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Editor’s note: This is an edited excerpt from The Woman in the Room: A Memoir by L. Jane Hastings (November 2023, Tandemvines Media, $29.99 paperback in bookstores; $39.99 hardcover). The book is available at local and major bookstores; bookstores, in paperback and hardcover; and Amazon.
I knew I was going to be an architect when I was nine years old.
It was 1937, and my father laughed when I made the announcement. I don’t know any architects in my neighborhood of Fauntleroy in West Seattle. No one in my immediate family graduated from high school, let alone college.
But the foundation was there, laid when I was a very young boy in the early 1930s, visiting my grandparents’ home on the north side of Queen Anne Mountain. The George Washington Memorial Bridge (now better known as the Aurora Bridge) was being built over the Lake Washington Canal—the newspapers said it would be taller than the Brooklyn Bridge—and while my brothers chased each other around the yard, I Just sit there. Standing on the front steps, I stared blankly at these guys dangling from the frame of the bridge. Build it.
Since then I have been fascinated by anything to do with architecture. I’ve been to every garage and dog house built in my neighborhood. When my father hired a carpenter to build a garage in our backyard, I was by his side every day, like a surgical nurse, with the right tools in hand before he even asked.
I still have a photo of a family trip to the Grand Coulee Dam site in eastern Washington in the 1930s—a beautiful lace of steel in the sky. The Grand Coulee Dam was one of Roosevelt’s New Deal plans for the Pacific Northwest, along with the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, the Lake Washington Boardwalk, and Yesler Terrace. These are projects that put men to work.
On the site of Yesler Terrace, the first public housing project in the country to require racial integration, I remember seeing piles of fresh lumber. I can almost still smell the sweet aroma of the wood. I watch the site take shape every time we go into town.
I was 12 years old on July 1, 1940, when the Tacoma Narrows Bridge—nicknamed the “Galloping Gertie” for its excessive flexibility—opened to traffic. Even on a windless day, the car in front will disappear like a wave. In its short four-month life, I made two thrilling trips before, on November 7, 1940, it danced magnificently in a storm and plunged into the eddy below. Gertie’s last dance was captured on film, which I’m sure every structural engineering student has seen by now. Ten years later, while I was an architecture student and working part-time at the University of Washington Press, I wrote three short books about the design, failures, and new designs of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.
Despite my obvious interest in architecture from an early age, I don’t blame my father for being dismissive of my fourth-grade aspirations. But my mind was set, and by high school I had a plan: My first goal was to get a degree in architecture. My second thing was to get a permit and my third thing was to go see Europe. When I do that, I think I’ll have more goals.
To their credit, my parents never tried to change my ambitions. That left it to school teachers and potential employers, and the obstacles they put in front of me became conundrums for me to solve.
The chair of the architecture department at the University of Washington told me I couldn’t work and go to school at the same time. Of course I can. I couldn’t afford a five-year degree any other way, and I figured if I worked part-time, I could graduate in seven years. I was the only woman in a freshman class of 200 people, and it took me six and a half years to complete my degree.
Washington State licensed its first female architect in 1923, and by 1953, I was only the eighth.
After I graduated, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers told me they were not hiring female architects to work in Europe. “This is dangerous,” the man said. “The war is over!” I pointed out. “Well, we know that,” he responded, “but you have to work with all these people.” I’m like, “Man, what do you think I’ve been doing?” But never mind. If I couldn’t go to Europe as an architect, I would go as a recreation director, managing projects for the U.S. military overseas. The important thing is that I will go. I would see the magnificent European landmarks I had studied. I would approach this puzzle in a different way.
This solution led to adventures I could not have predicted. I explored thousands of miles of post-war Europe, often with my service club friends in a little Austin A40 we named “Pinky.” I spent an unforgettable night dancing at the famous Casa Carioca nightclub in southern Germany. What other American girl stepped on the toes of one-star, two-star, three-star, four-star and five-star generals overnight?
After two years working in Europe and making lifelong friends every step of the way, I returned to my hometown of Seattle to focus on my architecture career. Of course, there’s a new wrinkle to solve: Contractors don’t want to work with female architects. Car insurance companies do not insure unmarried women over the age of 25. Banks also don’t offer loans to women.
I wasn’t obsessed with puzzles; I just solved them. I had an advantage: Being a woman in a room full of men never bothered me. I had two older brothers and six cousins, and I did everything the boys did: play ball, fish, and ski. I climbed over the logs, baited my own hooks, and cleaned the fish myself. Throughout my life, my backpack has weighed as much as a man’s backpack.
