Adaptive Reuse of the Built Heritage: Concepts and Cases of an Emerging Discipline 2018058371, 9781138062757, 9781138062764, 9781315161440

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Adaptive Reuse of the Built Heritage

Adaptive reuse – the process of repairing and restoring existing buildings for new or continued use – is becoming an essential part of architectural practice. As mounting demographic, economic, and ecological challenges limit opportunities for new construction, architects increasingly focus on transforming and adapting existing buildings. This book introduces adaptive reuse as a new discipline. It provides students and professionals with the understanding and the tools they need to develop innovative and creative approaches, helping them to rethink and redesign existing buildings – a skill that is becoming more and more important. Part I outlines the history of adaptive reuse and explains the concepts and methods that lie behind new design processes and contemporary practice. Part II consists of a wide range of case studies, representing different time periods and strategies for intervention. Iconic adaptive reuse projects such as the Caixa Forum in Madrid and the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam are discussed alongside less famous and spontaneous transformations such as the Kunsthaus Tacheles in Berlin, in addition to projects from Italy, Spain, Croatia, Belgium, Poland, and the USA. Featuring more than 100 high-quality colour illustrations, Adaptive Reuse of the Built Heritage is essential reading for students and professionals in architecture, interior design, heritage conservation, and urban planning. Bie Plevoets holds a PhD in architecture and works on theory of adaptive reuse in the research group Trace – Adaptive Reuse and Heritage in the Faculty of Architecture and Arts at Hasselt University, Belgium. She teaches courses on adaptive reuse at BA and MA levels. Koenraad Van Cleempoel is Professor of Art History in the Faculty of Architecture and Arts at Hasselt University, Belgium where he is also a member of the research group Trace. He was previously holder of the Pieter Paul Rubens Chair at the University of California, Berkeley, USA.

Adaptive Reuse of the Built Heritage Concepts and Cases of an Emerging Discipline

BIE PLEVOETS AND KOENRAAD VAN CLEEMPOEL

First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 Bie Plevoets and Koenraad Van Cleempoel The right of Bie Plevoets and Koenraad Van Cleempoel to be identified as authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. Every effort has been made to contact copyright-holders. Please advise the publisher of any errors or omissions, and these will be corrected in subsequent editions. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Plevoets, Bie, author. | Cleempoel, Koenraad Van, author. Title: Adaptive reuse of the built heritage : concepts and cases of an emerging discipline / Bie Plevoets and Koenraad Van Cleempoel. Description: New York : Routledge, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018058371 | ISBN 9781138062757 (hb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781138062764 (pb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781315161440 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Buildings—Remodeling for other use. Classification: LCC TH3401 .P59 2019 | DDC 720.28/6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018058371 ISBN: 978-1-138-06275-7 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-138-06276-4 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-16144-0 (ebk) Typeset in Univers LT Std by Apex CoVantage, LLC

Contents

List of illustrations viii Acknowledgementsxv Forewordxvii Introduction

1

Part I   1 Historical background

7

  2 Intervention strategies

28

  3 Adaptive reuse for urban regeneration

52

  4 An intervention criterion: genius loci

79

  5 Concluding reflections

96

Part II Case Study 1 Historical centre of Split Vernacular transformation from the seventh century onwards

115

Case Study 2 Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri Michelangelo, 1553–1556

120

Case Study 3 Castelvecchio Museum Carlo Scarpa, 1959–1973

126

Case Study 4 SESC Pompeia Lina Bo Bardi, 1977–1986

132

v

Contents

Case Study 5 Station Atocha Rafael Moneo, 1984–1992

137

Case Study 6 Kunsthaus Tacheles Squatter community, 1990–2014

141

Case Study 7 Palais de Tokyo Lacaton & Vassal, 2000–2002 and 2012–2014

145

Case Study 8 Library Escuelas Pías Linazasoro & Sanchez Arquitectura, 1996–2004

151

Case Study 9 Kolumba Art Museum Peter Zumthor, 2003–2007

157

Case Study 10 Neues Museum David Chipperfield Architects, 1997–2009

162

Case Study 11 C-Mine 51N4E, 2011

169

Case Study 12 Park Spoor Noord Studio Associato Bernardo Secchi Paola Viganò, 2006–2011

177

Case Study 13 Park Avenue Armory Herzog & De Meuron, 2006–ongoing

183

Case Study 14 Sir John Soane’s Museum Caruso St John, 2009–2012

189

Case Study 15 Former prison noAarchitecten, 2008–2012

196

Case Study 16 OFF Piotrkowska User-led regeneration by tenants, 2011−ongoing203

vi

Case Study 17 Rijksmuseum Cruz y Ortiz, 2000–2013

207

Case Study 18 Fondaco dei Tedeschi OMA, 2009–2016

214

Contents

Case Study 19 De Flat Kleiburg NL Architect and XVW architectuur, 2012–2016219 Case Study 20 Saint-Joseph Church TV TRACE, feasibility study 2017

224

Index231

vii

Illustrations

  1.1   1.2

  2.1

  2.2

  2.3   2.4

  2.5   2.6   2.7   2.8   3.1   3.2   3.3   3.4

  3.5

viii

Evolution of adaptive reuse as a discipline in its own right (Source: figure made by the author) 16 Various terms to indicate the process of altering an existing building for a new or continued use (Source: figure made by the author) 22 Palazzo Farnese di Roma as completed by Micheangelo in 1534. Engraving by Giuseppe Vasi, 18th century (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 32 Basilica Sant’Andrea, desinged by Leon Battista Alberti in 1472. Picture anno 1909 (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 38 Caixa Forum Madrid, Herzog & de Meuron (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 39 Santa Maria Novella Florence, façade renovation by Leon Battista Alberti in 1470 (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 39 Loggia superiore della Basilica Palladiana (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 40 Museum of Childhood, Caruso St John Architects (Source: Caruso St John Architects) 41 ‘S Hertogensmolens Aarschot, Noa Architecten (Source: noArchitecten)42 PC Caritas, architecten de vylder vinck taillieu (Source: architecten de vylder vinck taillieu; photo by Filip Dujardin) 47 Borneo Amsterdam Scheepstimmermanstraat (Source: 58 Wikimedia Commons, public domain) Aerial view Bijlmermeer anno 1971 (Source: Stadsarchief Amsterdam)60 Bijlmermeer before renovation (buildings in grey are retained, buildings in red are demolished) (Source: XVW Architectuur) 61 Bijlmermeer after renovation (buildings in grey are retained, buildings in green are new constructions) (Source: XVW Architectuur)61 Transformation de la Tour Bois le Prêtre, Paris, Lacaton & Vassal (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 62

Illustrations

  3.6   3.7   3.8   4.1   4.2   5.1   5.2   5.3 C1.1 C1.2

C1.3 C1.4 C1.5 C2.1

C2.2

C2.3

C2.4 C2.5 C3.1 C3.2

Landschaftspark Duisburg (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 66 Highline NY: before conversion (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 68 Highline NY: after conversion (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 68 Chiswick Gardens by Pope and Kent, 1736, Jean Rocque 83 print. (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) Plan and impression of the historic centre of Split, drawing by Robert Adam, 1764 (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 84 Town hall Murcia in its surrounding, darwing by Rafael Moneo 97 Architects (Source: Rafael Moneo arquitecto) Detail of the walls of the Ningbo Museum, Amateur Architecture Studio (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 98 Path to to the Acropolis, with olive trees and resting places 108 designed by D. Pikionis (Source: Christoph Grafe) Reconstruction drawing of the Diocletian Palace in Split by 117 Farlati (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) Peristyle of the Dioclatian palace, transformed in the course of history, drawing by Robert Adam, 1764 (Source: Wikimedia 117 Commons, public domain) Southern wall of the Diocletian Palace Split, drawing by Robert Adam 1764 (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 118 Aerial view of Split (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 118 Ancient wall of the palace with more recent constructions attached to it (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 119 Vincenzo Scamozzi, Reconstruction of the Baths of Diocletian & detail, 1580. Graf von Auersperg collection of architectural prints. (Source: Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program) 122 Hieronymus Cock, Third View of the Baths of Diocletian, 1561, Etching and engraving (Source: Harvard Art Museums/ Fogg Museum, Light-Outerbridge Collection, Richard Norton Memorial Fund, M24526; Imaging Department © President 123 and Fellows of Harvard College) Codazzi Viviano; Cerquozzi Michelangelo - sec. XVII - Interno delle Terme di Diocleziano (Source: Musée des Beaux-Arts de 123 Chambéry; Fondazione Federico Zeri) Groundfloor plan of baths of diocletianus with addtions of Michelangelo (Source: Drawing by Marie Moors) 124 Roof structure interior - only orginal element left (Source: 125 Wikimedia Commons, public domain) Castelvecchio before the 1920s restauration (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 128 Position of the Cangrande statue (upper left) between the Gothic west wing and the medieval communal wall, above the Roman layer (Source: Archivio Carlo Scarpa, Museo di Castelvecchio, Verona, photo by S. Benaglia) 128 ix

Illustrations

C3.3

C3.4

C3.5 C3.6 C3.7 C4.1

C4.2

C4.3 C4.4 C4.5 C5.1

C5.2

C5.3 C6.1 C6.2 C6.3 C7.1 C7.2 C7.3

x

Castelvecchio during renovation by Scarpa, indication of intervention in pencil on picture (Source: Archivio Carlo Scarpa, Museo di Castelvecchio, Verona) 128 Drawing of the façade by Scarpa, showing the function where he placed the Cangrade statue (Source: Archivio Carlo Scarpa, Museo di Castelvecchio, Verona) 129 Castelvecchio, exterior view (Source: Archivio Carlo Scarpa, Museo di Castelvecchio, Verona, photo by Luca Onniboni) 130 Interior Castelvecchio after the 1920s restoration (Source: Archivio Carlo Scarpa, Museo di Castelvecchio, Verona) 130 Enfilade of the exhibition rooms (Source: Achivio Carlo SCarpa, Museo di Castelvecchio, Verona, photo by Peter Guthrie) 131 Plan of the site SESC Pompeia, ground level (Source: every effort has been made to contact copyright-holders. Please advise the publisher of any errors or omissions, and these will be corrected in subsequent editions) 134 Overview of the site with the preserved industrial sheds in the foreground and the new concrete towers in the background (Source: Markus Lanz, photographer) 134 Library and communal space (Source: Iñigo Bujedo-Aguirre PHOTOGRAPHY)135 Large event and exhibition hall (Source: Markus Lanz, photographer)135 Workshop spaces (Source: Iñigo Bujedo-Aguirre PHOTOGRAPHY)136 Historic image of the Atocha Station (Source: every effort has been made to contact copyright-holders. Please advise the publisher of any errors or omissions, and these will be 138 corrected in subsequent editions) Exterior view of the Atocha Station with the historic building in the foreground and the new station in the background (Source: Rafael Moneo arquitecto, photo by Michael Morán) 139 Boltanic garden in the former station hall (Source: Zes Brezar, Landazine)139 Backside of Tacheles, 1995 (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 142 Front façade of Tacheles, 2008 (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 143 Backside of Tacheles, 2006 (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 143 Musée des Arts modernes, Paris, 1937 (Source: Collection Musée de l’histoire vivante – Montreuil, photographie Trampus) 147 Areal view of the museum site next to the Seine (Source: Lacaton&Vazal, photo by Philippe Ruault) 147 Section showing the concept of the reuse of the building (Source: Lacaton&Vazal) 148

