3. Architecture without Poetry is nothing but a protective umbrella (of straw, skin or stone) against un-
favorable climactic conditions - and against attacks from human and other animals during sleep.
Frederick Kiesler, Magic Architecture
4.
5. The selection of works in this portfolio expresses my interest in a more poetic
architecture - one that can make man aware of his being in this world. Whether
it be about inhabiting a library infused with dizzying color, or alleyways that
make place for amicable conversations, these projects attempt to provide
settings for an authentic human experience. They attempt to make sense of our
more-than-human world.
My work has been inspired by authors, places, and the everyday lives of people.
Not a quintessential architectural portfolio, this book is comprised of diverse
mediums, such as paintings, poetry, architectural projects, and sketches. The
lines between these mediums blur, and make love - creating a portfolio in which
various projects have informed each other in uncanny ways. Writing has always
been an essential part of my creative process. My work emerges from imagined
narratives, characters that would inhabit little crevices and mythical creatures
that inform the design process. This portfolio is made up of silk worms that cre-
ate coloured glass, digital frustrations, a lost lover, a fools den and much more.
6.
7. CO N T E N T S
Selected Paintings
2 i. Amidst Hot Snow, They Had Marched ii. The Newborn
iii. She Hung the Remnants iv. Magritte was Wrong v. Lahore
Everybody Knows Everybody Here
8
Murdoch Lang Housing Project
Speed
30
Urban Lookout
Like the Colour Break of a Xylophone
38
Pavillion for Light, Sense, & Colour
It Must Look “Beautiful” - I Was Told
44
Component Design Project
It Smells Like a Fool’s Den
50
The Smellscape of St Denis
Incomplete
58
Spa Project
A Coloured Dust Fills the Air
96
Rosemount Library
142 Freehand Drawing
8. Amidst hot snow, they had marched
Furious – they had seduced
Now in the aftermath, they
Had surfaced victorious,
Like jubilant soldiers, tired
That art would live
installation, 2004
2 Amidst Hot Snow, They Had Marched
9. Ball sparks grew out of
them, everything platonic;
they shone like newborn
children. Sanguine and
relentless. In an unknown
sphere (cuboid) they would
play forever.
mixed media installation, 2005
The Newborn 3
10. One by one, they stuck their hot
selves inside her. It happened
yesterday, tonight for Karachi to
see, she hung the remnants.
acryllic on canvas, 2003
4 She Hung the Remnants
11. Magritte was wrong
See right through,
Right there, there
But rest assured:
this tragedy is not fiction.
All is true.
mixed media installation, 2004
Magritte was Wrong 5
12. Where men become monsters,
And red women don the dress of clowns,
Anklets and the azan in dialogue
Reaching a trance of sorts, God responds,
“This is the infamous liminal, the inbetween
is where you belong, homeward bound – the
sinful pray here, and the noble make love.
Now, together, lets dwell.”
Lahore, Pakistan, 2008
6 Lahore
17. 9.53 pm, 8th September, Paul Woolberg.
Resident of the Montréal Plateau between Saint-André
and Saint-Christophe, just north of Roy.
“Here, it’s not just the plateau, there is an atmosphere. It’s
close... when you walk along these thread-like streets, you
feel as though you walk your own corridors. This place is made
up of courtyards and alleyways. It’s a bit of an odd connection
- it’s not like a fast maddening downtown or like the private,
to-each-their-own kind of suburbia. If you want milk, Andrew
will give you milk. Not because you know him, but I guess
because we park our bikes in that corridor. Our acquaintance
wouldn’t make any sense to the average Montréaler. There
is something about our lives intersecting, there, right there,
the yellow blanket, those are Yasmin’s cloths. And she is okay
with doing that on the opposite plot. We’re comfortable with
that kind of stuff here. Everybody smiles at you - not really -
but they do. They do because there is a kind of culture.”
