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esmaspäev, 21. august 2017

Modernism, wood and Estonian architecture in the 1930s

Narva-Jõesuu beach pavilion. Engineers Robert Ederma, Erich Otting, design 1935, completed 1936, destroyed in WWII. Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


In the 1930s, as Modernism was spreading internationally, Estonian architecture retained its relative conservatism. Changes in local architecture mostly developed hand in hand with, rather than in opposition to, history and tradition. Stone, glass, and steel slowly became common construction materials, but wood, as a practical, affordable material, remained popular as well, particularly in residential architecture and seasonal public buildings (stadiums, bathing facilities, open-air stages etc.). Combing Modernist aesthetics with wood as a traditional building material resulted in a number of interesting buildings in the 1930s.

Artists as innovators of space
Modernism as a cultural phenomenon often first emerged in fine arts and literature. This was the case in Russia, in a number of European countries, and in Estonia too. Compared to visual arts and literature, architecture, as a practical art, is more dependent on economic, technological and broader social processes; it needs more time and resources to manifest itself in built form. Compared to the rapid manifestation of Modernism in art and literature, it took nearly a decade for Estonian architects (and their clients!) to pick up ideas about Modernist architecture and implement them in designs and buildings.

Artist Ado Vabbe (1892-1961) made his first abstract drawings inspired by Vasily Kandinsky’s works just before WWI. A broader breakthrough in Estonian avant-garde came a little later, in the early 1920s. Strongly influenced by Cubism, Constructivism and Expressionism, Eesti Kunstnikkude Rühm (Estonian Artists’ Group) was established in 1923. The members of this group talked of their artistic output as Cubism, even if their work actually resonated more with what could be called post-Cubist tendencies – Cubo-Futurism and Constructivism (Russia), Purism (France), and Neoplasticism (The Netherlands).

In the mid-1920s Märt Laarman (1896-1979), one of the leaders of this group, used urban and architectural motives in several of his graphic works and paintings. Sculptor and painter Henrik Olvi (1884-1972) made several models of fictional monuments resembling Kazimir Malevich’s architectons. In 1926 Laarman and Olvi, both probably familiar with the ideas of El Lissitzky, Theo van Doesburg, and other theorists of their time, designed kiosks which are reminiscent of architect Gerrit Rietveld’s design for the Schröder House in Utrecht (1924).

The Estonian Artists’ Group seems not to have had close ties with local architects. Several of the group’s exhibitions during the 1920s might have provided a good platform for public as well as interdisciplinary dialogue. Yet it seems that local architects were either not sufficiently informed or not interested in the kind of radical re-conceptualisation of space seen in the works of Laarman, Olvi (and also Vabbe who was not a member of the group). One can only fantasise what might have followed from active dialogue between artists and local architects at the time.

Ehitis ('Edifice'). Painter Märt Laarman, between 1924-28. Oil on canvas. Location unknown.
Published in art magazine TAIE No. 3-1928, p.125


Design for a kiosk. Sculptor and painter Henrik Olvi, 1926. Indian ink, chalk, cardboard.
© Art Museum of Estonia


Thus with hindsight one has to admit that compared to local artistic practices, Estonian architecture in the interwar years remained relatively conservative. The latter applies to both aesthetics and construction technology. Even if living conditions for local inhabitants improved and there was development of both building regulations and the construction industry, Estonian architecture – in terms of new aesthetics and innovative technology – remained unambitious.

The relatively conservative approach to architecture in interwar Estonia can partly be explained by the impact of the global financial crisis (1929) and the conventional tastes of local clients, but may also be attributed to the fact that majority of Estonian – and local Baltic German architects – looked to the more conservative tendencies in recent German architecture. During the 1920s Estonian architecture was often an interpretation of so-called Heimat architecture; the result was Estonian Traditionalism. During the 1930s the main influence was Neue Sachlichkeit (‘New Objectivity’), an art and architecture movement in the Weimar Republic characterised by a deliberately objective, rational, down-to-earth mentality – something very different from the artistic extravagance of Le Corbusier and technological ambitiousness of the Bauhaus architects.