Illustrations

C7.4 C7.5

C7.6

C7.7 C8.1 C8.2

C8.3

C8.4

C8.5

C9.1 C9.2 C9.3 C9.4 C10.1

C10.2 C10.3 C10.4 C10.5 C10.6 C10.7 C11.1

Exterior view of the Palais de Tokyo (Source: Lacaton&Vazal, photo by Philippe Ruault) 149 Revealed concrete structure of the building and introduction of new staircases (Source: Lacaton&Vazal, photo 149 by Philippe Ruault) Revealed concrete structure of the building and introduction of new staircases (Source: Lacaton&Vazal, photo 150 by Philippe Ruault) Interior of the Palais de Tokyo in use as an art centre (Source: 150 Lacaton&Vazal, photo by Philippe Ruault) Cross section through the church and school building (Source: Estudio Linazasoro&Sánchez) 153 Exterior view of the church Escuelas Pias converted to a library (Source: Estudio Linazasoro&Sánchez, photo 154 by Miguel de Guzmán) Interior view of the church Escuelas Pias converted to a library (Source: Estudio Linazasoro&Sánchez, photo by Javier Callejas)154 View from the outside, looking at the interior of the church converted into a library (Source: Estudio Linazasoro&Sánchez, 155 photo by Miguel de Guzmán) New staircase in the school building against the walls of the ruins (Source: Estudio Linazasoro&Sánchez, photo 155 by Javier Callejas) Exterior view from street (Source: Ludwig Abache, photographer) 159 Interior view of historic hall (Source: Rasmus Hjortshøj, photographer)160 Patio (Source: Rasmus Hjortshøj, photographer) 160 Exhibition room (Source: Ludwig Abache, photographer) 161 Neues Museum design by August Stüler 1862, Section thourgh northern wing (Source: Wikimedia Commons, 164 public domain) Section though the court yards facing North-East (Source: David Chipperfield Architects) 164 Exterior Neues Museum (Source: David Chipperfield Architects, photo by Ute Zscharnt) 164 Sequence of exhibition rooms (Source: David Chipperfield Architects, photo by Ute Zscharnt) 165 Greek courtyard (Source: David Chipperfield Architects, photo by Ute Zscharnt) 166 Egyptian courtyard (Source: David Chipperfield Architects, 167 photo by Ute Zscharnt) Central stairs (Source: David Chipperfield Architects, photo by Joerg Von Bruchhausen) 167 Exterior view - historic image (Source: every effort has been made to contact copyright-holders. Please advise

xi

Illustrations

C11.2 C11.3

C11.4 C11.5 C11.6 C12.1 C12.2 C12.3 C12.4 C12.5 C12.6 C13.1 C13.2 C13.3 C13.4 C13.5

C13.6 C14.1

C14.2

C14.3 C14.4

xii

the publisher of any errors or omissions, and these will be corrected in subsequent editions) 171 Collage exterior Energy building (Source: 51N4E, collage by Filip Dujardin) 172 Exterior view site with shaft towers in the foreground and energy building in the background (Source: Stijn Bollaert, photographer)173 Interior Energy building (Source: Stijn Bollaert, photographer 174 Rooftop extension Energy building Source: Stijn Bollaert, photographer)175 View from the shaft tower towards the spoil pit (Source: Stijn Bollaert, photographer) 176 Conceptual drawing of the foot paths (Source: Paola Vigano, drawing by Bernardo Secchi) 179 Park Spoor Noord with large cargo shed in the background (Source: Stijn Bollaert, photographer) 179 Water pond in the foreground and large cargo shed in the 180 background (Source: Stijn Bollaert, photographer) Interior cargo shed (Source: Stijn Bollaert, photographer) 181 Sport field at Park Spoor Noord (Source: Stijn Bollaert, ddephotographer)182 Adjacent sheds reused for events, offices and sport facilities (Source: Stijn eBollaert, photographer) 182 Seventh regiment armory, 1893 (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 185 Drill hall, 1984 (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 185 Section through the administration building, showing the 186 historic interior of each room (Source: Herzog & de Meuron) Company D Room after transformation (Source: Herzog & de Meuron, photo by James Ewing Photography) 187 Consecutive layers of interior finishings on the wall of the Company D Room (Source: Herzog & de Meuron, photo by Kristen Reoch) 187 Drill hall in use: Philippe Parreno’s H {N)Y P N(Y} OSIS 188 (Source: Filip Wolak, photographer) Sarcophagues room in the John Soane House, drawing from the Illustrated London News 1864 (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 190 The Soane Museum, Sir John Soane’s house and studio, on Lincoln’s Inn Fields in the Borough of Camden, London, England. (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) 191 Groundfloor plan intervention Caruso St John Architects (Source: Caruso St John Architects) 192 First floor plan intervention Caruso St John Architects (Source: Caruso St John Architects) 192

Illustrations

C14.5 C14.6 C15.1 C15.2 C15.3 C15.4 C15.5 C15.6 C15.7 C16.1 C16.2 C17.1 C17.2 C17.3 C17.4 C17.5 C17.6 C17.7 C18.1 C18.2 C18.3 C18.4 C18.5

C18.6

C19.1 C19.2

Museum shop (Source: Hélène Binet, photographer) Cabinet room with contemporary furniture by Caruso St John Architects (Source: Hélène Binet, photographer) Plan of the former panoptic prison (Source: Stadsarchief Hasselt) Section through the prison transformed into a faculty building, administrative building in the background (Source: noArchitecten) Aerial view of the prison building after the transformation (Source: Hasselt University) Centre of the panopticon after transformation (Source: noArchitecten, photo by Kim Zwarts) Green corridor which gives access to the study cells and auditorium (Source: noArchitecten, photo by Kim Zwarts) Courtyard with extended corridors (Source: noArchitecten, photo by Kim Zwarts) Roof view showing the newly build auditoria in the courtyards (Source: noArchitecten, photo by Kim Zwarts) Street view OFF Piotrkowska (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain wiki) Street view OFF Piotrkowska (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) Eastern entrance hall Rijkmuseum, 1903–1910 (Source: Rijksmuseum) Section through the building showing the intervention to create the entrance square (Source: Cruz y Ortiz) Exterior Rijksmuseum (Source: Cruz y Ortiz) Entrance square (Source: Cruz y Ortiz) Restored entrance hall (Source: Luuk Kramer, photographer) Gallery of honour with Nachtwacht hall in the background (Source: Cruz y Ortiz) Exhibition space (Source: Luuk Kramer, photographer) Apollonio Domenichini Venezianische Vedute mit Fondaco dei Tedeschi – 1770 (Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain) Axonometric intervention (Source: OMA) Model showing the intervention (Source: OMA) Central hall (Source: OMA, photo by Delfino Sisto Legnani and Marco Cappelletti) Circular incision in the building with new escalators in the foreground (Source: OMA, photo by Delfino Sisto Legnani and Marco Cappelletti) Confrontation between old and new forms and materials (Source: OMA, photo by Delfino Sisto Legnani and Marco Cappelletti) Kleiburg just after its construction with metro line in the foreground, 1970s (Source: Stadsarchief Amsterdam) Basic interventions to the building (Source: XVW Architectuur

193 194 197 198 199 199 200 200 201 204 205 208 209 210 210 211 212 212 215 215 216 216

216

217 221 221

xiii

Illustrations

C19.3 C19.4 C19.5 C19.6 C20.1 C20.2

C20.3

C20.4

C20.5

xiv

Kleiburg after renovation, seen from the metro line (Source: Stijn Poelstra, photographer) 222 Kleiburg with enlarged under passage and entrance hall (Source: Stijn Brakkee, photographer) 222 Gallery which gives access to the individual flats (Source: Stijn Brakkee, photographer) 223 Do-It-Yourself house under renovation (Source: Stijn Poelstra, photographer)223 Saint-Jozeph Church in 1908 (Source: Archive Saint-Jozeph Parish, photo by E. Claessens) 226 Interior of the Saint-Joseph Church anno 2016 (Source: TV TRACE (UR architects, Saidja Heynickx Architect, BroeckxSchiepers Architecten, Hasselt University)) 227 Impression of the interior intervention (Source: TV TRACE (UR architects, Saidja Heynickx Architect, Broeckx-Schiepers Architecten, Hasselt University)) 227 Conceptual drawing showing the strategy to densify the church (Source: TV TRACE (UR architects, Saidja Heynickx Architect, Broeckx-Schiepers Architecten, Hasselt University)) 228 Section through the church, showing the excavated area around the church (Source: TV TRACE (UR architects, Saidja Heynickx Architect, Broeckx-Schiepers Architecten, Hasselt University))229

Acknowledgements

This book could not have been written without the support of the Faculty of Architecture and Arts of Hasselt University, Belgium. We want to thank Rob Cuyvers, who was our dean at the time, who encouraged us to start this project. Writing this book also meant that our teaching in the faculty was temporarily diminished, and we thank the faculty for their support and also our colleagues for stepping in to teach our seminar and lectures. Many concepts and ideas presented in the book grew from conversations and discussions within our research group TRACE – adaptive reuse and heritage. We sincerely thank Nikolaas Vande Keere, Marijn Van de Weijer, Karen Lens, and Saidja Heynickx for their interest in our work, their critical questions and remarks, and their suggestions for cases and literature. Many concepts and cases from this book have first been discussed in seminars and lectures, and we thank our students for their question and suggestions to elaborate further or revise some of our ideas. We thank Sally Stone, who wrote the foreword and who has always been very open to discussion on the theory, practice and teaching of adaptive reuse. We also thank Julia Sowinska-Heim of Łódź University (Poland) for her hospitality and her help with the case study OFF Piotrkowska. The contribution by our assistant Marie Moors has been tremendous, as she took care of the images and copyright agreements and many other practical matters, but while doing so she also provided a critical view on our work and in particular the selection of case studies. Both the Faculty of Architecture and Arts of Hasselt University and our publisher have generously funded reproduction rights. Our sincere gratitude goes to all architects, photographers, and archives who have provided us with drawings and images with their permission to use them. We want to thank our editor Fran Ford and her team at Routledge for their support in the process of publishing this book.

