Harvard School of Design
In my seemingly never-ending quest to find an educational institution that can feed my creative spirit I found myself cruising the Harvard campus and asking the pertinent questions: Do I actually have to go to classes? Do I have to take tests? Can I spend time with professors and ask them loads of questions? Am I allowed to branch off and explore? Is it okay if I don’t have a direction, a discipline, or expectation of an outcome, can I just play and learn on my own with a bit of guidance? Can I do it without having to take out an inordinate amount of student loans?
The answer was almost unanimously “No.” Harvard seems to give its students two options: 1. academic rigor in an almost stereotypical fashion, professors breeding other little professors to run around and preach their teachings. –or– 2. You will be a lawyer, doctor, dentist, or politician. Do not mix, match, or get interdisciplinary. That’s illegal.
So me, the English/art/engineer (englartineer), who couldn’t pick a direction to save his life, was out of luck. Save for a little gem I stumbled upon.
As I tromped through the Harvard school of design I spotted a blazer clad individual who looked much like a professor would look which meant the question needed to be posed: “Where is the admissions office?” because I couldn’t find it in me to ask my real question. He directed me accordingly, and then I didn’t go. I sort of ambled about and stuck my nose in the architectural models that rose up from tables– miniature buildings that inspired me to re-enact Godzilla and destroydestroydestroy.
He asked me a few minutes later as I caught his eye again, “did you find it.” To which I responded, “No, that wasn’t actually what I was looking for.”
“Then what we’re you looking for?”
“I’m looking for a professor, would you happen to know of any? You look like you know a few.”
And as he smiled at me our rapport continued on. We talked about design, he took me around and showed me the models. He explained to me why they worked or didn’t, why they were magnificent or where they needed some guidance. To me they all looked astonishingly complex and hard to make, which I could appreciate.
I’m paraphrasing here and quoting horribly: “You know fashion designers that make those clothes that are wild and garish? Bows, feathers, plastic, wild stuff? We do that here– it’s the cutting edge. And then someone more realistic comes along and takes our ideas, and makes them feasible. Like shoulder pads, when they first appeared on the runway they were gigantic bulging things, but soon they were everywhere– smaller and simpler of course. We do that, we make the future.”
And then he whisked me up the stairs to meet the students. We stopped by cubicles, and he narrated: “You see the tension in this one?” he picked up a small piece of folded mesh cube “It’s a-symmetrical, isn’t that wonderful?” I made the not-so-brilliant decision to think aloud, “it looks like the letter “A.” I could see a whole alphabet of buildings coming from this.” To which I envisioned the next generation of corporate campus’ being built to spell out things to passing airplanes. Imagine the Japanese creating industrial complexes in haiku… Genius. Unfortunately, the student whos work was being investigated did not look particularly pleased with the notion that she had just re-envisioned letters. I guess I couldn’t blame her, only Andy Warhol could be content with reducing his vision to alphabet soup.
He stopped in front of some students and handed me off, “ask them, they’ll tell you what the design program is like.” They all perked up and smiled at me, then started pelting me with questions. “Are you his nephew or something?”
“Who?”
“Preston Scott Cohen, the guy you were with.”
“Nope, no relation, what’s his story?”
Apparently I had just been given a guided tour of the design school by the chair of the Harvard architecture department. And who would have thought! He was so down to earth!! The students let me take some photos, and they really couldn’t chat much. They spend 12+ hours a day getting down and dirty with CAD and laser-cut paper models that are meticulously hand assembled hours/minutes/seconds before they are due. It was 8 o’clock at night and the place was packed, intense. Quite a place, quite an experience.
I don’t think Harvard, or architecture, or the both of them together is right for me. But I do think I’m getting a clearer idea of what I’m looking for. I like people, I like to know what they are doing and how they do it. I like meeting a person who can show me worlds that I’ve never seen before. I have this one life to experience as much as I can, perhaps the best way to make the best of it is to join others in their experiences, to see the world how they see it for a brief moment.
