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I’m one of three architects in the world who’ve been invited to submit a finalized “vision” for Project SoHo, the code name for a new pop culture museum in London. The location encompasses the entire Smithfield General Market area, which has fallen into disrepair.
Of the three contenders, my firm is the only one with less than fifty full-time architects. Yet, even though we're a much smaller company, we've made it through two long years of elimination rounds to get here.
Now, I'm a realist. There's no way we'd be in the running if it weren't for Vander Technologies and my software. On the other hand, my team's prowess in practical green design and construction is unmatched as we've demonstrated time and time again.
This next round will be no different.
“Morning, everyone.” I enter the conference room to find my SoHo team, Rose, Pip, and Fabiola, huddled around a holographic display in the center of the room.
They’re the best in their respective specialties from all over the globe, but even the best need direction.
My direction.
“Hello, Peter.” Rose, VA's business development manager, glances up briefly before resuming tapping on her tablet.
Pip, a shy, slight man from Delhi who integrates the technology into our designs, gives me a quick, efficient nod.
Fabiola, our blue-haired creative design genius, doesn’t look up from the visual display. Her slight Italian accent flavors her words. “This is the digital rendering of the SoHo Project with your directives from the last meeting incorporated into the design.”
I walk around the display, running my hand through my hair, feeling its tousled length. “The next phase is critical. An independent panel of design professionals, business stakeholders, and local governmental representatives will review the next round of submissions and eliminate one contender. With this in mind, I encourage everyone to be ruthless in your scrutiny. I don’t need to remind you about the exposure VA/VT will receive if we’re awarded the contract. It’ll change all of our lives.”
The air pulses with tension. Everyone knows what’s on the line. Both companies have turned down other lucrative projects to take this shot at infamy.
“As we’ve learned, the city wants to transform the Smithfield Market neighborhood from a rundown part of London into a vibrant, mixed-use development to reflect the history of the iconic buildings while embracing the potential of the future.” Rose projects our objectives onto the wall beyond the display. “Considering the other two contenders, our thesis is “the future is green.” We’re the best choice.”
“In my opinion, the interactive elements will put us over the top…” Pip presses a button, which illuminates vibrant colors within the display to show some of the integrations we're proposing. “This latest iteration of our software allows for an immersive experience into our design.”
“Phenomenal, Pip. Way to think bigger, bolder. We can show them—not merely tell them—it's not merely a building. Or a structure. It’s a statement.” I pace back and forth studying the improvements I asked for a few days ago. “This rendering is exactly what I had in mind. A presentation that evolves. It breathes. We don’t only want this to be eco-friendly but eco-active.”
Rose’s eyes light up. “Biophilic design? Integrating natural elements not just aesthetically but functionally?”
“Exactly.” I point at her. “We’ve created a living, pulsing piece of art, which will not only redefine London’s skyline, but integrate with their grid. Think of the possibilities—tracking emissions reduction in real time.”
For the next few hours, our conversation delves into the technicalities of the RFP documents. We go over the entire submission from solar panels to rainwater harvesting to the urban green spaces. Where appropriate, I guide, challenge them and push for perfection. We have another week before we submit, and it must be perfect.
Lunch arrives as we’re wrapping up. My phone's been buzzing nonstop for about an hour, it’s a good opportunity to find out who or what’s on fire.
Fuck. Five voicemails from my mother. Probably another crisis involving either Kent or Lance, my brothers.
Perpetual disappointments. Both of them.
I delete the messages without listening and silence my phone. I can’t afford distractions. I’m too close to making history.
“Peter, should we discuss aesthetics?” Fabiola tugs on my sleeve. “Do you think this updated design resonates with the city’s cultural fabric?”
“I do. You’ve done a stupendous job taking inspiration from London’s diversity, its history and culture.” I close my eyes, visualizing how the desolate area will look upon completion of the museum. “It's a brilliant fusion of old and new, a testament to the city’s continual evolution.”
The entire team nods enthusiastically. It’s heady. They believe in my vision. In the legacy we’re about to embark upon if we’re chosen.
As we delve deeper into the discussion, I can’t help but feel the weight of my family’s struggles tugging at me. I grew up in a working-class home—well, when my folks still had jobs. Dad used to be a custodian and my mother worked as a bookkeeper for a furniture store.
They always found a way to keep their heads above water, but my twin brothers, Kent and Lance… They’ve gone down a different path.
Just last month, I loaned my parents $10,000 to bail Kent out of jail after a brutal bar fight. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time, and won’t be the last. The lingering bitter taste in my mouth is a constant reminder of the never-ending situation. I can't seem to get out from under my family’s burden.
It's a noose always waiting to hang me.
Sometimes, when I'm feeling down, I try to imagine having a family who called to check on me once in a while. A mother or a father who showed interest in my accomplishments. But, no. My family isn't like that. I'm only good for one thing—my bank account. Each and every one of them are oblivious to the hard work I put in to support everyone.