xv

Foreword

The first twenty years or so of this new millennium have shown the need within all societies to preserve their existing built environment. Whether these are fantastic structures of great historic or cultural significance or simply old buildings that have merely outlived their original use, there is a common need to retain them. They are valued for their essential history, their intrinsic sense of collective memory, and the physical contribution that they make to the built environment. But what is to be done with the huge stock of redundant structures? The debate about the whether they should be preserved is long over; conservation is now the preferred approach. It is seen as unacceptable to just knock a building down and start again, but actually finding a suitable function for the building is not as straightforward as it may at first seem. They are often in the wrong place for contemporary needs, of an inappropriate size and shape for modern life, and unsuitable for the dynamic exchange necessary within a digital age. The existing structure contains authenticity. This is important in an age of digital representation, fake news, and perfect replication. Authenticity within the postmodern age is bestowed upon an object, building, or environment not due to the creative or artistic quality of the thing but due to its age. Reproductions, copies, and the use of pastiche are considered to have little worth, however well made, accurate, or indeed beautiful the entity may be. Aesthetic judgements are subjective assessments based upon the whims of the society that propounded the decision; conclusions will and do change according to the priorities and obsessions of the particular culture. Age within an object is now considered to contain the greatest value; the patina of wear, the discolouration of time, the tarnish that repeated contact with human activity can produce are the most pleasing characteristics. These are the individualities that are valued today. These cannot be created with a computer, constructed with an algorithm or manufactured in an off-site factory and shipped in. The appearance of age, especially within an existing building, is created over time by repeated efforts of ordinary people, by the community who lived and worked in the particular situation and who infused the sense of life into it. Weathering also contributes to this sense of value; the rain and wind of harsh winters or the relentless heat of summer tarnish the building. While other factors that contribute to the deterioration and decolourization that age bestows are pollution, contamination, and the carelessness of previous ages. Thus the wear and tear

xvii

Foreword

of many years of use and abuse imparts a great authenticity to the place. The desirability of the genuinely legitimate structure is something that cannot simply be recreated; it is highly prized and definitely sought. All existing buildings contain that sense of yearning for a time or place that is just beyond immediate memory. A move away from the artificial towards the real, the genuine, handcrafted rather than factory produced, towards things that contain character and worth rather than the anonymity of mass production. In a world of false truths and easy access to unlimited information, reality is highly prized. This sense of worth is combined with another twenty-first-century obsession: the need for everything to be productive. It is unthinkable for anything to have no function, to be useless, to make no contribution to the betterment of society. The contemporary mantra ‘Reduce, Reuse, Recycle’ is testament to this essential prerequisite of contemporary life. Everything has to be useful, and existing building cannot escape from this agency of usefulness. However, contemporary Western society is facing the common problem of what to do with the massive hoard of outmoded existing buildings. Many have previously contained important functions, have been central to the development of their immediate environment, and have played an important role in the community of the local society. These redundant buildings are filled with that sense of worth, but as a society evolves, so do their priorities, needs, and wants − so that functions that were of definite importance to one group are neglected by the next, just as ideas that seem barmy to the members of one age are normal to the next. The case study method of examination of study within Adaptive Reuse of the Built Heritage: Concepts and Cases of an Emerging Discipline is highly appropriate to this genre. Every building is rooted in its own context, has a direct connection with the place that it inhabits, and therefore has a definite narrative to be revealed; every building has its own story to tell. This chronicle or account begins with the society that originally constructed the building and is overlaid with the tale of those who remodelled it. Thus the existing building contains a sense of connection with the past and a link to the future. It is a coherent system of interrelated and sequentially organized stories within stories that share a common rhetorical desire to reveal the diversity of human experience. In the postmodern age, history is now about much more than kings and queens, battles and acts of parliament. Everyone has one’s own personal history, each of which is, of course, positional. All history is an act of translation. The existing building directly connects the ordinary person with his or her own history. The reuse of these structures plays upon the deliberate melancholy and longing for the past. Just as it is impossible to put ourselves in the mind of the medieval pilgrim who may have just seen a magnificent cathedral for the first time, so it may be just as difficult for us to understand the thinking of the great nineteenthcentury industrialists who created the great buildings of the industrial revolution. And do we actually want to inhabit the lives of the poor souls who actually had to work in these Satanic Mills? But what is contained within these structures is the sense of community, worth, pleasure, friends − that is, nostalgia. The narrative of the existing building is explored within this book. The sense of age produced by countless different people, combined with the weathering of many

xviii

Foreword

years, means that the adaptation and reuse of the existing built environment − the search for new uses − will be among the priority of society for many years to come. Adaptive Reuse of the Built Heritage: Concepts and Cases of an Emerging Discipline is not a handbook or manual but an innovative in-depth exploration of the subject. It will be an important addition to the tiny but growing collection of books about the subject of remodelling and reuse. The discipline is still emerging, attitudes are still being developed, and approaches are still being refined. The subject, which was once considered to be of little curiosity to architects and designers, is rapidly approaching the middle ground of great importance and vitality. It is a discipline that needs further exploration, and this book will certainly make a great contribution to the evolution of the subject. Sally Stone August 2018 Sally Stone is an academic, designer, and author. She has written extensively about the design of the interior and the adaptation of the existing situation. Sally leads the Master of Architecture programme at the Manchester School of Architecture.

xix

Introduction

Europe is faced with an enormous building stock, including protected heritage buildings and those with moderate or limited architectural and historical value. For years, the common approach to the built fabric had been to conserve protected monuments’ original appearance as much as possible and replace other buildings with new constructions whenever they become useless, structurally unstable, or old-fashioned. By separating heritage from development, Europe is in danger of becoming a museum frozen in the past and losing its potential for development and innovation. In the last decade, however, this approach is changing. Adaptive reuse of all types of buildings and sites has become increasingly important as an urban, architectural, and conservational strategy. The reasons for this changing approach are multiple. For one, the increasing density of the built fabric limits opportunities for new constructions; the widening scope of heritage conservation boards and the increased number and variety of listed buildings and sites make it impossible to conserve all heritage assets in a strictly restorative manner, extracting them from an active societal life. For another, the current need for sustainable development patterns rejects large-scale demolition in favour of transforming what is already there and, as such, securing a more sustainable built fabric in both ecological and sociocultural terms. The present-day economic climate holds governments back from large-scale funding of heritage conservation but instead draws on heritage as a valuable resource that can generate added touristic, cultural, social, and economic value for society. However, altering existing buildings for new or continuous use is a complex task. It is not a simple aesthetic question about the relationship between the old and the new but instead includes a process of revaluation or finding a new balance between different sorts of values, moving from historical and conservational values towards architectural, societal, and economical values. Rather than freezing a building’s historic fabric, this complex task seeks to activate the full potential of its heritage and draws on the ambitious idea that the heyday of a monument or site may also lay in the future. The complexity and specificity of the practice of adaptive reuse makes it a discipline in its own right, intersecting architecture, interior design, planning, engineering, and conservation. Its body of theory is in its infancy. The theory of adaptive reuse has been caught between two rather general questions related

1

Introduction

to individual buildings. Which function is suitable for specific building typologies? And how to create an aesthetical relationship between the old and the new? However, the core issue related to adaptive reuse exceeds the individual building and tackles the more fundamental approach: how to transmit the legacy of the past, which includes the physical heritage, narratives, traditions, and values, to the future in a manner that reactivates and engages with them in building a future? This challenge is not only relevant in the European context. The question of dealing with the physical remnants of the past amid the longing for development and improvement is a global one. In the last decade, international conferences from different disciplines have been addressing the topic of adaptive reuse as a core issue. Among these are the 14th DOCOMOMO International Conference titled ‘Adaptive Reuse. The Modern Movement Towards the Future’, held in Lisbon, Portugal, in September 2016; the Heritage and Urbanism Conference’s ‘Cultural Heritage: Possibilities for Spatial and Economic Development’ held in Zagreb, Croatia, in October 2015; the Interior Educators International Conference titled ‘Reinventing Architecture and Interiors’ held in London, United Kingdom, in March 2012; the Rehab conferences organized by Green Lines Institute for Sustainable Development in 2014, 2015, and 2017; and a series of events that have been organized in 2018 on Heritage in Transition in the context of the European Year of Cultural Heritage. Study programmes in architecture, interior design, and urban planning that integrate adaptive reuse in their curricula have recently increased in number, including specialized ones on this subject. Architectural offices consider working with existing buildings as an important aspect of their work and a venue for demonstrating their professional skills. This book aims to identify the opportunities and address the problems related to the adaptive reuse of buildings and sites in a theoretical manner, which is contrasted against the actual practice of the discipline through case studies. The first part of the book includes a series of theoretical essays. These essays draw on concepts and literature from various fields, such as architecture and interior design, conservation, art history, philosophy, and on examples of adaptive reuse practice in the past and present. Chapter 1 addresses the history and evolution of adaptive reuse as a discipline. We position the concept of reuse in nineteenth- and early twentieth-century conservation theory and illustrate how the concept developed further in the course of the twentieth century and became a discipline in its own right that intersects with various design- and conservationrelated fields. This chapter also includes an extensive review of literature on adaptive reuse from the 1970s onwards, and we conclude the chapter with a set of definitions related to building reuse and adaptation. Chapter 2 elaborates on intervention strategies by comparing traditional architectural approaches with attitudes that draw more on the soft values of the building. Besides an overview of elsewhere defined reuse strategies, we point out three strategies that have not yet been described in adaptive reuse theory: aemulatio, façadism, and ruination. Chapter 3 deals with the link between building reuse and more generally the conservation and reactivation of the existing building stock as a tool for urban regeneration. We first sketch the evolving role of heritage within planning concepts in

