One Mind! One Form!

Joseph Lezza

The Danish Architecture Center sits on a sharp corner of the Copenhagen waterfront where the port tosses an arm under the Christians Brygge to become the Fredriksholms Kanal. In a town and a country whose main export is a trademark design style that conjures ultra modern structures out of simple materials, this building ranks in a league of its own. The Center itself occupies a section of a larger multi-purpose facility known as The BLOX whose façade, with its razor sharp edges and haphazard protrusions, resembles a massive Jenga tower abandoned mid-game by its equally proportional players. And, whether due to a location that thrusts it in the eye line of every passing commercial ship and tourist boat, or a glass and metal makeup that stands in stark contrast to its stone-faced 15th and 16th century neighbors, this is a building that dares you not to notice it. 

I certainly had. From the moment I’d arrived in Denmark’s capital city, some three days prior, the crystal stack had caught my attention and had been near impossible to miss ever since. Its proximity to places like the Tivoli garden and the bridges that led to the trendy bars and cafes of Christianshavn had rendered it a toll of sorts, a daily cover charge. Want to enjoy the spoils of the city? Well, you gotta look at this box. 

It came to be, then, that the siren call soon became too much to bear. And, just in time. This was the final day of a two-country trip on which I’d embarked with Dani, a former co-worker-turned-friend. While we’d never before traveled together, she was the kind of person I trusted to indulge my more irresponsible impulses. So, it took little effort to spin my 1-year unemployment anniversary into a reason – nay, a need – for an international sojourn. An anti-victory tour, as it were. Sure, one might think I had no business taking the trip. But, I did have the savings. Plus, with the dollar being stronger than the euro, I was actually richer in Scandinavia than I was at home. Which, if you ask me, is just fiscally prudent. 

In all, it had been a lovely distraction. But, as one often comes to discover with a first-time travel buddy, what works in small doses tends to wear thin under prolonged exposure. Understanding this, for the sake of our friendship, Dani and I had decided to take the opportunity to miss each other a bit. She’d spend the day among the artists and hash dealers of Freetown Christiania while I’d wile away the hours at DAC, both agreeing to reconvene for a drink later that evening. Thus, it came to pass, after a breakfast of rye bread, eggs, and coffee, I slipped into the streets and surrendered to the magnetic pull that landed me in the invisible shadow of a great glass behemoth.  

Just before entering, a red flash called from the corner of my eye. It was a sign posted at the inlet to the canal that read “Vis hensyn, sejl langsomt.” The words meant nothing to me in the moment, but I’d long been charmed by this language that, with all respect, sounded like English spoken with a mouth full of peanut butter. So, I snapped a picture, making a mental note to send the words through Google translate the next time I had a solid Wifi connection. Luckily, in Europe, even the fire hydrants have free Wifi. They’re aggressive about it. There are no passwords. No codes at the bottom of a Chipotle receipt. It’s just, there. Sure, networks named Lycamobile_offentlig_free triggered my inner American skeptic. But, upon considering the notion of Danish hackers, I surmised that the worst they could do to my phone would be to give it universal healthcare. So, I clicked “Connect” without a second thought and breezed into the lobby.

Past a long stretch of escalator, I flashed my student ID and a desperate smile at the front desk and made my way into the welcome center. It was there that the walls offered a panel-by-panel history of the site. Where once stood an old brewery, The BLOX had risen, giving home to exhibition spaces, offices, co-working spaces, a café, a bookstore, a fitness center, a restaurant, twenty-two apartments, and an underground car park. Emblazoned above it all was the phrase “Architecture and Design Create the Framework of Our Lives.” And, it was true. Here, within the very framework of this building, was life, an entire self-contained civilization. It would come as no surprise that, in true Scandic fashion, the structure was as self-sustaining as it was efficient. The abundance of glass allowed for both natural lighting and heating, diminishing their reliance on external energy sources. And, thanks to the nearby harbor, they could leverage the benefit of seawater cooling. The attraction was in full compliance with the UN Global Compact of 2008, the Planet Copenhagen manifesto of 2009, it neutralized its own carbon usage and, if my limited Danish was correct, it also cured cancer. 

On my way to the start of the exhibition, I stopped to retrieve my phone, recalling the sign that had caught my attention outside. I pulled up the snapshot, punched the alphabet soup into my translator, “Vis hensyn, sejl langsomt,” and held out my hands for some cherries only to have serendipity’s slot machine spit out lemons. What I’d hoped might be an Easter egg of wisdom turned out to be a simple warning to passing sea craft: “Show consideration, sail slowly.” Not exactly the prophecy I was looking for. 

