I think I had a pretty lekker childhood. We had friends that
lived alongside a giant piece of dirt. There as the last boerie had been grazed
off of the still warm bbq we’d tie our North Stars tight, we’d grab a stick of Bubbalicious,
saddle up our bmx’s and race into the dirty dry veld. We’d do bunny hops and
skids and ramp off dangerous stuff. That we did as the sun shone high in the
sky. As the golden orb plummeted we’d all scuttle into the ‘spare room’ where
the giant Scale-Electrix was installed. Its swirling tracks, its switch backs,
its gleaming formula-one cars, painted red beaming like a star in the spot-light’s
glow. Man alive I was living a Tron movie. After the thumb action, we’d all
huddle on the one 3-seater couch, grab the well worn VHS cassette out the
plastic box, jam it into the machine, push down, hit rewind and then hit play. It
was Speilberg’s E.T. and we were glued mesmerised.
Bumbling down Katherine street during my lunch hour, I came upon (no innuendo
intended) the Sasol building.
The Sasol building which sits on Katherine Street in Sandton hyper-speeded my
mind back to those heavenly 80’s of pliable He-Man, Spaceballs, Tron, Fanta Grape,
puffy aerobic socks and Spielberg movies.
My close encounter with this kind of architecture left me dumbed for only it
could have been conceived by an lsd-infused architecture student-it sits as
unfamiliar, alien-like, and out of place. Coming from a school of architecture where
order and geometry were the established modes of design, this is certainly colouring-outside-of-the
lines.
It is a strange, odd looking edifice. It has no back , it has no front. It’s
androgynous. It’s menacing as it projects its arms outwards piercing the sky.
It is beautiful to photograph for it is dynamic. It’s facadal folds, the
rolling of the sun and the ebb and flow of any kind of cloud across the sky
present the building differently each day, each hour, each minute. Its
reflective face depicts the daily duties of Pez-like public transport-mini taxis
and Ubers trading places. In. drop
off. Out. In. drop off. Out.
Pedestrians , I see, have no place.
Its form is voluptuous, it’s sexy. It’s abstract, difficult to read, difficult
to understand. What is its DNA-XY or YY?. It’s a squat bulging building pulled
plasticine. It’s devoid of orientation. It’s mutant skin regulating its
internals. It is as an objet d’art. I want to experience it as I would a Cianfanelli
or a Dylan Lewis. I want to touch it, to stand along-side it, to experience its
slanting walls. But as it sits as a polished diamond on its stone clad
pedestal, I cannot.
Movies, art, sculpture, scale electrix are art. Architecture isn’t.
Architecture isn’t solely an object to be experienced from afar in a magazine
or online. Architecture is integral to its surroundings, it is a critical
component of its landscape. It is there to be engaged, to be touched, to be
felt. It should add to street life, it should enhance street life. It should
tell a story, it should connect. The Sasol building is a non-fitting puzzle
piece in a complex cityscape. It ought to fulfil a public role, it ought to
give something to our city. As it sits on hits raised plinth, it’s
impenetrable. This expression is but a
pretty picture, lessening the true role that architecture should be playing in
acting as a catalyst for better integrating our city.
Buildings are erected to span time frames and occupants. I write this as the
Creative Counsel Building sits empty, now for a year or so. Developed for one
tenant’s vision and purpose it will have a difficult 2nd life. So
too, the Sasol building sits precariously.
Back in 2005 while trawling through Carnaby Street, London blowing tons of quids, I bought a pair of Levi’s
bootlegs. They had paint splashes designed in them and a fabric inset at the
boot to give them a bit of splay. They were cooler than ice as me and Richie
rode the tube on Saturday evening s drinking Ribena and vodka pre-gaming before
a night in a club in Kings Cross.
Those pair of jeans saw the height of alternative rock, they
saw Pearl Jam live in Tottenham Court Road, they saw Dave Matthews in
Birmingham, they saw Cold Play at Isle of Wight, they saw Radiohead. They saw
the Royal Albert Hall and Nobu restaurant. They saw it all. But 15 years later
on I’m not sure I’d take them out again. Their blue haze has faded, their time
has passed.
I fear that’s the Sasol building.
