I created thought experiments in the form of
‘stories’ based on a set of fictional
personas with different backgrounds and disease aetiologies representing
the intended residents for the design. Narratives for these people were created
at various points in their experience of the building to help visualise the
experience. These narratives formed the thought experiments. The act of writing
these provided an invaluable design tool by sharply focusing on the experience
of the architecture. During the writing process, I had to put myself in that
person’s shoes and imagine what they could sense, smell, what this might remind
them of, how certain building elements ‘felt’: the heaviness of the thick
eaves, the warmth of the air and the sounds associated with that space. How all
these things were blended together to create the feel of the place. This was
repeated when design changes were made and the effects of these design changes
were explored in this way. Janet Frame’s autobiographies[1] helped to ‘put myself in
their shoes’, as did several other sources of patient and caregiver narratives[2] and the NZ film ‘The Dark
Horse’ (an obvious influence seen in fictional patient Jubilee Potini).
[1] Janet
Frame, An Autobiography. To The Is-Land.
An Angel at my Table. The Envoy form Mirror City. Auckland: Random Century,
1989.
[2] Many references included staff and patient narratives,
but the two specifically used were Diana Gittens’ Madness
in it's Place. Narratives of Severalls Hospital, 1913-1997 and Madness,
Architecture and the Built Environment. Psychiatric Spaces in Historical
Context,
edited by Leslie Topp, James E Moran and Jonathan Andrews.
The following ‘stories’ were developed
alongside development of the design itself, informing the design as thought
experiments. They were used to explore the experiential properties of the
design, using imagination rather than the usual models and sketches.
Scents of
Home
[Amber
Jones: 31 years, anxiety disorder, recent suicide attempts; worked in a
community library, enjoys swimming, reading; domestic situation, mum and
younger brothers live in Christchurch but whenever she returns her condition
worsens - best friend was killed in the earthquakes, can no longer cope on her
own but no suitable friends or family in Auckland]
Arrival I. Amber [acute
psychiatric ward, to be treated]
Arrival was fast, sharp, and noisy with people
yelling and everything zigzagging in my head. A dull throbbing in my wrists. I couldn’t
see the hospital (lying in the ambulance) so I can’t say it made a good first
impression but I can imagine what it looked like – an efficient building, busy
with vents and fans, trying to be friendly, making a real effort.
There was a huge welcoming committee; I was the
centre of attention but now they’ll be fussing over someone else.
Moving quickly through uncomfortably luminous
corridors with banging doors, feet first, horizontal with the ceiling flitting
by. You’d think they’d give you something soothing to look at... flat on your
back feeling out of control as you’re being whisked away to stitch up your
wrists. Instead there are just strange flickering lights, smoke detectors,
sensors sensing unknown things, cameras (trying to be discrete), grids,
vents....flying past in a blur...
Shiny anonymous easy to clean walls and floors
with a faint whiff of...nothing...or at least nothing I can recognise, perhaps
it’s cleaning product or dead flowers from someone’s room, discarded.
This place is a hospital. I would recognise it
anywhere. Just like the movies, or Shortland Street, or visits to Gran when she
was dying.
Glimpses of trees through the windows,
everything through glass. Look but don’t touch. Everyone can see me and there’s
nowhere to hide, not even the bathroom. No rails to hang things (or yourself).
No space that feels like mine, every room looks the same. I panic when I can’t
quickly find my room. Things are fuzzy in this too bright room with no rails or
sharp things, no smells, no mess, nothing. This is definitely not home.
Arrival II. Amber [kingseat, to live]
Driving
slowly up the driveway with that view!. It let all those fireflies loose in my
stomach, sending sparks all the way out to my fingertips, leaving smoking
tendrils of nausea. A ghost of a building with it’s white sun scorched walls.
The glow of the setting sun silhouetting strangely irregular folding shapes
where the roof line should be, almost like a blanket had settled there.
This is not
a building trying to be friendly. But a
second glance suggests something else, perhaps there is something unexpected
inside. The driveway sweeps us around the building’s reflected watery twin,
past freshly mown grounds releasing their green scent of freshly cut grass
undercut with faint traces of petrol and manuka smoke. Wafting in uninvited,
interrupting my anxiety with memories of sunny Saturday afternoons with Dad mowing
the lawn then lighting the BBQ.
We drive
right past the heavy ominous entrance door with its gaping mouth, not stopping.
The fireflies slowly settle and my fingertips and lips stop tingling. The
further around we drive, away from that entrance door, the safer I feel until
the car finally stops at another door. It looks the same! (I feel cheated).
I’m ushered
quietly under the heavy eaves, gravity pulling at my legs. The solid steps,
dark chill porch, then the heavy solid door, wood smoothly worn by a thousand
hands near the brass handle. Thick ancient glass panels ominously distort the
view beyond like some bad horror movie scene. My feet have a life of their own,
heading up the dark stairs despite me. Glancing down at those traitorous feet
and noticing the intricate detailing on the tiles, I wonder who thought it was
worth using such beautiful tiles on us, the no hopers. What a surprise.
Another
world slowly emerges as the stairs break through the roof. Above the building,
in the late afternoon sky. Fireplace smoke mingles with the heady scent of
Hoya. With an involuntary sniff I’m transported back in time again to my Gran’s
patio where Hoya clung to the warm brick walls, releasing it’s scent in the
late afternoon sun.