Being a woman in the room even led to some unique job opportunities, including the first and smallest job of my career. In 1943, drafting coach Fred Gorton received a request to design lockers for the West Seattle High School girls’ gymnasium. Since I was the only girl in his class, I could easily go to the gym and get measured, so it became my mission. Gorton was probably the only teacher I ever had who didn’t think I couldn’t be an architect.
Just nine years later, I was working on my largest job: a hangar and production facility at the north end of Boeing Field that would house four or five B-52s.
Even when I was an established architect and ran my own Seattle firm near Capitol Hill, some acquaintances couldn’t understand this. Sometimes I avoid telling people what I do because they don’t believe me or think I’m involved in some type of arts and crafts project. In the 1950s and 1960s, women stopped designing and building homes. But I did it.
I built the home using our unique Pacific Northwest materials: fireplaces built from foraged river rocks and Douglas fir paneling. I designed the view to showcase the beauty of Puget Sound and the Pacific Ocean. In 1960, I pioneered a kitchen island with a freestanding sink that took advantage of the views of the Cascade Mountains. Although I have visited over 100 countries in my life, I have always been grateful to live and work in one of the most beautiful places in the world – the Northwest Territories.
In the spring of 1959, I took over a rebuild job from a former Boeing colleague. I’m sure he doesn’t remember me, but I’ve never forgotten him – a big man with a great intelligence. By this time, George Stoner had become the head of Boeing’s space program.
The original stoner home had a spacious yard. This is a house on Mercer Island that was originally built for residents to arrive by boat, so the front door faced the lake. Later, bridges and roads connected the island to Seattle and Bellevue, with the entrance to the road being through the kitchen. Boeing often uses Stoner’s large property to entertain business associates, so the house needed a new entrance, a remodeled kitchen and a massive deck addition. While measuring the structure, I discovered a problem: there was a gap in the middle of the lower layer. It turns out that this was the previous owner’s secret bomb shelter, built shortly after World War II.
It is an honor to work with the Stoner family, including their four brilliant children, who attend all of our sessions. The eldest son Peter later became a famous architect. The contractor was hired by the Stones, but he was told he could only work directly with me. If something went wrong, George would call and ask if I was home that day. My answer would usually be, “No, but I’m going to go tomorrow.” And then George would tell me to definitely check it out. He never discussed the job with the contractor because that was my job. He claimed he knew nothing about architecture. ha! What a smart man.
I often joke that architects probably know their clients better than psychiatrists know their patients. Psychiatrists have to rely on what their clients tell them—but we can take a look at their secrets. We witness family relationships at their best as well as troubled ones that require creative architectural solutions. The Stoners are nearly perfect.
In 1962, the 21st Century Fair—Seattle’s second World’s Fair—became a major part of my daily life for six months. Al Bumgardner, president of the Seattle chapter of the American Institute of Architects, convinced me to manage the AIA booth, designed by Victor Steinbrueck, a professor of architecture at the University of Washington. I was there almost every day from May to fall.
In keeping with the 21st century theme, exhibits illustrate the future as imagined by manufacturers, trade organizations, scientists and dreamers. Designed by Minoru Yamazaki, the American Science Exhibition Hall’s massive Gothic arch is surrounded by exhibits that transport visitors into outer space and allow them to experience various physical experiments. There is also a huge screen with more than 50 images designed by the famous architect and furniture designer Charles Ames. It has one of the longest queues – competing with the Belgian waffle stand. The House of Tomorrow is a hit, equipped with new gadgets and unusual building materials. One day I will have to revisit the Expo record and see how many ideas became reality.
Of course, in a career that spans seven decades, there are always some firsts: I was the first woman hired as an architect in the Seattle office of a major national firm; the first in the Seattle chapter of the American Institute of Architects female president; the first woman to be named president of the National Academy of AIA Fellows; and the first to receive the American Institute of Architects Northwest and Pacific Medal of Honor. These achievements have brought me a lot of media coverage over the years, but “firsts” have never been that important to me.At that time I only focused on doing.
Throughout my career—my whole life—my mind has been dominant. During my winter ski school race days, controlling the ski meant I could finish the race upright; therefore, I was consistent. I didn’t let anyone’s “no” stop me from quitting my chosen sport, education, or career.
Now, from the vantage point of my 90s, I look back on an extraordinary life built on a simple but determined decision I made when I was 9 years old. I had experiences she could never imagine. If I could go back, I would tell her, or anyone else: Don’t take “no.” If you really want to do something, there’s always a way – even if it takes longer, even if one problem after another needs to be solved, even if some people don’t believe you.
I would tell them: I would definitely do it again.
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