There’s an excitement about newness. Moving into a new space, with fresh paint, unmarred counters, crisp door frames. The shininess of a countertop says “new,” not just as in “unblemished,” but “made just for you.” It says “this will not have to be repaired or replaced for a long time.” There is an excitement about being there at the beginning of things.
But there is a limit to that feeling of newness, even if the material is so impervious to wear, so permanently shiny it will never look old. The apparent newness remains, but the feeling of that newness fades. The value we once placed in the material diminishes.
Now think about a soft wood table top, or a marble slab exposed to the elements. The first nick hurts us as if we were the thing itself. More scratches appear. The polish dulls. And our excitement about its newness disappears. But unlike an impervious wonder material, guaranteed never to dull, the soft wood or stone that shows its age slowly begins to grow in its appeal. Each nick tells a story. Its longevity begins to gain our admiration, our respect for its staying power. And when in this throw-away society we happen across a weathered wall or lichen-covered stone railing old enough to have been enjoyed by several generations, our feelings toward it border on reverence.
In America, there is a premium on newness. Our society, with its mobility and nuclear families and history of constant expansion places more emphasis on the future, and less on where we have been. We lose something with that mentality though. We are too quick to discard the old. And with it, we tend to lose sight of our perennial values—seeing our own lives in greater context, understanding our relationship with history and geography, coming to terms with the cycles of birth, life, and death. It may seem grandiose to propose that one can become more aware of such things when relaxing with a cup of coffee by a worn table top. But it is just such moments when we are most open to reflection, and have the most opportunity to gain.
Unfortunately those recycled tires, ground up and sprinkled throughout the artificial turf for traction, contain heavy metals and other road toxins known to cause childhood leukemia in soccer players who come into contact with too much of it.
There are other types of artificial turf available without the recycled tires, but those are still subject to another common complaint, that the plastic melts when placed outside of highly energy efficient windows, since the infrared sunlight bounces off the glass so efficiently, doubling the heat on the thermoplastic grass blades.
The latest international construction cost data is out; San Francisco tops the list. Would a dip in the economy be reflected in building prices? Not for a while—the construction industry typically lags the rest of the economy by two years.
The Department of Transportation has published in map form the traffic and aviation noise levels around the country. Zoom into the San Francisco area and it’s easy to see where highways and airports make their impact.
With stucco, you can either let it show its natural color, or you paint it. The problem with painting it is that if any water gets in behind the paint, there’s no way for it to get out. And paint cannot reliably keep water out in the first place—there are always cracks forming in the substrate that acrylic or even oil emulsion cannot span. The result is saturated stucco with enough hydrostatic pressure built up in the lower areas to delaminate the paint, forming the sagging pockets of water seen here.
