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ROBERT VENTURI, DENISE SCOTT BROWN, and Steven
Izenour's classic, Learning From Las Vegas, famously
pitted the Decorated Shed—the conventional structure
with applied symbols—against the Duck—the building
that is itself a symbol. In the years following the book's
1972 publication, the Decorated Sheds vanquished the Ducks,
as Postmodernism displaced heroic Modernism as the prevailing
architectural style and pedagogy. Uniform glass boxes gave
way to pop whimsy rendered in plaster. Form-based meaning
was supplanted by sign- and symbol-based meaning—only
to lose favor in the booming '90s and the early 21st century
in an orgy of complex formalism on an unprecedented scale,
notably evident in the development of Las Vegas itself.
Ohio State art historian Aron Vinegar wants to remedy the
belief—entrenched in the minds of architects and academics—that
a dichotomy exists between Ducks and Decorated Sheds. The
title of his new scholarly analysis of Learning From Las
Vegas comes from one of that book's best-known illustrations,
“Recommendation for a monument.” In it, a billboard
atop an anonymous, boxy building loudly proclaims, I AM A
MONUMENT.
This image would seem to reinforce the traditional either/or
interpretation of Learning From Las Vegas, but Vinegar
paints a picture that is more complex, dealing with ethics
as well as visual communication. Via a thorough, philosophical
reading of the 1972 original and the 1977 revised editions,
I Am a Monument aims to restore the book from its
lonely place as a historical marker of the shift between Modernism
and Postmodernsim to the center of current debate.
So how could a book arising from an architecture studio at
Yale in 1968, about a specific place, at a specific time,
be more than a historical record? Or more than a dusty polemic
against the Modernist architecture prevalent at the time?
Vinegar's arguments for the book's relevance today start with
his rereading of Learning From Las Vegas as words
and images on a page, removed from historical context. This
approach largely overrides both Venturi, Scott Brown, and
Izenour's authorial intent and subsequent critical responses
to the book.
Vinegar's analysis is filtered through the lens of 20th century
philosophers—primarily Stanley Cavell, whose writings
explore the ordinary, its expression through language, and
its interpretation. Vinegar seems to have a deep understanding
of Learning From Las Vegas, but his use of Cavell's
peculiar terminology makes it difficult to grasp. For example,
Cavell's interpretation of “skepticism” expands
the word's common meaning, doubt of the unknown, to include
being unaware of what we already know, a near inversion of
the term.
What is clear is that Vinegar sees the Duck and the Shed
not as oppositional and exclusionary concepts, but as intertwined
ones. This extends to what he postulates as Learning From
Las Vegas' primary themes: the dialogue between skepticism
and the ordinary—the common life and language we share—and
their mutual dependence on expression. As Vinegar writes,
“together the Duck and the Decorated Shed are entwined
as a figure of attempting to overcome [others'] skepticism.”
Overcoming skepticism and acknowledging others—as Venturi,
Scott Brown, and Izenour did in analyzing the populist Sin
City—leads to investigation and a desire to learn, as
opposed to an outright dismissal of others' views. This idea
stands out from the rest of Vinegar's analysis as the position
most relevant to our contemporary situation. An acknowledgment
of others, and a willingness to learn from them, would ideally
lead to more ethical and responsible buildings, counter to
today's predilection for outsize Ducks. Learning From
Dubai might be a suitable extension of the original to
today's condition, an analysis of another place of excess,
shaped by many architects and occurring at a time of environmental
crisis. The Strip gives way to Sheikh Zayed Road.
But are Vinegar's new avenues into Learning From Las
Vegas successful enough to override the traditional interpretations
of the book—namely, the acknowledgement of architecture's
role in communication systems and the appreciation of vernacular
environments? While Vinegar arms the architect with a new
vocabulary and new ideas, they do not hold as firmly as the
judgments already rooted in architects' minds—ones that,
it should be noted, are fairly accurate readings of Venturi,
Scott Brown, and Izenour's book. The authors' intentions Vinegar
chooses to ignore may be too hard to shake from people's understanding
of Learning From Las Vegas.
Vinegar's ideas add a layer to Learning From Las Vegas'
long-held meanings, but do not displace them. Yet I Am a Monument
is an admirable, deep analysis that points the way for other
potential “books on books on architecture.” Who
will illuminate such classics as Rem Koolhaas' Delirious
New York, Bernard Tschumi's The Manhattan Transcripts,
or Aldo Rossi's The Architecture of the City?
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