Expectations of sterile, wiped clean floors
squeaking against my sneakers and the faint whiff of disinfectant are replaced
with the smell of fresh leaves and warm tiles as I’m shown to my room.
Anxiety is
replaced with comfort and a sense of home, the scents of home.
The
Redemption of Abe Livingston
[Abe
Livingston: 46 years, schizophrenia; trained as a landscape designer, played
rugby, has a dog (Obi); domestic situation, elderly parents in Rotorua, ex wife
in Auckland, domestic life exacerbated his condition resulting in periods of
time living on the streets]
Arrival I. Abe [acute psych ward, to be treated]
Arrival was
blurred and in slow motion but I couldn’t sit still. Hard edges and sterile
cramped corridors. What are all those sensors and cameras for? Who is watching
me? I can’t really remember my first impression of the hospital, everything was
too mixed up with other thoughts crowding in.
But I do
remember the chapel. I could be still and feel quiet there without the drugs.
Felt a bit weird but also comforting knowing the chaos of the wards was just
outside. I could hear my own breath. That old church smell, even though it
wasn’t that old: incense & wax, rubbed wood, old-hymm-book smell. Mum &
dad dragged me along to church as a kid and I sat for hours on those hard
wooden seats, memorising all the lines in the wood or the creases in Doug’s
suit in front of me.
Outside the
chapel, the hospital was cold and white with anonymous corridors not giving
away any evidence of use – scrubbed out beyond trace. But the chapel was warm
with its cracked leather seats that had supported hundreds of bums, the wooden
tops of the pews rubbed smooth from supporting arms and elbows bent in
contemplation to pray, or cry.
Arrival II. Abe [Kingseat, to live]
We slowly drove up the grand entrance drive
with huge Phoenix palms towering
over us in the dark like living power poles (when I was a kid I used to imagine
the Desert road pylons were walking alongside our car when we weren’t
watching).
I feel like
I already know this building. Familiarity sends shivers up my spine. Damn. I
thought it would be different. Behind the warm yellow lights in the windows are
familiar outlines of the past. But glancing up, the lights on the roof promise
something different and unexpected, jolting me out my memories.
Instead of
entering at the front, we keep driving around the back where the lights are
more welcoming. I smell dinner cooking, a roast - like Sunday after church with
my mum in the kitchen fussing over the gravy. My dog sneaking silver beet
doused in gravy under the table. My dog...we’re allowed pets here which is the
only reason I’m here, I think. If I hadn’t been able to bring Obi...
I’m helped
out of the car with Obi sniffing and straining to catch the aroma of roast
beef. Imagine that, cooking roast beef for us! The entrance is warmly lit,
guiding us up towards the door with the same feel as those wooden church pews.
The same smell.
The walk up
the steps through the roof and into the night air and stars is magical. Puffs
of our breath and Obi’s snuffling and whining to be let free. Crickets and
moreporks have replaced the constant staccato of car tires, helicopters
overhead, sirens in the distance of life under the bridge. My thoughts have
room to organise themselves here, like the chapel.
Somewhere
New
[Jubilee
Potini: 38 years, bipolar disorder; spent much of his young adult years in
psychiatric hospitals, parents both dead, older brother is a patched gang
member in Gisborne; was a chess champion at school, used to fish with his
brother; domestic situation, homeless or living with friends who are unable to
provide the support he needs]
Arrival I. Jubilee [acute psych ward, to be
treated]
The phoenix
palms welcome me back - I’ve been here so many times. I know the drill, I can
be calm now, it’s my home. Hoki mai ki te wā kāinga.
The outdoor
courtyard is where I go, if they have one. Day or night, sitting outside with
my eyes closed hearing only the sounds of bees and cicadas, or crickets,
smelling the warm earth of the garden, and feeling the heat of the sun or the
fresh night air on my bare skin. I imagine I’m somewhere far away from the
glaring walls and shiny floors. I’m back at the river me and my brother used to
play in. I can smell the water and feel it rushing around my ankles as my feet
grip the smooth river stones.
I’m led
inside where needles prick and a warmth dampens all those thoughts in my head,
the mantras which hold me up and stop the collapse. But I can fall here. It’s
safe.
Arrival II.
Jubilee [kingseat, to live]
I’ve been
here before. The palms and stern mouth of the building from memories of when I
was still just a scared kid. Later the buildings were newer and bland. But I’d
always be taken to the side entrance, the one for loonies. This time we keep
driving right around to the back, to a different looking entrance but I know
it’ll be the same inside. They all are. I always end up in a place like this.
They talk
to me with dignity and respect here, not like some mental patient. I like that.
They take me upstairs (upstairs?) to my new home - we’re up in the sky, I can
see so much up here, I’m part of the sky looking down on all those other
people. Like Maui. I feel so light up here. I have to concentrate on walking
where then path slopes and the becomes sand and pebbles. The sound of trickling
water somewhere (where?) - perhaps I’m imagining a river. Cicadas, and pigeons.
A new place.
They tell
me there’s space for my whanau to stay with me sometimes, whenever I want. But
not for good, aye, anyhow they wouldn’t like staying too long in a loony bin -
it’s not really though, I guess. Doesn’t feel like one up here.
Glancing up
the next flight of stairs I catch a glimpse of something which slows the
jittering in my fingers. There are 2 people up there sitting in the sun,
playing chess...
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