Modern times, modern homes
Estonian architecture historians usually take the first ‘pure’ instance of interwar Modernism – or Functionalism as it is often called locally –  in Estonia to be a private dwelling designed by architect Herbert Johanson (1884-1964) on 6 Toompuiestee Boulevard in central Tallinn. Completed in 1929, this two-story urban residence on the edge of the historical Old Town is built of masonry though (mainly brick and limestone). Nevertheless, wood as a construction material remained popular also in contemporary buildings, particularly in residential architecture. In Tallinn, for example, 79% of all new dwellings built between 1918-1939 used wood as the primary construction material; four out of five new homes (private houses or apartment buildings) in Tallinn were built of wood during this period.

First 'pure' example of interwar Modernism in Estonia, a private residence at 6 Toompuiestee Boulevard, Tallinn. Architect Herbert Johanson, completed 1929. Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


Compared to materials such as steel and reinforced concrete, wood is far less facilitating of interesting structural and spatial solutions. Le Corbusier’s five points for modern architecture were inapplicable to brick or wooden houses. Even if floor plans and division of space became less rigid, free plan in its Corbusian – or Rietveldian – sense was not possible because in wooden as well as most brick structures the walls still had to carry loads. The latter also impeded the use of ribbon windows; finishing materials (plaster, bricks, wood boards etc) were used to imitate long horizontal windows instead. Due to traditional structural solutions, facades remained dependent on the rest of the building and did not become a freestanding element, a ‘curtain’ around the perimeter of the building. Neither could pilotis be used; in most cases the building still stood on traditional limestone foundations and the basement remained part of the spatial programme, used for various household activities and as storage. Reinforced concrete was typically used only for lintels and occasionally for cast-in-situ floors on the ground floor. Due to the relatively cold Estonian climate, roof terraces were also not common even if the number of balconies, usually on top of ground-floor verandas, increased during the interwar years.

The (upper-) middle class in this young country grew step by step. During the 1930s, together with a relatively small number of representatives of the wealthy elite, the middle class became the primary group of clients interested in contemporary Functionalist architecture. As building in masonry (e.g. bricks, limestone, concrete) and steel was still relatively expensive, a large number of Functionalist private dwellings were built of wood. Nõmme, a garden-city type of district in western Tallinn, was an independent municipality during the interwar years and became a popular area to build modern private villas as well as small apartment houses. Architect Edgar Velbri (1902-1977) alone designed around 20 Functionalist dwellings in Nõmme during the 1930s.

Nõmme-type dwelling at 18 Mängu Street, Nõmme, Tallinn. Architect Edgar Velbri, completed 1933.
Photo © Peeter Säre, Museum of Estonian Architecture (1992)


Nõmme-type dwelling at 18 Mängu Street, Nõmme, Tallinn. Architect Edgar Velbri, completed 1933.
Photo © Martin Siplane, Museum of Estonian Architecture (2012)


Velbri’s design for a two-story dwelling on 18 Mängu Street (completed 1933) became an example of what has later been called the Nõmme-type dwelling or the Nõmme house (a term coined by architecture historian Mart Kalm). Essentially, this is a small apartment building. The owners lived on the ground floor while the upper-floor apartment was rented out. The latter enabled repayment of the loan taken out in order to build the house, a measure which for middleclass families was essential to finance construction. Many of the Nõmme-type houses were built of wood. To make them look more modern, architects broke the traditionalist symmetry and dynamically played with building volumes; they lowered the roofs, plastered the walls white, and added large glass windows where it was possible, usually in the stairways, since the latter were not heated.

As well as Functionalist apartment buildings like the Nõmme house, there were also private residential buildings. Those are often referred to as ‘villas’, although their size might vary considerably. The majority of Functionalist villas in Estonia were built of masonry, usually brick. Nevertheless, there were also remarkable wooden private houses. Architect Nikolai Kusmin (1906-1994) designed a two-storey Functionalist villa for school director Elmar Einasto’s family in the university town Tartu. Completed in 1937, this house is an original interpretation of the international architecture of its time and has been preserved relatively well to this day.