2

Introduction

the course of the twentieth century. Next, we elaborate on three ways to inform urban regeneration through the reuse of abandoned buildings and sites: firstly, the development of new housing typologies through adaptive reuse; secondly, the transformation of heritage sites into urban parks; and thirdly, the potential of spontaneous, user-led reuse and interventions in the existing fabric. Chapter 4 focuses on the concept of genius loci, or ‘spirit of place’, and how this concept is key for reading and adapting existing tangible and intangible traces of the past in a qualitative way. Chapter 5 is a concluding chapter in which we discuss a series of more poetic concepts in relation to the built heritage and its reuse and transformation – continuity, tradition, empathy, memory, and complexity – and present future perspective on adaptive reuse in research, education, and practice. As the book largely draws on examples of adaptive reuse practice, the second part of it is a case study section. Out of the many examples that informed and steered our theoretical discourse, we have selected 20 case studies. The selection of these 20 cases has been the subject of long reflection and debate. Although the final selection has been made partly intuitively, there were some explicit underlying criteria: •

•

•

•

• •

•

•

We attempted to selected outstanding examples of adaptive reuse − outstanding in the sense that the case is most representable for a particular approach towards adaptive reuse within a specific period. It does not necessarily represent a particular aesthetic or conceptual preference of the authors. The cases vary in age and typology of the host space. Hence, cases include the transformation of structures that are several centuries old, such as a medieval castle or the ruins of a baroque church, but also the reuse of more recent buildings and sites, such as a nineteenth-century industrial site or a post-war modernist housing block. We selected cases that vary in scale, moving from the transformation of a complete historical centre to the mere addition of carefully designed furniture. Cases vary in the period of transformation, moving from antique ruins transformed during the Renaissance to projects from the 1960s and 70s to recent or ongoing projects. The cases include projects by renowned architects as well as bottom-up, or ‘vernacular’, transformations. We tried to include not only iconic and widely published examples but also less known projects such as the former prison in Hasselt or OFF Piotrkowska in Łódź. For each case, however, we questioned its international appeal and relevancy. We considered the pedagogic quality of the cases in the sense that we searched for cases with an explicit concept, narrative, or methodology that could be inspirational for other projects. Although this was not our initial attention, it turned out that the selected cases are all drawn from a European perspective. Only two cases are located outside Europe: Park Avenue Armory in New York by Herzog & de Meuron

3

Introduction

and SESC Pompeia in São Paulo by Lina Bo Bardi. But even these are not entirely non-European as Herzorg & de Meuron is a Swiss-based office and Lina Bo Bardi was born and trained as an architect in Italy. We hope, nevertheless, that the concepts and principles underlying the presented cases may also be inspirational in a wider context. The case studies follow a template that includes three aspects: first, the history and architectural characteristics of the host space; second, the concept of transformation and new programme for the building; and third, the architectural interventions that define the transformation. Each case is illustrated with historical images, architectural drawings, and pictures of the building after transformation. We also included a bibliography for each case. The cases are chronologically ordered based on the date of transformation. As most cases have been realized over several years or even decades or have been executed in different phases, this order is not exact. The date of opening to the public served as a reference date. The cases underlie and support the theoretical concepts and reflections presented in the first part of this book, and reference to the respective cases is made in parentheses in the text of the theoretical chapters. Vice versa, reference to theoretical concepts related to the case are indexed above each case, using the following key words: imitatio, aemulatio, façadism, ruination, urban regeneration, new housing typology, urban park, vernacular adaptation, gentrification, and contradiction. Hence, the book can be read in different ways: starting from the essays in Part I and from there moving towards the cases or starting from the cases and from there looking into the theoretical concepts that are derived from and support each case. Moreover, each of the chapters can be read independently, with reference to other chapters made in parentheses.

4

Part I

1

Historical background1

Adaptive reuse today has become a professional practice in its own right that draws on expertise from various fields such as architecture, conservation, interior design, landscape design, planning, and engineering. However, in the past, the practice of altering existing buildings for new uses occurred spontaneously and was handled in a pragmatic way. In this chapter we describe how adaptive reuse has evolved from a user-led process to a highly specialized discipline. We first present a review of a seminal text from nineteenth- and early twentieth-century conservation theory as to their view on building adaptation and reuse. Next, we present a literature review on adaptive reuse theory that emerged from the 1970s onwards and that we have categorized into five different approaches: typological, architectural, technical, programmatic, and interior. To conclude, we present a glossary with definitions of the various terms used in relation to building adaptation and reuse.

1. Pre-nineteenth-century building reuse: spontaneous process of building adaptation Altering existing buildings for new functions is not a new phenomenon. In the past, structurally secured buildings were adapted to fit a different need or new function without questions or problems. During the Renaissance period, ancient monuments were transformed for new uses. An example is the sixteenthcentury Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri in Rome, designed by Michelangelo, that incorporated the ancient remains of the baths in the design for the basilica (case 2). During the French Revolution, religious buildings were transformed into residential, industrial, or military buildings after they had been confiscated and sold. These interventions, however, were done in a pragmatic method, usually without heritage preservation as an intention. Instead, the driving force behind reuse was basically functional and financial (Powell, 1999). Sherban Cantacuzino, among the first authors describing the practice of adaptive reuse, explains it as follows: Because their structure tends to outlive their function, buildings have continuously been adapted to new uses – a fact which has enabled generation after generation to derive a sense of continuity and stability from their physical surroundings. When buildings were abandoned, pilfered for materials or

7

Part I

condemned for political reasons, the process of destruction was often slow and incomplete compared to the effect of the modern bull-dozer. (1972, p. 263) However, the spontaneous and pragmatic practice of adaptive reuse during this period has neither received much attention in adaptive reuse literature nor in architectural history, although in the field of urban history and planning, authors such as Aldo Rossi (1966) and Perez de Arce (1978) analysed this type of building transformation. De Arce explains that this process of use and reuse of historic structures is an important aspect of urban development as it improves the quality of a town, for which he gives three reasons. First, it is more likely that preexisting structures are used for a prolonged period. Second, it lowers the cost in both material and social terms as it involves, respectively, recycling of materials available on site and the continuity of the normal rhythm of life. Third, it creates a sense of ‘place’ in both historical and spatial terms, in which, he states that: a true complexity and a meaningful variety arise from the gradual accumulation of elements which confirm and reinforce the space in an incremental process. This sense of continuity is further reinforced by the intelligence of successive generations which, through trial and error, produces a type of architecture which, by being so meaningful in social terms, by being elaborated with the concurrence of so many people, becomes almost necessarily a product of great quality. (1978, p. 237) Through the method of drawing, de Arce illustrates in his article how exemplary buildings and sites from different periods and places have been changed throughout time. His work is extremely relevant also for the fields of conservation and architecture as it illustrates the concept of palimpsest in a concrete manner. This concept is introduced by Machado (1976) to refer to the layered history of the buildings, both in their materiality and narratives. The intangible and narrative aspect of spontaneous building transformation has been illustrated by Edward Hollis in his book The Secret Lives of Buildings (2009). In 13 stories, written in the style of a novel, Hollis describes how ancient buildings are ‘stolen, appropriated, copied, translated, simulated, restored, and prophesied’ in the course of their history.

2. Towards cultural heritage conservation: adaptive reuse Viollet-le-Duc and Ruskin: on conservation, restoration, and building reuse Until the eighteenth century, old buildings had been transformed for practical or economical reasons. Beginning in the nineteenth century, the concept of ‘heritage’ became important, and a focus of debate was on the means to deal with the physical remains of past epochs. Two opposing orthodoxies dominated the debate. One was the restoration movement initiated by Eugène Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc (1814–1879) in France. The other was the anti-restoration or 8

Historical background

conservation movement led by John Ruskin (1819–1900) and his student William Morris (1834–1896) in England. An important turning point in the history of building conservation was the French Revolution (1789–1799). In this period of radical social and political upheaval, the absolute monarchy that had ruled France for centuries collapsed; traditional ideas of monarchy, aristocracy, and religious authority were abruptly overthrown. In place of these long established concepts, the Enlightenment put forward a completely new set of principles on which the seemingly new society was based. In an attempt to address the states’ financial problems, the National Assembly declared on November 2, 1789, that all property of the Church, including buildings, parcels of lands, and works of art, were to be confiscated. Subsequently, they started selling the confiscated properties but kept many important buildings as state properties. In 1790, in the middle of the maelstrom, the Commission des Monuments was founded to set up an inventory of all national properties seen as ‘useful for the public education, of the nation’, including manuscripts, books, movable objects, and monuments. Many of the confiscated buildings that were kept as a state property were placed under the responsibility of this commission. After the revolutionary dust had settled in in 1837, the commission was divided to allow for the establishment of a separate commission responsible for historic monuments. The first chief inspector of the nineteenth century Commission des Monument Historiques was Eugène Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc (Jokilehto, 1999). As architect and chief inspector, Viollet-le-Duc was involved in numerous restoration works. Many of these works were Gothic buildings, including icons such as the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, the castle of Pierrefonds, and the citadel of Carcassonne. His proposed interventions in dealing with the task of ‘restoration’ were often extensive; in certain instances, the interventions involved adding completely ‘new parts’ to the building, albeit ‘in the style of the original’ (Vaccaro, 1996). This approach was rooted in the nationalist zeitgeist, which saw historic buildings as national monuments that were to be restored in order to illustrate the ‘achievements of the nation’. Despite being a national movement, the influence of the restoration movement as understood and practised by Viollet-le-Duc was not limited to France. Influential architects such as George Gilbert Scott (1811–1878) in England and Pierre Cuypers (1827–1921) in The Netherlands were also supporters of this type of restoration approach. A clear indication of what it involved and why it still resonates today is evident in Viollet-le-Duc’s work and writings. His views on reuse of historic buildings are manifested in the following: [T]he best of all ways of preserving a building is to find a use for it, and then to satisfy so well the needs dictated by that use that there will never be any further need to make any further changes in the building. . . . In such circumstances, the best thing to do is to try to put oneself in the place of the original architect and try to imagine what he would do if he returned to earth and was handed the same kind of programs as have been given to us. Now, this sort of proceeding requires that the restorer be in possession of all the same resources as the original master – and that he proceeds as the original master did. (1990 [1854], pp. 222–223) 9