Preston Scott Cohen said he knew he wanted to be an architect from age five. At age five the only thing I was almost positive about was that playdough was not particularly suited for human consumption. He’s accomplished in a number of ways, and all I want to do is grab a lunch with him and pick his brain, take some photos, and write a story about how he sees and experiences the world around him.
Exploring the passions of others just might be something I’m passionate about, we’ll see how far that takes me.
the theoretical theory of theory as a theory.
There is a cat, his name is Schrödinger. He lives in a box and he was put there by a group of scientists conducting an experiment. From within his box he can see four square walls around him. He can also see a strange machine, a can of poison linked to a radiation detector perched precariously above a single atomic nucleus. The scientists can’t see inside of Schrödinger’s box, they can’t see if he is alive or dead, breathing or not, sleeping or pacing. We can assume that he is in the box however, because we put him there.
We know that the atomic nucleus inside the box has some very distinct properties. For example, within one single hour the atom inside the box will either decay or not, there is a fifty percent chance that it will, a fifty percent chance that it will not. If it decays, the detector will take notice and promptly release a noxious poison which will kill our poor cat Schrödinger. If it doesn’t, Schrödinger will live.
Here lies the problem: When one hour is up and the experiment is over, is Schrödinger dead or alive? Has the random decay of an atom ended his life or has that atom decided to remain whole sparing Schrödinger’s life? To assume anything would be catastrophic, to make wagers would be appropriate, and to leave it up to God has its own ramifications.
When the experiment has ended, after one whole hour has lapsed, we haven’t a clue as to what state of life Schrödinger may be in. Because we have not observed the death of Schrödinger there is no evidence to support that he is dead. Because we have not seen Schrödinger alive, there is no evidence to support that either. The unobserved state is something that one cannot, with dignity at least, make any assumptions about.
Due to the precarious spot that science has left our cat there is no definitive way to speculate, guess, or assume whether Schrodinger is dead or alive. The only thing that you can say about Schrödinger, while he is in his state of being unobserved, is that he is both dead and alive. Only when we open the box and partake in a grand observation of Schrödinger’s fortune, only then can Schrodinger move from a state of in betweens to a quantifiable dead or alive.
This paradox is the basis for Quantum theory, the theory of the very small and finite world of atoms, particles, light and how they behave. The paradox of Schrodinger also nullifies any notions of something I call: the reasonable conclusion.
A blind man named Ishmel walks in from the cold and wet and sits down. His arse finds itself upon something firm, and to him it seems comfortable. He passes his hand across a smooth surface looking for the sharp edges of a utensil. A breeze blows past him as the sounds of rubber squeak against a hard floor. He asks the breeze how her day has been; he knows it’s her because he can smell her distinctly feminine scent, lilacs.
She responds, “Dreary.” After a short reflectory pause an interjection, “Would you like a menu?” As she taps her pencil against her waiters wallet she gestures towards the cook to bring the man a menu.
What is a menu to a blind man? What is a sunset to a blind man? What is the color blue to a blind man? By definition of the sighted a menu is a list of the dishes served at a meal or a bill of fare. But to a blind man what good is a list of dishes if he cannot read it? To him a menu is something that must be felt or heard in order to be understood. To a dog what is a menu, it is a piece of paper to chew on.
The cook, reeking of grease, places a slightly soiled menu in front of Ishmel. The waitress exits and Ishmel stares blankly at the parchment placed before him: An infinite selection, an infinity of compromise.
To the blind man what is a menu he can’t read? Perhaps it is a buffet of possibility, perhaps the menu will be the only thing served to him that evening. To the scientist what is a reasonable conclusion to draw about the state of his cat?
Perhaps the scientific homage, the great Theory, will shed some light on all of this ambiguity. After all, it is the theories that help make some sense of this existence in which we live; Right? Let’s review: Gravitational theory keeps us, well, grounded. The theory of evolution does a good job of explaining our heritage, and the big bang theory takes a stab at how it all started. The Heisenberg principle of uncertainty throws a wrench into the idea of the absolute stating that the interactions of matter at the atomic level cannot—will not be predictable, no matter how fancy a microscope you buy. Matter enjoys living in its probabilistic soup, unwilling to share what it plans on doing next. These theories are some of the roots, the pillars, of understanding that make up what we as humanity think we know as a whole, but what is a theory? Webster, enlighten us:
the‧o‧ry [thee-uh-ree, theer-ee], plural -ries.
