Benjamin Golder
A.B. Architecture ‘10

When Benjamin Golder was 16, he dropped out of high school to work and get involved in community activism. This launched him through a long list of life experiences — dishwashing, pirate radio, youth advocacy, bicycle delivery, work in a semiconductor factory, organic horticulture, ditch digging, carpentry, plumbing, and finally, an overwhelming desire to study architecture as part of a liberal arts degree.

In addition to working within the department as a research assistant, CAD/CAM operator, and digital tutor, he is the first architecture student to receive the University-wide Haas Scholarship to fund his undergraduate research.
 

Dean Wolch, Chairs Christensen, Brager, and Jewell, Faculty, Staff, Fellow Students, Families, Loved Ones, and Guests, thank you very much for coming. I am deeply honored to have the chance to speak here today.

The first thing I would like to say is congratulations! You've completed something very difficult, and something that many people will never have the privilege to achieve. You are extremely brilliant, creative, and hardworking people, and you should be proud. To all of you who have supported us along the way, thank you. I think I speak for the class of 2010 when I say that we couldn't have done this without you, be you family, lovers, peers, friends, teachers, or staff. You've calmed us down, taken care of us, lent us your hands, challenged us, and cleaned up after us. Thank you from the very bottom of our hearts.

Class of 2010, they've turned us into nerds. We've learned to love to make 2D's and 3 degree curves. We've had to figure out the difference between representational spaces and representations of space in Henri Lefebvre's theories on the production of space. We've managed attribute tables and energy estimates. We learned what Medieval Modernities are. We've talked about stormwater, stupas, and stop signs. We've run geospatial models and drawn self-portraits. We've gotten stuck outside without our ID cards, and sat on the courtyard grass, in the sun, on a beautiful day. We've done a lot together. We've made friends that will last our lifetimes. We've made friends while stuck in the elevator, or helping people get out of a stuck elevator. We've even exchanged friendly glances when the elevator door creates that awkward long pause before it opens.

[pause for an awkwardly long time]

From now on, awkward silences will make me think of Wurster. Dear friends: I love you. I'll miss you. Please stay in touch.

In my early teenage years, I lived in the suburbs north of Tucson, Arizona. I had no car, and the bus only came twice a day. The region was a patchwork of desert and speculative residential developments. Every house looked the same, and every street was named in the same maddening theme — Orange Grove Road, Orange Tree Way, Orange Grove Lane, Citrus Circle, Citrus Leaf Street, Tangerine Promenade. For an American teenager building my own identity, these repetitive places became symbols of mindless conformity, and I hated them. Every disorder became a source of joy — the huge puddles that formed in the summer rains, the unpaved ends of streets, the ditches filled with unruly cacti and palo verde. There was no public space, no bike lanes. If we stood in front of the Rite-Aid waiting to meet each other, we would be kicked out of the parking lot for not shopping. Virtually all of my friends were being raised by single parents who worked late, so we would walk miles to avoid being lonely, taking shortcuts through the large dry riverbeds we called washes. When walking to see my friends I always had a sense that I was doing something illegal. I was. The washes were off limits because they were subject to occasional flash floods. Nevertheless, we would spend our time together talking in these drainage ways because they offered an escape from daytime infomercials, nosy siblings, and monotony. We weren't supposed to be there, but we adopted portions of the landscape anyways, always having a sense that we were out of place and unimportant.

This last semester, a group of thesis students presented a visionary project to take a similar landscape — the suburbs of Las Vegas — and transform the culverts into a unique type of public space. In their design were a number of reasonable, simple, and beautiful ways that those culverts could be used to create community spaces, while becoming safer and better equipped to retain stormwater. What struck me was the potential in their project for the profound transformation of social space. I saw plenty of equally amazing projects, but this one dealt with a kind of landscape that was intimately familiar, and so for me, it demonstrated the immense potential and relevance of environmental design. I think we all know places like those washes that are in need of vision and attention.

As creative professionals emerging from one of the most prestigious universities in the world, we have the skills and responsibility to address the "big picture" problems. We've been given full access to brilliant professors, rich archives, and resourceful peers. It is our turn to step up and provoke change in the world, and we should do so with every bit of the intellectual humility, self-awareness and cultural sensitivity that our education at the CED has taught us to exercise. Where previous designers may have ignored the subjects of their design proposals, thinking only of the clients who pay the bills, we should always remain aware of whose view we have failed to consider. As designers, we have an ethical obligation to the public good that is much more difficult than that of lawyers and doctors. As Jane Gaboury said in a recent article: "Architects […] are charged with representing the needs of their paying clients as well as the often contradictory needs of the non-paying users and the non-paying public. There is no other designated agent for these unorganized interest groups." In other words, if we don’t negotiate in the interest of the public good, then in most cases no one will. This may be a challenging role to play, but it's a necessary role if we care for the future of our world.

Don't let this intimidate you. Just look at the beautiful black moo moo you're wearing, and the square of cardboard over your head, and how powerful you look when you wear them — like some nerdy wizard, a powerful nerdy wizard who can design anything. You've been given the skills to not only address the complex ethical dilemmas of design, but also to create beautiful, meaningful spaces. Spaces that delight, that comfort, that challenge, that provoke, that stimulate. Because design is not just about making things that aren't bad. It's also about making things that are really really awesome. You are ready to make awesome things.

While you meditate on the task ahead of you, I'd like to leave you with a quote from the professor emeritus of soul — James Brown:

You got to use just what you got
To get just what you want-a
Hey!
Hot pants! hey! hot pants smokin'!

Thank you.