Murdoch Lang Housing Project 11
36. Marcel Duchamp, Nude Descending
a Staircase No. 2 (1912)
she stared hard at the painting. jarring - for
a long time before she began to connect its
ends. stitching speed together her pace quick-
ens, melting amidst steel rods. the sound of
a loud time. a metallic vibration. st. laurent
continues to bustle in a disjointed hurry. the
cold slides through her. she smiles at the boy
pouring sparkling beer, ahead - where flowers
bloom in full glory.
30 Speed
37. Giorgio De Chirico, Red Tower (1913)
a less hurried time, a cobbled path lay ahead her. here
it’s different - people smile with a silence, quaintness
and ease. time seems to slow down here with each
step becoming a place in itself. she can now sit, eat,
drink water and stare at the park ahead. it’s rather
conversational. with each step, she is reminded of
another memory in the future, so slow, that it all turns
into one dreary dream.
Urban Lookout 31
45. like the color break of a xylophone, she walked through – released
the water continues to wash sediments
the light creating a wet-poem of a kind.
she lay, pensive, listening
to the maples around her
46. from left to right:
section study,
section, light
study, plan
40 Like the Colour Break of a Xylophone
49. from left to right:
section, perspectives
Pavillion for Light, Sense, & Colour 43
50. Created, singled, animated.
The camera at this exact position, no, perhaps more to your left.
It must look “beautiful and sexy” - I was told.
Abundant, I must produce endlessly.
Fancy. he said,
“Oh - look at the video of the “real” thing - its magic.”
The Hand
There is something extremely magical about creating with the
hand. When sketching or molding, it follows intuition and allows
for the process to be visibly imperfect. Growing up as an artist, I
developed a close connection with my brushes. My instruments
became friendly extensions of my body. Even now years later, my
ideas still hang, dusty between their soft fibres. In university I was
surrounded by colleagues who hurried to create fancy forms. I
found it difficult to design on the flat screen of a computer. I felt
that my feelings were being reduced to the insensitive movements
of the cursor. I often willed to break into the screen, to touch and
feel the places I have created, and to mould them using direct con-
tact with my hands. Such projects have only resulted in dissatisfac-
tion on my part. I feel disconnected from my work and that there
is something that feels inherently alien. The project becomes just
another product - undesirable and senseless. We forget that our
body imagines and sees - and it is the pleasure of working with our
hands that allows us to best express what it means to human.
44 It Must Look “Beautiful” - I Was Told
51. from left to right: plan,
section, elevation
Component Design Project 45
56. “Cities serve as the place of our daily actions. It is in the capacity of the city that individuals perform tasks
and human relationships flourish. It is in the city that we can restore a truly authentic and meaningful ex-
perience of “place.” Our cities have become shaped by modernity’s obsessions, such as rationalization,
sanitization and deodorization. The challenge is therefore to reclaim sensory experience, that is, to re-tie
the ligatures that connect cities with the most visceral and memorable experiences of our existence.”
Excerpt from “Smell, Memory and Place-making in the City” by Currim Suteria
50 It Smells Like a Fool’s Den
57. “I doubt if there is any sensation arising from
sight more delightful than the odors which filter
through sun-warmed, wind-tossed branches, or
the tide of scents which swells, subsided, rises
again wave on wave, filling the wide world with
sweetness. A whiff of the universe makes us
dream of worlds we have never seen, recalls in a
flash entire epochs of our dearest experience.”
Helen Keller, The World I Live In
The sensorial qualities and character of a
space are key factors in the definition of a
“place.” Smell is the most atmospheric of our
senses, and with smell, once can introduce
a richer condition of perception. Such is the
nature of St Denis - a bustling street close to
the hearts of many Montréalers.
Informed by my research paper, the follow-
ing excerpts from my reconnaissance report
attempt to challenge Kevin Lynch’s seminal
work, The Image of the City. He argues that
visual anecdotes are our only way of map-
ping and knowing the city. As a critique to his
work, my report maps the smellscape of St
Denis between Sherbrooke and Maisonneuve,
over the span of four days. I recorded the
smells on each sidewalk by interviewing lo-
cals, photographing smell sources, and taking
extensive notes.