Inside the center, I found the curation to be not unlike many of the modern art museums in the states. The placards along the rooms’ exterior told the history of regional design and architecture, while from the floor sprung pedestals and glass cases housing miniatures and scale models of more recent constructions, meant to showcase how the ethos of modern Danish style continued to draw inspiration and instruction from its earliest days. As I moved along the outskirts of the space, I watched a Viking longhouse construct itself panel-by-panel, saw a so-called “primitive” society pound the earth flat, erect complex grid walls out of hewn timber and fill the spaces with clay and animal dung. I saw them weave a football field of grasses and branches and reeds to lay as a nearly impenetrable roof. And, then I thought about the floating shelf from my first apartment that would always toss my belongings to the floor because, despite the computer in my back pocket, I hadn’t been able to unravel the complexities of a toggle bolt. 

At the heart of the Viking room was a massive expanse of roof thatching, recreated for an exhibit called “Irreplaceable Landscapes” where visitors could experience some of these crude elements against their own bodies. Never one to pass on a crude interaction, I slipped off my shoes and socks, leaving them with the gaggle of other abandoned footwear, and stepped onto the field of flattened straw. For a minute or so, I meandered, closing my eyes and enjoying the satisfying crunch that accompanied each step. Eventually, I settled on an empty patch where, amidst the projections of blackbirds and the hushed exchanges of my neighbors, I thought I might just exist for a moment. Intrusive thoughts, though, had other plans. 

One of the benefits of traveling with a companion is having an external force to keep you present, keep you moving. In the absence of that, the mind gets to thinking. And, if you’re someone like me, it gets to thinking about problems. So, it wasn’t long before, on an eighth century roof, I was forced to confront my twenty-first century predicament. I thought about having to leave the next morning, and about how all that waited for me at home was an inbox full of rejection emails. I thought about the day I got laid off, how unsettling it had been and, yet, how quickly confident I’d been that in short order I’d land something new, something better. I thought about the applications, the phone screens, the false starts, the interviews, the project assignments, the final rounds, the fraught optimism, and the delayed repudiation. And, how, with each pass, another layer of self-assurance was stripped away until, at the end of a year, I was left not so much a person as I was just the raw materials of one. 

So paper-thin had I been cut, I wondered if I could even successfully shelter a Viking family from the rain. 

Just before I could fully give into the impulse to return to the lobby and ask one of the docents if I could fill out an application, some soft thuds and crunches brought me back to the present. The proximal heat of a passing human brushed against my cheek in time for me to open my eyes and catch a passing set; one that lingered on mine a split second too long, though long enough to pull me upright. The eyes disappeared behind drapes of curly brown hair belonging to a young guy who also seemed to be museum-ing alone. He was about medium height, lithe, with a complexion that suggested he may not be a local. I watched him, not at all subtly, step into his sneakers, with an aim to see if he’d lift his head and, perhaps, confirm that the lingering had been intentional. And, he did, but a bit less confident this time, darting to the next room the moment he caught me staring. 

To be fair, I’d never been good at reading signals, always afraid of being caught with my figurative pants down. To that day, a man could self-immolate on my front porch and my reflex reaction would be to sift through the ashes for pictures of his boyfriend. However, as I found myself at a point in time where I’d gladly have been anyone other than myself, now seemed as good a time as any to actively rail against my gut instinct. 

What followed took ages.

In the Romanesque room, the Viking longhouses gave way to churches and cathedrals, arched windows; smooth stone columns gave way to wood. I gave way to a feeling of total unease, wanting, on the one hand, to have the experience I came to have and not allow misjudgment to squander my last remaining hours in a fool’s paradise. On the other hand, wanting equally as badly to not be single in a museum yet again, to not be just another artifact, I had never been more poised to reach my hand across the velvet rope. Even if it meant breaking something. 

So, I reached across 150 years, into the Gothic era. That is where I found him, sights drawn upward where an image from a fresco portrayed two robed women being menaced by a big-eared, big-horned, web-footed creature with a piece of parchment clutched in his outthrust claw. I sidled closer, roundly, to try and make out the scribbles just in time for the demon to reveal its lineage. From out the side of my stranger’s silhouette burst a cluster of jagged edges, an asymmetrical mass of steel at 1:100 scale with hundreds of spiky balconies blooming forth, more like a military flail than what it actually was: a housing development. 

Despite the violent scene, my new infatuation appeared intact. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed his own impaling. As I drew parallel, his gaze fell, and with it went a mudslide of dense brown curls. Whatever concern I had for the almost certain death of the tiny citizens in the building below were erased by astonishment, astonishment at how each chunky twist leapt from his crown to threaten destruction and how, just as quickly, they bungeed back into feathery place. The physics just didn’t make sense. Such mass and such force should have surely snapped his neck. And, yet, he slipped into the next exhibit intact and unaware that he’d likely disrupted the tectonic shift of an entire continent. 

