Browsing tag: slow architecture

  • March 31, 2021

    Searching for Slowness – A Future Paced Ethos

    In the fall semester of 2020, Caroline Amstutz and David Pankhurst, a couple of MIT Architecture grad students, researched the theme of Slow Architecture and interviewed several firms around the world, including Todd Williams Billie Tsien Architects, RMA Architects, Studio Mumbai, Aamodt / Plumb, and MASS Design Group. They did a fantastic final project and we wanted to share their work with our audience. Below you’ll find an essay by Amstutz and Pankhurst and images of the beautiful final booklet they made. Here is a link to the Aamodt / Plumb interview.

    _____________________________________________

    PROJECT DESCRIPTION BY AMSTUTZ AND PANKHURST

    “Searching for Slowness” is a new architectural manifesto, taking form in a kit, which asks participants to contribute to a common understanding of Slow Architecture. The kit invites readers to fold and assemble a series of conversations into booklet format. Then, readers interact with the recounted conversations by categorizing portions of the text into the “tenets” which we uncovered in our search for slowness. Finally, readers deconstruct, refold, and reassemble the booklet into the second reading of the manifesto – the tenets, a thematic synthesis of principles and values of Slow Architecture.

    <iframe width=”560″ height=”315″ src=”https://www.youtube.com/embed/yVfZYWTVLn8″ title=”YouTube video player” frameborder=”0″ allow=”accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture” allowfullscreen></iframe>

    Linked below are the two different “readings” of the booklet, and above is the time-lapse video of this assembly, disassembly, and reassembly process.

    Searching for Slowness Tenet Booklet [Click to download]

    searching for slowness booklet 1

    Searching for Slowness Conversations Booklet [Click to download]

    searching for slowness booklet 2

    Booklet Folding Instructions

    searching for slowness folding instructions

    _____________________

    ESSAY: Searching for Slowness – A Future-Paced Ethos 

    By Caroline Amstutz + David Pankhurst, MIT Architecture Department, December 17, 2020

    Speed is a hallmark trait of the 21st. century; from fast food to fast fashion, our digital and global moment demands a pace previously unimaginable. But with speed comes compromise at the cost of our environment, health, and culture. An antidote to our fast-paced, technologically driven lives resides in carving out space for deliberateness; for slowness – and nowhere is this more relevant than in the design of the spaces which encircle our lives. If our behavior, well-being, and sense of belonging are tied to how we dwell, how can the practice of architecture allow us to slow down and re-pace our future? 

    Fleeting a single definition, slowness shifts meanings as it impacts individuals,  communities, and environments. Searching for Slowness attempts to quantify and qualify the ephemeral idea of slowness, asking the question: what does it mean to create Slow Architecture?  While our understanding of slowness meandered as our research gained more perspectives and nuance, Slow Architecture, like Slow Food[1], can ultimately be defined by three principles: Clean  – sustainable for the environment; Fair – equitable for individuals and communities; and Good,  which is harder to evaluate, but could be defined as high quality – both materially and experientially. 

    Initially, our perception of Slow Architecture was characterized as a highly material  practice centered on human experience; a literal slowness embraced in the temporal drag inherent to physical mediums as part of the design process. Paradoxically, the deliberate slowness imbued in this process could translate into an ethos which posits a solution to the most pressing issues troubling architecture: sustainability and equity. Slow Architects, we believed, could be identified by several key traits. Firstly, a slowness induced by method through electing to design using haptically transferrable mediums and resisting quick impulse technologies. And secondly,  an unconventional practice structure, such as craft and artisan informed ateliers, design-builds,  and non-profit firms which encourage higher levels of engagement with constructive processes and communities. Equipped with criteria to identify Slow Architecture, we sought to understand how these models resist the industry trends which distance architecture from material and labor and dissociate the architect from the long-term implications of their design decisions. 

    Acknowledging these foundational assumptions, we interviewed firms (from here onward called conversations) which fit our definition of Slow Architecture, hoping through conversation to uncover how they understand their work within the context of slowness, how their practice reinforces slowness, and where their definitions of slowness diverge from our own. As we probed our understanding, we compiled these recounted conversations in Searching for Slowness – a new architectural manifesto inviting readers to dwell, reflect upon, and contribute their own ideas about Slow Architecture. Our conception of Slow Architecture evolved as we gained new  perspectives from our conversations; our manifesto acknowledges that there is no single or “correct”  definition of slowness, but rather Slow Architecture is defined by a series of principles, presented as malleable tenets, which were found resting under the surface of our discussions. 

    As we molded our understanding of Slow Architecture through conversations, we crystalized our conviction of the need for a Slow Architecture through reading and revisiting texts addressing issues of environment and equity. Research beyond our conversations helped to contextualize Slow Architecture within a larger disciplinary discourse. Parallel “Slow  Movements”, such as Slow Food [2], or Citta Slow [3] (Slow City) , grounded our critique of Fast Architecture’s unqualified embrace of globalization and homogenization. Borrowing the Slow  Food movement’s “Good, Clean, and Fair,” provided productive friction as we expanded their verbiage to fit an architectural scale and positioned the concepts relative to current disciplinary conversations. 

    “Clean” and “fair” are existential and immediate, often directly intertwined in addressing the challenges of coexistence. Godofredo Pereira’s “Towards an Environmental Architecture”  illustrates the interdependence of issues of sustainability and labor. [4] Pereira communicates the  imperative “to re-assess the legal, ethical and political limits of architecture’s responsibilities” in  order to move “from the position of providing services to that of critically supporting ongoing  processes of social transformation.” [5] The social is entangled with the environmental, and Pereira  suggests that the “environment” should be reframed as “relations of coexistence.” [6]  

    Addressing “fair,” Mabel Wilson’s “Who Builds Your Architecture?” highlights the “risk  adversity and class divisions that [characterize] the prevailing mentality of the construction and  design industries.” [7] Wilson’s text prompted our interest in engaging with alternate models of practice; those with a propensity to take more ownership of the entire production of architecture,  from pre-design through post-occupancy. Wilson identifies a disciplinary disconnect wherein  “those most intimately knowledgeable about the design and engineering of projects […] likely  never set foot on a construction site or interact with the workers for whom they produce  instructions about how to build their designs.” [8] Slow Architecture has the potential to bridge this gap. Wilson attributes this disciplinary cocoon to two key factors: an imperative to avert risk and diminish liability, and an increasing focus on “algorithmically created form making […] that  concentrate[s] creative energies on articulating the surface of architecture rather than its material  impact.” [9] These two concerns are central to Slow Architecture as they expand the principles of  “Clean” and Fair” in relationship to the more nebulous “Good.” 

    Our Conversations reinforced the ideas introduced by Wilson: this segregation of services does not eliminate risk, rather it is aggregated and spread, scattering the responsibility to deploy environmentally sustainable and fair labor practices. The shift of designer priorities from material impact to surface articulation further illustrates how priorities can be encapsulated in the processes and medium of production. Or, as John May articulates in his entry to Log 40,  “Technics contain specific models of time, which resonate with lived life […] the structural pace with which any given technical system allows us to record our thoughts and actions is inseparable from the ways of life it makes possible or impossible.” [10] With exception, there is a tendency toward technological dependency to degenerate into solipsistic, parametric “form-making” that  displaces the concern for the human experience and material realities. Our conversations engaged with firms whose design begins with a profound concern with materiality and human experience – practices who rely on tactile translations of design through models, material investigations, and true orthographic drawings. While Slow Architecture can transcend media and method, there is a speed ascribed to the techne of production. 

    In conversation, however, we found these concerns of particular mediums of design to be  largely circumstantial; some favored orthographic iteration, others relied on material mockups, and others still conceded that the international nature of their organization necessitated a purely digital design process. This speed-of-medium to speed-of-production relationship which initially framed our understanding of slowness proves to be just one of many critical exchanges, while larger attitudes of “empathy,” “empowerment,” and “ownership” more readily reveal a practice of Slow Architecture.  