Villa at 3 Aardla Street, Tartu. Architect Nikolai Kusmin, completed 1937.
Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


Construction of the villa at 3 Aardla Street, Tartu. Architect Nikolai Kusmin, 1936-37.
Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


Front facade of the villa at 3 Aardla Street, Tartu, was recently renovated. Architect Nikolai Kusmin, 1937.
Photo © Egle Tamm (2016)


Not all Functionalist private residences can be called ‘villas’ as some are rather modest in size. Architect Engelhard Corjus (1899-unknown), for example, designed a small two-story private residence (designed in 1929, completed in 1932) also in suburban Nõmme, Tallinn. Standing under tall pine trees, this cube-shaped building sets up a calculated contrast with its natural context. As in many other cases, the exteriors of the wooden load-bearing walls were covered with brightly coloured limestone plaster in order to make the house resemble contemporary masonry buildings. What makes this dwelling by Corjus stand out among similar contemporary buildings, though, is not only its exceptional form but also its custom-made technical solutions. The large corner window of the living room on the ground floor, for example, was specially ordered from the Järvakandi Glass Factory. The loadbearing structure of the veranda, on the other hand, was built from reinforced concrete, use of which was rare in Estonian residential architecture at this time.

Private residence at 29 Sõbra Street, Tallinn. Architect Engelhard Corjus, design 1929, completed 1932. Photo © Urmas Hiis, Museum of Estonian Architecture (1991)


Custom-designed living room window of the private residence at 29 Sõbra Street, Tallinn. Architect Engelhard Corjus, design 1929, completed 1932. Photo © Monika Eensalu-Pihel (2009)


In the 1930s wood as a finishing material was considered – at least among more elitist critics such as Hanno Kompus – to be outdated and more suitable for rural architecture. Despite such criticism, considerable numbers of Functionalist dwellings were designed with wooden facades. In these instances the wooden exteriors either expressed continuity with either the previous Traditionalist architecture or, alternatively, tried to adjust wood to the representational as well as practical demands of Functionalism (using materials in accordance with their natural properties). Architect Anton Soans (1885-1966) designed a modest summer house for the van Jung family in coastal Pirita in the eastern suburban area of Tallinn. Standing on a high stone plinth, this building has dynamic massing of its higher levels while the wooden-board facades emphasise its horizontal, down-to-earth character. Large windows, metal barriers, and porthole windows are among features which indicate the architect’s desire to combine modern construction forms with the leisurely, intimate cosiness of a summer house.

Summer house in Pirita, Tallinn. Architect Anton Soans, completed 1934, since demolished, front view. Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


Summer house in Pirita, Tallinn. Architect Anton Soans, completed 1934, since demolished, garden view.
Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


Summer house in Pirita, Tallinn. Architect Anton Soans, completed 1934, since demolished, backside view. Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


Private residence at 40 Sõbra Street, Nõmme, Tallinn. Architect Eugen Habermann, 1939.
Photo © Martin Siplane, Museum of Estonian Architecture (2009)


Print workers holiday home in Aegviidu, Harju County. Architect Anton Soans, 1937.
Photo © Martin Siplane, Museum of Estonian Architecture (2013)


Public buildings as seasonal event spaces
In public architecture wood was more common in buildings with a more or less temporary character, and mainly in those intended for seasonal use. As in many other European countries, recreational activities, especially bathing and public sports events became increasingly popular in Estonia during the interwar years. Functionalism was quickly applied in public resort architecture such as beach pavilions and cafes, in sports facilities such as stadium grandstands, and in open-air stages in public parks.

