2002
Ron Bogley, Architect and Builder
Nestled in the Oakland hills, the site sloped towards the back yard. As such, the natural location for the new single story master suite was in the front yard where the grade was fairly level. As with most of our projects, the program centered on adding modern amenities while maintaining the character of the original house.
2002
Ron Bogley, Architect and Builder
The 8,500 square feet building was originally a single story house that had undergone a series of haphazard additions eventually becoming a funeral home under a two story apartment.
The project converted the commercial space into four two-story units and renovated the apartment into a pair of single floor units. The design also regularized the mess of level changes, upgraded the structure, addressed ADA compliance, and provided proper egress.
2001 to 2004
I was the sole draftsman in a residential design-build firm.
I prepared all drawings and construction documents, including conventional construction structural framing plans for residential remodels, additions, and new construction.
2001
I came out of school at the depths of the dotcom bust, before the mortgage bubble had picked up momentum. Jobs were scarce so I found work as a laborer for a landscaping design-build company that specialized in hardscape construction for residences in the Oakland hills.
I only worked there for half a year but this is the most influential six month span in my career. Physical labor created a real sense of teamwork in our crew of eight, which I have tried to cultivate in my project teams ever since. I lived the raw exchange of one’s physical body for money that our construction workers make every day. And I’ll always remember looking at a simple plan, and then trying to figure out how to translate that piece of paper into the messy physical reality of the overgrown hill slope that was in front of us.
Mr. Hecht passed away a few years ago. He was also a trained musician, singer, and jazz trombonist.
2000, 2001
I took two upper level architecture studios and one upper level landscape studio.
The first architecture studio was a new art museum, with a continuous gallery ramp that snaked through glass offices. The greek columns were some extremely questionable last minute additions to the project design.
The second architecture studio was an exploration of the ideas of Deleuze and Guattari’s a Thousand Plateaus, which was a bit insane since I had never studied critical theory. Somehow, I ended up with a truck stop inside an old railway station in West Oakland.
The landscape studio was taught by Chip Sullivan and explored the idea of garden, via small quick exercises and multiple drawing styles.
1998, 1999
UC Berkeley had two art departments, the Visual Studies Department which was part of the College of Environmental Design and the Art Department in the College of Letters and Science. Our two buildings sat next to each other, so I was able to liberally partake in the offerings in both schools, studying drawing, performance art, as well as sculpture with endlessly energetic Joe Slusky.
Unfortunately, this was before the age of digital cameras, and I have minimal photographic documentation of the work.
Maybe it was better that way.
1999, 2000
I was fortunate to take two creative non-fiction classes with Ray Lifchez, cranking out a three-thousand word essay each week. These two classes were my first close knit seminars and it was a glorious exploring the possibilities of the written word with my fellow students.
There is a trope where someone will claim that their liberal arts english course was the class that resonated the longest after their collegiate career. It’s hard to argue such a contention after being introduced to Invisible Cities and Labyrinths.
This piece was one of my favorites.
