A skilled architect without a devoted builder soon abandons grand plans and elaborate designs to settle for whatever shelter can be found. Marble and gold are forfeited for plywood and concrete in the hands of incapable, disinterested craftsmen, and the architect discards the working of his imaginations in order to find a modicum of satisfaction in the buildings he is given.

In a dark foyer, eyes closed and senses dulled, he can remember the thrill of pleasure that danced through his torso, into his heart and onto the page, but he cannot recall the pictures which fed his electricity, and this place, this hovel, this shell of a dream must suffice if he is to survive.

Then there is another builder, a young idealist who sees plaster and imagines tiles of marble with golden grout, who tears through plywood walls to install glass panels. He cannot understand the architect’s astonishment, nor the imaginative artist’s terrifying lack of vision, his acceptance of the utterly mundane. With patience and persistence, neither, soon, does the architect.


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