In 1928 architects August Tauk (1892-1965), then still an engineer, and Konstantin Bölau (1899-1959) entered the architectural competition for the Pirita beach pavilion in Tallinn. Bölau's and Tauk's simple design for a wooden building might not look impressive at first glance, but asymmetrical floor plan, dynamic massing of building volumes, and facades which emphasise contrasts between horisontal windows and flat wall surfaces predicts the arrival of Functionalism. Competition entry "Mare" got a purchase prize (shared 4th-5th place), and without doubt looked more modern than the winning entry (architects Anton Soans, Edgar Johan Kuusik and Franz de Vries), which got built a year later.

Competition entry for the Pirita beach pavilion in Tallinn, elevations. Architects August Tauk, Konstantin Bölau, 1928. © City Archives of Tallinn 


Competition entry for the Pirita beach pavilion in Tallinn, floor plan and sections. Architects August Tauk, Konstantin Bölau, 1928. © City Archives of Tallinn 


One of the few monumental examples of wooden Functionalism in Estonia is the grandstand of the Pärnu stadium (completed 1933, demolished 1981) by architect Olev Siinmaa (1881-1948). Pärnu was – and still is – the most popular summer resort in Estonia. Siinmaa was municipal architect of Pärnu for several years. During the 1930s he designed numerous white Functionalist buildings, including his own home in Pärnu (1931-33), a masterpiece of Estonian Modernism.

Grandstand of the Pärnu Beach Stadium. Architect Olev Siinmaa, completed 1933, demolished 1981.
Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


Siinmaa did not make frequent use of wood in his 1930s designs; the stadium is a rare exception. The grandstand was built on the foundations of its former predecessor and therefore maintained the latter’s symmetrical floor plan. In its details though, the new grandstand looked exceptionally modern. Wooden facades were left exposed in their natural beauty, while the curved walls and ribbon windows expressed the dynamism of the new, international architecture.

Inspired (allegedly) by Siinmaa’s sketch design for Pärnu’s beach pavilion (unrealised, 1934), engineers Robert Ederma and Erich Otting designed a spectacular beach building (design 1935, completed 1936, destroyed in WWII) for another resort town, Narva-Jõesuu in North-East Estonia, close to the border with Russia. The floor plan of the building, which comprised dressing-rooms, a restaurant, and utilitarian spaces, is again conservatively symmetrical but the facades with narrow ribbon windows, flat roof and simple detailing express the authors’ awareness of what a contemporary beach pavilion should look like.

Narva-Jõesuu beach pavilion. Engineers Robert Ederma, Erich Otting, design 1935, completed 1936, destroyed in WWII. Photo © Johannes Reitsnik, Museum of Estonian Architecture


Architect August Volberg (1896-1982) designed a simple Functionalist summer hotel (designed 1934, completed 1936, demolished in the 1990s) in yet another small coastal resort, Haapsalu in Western Estonia. A simple two-storey rectangular box with smaller volumes built on exuded tranquillity in the shade of majestic old trees; the facades were clad with horizontal wooden boards. For an open-air swimming arena in Tallinn, architect Tõnis Mihkelson (1887-unknown) designed an airy, romantic bathing pavilion (designed 1935, completed 1936, destroyed in a fire in 1974) with wide eaves to protect visitors from direct sunlight.

Summer hotel Ateena in Haapsalu. Architect August Volberg, design 1934, completed 1936.
Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


Bathhouse in Mustamäe, Tallinn. Architect Tõnis Mihkelson, completed 1937.
Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture 


Construction of the bathhouse in Mustamäe, Tallinn. Architect Tõnis Mihkelson, 1936-37.
Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


Estonian architecture of the 1930s responded to international Modernism in its own way – in accordance with the local climate, technological possibilities, and social circumstances. As a relatively cheap and accessible local material, wood made it possible to materialise modern architecture in a local, regionalist form. Wooden Functionalism never came to dominate Estonian architecture, but it embodied a peculiarly local, contextual response to broader changes in society and international architecture. As in several other European countries, by the mid-1930s architecture in Estonia had taken a more conservative direction. Nevertheless, dozens of interesting Functionalist buildings were designed and constructed in Estonia during the interwar period.

