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Welcome to the 5th Façade

Olson Kundig

Shared By



  • Alan Maskin
  • Jerome Tryon
  • Kevin Scott
  • Gabriela Frank
  • Katie Miller

Project Status

Concept Proposal



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Project Description

Third Prize, Fairy Tales 2016 Competition

My cryonic technician described what had happened:

“A myocardial infarction began midway through Act 1 of Arthur Miller’s A View from the Bridge at the Phoenix Playhouse. Although cardiopulmonary support kept your heart pumping for the 30 minute ambulance drive, you were pronounced dead upon arrival. The stainless steel bracelet on your left wrist was inscribed with CRYONIC ALERT. The card in your wallet outlined medical protocols which, in turn, triggered your immediate transfer to the Al-Cryo Life Extension Foundation.”

“Your naked body was submerged in an ice bath. Profusion – the process of removing the blood from your body – commenced, and your blood was replaced with a non-toxic solution that preserves cells when they freeze.”

“Your head was severed, a relatively new procedure at the time of your death, and positioned vertically alongside your body in a cylindrical stainless steel tank where incremental cooling brought your temperature to -196° Celsius.”

“Your tank was stored with hundreds of others for the many decades that comprised your cryopreservation.”

My cryonic tech didn’t call it a deep freeze, she called it “Big Sleep”. I don’t remember waking up. Mostly just flashes of light interspersed with what I assume were sleep/dream cycles. I was deeply sedated during the months of healing after the re-attachment. And then there were tests. Scores of tests. Medical, physical, and psychological. For nearly two months my technician was the only other thing I was aware of. While staring out the window from my bed one day I saw something moving against the sky and I spoke: “…biiiiii-iiird…..bird…” Baby’s first word.

“Patient crossed Milestone 149,”she whispered into her headset.

After that day, there were more people, technicians mostly, followed by a slow introduction to other patients. Group therapy sessions for the reborn. The few who had family to contact were considered strangers by the very people they desperately hoped would now welcome and care for them. My great-great-great-grandniece supposedly lives in what used to be called Chandigarh in what is still called India. “She has not responded to our attempts for contact,” I was told. “This is not uncommon”.

Orphans like me at Al-Cryo have a predicament: the full extent of long-term cryonic care planning in my era led only to rebirth. For most of us, personal resources and property were transferred to descendants long ago. Today, almost all global governments have stepped in to supply aid. Now, orphans receive stipends upon release that, if spent wisely, can carry us for six or seven months. We attend classes on how to operate augmented reality headsets and weeks of re-birth survival skill courses.

A suitcase they gave me during checkout included clothing and several neckbands, a virtual bank account, coupons for food and boarding centers, a month’s supply of pain medication, batteries, my old Cryonic Alert bracelet, and travel tickets.

“For patients re-entering alone, we encourage them to return to where they last lived – to be surrounded by elements that we hope will feel familiar and foster memory recall.”

And what exactly do I remember? I have memories of a childhood that I assume was mine. I remember nothing during the freeze. Lately, I’ve started to notice that I remember things that happened yesterday, the day before that and so on.

My headset provided me with instructional video and directional guidance graphics as a layer of visual information superimposed over my view of the world. It showed me how to take public transportation, how to find and pay for food and how to find sleep centers. It woke me each morning, explained who passersby were and offered advice whenever I was puzzled. They made it feel like these were my choices.

Not everything was foreign, though. Upon returning to Seattle, the headset led me to a neighborhood where I once owned a business. The streets were still lined with old neo-classical brick buildings that dated to the nineteenth century, but my former architecture office in the Washington Shoe Factory Building had new additive layers. The entire south façade was moving. I paused to stare up at a series of conveyance systems that comprised a vertical farm carrying vegetable planters that rotated plants out of the shadows and into the sunlight and back again. My headset played a video with animated diagrams that illustrated the step-by-step process that ran the kinetic mechanisms for photosynthesis.

The biggest change to my old neighborhood occurred where the buildings met the sky. The instructions on my headset led me up the main stairway to an entirely new urban layer.

“Welcome to the Fifth Façade. This is where you will live and work.”

During the decades that I slept, the rooftops of Seattle had changed. The grey waterproofing membranes, HVAC equipment, elevator machine rooms, long-empty water towers, and miles of ductwork were replaced with a vast pastoral landscape. Rolling green hills, public parks and swimming pools, pastures with livestock, and vegetable farms were joined by enormous water collectors, solar arrays, and wind energy turbines. Bridges, like connective tendons, unified the separate buildings into a continuous landscape. I could wander anywhere, and I did.

No one told me I had to work, or for how long; the headset only told me what to do when I wanted it to. In the early days, I wandered the rooftops. They were always packed with people, walking, strolling, exercising and working. I could stop anywhere along the rooftop and just start working when and if I wanted to. Depending upon where I stopped, my headset taught me new tasks and after a while I got them 90% right on the first try. It never took more than two tries. When I talked with the other farmers, we mostly talked about work. Some bragged about quantities while others were just proud of what they had accomplished. We strolled through this massive urban landscape laughing and talking about the things we made that day. During one of these walks, I passed two women and one of them was reciting a Khalil Gibran poem. Our headsets helped us remember literature verbatim. “Work is love made visible…” she said.

My very first tasks involved harvesting food through the double-hung single-glazed windows of the Washington Shoe Building, whose original hand-blown glass panes had been removed long ago. I once was an architect who looked out from those windows; now, I was a farmer who reached through them.

“What happens in winter?” I said. I didn’t get explanations for everything I wondered about but when I asked, “Should I pick these?” the animations guided me through every step. Soon, I could clear an entire tray of turnip greens in a single rotation without a second thought. It was hard to mess up when you were directed and redirected at every turn.

Sometimes, I noticed the absences. Night, for instance, no longer came. The constant feeling of being cold. It startled me when I realized the absence of children.

“School…?” I asked. No instructions. “Children…?” Nothing.

It’s not as if there was no recreation, although there were never instructions on what activities I should or should not be doing. When I responded to the familiar sound of a large crowd cheering, I was guided to a stadium just south of the Washington Shoe Building. “Baseball….?” I asked. The history and rules of baseball, and the statistics for each player appeared over my view of the field. A huge ovation rose when Ted Williams, “The Kid,” came up to bat. “The greatest hitter who ever lived! The only player inducted into the Hall of Fame three times!” This realization—that “The Kid” was inducted three times, three lifetime achievements–made it all clear: death wasn’t obsolete, just temporary.

The Kid ran the bases with the speed of a twenty year old, which is likely what it was. Old heads on young shoulders, farmed like everything else. Neck bands were a thing we all shared. We all had them—black leather, cinched in back–since waking, I never met a person who did not.

Could I live forever? Could I continue returning to life for eternity? Would it even be possible to truly end my life??? What would happen if I were to throw myself from these sinewy bridges that connect the rooftops, or use my Japanese gardening knife to slice just below the scar encircling my neck?

The decision to return, when it’s your choice, is an act of liberation and extension. I loved my life and the decision for more of it felt obvious at the time. But to return repeatedly as a decision made by others… All of the farmers had old heads on young shoulders. A work-force destined to return in perpetuity.

The decision took several months to make. I completed a twelve-hour shift and folded my work coat. I walked across several rooftops as my headset, in sensing my intention, tried to dissuade me.

My last memory was the free fall.

- Courtesy Blank Space
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