where books live The shelf and space beside my bed is a temporary library devoted to my latest obsession or project. Around the house, books cluster thematically. Languages, travel and love are in the bookshelf near the main computer. Psychology, death and dying rest in a bookshelf near my side of the bed. Novels, history, literature, politics and my husband’s aviation books live in our living room. Writing, architecture, Renaissance society and art line my studio shelves. Indigenous customs and reconciliation belong there as well, with environment and science. On the tall bookshelf of my studio is an heirloom – my maternal grandfather Quain’s well-used, spiral-bound January 1938 issue of The Architectural Forum , designed and written by Frank Lloyd Wright, with pull-out sketches of plans of Taliesin and other designs. As a young man in 1916 during World War I, Redmond T. Quain was bound for war duty overseas when his father suddenly died. His uncle offered to support his mother and four younger sisters while he was sent to law school. Redmond protested, “No, my dream is to study architecture.” His uncle answered, “No time for dreaming my boy, law school is quicker.” Eventually he and my grandmother collaborated with architect Gordon Hughes to design and build their Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired house in the Gatineau Hills of Quebec. An interest in architecture runs through the generations like a thread through the family story. still points Books offer a still point, starting with the quiet I looked forward to when caring for boisterous younger brothers and sisters, who, as night fell, slipped into sleep – a quiet that allowed me to enter another world. For a book lover, approaching and holding a book is to silently hold a world rife with possibility as I surrender the experience to the other senses. I take time to enjoy its weight, the feel of the cover, the design of its artwork with the author’s name big or small, the smell of the old or new, opening the book to any page to get a sense of the author’s voice; I note the font and layout, read the back cover blurb for a hint, and scan the index for clues. Books are truly an overlooked treasure trove of quiet sensation. reading I was three years old; we were living in cold-war Germany with a copy of the seminal German children’s text, Der Struwwepeter , a series of morality tales for children originally written and illustrated in 1845, featuring harsh and terrifying images of naughty children’s fingers cut off and bleeding. Some of the book’s pages were taped shut so I would not scream as our Kinderfrau read them to us. When the little matchgirl Paulina burned into ashes, I identified with her and was deeply sad. Perhaps searching for an antidote, my parents brought me back a miniature four-volume set of Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales from a trip to Denmark. What struck me at the time
Karen Watson
was that my parents gave me my own set of books, books that fit perfectly in my small hands. I willed myself to understand the letters. The illustrations were delicate line drawings that seized my imagination. On the red living room couch, nestled in my mother’s or father’s arms with my two little sisters, I asked for the re-telling of the story of the curious little mermaid who made a choice for love. The Little Mermaid does not hide the pain of adapting to a human state, the agony of ‘walking on knives’ yet I was not afraid as I listened. Her great love was unrequited, she became sea foam, transforming into a spirit of the air. But it was her choice to love. Here I found even harder lessons, though easier to absorb than the horrific morality of Der Struwwelpeter.
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on site review 40 : the architect’s library :: books, shelves, collections
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