Part I

Viollet-le-Duc clearly gives a mandate for contemporary architects to alter the original building for reuse in a clear, direct, and practical method. This mandate resonates in present times as it serves as a historical precedent for contemporary physical adaptations of old buildings. In a sense, it resonates with Fred Scott’s concept of ‘sympathy’ as developed in his 2008 publication On Altering Architecture, in which he compares restoration with the translation of poetry, an act that also requires ‘sympathy’: Translation in poetry is akin to the work of bringing a building from a past existence into the present. This carrying over of meaning in poetry is recognized as a work requiring inspiration equivalent to that of the original author and so similarly, one might come to view restoration as an art equivalent to any other related to building. (2008, p. 80) Despite its international and historically long-term influence, the work and theories of Viollet-le-Duc have not been free from criticism. Previous and present experts have been against the approach he promoted. John Ruskin, for example, described this kind of restoration as ‘a destruction accompanied with false description of the thing destroyed’ (Ruskin, 1849, p. 148). He also called it ‘the most total destruction which a building can suffer’ (Ruskin, 1849, p. 184). According to Ruskin: It is impossible, as impossible as to raise the dead, to restore anything that has ever been great or beautiful in architecture, . . . Do not let us talk then of restoration. The thing is a lie from beginning to end. . . . Take proper care of your monuments, and you will not need to restore them. (pp. 184–186) In his words, Ruskin highlights his pure conservationist philosophy, which is premised on the rejection of the destructive aspects of Viollet-le-Duc’s ‘restorations’ and on a preference for the protection, conservation, and maintenance of monuments. Ruskin’s student, Morris, founded the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings (SPAB) in 1877 based on the ‘Romantic back-to-nature’ philosophy of his own circle. The SPAB saw historic buildings as unique creations by an artist in a specific historic context. For them, age contributed to the beauty of a building, and, as a result, signs of age were seen as an essential element to an object or a building. As such, these buildings should not be removed or restored but rather retained; a building’s function should also not be changed (Jokilehto, 1999). In their manifesto, they state: It is for all these buildings, therefore, of all times and styles, that we plead, and call upon those who have to deal with them, to put Protection in the place of Restoration, to stave off decay by daily care, to prop a perilous wall or mend a leaky roof by such means as are obviously meant for support or covering, and show no pretence of other art, and otherwise to resist all tampering with either the fabric or ornament of the building as it stands; if it has become inconvenient for its present use, to raise another building 10

Historical background

rather than alter or enlarge the old one; in fine to treat our ancient buildings as monuments of a bygone art, created by bygone manners, that modern art cannot meddle with without destroying. (Morris, 1977, pp. 319–321) For the anti-restoration movement then, the building should be allowed to exist on its own terms and display its own history. It should be conserved. The differences between these two approaches had been the focus of debate throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. At the heart of this discussion was the difference in understanding of the concept of authenticity, although the word itself was hardly mentioned by Viollet-le-Duc, Ruskin, or Morris.

Riegl and Boito: use-value and rule books The polemics of this situation were reframed in the first decades of the twentieth century by the Austrian art historian Alois Riegl (1858–1905) who, in 1903, was appointed general conservator of the Central Commission of Austria. In his essay Der Moderne Denkmalkultus: Sein Wesen und seine Entstehun, he ascribes the prevailing theoretical conflict to the different value system that triggered their views on monuments (1928 [1903]). By doing so, he offered the first contribution towards a profound and nuanced understanding of the notion of authenticity. Riegl distinguished different types of values, which he grouped as ‘commemorative values’, which include age-, historic-, and intentional-commemorative-value and ‘present-day values’, which include use- and art-value (newness- and relative-art-value). For Riegl, the restoration movement supporters strived to combine newnessvalue (unity of style) and historic-value (originality of style). They aimed to remove all traces of natural decay and to restore every fragment of the work to create a historic entity. In contrast, Riegl suggested that supporters of the anti-restoration movement appreciated monuments exclusively for their age-value. He also suggested that the incompleteness of an artefact should be preserved as traces of natural decay to testify to the fact that a monument was not created recently but at a certain point in the past. He describes the scenario thus: [T]he entire nineteenth-century practice of preservation rested essentially on the traditional notion of a complete amalgamation of newness-value and historic value: the aim was to remove every trace of natural decay, to restore every fragment to achieve the appearance of an integral whole. The restoration of a monument back to its original condition was the openly accepted and eagerly propagated purpose of all rational preservation in the nineteenth century. The rise of age-value in the late nineteenth century generated opposition and conflicts which are apparent wherever monuments are to be preserved today. The contradiction between newness-value and age-value is at the centre of the controversy which rages over the treatment of monuments. . . . Where a monument has ceased to have use-value, the consideration of age-value has begun to prevail in its preservation. The situation is more complicated where the use-value comes into play; most would prefer 11

Part I

to regard a building in use as something sturdy rather than as something ages and decaying. (p. 44) Riegl points to the innumerable monuments that are still in use or that have received a new use in the course of history and states: Material life is a prerequisite for psychic existence, and indeed is more important because there is no psychic life without physiological basis. It follows then that an old building still in use must be maintained in such a condition that it can accommodate people without endangering life or health – any hole or leak must be repaired immediately. In general, we may state that use-value is indifferent to the treatment of a monument so long as the monument’s existence is not affected and no concessions whatsoever are made to age-value. Only in cases where use-value is fraught with newness-value must consideration of age-value be even more tightly restricted. [As such,] practical considerations allow age-value only in a few exceptional cases. (p. 39) These arguments show that, although Riegl understood both sides of this argument, his inclination in the final analysis was to support a form of adaptive reuse or a restorative approach. Riegl’s ideas were fundamentally important for Austrian conservation policy but were rather limited in effect internationally; the abstractness and complexity of his writings made them difficult to translate (Jokilehto, 1999). Der Moderne Denkmalkultus: Sein Wesen und seine Entstehung was only translated to English in its entirety in 1982 when his ideas had been cited regularly in relation to ‘value assessment’ (Avrami, Mason, & de la Torre, 2000; Mason, 2002; Tomaszewski, 2007; Bell, 2009; Fredheim & Khalaf, 2016) and ‘conservation theory’ (Choay, 1992; Jokilehto, 1999; Muñoz Viñas, 2005). Whereas Riegl’s approach towards the restoration and adaptation of monuments was theoretical, Camillo Boito (1836–1914) supported the stand of Viollet-le-Duc and Ruskin in more practical terms. Boito presented his paper ‘Questioni Pratiche di Belle Arti, Restauri, Concorsi, Legislazione, Professione, Insegnamento’ at around the same time Riegl published his essay on monuments. For the first time in the history of the debate, however, Boito proposed concrete and practical guidelines for the restoration of historic buildings (1893). Similarly to Riegl, Boito compared Viollet-le-Duc and Ruskin and was critical of both. He saw a loss of the material authenticity of the building in Viollet-leDuc’s approach, whereas he found a concept of advocating decay, a notion he rejected as impractical, in Ruskin’s. Searching for a path between these two arguments, Boito proposed that the restoration method employed to any given project should depend on the individual circumstances of the building or monument in question. By doing so, he distinguished between three methodologies, which he called ‘archaeological restoration’ (for antique monuments), ‘picturesque restoration’ (for medieval monuments), and ‘architectural restoration’ (for Renaissance and other monuments). Moreover, he proposed eight principles that architect or restorers could use to 12

Historical background

allow them to adapt buildings while producing no confusion as to what was old and what was new. He suggested that these should be applied depending on the nature of the specific project. The eight principles include: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Differentiating between the style of the new and the old; Differentiating between construction materials; Suppressing of profiles or decorations; Exhibiting removed old pieces, which could be installed next to the monument; Inscribing the date of restoration (or other conventional sign) in each restored piece; Using a descriptive epigraph carved on the monument; Describing and photographing the different phases of the work and placing the documentation within the building or nearby; Underlining notoriety (2009 [1893], p. 76)

Although Boito does not particularly mention the reuse of buildings in his writings and only focuses on restoration, his ideas are directly applicable to both situations and indicate another early theory that sought to overcome the two extremes of the conventional wisdom of the time. Moreover, when Boito speaks of ‘restoration’, this term may be interpreted more broadly than the general international meaning of the word. The Italian word restauro not only refers to ‘the action of returning something to a former owner, place, or condition’ but also involves aspects of reconstruction as well as adaptation to contemporary needs.2

Post-World War I period: dichotomy between architecture and conservation The influence of Boito on Italian and international conservation practice was fundamental and a key factor in the formulation of the Athens Charter in 1931. The charter was the first international document to promote modern conservation policy (Iamandi, 1997; Jokilehto, 1999). It was the work of the International Museum Office, which had been established after World War I to analyse problems related to heritage conservation and, more specifically, the restoration of buildings and even entire towns destroyed or damaged during the war. In general, the charter denounces ‘stylistic restorations’ and promotes what may be defined as regular and permanent maintenance. It states: [T]he Conference recommends that the occupation of buildings, which ensures the continuity of their life, should be encouraged but that these buildings should be used for a purpose which respects their historic or artistic character. (article 1) Conversely, the destructions of the war also created an opportunity for modernist architects to apply their own ideas at the level of not only individual buildings but 13

Part I

also urban scale. Nowhere was this more evident or more forcefully promoted than in the fourth conference of the International Congresses of Modern Architecture (CIAM) in 1933 (on the two Charters of Athens, see also Chapter 3). The conference analysed the problems of 33 cities and proposed a set of ‘statements’ for the creation of an ideal modern city. The analyses led to the now famous proposal for the division of the ideal modern city into four main functions, namely, dwelling, recreation, work, and transportation (Van der Woud, 1983). The CIAM’s conclusion on the means to deal with historic parts of cities, however, are less well documented. The conclusion states: Historic objects (separate monuments or sectors of the city) must be retained: – When its existence is not bought at the price of bad living conditions for the population that is compelled to live in it. – When the opportunity is afforded to remove its restricting influence on development by the diversion of traffic round it or the shifting of the focal point. It also states that, ‘An aesthetic adaptation of new parts of the city to the historic area has a catastrophic effect on the development of a city and is in no way to be desired’. Furthermore, ‘By the demolition of slum dwellings surrounding the historic monuments, green areas can be created, which improve the hygienic conditions in those areas (CIAM, 1983 [1933]). According to the ideas of the CIAM as set out in 1933, historic buildings should be preserved only under specific conditions and were to be seen as ‘isolated monuments’ in the modern urban fabric. As a result, a clear split emerged between conservation/restoration and modern architecture. Conservationists and renovators contended with the issues of ‘scientific restoration’ (cf. Boito) and ‘value-assessment’ (cf. Riegl) with the aim of conserving the remaining historic fabric of the post-war period and adapting it to the needs of the modern world. Meanwhile, supporters of modern architecture dismissed existing architecture, which was considered a barrier to development and advancement, as a result of their belief in future and new techniques. The clarity of this division was a complete inversion of the situation that had persisted for almost a century; for example, Viollet-le-Duc and Morris played major roles in conservation and practised as contemporary architects and designers, although they worked in a predominantly neo-gothic style. By the 1960s, however, this oppositional perspective was challenged; architecture and conservation began to move closer together as a number of important architects and design theorists began to show increasing interest in working with historic buildings.

