Barragán

In a Barragán house, there are two kinds of headaches: allergy and a crisis in faith. A building whose material components submit completely in service to a higher vision, I imagine, elevates ordinary life. Taking a shower becomes a sacred renewal. Sweeping up leaves underneath perfect arches becomes a daily ritual. On those massive exterior walls, as if Barragán created icebergs in Mexico, am I looking at afternoon shadows or messages from the heavens?

A masterful architect with the genius and creativity to dream up and build a domestic space to nurture any human component – play, work, family, sex, rest, thinking, eating – Barragán chose sacrifice because, he seems to have learned by watching processions climb Tepeyac Hill towards the Virgin of Guadalupe, the impossibility of living in a paradise makes us more determined to arrive there.

Pride in sacrifice leads to envy. A tension between a Barragán house’s total confidence and the ambiguity, disorder running through everyday life. The randomness and decay that do happen here, like the dead bougainvillea assembling in a fountain’s designated corner, offer little to disprove that all is not planned. And a devil often whispers that hanging a calendar would feel so good.