    Not overlooking material or method, our conversations revealed that more important is the appropriateness of its application; using the right tools to interrogate or communicate design decisions. This idea of appropriateness underscores our own process of searching for slowness as we move between definitions and perceptions of what it means to practice Slow  Architecture. Without hard rules or boundaries, appropriateness encompasses our principles of  “flexibility,” “locality,” and “interdisciplinarity.” Our Conversations outlined appropriateness as a means to derive design from context and root architecture in culture, environment, and time.  

    The recurring themes of the conversations we had, and will continue to have, shape our perspective of a future-paced ethos of architecture. We will perhaps never be able to pin down the fleeting experience of slowness, but in starting to evaluate what constitutes Slow Architecture,  we stride towards a more sustainable and equitable future.

     

     

    1 “Good, Clean and Fair: the Slow Food Manifesto for Quality.” (Slow Food International, 2016) 2.

    2 Good, Clean and Fair: the Slow Food Manifesto for Quality.” (Slow Food International, 2016) 2. 

    3 Citta Slow: International Network of Cities Where Living is Easy.” (Cittaslow International, 2019)

    4 Pereira, Godofredo Enes. “Towards an Environmental Architecture.” (e-flux: architecture, 2010) 

    5 Ibid.  

    6 Ibid.  

    7 Wilson, Mabel, Jordan Carver, and Kadambari Baxi. “Who Builds Your Architecture?—An Advocacy Project.” The Gulf: High Culture/Hard  Labor . (OR Books, 2015) 100. 

    8 Ibid, 110.

    9 Wilson, Mabel, Jordan Carver, and Kadambari Baxi. “Who Builds Your Architecture?—An Advocacy Project.” The Gulf: High Culture/Hard  Labor . (OR Books, 2015) 110. 

    10 May, John. “Everything Is Already an Image.” Log 40. (Anyone Corporation, 2017) 10.

     

    Bibliography 

    1. “Citta Slow: International Network of Cities Where Living is Easy.” (Cittaslow International,  2019) 
    2. “Good, Clean and Fair: the Slow Food Manifesto for Quality.” (Slow Food International, 2016)  www.slowfood.com/about-us/our-philosophy/
    3. May, John. “Everything Is Already an Image.” Log 40. (Anyone Corporation, 2017) 
    4. Pereira, Godofredo Enes. “Towards an Environmental Architecture.” (e-flux: architecture,  2010) https://www.e-flux.com/architecture/positions/205375/towards-an environmental-architecture/
    5. Wilson, Mabel, Jordan Carver, and Kadambari Baxi. “Who Builds Your Architecture?—An  Advocacy Project.” The Gulf: High Culture/Hard Labor . (OR Books, 2015)
  • July 3, 2019

    How to Recycle Vinyl Building Products

    Vinyl siding, a plastic exterior material, can be seen on many homes throughout the United States. In 2011, according to the U.S. Census Bureau, about 33% of the new single-family homes constructed were covered in vinyl, making it the number one exterior siding that year. It is easy to install, inexpensive and low maintenance.

    It is even touted by the industry’s lobbying group, the Vinyl Institute, as the “material of choice for diverse products that enhance the quality of life.” Demystifying this statement is key.

    Vinyl throughout its production, use, and disposal off-gases harmful toxins into our environment and into our homes. We need to understand what vinyl is, to understand why it is so important that we phase this material out of our built environments.

    Toys made of vinyl. Photo by Christine Larsen on Unsplash

    Toys made of vinyl. Photo by Christine Larsen on Unsplash

    Why Is Vinyl Bad?

    Vinyl, also known as polyvinyl chloride (PVC) or #3 plastic, is used for many purposes: building materials, healthcare products, automobiles, electronics and toys. 10 Billion pounds of vinyl resin are converted into vinyl products in North America every year, and 70% of that is for the building industry.

    Why is this a problem? Vinyl is 57% chlorine, and chlorine production releases dioxins into the environment. Dioxins are a human carcinogen which contribute to cancer, reproductive, developmental and immune problems, in which there is no safe level of exposure. Throughout the lifespan of vinyl, these dioxins readily migrate into the environment during its production, its use, and its disposal.

    In addition, the creation of vinyl products requires toxic additives, including heavy metals such as lead, endocrine-disrupting phthalates, and toxic flame retardants, in order to be made into stable and usable consumer products. These additives are also released during both the use and disposal of PVC products. PVC products that are meant to be rigid, like vinyl siding, may also have lead added to them as a stabilizer. Other places you might find vinyl in your home include your windows and drain pipes.

    10 Billion pounds of vinyl resin are converted into vinyl products in North America every year, and 70% of that is for the building industry.

    The most dangerous impact of PVC in your home is in the event of a fire. As PVC burns, the chlorine in the material escapes, creating an acid smoke that contains hydrogen chloride. When hydrogen chloride enters the lungs, it becomes hydrochloric acid, that can result in internal chemical burns in a person who inhales it. In a house fire this could kill you or the firefighters before the flames or carbon monoxide. The fire will also release dioxins into the neighborhood, affecting the people around you for years to come.

    Vinyl and PVC should be banned from production, like lead-based paint, however that doesn’t seem likely in the near future. Almost 20 years ago a young filmmaker named Judith Helfand released a documentary on the harmful effects of vinyl. But nothing changed. We at the Slow Space Movement have started to share her film, Blue Vinyl, to local audiences. See more information about our events here. For conscious consumers the best thing to do is not purchase any vinyl products in the first place. Reduce market demand for the material and limit its production. But what if your home already has vinyl siding on it?

    toxic building materials pvc

    PVC pipes are standard in residential construction. Photo: Wikimedia

    Recycling Vinyl is Difficult

    PVC products cannot be recycled with any other recyclable plastics due to contamination. They can however, be recycled into other PVC products, if you can find a recycler. Used vinyl can be ground up into pellets that can then be melted down to create other vinyl products. However, it is important to note that more dioxins are released during the recycling process because the material needs to be melted.

    To locate a certified recycler in Massachusetts, for example, you can go to Recycling Works Massachusetts online to search for local recycling plants to bring your vinyl to (as well as any number of other materials!). These websites exist for every state. The Vinyl Institute, in their efforts to increase recycled content, also has an index you can search. However, since the tariffs for import/export to China have recently been raised, many recycling plants that used to send certain materials, including vinyl, to China, no longer accept it, so make sure to call your local facility beforehand. If there are no plants in your area, you can also donate your vinyl if its in good condition to a Habitat ReStore where they can resell it as is.

    A lot of these PVC products end up in the landfill because they are not part of conventional recycling efforts and incineration releases dioxins. Contained landfills may be the safest place for the used vinyl, but the best solution would be to ban its production outright.

    Wood is a sustainable alternative to vinyl. Photo by Khara Woods on Unsplash

    Healthy Alternatives To Vinyl

    The best solution for avoiding the harmful effects of PVC in your home ultimately is to not use it at all. Though PVC is the cheapest way to side your home, or cover your floors, it can cause lasting damage to your health, the health of your family, and the world around you. Spending a little more money on sustainably created and maintained products like wood siding, cast iron pipes and stone or ceramic tile is worth it. You could compare it to eating fast food everyday because it’s the cheapest, fast solution, but it will ultimately lead to a decline in your health. Essentially, PVC is the fast food of the building industry. Choose ‘slow’ products that are good, clean and fair for your own well-being and the well-being of the planet. Read about more options in this article: Sustainable Building Materials for Slow Spaces.

  • May 9, 2019

    The Alhambra: Layers of Beauty and Architectural History

    In her article “The Case for Beauty in Architecture,” The Slow Space Movement co-founder Mette Aamodt wrote that, “for a building to be good, it must be beautiful.” The fundamental aspiration for all good architecture to be beautiful then inevitably begs the question: What makes a structure beautiful?

