… And he looked right back at me, and smiled. I hope he didn’t see a vacuous nothing as I tried for the life of me to remember who he was.
What a guy.
It happened just before noon today, when I was on Oxford Street - dying to use the facilities. Even though there were 100 loos in closer proximity, I knew RIBA was the place to pee.
When a toilet sink looks like this (above), how can anyone bear to wash their hands in anything else?
After satisfying said urge, my mind followed my feet’s natural ascension to the first floor gallery, within which The Brits Who Built the Modern World is exhibited.
I only had time to take in Big Norm’s and the European Space Agency’s take on living on the moon.
(Foster envisages a (dark) future living under moon regolith…)
… Back down the grand staircase (a dramatic backdrop where oft newly weds pose for photos) and there he was - Joseph Rykwert, architect/ architectural historian; a king amongst men.
I just couldn’t place name-to-face, face-to-name.
He was sitting by the entrance, on the Barber Osgerby steel desk, with people milling around him, holding reflectors and taking his photo.
He paused to sign a book. Was it The Seduction of Place? The Necessity of Artifice? I just don’t know. He could have been anyone, but he wasn’t. He was the Royal Gold Medallist, there for his lecture on The Profession and the Art. And had I not been such an ignoramus, I could have been there now, listening.