Most custom projects originate from a client’s vision; perhaps inspired by a friend’s home, or viewing a picture in a magazine. It begins with a question: “Can we do that?” For us, the answer is almost always, “Yes.” One of the most rewarding aspects of building is the problem solving and collaboration involved in creating something truly unique.
In one recent example, a client approached Dyna Builders with images of a black range hood adorned with brass strapping, complemented by a glass windowbox framed with a black metal screen reminiscent of old schoolhouse windows. Although the wall in their kitchen couldn’t accommodate a real window structurally, we saw a potential solution in using an artificial light source. Thus, the idea was born: a range hood venting through a lightbox.
But how could we make this vision a reality? The most successful custom projects thrive on collaboration. In this case, the solution evolved out of input from the client, design concepts from architects, fabrication and 3D modeling from Dyna’s in-house Metal Shop, and lighting expertise from Northwest LED. Each participant contributed ideas and advice, ensuring we built the lightbox in the best way possible.
Numerous considerations emerged: Where would the transformer be placed? What thickness should the glass be? What gauge and color should the metal screen be? How would the LED lighting wrap around the frame to illuminate evenly? And crucially, how could we vent the range hood through the center of the lightbox?
I could elaborate on how we tackled each challenge to create a perfectly functional lightbox and range hood, but in this case, as with many such design details, the explanation is less meaningful than the creative journey it took to get there. The biggest takeaway for us was that honest, open collaboration yields the best results. Don’t hold back—challenge one another. Through a collective effort and problem solving, you’ll design and create something far greater than you could achieve alone.
Although not a formal beginning, I can track the start of my apprenticeship as an electrician to when I first caught myself staring at ceilings. My grandfather supervised the construction of missile silos, my dad almost single-handedly built houses, and I, after growing up around and dabbling in most of the trades, settled on my favorite: electrical. From that point on, I noticed that electrical metallic tubing, whose essential function is to protect wiring, was everywhere, and what began as a casual awareness of its ubiquity progressed over the years into a hypersensitivity of its use and misuse. Now, in addition to electrical conduit and raceways, I find myself critiquing the visual expression of sprinkler head layout; lighting placement; Heating, Ventilation and Air Conditioning (or HVAC for short); and all of the myriad systems that make our modern buildings livable.
Today, in my work as Construction Supervisor of mechanical, electrical and plumbing at the University of Washington (UW) and in my former role at the university as Lead Electrician, I have an all-access pass to buildings through their entire lifespan. The campus provides a survey course in construction means and methods over the past century, from an era when many designers would hide critical, but, perhaps, distasteful infrastructural elements to today, where those same components are often left uncovered. Visible to the naked eye, these exposed elements provide an invitation to the public, offering insight into the world of skilled craft and the honest artistry and elegant eye that it takes to execute them well. Often the product of decades of labor honing one’s craft, I have come to see these installations as works of art in their own right. While the accolades for new buildings typically fall on architects, interior designers, and occasionally builders, we could do well to turn our attention to the skilled journeyworkers who bend the pipe, run the duct, and hook up the lines.
This can be seen in two of the newest buildings on UW’s Seattle campus, both of which share a common trait that is becoming more frequent in contemporary design: their life sustaining and enhancing systems are purposely exposed. More so than perhaps any other historical period, besides Ancient Greco-Roman times when exposed plumbing was trending, today you can see not only the nuts and bolts, but the entire range of construction disciplines. Trades work is finally on display in a way it hasn’t been before.
Why is this the case? One reason is perhaps due to modern methods of project development and delivery, which are seeing increased collaboration between architects and builders during all phases of design. At UW, these design-build models are becoming increasingly common for new buildings; for example, Founders Hall at the Foster School of Business was designed and built in a collaborative relationship between the UW and the Business School, LMN Architects, and Hoffman Construction. On the south side of campus, the most recently completed design-build project is the Health Sciences Education Building, a partnership between the UW, the Miller Hull Partnership, and Lease Crutcher Lewis.
I recently spent some time in each of these buildings, staring at ceilings, trying to understand how to describe these places from the perspective of a skilled, journey-level trades worker. Most people would probably be surprised to know that many parts of buildings, including these two, look the way they do because of people like me. These are the parts that aren’t designed by the architects, but rather by the “lay” designers, or “second-order” stylists: the women and men who actually assemble the buildings.