The report was an experiment to see how one
may represent smells, given their elusive qual-
ity. It questions the dominance of the visual
and allows for an olfactory way of knowing
our cities.
The Smellscape of St Denis 51
65. Desire for the unknown gives man a sense
of purpose. It creates a human space for
delay - for the inhabitant to become an ac-
tive participant in the quest for completion.
“Throughout our lives we constantly look
for something that is missing or that might
complete us - be it the physical presence
of another, the acquisition of knowledge,
or the experience of art and architecture.”
Alberto Perez-Gomez, Built Upon Love.
Longing for the beloved is one of the many
incarnations of desire. It manifests itself
as a constant state of yearning that may
never be fulfilled. Every time we come
closer, the boundary recedes. But, such is
the nature of human desire - we are never
complete.
Inspired by Dr Alberto Perez-Gomez’s writ-
ings on Eros, this project describes a pro-
gram for a spa sited in the wet-grey city of
Boston. It revolves around the travails of
two lovers, where the primary protagonist
is a woman constantly chasing her beloved.
The narrative serves as a guide that in-
forms the “official” building program. Set
up as four acts, the story unfolds in four
various architectural settings. The project
uses a multi-medium approach to express
experience, and attempts to push the
boundaries of conventional architectural
representation.
Spa Project 59
68. The Collapsing Walls
Act 1 Scene 1
layers of white, semi-wet – almost dusty, brush off her body. she is naked, bare
and raw. a kind of earthly existence. the sun shines, striking its rays through
endless layers of white mist. it shines on the contours of her body, her nipples
washed in dappled light, in perfect glory, her neck long and erect. she maintains
the demeanor of a tight muscle about to break loose. sublime bodies – both
geniuses and demons sing songs of mockery around her. they tell her that her
future will remain a false myth – it will never complete itself. she scolds them,
and insists on the journey ahead – it will make her human again. the air is thick
with a grey odour, and weightless with a burning mist. in it, she is now reminded
of a sweet beginning. her feet palms become wet. finding her way through the
blur and confusion, she has forgotten that she has already entered through lay-
ers of fear, doubt and anguish. those demons have now vanished and await their
next victim. now, the walls talk to her, they whisper to each other. they sense the
admission of an earthly figure. this is everyday magic. they enact their perfor-
mance everyday. this is not usual. she walks through a fine layer of grey water. it
seems un-distilled. she can hear the sound of unsatisfied sea mammals whistling
through her (her body a porous myth, its insides a story in itself, with systems
and chords striking, finding themselves constantly), calling for her body – far in
the distance. flattered, she asks them to wait. they howl back, in subdued req-
uisition. sudden. now. a certain inside explodes in her, the walls brush off her.
almost flirting against her lower hip, creating the draft of a passionate lover.
62 Incomplete
69. the wall almost passes through her. little snippets of life/light watch at her, it
seems like a dazzled kaleidoscope of vertical lines, she runs her hands through
each band. these walls feed onto her imagination, they collapse, sink in, and
then rise again. this blows every stream in her system. a kind of cool warmth
rises, she sweats a bead. the wall on her right, catches action, and turns to
the screen above. it is ghostly and charged. the entire atmosphere becomes a
cracked dream. they become excited, and begin to conspire. its now game play.
the mirrored ceiling continues to fall and rise, and its detached sides allow a
certain washed light to fall through. the walls have stories of their own. in their
insides, tucked in their tectonic-melting edges, are long gone tales. they don’t
intersect, they quietly, almost lovingly like the quaint brush of foreplay slide by
each other. she turns around, the wall closes on her, she hides behind. the atmo-
sphere is impregnated with another being. the action picks up pace. the walls
quicken their calling, they rise, fall, unify, divide, and oh, parallax is celebrated.
they bloat the present dream. she runs, finding her way through, suffocating,
but they block on her. the existence of another immortal is now the chase be-
yond. yes we are immortal beings, and recreate ourselves endlessly. she swims
through waters in the far distance – but in another dream. across thick, agitated
waters and the whisper of conspiring walls, there exists the birth for a translucent
yearning. a human desire to reach out, to reunite with the immortal. at first she
doubts the existence of another being, but her keen self regulates herself. she
fights her way through the notoriety of these walls. the water level at her feet
rising. she leaps back avoiding the recent gush at her feet. the floor below her is
sticky and wet, a fungus wet, slopes under, far under. she finds it difficult to walk,
but daringly journeys into.