Adaptive reuse as a new approach towards building environment This shift in architects’ perspectives was paralleled by a shift in ideas coming from the field of conservation. Until the nineteenth century, the concept

14

Historical background

of heritage was limited to antique and medieval buildings. As a result of the destructions in World Wars I and II, awareness of the value of buildings from other historical periods and interest in different typologies as worthy of preservation had taken shape. Vernacular architecture, industrial buildings, and even complete historic cities were now considered as falling within the remit of the conservationist (Choay, 1992). The increased number of buildings that would potentially need ‘conserving’ in this new and expanded context was enormous. Inevitably, a reconsideration of the concept of conservation emerged and was reflected in the 1964 Venice Charter, which points to the importance of ‘adaptive reuse’ as a form of ‘conservation’ practice. It states that ‘the conservation of monuments is always facilitated by making use of them for some socially useful purpose’ (article 5). Hence, the ideas of architects and conservators can be seen as merging in the context of the 1960s and the 1970s. This was evident in the work of a number of important architects who began to work with historic buildings as a matter of course and speciality. Among the architects were Carlo Scarpa (1906–1978) in Italy (case 3), Raphaël Moneo (1937) in Spain (case 5), Sverre Fehn (1924–2009) in Norway, and Lina Bo Bardi (1914–1992) in Brazil (case 4). The amalgamation of ideas was reflected in both conservation and restoration theories and publications. In May 1972, the Architectural Review published a special issue titled ‘New Uses for Old Buildings’, which explored the subject of building reuse (Cantacuzino, 1972). It was also evident in two international symposia, ‘Old into New’ and ‘Old and New Architecture: Design Relationship’, held in Glasgow and Washington, D.C., respectively, in 1977. Both conferences’ proceedings were published in a book in 1978 and set the foundations for the emergence of a new discipline (Markus, 1979; National Trust for Historic Preservation, 1980). An early exponent and beneficiary of this new open theoretical context was Radolfo Machado who published Architecture as Palimpsest, a moment-defining text, in 1976. Machado transcends the ‘internal conflict’ between the restoration and anti-restoration movements and the external debate whether architectural design has to be based on a tableau rasa, by using palimpsest as a metaphor, which he describes thus: A term referring to any inscribed surface from which one text has been removed so that the space could be used again for another. In antiquity the word was applied loosely to any writing material that had been cleared and reused. . . . In late classical and medieval times the scarcity and costliness of vellum were so great that it was quite frequently salvaged after the text, which had been inscribed thereon, fell into neglect. . . . Some architectural drawings could be regarded as the equivalent of a palimpsest . . . but also the remodelled architectural work itself, since it can be seen as a text of a special kind that is characterized by the juxtaposition and co-presence of other texts. If an original building is considered as a first discourse that conditions future formal discourses to be inscribed upon it, then remodelling can be conceived of as rewriting. (1976, p. 46)

15

Part I

Figure 1.1  Evolution of adaptive reuse as a discipline in its own right.

Machado employs the term ‘remodelling’ to refer to ‘adaptive reuse’ and draws an analogy with writing, which allowed him to consider the overlaying of formal interventions within an existing form, adaptive reuse, as a creative act in and of itself. It was one that did not destroy the existing context, but which was not completely restricted by it either. It would prove to be an indication of what the future of adaptive reuse would be conceived as in the coming decades.

3. Contemporary adaptive reuse theory: attitudes, means, and perspectives The 1970s can be seen as a historical moment in which the concept of ‘adaptive reuse’ was established as a creative discipline with philosophical or theoretical bases. Being established as a discipline, however, does not translate to only one approach or theory of contemporary reuse. In fact, various theoretical approaches have coexisted in previous years. Each approach offers its own insights and identifies its own salient issues.

Typological approach Cantacuzino, author of the 1975 book New Uses for Old Buildings, is a pioneering researcher on adaptive reuse in the 1970s. His book was based on the special issue of Architectural Review, which he edited in 1972. The introductory essay to this book is a history of adaptive reuse and its role in current conservation practice. It is followed by a selection of international examples organized according to the typology of the host space. Following Cantacuzino’s approach, several authors have applied a similar approach, focussing their research on the question as to which function(s) can be suitable for particular typologies (Cunnington, 1988; Douglas, 2006; Latham, 2000). This question is similar to what Machado named as the form/function relationship. Within this framework, certain building typologies

16

Historical background

have extensively been studied, such as industrial buildings (Cantacuzino, 1975; Robert, 1989; Latham, 2000; Stratton, 2000;Henehan, Woodson, & Culbert, 2004; Douglas, 2006; Robiglio, 2017), residential buildings (Cantacuzino, 1975; Cunnington, 1988; Robert, 1989; Latham, 2000; Douglas, 2006; Nichols & Adams, 2013; van de Weijer & Van Cleempoel, 2015), and churches (Cantacuzino, 1975; Robert, 1989; Cunnington, 1988; Latham, 2000; English Heritage, 2003; Morisset, Noppen, & Coomans, 2005; Douglas, 2006; Alavedra, 2007). Other building types such as military and commercial buildings received limited attention. In the 1970s, Machado (1976) strongly criticized this focus on form/function relationship in adaptive reuse theory as it ignored the most fundamental question related to remodelling an existing building: which form can create the required relationship between the old and the new, in order to suppress, maintain, or enhance the meaning and values of the given building? This critique holds sense as the quality of an adaptive reuse project is strongly dependent on the architectural intervention, the way the new programme fits within the existing building, or the way in which the existing building is adapted to the functional and aesthetical requirements of the new programme. However, an in-depth study on the adaptive reuse of specific architectural typology remains valuable and can show the specific characteristics and qualities of the typologies as well as the threats and opportunities related to its adaptation and reuse. As such, studies following this typological approach have become even more focussed, in-depth, and detailed in the last decade. For example, studies have focussed on monasteries (Lens, 2014), post offices (Havelaar & Wiesman, 2013), offices (Remøy & van der Voordt, 2007, 2014; Wilkinson & Remøy, 2011), and shopping arcades (Plevoets & Van Cleempoel, 2011).

Architectural approach In contrast to Cantacuzino’s approach and those of other authors following a similar one, Machado has argued in favour of a more architectural approach that focuses on the form/form relationship, investigating various design strategies on how to intervene within or upon an existing building. In Architecture as Palimpsest, Machado considers a series of metaphors from the practice of writing, including writing over, underlining, partially erasing, and interstitial writing (writing between the lines), among others, to suggest different possible modes of thinking about the remodelling of buildings. The comparison between the practice of writing and building adaptation is not new; in the nineteenth century, Viollet-le-Duc made a similar comparison when he stated: If a single one [a capital] was missing it would be replaced with an ornament of the style in vogue at that time. It is for this reason that, in times before the attentive study of styles has been developed up to the point where it is today, replacements of this type were merely considered aberrations, and sometimes as a consequence false dates were assigned to parts of an edifice that should rightly have been considered interpolations in an existing text. (Viollet-le-Duc, 1967 [1854])

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Despite the groundbreaking ideas, which were at the core of adaptive reuse practice, Machado’s text initially had great influence on scholarly studies. Only in 1989 when they had been taken up by Robert who recalled the metaphor of the palimpsest to explain the concept of conversion (on palimpsest as a metaphor for adaptive reuse, see Chapters 2 and 5). Robert (1989) presents seven ‘concepts of conversion’ that he identifies as existent in a number of historical and contemporary examples: (1) building within, (2) building over, (3) building around, (4) building alongside, (5) recycling materials or vestiges, (6) adapting to a new function, and (7) building in the style of. Each of these concepts refers to a specific physical intervention. Following Robert (1989), several authors have identified different architectural strategies to handle existing buildings: Brooker and Stone (2004, 2018) distinguish among (1) intervention, (2) insertion, and (3) installation, and elsewhere Brooker (2017) adds other strategies (4) reprogramming, (5) superuse, (6) artifice, (7) narrative, (8) on/off site; Jäger (2010) defines (1) additions, (2) transformations, and (3) conversions; Cramer and Breitling (2007) define (1) modernization, (2) adaptation, (3) replacement, and (4) corrective maintenance. Although the scope and extent of adaptive reuse vary among authors, categories defined by different authors often (partly) overlap. The classification illustrates the extent of the discipline of adaptive reuse. However, the classification is only the abstraction of this scholarly approach and probably not its most valuable or influential aspect. Instead, the detailed (architectural) documentation, description, and analysis of case studies are more relevant and important to the practice of the discipline. The most innovative and outstanding projects typically combine different architectural and conservational strategies, and its full complexity and richness cannot be grasped within a single term. Therefore, case study books remain valuable for the discipline to move further, as the description and analysis of the case studies show the full complexity and richness of the project.

Technical approach Whereas the architectural approach is focussed on a conceptual relationship between the old and the new form, certain writers have approached building adaptation as primarily a technical question and have become less theoretical in their opinion. As such, a number of ‘guidebooks’ focussed on ways to adapt a building in order to ensure it can best accommodate a new function. The first and well known book of this type is Highfield’s (1987) The Rehabilitation and Re-Use of Old Buildings. In this book, Highfield discusses the improvements necessary to adapted buildings in terms of fire resistance, thermal performance, acoustic properties, prevention of damp, condensation, and timber decay. To back up these specific questions, he also presents a series of technical case studies. This reference text has been followed by numerous other editions in which he has expanded the number and range of technical issues to be considered by the designer who is adapting existing structures to include issues of sustainable redevelopment; he also updates outdated techniques (Highfield, 1991, 2000; Gorse & Highfield, 2009).