With regard to Estonian wooden Functionalism today, it has to be admitted that most of the public buildings described above have either burned down, been demolished, or been substantially rebuilt. Residential architecture from this time is in a somewhat better condition; several wooden villas and small apartment buildings from the 1930s have survived since they have been continuously inhabited and maintained. Most of these dwellings are located in Nõmme, Tallinn, but there are also original Modernist buildings influenced by local vernacular architecture in smaller Estonian towns like Rakvere and Sindi.

Original version of this article was published in the Project Baltia architecture magazine No. 04/16-01/17, p.126-130

Construction of the villa at 15 Raudtee Street, Sindi. Unlicensed engineer Alexander Laurfeldt, 1934-35.
Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


Villa at 15 Raudtee Street, Sindi. Unlicensed engineer Alexander Laurfeldt, completed 1935.
Photo © Museum of Estonian Architecture


Bibliography
  • 20 aastat ehitamist Eestis: 1918-1938 [20 Years of Architecture in Estonia: 1918-1938]. Ed. Konstantin Bölau, Tallinn, 1939; facsimile print, Tallinn, 2006
  • Arhitekt Nikolai Kusmin: 1906-1994 [Architect Nikolai Kusmin: 1906-1994]. Ed. Mihkel Karu, Tallinn, 2007
  • Eesti kunsti ajalugu. 5, 1900-1940 [History of Estonian art. 5, 1900-1940]. Ed. Mart Kalm, Tallinn, 2010
  • Funktsionalistlik maja [Functionalist dwelling]. Ed. Monika Eensalu, Tallinn, 2013
  • Puit Eesti arhitektuuris [Wood in Estonian architecture]. Ed. Leele Välja, Tallinn, 2016
  • Tallinna puitarhitektuur [Wooden architecture of Tallinn]. Ed. Leele Välja, Tallinn, 2014
  • Bruns, Dmitri. Tallinn. Linnaehituslik kujunemine [Tallinn. Development from the perspective of urban planning]. Tallinn, 1993
  • Kalm, Mart. Eesti 20. sajandi arhitektuur [Estonian 20th century architecture]. Tallinn, 2001
  • Kalm, Mart. Rannalinn, seenrõdu ja viinakapp: Pärnu linnaarhitekt Olev Siinmaa [Beach town, mushroom balcony and vodka cabinet: Pärnu city architect Olev Siinmaa]. Tallinn, 2012

    neljapäev, 18. detsember 2014

    Maxwell Fry to Ove Arup, 5 March 1952

    Le Corbusier, Jane Drew and Maxwell Fry in Chandigarh
    © FLC/ADAGP
    One of the most remarkable personal confessions of an architect I've ever read must be Maxwell Fry's letter to Ove Arup, written on 5 March 1952. Maxwell Fry together with Jane Drew, Le Corbusier and Pierre Jeanneret were working in Chandigarh. Having seen rural life in India for some time and having followed Le Corbusier's way of working and his grand ideas, Fry became increasingly disillusioned with architectural Modernism and industrial building. The fact that Corbu possibly had romantic liaisons with Drew – Fry’s wife since 1942 – while working in Chandigarh, might also shed some light to Fry's sensitive, existentialist musings in his letter to Arup.

    The text is somewhat ambivalent and seems to express a dialectict between Fry's personal, and Modernism’s general failure. Fry appears naked in his honesty of realising his personal as well as architecture's shortcomings. And yet, as a consequence, there is something revelatory, a particular strength in this letter. Fry seems to have realised something about himself (admitted his loss?), about architecture (disillusioned with Modernism) and maybe about humankind in general. The letter was published in Peter Jones “Ove Arup. Masterbuilder of the Twentieth Century”, Yale University Press, 2006, p. 147-148.

