In the Renaissance, the arts were granted more importance and, as churches begat more churches and steeples learned to ring out the passage of time, we danced around the face of the clock – this stranger and I – like the minute hand chasing the hour. 

Then came the Baroque, where light and shadow played a role, never fully giving either of us a clear look at the other. It was that same light, however, that allowed for the volley of some discernible sideways glances. And, those very shadows that cloaked our mutual throat clearing, obscuring what might well have been invitations. Invariably, as choppier, more symmetrical facades gave structures the illusion of movement, so, too, did our own movement seem at times intentional and, at others, only fantastical.  

It was somewhere during Rococo, amidst its shell-clad cornices and flower-laden flatware, that I began to wonder if there was something truly deeper to this or if, like that which surrounded us, all of this amounted to nothing more than a bunch of peacocking. And, as if summoned, Neoclassicism arrived to test that theory. 

In the abutting room, the Danes of the late 18th century shifted their focus from the exterior to the interior. “One Mind!” shouted the walls, in big block letters. “One Form!” Where design was concerned, it became about harmony and economy. So, it stood to reason that, if the stranger and I had genuine designs on each other, a shared formation could verify a shared mindset. The fact that we were not the only visitors would prohibit more obvious overtures. I couldn’t strut like a sage grouse or scream “Are you GAY?” across a semi-crowded room. Instead, like the Neoclassics, my measures would have to be much more economical. For instance, when I stepped around him to read a panel about Bertel Thorvaldsen, I’d close the space between us just narrow enough for it to feel purposeful. And when, shortly after parking myself, I’d feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention, I’d test again. This time, he’d meet me on the opposite side of a display case. And, as we’d pretend fascination at a sampling of clay tile, I’d match him sigh for sigh, each of us holding, neither of us moving, as if one of us was daring the other to break the formation. 

The problem was, even when we would, it would simply lead to another room and a few new steps in the same dance. That was not only clear to me but, by the time we hit the 1900s, it was also clear that time itself was beginning to feel the frustration. 

With the arrival of the Modern age, everything became curved, became smoother, became much more difficult to grab on to, as if the building was trying to flush us out like the wastrels we were. Waste had no place in modern Danish society, and there was no place to hide it. Functionalism made sure of that. The innate simplicity of its glass and concrete did everything to reinforce exteriors while exposing all that remained soft and round inside. 

Up until now, something about the unfamiliar surroundings had created an environment where my own unfamiliarity could thrive. Where better than a strange place to be, well, stranger? But, that strangeness could only sustain as long as the environment, one where all that was usual seemed to be rapidly shifting back into place. With each step forward, doors slid shut. With each new era, walls were erected, hard and reinforced. Only now, thanks to our hosts, they were transparent, going as far as they could to close us in while leaving exposed all that was squishy and brittle. 

The Contemporary wing of the DAC is its greatest expanse, littered with colorful and tactile exhibits highlighting the style of the day. One particular exhibit, titled “The Spaces Between Us,” found its home in one of the many massive glass quadrangulars that jut out from the complex’s main frame. From a lacquered dark wood floor, dozens of bright orange and yellow swivel chairs sprung like crocuses. However, instead of legs, these chairs rested on the tilt of a very wide rim that was supported by a much narrower axis point. Without a backing, the seated had to hold on as they were not only rotated but simultaneously rocked backward to face the ceiling and then forward to face the floor. Because, why be comfortable when you could be disoriented?

Something about spinning in place whilst taking a good thrashing felt oddly appropriate, as if it might finally shake loose whatever it was about me that was wound too tight. So, I nestled myself, grabbed on, and spun for the gods; first with eyes closed and then open, no longer caring to protect myself from dizziness or, heaven forbid, getting sick. In fact, I threw my frame into gaining every bit of velocity I could. So what if I threw up? At least puking my guts out would prove that I had guts at all. However many revolutions it took, I unseized, letting my legs loll over the edge and the momentum take me where it wanted. That’s when I noticed, just a yard or two away, the stranger, in his own little chair having his own little wobble. 

The fact that we were the only ones in the room might’ve finally inspired a word. But, instead, we chose to remain two separate planets, spinning on our axes, always revolving but never colliding. I thought, maybe if we spun here long enough we would die and turn to dust and our particles would meet in the air. Maybe, less dramatically, we could just spin long enough until momentum and gravity knocked us together, long enough for the universe to finish expanding and snap back like a rubber band. Then we’d be sure to meet. Unfortunately, the museum closed at six that day. 