Spa Project 63
76. Underwater
Act 1 Scene 2
the waters feel contaminated with a being. its ghostly existence calls for her in
silent ways. she slips into uncaution, as if almost prompted by a willful inside,
silently both resisting the unbound enigma, and wanting it. the water reaches
her waist, seeping into her warm insides. the cold water tickles her, almost caus-
ing a climax, stiffening her, she can breathe the thick of waters now. she slides
into the blue. the blue where nymphs and goddesses embrace her. waves gush
past her. they warn her that mammals live, and cryptic messages float around.
she attempts to read, but imagines their meanings instead. umbilical cords
wander in unattended misery - almost as if endless lives were once created here.
they make the water oddly sweet. sparkles of light shine far below, indicating the
calm action of water caves. a group of nymphs massage her outsides inside a
cave, causing her to come, but she realizes that real ejaculation lies somewhere
else. it lies at the heart of this immortal being. instead the nymphs distract her.
they pry her into tango, but she loosens, her body tense continues to wander.
she pushes through aged weeds, packs of unsatisfied dolphins, and swims end-
lessly. her new lover, far in the never-ending horizon keeps her wanting more.
her body tired, recreates itself, her tender muscles tighten, and grip the water as
she soars ahead. he is now aware of the tease, and moves far beyond, floating
mirrors continue to remind her of the immortal she once was. tired, she realizes
that a certain sweet madness has taken over her. a madness that invigorates
her insides, the growth of a sublime being – an incomplete impulse. it keeps her
wanting more, its this not-so-complete moment that leaves her spellbound and
purposeful.
70 Incomplete
88. The Courtyard
Act 1 Scene 3
washed ashore, she is tired and rests along bare trees. fields and orchards
around her, spread vast into a opaque snow field. she refuses to feed on an
apple. believing that she shall also be doomed. she insists to continue with the
journey ahead. her hair wet with sweat, her body aching, she does not become
complacent. she wants to reach out for its best fact. the graves around her,
remind her of lost lovers. she combats the thought of giving up, and continues
to fight. a breeze of dried oak and water-drenched cherry hits her, floating on
the surface of her nostrils, reminding her of her beloved. she wants it, the as-
cent of her being, she lifts her self, powers herself, running through the orchard,
around the brick temple, hoping that some sort of mantic circling would cause
a union. she spins, hoping to unite, with the wonder of a kathak dancer, spin-
ning through the orchards, its apples deceiving her of a delicious ending. they
tell her that her journey ahead is futile. she spins through the orchards, singing
songs to the dead, the half alive, the lingering spirits whose souls have yet to
rest in peace. she sings songs of mockery, chasing her beloved, wanting it more.
her naval creates auras, endless auras that she dives into. she realizes she has
the power to dare beyond and create herself endlessly. the spinning speeds her
want, her hands high in the air, and her gaze shifting like darts. waters in nearby
streams begin to vibrate, her bright reflection shone bright and shaky. her dance
so strong, so magnificent that the ground below begins to shift, garden plates
change gears, and a sewer world of rising stairs begins to emerge. Dark, opaque
curves begin to encircle her from all sides, a skylight shone strong, and the dark
world of piranesi comes to life.
82 Incomplete
89. Spa Project 83
90.
84 Incomplete
91.
