Browsing tag: 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

  • June 26, 2018

    New Urbanism Communities Align With Slow Space

    Recently, I have been reflecting on a debate that I attended as a student at the Harvard Graduate School of Design in the 1990s. It was about New Urbanism, a human-scaled urban design development approach. The debate was between Rem Koolhaas, one of the world’s most important architectural thinkers, and Andres Duany, who co-founded the New Urbanism Movement and developed a community called Seaside, Florida based on its principles. As a devout modernist who considered Koolhaas’s book, SMLXL, to be my bible, I remember siding with Koolhaas. I thought that New Urbanism was nostalgic, idealistic and not relevant. I dismissed it completely. These days however, I keep pondering the similarities between New Urbanism and The Slow Space Movement.

    Seaside, Florida is a private development on the Gulf Coast and is the best-known example of New Urbanism. It is a relatively small community incorporating residential buildings, mixed use buildings and public space. It is known for its pastel-colored houses featuring porches and white picket fences. Rem Koolhaas criticized New Urbanism, and Seaside in particular, as manufactured quaintness. It lacks the grit of a place that develops organically, as well as the diversity and intrigue of a real city.

    I see his point, but when compared to most typical suburban developments, especially from the 1980s, with McMansions and no place to walk, New Urbanism developments are actually appealing. For example, in Seaside, everything is walkable and within easy reach. There is more vegetation than lawn and private outdoor space is intimate in size, encouraging residents to utilize communal outdoor spaces. In addition, the community includes a variety of sizes and building types. While they seem to mostly be vernacular in style, they aren’t identical, and in fact many different architects, such as Robert A.M. Stern and Deborah Berke, have designed homes there. Now, I have never been there myself, but from everything I have read and seen through images, it seems like a nice place to live or take a vacation, and slow down. In the 1999 debate, Alex Krieger asked Koolhaas if he had ever been there. His response: “Every year”. Was he joking?

    Over the past 20 years, New Urbanism has accomplished more than just create quaint communities. It promotes walkability, green transportation, public spaces, quality architecture and mixed use neighborhoods, all values in line with the Slow Space Movement. These communities have also created change by developing projects that address low income housing, neglected urban spaces and improving suburbs.

    The spaces where we live, work and visit have a huge impact on our lives, health and mood. It might be time to take a second look at New Urbanism in the context of The Slow Space Movement.

    See also  “Slow Space, Slow Cities” by Mette Aamodt.

  • March 24, 2018

    Slow Space in Cities Increases Wellbeing

    In honor of International Day Of Happiness, NewCities published a series from 10 experts from across the globe on urban wellbeing and happiness, including Mette Aamodt. An excerpt of her article, “Slow Space, Slow Cities” is reprinted below.

    NewCities is an international nonprofit organization dedicated to making cities more inclusive, connected, healthy and vibrant.

    We had been trying to live a slow life for a long time before realizing that there was such a thing as the Slow Movement. I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis the same time my partner Andrew Plumb and I were finishing architecture school and starting our careers. The fast-paced, 80-hour weeks at “starchitecture” firms wasn’t going to work for me. We had just moved to New York and simply getting back and forth to work from our Brooklyn apartment was exhausting. As our classmates were making a big splash with their experimental architecture, we consoled ourselves with the story of the tortoise and the hare. Slow and steady wins the race, we said.

    When we learned of the Slow Movement it gave us a name for what we had been doing in both life and design – valuing experience over objects, fewer things done better, the sensual pleasures of life and an appreciation of nature. We call our design philosophy at Aamodt / Plumb “slow space” where we explore the conditions necessary to slow one’s experience of time.

    In this fast-moving world of the 21st century, particularly in cities, we need slow space, a place where we can pause, slow down, be present and truly connect. There is a theory, first developed by British geographer Jay Appleton in 1975, that humans have evolved to crave both prospect (opportunity) and refuge (safety). In landscape theory, this is represented by the safety of the cave and the opportunity of the savannah with its unexplored territory and wildlife. I think this is equally true in the city. When we are “out and about” or “pounding the pavement” in a city we are prospecting. We are looking for opportunities, looking for what is new and interesting. Cities are full of opportunities, that is why people go there, but what refuge do they offer? The slow spaces are the spaces of refuge, both physical and mental, that we retreat to when we are overwhelmed, in need of comfort, or just tired at the end of the day.

    I have lived in cities all over the world and have been a student of each while there: an urban studies major and architect in New York, an urban planning student in Paris, an urban design fellow in Fukuoka, an urban planner in Oslo. Each of these places has taught me lessons about slow space that can be applied to all cities.

    Read more from “Slow Space, Slow Cities”

  • 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.”

  • 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
  • March 20, 2017

    Welcome to Slow Space!

    I have created this blog to map our journey toward a new direction in architecture. We are not sure exactly where we will end up but the direction is toward something more meaningful and more responsible.

    I will start by mapping out our journey thus far, personally, professionally and politically, that got us to Slow Space today. I will explore all the multifaceted ways in which we can define and understand Slow Space in philosophy, metaphysics, culture, art and architecture. Then I will start to build the foundations for a new Slow Space Movement. I am promising all this right now because once I say I am going to do something I do it. But just in case, you can remind me from time to time if I get off track. I will also be relying on my partner Andrew Plumb for many contributions as we are on this journey together, as well as other colleagues, friends and followers. Please let me know if you would like to write a guest post if there is a topic listed below in which you have some expertise.

    Here are some of the topics I plan to cover. I welcome any feedback you have and look forward to starting a conversation with you.