Short story written by Daniel Kirkpatrick, published 2019
What a brilliant wall. I mean look at the structural simplicity of those blocks, strung together like soldiers in formation. It’s just remarkable how each concrete pillar towers over the landscape.
Mike, a final year architecture student, breathed a sigh of relief. He’d finally found something he could understand. All the rest of the exhibition was just explicit photos of death and destruction. He had been about to leave until this caught his interest.
I mean, just look at the canvas it provides that little child. The sheer scale and magnificence of it dwarfing him as he defaces its beautiful facade.
All his other classmates gave such ‘intelligent’ answers about the ‘oh, so clever’ symbolism and meaning. But for Mike – a wall was a wall. Its’ shape and design are what matters, not some airy, fairy rubbish about its’ inner meaning.
Dr Richards was delighted. At last Mike, who’d been struggling all term with his aesthetics of architecture module, was showing an interest. In class it seemed all he cared about was whether the numbers added up, or if the design was structurally sound. That was, after all, why he’d planned this trip. He walked over to Mike, standing about a foot away with his hands clasped behind his back.
“You know, this is one of my favourites”, he said. “I mean, the others are more obvious with their meaning, but this one has an inner complexity that few can appreciate. It is the hidden story which I find so compelling. Don’t you think?” turning to Mike with an encouraging, but expectant, smile as he finished.
Great. Why couldn’t I have just walked away? The damn professor now wants to talk. Okay Mike, think of something clever. What was it you said before?
Still looking at the picture, Mike replied: ‘You know Sir-”
“-Call me John”, Dr Richards interjected.
“Um…okay..John”, Mike continued, the words sounding somehow wrong in his mouth. He continued: “I…like the wall”.
Damn. Did I actually just say that? ‘The wall’…It sounded so much better in my head.
“Great!” John said with far too much enthusiasm. “What about the wall strikes you as interesting?”
Mike, still determined to prove himself, continued: “I like how it looks…I mean…I mean, it looks well made”.
Did I just say it looked well made? That’s it. I’ve failed. His eyes dropped to the floor and a sickening feeling began to slowly rise from his stomach.
John, appearing to ignore Mike’s comment, turned back to the photograph, “You know, walls like this have been built all around the world with essentially the same design and purpose, and yet, are called completely different things.”
“Yeah, a wall!” The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop them.
John laughed, “Well yes. But you see, walls like this have been built throughout the world. Whether it is the ‘peace walls’ in Ireland, an Antifascistischer Schutzwall in Germany, a border checkpoint in the States, or in this photograph, a security barrier in Israel. In fact, I remember a child who had written a simple poem about this. It went something like-”
‘I remember a time when life was great,
Then came the wall without a gate.
We were told it was to keep out the hate,
Instead it crushed all under its wieght.’”
After explaining this John just stopped talking as if expecting the silence itself to continue his explanation.
The silence was infuriating. Why was he just standing there, hands behind his back, with that smug expression. Who cared if the wall was called something different? What did it matter? They are all walls!
The silence continued.
Was the room always this hot? Sweat started burning his eyes; he tried to blink away the pain. Fine. Maybe it’s some sort of riddle. Peace in one, security in the other, and some weird German fascist thing in the other. It just sounded like the beginning of a terrible joke, the ones his uncle always insisted on telling.
The silence continued.
One’s a wall. The other’s a wall. They’re all walls. Leave me alone. The sweat on his back now felt like a dam which had burst its banks, streaming down in beads of frustration. I suppose, if they are all essentially the same thing, then it must be the people who are different. Maybe, it’s like how when you build a house, the design is the same but each builder will screw it up in their own way. It was at that moment Mike realised he’d understood; the revelatory wrecking-ball had crashed through his perfectly designed cognitive house.
Quietly, lifting his eyes from the floor again, he said: “It’s like one design, but three perspectives. Like three builders all ignoring our plans in their own way! Each one sees the same thing – our design – but interprets it through his own ignorance.”
John laughed again, “You know, I never thought of it like that, but it’s a pretty good explanation”.
Dr Richards turned again, no longer smiling, but with a knowing satisfaction that today’s trip had not been a complete failure.
Walking away, and without turning, he said, “Now tomorrow, Mike, I want you to explain the child”. Then he walked out the door.