Spa Project 85
92. The Rising Stairs
Act 1 Scene 4
an exaggerated disorientation breaks in below, she looks up, high above. a
strong light radiates the inside. stairs and never ending platforms continue to
construct themselves. unattended perspectives intersect, creating a more elabo-
rate chase, and as she continues, her imagination runs in streams, growing, with
growing stairs, chasing her wanted beloved. among these stairs, and disclosed
arches, a dream begins to take shape. she reaches to the inverse, looking far to
the right, and a mirrored perspective takes form. distortions and various land-
scapes within landscapes begin to multiply. tired, she climbs, through these
constructions wanting to reunite. her lover, enjoying her agitated anticipation
extends far. fighting through dark brains, and aged chandeliers, her insides want
it more. she rises, reaching, constructing, and extends beyond the light beam,
and then continues to construct. they stairs continue to multiply. thye construct
of her. inside her. somewhere, amidst these constructions, she rises to the sky
above in her. she reaches the pool. her beastly lover - an inhuman figure awaits
her.
86 Incomplete
98. Epilogue
her beloved awaits her at the pool. the pool stares confused at the city, despite
their physical/esoteric union, she desires for more. she looks at the city of the
dream ahead, where constructions continue, orchards extend, waters thicken,
walls collapse, and the chase together lengthens. far into the dream, the endless
abyss. she is now human.
92 Incomplete
103. The sun coyfully flirts, peeling its waves against sliced corners of glass. The edge so
thin, little bands of white light pass through, vibrating against each other - causing a
disposition of sorts. Then, very quickly, like the swift march of sun-dyed silk worms- a
colour dust fills the air. The apparition right slipped into her, radiating her insides. It
colorized her - the air inside imbued with a kind of blue washed crimson. Her blood
shone bright and lovely. Sparkled by a coloured stir, her imagination is on the run now
where the glass grows endlessly, and her pages fly amidst frivolous joints.
Rosemount Library 97
104. “Affect is immersive, a sort of edifice of sensations. It deframes as it envelops. We live
within affect, and affect lives through us. In order to emerge as affective landscapes,
buildings must be conceived in terms of intensification, of sensational intensification,
an environment in which the boundary between subject and object is blurred.”
Martin Bressani, Towards a Digital Theory of Affect
The library as an institution has the potential to be a container of acute affect -
a threshold into a different universe. It may allow itself to be read as a tomb, a
temple, or a jewel of shimmering mystery. In the following project, my intention
was to create a library that would transform the library into a kaleidoscope of
various colour atmospheres.
My initial colour studies were informed by Goethe’s “Theory of Color,” and al-
lowed me to explore intensity, temperature, and the tactile effects of inhabiting
certain coloured environments. As a result, the proposed library provides a spec-
trum of spaces that vary in colour - making it possible to read Dahl in a open
and gay space imbued with the cheerfulness of yellows and reds, or dwell in the
somber dark words of Kafka between close blue-washed panels.
The building is made of a ribbon-like skin of various glass panels with the main
stacks and offices concentrated in the core. The glass panels differ in colour and
transparency, creating an array of specific colour intensities. Implicitly placed
white concrete panels are interspersed along the ribbon, giving the building its
necessary structure but also acting as important elements in the reflection and
fusion of colour. As a result, when light bounces these panels melt into each
other to create an augmented reality that is both immersive and maddening.
98 A Coloured Dust Fills the Air
161. Books, people and places that have helped and inspired in the making of this portfolio: Farzana.
Ekta. Aditi. Aaron. Aamir. Fahd. Saaraa. Martin. Ricardo. Carlos. Alberto. Sybil. Taimur. Geoff. Shazia.
Alizain. Seema. Tufail. Built Upon Love. The Lion King. The Eyes of the Skin. Goethe’s Theory of Co-
lour. Paul Woodberg. Zaakir Hussain. Cheryl. Arif Bhai. Kiran. Sarah. Reshmi. Rushi. Zumthor. Kiesler.
Shams and Karim. Karachi and Montréal for being more than just cities.
And for the world, for letting me be and make mistakes.