As I swing by my studio after class, I hear his music echoing from the opposite end of the hallway. I follow the noise and open the door to his ceramics studio. He has just started smoking a cigarette and waves me over to take a seat. It’s almost midnight, but he works hyped on nicotine, caffeine, and music. By the time I settle into a chair, he has finished the cigarette and was back to work. From my seat I have a full view of his collection, all in various stages. Due to a space crunch, he was shoved into the backroom next to the double doors. Air is a major problem, it floods through the doors’ gaps, drying out the clay very quickly. “No time to fuck with it.” This sort of problem for a plastic medium naturally creates a determined, purposeful rush. Compound this rush with loud music and a frenetic atmosphere overtakes this windowless room deep in the bowels of Wurster. His arms and hands dance among his tools and sculptures, while the rest of his body shakes to the music, rhythm, and beat. He jumps from one spot to another; water bottle in hand he cares for his flock of rapidly drying ceramics. As he unwraps and examines each piece, a wide range of emotions flitters across his face, each quickly transforming into another. As his pursed lips melt into an unconscious grin, he starts whistling to the music. The lips follow the melody but the rest of the body gyrates with the beats bouncing between the walls – “one and two and three and four and one and two and three and four and one and two.…” The music clutches the room in a tight grasp. This secluded place intensifies every element within it. In this primal, cave-like environment, one’s body reacts unconsciously to any stimulus. At times he crouches, eyes piercing through the shadows; others times he squats, examining the bottom of a sculpture. He steps back and stands, trying to create a distance between himself and his work. Like a cat stalking its prey, his body is always at attention as it hovers around his sculpture. He never sits. A primordial sense of struggle is awakened in the modern soul – a sculptor must not only fight materials and gravity but he must conquer his own physical and mental fatigue. It is a continual battle between one’s artistic conscience and one’s level of endurance. As our ancient fathers pursued their quarry, he participates in a hunt of the most aggravating sort – one where the prey is always a step ahead, looking back, teasing you to give up. In a trance, he examines a pair of legs waiting for a body to support. Satisfied, he jumps up, unwraps another disembodied leg, sprays it, feels its moisture, and rewraps it. He turns, drinks his grape soda, looks into space and moves back among his collection. He grabs some clay, rolls it between his hands, shakes his head, and throws it back into its bucket – “not yet.” Stepping back, he stares intently at the next piece, a bust of a young man. He rubs his hands against his pants, pulls out a tool, dons a mask, and shaves its rib cage. Figures are made of shapes, shapes are made of lines – it all returns to the line. He stands back and eyes the bust from left to right. Content, he whips out a small head from a plastic bag, sprays it, sponges its hair, looks at it for a moment, flips the bag open, and shoves it back as quickly as it came out. With that, he turns around, grabs a cigarette and lights it. For the last half hour he has not noticed my presence. When he finally sees me, he looks shocked but doesn’t stop. Even when he stops working, he continues appraising his pieces. His gaze fixes upon a sculpture while the body undulates to the syncopated rhythms. “I can see you!” he says to the half-finished figure. A smile creeps onto his face. He peers intently as smoke climbs up to the ceiling and ashes drop onto the concrete. His blue t-shirt hangs loosely around his torso, shifting every time his hand swings up to his mouth. As the CD ends, he starts another CD, another cigarette, and another figure. As one hand holds the burning cigarette, the other hand begins working a lump of clay. His energy is relentless; he has yet to take a seat since I’ve entered. It doesn’t stop.
1997 to 2001
Bachelor’s of Arts, in Architecture (4 year)
As a four year non-professional program, the College of Environmental Design at Berkeley emphasized cross disciplinary studies. Instead of a relentless dosage of architecture studios, we were only required to take four architecture studios over our eight semesters.
I took advantage of this philosophy and explored visual arts, sculpture, landscape architecture, modern dance, and creative non-fiction. It was a wide ranging aesthetic education that continues to inform how I view architecture and the context that surrounds us.
Summer 1997, 1998
The summers before and after my freshman year in college were spent working with Gary Kohlsaat, a small residential architecture firm. He was transitioning from hand drafting to ArchiCAD so he still had a few projects which could use the help of a high schooler with a couple drafting classes under his belt.
For my work as a draftsman, he pushed me to really improve my lettering, which I did after a 10 hour stint at home on a Saturday. This skill has stayed with ever since, to be utilized whenever I want to signify that I am of the old school, and certainly helped me get my job with Ron Bogley after college. I also learned to how to print bluelines, which came in surprisingly handy a decade later at Rogers+Labarthe when the plotter died right before a meeting. I dusted off their old machine to print off a couple faint copies so we would have something to take notes on.
It was an invaluable experience to work in a real functioning office before starting my collegiate studies. I hope more students have such an opportunity, before spending years of their lives in college without knowing how it actually works in private practice.
As a Cal Poly grad, he gave me some good natured ribbing as he sent me of to the ivory towers of Berkeley, but given my extremely practical career trajectory, I’m certain he got the last laugh!
I worked with three different firms over the summers of my college years. The wide breadth of these firms exposed me to different aspects of the profession as I was charting my path into the industry.
I’d like to believe I provided good value during my time with these firms, but after entering into middle management, I appreciate how much effort is needed to properly train up entry level staff. As such, I’ve only become more grateful for their hospitality to a summer short-timer.
