The Creative Counsel

There is a something in the air tonight, Fernando. It’s something I can feel, something I can see. It’s the dynamic evolving face of Jo’burg’s architectural landscape, the very fabric we engage with each and every day. The city is undergoing a metamorphosis, not so much a jeff goldblum, but a slow Darwinian change.

We were happy with stock standard- maximizing floor plate, cheap as chips, applied decoration, and if the architecture attracted a ‘nice building’ quip everyone was spinning hula hoops, the building even got mention in a magazine, oooh.
In aeons gone by RFB architects floated our boats with their Gateway project on Rivonia Road. Its shipping ends, cabled shading eliciting lightness, and its overall extraordinary architecture rubbing against Sandtons grain. That was then, but now it’s seen its death, a sunken ship. The Bermuda triangle has made space for something new, something better than a red velvet cookie.
Now the Big Cheese has seen the light. Seen the effect a beautiful building has on perception, on landscape, on the eye. On marketability. Once we threw out words like ‘sustainable’, now we've replaced it with ‘iconic’, ‘statement’, and ‘x-factor’…, oh gsus, not a Simon Cowel Sunday night paraphrase. Somebody bring me a barf bag.

Shlurpin, sipping on my strawed coolie, I wonder, finally, joburg is seeing the front page news. ‘Ground Control to Major Tom’
No Jo’burger out of the field of architecture knew the word ‘iconic’ until Paragon’s Norton Rose .

As day turns to dusk and the Creative Counsel building hovers as a settled stalk above the river rushing, pulsing Corlett Drive, the glass turns iron solid until the internal lights flare to show the highway hurtlers a view of the glass menagerie, the ‘box’, a hovering portal, Richard Dean Anderson’s Stargate, the bobbing heads of brand activationists.
Book-ending the drek of car show rooms, buildings best positioned at hell’s door, and holding tight before we swoop beneath the always flooded Corlett bridge, a bridge over troubled waters, the building announces. It’s a sharp shooter, from the hip. We know it has arrived.
The car showrooms don’t belong, they’ve paint-stripped, violated a once textured, pedestrianised and fine grained Corlett Drive. I had hoped a new building would ignite transition. That was you Creative. Your opportunity is not lost though, it’s the park my furry little friends, it’s the park.
 The beautiful brutal smooth as softserve concrete crushing the frail clip-on china-mart decorations of vehicle branded parking lots. A sturdy edifice in a sea of flimsy wedding frills.
As I’m redlining it down the M1 north in my souped-up Tazz, The Counsel, winks at me, her skirt billowing as Marilyn Munroe’s. Lights, camera, Action. She is a billboard building. Her orientation is on me, it’s on you. Her slender sexy piloti tippy toeing, she be peeking unto the highway, ‘what’s going on, she asks?’ But really she knows what’s going on.

Her elevated base, separating man from machine. A swooping stair case guides you up and onwards onto the stage positioning you above the ebb and flow of peak time traffic. This is your platform. Your opportunity to shine.The LED’s swooping around the tight-anium clad drums hook the eye, pulling, reeling one in, like white to rice, like a Mozambiquen mozzie to my syrupy blood.

The polished drums, a scaled fish, a shinier glean than Freedom Square’s, 3 of them rise, puncturing the concrete frame. Puncturing a blue sky breaking up a horizontal horizon. A nod to Le Corb’s Unite, or just volumetric chest pounding.

They’ve created landmark, like it like a lollipop or despise it like bubble gum on your boots. This edifice, this aesthetic, whether good or bad is ‘iconic’, it’s distinguishing.

It takes balls the size of the 1986 prize winning pumpkin at the country farm fair in Utah Alabama to erect a building so particular to one tenant in this day and age of sustainability. The Creative Counsel did it by the scribbley pen of Paragon Architects