    No single answer can satisfy. No one building can unarguably be the world’s single most beautiful. And if beauty is in the eye of the beholder, no two people will see a built structure in the same way. Nevertheless, in our quest to at least approach a truth and to inspire discourse, we revisit the legendary Alhambra with architect and educator Irene Hwang. Hwang lived in Spain for a decade, where she worked for Pritzker-Prize-winning architect Rafael Moneo. She later brought architecture students from America back to Spain, as part of a summer studio she was teaching. Exploring the geographical, political and cultural borders between North Africa and southern Spain, the itinerary had taken the group to Morocco, Gibraltar, Cordoba and, eventually, the Alhambra.

    Alhambra Architecture

    A place built by culture: The citadel and its grounds are a World Cultural Heritage site. Photo: Irene Hwang

    The Alhambra throughout the centuries

    The Alhambra rises majestically above the city of Granada, Spain, as Europe’s preeminent paradigm of Moorish architecture. Qa’lat al-Hamra in Arabic means “crimson castle.” A forbidding defensive wall with numerous towers, including one enormously imposing square watchtower, surrounds a world of intricate architectural splendor, with the countless characteristic delicate pillars, ornate windows, stunning tile work, elaborate stucco walls, ravishing fountains.

    In 711, an Arabic-Berber army from North Africa crossed the Strait of Gibraltar and conquered the southern part of the Iberian Peninsula. For the almost 800 years that followed, Andalusia stood under Arabic hegemony, flourishing into a vital center for the arts, humanities and science. The first kings of Granada, the Zirites, built their castles and palaces on the hill of the Albaicin. Nothing remains of them. The Nasrites probably started building the Alhambra in 1238. The founder of the dynasty, Muhammed Al-Ahmar, began with the restoration of the old fortress, and his successors continued with the repairs, constructed palaces, added towers, chambers, rooms and baths.

    Christian kings gradually reconquered Spain, and in 1492, the Alhambra fell into the possession of the Spanish crown. The new rulers set their power and Catholic believes in stone, literally, and King Karl V. commissioned an imposing palace to house his private quarters.

    Today, the Alhambra is an amalgamation of different eras of architectural style, construction phases and states of preservation. Much of the original structure was lost over the course of the centuries. And yet, the Alhambra is one of the best-preserved palace complexes of medieval Moorish architecture and remains one of Spain’s most popular tourist destinations. The citadel and its grounds are a World Cultural Heritage site.

    Beauty Alhambra Architecture Details

    Layers of detail at the Alhambra. Photo: Irene Hwang

    Architectural Details Alhambra

    The architecture instructor and her students were wowed by the incredible beauty of the Alhambra. Photo: Irene Hwang

    Building culture

    When Hwang herself studied the architectural history of Spain, the layering of architecture, inhabitation and history fascinated her immensely. “This idea of the recycling of things, the understanding of how things came to be in the loss and regain of knowledge was very interesting,” she recalls. She wanted to convey a sense of that layered history and architecture to her students, too, when she took them to the Alhambra. “There is a great Moorish-Islamic history to it, but also, there’s such strong Catholic occupation,” she says. To Hwang’s mind, architectural history, in this context, is important because it reveals how culture is built. History, movements and occupation become visible, manifested. “There are just so many teachable moments in seeing it,” Hwang remembers most about taking her American students to the Alhambra. “What I was hoping they would learn is to understand these borders. America is such a new country, and everything in the States is so regional. The thing that people don’t realize is that culture is built by the place, and the place is built by the culture.”

    The thing that people don’t realize is that culture is built by the place, and the place is built by the culture.

    Historical Architecture Alhambra

    Layers of history shown in one facade. Photo: Irene Hwang

    On their tour through northern Africa and southern Spain, Hwang particularly wanted to show her students the layers of parts of buildings getting reused and grafted: ”It’s interesting to see what parts get taken away and what parts get kept,” she notes about the Alhambra’s history of Moorish and Christian occupation and influences. During the Ottoman Empire, southern Spain was part of Africa, not of Europe as we understand it now. “Seeing that history in layers of architecture was so interesting, and the students were really wowed by how beautiful everything was, and how you can destroy things but still keep them.”

    Seeing that history in layers of architecture was so interesting, and the students were really wowed by how beautiful everything was, and how you can destroy things but still keep them.

    different eras of architectural style

    The Alhambra is an amalgamation of different eras of architectural style, construction phases and states of preservation. Photo: Irene Hwang

    The Alhambra’s unusual visual harmony

    The Alhambra’s visual harmony is difficult to expound for Hwang, and she observes it’s not something we are used to seeing. “There is repetition, which is part of what makes harmony interesting, but where beauty comes in is hard to define, especially when you are teaching architecture students.” A good architecture project, she wanted her students to learn from the Alhambra, comes down to understanding the rhythms, the harmonies and the proportions, and, moving forward into the future, understanding the essence of sustainable building. “We can’t keep building cities out of nothing, so we have to recycle them. We have to graft onto them. And that’s what’s beautiful about the Alhambra. It’s hundreds of years old. People grafted onto it, and they weren’t single-handed about it. You can see the rhythms; the proportions of the plaster work, the spaces themselves, the gardens.”

    We can’t keep building cities out of nothing, so we have to recycle them. We have to graft onto them. And that’s what’s beautiful about the Alhambra.

    Alhambra Granda, Spain

    The Alhambra rises majestically above the city of Granada, Spain. Photo: Irene Hwang

    What’s beautiful architecture to you?

    What makes architecture beautiful in your eyes? What built structure in the world quintessentially represents this quality of elevated architectural allure, to your mind? Share your thoughts with us by posting a comment below!

    Alhambra Moorish Architecture

    The Alhambra remains one of Spain’s most popular tourist destinations. Photo: Irene Hwang

  • March 8, 2019

    Are Passive Houses Also Slow?

    When it comes to building methodologies “Passive” and “Slow” sound related, don’t they? In many ways, they are. Passive House (‘passivhaus’ in German) is a building approach and certification of energy efficiency that creates healthy and comfortable living environments. The Slow Space Movement encourages wellbeing by promoting buildings that are good, clean and fair. While the core principles of Passive House align with the Slow Space Movement, the energy-focused building approach could benefit from the Slow Space Movement’s holistic credo.

    What is Passive House? 

    The Passive House approach maximizes energy efficiency to produce buildings that are not only environmentally friendly, but uniquely comfortable. Passive homes achieve such a high standard through ultra efficient insulation, orienting the building to maximize sunlight in the winter and shade in the summer, and an air-tight yet well ventilated enclosure. Passive homes often make use of solar energy to further reduce their carbon footprint. A well-insulated home takes advantage of the incidental internal heat sources such as appliances and our own body heat to add warmth in the winter. Through natural temperature regulation and fresh air circulation, passive homes improve our health and quality of life.

    Why do we like it? 

    Passive House buildings directly improve our health. These structures make use of natural daylight which helps our circadian rhythms, productivity, emotional wellbeing and more. Passive houses also constantly circulate fresh air which is not only comfortable, but reduces the risk of mold, dust, pollen and other pollutants and allergens. When we spend 90% of our time indoors, the improved air quality in passive homes has a direct affect on our health. Furthermore, these buildings are so well insulated, there is incredibly little temperature fluctuation even in extreme weather conditions, thus regulating a health body temperature.

    Passive homes also indirectly improve our wellbeing.  By creating a home that reduces the need for electricity through daylighting and temperature regulation, Passive Houses are less dependent on technology and fossil fuels. Even if the heating system breaks in the winter, the house would remain comfortable for days.  The level of insulation in a home also helps our quality of life. Imagine being able to sit in a cozy window nook in the middle of winter without the hint of a draft or cold air radiating from the glass. Moreover, a well insulated house reduces noise, creating a peaceful, quiet living environment.

    Passive Homes also need to be very well built in order to be airtight. This means they are highly resilient to weather conditions and will last much longer than the typical house. Well-constructed homes not only benefit the homeowners, but support the work of local craftspeople and the communities around them.