In our apprenticeships, mechanical workers (“tinknockers”), electricians (“sparkies”), and those in the plumbing trades (“no comment”) are trained in the legal requirements, or building codes, which are exclusively focused on life safety. These rules are literally written into law in many instances, and they serve as the primary guide for decision making at the highest level, answering the question: What are the legal requirements of a given installation? We learn and internalize those rules and they serve as the backbone of all of the installation decisions that we make. What you see in the built environment has passed inspection and its conformity to code can ensure you of its safety.
We are also trained in the logical, pragmatic methods of our scope of construction: the duct, the conduit and wire, the pipe and tubing and the various outlets of air systems (conditioned and not), power, water, vacuum, vent. Our trades each have their own idiosyncratic rules, customs, and trends. It used to be common to secure components with steel wire, for instance, where now purpose-built fasteners and generalized matrices of square steel with specialized clamps do that work. The choices around which fitting or fastener and how to space them, after code compliance is considered, is then up to either the shop standard or the individual trade worker. Oftentimes, there are various ways to accomplish a task. More than merely functional alternatives, these decisions have an appreciable aesthetic impact. In fact, certain configurations are so well executed as to seem inevitable and ideal. In deference to this vision and skill, journeyworkers can and should be recognized as artists in their own right.
Design-build has economy at its heart. Many decisions that have overarching and cascading effects on the look and feel of the materials used have their basis in budget and schedule. In this way, we can understand the rise of design-build as the key factor in the new exposed-mechanical aesthetic common in contemporary buildings. Leaving the mechanical systems exposed is less expensive because it involves less materials, which in turn has allowed an opening for the third level of design influence: the innate creative bent of the worker.
As a journeyworker, there are various means and methods by which to express oneself through our crafts. The means may be the material you use to go from box to box to power source, some of which, as mentioned, is governed by regulation and some by monetary concerns. The method is the path chosen, and the techniques and the skill of the conduit fabrication affirm it was done professionally. As the saying goes, you can choose two from speed, cost, and beauty. Although, in the real world, we often have to contend with various mixtures of the three.
The National Electric Code states that it has no position on design. Therefore, there’s a limitless number of ways you can legally run power from point A to point B. How does the trade worker proceed? The next set of factors would be any overarching specification in the plan set, then might come shop or company preference, then budget. With certain methods much more costly and time-consuming, money can often play a role in the design.
Take for example the exposed type MC electrical cabling seen fastened to the ceilings at Founders Hall. Generally concealed within a wall, it is a notoriously difficult material to make look good. During the design-build process, for budgetary reasons, the designers and the electrical subcontractor were faced with the challenge of nevertheless, making it look as good as possible. The meandering, imperfect lines of the MC and other bare cabling in the building seem out of place against the sharp angles of the structure and the other building systems. The electricians who worked on this project had the unenviable task of making the most out of a bad set of circumstances.
By contrast, at the Health Sciences Education Building, the electrical contractor there was allowed to use the aforementioned electrical metallic tubing, commonly referred to as EMT, as the means to conceal the electrical wiring in an aesthetically pleasing and physically protective steel or aluminum alloy. The fabrication of this system requires years of training, and practice by the trades worker to achieve a professional result. Many more years are needed for the worker to have the keen eye to make the chosen pathway look decent. And yet still more time, or perhaps an innate creativity, is required to make the pathway look great.
The collaboration, then, of owners, designers and builders in the construction of modern structures, as evidenced by UW’s Founder’s Hall and the Health Science Education Building, has opened up a new canvas for design. Similar to the difference between so-called folk art and high art, the functional craft of journeyworkers in the mechanical, electrical, and plumbing systems relates to the “high art” of architectural design in a complimentary way.
As users of these buildings, we are invited to look up and gaze upon the results of thousands of decisions, some proscriptive, some pragmatic and, yes, some artistic. That last category is what calls for attention. After generations’ worth of skilled work being hidden behind walls and ceilings, today we have an opportunity like never before to engage with these installations as we would with objects in a museum. Inspiration, intellectual stimulation, and aesthetic pleasure are just a few of the benefits that an appreciation of craft can offer the viewer. That layered depth, at times intricate, at other times subtle and simple, is now there for us to behold in our built environment. All one has to do is look up.