Remembering that I had to meet Dani in Christiania before drinks meant getting up and heading to the lobby and allowing the space between us to become ever spacier. Just before I could get there, however, the stranger brushed past on my left, the bare edge of his sleeve catching mine. I hit the brakes, watching as he made his way across the expanse and slipped behind the glossy white door of the men’s room. Having been around enough men in my life, I knew body contact, however subtle, was almost never unintentional. And, I’d certainly been to enough gay bars to know that the restroom doubled as a bordello. But, this was not a bar and, in all of my pre-travel research, it hadn't occurred to me to look up the protocol for cruising in Copenhagen. 

 I did manage to follow in his path. I even managed to press my hand against the door when I reached it. But, what stopped me from pushing it open was a complete lack of confidence as to what I’d find on the other side. What if we weren’t alone? Would I just pretend to pee while waiting for the others to file out? And, what would happen then? I thought about him grabbing me by the collar and pushing me up against the sink. I thought about doing the same to him. I thought about my face falling behind that curtain of hair where we could run our lips across each other’s and where I could warm his cold nose with my breath. I thought about him pulling my chin down with his thumb, opening my mouth and, despite not even knowing if we shared a language, writing an entire history and future on each other’s tongues. I thought about his eyelashes, twisted up in mine and growing wet as they brushed up a tear or two, products of a hysterical joy. I thought about his hands sliding over my collarbone, down my chest and resting on my hips. I thought about pressing my fingers into his back hard enough to come away with a piece of flesh that I could bring home and tack up on my fridge with all the other magnets and postcards. I played these scenes in my head, over and again, nothing about them that stark a departure from acts I had committed in the past. The difference being I had committed them all only after being granted permission, something explicit and uncontestable available only at the hands of another. And, even now, the only explicit thing about this had been crystal visions. Going ahead with this would be a repudiation of all of my old instincts. It meant flinging myself across a threshold and into the waiting arms of what could very well be heartbreak.

That’s why, as I came back into myself, I found my hand still poised against the door, throbbing. Why I stood there and stood there, immovable, feeling it grow heavier against my palm. Why, after searing my fingerprints into the metal, I pulled away, through the lobby, down the escalator and back out the doors to the waterfront. 

Down where the port met the inlet, I propped myself up against a railing, amazed that I’d ever managed to hold myself up without a spine. Having decided that stepping through that bathroom door was impossible made standing there for one more instant unbearable. There I was, after a year of crawling across broken glass for any opportunity to reclaim my old life and when, instead, an opportunity had materialized to explore an alternate version. And, I ran from it. Because it required activating something within me that I couldn’t quite identify. That’s the thing about identity, though. So much of it is not the product of intent but, rather, happenstance. So much of who I’d been when my life caved in was the result of hundreds if not thousands of arbitrary choices. I’d discovered my job by accident, largely due to its proximity to a previous one. I’d chosen to make a career out of it, to use it to prop up my personhood. Meanwhile, the more I’d entrenched myself, the more resistant I became to altering course because, somewhere, I knew that either meant admitting I’d learned all I could from it or, worse, that I’d made the wrong decision in the first place. And, the truth is, one doesn’t have to get that far down a path before any offshoot feels like too big a risk. 

Still, everything I’d just experienced was proof that that risk taker was a part of me, some buried line of code written into my nature. It had to be or else I’d never have been able to recognize or follow it as easily as I had. I just couldn’t activate it. Not yet. 

When I was finally able to look up from the water, that’s when I saw it again. The sign. “Vis hensyn, sejl langsomt.” “Show consideration, sail slowly.”

Sailing through the ages as breezily as I just had had made everything seem too easy. I’d watched as a society made itself then broke itself then reinvented itself countless times, and all before dinner. Meantime, the only reason I could even stand where I stood was because a bloody churn across millennia had cleared a space for me and erected a building that, itself, was a monument to the act of looking at what used to be and considering an alternative. Even that had required a brewery to meet a bulldozer and for the land to be razed and deserted only for it be commandeered by invaders and reclaimed and rezoned and reconsidered across four hundred and ten years of bureaucracies before it would become what it was: something new, yes, but informed by everything that preceded it. 

So, maybe I couldn’t change myself in an afternoon. Maybe the change would take longer, sail slower. Perhaps, painfully so. But, maybe that change wouldn’t be a departure as much as it would be a reconfiguration. A change that could only begin once I stopped doubting the parts of me that were contrary to some perceived identity. 

Only once I acknowledged the intrinsic. 

And, showed it some damn consideration.