    What can be improved?

    Passive House is a highly effective building methodology that creates efficient and healthy environments which we love; however, it is not necessarily a wholistic approach.  One of the major issues we have with some high performance buildings is in material selection. For example, many Passive Houses are insulated with spray foam insulation which can be highly toxic.  

    The Slow Space Movement encourages the use of organic, renewable materials such as wood fiber insulation as an alternative.  Wood fiber insulation can insulate a house well enough for Passive House certification and is non-toxic to people and the planet.

    Toxic materials have a negative impact on the house’s inhabitants, the workers that build it and the planet. The Slow Space Movement promotes good design, clean healthy materials and fair labor practices. This includes creating a healthy environment for the workers during construction.

    Of course, proponents of Passive House have no intention of using toxic materials or unfair labor.  But it is all too easy in the construction industry to focus in on one goal and lose sight of the entire process.  As we strive for Passive House standards, let’s maintain a holistic approach that considers energy efficiency along with good, clean and fair practices.

  • June 4, 2018

    Tadelakt — A Clean Finish

    Tadelakt, an ancient lime plaster finish, is a three-millennia-old clean building solution that originated in Morocco. The all-natural material is antibacterial, hypoallergenic and regulates moisture — essential properties for a healthy living environment. Traditional lime plaster, which is free of toxic compounds, slowly reabsorbs carbon dioxide from the air and is 100% recyclable.

    A rare artisan and ambassador of tadelakt

    As part of our series on Clean Building Solutions for Slow Spaces, we spoke with Fabio Bardini, who has spent many years studying original texts about different traditional lime plaster techniques. He experimented with the original recipes to revive the lost art of true Venetian plaster and other traditional lime plaster finishes, including a technique called “tadelakt.” Now living and working in Salem, Massachusetts, the native Italian is one of only a handful of artisans in the United States who master the ancient tadelakt technique.

    Tadelakt is based on an aged lime putty Bardini imports from his home country of Italy. “Anything built with lime, whether it is tadelakt or Venetian plaster or any kind of plaster made from the lime putty, is the ultimate green material,” he says. “When you use the lime putty, it will begin to carbonate and the material itself reabsorbs all the carbon dioxide released from the burning of the limestone, so it has a very low carbon footprint.”

    Anything built with lime, whether it is tadelakt or Venetian plaster or any kind of plaster made from the lime putty, is the ultimate green material. – Fabio Bardini

    In Italy, the lime putty has been produced the same way for thousands of years: Earth-abundant limestone is fired in wood-burning kilns at 900 degrees Celsius for several days before it gets slaked and aged in open-air pits for a minimum of three years.

    tadelakt

    A time-consuming, intricate process that requires the skills of a “maalem” — a tadelakt artisan: The application of Marseille olive oil soap and polishing it with small semi-precious river stones gives tadelakt its silky feel.

    Bardini makes his tadelakt primarily from the Italian lime putty, sand — silica sand or marble sand — and water. Other components, also all natural, can be mixed in. He applies the plaster with a small trowel (called a “cat’s tongue”). Once the lime plaster dries, it begins to absorb water again. That’s why an additional step becomes necessary to make the finish waterproof. “For the tadelakt, for example, we use Marseille olive oil soap, a traditional, ancient type of soap that is made in Marseille, France,” the skilled artisan says. “You rub it in with these hard, semi-precious stones, pebble-like, polished stones, and that gives the plaster that polished, smooth surface.” The chemical reaction between the olive oil soap and the carbonating lime — the so-called saponification — solidifies and waterproofs the plaster. Once cured, Bardini typically treats the plaster with natural beeswax to further protect the surface without altering its beneficial qualities. The velvety smooth tadelakt thus becomes an ideal finishing material for building sinks, tubs, floors, even entire shower rooms.

    The origins of tadelakt

    Tadelakt originated in Morocco, where the technique was used to line water cisterns for drinking water. “It’s a very good material to keep water because it’s antibacterial, antifungal and antimicrobial,” Bardini explains. The material is also high in pH, with a pH of 12.4. It has always been well known for creating a healthy environment, even in a home. For example, lime plaster finishes have long been used to paint basements and root cellars. “People would do that in the fall, before they would store all their winter vegetables, like potatoes and onions,” Bardini says. “It’s also been used to paint the cow stalls and other animal stalls before the animals give birth. So it’s an ancient sanitizer.”

    Even before tadelakt was used in Morocco, it is believed that the Romans brought their lime plaster techniques to the North-African country on their conquest south. “The Romans were masters of these classic techniques using lime and aggregates like marble dust or marble sand,” Bardini says. “The Romans invented this finish called marmorino, which translates to ‘little marble.’ It was the lime putty mixed with the marble dust that they used to line the walls of their villas, and that resembled a slab of marble when you applied it. They brought that method along with them.” The Moroccans then adapted the lime plaster finishing technique to the implements and materials available to them. They used a different type of limestone, for instance. “And instead of metal tools, they used little rocks, little polished stones. So the finish has a style of its own, but the basic ingredients and applications are very similar to the Roman-style walls.” The beauty and benefits of tadelakt later brought the lime plaster finish to the hammams (public baths) and private homes in and around Marrakech.

    Mixing Marrakech Lime with water and yellow pigment to make tadelakt in Morocco. Photo by Joaoleitao

    Bardini first learned about traditional lime finishing techniques when he attended art school in Florence, Italy, and studied architectural history from the old Egyptians through the Renaissance period. “These types of finishes kept on resurfacing from Roman times through the 1400s. Then, with architects like Palladio, they again resurfaced around the 16th, 17th century,” he says. Much later, during the 20th century, the techniques experienced yet another resurgence, when architects such as the Italian maestro Carlo Scarpa brought the materials and applications into modernism. “These are beautiful finishes, sought after for their beauty and resilience,” says Bardini, who regrets that today very few craftspeople master these traditional lime finishing techniques in the United States. “They just get confused with modern, industrial products, but they look quite different,” he says. “Unfortunately, people give commercial plasters a lot of names: Stucco Romano or Venetian plaster per se, these are all products made with acrylics and a lot of chemicals. The classic materials of the past were very simple, made with lime putty and marble, and very little additions of these natural ingredients, like linseed oil or olive oil soap, and also beeswax for the final polishing. Those materials used for the past 3000 years never changed. You can still use all those materials and achieve the same results.”

    “These are beautiful finishes, sought after for their beauty and resilience. – Fabio Bardini

    An ancient art for patient people

    With all the evident benefits and advantages of tadelakt, why then are these traditional lime plaster finishes — timelessly beautiful, long-lasting and environmentally friendly even by modern standards — not implemented more widely in the building field today? Besides blaming the lack of maalem (tadelakt artisans) who could train others in the United States, Bardini says about mastering the technique: “It’s more like trial and error, and people like me take the time to study and try and finally come to a good product that can be applied.”

    Bardini considers himself both an artist and a craftsman. “And that’s the type of person you need to be to work with these finishes,” he admits. “It is very tedious.” Finishing a bathroom with tadelakt takes about two month, then a sink or a shower has to cure for a month before it can be used. Tadelakt continues to change its color and harden over the months, years and even decades. “So it’s important to be very careful when it’s first applied,” says Bardini. “It is softer in the beginning, so if you were to do a floor in tadelakt, you wouldn’t want to walk on it with shoes at first.” After this initial time period, though, tadelakt becomes very durable and will last for many years, according to the master.

    Tadelakt

    Tadelakt is a popular finishing material for building sinks, tubs, floors and showers. Photo by SpOon.

    What’s more, traditional lime plaster finishes are typically applied directly over masonry structures. “So we have an additional challenge here in the United States, being that buildings are stud-framed,” Bardini points out. To apply tadelakt over stud-framed construction and modern substrates such as drywall prior preparation of the surface is necessary. Tadelakt in wet environments requires a cement board and a half-inch-thick lime-and-sand plaster base.

