Concrete is not as much formed as it is born. Its characteristics are shaped from the work of its shuttering, the material and constructed qualities of its formwork which shape and set its plasticity.
Concrete can be as distinct and variable, one pour to the next, as the races of the human species. It is as alive as we choose it to be. Whenever i see concrete stripped of its formwork, it is with an excitement, an impatience to see the results of its carpentry. So long as its structural integrity has been maintained, it is a wonder to observe the pitted surface of air bubbling, the rawness of honeycombing, the pin relief of nail heads and the directional roughness of timber grain.
Concrete left in its raw form as a finish is a valued prize to be sought. Not simply the cleanly cast concrete molded from steel or the even texture of selected timber, but more in the uneven edge of old plywood formwork, the bold contusions of work in progress, clipped edge of a lintel or column and form lines askew. The intrinsic beauty of concrete lies in the genes of its formwork, its biography during construction and the simple trace of time on its surface when contrasted with the cleanness of more protected, delicate finishes around it.
The expression of concrete lies on a single string coloured by two bloodlines.
Pedigree concrete has the clean sharp surfaces you could take to a dog show but i think the pure unfettered edges of bastard concrete would be more fun day to day. Anyday. Its all about that special character only mongrels have.