I hate Frank Gehry. I've hated the world-renowned architect ever since he added a crashed spaceship monstrosity to the Seattle skyline. He built it for the city's second richest billionaire, and I watched it materialize outside my apartment window in the late 90's. I hate the narcissistic, egomaniacal design philosophy that seeks to plop a shiny new toy in whatever city some gazillionaire ponies up the requisite bankroll.
Minneapolis, Minnesota has one, the Weisman Art Museum on the University campus. It stands on the banks of the Mississippi River, surrounded by a sea of nondescript buildings that fill the campus. I walked around, thinking of all manner of clever insults to hurl. Imagine the illicit spawn of a medieval castle's one-nighter with a mobile home. I studied all the playful angles, the audacious steel shell, the clever windows, the play of light against the flawless blue of a spring morning.
I was utterly entranced. So much so that on my second lap I walked off the sidewalk and painfully wrenched my ankle.
I sat on the campus lawn, gripping my throbbing boot and held onto my one remaining reason to hate Frank Gehry.