Leon Bridges, FAIA Faithful Servant and Fghting Lion.

Baltimore AIA reported on a Monday in April that longtime Baltimore architect and Fellow of the American Institute of Architects had died. Today I attended his memorial service.

Leon Bridges was born on August 18, 1932 in Los Angeles, California. In 1952 he was drafted to the military and stationed in Japan. He earned his architecture degree from the University of Washington in 1960 and worked initially in Seattle. He came to Baltimore in 1972. He was the first registered African American architect in Maryland. 

Leon Bridges, FAIA speaking about HarborPlace in 2024

He received many awards in his lifetime including a Citation for Excellence in Community Architecture and was in 1972 the first Black architect to have received a national award from the American Institute of Architects. All his life he worked hard for the advancement of architects of color. “I have a lot to say and I can speak at length“ he said even after he was 90. 

He had his own practice first in Seattle and then here.  His office was next to mine for some years. After semi retiring from it he became an adjunct professor at the Morgan State architecture department where he tought until not too long ago and invited me at times to be a visiting studio critic. He stayed involved as a critical commentator on local politics, for example as a critic of the planned HarborPlace development about which he spoke in the basement of the same church he was now eulogized. 

Leon was a local and national giant in architecture and urban design and will remembered fondly as many of today’s accolades illustrated. We will miss his, even in high age, forceful and critical voice. Leon was never shy to share his opinion and always strived for improvement. A good faithful servant, the pastor said, stressing that GFS was more important than the other letters behind Leon’s name (FAIA, NOMA). Three years ago at a talk he gave at Morgan State on occasion on some honorary award, he stated, I am still here, I have a lot to say, I could talk forever. He noted that he wanted to be alive to see his grandson graduate. He didn't quite make it. Now this grandson spoke and sang powerfully at his funeral.

So there he lay in his bow-tie and suit looking good and  tolerated whatever occurred in his honor until the coffin was closed and he was carried  into the hearse while the mourners, naturally many architects among them, took a deep breath after contemplating mortality and possible deliverance and the question what survivors would have to say about them. Relieved they streamed into the spring sunshine counting the blessing that they could still walk on their own. From what the pastor had said, at various hospital visits in recent months Leon had told God that he needed more time and he walked out of the hospital under his own power. No doubt, he would have enjoyed this lovely day as well and loved to shake hands with his many friends and acquaintances who assembled in front of the Douglas Memorial Community Church for a chat.

Klaus Philipsen, FAIA

Book Review- Ian McEwan: What We Can Know

Nobody asked for my review but as a disappointed fan of the author, I have to express my sentiment: I am reading Ian McEwan’s latest book “What we can know” because I read and liked several of his previous books for their sensibilities for the time we live in, his precise and artful language and his detailed introspection.

But this story, set 100 years from now in a dystopian future, lacks a stable narrative arc strong enough to jump back and forth across a hundred years and keep the reader engaged.

The author’s as well as the narrator’s literary research interest, already feeling old fashioned in the contemporary setting, appears outright tedious in the apocalyptic future in which it is supposed to take place. Most gravely though, McEwan lacks the imagination to paint out a future so many decades ahead, dystopian or otherwise.

He stays in the lanes familiar to us. Surely they wouldn’t research via an internet or ask AI similarly to we do now, wouldn’t speak, react and aspire in the same words or sentiments as we do. He allows that the various catastrophic events between now and then have slowed technological progress, but that’s no excuse for not imagining any real change for how people live, love, or get around except the the electric boats mentioned several times.

There probably wouldn’t be libraries with actual physical antique books, at least not for the public to go to. His descriptions of the various catastrophic events that had occurred remain bloodless and contrived, except for an Iran war that jumped from his imagination to relaity right after the book was published.

I have the strong impression that the author himself felt his inability to fill this distant future with juice and color, and so he keeps getting back to the here and now, presumably reconstructed from archival material.

But as much as it is supposedly reconstructed from research and much effort, this 100 ago time comes across with the fullness of the contemporary observer which the author of course is.

His future is what remains the abstract and lifeless construct distilled from research, quite backwards from the story’s premise and suffering from not enough research.

“What we can know” is not much, at least when we talk about a future 100 years from now, except that the title refers to the ability to know everything about us, thanks to our obsession to record everything.

McEwan doesn’t allow for the possibility that our everyday digital recordings are too ephemeral and too subjected to specific technology and software to endure for research over a 100 years.

Isn’t it much more likely that future generations not only would care even less about us than we care about the past but that our time actually leaves fewer useable traces?

I have not yet finished the book because my nagging complaints recur chapter by chapter and it is unlikely that this will change during in the final stretch. But I am not one to give up easily, so will pick it up again searching for the raisins of McEwans beautiful language and introspections which remain an attraction even in a weak plot.

Klaus Philipsen, FAIA