If Jørn Utzon did not exist, we would have to invent him. His story, mostly the legend of that single and singular building, the Sydney Opera House, provides the enduring foundational myth for all contemporary architectural practice. Utzon is our sage Kenobi, our renegade Solo, our heroic Skywalker, all in one. He looked the part, too: an architect out of central casting in the Gary-Cooper-as-Howard-Roark mould, as tall as Rem Koolhaas, as beautiful as Jacques Herzog, as Danish as Bjarke Ingels.
I’m not sure what I’m feeling.
I’m in one of those mixed up weeks.
والغيوم ماتزال تسح من دموعها الثقال…
يادنيي شتي ياسمين, عاللي تلائو ومش عارفين