The Avalanche of Architecture School

A semester at graduate architecture school is a bit like skiing an avalanche. You start fresh, at the top of the mountain, skiing along without much direction, it's kind of light and fun, and you're filled with the rush and anticipation of a killer ride down.

But as you progress down the mountain face, you realize that the top sheet is beginning to slide. You can see than avalanche is forming, you pick up the pace. The skiing becomes more focused, more intense. As the snow moves beneath your skis your heart begins to race as you're nimbly keeping ahead of the cusp of the avalanche, but the ocean of snow is building up speed and power. Any mistake here will set you back considerably, but you're doing it, surfing the edge of disaster, a toehold of control over the situation.

At a certain point, however, everything moves too fast, you miss a turn, your ski wobbles, you fall behind and then you're IN the avalanche, picked up by its power and speed, and you're struggling to simply stay upright, with barely any control over your work, you're just trying to desperately get it out and get through, stay vertical, and stay as on top as possible.

Some students simply get buried and left behind, the ones that don't make it. Master skiiers always get caught in the avalanche, but their skills and experience keep them on top of the churning vortex, always moving forward, reading the disaster as it unfolds, avoiding the rocks and trees, and when the whole thing hits the valley floor, they're the ones who nimbly slide to a stop in style, not even their googles askew. Most students fall somewhere between, the weaker skiiers crashing into review a scattered snowball of hats and renderings and skis and drawings smashed into the pin up wall.

Right now, I'm skirting the edge of the avalanche. It will overtake me, but for now, I'm working hard to make sure that when it hits, I'll be in good shape to ride it out.