    Bardini describes the tadelakt surface as being “hard as stone yet soft as silk,” and to appreciate the allure of tadelakt, he says it is necessary to caress it. “The beauty of these finishes is unmatched by anything available commercially or industrially produced,” he says. “But, you know, there are people who are willing to go through the process and to pay for the work, and they will enjoy it for the rest of their lives.”

    The beauty of these finishes is unmatched by anything available commercially or industrially produced. – Fabio Bardini

     

  • January 10, 2018

    Empathy in Architecture: The Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village by MASS Design

    In her recent essay “Designing with Empathy,” Slow Space founder and architect Mette Aamodt writes, “Empathy is putting yourself in someone else’s shoes and feeling the emotions they feel.”

    What if this “someone else” is a pregnant woman in Malawi, one of the world’s poorest countries? As an architect, how do you put yourself in that pair of shoes, in which she walked the long journey from her village to the district hospital in Kasungu, where she hopes to receive essential medical services that will give her a better chance of surviving childbirth?

    Only slightly more than half of the children in this Southeast-African country are born under the care of a medical professional. Malawi has one of the worst maternal mortality rates in the world — 634 deaths per 100,000 live births (est. 2015).

    The University of North Carolina (UNC) had already been working with Malawi’s Ministry of Health on a larger initiative to help address maternal mortality through medical practices and protocols. As part of the project, the Ministry had quickly and with very limited resources created a prototype maternity waiting home; a bare-bones rectangle, housing 36 beds and a small bathroom at its core. Outside, a small, unshaded space for washing laundry. They planned to build 130 more maternity waiting homes across the country, based on that model.

    At the time, Boston-headquartered MASS Design Group (MASS) already had an office in Kigali, working on projects in Rwanda. The firm was invited to Malawi to contribute a design that could improve the mothers’ experience and help to mitigate that country’s unfathomably high maternal mortality rate. Women waiting until they are too close to labor for making the distance and women who had planned on giving birth at home in their village but encounter complications, far away from the nearest doctor, are at a particularly high risk. Thus, a maternity waiting home is a facility in the proximity of a hospital or health centre, where expecting mothers can stay toward the end of their pregnancy and await labor.

    MASS’ mission

    MASS Design Group’s mission is to design environments that promote health and dignity. The firm, founded as non-profit organization, aims to advance a movement that fosters public awareness of the way architecture can hurt or heal. Empathy in architecture, trying to understand the feelings of their design’s future users, is woven into the fabric of the firm. “It’s not just the Maternity Waiting Village for us that embodies empathy in design,” says Director Patricia Gruits, LEED. “That is really part of what we as a firm bring to all of our projects. We claim that entire process as an opportunity to ensure dignity and empathy across the continuum of design and construction.”

    We claim that entire process as an opportunity to ensure dignity and empathy across the continuum of design and construction.

    empathy in architecture

    Empathy in architecture: The Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village. Photo: © Iwan Baan, Courtesy of MASS Design Group

    Immersion first

    Before beginning to design, the MASS team traveled to the site of the future Maternity Waiting Village, set adjacent to Kasungu’s district hospital, where pregnant women from the surrounding villages came to deliver their babies. “We always start each project with what we call ‘immersion’,” Gruits notes. “It’s about immersing ourselves in the community, so we understand the needs, the context, any opportunities of the project — not sort of drop in a solution.”

    It’s about immersing ourselves in the community, so we understand the needs, the context, any opportunities of the project — not sort of drop in a solution.

    On his first site visit, her colleague Jean Paul Sebuhayi Uwase, design associate in MASS’ Rwanda office, was shocked to find these mothers under the rain, without shelter. Some stayed in tents, others slept outside under the trees. “What if this was my mother?” he remembers thinking. “For you to go through the experience of giving birth, you deserve to have this space that treats you well. That was pushing us to design, to go outside of the normal things, for this to be a special place for these mothers to give birth, but also a special space for people to change their mindset of not always delivering at their homes or in their villages.”

    During the immersion, the MASS team quickly observed how social the Malawian women were, spending most of the time gathered together outside, sitting on the ground, around a tree in the shade or under the overhang of another building. The current prototype design clearly was not responding to the Malawian way of life.

    The Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village, empathy in architecture

    The design of the Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village is inspired by the way of life in a traditional Malawaian village. Photo: © Iwan Baan, Courtesy of MASS Design Group

    Researching the setup of typical Malawian villages, the team found that even as younger generations start their own families, they all stay in the same area, near the houses of their parents and grandparents. The family life extends fluidly. “That creates a social cohesion within the family,” Uwase says. How could they recreate aspects of the mothers’ village life through design? By allowing empathy to influence their architecture. The common spaces in particular were designed to encourage gathering and interacting. “That creates a friendship that extends beyond the Maternity Waiting Village,” Uwase says. The hope for the Village is to encourage the women to carry on a social life and normal friendships. Gruits references the project’s main goal: “We really wanted to transform this maternity waiting experience from something that was seen as a negative experience for mothers, something that disempowered them, to something that was empowering.”

    We really wanted to transform this maternity waiting experience from something that was seen as a negative experience for mothers, something that disempowered them, to something that was empowering.

    The architect speaks of a local nurse’s vision for these women to come and learn a skill, so they can return to their villages not only with a healthy baby but with new potential and opportunities. Classes on gardening, nutrition, cooking and family planning are crucial to the program. “All of that is about really impacting and empowering her to make better and different life decisions that are right for her and her family.”

    empathy in architecture: The Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village. Photo: © Iwan Baan, Courtesy of MASS Design Group

    The Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village. Photo: © Iwan Baan, Courtesy of MASS Design Group

    Empathy in architecture: Design for dignity

    36 women sleeping in one big room was not the right answer to fostering solidarity. Based on their research on social interactions and social networks, MASS instead designed small huts that sleep four women each. Clusters of three huts surround a core of washrooms, showers and a laundry area 12 mothers share. A total of three clusters is complemented by a room for classes, several outdoor areas and a kitchen.

    The local nurses and UNC saw additional opportunity to pair experienced mothers with first-timers, so they can coach each other along and answer questions. “There is now this much more communal approach to giving birth and to the pregnancy process,” Gruits says. Her colleague agrees: “The way it has been designed really helps to facilitate all of those relationships and connections.” The team even renamed their maternity waiting home Maternity Waiting Village, for its many chances to encourage relationship building through design.

    The designers also had to address Malawi’s extreme climate of very strong rain seasons and very hot dry seasons. The mothers needed protection from the rain throughout the village, including covered walkways. But they also needed shaded areas where they would be protected from the sun. “So we really focused on the roof of the project,” says Gruits. “We looked at the roof to create those overhangs to shade and to protect from the rain.” Ample outdoor spaces now facilitate education programs and cooking classes or simply for the women to cook and gather together more comfortably.

    What’s more, the mothers are typically accompanied by family members, who cook for them, keep them company and help them through the delivery process. So the designers doubled the number of toilets and added large benches under the overhangs. “If we couldn’t provide a bed for the guardians, at least we could provide protection from the rain and the sun,” Gruits says.

    In the quest to combat maternal mortality beyond the Village, a key design objective had been to inspire the mothers to return to their villages and in turn encourage other pregnant women to make their way to the Maternity Waiting Village in Kasungu.

    Building for a future

    Malawi suffers from extreme deforestation, and high-quality building materials are hard to come by. “When you fire bricks, you use a lot of wood,” says Uwase. “So on this project, they were interested in us testing alternative building materials that would be more sustainable and would be solutions to combat deforestation.” The group implemented CSEBs — compressed stabilized earth blocks, which use very small amounts of cement and no firewood. Local laborers made the bricks onsite.

