WEATHERSPOON ART MUSEUM SITE STUDY.

  Original diagram sketches of entrance to the Weatherspoon Art Museum.

 Narrative:

It was dark in the delivery truck, cool and isolated. The ceiling pressed in on me more so that the box in which I was contained. It was pitch black, no light crept through the cracks of the trucks framing, no way of knowing how slowly or rapidly my newest home was approaching. Then...the movement stopped. I could hear commotion outside. Without warning, the door the the truck was flung open, exposing me to the endless blue sky and relentless sunlight. It flooded the cab, white light so bright for a moments time I was blind. I never got to be outdoors. Being carried from the delivery truck to the museum door was the most I got to experience of the foreign outdoors. The sweaty men put their hands all over me. I was disgusted, too regal for this. My metal exterior heated up from the sunlight pouring from a cloudless sky. I let it's light and warmth wash over me, creating a sensory memory. Who knows when I would be outside again. 

The door to the loading dock was jammed, so I was hoisted through two wrought iron gates. It was there, I saw him. The solitary statue of a man, standing flanked by two trees. I felt the harsh sun retreat and was embraced by the shade of foliage and an overhang. I stared at his face until they took me through the door, even then my eyes strained. 

The cool air caught me off guard, I felt blinded again, but this time for lack of light. Two doors hoisted open later and I found myself in a room with extremely tall ceilings, teases of the outside sun flooding in from the top but not quite reaching the floor. I tried to reach for it, to will it to come down to me but it remained, stifled and complacent. I was laid on the floor while my delivery men spoke and bantered with the museum curator and security guards. It was then that I felt it, a dozen or so eyes, all fixed on me. Students, sitting along the wall, sketch book in hand. It made me uncomfortable, to have them flashing pictures and scribbling notes I could never see in the sketch books before them. They talked, they whispered, they wandered. A man, who appearing to be at the top of the hierarchy appeared. He motioned to me, "Loading dock next to the elevator, so they have to bring in new art through the lobby space. Good design? I think not." He motioned to me and the students scribbled frantically in their books. I longed to be outside. Out of this artificiality that was my existence. 

To my rescue, they wheeled me into the elevator. Once again, it was stagnant, with the only light coming from bulbs in the ceiling. It made me feel fake and phony. Many minutes later, I stand on the museum floor while the curator polishes me and readies my name plate and my very own artificial lighting. I stare into the bulbs, accepting my existence, secretly wishing I could brave the outdoors like the man in the garden, secretly wishing that maybe someday...I could be him.

Final Diagram:

1- The sculpture is en route the the museum via the delivery truck.
2- Sculpture is removed from truck and makes its way through parking lot & into museum.
3- Sculpture moves through sculpture garden, underneath overhang and into vestibule.
4- Sculpture enters lobby area where it is scrutinized by students and their teacher.
5- Sculpture enters elevator to rise to its designated spot in the museum space.

1-Natural light = 2%
2-Natural light = 95%
3-Natural light = 55%
4-Natural light = 40%
5-Natural light = 7%