Sayjel Vijay Patel

I am a graduate student in Architecture at MIT. This blog is an ongoing record of work in progress and my creative influences.

MIRRORS

I, who have felt the horror of mirrors
Not only in front of the impenetrable crystal
Where there ends and begins, uninhabitable,
An impossible space of reflections,

But of gazing even on water that mimics
The other blue in its depth of sky,
That at times gleams back the illusory flight
Of the inverted bird, or that ripples,

And in front of the silent surface
Of subtle ebony whose polish shows
Like a repeating dream the white
Of something marble or something rose,

Today at the tip of so many and perplexing
Wandering ears under the varying moon,
I ask myself what whim of fate
Made me so fearful of a glancing mirror.

Mirrors in metal, and the masked
Mirror of mahogany that in its mist
Of a red twilight hazes
The face that is gazed on as it gazes,

I see them as infinite, elemental
Executors of an ancient pact,
To multiply the world like the act
Of begetting. Sleepless. Bringing doom.

They prolong this hollow, unstable world
In their dizzying spider’s-web;
Sometimes in the afternoon they are blurred
By the breath of a man who is not dead.

The crystal spies on us. If within the four
Walls of a bedroom a mirror stares,
I am no longer alone. There is someone there.
In the dawn reflections mutely stage a show.

Everything happens and nothing is recorded
In these rooms of the looking glass,
Where, magicked into rabbis, we
Now read the books from right to left.

Claudius, king of an afternoon, a dreaming king,
Did not feel it a dream until that day
When an actor shewed the world his crime
In a tableau, silently in mime.

It is strange to dream, and to have mirrors
Where the commonplace, worn-out repertory
Of every day may include the illusory
Profound globe that reflections scheme.

God (I keep thinking) has taken pains
To design that ungraspable architecture
Reared by every dawn from the gleam
Of a mirror, by darkness from a dream.

God has created nighttime, which he arms
With dreams, and mirrors, to make clear
To man he is a reflection and a mere
Vanity. Therefore these alarms.

Jorge Luis  Borges

In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.

― Buddhist saying

Contemplating how I will fabricate this geometry (this is 1:1 template) I am planning on using it as the “set” of my next film, entitled “Mirrors”, based on the short story Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius by Jorge Luis Borges. The plan is to attach a 3d scanner to a robotic arm (for motion control)  to create animations for the movie.

Contemplating how I will fabricate this geometry (this is 1:1 template) I am planning on using it as the “set” of my next film, entitled “Mirrors”, based on the short story Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius by Jorge Luis Borges. The plan is to attach a 3d scanner to a robotic arm (for motion control)  to create animations for the movie.

How do architects document sites in 2014? This is a 3d printed model of a dwelling in Turkana, Kenya. Using images captured from a smartphone the 3d model is constructed virtually using photogrammetry. 
I am currently working on a few of grant application to fund travel to China, Spain, and Kenya this summer to document various significant sites using scanning technologies. 

How do architects document sites in 2014? This is a 3d printed model of a dwelling in Turkana, Kenya. Using images captured from a smartphone the 3d model is constructed virtually using photogrammetry. 

I am currently working on a few of grant application to fund travel to China, Spain, and Kenya this summer to document various significant sites using scanning technologies. 

“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.”

– Marcel Proust

Madeleine & Involuntary Memory

No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. … Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? … And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.

—Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time