    Uwase speaks passionately about the opportunity to train the local carpenters in reading technical drawings, and to influence them to think differently about materials. “Part of our model at MASS is that we are not just designing a building and dropping it off,” Gruits adds. “We train wherever we can, which not only ensures the stewardship or the repair or the maintenance of our own buildings but also that those same workers may go off and use that skill on another job and make more money.”

    Uwase has returned to Kasungu three times since construction finished and women have moved into the Maternity Waiting Village he helped to build. One of the doctors told him that word-of-mouth is spreading about “one of the best places to wait when you are attending the maternity services.” If anything, too many mothers from the area surrounding Kasungu are coming. “It’s a good sign,” says Uwase. “It shows a response to one of the concerns we had when we studied the design, and how the design can change the mindset and attract more mothers. And that’s happening now, which makes me happy.”

    The Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village. empathy in architecture

    The design aims to encourage more women from the surrounding villages to come to the Kasungu Maternity Waiting Village. Photo: © Iwan Baan, Courtesy of MASS Design Group

    More mothers are waiting

    The MASS team knew from interviewing mothers beforehand that there would be more than 36 mothers at a time wanting to come. “There is a bigger demand for this Maternity Waiting Village,” Gruits notes. “Part of it being well designed is that we’ve been successful in encouraging more mothers to come, but we need more of these facilities to actually accommodate the demand.” The district hospital itself is currently adding on to their maternity ward. “It’s a huge success that they would invest in that infrastructure.”

    The Malawian Ministry of Health is now considering implementing the MASS-designed Maternity Waiting Village prototype on a larger scale. “We’ve had conversations as well with NGOs and other leaders in Zambia and even in Uganda about maternity waiting homes,” Gruits says. “People are interested in using our model, and we see this as an opportunity for other countries that are also looking at maternity waiting villages as a solution to their maternal mortality issues.”

  • December 19, 2017

    The Case For Beauty In Architecture

    For a building to be good, it must be beautiful. Why? Because beauty in architecture brings us joy and happiness. Merriam-Webster defines beauty as “qualities in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses or pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit.” Or more to the point, Stendhal, the 19th century French writer, wrote, “Beauty is the promise of happiness.” And happiness is one of our fundamental human needs.

    Beauty is the promise of happiness.

    alhambra beauty in architecture

    The Alhambra — a magnificent example of beauty in architecture, Credit: Mark Horn, Getty Images

    I was delighted when I found the contemporary French philosopher Alain de Botton and his book “The Architecture of Happiness,” about the philosophical and psychological relationship between architecture and our identities.

    De Botton writes: “The buildings we admire are ultimately those which, in a variety of ways, extol the values we think worthwhile — which refer, that is, whether through materials, shapes or colours, to such legendary positive qualities as friendliness, kindness, subtlety, strength and intelligence. Our sense of beauty and our understanding of the nature of a good life are intertwined.” (De Botton, Alain, The Architecture of Happiness)

    beauty in architecture

    Stahl House by Pierre Koenig

    Beauty in architecture

    Beauty is one of the most enduring themes of Western philosophy, going all the way back to Vitruvius’ three laws of architecture: firmitas, utilitas, venustas (solidity, utility, beauty). But when I was in architecture school, no one talked about beauty in architecture because it was considered too subjective. What was important back then was the concept and the idea of the building, not what it looked like.

    beauty in architecture

    Lebbeus Woods Model by John Hill

    Actually, some architects were more interested in the ugly, in an architecture of dissonance or discomfort, like this model that looks like it will attack you. This hasn’t been good for the profession’s PR.

    De Botton points to a study of German psychologist Rudolf Arnheim, where he asked students to draw a good and a bad marriage using only line drawings. “In one example, smooth curves mirror the peaceable and flowing course of a loving union, while violently gyrating spikes serve as a visual shorthand for sarcastic putdowns and slammed doors.”

    beauty in architecture

    Boston City Hall by Daniel Schwen – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0

    In the renaissance, architects were considered the arbiters of beauty. But today, the public often questions architects and designers’ notions of beauty. When I google “ugly building,” the #3 listing is the Wikipedia entry for Boston City Hall. Either Google’s algorithm has a personal beef or there is a general consensus on that one. Either way, that is not the keyword term I would like to rank for. In the article “Ugly Architecture: 15 of the World’s Most Hideous Buildings,” the author wrote, “Some buildings are so ugly, the only thing that could possibly improve them is a wrecking ball.” On the list are many famous architects and well-known firms like Gehry, MVRDV and Perkins + Will. The one that really made me chuckle was the observation tower by artist Anish Kapoor and engineer Cecil Balmond that “looks like a tangle of junk you pulled out of a drawer in your garage.”

    But when, on my quest to expound beauty in architecture, I ask Google about “beautiful buildings,” there is far less agreement. Back in Plato’s day, beauty was considered objective and there were rules and orders that governed it. Even Le Corbusier spoke of a somewhat classical notion of beauty.

    “The Architect, by his arrangements of forms, realizes an order which is a pure creation of his spirit; through forms and shapes, he affects our senses to an acute degree and provokes plastic emotions; by the relationships which he creates he creates profound echoes in us, he gives us the measure of an order which we feel to be in accordance with that of our world, he determines the various movements of our heart and of our understanding; it is then we experience the sense of beauty.” (Le Corbusier quoted in The Architecture of Happiness)

    But now we tend to believe that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” De Botton quotes Stendahl: “There are as many styles of beauty as there are visions of happiness.”

    Is beauty universal?

    Certainly, different cultures have different notions of beauty. Indeed, wabi-sabi offers quite a different notion of beauty from Arabic geometric patterns.

    beauty in architecture

    Ryoan-ji Garden in Kyoto, Japan – Stephane D’Alu’s photo, CC BY-SA 3.0

    Our tastes and definitions of beauty change in response to other cultural influences, but they also change over time in response to shifts in our own society. According to de Botton, German art historian Wilhelm Worringer suggested that over the span of human history societies have oscillated between a preference for abstract and realistic art, and that those preferences have changed based on what the societies themselves were lacking.

    “Abstract art, infused as it was with harmony, stillness and rhythm, would appeal chiefly to societies yearning for calm — societies in which law and order were fraying, ideologies were shifting and a sense of physical danger was compounded by moral and spiritual confusion. Against such a turbulent background (the sort of atmosphere to be found in many of the metropolises of twentieth-century America …), inhabitants would experience what Worringer termed ‘an immense need for tranquility,’ and so would turn to the abstract, to patterned baskets or the minimalist galleries of Lower Manhattan.”

    In the twenty-first century, in the age of instant communication, political turmoil and climate catastrophes, this need for tranquility, and what we would term slowness, feels to me to be even more important.

  • November 14, 2017

    Designing the Experience of Space

    In this installment on our series about the three tenets of good architecture, we illuminate the experience of space and architecture. By focusing on the experience of the space rather than the form or function of the building, we as architects can impact people in profound and meaningful ways. Juhani Pallasmaa writes:

    “When designing physical spaces, we are also designing, or implicitly specifying distinct experiences, emotions and mental states. In fact, as architects we are operating in the human brain and nervous system as much as in the world of matter and physical construction. I dare to make this statement as science has established that environments change our brains, and those changes in turn alter our behavior.” (Pallasmaa, Juhani. “Empathic and Embodied Imagination: Intuiting Experience and Life in Architecture” in Architecture and Empathy.)

    … Environments change our brains, and those changes in turn alter our behavior.

    experience of space

    Rigid and in order: A quintessentially Swiss experience designed by Peter Zumthor. Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

    Phenomenology in architecture

    However, too much of architecture has focused on form-making and too little on the experience of space. In fact, form-making has been the dominant theme of modernism, postmodernism and contemporary theories. This is a very rational, static and abstract notion of architecture that dates back to the renaissance, euclidean geometry and René Descartes’ philosophy of “cogito, ergo sum,” “I think, therefore I am.” Vittorio Gallese says, based on his theory of embodied simulation, that philosophy is incorrect. “More relevant than ‘cogito’ — and here phenomenology got it exactly right — than ‘I think’ is ‘I can.’ The physical object, the outcome of symbolic expression, becomes the mediator of an intersubjective relationship between creator and beholder.” (Gallese, Vittorio. “Architectural Space from Within: The Body, Space and the Brain” in Architecture and Empathy.)