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Given the increased importance of ecological and sustainable attitudes towards the building environment during the last decades, these technical issues have become increasingly important in adaptive reuse theory and practice. Although adaptive reuse is in fact a sustainable practice, the amount of resources needed for reuse is generally far less than those necessary for new constructions. The fact that historic buildings often perform poorly in terms of energy efficiency and thus are not invariably beneficial in ecological terms is also recognized and handled as an area of study (Carroon, 2010; Giebeler et al., 2009; Rabun & Kelso, 2009; Greenan, 2011; Gelfand & Duncan, 2012). This area of study will be developed further in a technical and conceptual method in the future.

Programmatic approach Another approach of adaptive reuse that has yet to be fully examined in theoretical treatises but that has been applied in reality for certain period is the programmatic strategy. This approach involves selecting a specific function or programme as a starting point and then searching for an existing (historic) building suitable to accommodate it. Previous studies on this strategy tend to emphasize contemporary architecture and interventions rather than aspects of heritage conservation (Fisher, 1992; Powell, 1999). Nevertheless, developing this approach further is important, especially given that historic buildings are continually and increasingly being adapted for a whole range of commercial functions, including retail, leisure, sport, care, and domestic. The developers behind adaptive reuse projects often specifically look for historic buildings because of their ‘authentic character’. In the case of the retail sector, for example, a building’s ‘authentic character’ may help in brand differentiation. More prosaically, the developers may find historic buildings suitable for retail stores since buildings that occupy city centre shopping areas are often old (Plevoets & Van Cleempoel, 2016). Existing early investigations on programmatic approach of adaptive reuse need to address these and other issues if, as a number of its proponents claim, it can help not only solve practical and functional issues but also alleviate social ills. Proponents of this approach suggest that adapting buildings to different programmes is essential if issues such as housing for an aging demographic is to be fully developed within our existing building stock.

Interior approach An increased interest in adaptive reuse has been raised by scholars working in the field of interior architecture and interior design in the last decade. Examples are Graeme Brooker (2009), Sally Stone (Brooker & Stone, 2004; Stone & Brooker 2018), Littlefield and Lewis (2007), Ed Hollis (2009), Ellen Klingenberg (2012), Liliane Wong (2017). In What Is Interior Design? Brooker and Stone state: Interior architecture, interior design, interior decoration, and building reuse are very closely linked subjects, all of which deal, in varying degrees, with

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the transformation of a given space, whether that is the crumbling ruin of an ancient building or the drawn parameters of a new building proposal. (2010, p. 6) Common in their approach is their strong focus on the ‘soft values’ of the building, which include its immaterial aspects, atmosphere, and narratives, and a more ‘poëtic’ approach towards building adaptation. Fred Scott, in On Altering Architecture (2008), explicitly draws the parallel between alteration and poetry and introduces notions of empathy and generosity in response to existing buildings and their adaption to the needs and sensibilities of new users. Such a ‘poëtic’ approach that reverts to and builds further on the ‘meaning’ of the buildings and less on its physical, material elements echoes the fundamental idea in Machado’s text on palimpsest (1976) but holds great potential for future exploration.

4. Adaptive reuse: vocabulary, definitions, and connotations No single, well defined, accepted, and acknowledged term that indicates the practice of changing existing buildings in functional and architectural mode within the wide variety of scholarly studies. Instead, a variety of different terms are used, such as ‘adaptive reuse’, ‘adaptation’, ‘alteration’, ‘transformation’, ‘conversion’, ‘refurbishment’, ‘revitalisation’, ‘rehabilitation’, ‘renovation’, or ‘remodelling’. Although these terms are often used interchangeably, they cover slightly different meanings. Moreover, each term can be interpreted in different ways. This means that no specialized and agreed terminology has been developed thus far. As a conclusion to this chapter, the following section presents definitions for a selection of terms used to describe the practice of altering existing buildings based on definitions that are given by other authors or official institutions or that are derived from their connotation in scholarly literature.

Renovation, adaptation, alteration, remodelling The terms often used interchangeably are ‘renovation’, ‘adaptation’, ‘alteration’, and ‘remodelling’. Renovation is derived from the Latin words re (again) and novare (make new), which means ‘to renew’. Merriam-Webster gives two definitions for renovation: (1) ‘to make changes and repairs to (an old house, building, room, etc.) so that it is back in good condition’ and (2) ‘to restore to a former better state (as by cleaning, repairing, or rebuilding)’. The second definition may cause confusion over the term ‘restoration’ as it implies that the building is brought back to a ‘former’ state. However, generally speaking, renovation aims at ‘improving’ the building and not ‘restoring it to a former state’. The term ‘renovation’ is not popular in an academic context, probably owing to its broad meaning; the term has also been used in many different contexts referring to different practices. However, renovation does not imply a change in function, although it is at times used

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Historical background

in that context as well. As such, renovation can be defined as the improvement of a building to meet contemporary standards of comfort, safety, aesthetics, and environmental impact. Adaptation is derived from the Latin words ad (to) and aptare (fit). It is often used to describe a certain form of change to a building to make it updated and to ‘fit’ it to current standards and needs. In that sense, building adaptation is often used to indicate the adaptation of the building to universal design standards (e.g. Vavik, 2009) or to environmental design standards (e.g. Crichton, Nicol, & Roaf, 2012). Adaptation does not necessarily involve a change in function, although that might be the case, and can be defined as ‘any work to a building that goes over and beyond maintenance to change its capacity, function, or performance’ (Douglas, 2006, p. 1; emphasis by the author). Alteration comes from the Latin word alterare and means ‘to change in character or composition, typically in a comparatively small but significant way’.3 Scott opposes alteration to what he calls ‘pure architecture’, which means the making of a new building on a completely cleared site (2008). As such, he assigns a broad meaning to the term, ranging from a minor change of the building’s aesthetics to almost completely rebuilding it to house a new function. This generous meaning is also reflected in the definition of English Heritage: ‘work intended to change the function or appearance of a place’ (English Heritage, 2008, p. 73). Whereas ‘adaptation’ implies only the strictly necessary works to obtain a certain goal, which is adapting to environmental and universal design standards and change in function, among others, alteration implies significant changes to the buildings use, aesthetics, and possibly its function. Remodelling, according to the Oxford Dictionary, means ‘to change the structure or form of something, especially a building’. This is the clearest definition thus far. In Machado’s essay ‘Old Buildings as Palimpsest. Towards a Theory of Remodelling’, he expresses his preference for this specific term: There is a superabundance of freshly-coined and almost synonymous terms referring to the type of architectural work traditionally called ‘remodelling’. Terms such as ‘architectural recycling’, ‘environmental retrieval’, ‘adaptive reuse’, and lately, ‘retrofitting’, should be rejected because they are superficial, empty labels that do not represent any conceptual change with respect to previous stages of remodelling activity (reuse and improved technical performance, for instance, have always figured among the re-modeller’s goals). (1976, p. 46) Based on his essay, Machado believes that the process of remodelling always includes a functional change. Brooker and Stone make this explicit as they define the term as follows: Remodelling is the process of wholeheartedly altering a building. The function is the most obvious change, but other alterations may be made to the building itself such as the circulation route, the orientation, the relationships

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Figure 1.2  Various terms to indicate the process of altering an existing building for a new or continued use.

between spaces; additions may be built and other areas may be demolished. This process is sometimes referred to as adaptive reuse, especially in the USA, or as reworking, adaptation, interior architecture or even interior design. (2004, p. 11) Remodelling, as alteration, imply significant changes to a building. However, remodelling particularly emphasizes the physical intervention to the building and, as such, tends to describe a strong architectural gesture. Despite the fact that ‘renovation’, ‘adaptation’, ‘alteration’, and ‘remodelling’ are often used as synonyms referring to the same practice of changing existing buildings physically and functionally, there is a slight difference in connotation between the different terms, which can be presented on a continuum, moving from the continuity of the existing building by only carrying out maintenance works to maximum change of the building in the form of a complete transformation in which the original structure can hardly be recognized.

Refurbishment, rehabilitation Refurbishment is probably the most popular term to describe the practice of changing existing buildings, although its exact meaning is narrower than ‘adaptation’, ‘alteration’, or ‘remodelling’. The word ‘refurbishment’ is compounded from re- (to do again) and furbish (to polish or rub up). Douglas states that: to refurbish something is to give it a facelift or a refit to enhance its appearance and function. In the context of a building, it primarily involves extensive maintenance and repair as well as improvements to bring it up to modern standards. (2006, p. 2) Giebeler et al., give a comparable definition: In contrast to maintenance, refurbishment measures also include intact but, for example, outdated components or surfaces . . . refurbishment does not involve any major changes to the loadbearing structure or interior lay-out. (2009, p. 13) A stated by Douglas (2006) and Giebeler et al. (2009), refurbishment implies a technical intervention rather than an aesthetic one.

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Rehabilitation, akin to refurbishment, includes maintenance work as well as aesthetic and technical improvements of the building, but it may also involve major structural interventions (Douglas, 2006). Douglas (2006) limits rehabilitation to housing schemes. On the basis of the context in which the term has been used by other authors (Highfield, 1987; USA Department of the Interior, 1978; Markus, 1979), this definition seems too narrow. Therefore, the definition given by the USA secretary for the Interior’s Standards for the Treatment of Historic Properties seems more generally accepted and better covers the broad meaning of rehabilitation: [T]he act or process of making possible a compatible use for a property through repair, alterations, and additions while preserving those proportions or features, which convey its historical, cultural, or architectural values. (1978, p. 1; italics by author)

Adaptive reuse Adaptive reuse is based on the words ‘adaptation’ and ‘reuse’. The term refers explicitly to changes that involve a functional and a physical component. The change in function does necessarily mean a radical change, but it may be more subtle. Examples include a commercial building changing from a bakery into a florist store, the adaptation of an old railway station to house other functions such as retail to meet contemporary traveler’s demands, and the renovation of a nineteenth-century museum to change its scenography of the exhibitions, routing, and additional spaces such as a museum shop and a café. Moreover, the degree of adaptation is not defined either and may vary from almost completely changing a building’s structure and appearance to a few minor changes to an interior. Despite Machado’s critique of ‘adaptive reuse’ being a ‘superficial and empty label’ in 1976, the term is often used by authors coming from diverse backgrounds such as interior architecture (Berger, Hermann, & Wong, 2011; Brooker & Stone, 2004, 2009; Edwards, 2011; Wong, 2017), architecture (Hyllegard et al., 2003; Robiglio, 2017), engineering (Douglas, 2006; Rabun & Kelso, 2009; Bullen & Love, 2010), and urban studies (Carswell, 2011; Sowinksa-Heim, 2013). As it explicitly includes a physical and a functional component, adaptive reuse as a term is most suitable to name the discipline of working with existing buildings as an emerging field that intersects the more established disciplines of architecture, interior architecture, conservation, engineering, and planning.

