Fairy tales have transfixed readers for thousands of years, and for many reasons; one of the most compelling is the promise of a magical home. How many architects, young and old, have been inspired by a hero or heroine who must imagine new realms and new spaces — new ways of being in this strange world? Houses in fairy tales are never just houses; they always contain secrets and dreams. This project presents a new path of inquiry, a new line of flight into architecture as a fantastic, literary realm of becoming.
— Kate Bernheimer & Andrew Bernheimer
Gripho
I really don’t want to tell you that a gripho is a winged creature with the head of an eagle and the body of a lion. And I don’t want to tell you that in some traditions only female griphos have wings. I feel no need to share that griphos can be covered in scales, or that a Persian gripho may have the head of a dog. It’s strange, as I’m a fairy-tale scholar and author, but I just can’t bear to report that the gripho is a mythological creature.
What I want to say — recklessly — is that the whole point of the gripho is that someone imagines a gripho. Someone goes to that place where the gripho is. Readers have been doing that for thousands of years. They go to that place.
Let’s call it The Imaginary. It’s a pretty awesome place, and I use that word with reference to Michaelangelo’s notion of terribilita, not to my years playing Dungeons and Dragons at Weeks Junior High. The Imaginary can be empty — maybe only an outline — scaffolded — possibly boldly — or would it be dimly? — lit — let’s say it’s scary — no, I prefer inviting — and generally it looks like another place that you’ve been, or haven’t been, before — and I’m really unsure whether it’s ancient or futuristic — also, what is the use?
Maybe there’s none.
“Play is a thing by itself,” writes John Huizinga, in one of my favorite books on the matter, Homo Ludens. “The play concept as such is of a higher order than is seriousness. For seriousness seeks to exclude play, whereas play can very well include seriousness.”
A gripho is a winged creature with the head of an eagle and the body of a lion. Some griphos don’t have wings. Some are covered in scales. Some have the head of a dog. A gripho is a mythological creature.
Smiljan Radić claims that a gripho can be made of a colonial Wood mortar (with lion foot), two useless industrial light bulbs and pieces of a cheap Chinese violins hanging in the air. I believe him. A gripho has been, for thousands of years, many things: myth, symbol, story. In other words, place.
There is something radically playful in this gripho, and I take it seriously. Radić describes his object as a game waiting for something. Is it waiting for you? And do you play the gripho as you might a cheap violin? Do you play with it? Does it play you?
The gripho raises luminous and serious questions.
— Kate Bernheimer
Three Questions for Smiljan Radić from Kate Bernheimer
How would you describe this gripho? It — though for some reason I want to call her “she” — is transfixing to me.
This is my gripho, an homage to Cedric Price, one of the last pieces of my Bestiary: a lucky encounter between a colonial Wood mortar (with lion foot), two useless industrial light bulbs and pieces of a cheap Chinese violin hanging in the air.
Is there a story for the piece — apart from that “lucky encounter”?
Just a game waiting for something. No shape, no function, no drama.
Did you make a lot of sketches from the inspiration art before you created the model?
It is a physical collage. We don´t have any drawings; we always work with real pieces in fact. Some pieces are strong and figurative and others really lightness in the air. This is a model for a building that nobody knows what is going to be.
If you would like to comment on this article, or anything else on Places Journal, visit our Facebook page or send us a message on Twitter.