- A set of statements or principles devised to explain a group of facts or phenomena, especially one that has been repeatedly tested or is widely accepted and can be used to make predictions about natural phenomena.
- An assumption based on limited information or knowledge; a conjecture.
“An assumption based on limited information or knowledge.”
How can this be?!
I have a theory as to why. My theory is that there is nothing factual, definitive, truthful, and that the ever so thoughtfully perceived understanding is in fact, a misunderstanding. I theorize that to classify anything as fact is to in fact make an assumption about the fact in question, thus nullifying said fact. A theory is merely an idea waiting to be told that it’s wrong.
The crunch crunch crunch of gears, the hum of motors, and the squeal of tight belts: They scurry, they rush. A gentleman, clad in a blue apron frantically rushes from machine to machine—wrench in hand he weaves between fast moving belts, ducks between dipping and diving armatures and slips into the guts of a beast.
Inside he searches for the soul of the machine, a single bolt that needs constant attention. Without it the whole contraption comes to a screeching halt, but tighten it too much and the gears will choke and the motors will sputter. Forever it has needed tightening at consistent intervals. He knows it is time to tighten by the sounds the enormous machine is making. Its whine has gotten louder, it is whining for attention.
As he frantically passes under pipes carrying molten grease, over thick wires that monitor and control the beat of the machine, through humid air that carries with it the acrid smell of progress, he winds around a corner and stops to catch his breath.
Deep within the bowels of mechanized endurance a moment of human silence is observed while the machine rumbles on all around him. A single moment where the man stops and reflects upon the task at hand: I created this machine, yet I am slave to it. Onward he rushes, progress is now.
The final stretch is upon him and he dashes to meet his mark. Crankshafts spin as pistons brace themselves for explosions. Gasoline drains into gaping valves and is immediately consumed, then belched out in an entirely different form. He spies his bolt thirty feet ahead of him and he quickens his pace, it is dancing in its socket, seconds away from unseating itself and bringing the whole operation to a halt.
As his legs lengthen in long strides, as he chokes down air, a spray of scorching liquid finds itself upon his face and before he can scream he is flying.
Through the air and over the grease spill he travels upwards and forwards. His arms helplessly reach out for something to grab onto. Deep within fast moving belts they find themselves. Immediately he is caught and upward further he is jerked. He soars 20, 30, 40, 50 feet. He pleads and curses the machine but it’s not listening.
The cogs are ahead. 64 feet is the altitude of the first set of pulleys. The machine was specifically designed to have pulleys at 64 feet. All machines are specifically designed. Not an inch before 64 feet did the gentlemen in the blue apron find his hands, which were specifically designed also, between the tight space between a thick rubber belt and sharp pulley. This situation is off nominal.
In one instant the skin and ligaments of his wrists were being torn into. In the next instant the bones of his wrist crackled then snapped. Shortly after, the belt met the apex of the pulley, complete separation. Without the slightest interest in self preservance the machine and its belts and pulleys screamed on as the machinist screamed in chorus.
And then he tumbled back down. His hands continued on their journey through the machine but the gentlemen pummeled down 64 feet towards the ground, a warm mist of blood filling the air. Meat slaps concrete, scalding hot oil sears skin, blood—thinner than oil sinks and oil languishes in its victory. The bolt, with the most ironic of timing, unseats itself and the machine comes grinding to a complete and total stop. Crimson silence—an awkward reality for the living, daily life for the dead.
The ramifications of rounding a bend to do ones job can be disastrous.
The uncertainty of a man’s life, dashed to bits by the certainty that is machine. The notion of control exercised by the act of human creation—I will make this machine to do specifically this, I will design this experiment to show me exactly this. I have written this theory that proves that there is no such thing as proof. I am a menu and have been designed to tell some people exactly nothing. I am human, I am in control. I am human I create. I am human I exist. I think, therefore I thought. I thought and now what? I assumed and I was wrong. I lived therefore I died.
