There was a time that nothing in this world could not be true. When knowing something did not make the rest of the world boring. When your imagination was truer than your eyes. How many times as a child would you sit on the edge of your bed and know, with all the truth in your heart, that if you stepped off you were landing in shark infested waters. As architects, we have a common language, a frame of thought that allows us to jump between minds, worlds, and ideas. We must, of course, not cast these frames aside, but to the contrary, we must master them, know them from within; know where they can not suffice, wonder if they are really up for the task at hand. Untied to historical restraint, allowing the non-sequacious leap as a tool of lucid disruption to retrieve adults lost naiveté, it is possible to delay the conventionalizing of an idea. Youth’s naiveté allows for such leaping. Allowing for answers to appear before questions, exploiting the impossibility of architectural conventions as absolutes, embracing fragility and slipperiness, one becomes both the autonomous author and the autonomous spectator.

Irrelevant, banal, futile, disconnected from imagination. Architecture has forced itself to the brink of necessity in an unending urge to fathom inconsequential form. Just as addicts yearn to fulfill a physical dependency; we heighten the dosage, anticipating the initial sublime high.The past is no longer an impenetrable wall of consequences and absolutes. It is no longer an immense library of dogmatic and superior achievement that passes judgment on a lesser present. It is no longer that older child that we must look for approval. It is not the dead weight of success and failures that must be cast-off before anyone can be free enough to do anything. We no longer need to burden ourselves of the knowledge that nothing we will ever do will never compare to anything in the countless multitudes of past perfections.

History belongs to us. We are history and history exist because we do not merely repeat the past. Each of us is history, our own, and the collectives. We can cut it up and put it back together in whatever manner we choose. It does not belong to those who made it: they have willed it to us in the very act of passing. It is not owned by texts and scholars. It is our gift, it is our souls, our character, our good and evil. It is what makes us uniquely modern, and current. It means we do not need to begin each time from scratch, it means we have material with which to build our future.

History is ours. History is an ancient stone on our door, beckoning to be thrown. It is our Pantheon step from which we get bricks and stones and metal to put together our own towers of steal. History is nourished by this, it is fed, filled and destined to live longer than any text could promise, it gets bigger every time something new is formed from its bones, it grows and fattens. Every stone we remove allows for countless others to find their fit into the time-line of our lives.

Our acts of creation with the ideas of the past transforms the whole of history. We keep it alive. We keep it growing. We save it from the Historians and the Museums. It is us who make sure that the most obscure medieval painter is as much a part of our lives as the latest dancing puppy video. Architecture can strive where the threshold between waking and sleeping is worn away in the architect and is flooded by images continuously with no hindrance.

    “Quietly. I want to pass where no one yet has passed, quietly! - After you my                  dearest language”

      - Andre Breton

Unexpected juxtapositions and contradictions in a departure from the usual rational appearance of architectural form awaits. History
begs to be re-written.