    Gallese references the phenomenologists — both philosophers and architects — that have been studying human consciousness and built space through the context of experience and phenomena since the early 20th century, in direct opposition to Descartes’ philosophy that views the world as sets of objects. Architect and Professor Botond Bognar summarizes phenomenology in architecture as follows:

    “As opposed to traditional Western understanding based on a sharp distinction between person and the world, phenomenology — highly critical of Cartesian dualism in any form — regards subjects and objects in their unity. Phenomenology understands a world wherein people and their environment mutually include and define each other. It focuses upon nature and reality not as an absolutum existing only outside us, but as subject to human scrutiny, interaction, and creative participation.” (Bognar, Botond. “A phenomenological approach to architecture and its teaching in the design studio” in Dwelling, Place and Environment.)

    Slow Space is founded in phenomenology, as is our work at Aamodt / Plumb Architects. We ask ourselves how the spaces we create might make people feel. We ask our clients how they want to feel in their home, their school, their library or their hospital. Let us be aware of how spaces make us feel and teach our clients how to feel space as well. It’s no different than cultivating your taste for wine or fine food. One of the Slow Food Movement’s early objectives was to cultivate an appreciation for the taste of good food. I think we should do the same with great spaces. We should cultivate an appreciation for good buildings. It’s not enough just to look at a beautiful picture. Here is a picture of a beautiful dish from Bon Appetit. It looks delicious. But so does this picture of a Whopper, even though we know it is junk food.

    Let us be aware of how spaces make us feel and teach our clients how to feel space as well.

    How about wine? A photo doesn’t do much for it. It’s all in the taste, in the experience. And wine’s popularity is soaring. Millennials are spending more on wine and restaurants and experiences than consumer goods.

    Zumthor’s thermal baths as paradigm for designing the experience of space

    Peter Zumthor’s thermal baths in Vals, Switzerland, serve as an example for designing the experience of space. We spoke with Swiss-born photographer Jonathan Ducrest, who explored the world-famous building with his camera. See his photography and read the story in the article, “Architecture as Experience: Peter Zumthor’s Thermal Baths“.

     

     

  • November 7, 2017

    Architecture as Experience: Peter Zumthor’s Thermal Baths

    This article is part of an installment of essays and examples illuminating the essence of good architecture, which, as Slow Space founder Mette Aamodt defines, comprises the three fundamental qualities of empathy, experience and beauty. The exploration of Peter Zumthor’s thermal baths in Vals, Switzerland, represents a paragon of architecture as experience — as an extraordinary sensory experience.

    Zumthor's thermal baths

    Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

    Solitude of space

    To share a taste of this experience, we caught up with Swiss photographer Jonathan Ducrest, who explored Peter Zumthor’s thermal baths from a distinctive angle — from behind his sly camera lens — shot without special lighting. Ducrest, who says he’s “not big on taking pictures of people,” also minimally edited the photographs to give a more authentic sense of the place’s raw simplicity. It is the solitude of space that fascinates the photographer.

    Ducrest now calls Los Angeles home. He’d returned home to his native Switzerland for the holidays and decided to take his mother on a spa weekend. “This was my third or forth trip to Vals,” says Ducrest, contemplating how time moves slower in the small mountain village of fewer than one thousand souls in Switzerland’s Graubünden canton. “You just relax, without the everyday stress. You can walk and enjoy nature, and there aren’t a lot of distractions.”

    Zumthor's thermal baths

    View into the surrounding landscape of the valley of Vals. Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

    Swiss minimalism

    Zumthor, whose other significant works include the Kunsthaus in Bregenz, Austria, the all-timber Swiss Pavilion for Expo 2000 in Hannover, Germany, and the upcoming expansion of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) in the United States, designed the spa building over the canton’s only thermal springs. The hydrotherapy center, commissioned by the village of Vals, was completed in 1996. Zumthor’s rectilinear design contrasts the valley’s traditional vernacular structures and pastoral setting, and was to look as if it pre-dated the luxury hotel complex.

    Zumthor's thermal baths

    Zumthor’s minimalist, clean-lined design contrasts the valley’s traditional vernacular structures. Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

    “The spa and the hotel itself — it’s like this temple,” reflects Ducrest. “There’s nothing but the water and the stone the architect used.” The cave-like structure comprises 15 units, each five meters high, whose grass-covered concrete roofs don’t join. The slim gaps are filled in with glass. The dark quartzite slabs are quarried locally, and 60,000 one-meter-long stone sections clad the walls in a subtly ordered pattern. “He framed the landscape outside with windows,” the photographer describes. “It’s like you’re watching a painting when you’re relaxing in your chair, and you’re looking out and it’s snowing or the light is changing or there could be a storm outside. You’re becoming more attuned to your surroundings.” The fact that all the stone Zumthor used was brought in from the valley connects visitors even more to the encompassing environment. “Everything comes from there: the waters, the air, the sounds.”

    Everything comes from there: the waters, the air, the sounds.

    Zumthor's thermal baths

    Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

    Ducrest has long wanted to photograph the space. But without an official assignment, he needed to be cunning in shooting inside the thermal baths, beginning his day’s work early in the morning, when only hotel guests are allowed in. Having been in the space before, he knew beforehand what he wanted to capture. “I had my camera wrapped in my towel, and my mom was looking out if someone was coming. And I took the pictures in a natural light, there’s no flash,” reveals Ducrest, who intently refrained from retouching the photographs. He wanted to depict the architecture as purely as possible — in the way it was designed. What is more, he says, “The lighting changes throughout the day. If you start incorporating lighting that’s not supposed to be there, it’s going to change the feel of it. I like the fact that I had to deal with those constraints. And I don’t really like having people in my photography.”

    I don’t really like having people in my photography.

    Zumthor's thermal baths

    Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

    Zumthor's thermal baths

    Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

    Feeling Zumthor

    By design, Zumthor, who received the Pritzker Architecture Prize for his lifework in 2009, pulls the visitor from the arrival and physical transition into bath attire deeper into the spacial experience of the building. A gentle slope leads down to the locker rooms. “You go down this dark tunnel, and you get glimpses of what he wants you to go and explore,” the photographer tells. “As you walk down the hallway, you turn to your left, and there’s this small but very tall opening, and you can see the space below. You see a pool, and you want to go there and see that space. You’re going through a turnstile, and again, you walk this hallway, and there’s water coming out of little water sprouts.” At the end of the hall, the locker rooms lie behind heavy curtains. “You emerge on the other side into the main space, and as you are walking down the staircase, you’re going to see the outdoor pool. You’re going to see a part of the main pool. And you’ll again want to go further and explore.”

    Zumthor's thermal baths

    Rigid and in order: Swiss minimalism. Photo by Jonathan Ducrest

    Ducrest’s images are a pictorial reflection on the architect’s intent of creating a physical, mental and spiritual human experience — with the Swiss touch of the internationally renown architect, who was born in Basel in 1943, the son of a master carpenter. “In Switzerland, we like things in order and a little rigid, that’s how we are. That’s still how I am,” Ducrest notes. “When you’re there, it’s always straight lines. It’s hard corners. From the design, you wouldn’t think there is something soft or calming about the space. It’s very rigid and square, and there seems to be no end to this gray stone. But then you add the thermal water elements and the lighting, and it all comes together. Now, it’s a perfect space.”

    Zumthor's thermal baths

    The soft element of the thermal water in juxtaposition with the rough stone and the straight-line architecture perfects the experience of the space.

