The section of I-30 that runs through the state of Arkansas is no more than a layer of tar seared into the dusty earth of the great plains. No terrain to plot against, no need for detour. A straight black line rolled out for miles, save for the outcrop of perpetual maintenance and upgrades as makeshift lanes painted with solid white chalk, bright orange temporary barriers, and red blinking LED caution signs.

The traveller, in her rental Kia, is going from one potential project site in Bentonville, Arkansas to another potential project site in Dallas, Texas. She is greeted by the rotation of fast-food joints and chain restaurants: McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Arby’s, Wendy’s, McDonald’s, Hardee’s, Waffle House, Arby’s, Wendy’s, McDonald’s Taco Bell… the dull repetition would put her to sleep if not for the heavy-load trucks, ten times the size of her sedan, wedged on both sides. These kings of the interstate move at ninety miles per hour, exerting strong gravitational forces and pulling the light aluminium shell of the Kia toward their massive steel bodies. The traveller grabs the shaking steering wheel tightly, attempting to steady it, while sound from the audio system fills the sedan with a melange of melodies from the pre-globalisation eastern continent, left-field hip hop, and contemporary Asian pop sounds.

She rubs her sweaty fingers on the taut new leather wrapped around the steering wheel; the tautness that stretches between the ungraspable origins and destinations, between nostalgia and longing; the tautness pulled by giant forces on a highway without exits, and who knows of its own fatigue. All the while, the sound waves dissipate into the ether inside her sedan, and the goods inside the steel bodies of the kings deteriorate before they reach the shelves. She digs her nails in.

I don’t recall when and how the idea of architecture came to me, but it came with a discreteness. Finite, yet imbued with endless possibilities. It came to me that life begins and ends in architecture. When a baby is born, she spends her first nights in the neonatal intensive care unit of a hospital or at home with her mother. She might not be able to see yet, but she smells the place, feels its warmth and light, and hears its sounds. She senses space. At age ninety-nine, my grandmother couldn’t move nor speak anymore and had lost most of her taste, vision, and hearing. She couldn’t recognise me, her favourite child, but she still knew where she was and gestured at the window for us to open the curtain and let light in.

It came to me gently. Architecture shapes our becoming, and with its patient ways, it lets time pass through its interior. When I close my eyes and imagine such a place, I see dappled light rubbing on the wooden window sill thickened by layers upon layers of paint, whose edges are no longer sharp but rounded and smooth; the light slips and glides until it gently falls on the tiled floor, whose cracks and wrinkles are its charm. Afloat in the air are the dampened laughter of women next door, bicycle bells ringing outside, sparrows on the electrical lines, and a sweet hint of sesame oil and rice vinegar.

Then, it came to me that both fragility and violence are a part of architecture. When all of a sudden, development steamrolled into my sleepy hometown, the feathery charms stood little chance against the mighty neoliberal engine. Overnight, thousands of old oak and plane trees were cut down to make oversized asphalt streets all over the city, which were then decorated with the confetti of KFCs and McDonalds. Wooden houses and stone courtyards were replaced with marching orders of concrete housing blocks, which in turn, were quickly torn down to make way for shiny highrises. Crusts and dust drowned the streets and pushed an entire generation of youth indoors.

Where does this violence come from? Why does it seek to destroy and erase if its purpose is to contain life? Does it invariably propagate some desires and inhibit others? Can it be sustained without continued vows of value? Or does it eventually succumb?

Bio

Jing Liu is an architect in practice; as co-founder of the New York-based architecture firm SO-IL, she has working on a wide range of projects both in the US and abroad for more than 15 years. Liu has led SO–IL in the engagement with the socio-political issues of contemporary cities. She brings an intellectually open, globally aware, and locally sensitive perspective to architecture; projects range from artistic collaborations with contemporary choreographers to masterplan and major public realm design. Liu believes strongly that design should and can be accessible to all, and that architecture offers us an open platform to nurture new forms of interaction. To that end, Liu sees community engagement and collaboration across disciplines as central to her role as the design lead.