I Thought that Public Masturbation was a Crime

The (W)Rapper, and it is ugly


It's ugly on the inside too


Not a fluke, see Beehive and Pterodactyl

It appears, however, that this law does not apply to architects.

Let us examine the oeuvre of one Eric Owen Moss, who apparently derives sexual satisfaction from making people who live and work near his buildings suffer on a daily basis.

Modern building materials, particularly structural steel, have freed architects from the restrictions imposed by the limits of older building materials. (See the as the Bent Pyramid as an example of these limits.)

Freed from such constraints, architects have gotten their freak on, and not in a good way:

A chunky grey staircase thrusts out from the side of a new office tower in Los Angeles, lunging towards a rail line before jerking back on itself and lurching up the building in jagged twists and turns. It crashes into a warped lattice of bands that wrap around the glassy hulk, swooping past corner windows that jut in and out like broken teeth. This is (W)rapper, “an outrageous creative office tower”, in the words of its leasing agents, set to “reawaken the Los Angeles skyline”. It is also the bombastic tombstone of a bygone era, a carbon-guzzling monument to a time when architectural ego trumped the interests of people and planet.

It is the first vertical element to sprout from an eccentric district of low-rise creative workspace that has been developing here in Culver City, on LA’s west side, over the last few decades. This 60-acre swath of former warehouses, known as the Hayden Tract, is an exhibition of architectural experimentation, a place where windows slant, columns convulse and globular protuberances burst out of walls. Rippling glass canopies erupt through rooftops, held on mangled knots of steel, while other structures are flayed open or gnawed down to their bones, their exposed skeletons mutilated beyond recognition. It looks like the buildings have been attacked by some flesh-eating bacteria or succumbed to a violent parasitic invasion.

The name of the virulent strain in question is Eric Owen Moss. The 79-year-old architect has been cutting, twisting and otherwise creatively torturing this tract of postwar industrial sheds since the 1980s, like a medieval mason chipping away at his model town. The result is an office district like no other, a place where a single architectural imagination has been left to run riot, conjuring ever-more elaborate fever dreams, fuelled by the open chequebook of a trusting patron.

Please, someone, make it stop.