| The Art of Spearheading |
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My daughter attends a Montessori school called "De Eilanden" (literally: The Islands, the nickname of the miniature archipelago of the urban kind which is situated just off the city centre, slightly to the west) whose governors have succeeded in having a new school building put up on Bickerseiland. On Monday, the 13th of May, I accompanied her to a splendid waterfront location, to which I hasten to add that unfortunately the municipal authorities are yet to install the fence they agreed to put in place some considerable time ago, and which is to run along the elevated quay where the sandpit and playground are. The youngest pupils are just five and unable to swim. What would your spearhead be? The didactical nous of the constituent council boils down to the principle of chucking 'em in at the deep end, or should first dibs be awarded to the bluestone kerb on Brouwersgracht and the endless mucking around with taxi stands? The area bordering on the street is also fraught with danger, with motor vehicles on illicit short-cut missions crossing the path of toddlers scampering across the road without warning, eager to get to the small playground on the other side of the street. What would your spearhead be: get rid of the playground, or get rid of the traffic? The building itself is of the fairly easy-on-the-eye, modernist variety, i.e. rather rectangular shape-wise. The tomato-red floor of the integrated communal area gave me a particularly warm and glowing feeling inside. We examined the classrooms on the ground floor and those on the first floor, looked over the common room and inspected the head teacher's office cubicle, but not, alas, the PE room, for the school's current number of classes doesn't warrant one of those. What would your spearhead be: an innovatory drive tinged with purple, or premature cut-backs in anticipation of potentially leaner years ahead? I struck up a conversation with one of the homeroom mums, which is not necessarily the same thing as a model mum in that some mums are both while others aren't. She was not the type to complain, her disposition was far too sunny, but she did confess to finding it all terribly confusing. I, however, felt the adrenalin pounding in my culture-ridden veins, for it turns out that Mr Herzberger, renowned architect that he is, has stipulated in his schedule of requirements that for a period of six months, nothing should be put up on the school's pristine walls. You know what I mean, all those adorable botched-up creations that we love to ogle with such endearment, and all those dormant didactics, and all those latent fledgling aesthetics. Lord knows whether scientific research will ever confirm that this is precisely where the seeds of literature are sown or the readiness to consume art later in life takes root, or even something as straightforward as the ability to express oneself peacefully in varying scenarios. Ergo: if I pay someone, or have someone paid, to design a school, I should hope and pray with all my powers that the person charged with the job would appreciate that it is our wish that the resultant building will do optimum justice to itself when it is being used for the purpose for which it was created in the first place. So, what would your spearhead be: lack of poise on the part of the architect, or an order book stuffed with child haters? |