May 02, 2025 - Surjan Super School Weekly Newsletter - PART 2

SURJAN SUPER SCHOOL WEEKLY NEWSLETTER - Part 2

May 02, 2025

Title: INFLATABLE DOMESTICITY + YELLOW URBANISM

Theme of the Week: Inflated Memory, Floating Cities, and The Yellow Index of Collective Joy

This week, Surjan Super School celebrates the joy of inflated architectural memory—where domestic typologies, vertical section drawings, and wearable headgear made of house-shaped forms collapse into one glowing continuum. With vivid chromatics in bright yellow, bubblegum pink, and architectural white, our latest collection reveals a city between dream and documentation.

Selected Visual Narratives + Captions

🔸 Floating Headgear Homes

(Top Row)

Nine side-profile portraits wear inflatable homes as fashion—literal soft architecture. These puffy wigs fuse shelter and identity, morphing suburban dreams into wearable archives.🟡 Caption: “My Home is My Hairdo” — where architecture and autobiography inflate into one breathable gesture.

🔸 Inflatable Atelier Personas

(Second Row)

Three translucent avatars don yellow orbital wigs and fuchsia visors. Their sleek cyber-aesthetic evokes domestic astronauts, suggesting new species of makers navigating studios in space or sand.🟡 Caption: “Studio Uniforms for Future Desert Citizens” — protective softness as fashion-tech ecology.

🔸 Vertical Domesticity in the Desert

(Third & Fourth Rows)

Sectional drawings and exploded axonometrics slice homes into narrative fragments. Beds hover over cacti, structural columns float like thoughts. Layered construction lines weave between pastel elevations.🟡 Caption: “House as Landscape, Section as Story” — the desert isn’t empty, it’s a vertical archive of joy.

🔸 Mobile Architecture on City Streets

(Fifth Row)

These renderings depict surreal wheeled houses crossing urban intersections. With their bulbous yellow undercarriages and marshmallow-soft walls, they transform Manhattan into a playground.🟡 Caption: “Rolling Dreams: Suburban Forms on Parade” — domestic fantasies move through the civic grid like floats in a queer utopia.

🔸 Vertical Farm-Towers + Cow Sanctuaries

(Sixth Row)

From pink-and-yellow silos to surreal milking towers raised above wetlands, the urban farm reclaims the skyscraper. Architecture becomes a megastructure of interspecies coexistence.🟡 Caption: “Milky Monuments” — cows occupy columns, and verticality serves the Earth again.

🔸 Pixelated Urban Tapestries

(Seventh & Eighth Rows)

Zooming out, we see sprawling neighborhoods quilted in yellow, pink, and coral tones. Rooftops behave like pixels, revealing an almost-coded, AI-driven organization of color, sunlight, and social interaction.🟡 Caption: “The Chromatic Plan” — where color is zoning, and softness is law.

🔸 Retro-Futurist Skyscraper Sections

(Ninth Row)

Floating in sky gradients of lavender and gold, these skyscrapers slice open to reveal schools, markets, plazas. Vertical circulation doubles as narrative plot.🟡 Caption: “A Section of the City’s Soul” — skyscrapers dream in lemon and lipstick tones.

🔸 The Pneu-Towers of Rome

(Tenth Row)

Inflatable modules wrap Brutalist towers in yellow puffs like life jackets on ancient forms. Set against backdrops of classical ruins, they transform the idea of monument into buoyancy.🟡 Caption: “Soft Ruins” — the old city floats, not crumbles.

Pedagogical Prompt

🌀 “What happens when buildings wear wigs?”This week, we ask our students to imagine their domestic histories as wearable archives. Draw your home as a headpiece. Design your daily commute as a mobile domestic stage. Stitch softness into every surface.

Closing Notes

Thank you to everyone contributing to the Surjan Super Studio Collection_01, a collaborative quilt of narratives where joy becomes both pedagogy and material. The school grows softer, brighter, and more improbable each week — and in that improbability, we find resilience.

STORYTIME WITH SURJAN

"The Floating City of Color & Memory"

Based on the Surjan Super Studio Collection 01

In a future not far from now, a quiet revolution has unfolded across the urban body of the Earth—a rebellion not of violence, but of color, softness, and memory. In the sky over the ruins of ancient stadiums and the once-sacred halls of bureaucracy, a fleet of inflatable architects descend—not made of stone, but of air, hue, and hope.

They are the Queer Custodians of Softness, a collective of memory keepers wearing surreal hats shaped like houses—homes never built but always longed for. These headpieces are luminous, inflatable helmets made of fuchsia, canary yellow, and bubblegum pink. Each Custodian’s crown tells a different story: the home they were exiled from, the village they imagined in their minds, the dome under which they once danced. Together, their presence signals the transformation of reality into a living architecture of dreams.

The city they create is unlike any other.

Suspended across desert valleys, their buildings bloom like citrus flowers—modular, mobile, grounded yet levitating. Walls are translucent membranes of emotion. Floors are built of diagrams and remembered songs. The architecture is both fortress and poem. Each room folds into a different version of care: a gallery of stories, a playground for penguins, a greenhouse where sorrow is composted into song.

The inhabitants do not arrive by foot but by drift. Some emerge from inflated buses shaped like pastoral homes on wheels, rolling through the avenues of Manhattan like soft utopias. Others ascend from watery depths, their arrival marked by yellow bridges and pink staircases threading the air. Cows graze under cloud canopies—living monuments to pastoral innocence restored in vertical stacks.

Children guide the way. They enter studio-classrooms through circular portals, their fingers sticky with dreams and melted crayons. In these workshops—painted neon green, lined with round windows—they construct entire neighborhoods in boxes. Floating dioramas of remembrance. Cardboard archives of futures not yet lived.

In the city’s monumental core, an archive rises like a cathedral of air. It’s built from vertical slices of the past—drawings, sections, and memories laser-cut into foam and tinted with joy. From above, the city appears like a broken mosaic that decided not to heal, but to shimmer. Pink, yellow, orange, ivory: a patchwork of tenderness.

The penguins—some say they arrived from a parallel dimension—nest between facades, ambassadors of absurd dignity. Children speak to them in whispers. They respond with choreography. No one questions it.

In this new architecture, gravity is irrelevant. Instead, orientation is emotional: to lean toward delight, to rest in softness, to dwell in the plural.

And the tallest towers? They’re not skyscrapers but sky-temples, wrapped in loops of inflatable memory wheels. Pink capsules spin gently in the wind like washing machines of the soul. They clean nothing. They amplify everything.

At the city's edge, a woman wearing a crown shaped like a cottage stands still. Her gaze touches every wall, every duct, every corner. She smiles. This was the dream.

A place where architecture became feeling.

And no one ever had to leave.