A blind man couldn’t tell you if Schrodinger was dead or alive just by peering into a box. A dead man couldn’t tell you even less. A machine—man made indifference—could care less.
Certainty is nothing more than the assurance of uncertainty; uncertainty is nothing more than life itself. And I can prove this by the simple fact that I can prove nothing at all.
The Trip of Destiny
Yesterday, as I waited patiently in que amongst the throng of CSUCI graduates I spent a good five minutes reflecting on what an insane adventure I’ve been on for the last four years. The Balloon Project and all of the tremendous experiences I was privy to by doing it, the CO2 lasers that I kept in my dorm, the Nut Crusher… and for a brief moment I was tempted to go speak with each and every one of my teachers who were to be giving me a grade that semester and request that they fail me, just so I could keep on keepin on in the way I have grown so accustomed to.
I literally punched myself for my stupidity. I don’t go to class, I don’t do assignments, lectures make me suicidal, and homework tickles my gag reflex. Traditional school is not the place for me in the least. The only reason I graduated in the timely fashion that I did was because CSUCI has a hidden secret major–Liberal Studies concentrated option–that allows all those who are secure with the idea of a practically worthless degree (from an academic perspective) to explore as many disciplines and topics that they would like for four years. That and the fact that I had a few teachers who broke the mold when it comes to teaching and flexibility, that is why I graduated.
I think the reason for my angst has something to do with the fact that I have been in school for the last 16 years of my life and that has been my primary source of life experience. What more could I possibly know about life outside of academia? I’ve had my fair share of jobs–lugging around Christmas trees, waiting tables, mowing lawns and then sub-contracting the neighborhood kids to mow my lawns for me (at a much lower rate)… But seriously, how scary is the prospects of *gasp* getting a job? And why is it scary? I’m sure there are so many neat and exciting professions and experiences available for the taking, but how do I find out about them–and how can I get to know the world outside of school a little bit better?
So this is my big plan: Readers–new and old–of iamkosta.org– Do you do something that you feel is completely interesting? What is your greatest idea? Do you happen to know of a certain group, company, or organization that is doing something truly unique and interesting? I would love to hear about it, and I would love to come see it.
I will be getting in my car in one week and embarking on an adventure of a lifetime. I will be visiting some of the most interesting places to learn more about the jobs and opportunities available, I will be meeting the most brilliant minds in hopes of creating partnerships and to learn more about the people that I live amongst. I will be on the hunt for the people that have new ideas and new experiences to share with me. If you, your company, or someone you know is up for a visit and a chat, so am I, e-mail me: kosta@iAmKosta.org
My journey will be documented on IamKosta.org in photographs and in writing. Stay tuned to iamkosta.org for updates!
There is no venom in these words.
A reporter called me from the Ventura County Star today. She asked about the Balloon Project and I ended up telling her my educational philosophy.
I don’t think the Balloon Project ever had anything to do with research in the conventional sense. I’ve come to realize that as I’ve sat down and reflected on the achievements of the project over the last few days. It was about something much more important:
In high school I had a teacher named Mr. Thaler. He was a young yet staunch chemistry professor who taught from the book and expected a cooperative classroom. I was a wild child and I took great pride in the fact that I was basically uncontrollable. I had an attitude, an inability to hold still, and ironically– a passion for learning new things. Chemistry was one of my many interests and I sought it out on my own time. Whether it was reading about the history of the periodic table, exploring the wild world of molecular structures, or just plain blowing things up in my garage I was hooked on the subject because of the fun it provided me.
Some things I learned in my garage:
- Hydrochloric Acid (pool cleaner) and Ammonium Nitrate (cold compress) when mixed will create quite a sensory jarring amount of pure ammonia. Ammonia, when inhaled, will knock you out of your socks and into the next room. The art of the waft was mastered in that series of experiments.
- No matter how much force or fire you subject to dads Nitro Glycerin heart medication(dads) they will not explode. (more…)