    Le Corbusier (Charles-Édouard Jeanneret). Capitol Complex, Chandigarh, 1951-1965. © Fondation Le Corbusier, París.

    esmaspäev, 10. märts 2014

    Experiments in XL and the Ethics of Architecture

    Just watched a recent lecture by Wolf D. Prix. It raised doubts and provoked some thoughts about the ethics of large-scale architectural experiments.

    Experimental architecture in its conceptual, abstract form, as an idea, might be super inspiring, but there seems to be something inherently wrong about those concepts getting built as large-scale projects. Those doubts might have to do with ecological or humanitarian consequences, but my feel of unease is here more related to architect’s own consciousness and his/her personal motivations.

    Isn’t it so that the passion about architectural concepts should be the driving force, and not the desire to simply get them built? Aren’t theory and ideas more important than their realisation in practice? And isn’t it so that people/society, not the experimental idea itself, should be the driving force behind large-scale projects intended to be built? It seems to me that at the very moment the architect's desire to develop an experimental idea loses ground to the desire of getting it materialised, he/she enters a sphere of dubious ethics.

    The question of scale and materiality are more relevant than ever before, but the materiality of spatial concepts gets debauched at a certain point on the scale from S to XL. Though I find Prix inspiring, it feels so wrong to speak about energy-facades or social program in case of super-expensive large-scale projects, the clients of which are corporations, private developers, authoritarian governments or other similar, high-profile institutions.

    I’m not saying that big buildings and urban environments designed by experimentally oriented architects shouldn’t be built at all. I'd just like to indicate that there are ethical matters, which need to be faced. And as to the larger audience, if we see experimental architects as carriers and developers of architectural culture, isn't it our task to remind them that some things are better left on paper?

    neljapäev, 21. november 2013

    Lauttasaari Water Tower: in Defence of the Cultural and Architectural Landmark


    Having heard from a friend that the municipality of Helsinki has decided to demolish the elegant Lauttasaari water tower, I felt severely disappointed. As an architecture historian I would hereby like to argue against the municipality’s decision. In my opinion, demolition of the water tower doesn’t make sense in neither cultural nor economic terms, because the building, despite its current condition, is architecturally and culturally valuable.*

    Reasons to save the water tower
    The Lauttasaari water tower was designed by architect Ossi Leppämäki and engineer Paavo Simula in 1956-57 and put into use exactly 55 years ago, on 13 November, 1958. A mushroom-shaped building has two large reservoirs which during their use ensured water pressure and supply for the neighbouring areas. The water tower’s main architectural value comes from its innovative building technique. According to Ville Elomaa, it is one of the first buildings in Finland built with pre-stressed reinforced concrete. The tower is also valuable because of its futuristic form – it is a modern and elegant architectural icon which designates Lauttasaari in the wider urban landscape of Helsinki.

    The water tower is not only a visual symbol in landscape but also a cultural icon that has become part of the local identity and folklore. At least three generations of local citizens have grown up in Lauttasaari, having the water tower as a silent and friendly witness to their daily routines and personal lives. After its removal from the water supply system, the tower has been used as a venue for art events, most remarkable of which has been the light installation “Water Flower” (2000) by the Dutch artist Harry Hollands. The water tower has also become part of popular culture through different cartoons, logos and even comedy shows. Through the years guided tours have provided occasional access to the tower. Therefore, one could say that the cultural importance of the now 55-year-old water tower has grown in time and could provide a good basis for its future use not only as a building but also as a cultural symbol of Lauttasaari.

    Positive scenario for the future
    Allow me a small side-step to the southern bank of the Gulf of Finland. Last year, a newly renovated building of the Estonian Maritime Museum opened in the former seaplane hangars at the Seaplane Harbour in Tallinn. Before the renovation, the historical reinforced-concrete structure of the hangars was in a terrible condition. Yet, architects (KOKO Architects) and engineers (from the Technical University of Tallinn) found an excellent solution to save the building and after three years of intensive renovation the museum opened its doors in May 2012. There was a lot of scepticism before the renovation works began but the newly opened museum building stood up to the critique. It has turned out to be an international success not only in terms of architectural and engineering solutions but also in terms of its cultural significance and visitor numbers.

