Observational Essay: Tiling Through History

A block away from the intersection of Auraria Pkwy and Speer Blvd. stands a historical six story building dating back to the 1920’s. Though once a warehouse, it now contains residential lofts in its upper floors, and after its final restoration, the bottom floor will hold luxury offices. It’s now 7:00 a.m. and the construction inside has slowly begun for the day.

“The important thing is to wear rubber globes when dealing with the mud or else the moisture will be sucked out of your hands and won’t come off for a week,” said Joe, one of the workers showing me the details of laying tile inside the future break room. I noticed clumpy, white mud-stained jeans hanging off his thin frame. He looked to be around twenty years old with dark stubble, a little shorter than his hair, filling in around his face. Laying tile is a lot more complicated than simply slapping tiles in some mud on the ground. This was an art, or so he said. It all begins with the look you want. This particular construction site would be high class, and no cheap tile could be laid in a fancy business loft. That’s why they chose travertine, an expensive, half in thick stone tile with a marbled cream color that felt rough and porous to my fingers. “The more expensive they are, the easier they can break,” Joe said to me, “and also the harder to lay.” His young brow wrinkled in concentration as he surveyed the slope of the floor and angles of the walls where the final tiles would lay running up to the ragged carpet covered hard wood floors. Only the early morning glare from a couple of nearby windows lit the smallish, rectangular room. It wasn’t dark enough for the make-shift work lamp hanging from the ceiling pipes to be plugged in.

Cross-legged on the floor, I turned my attention back on Joe, who was rising up off his knees. From his mouth came a strange sound like he was calling to someone, “Jooorgeee.” I heard a return call just barely over the Spanish music playing from the mud splattered boom box beneath the window. Whistling an unrecognizable tune, Jorge, or abuelo (grandpa) Jorge as Joe liked to call him, stomped through the hallway toward us carrying more 12”x 12” tiles fitted in a box. “Hola!” he called to me as his aged brown eyes crinkled up into smile. Apparently, Jorge could speak no English, but by the waving of hands toward a bucket and a few Spanish words interspersed, I gathered Joe had run out of mud and needed to make more.

While Joe and Abuelo Jorge concoct the mud, a mixture of dry concrete and water, in a white bucket and cut the remaining tile to fit the edges, another worker tiles in the men’s bathroom. Deciding to watch him, I walked down the long hallway surrounded by unfinished offices and noticed square support beams twice the size of my waist cinched by metal clamps and long copper pipes protruding from the newly painted drywall. They must have been an original part of the building and necessary for the restoration. I could feel the air of a portable fan blowing away dust and smell wiffs of paint as I headed away from the hall and to the bathroom. A large, light skinned man with dark curly hair crouched on his heals laying smaller, 31/2 square inch travertine tiles on the wall. Little pieces of cardboard and plastic cross spacers stick between the tile, keeping them from sliding out of place. “Mornings are generally the slowest time of day, we’re all kinda asleep still, but that changes after our nine o’clock break time,” Byron shouts my way, his goatee full of white dust. “But here’s a lesson on this tile. It came from those floor tiles from where you were just at, but these have been tumbled. Not fast mind you, but slow so the edges can smooth out and dents form on the surface without breaking the tile into pieces. It gives them character.” It looked as though his short tile lesson was over, and he hunched over his work again.

But the low down on tile came from Joe as he returned to his former room. “You see, we have to clean the floor good before smoothing down the tile, and this trowel here with the prongs on two sides and flat bottom spreads the mud. The prongs form cornrows in the mud to keep the air and moisture from breaking the tile once it’s set. And there’s a secret term rarely used I’m going to share with you. It’s called surfing. When the tile too high above the others, stand gently on the tile to push it down and level. It’s still wet, so you have to be careful” said Joe.

After explaining the process to me, Byron yelled through the maze of walls and offices announcing that it was 9:00 a.m. and time for a break. Their supervisor, Mike Neary finally showed up for the day bringing his usual snacks of sprinkled cake doughnuts, milk and coffee. He stood about 6’3”, jean overalls encasing his paunch. While a couple others kept working, most workers, including myself, walked through the hallway, around the messy reception area filled with brushes and trash cans, and up the stairs to his office. Not the typical office, an unfinished bathroom stood to the right side of the stairs and a black refrigerator filled with week old leftovers to the other. Straight ahead his desk held family vacation photos and adjacent to it was his floor planning. Byron and Joe cracked jokes about how Mike spends all his time on useless drawings and claims he has to slave over them night and day. They all just laugh about it as if this happens every day.

Though it’s time for the guys to head back to work, Mike agrees to talk with me about the history and restoration of this building they’ve been working on. I’ve heard from Byron and Joe that Mike actually loves to talk about the history because he has been researching it for the past year. Sure enough, his eyes light behind his square glasses as he tells me about how this building was involved in a feud in the 20’s, and now how important it is to keep the building’s spirit among the new construction. Between the original green and white speckled brick, the protruding infrastructure, beautiful tiling and dedication, he will definitely reach his goal.