    Also read: “Designing With Empathy” by Mette Aamodt

  • September 7, 2017

    Sverre Fehn: Between Earth & Sky

    I have visited Sverre Fehn’s National Museum – Architecture and Grosch Bistro in Oslo many times as a good friend is one of the curators and worked with Fehn on the renovation and addition. The place is calm, soothing, comforting and timeless. There is no wow factor for the architectural tourist other than the sheer contrast of the classical building and the modern pavilion. The cafe feels like it has always been there, and always will. A narrow door leads to the pavilion where you immediately enter the generous, bright, open and protected space. My words can’t do it justice I am afraid, nor will my pictures. Unfortunately, the day of this visit the exhibition on display in the pavilion obscured the experience of the space by putting a massive solid structure in the middle and overlaying drawings and text on the glass walls.

    I wanted to write about this Slow Space because of the wonderful experiences I have had there and the esteem I hold for the late Sverre Fehn and his work. But as I researched this article I discovered that my intuition about Fehn’s work was confirmed by his philosophies and writings that touch on meaning, authenticity, human existence, sensual experience, and the search for place. These are the fundamental principles of Slow Space and Fehn’s work is our guide.

    Existence and Authenticity

    Throughout his career the Norwegian architect Sverre Fehn (1924-2009) sought to understand human existence and define one’s place in this world. With every project he explored different ways of creating “a place to be” (Norwegian: et sted å være) defining, architecturally, “the space between” (Norwegian: mellomrom) the earth and sky.

    “A place to be” can be a philosophical or spiritual place if you are a philosopher or theologian. Fehn was influenced by the Existentialists at the time, who were primarily concerned with concrete human experience and living life authentically, in contrast to the increasing meaningless and absurd world they saw around them. But for Fehn the architect, “a place to be” was a physical space that mediates between the deep earth and the vast sky. It is a space of comfort that can be touched, felt and experienced, built with simple, true means and materials.

    The Space Between

    Working primarily in the open Norwegian landscape, Fehn defined mellomrom architecturally as the space between the roof and the ground planes. The dialectic between these two planes shows up in all of his projects, although the solutions are always different, and the vertical elements of wall and roof are de-emphasized, often to create a greater connection to the landscape. In some cases, the roof form is strong and imposing, providing true shelter from the elements, as in the Glacier Museum in Fjæreland (1991).

    But sometimes the roof acts more like the clouds above, filtering light, as in the Nordic Pavilion at the Venice Biennale (1959-1962). Fehn’s Nordic Pavilion is composed of a level ground plane cut into the hillside and a roof composed of two layers of slender concrete beams set at 90 degrees to one another. The only vertical elements are a few existing trees that pierce through the roof structure, let in rain and provide the scale of nature in an urban context. Two walls retain the hill and provide the space for hanging art and the other two are completely open with only massive sliding glass doors.

    Gennaro Postiglione describes the light and atmosphere of the Nordic Pavilion: “Penetrating the double framework of the ceiling beams, the intense light of the lagoon undergoes a magical metamorphosis and is transformed into a gentle homogenous light void of shadows, like Nordic light.” The unique quality of light, along with the deep rectangular plan, create a contemplative space inside the gardens of the Biennale, perfect for the appreciation of art and architecture.

    nordic-pavilion-sverre-fehn-ake-e:son-lindman

    Nordic Pavilion at the Venice Biennale, Photo: Åke E:son Lindman

    Nordic Pavilion for the Venice Biennale

    Nordic Pavilion for the Venice Biennale, Section Drawings by Sverre Fehn

    Introspection

    The National Museum – Architecture in Oslo (2008) is one of Fehn’s last projects. He was commissioned for the restoration of the original bank building (Christian Heinrich Grosch, 1830) as well as the new addition. The vaulted lower level of the original structure is where he placed the lobby, bookstore, Grosch Bistro and entrance to the gallery spaces. The groin vaults in limed plaster contrasted with the red brick floor instantly recall the earth and sky. Walls and ceiling blend together into one continuous soothing ceiling-scape that envelops you in a warm glow of diffused light. The brick floor is the earth underfoot, made of the rough clay and heavily textured compared with the plaster vaults. The only other elements are the oak shelves, tables and chairs that appear to grow out of the earth and provide “a place to be,” to sit and slowly enjoy a chat, a coffee or a meal.

    The pavilion at the museum is entirely new. A delicate shell-shaped concrete roof hovers over the glass wall perimeter held up by four massive pillars. Again the roof is the dominant element and the walls are barely there. But given its urban context Fehn surrounded the pavilion with a second set of concrete walls that edit out any visual noise. This results in an introverted space filled with daylight, views of the sky and momentary glimpses of the surrounding context. The concrete walls extend the space visually further dematerializing the glass walls and providing a calm backdrop for the exhibition.

    SF Oslo Cafe with People_ Mette Aamodt

    Grosch Bistro, Photo: Mette Aamodt

    SF Oslo Pavilion Perimeter_Mette Aamodt

    Pavilion at The National Museum – Architecture, Photo: Mette Aamodt

    Dialogue With Materials

    To find one’s place in the world, according to Fehn, and to be truly present, involves all of your senses in dialogue with the materials around you. Fehn writes, “You converse with material through the pores of your skin, your ears, and your eyes. The dialogue does not stop at the surface, as its scent fills the air. Through touch, you exchange heat and the material gives you an immediate response… Speak to a mountain ledge, and [it gives] sound a mirror. Listen to a snow-covered forest, and it offers the language of silence.” For his projects he used a very limited palette of materials whose properties he knew very well: wood, glass, concrete, brick, plaster and light. His work was rooted in construction and the very practical building techniques of Norway, so all of the materials are used in a very natural form, unadorned and lacking in any detail that was not necessary for construction.

    Slow Modernism

    In Sverre Fehn: Works, Projects, Writing, 1949-1996, Christian Nordberg-Shulz writes about Fehn’s trip to Morocco in 1952 and how this informed Fehn’s understanding of the relationship between space and time. Fehn went to discover new things and found many things he had seen before, things he recognized in the work of Frank Lloyd Wright, Mies van der Rohe and Le Corbusier. Nordberg-Shulz said Fehn discovered the atemporality and anonymity of vernacular architecture; “He discovered that basic architectonic phenomena are timeless.”

    In Fehn’s view, this atemporality characterized the period when people thought the world was flat and ended at the horizon that they could see. When they discovered the world was round, virtually endless, they developed perspective as a means for defining space, as Fehn writes, “to distinguish scientifically between inside and outside,” with a linear and homogenous time marching along beside it.

    According to Nordberg-Shulz, the modernists, inspired by the vernacular, sought to define a new meaning for the “atemporal” in architecture, but one that was more qualitative and involved the interaction of the individual’s heart and mind with the modern world. This suggests an alternate history of the modern movement, or at least part of it, a slower, humanist approach that typically gets drowned out.

    Nordberg-Shulz writes, “It is a misunderstanding to think of the modern movement as one interested exclusively in change; its pioneers were strongly aware of the need for ‘constants,’ or ‘basic principles.’” Indeed, the modern movement has been characterized by its obsession with speed, change and novelty. But as with all histories there are always many versions. The history of Slow Modernism is certainly one worth researching and will be the subject of my upcoming book.

    About Sverre Fehn
    Sverre Fehn

    Sverre Fehn, Photo: Stina Glømmi

    Sverre Fehn (1924 – 2009) was the leading Norwegian architect of his generation.

    In 1952–1953, during travels in Morocco, he discovered some universal spatial principles which were to deeply influence his future work. Later he moved to Paris, where he worked for two years in the studio of Jean Prouvé, and where he knew Le Corbusier. On his return to Norway, in 1954, he opened a studio of his own. In the 1960s he produced two works that have remained highlights in his career: the Nordic Pavilion at the Venice Biennale (1959-62) and the Hedmark Museum in Hamar, Norway (1967–79).

    He taught in Oslo’s School of Architecture as well as at the Cranbrook Academy of Art in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. His highest international honor came in 1997, when he was awarded the Pritzker Architecture Prize.

    Bibliography
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