The Death of Modern


Modern was probably dead to begin with.

But, in his youth, he achieved fame by removing elements, simplifying, and arranging order. We were infatuated with his purity. With Modern, we stood in front of a blank canvas that seemed to clear away our past regressions, and promised a future of precision and clarity. Modern was singular and lovely, like silence.

At his height, he traveled extensively, leaving simple white calling cards as far aboard as Switzerland and Barcelona.

But, after a few years, Modern began to survive off the rising fat of society, sleeping on the couches of the affluent, coasting on past achievements, and appealing to our baser instincts. Modern became self-referential and obsessed with dichotomy. The excesses and luxuries were building up in the arteries, I’d assume, but to all outward appearances Modern was the picture of health.

But, we remember the best of a man when he’s gone. We think of a small kindness, the respect in the eyes of his family, the touch of his hand, the quiet rise and fall of his breathing in his sleep, the peeling of an orange in one long continuous strand….

We remember the measure of a man.

But, let’s face it… Modern was just an asshole.


Jody { coffee with an architect



photos are of Aldo Rossi’s San Cataldo Cemetery in Modena, from kalevkevad’s photostream on Flickr (used under creative commons license)