“Ladies and gentlemen, the road you see before you leads to a brighter future for our great city. And the imposing edifice behind me shall forever stand as a proud beacon of vision, civic pride and enterprise.”
As the crowd milled closer, the mayor gave a brief background on Cantrell and his achievement; how Cantrell had evolved from relative obscurity as an architect of high regard, but few high profile projects, to an architectural wunderkind.
Cantrell had a bold vision, the mayor said, and not only the artistic skill to manifest it, but the personal fortitude and self sacrifice to make it happen.
The fact that Cantrell had been able to convince ten of the city’s most powerful millionaires to back the Exeter was obviously what most impressed the mayor. That, and the fact that the project, located deep within Derbytown, one of the city’s most neglected areas, might potentially trigger a major urban renewal movement, eventually generate significant tax revenue, and hence, provide him with serious political capital.
“In light of this project’s significance, I am proud to announce today the launch of an initiative to create an urban redevelopment district for Derbytown, with the Exeter as its cornerstone.”
The audience applauded enthusiastically. The mayor’s political acumen told him that it was time to hand things over. He turned to Cantrell, who stood on the dais beside him, shook his hand, smiling for the cameras as he abandoned the mike.
Cantrell’s black hair, streaked with silver, blew in the wind. He’d never been verbose or boastful; had very little experience speaking to the public, but this was his moment.
“Mr. Mayor, ladies and gentleman, thank you for making this dream a reality. It’s been a long, hard road getting here but I hope that most of you will agree it was all worth it.”
Applause.
“This is a historical restoration, a renaissance, if you will… ” He paused for effect.
“There are many individuals and agencies to thank, but I won’t bore you with all of that. You know who you are and how grateful I am. While this project was a labor of love, the true success of the Exeter will only be judged in time. I want the Exeter to be a home for people; a beautiful living space, and when it has become that, then we will know that we have succeeded.”
More applause. The mayor thrust the oversized gold-plated scissors into Cantrell’s hand.
Cantrell hesitated, turning to regard the crowd. Standing in front was an Asian woman, her young daughter beside her. He was struck by the mother’s beauty; the way the sun glinted blue off her jet black hair, the way she seemed to smile, even though she wasn’t.
He gestured to the woman. She hesitated, then smiled for real. Reluctantly, she ascended the steps, her daughter in hand. She allowed her daughter to accept the scissors, and gently guided the blades over the ribbon. Together, their hands severed the satin, and the crowd erupted.
What the audience would never know from Cantrell’s smooth and confident presentation was the utter dread with which he’d faced this opening. He didn’t sleep a minute the night before, so worried that he might say something wrong, that no matter how hard he had prepared, he would forget something.
Failure had never been a big part of Alex Cantrell’s life, but he’d always feared it. Ten years ago, when he turned 35, he’d been accepted for partnership in one of the city’s most prestigious architectural firms. He’d worked long and hard for that day; deserved the recognition, but couldn’t describe himself as satisfied. He was distracted with the mundane assignments reserved for junior partners: branch banks, small apartment complexes, strip malls, restaurants. He did his best on each assignment, invariably pleasing his clients and employers, but something was missing.
Cantrell had always seen architecture as but the medium for his art. He was a man with a multitude of ideas and inspirations, and he spent years searching for his nexus.
This project would be the epitome of his talent and experience. He wanted it to be his and his alone, from start to finish; nobody else holding the reins, the captain of his own ship. He’d always admired and respected Frank Lloyd Wright, not necessarily for his style, with which Cantrell didn’t always agree, but for his creative bravery, his willingness to stand alone, outside of the box. He aspired to the same bravery, to transform a lump of clay into a concept, an expression in stone and steel and, most importantly, space.
When he found the Exeter—then only the “old slaughterhouse”—it was purely by accident. He’d spent a Sunday exploring the city’s nether regions, and at the end of a cloudy day, had passed the forlorn packing house in Derbytown.
To the untrained eye, it wasn’t much to look at it. In fact, the abandoned structure had an almost eldritch feel to it. But he saw its potential immediately: its wonderful Second Empire lines, its intriguing spaces and angles… its sheer presence.
In less than a year, he’d quit the firm and devoted his every waking moment to the building’s resurrection. It was the biggest risk he’d ever taken in his life, both financially and emotionally. He knew that if the Exeter failed, then he would have failed; as an entrepreneur, but most importantly, as an artist.
Cantrell was relieved when the ribbon cutting ceremony finally drew to a close. But the crowd was hungry for more.
He flung open the doors and offered an impromptu tour of the building’s interior. All but a handful eagerly followed the creator into his creation.
The central foyer coaxed a chorus of sighs and gasps. Dominating the center of the lofty space was a towering linden tree, at least 40 feet in height, roots firmly entrenched in a circular garden covered with flowers and vines. High above was a multi-paned skylight which bathed the entire space in natural light.
Cantrell informed his guests that the linden had been imported directly from Germany, painstakingly replanted in the specially designed garden. He called it a “natural aesthetic;” designed to bring nature and greenery into the everyday lives of the tenants.
The tree’s graceful girth was encircled by a wide and flowing staircase that wound its way up all four floors of the main building. Bordered with wrought iron balustrades in delicate art noveau designs, the effect was both pleasing and somewhat dizzying to those who stared upward. Cantrell explained that the staircase was designed to provide a seamless transition from floor to floor that was smooth and welcoming.
Complementing the tree and garden was an ornate floor of alternating black and white marble squares, a motif that was repeated in the common hallways of each floor.
The walls were textured with silk fabrics and marble wainscoting. Large canvas prints of Monet and Renoir masterpieces, and less famous American impressionists, graced the hallways and common areas.
The entire effect was one of space masterfully and artistically used. The building was huge, Cantrell explained, and he felt liberated by the challenge of making the dimensions intimate. The lines, the repeating circular patterns, the carefully calibrated angles all joined into an effect that Cantrell wanted to communicate to both the conscious and subconscious.
“Ladies and gentlemen: it is people who design and build buildings; people who transform utilitarian ugliness into inspired beauty.”
Based on their smiles and awed expressions, Cantrell sensed they agreed with him.
He fielded a series of questions about the building’s construction, its physical plant, foundation and the extent of the renovations that had transformed it from slaughterhouse to living space.