    The water tower in Lauttasaari is of course a very different building in terms of size and possible use if compared to the Maritime Museum in Tallinn. Yet, the success of the museum in Tallinn shows that even a building in a bad condition can have a chance not only to survive but provide new cultural as well as economic value for the local area. In order to do that, you just need a good idea and willingness to implement it.

    In order to save the Lauttasaari water tower as architecturally and culturally important building, it certainly needs a new function. Mere conservation is probably not enough, because it fails to provide functional flexibility and add new cultural as well as economic value. To get the water tower back in use, it needs not only conservation or renovation, but a severe reconstruction by adding newly designed spaces.

    I’d personally suggest the Helsinki municipality to cancel the demolition plan and instead organize a two-phase architectural competition. The first phase could be an ideas’ competition in order to find a suitable function as well as a broader vision for the building and its surroundings. The second phase should focus on architectural design and implementation of ideas from the winner(s) of the first phase. It is important that local inhabitants are included and have the possibility to envision the future of the Lauttasaari water tower. Therefore I suggest the first, ideas’ phase of the competition to be also open to non-professionals.

    Lauttasaari doesn’t have many architecturally interesting buildings. Demolition of the water tower would impoverish its local surroundings and urban environment. If the currently closed water tower was reconstructed and opened to public, it could establish itself as one of the cultural and architectural landmarks of Lauttasaari.

    Further information
    Ville Elomaa “Lauttasaaren vesitorni”. Lauttasaari-Seura, 2009.
    Lauttasaaren vesitorni puretaan keväällä. Helsingin Sanomat, 9 September 2013.
    Seaplane Harbour in Tallinn, KOKO Architects.

    *This article was originally published in the Lauttasaari newspaper on 21 November 2013. Photos for the current blogpost were taken from Wikipedia.

    Water tower in the landscape of Lauttasaari. Photo: Wikipedia

    reede, 15. november 2013

    Friction in Public Space

    Reflections to the lecture by Pier Vittorio Aureli, AA, London, 13.11.2013

    We should consider public space not only as a representation and platform of the common, i.e. as a (relatively) free and neutral, consensus-defined space for public activities, but also as a governmental tool to boost economic development and implement social control.

    Friction between 1) the necessity of investments (financial capital), 2) a degree of social consensus (collective) and 3) methods of control (governance) seems to constitute the defining matrix of the (capitalist) urban condition to this very day.

    Can we recognise the contemporary tools, technologies and methods meant to boost economy and implement social control? What is the role of the digital in relation to the collective vs. the capital & control aspects of our contemporary city?

    kolmapäev, 23. oktoober 2013

    Aalto University Campus by Verstas Architects

    This is the site plan from the winning entry of the recently finished architecture competition of the Aalto University's new central campus in Otaniemi (Espoo, Helsinki). The site is located next to the former TKK’s well known main building and its library, both designed by Alvar Aalto himself. Scheduled to open in 2015, the new central building will, among others, accommodate The School of Arts, Design and Architecture.

    The winners from Verstas arkkitehdit (Finland) seem to have been focused on finding a spatial formula, an algorithm or code if you like, which would be attributable to infinite number of urban situations. Yet, its “DNA” (as referred to in Verstas’ texts), is developed considering the particular context in Otaniemi.

    What seems to make this formula or DNA distinct, is its ability to adjust not like a parasite or virus, but like an “intelligent immigrant” respecting the existing context. Unlike some of the parametricists’ architecture e.g., which also follows a particular set of formulas/algorithms for generating spaces, the winning entry by Verstas modestly assimilates itself into the existing environment, accentuating the qualities of the neighbouring buildings and adding its own contemporary character.

    Unlike the parametricists’ algorithms, it seems not only to use a wider set of defining parameters, but to combine those abstract, generative principles with human agency and authorship. For me, the Verstas’ entry seems to implement those formal generative principles without abandoning the sensitivity of neither the human eye nor his critical mind.