figure out my place or my industry. And, they’re the parts that I seek to build a home for.

_{Katherine (Kat) Chan is a facade engineer with more than 10 years experience in the built environment, hyperlocal to NYC, where she calls home, and internationally. Her self-propelled desire for thorough analysis and a propensity for detail has enabled her to advocate for innovative approaches and materials. Her aim is to make facade design and engineering concepts accessible for more people, so they can have an engaged experience in the environment they live in. Kat has a degree in Structural Engineering from Columbia University, where she teaches as part of Adjunct Faculty in the Graduate School of Architecture, Preservation, and Planning.} 

The post A Home for the Softest Parts of Myself appeared first on Karjaka Magazine.

“Look up. What do you see?”

These are the words that I frequently say to a client, usually an architect, when we walk out onto the street after a meeting. 

It’s not a test, but let me tell you, the response can say a lot about a person and reveals surprises every time. It’s unusual enough to be asked that. Not when you’re in the company of a facade engineer like me though.

What is a facade engineer? And why does it sound so sexy? Let’s answer these together, starting with the last question first.

If you’ve fallen prey to associating the French language with desire, you’re not alone. Many associate the melodic, vowel-filled language with culture, breathlessness, and desire. From the French word for face and a dash of Italian influence, in 1681, it was first used to describe the face of a building. Somewhere along the way, I imagine through espionage, drama, and intrigue, facade also took on a figurative meaning, to indicate a dissonance between one’s expression and true intention. There is a contradiction between outside and inside. Can’t help but imagine a correlation between the word facade developing its dual meaning and French history in the 18th century. Between the decadence of Versailles and the French Revolution, it’s not hard to see how the facade of a luxurious ruffled daydream can hide the reality of a rebellion.

A facade engineer is an engineer who specializes in the design and technical performance of the outermost layer of the building, also called the building skin, enclosure, or envelope. You may not have heard of it because it’s a relatively new discipline that draws on traditional engineering disciplines like structural, mechanical, and environmental engineering. The first facade engineers were structural or mechanical engineers in European countries, where materials and energy have been more expensive than here in the States. The discipline evolved from a necessity of optimizing materials and costs. Think of an iconic all-glass space. For me it’s the Time Warner Tower. Generally, if you go in winter, it is cold as hell. If you’re there in summer, it is hot as hell. I’ve never been one for religion, but I’ve come to describe hell as basically any temperature or environment you don’t find comfortable, magnified.

A building’s facade is really important, because while maintaining a comfortable interior space, it helps bring the outside in visually. No one wants to spend time in a windowless room. Unfortunately, glass is excellent at bringing in the exterior views and sunlight, but glass is not really good at helping maintain the interior conditioned space. A well-designed facade inspires awe from the outside and from the inside of the building, and it helps to save energy. Together with an efficient heating and cooling system, it helps keep the building cool in the summer and warm in the winter. We have come to expect any space we enter to be perfectly conditioned for our comfort, but let’s aim even higher shall we? Let’s fill our cities with sophisticated buildings of beautiful materials. We’re talking buildings to match the glossy pages of fashion mags and feeds of Instagram influencers AND comfort. And for our more rural areas, let’s create spaces people want to gather in, especially if traveling there requires a lot of effort or time in addition to putting on pants.

Think of it this way: the perfect facade is the perfect 4-seasons jacket. Waterproof for the rain; warm in the winter. It ventilates when you’re sweating in the summer. And, it’s custom tailored to show off your figure, and damn, do you look good. But, much like all things in life, you can’t have it all. In practice, something’s gotta give. And, you sometimes have to compromise on functionality, especially if you choose to disproportionately prioritize fashion.

Unlike fashion, or the traditional disciplines of engineering, you can’t go to school specifically for facade engineering here in the States. I didn’t know what the field was until I graduated. How I got here is a much longer discussion for maybe the next installment, but it involves heartbreak, existential crises, and #growth. There is even theater and copious amounts of drinking involved. It’s a banger, but that’s for another time. 

Until then, let me tell you what I see when I leave my front door: New York is one of the most fascinating cities in the world, the newest shiniest glass towers next to forgotten brick buildings a century or more past anticipated shelf life. But, not all is as it seems. Not all that glitters is gold. And, not all new buildings are new. Much like books, I don’t recommend judging buildings (or people) by their cover.

Everyone’s got a multifaceted story. From the materials that are used to build the buildings themselves to the people that are the real fibers that weave this technicolor and aggressively fashionable textile that is New York, we’re from everywhere and, damn, have we had journeys. 

I wish more people knew about facade engineering concepts because a lot of them affect most people who live in buildings, New York or elsewhere. Knowing how a facade works and being able to express your feelings about its design enables you to advocate for what you want for yourself and your loved ones. And, isn’t that what we all want at the end of the day? To cultivate a place that centers the people that we love the most, our family, our chosen fam, and our community, to feel at home in this wild concrete jungle and relentless city? So stay tuned to arm yourself with talking points for the next community hearing about a new building, or at least a lens to view the city for some interesting points of discussion for your next dinner party. Until then, next time you leave home, say to yourself, “Look up. What do I see?”

_{Katherine (Kat) Chan is a facade engineer with more than 10 years experience in the built environment, hyperlocal to NYC, where she calls home, and internationally. Her self-propelled desire for thorough analysis and a propensity for detail has enabled her to advocate for innovative approaches and materials. Her aim is to make facade design and engineering concepts accessible for more people, so they can have an engaged experience in the environment they live in. Kat has a degree in Structural Engineering from Columbia University, where she teaches as part of Adjunct Faculty in the Graduate School of Architecture, Preservation, and Planning.} 

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