Notes 1

This chapter is derived in part from the following article: Plevoets, B., & Van Cleempoel, K. (2013). Adaptive reuse as an emerging discipline: an historic survey. In G. Cairns (Ed.), Reinventing architecture and interiors: A socio-political view on building adaptation (pp. 13–32). London: Libri Publishers.

2

This might be a result of the Roman tradition. As explained by Viollet-le-Duc in his essay on restoration (2008, pp. 75–80), the ancient Romans did not restore; they rebuilt.

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Indeed, no Latin word corresponds to the English word ‘restoration’. Instead, the terms instaurare, reficere, and renovare mean ‘to re-establish’ or ‘to rebuild anew’. 3

Oxford Dictionary.

Bibliography Alavedra, I. (Ed.). (2007). Converted churches. Antwerp: Tectum Publishers. Avrami, E., Mason, R., & de la Torre, M. (2000). Values and heritage conservation. Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute. Bell, D. (2009). The naming of parts. In N. Stanley-Price & J. King (Eds.), Conserving the authentic: Essays in honour of Jukka Jokilehto (pp. 55–62). Rome: ICCROM. Berger, M., Hermann, H., & Wong, L. (Eds.). (2011). Interventions adaptive reuse vol. 2. Providence: Rhode Island School of Design. Boito, C. (2009 [1893]). Restoration in architecture. First Dialogue. Future Anterior, 6(1), 69–83. Brooker, G. (2009). Infected interiors: Remodelling contaminated buildings. Paper presented at the Living in the Past: Histories, Heritage, and the Interior 6th Modern Interiors Research Centre Conference, 14 & 15 May, Kingston University London. Brooker, G. (2017). Adaptation strategies for interior architecture and design. London and New York: Bloomsbury. Brooker, G., & Stone, S. (2004). Re-readings: Interior architecture and the design principles of remodelling existing buildings. London: RIBA Enterprises. Brooker, G., & Stone, S. (2010). What is interior design? Mies: Rotovision. Bullen, P., & Love, P. (2010). The rhetoric of adaptive reuse or reality of demolition: Views from the field. Cities, 27, 215–224. Cantacuzino, S. (1972). New uses for old buildings. Architectural Review, CLI(903), 262–324. Cantacuzino, S. (1975). New uses for old buildings. London: Architectural Press. Carroon, J. (2010). Sustainable preservation: Greening existing buildings. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. Carswell, A. T. (2011). Adaptive reuse. In N. Cohen & P. Robbins (Eds.), Green cities. An A-to-Z guide (pp. 4–7). Los Angeles, London, New Delhi, Singapore, and Washington, DC: Sage. Choay, F. (1992). L’allégorie du patrimoine (revised ed.). Paris: Seuil. CIAM. (1983 [1933]). Statements of the Athens congress, 1933. In A. Van der Woud (Ed.), Het nieuwe bouwen international: Housing town planning (pp. 163–167). Delft: Delfts University Press & Rijksmuseum Kröller-Müller. Cramer, J., & Breitling, S. (2007). Architecture in existing fabric. Berlin: Birkhäuser. Crichton, D., Nicol, F., & Roaf, S. (2012). Adapting buildings and cities for climate change (2nd ed.). Oxford: Elsevier. Cunnington, P. (1988). Change of use: The conversion of old buildings. London: Alpha Books. Douglas, J. (2006). Building adaptation (2nd ed.). Oxford: Elsevier. Edwards, C. (2011). Interior design, a critical introduction. New York: Berg.

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English Heritage. (2003). New work in historic places of worship. London: English Heritage. English Heritage. (2008). Sustaining the historic environment: New perspectives on the future. In G. Fairclough, R. Harrison, J. Jameson, & J. Schofield (Eds.), The heritage reader (pp. 313–321). London and New York: Routledge. Fisher, A. (1992). New life in old buildings. Stuttgart and Zurich: Verlag. Fredheim, L. H., & Khalaf, M. (2016). The significance of values: Heritage value typologies re-examined. International Journal of Heritage Studies, 22(6), 466–481. Gelfand, L., & Duncan, C. (2012). Sustainable renovation: Strategies for commercial building systems and envelope. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. Giebeler, G., Fisch, R., Krause, H., Musso, F., Petzinka, K., & Rudolphi, A. (2009). Refurbishment manual: Maintenance, conversions, extensions. Basel, Boston, and Berlin: Birkenhauser. Greenan, R. (2011, July 13–15). Adaptive reuse of chimney flues in historic buildings. Paper presented at the PLEA 2011: 27th Conference on Passive and Low Energy Architecture: Architecture & Sustainable Development, Louvain-laNeuve. Gorse, C., & Highfield, D. (2009). Refurbishment and upgrading of buildings. London and New York: Spon Press, Taylor & Francis. Havelaar, K., & Wiesman, A. (2013). Herbestemming van postkantoren: Een tweede leven voor de burchten van de post. Rotterdam: nai010 Uitgevers. Henehan, D., Woodson, D., & Culbert, S. (2004). Building change-of-use: Renovation, adapting, and altering commercial, institutional, and industrial properties. New York: McGraw-Hill Companies. Highfield, D. (1987). The rehabilitation and re-use of old buildings. London and New York: Spon Press, Taylor & Francis. Highfield, D. (1991). The construction of new buildings behind historic façades. London and New York: Spon Press, Taylor & Francis. Highfield, D. (2000). Refurbishment and upgrading of existing buildings. London and New York: Spon Press, Taylor & Francis. Hollis, E. (2009). The secret lives of buildings. London: Portobello Books. Iamandi, C. (1997). The charters of Athens of 1931 and 1933: Coincidence, controversy and convergence. Conservation and Management of Archaeological Sites, 2, 17–28. Jäger, F. P. (Ed.). (2010). Old & new design manual for revitalizing existing buildings. Basel: Birkhäuser. Jokilehto, J. (1999). A history of architectural conservation (4th ed.). Oxford: Elsevier. Klingenberg, E. (2012). Conservation of cultural memories in interiors – A challenge for new use. Paper presented at the IE International Conference: Reinventing Architecture and Interiors: The Past, the Present and the Future, Ravensbourne, March 28–29. Latham, D. (2000). Creative re-use of buildings (Vol. 2). Shaftesbury: Donhead. Lens, K. (2014, June 19, 20, & 21). Conservation of monasteries by adaptive reuse: Diversified program as a source of inspiration in past and future?

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Paper presented at the REHAB 2014 [Archivo de ordenador]: Proceedings of the International Conference on Preservation, Maintenance and Rehabilitation of Historical Buildings and Structures (Tomar (Portugal) 2014). Littlefield, D., & Lewis, S. (2007). Architectural voices: Listening to Old buildings. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. Machado, R. (1976). Old buildings as palimpsest: Towards a theory of remodelling. Progressive Architecture, 11, 46–49. Markus, T. (1979). Building conversion and rehabilitation. London: Butterworth. Mason, R. (2002). Assessing values in conservation planning: Methodological issues and choices. In M. de la Torre (Ed.), Assessing the values of cultural heritage (pp. 5–30). Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute. Morisset, L., Noppen, L., & Coomans, T. (Eds.). (2005). Quel avenir pour quelles églises? What future for which churches? Québec: Presses de l’université du Québec. Morris, W. (1977). Manifesto of the society for the protection of ancient buildings. In N. Price, M. Talley, & A. Vaccaro (Eds.), Historical and philosophical issues in the conservation of cultural heritage (pp. 319–321). Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute. Muñoz Viñas, S. (2005). Contemporary theory of conservation. Amsterdam: Elsevier. National Trust for Historic Preservation. (Ed.). (1980). Old & new architecture: Design relationships. Washington, DC: Preservation Press. Nichols, J. L., & Adams, E. (2013). The Flex-nest: The accessory dwelling unit as adaptable housing for the life span. Interiors: Design, Architecture, Culture, 4(4), 31–52. Pérez de Arce, R. (1978). Urban transformations & the architecture of additions. Architectural Design, 4, 237–266. Plevoets, B., & Van Cleempoel, K. (2011). Assessing authenticity of the 19th century shopping passages. Journal of Cultural Heritage Management and Sustainable Development, 1(2), 135–156. Plevoets, B., & Van Cleempoel, K. (2016). Heritage, adaptive reuse and regeneration in retail design. In A. Petermans & A. Kent (Eds.), Retail-design: Theoretical perspectives (pp. 114–134). Oxon and New York: Routledge. Powell, K. (1999). Architecture reborn: Converting old buildings for new uses. New York: Rizzoli International Publications. Rabun, J., & Kelso, R. (2009). Building evaluation for adaptive reuse and preservation. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. Remøy, H., & van der Voordt, T. (2007). A new life: Conversion of vacant office buildings into housing. Facilities, 35(3/4), 88–103. Remøy, H., & van der Voordt, T. (2014). Adaptive reuse of office buildings into housing: Opportunities and risks. Building Research & Information, 42(3), 381–390. Riegl, A. (1982 [1903], Fall). The modern cult of monuments: Its character and its origin. Oppositions, 25, 21–51. Robert, P. (1989). Adaptations: New uses for old buildings. Paris: Editions du Moniteur.

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Robiglio, M. (2017). RE-USA: 20 American stories of adaptive reuse, a toolkit for post-industrial cities. Berlin: Jovis Verlag GmbH. Rossi, A. (1966). The architecture of the city. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Ruskin, J. (1849). The seven lamps of architecture. London: Smith, Elder. Scott, F. (2008). On altering architecture. London: Routledge. Sowinska-Heim, J. (2013). Conversions and redefinitions: Architecture and identity of a place. Art Inquiry, Crossing Borders: Imagining Europe, Representing Periphery, 191–204. Stone, S., & Brooker, G. (2018). Rereadings 2: Interior architecture and the design principles of remodelling existing buildings. London: RIBA Publishing. Stratton, M. (Ed.). (2000). Industrial buildings conservation and regeneration. London: Taylor & Francis. Tomaszewski, A. (Ed.). (2007). Values and criteria in heritage conservation. Proceedings of the International Conference of ICOMOS, ICCROM, Fondazione Romualdo Del Bianco. Florence: Edizione Polistampa. USA Department of the interior. (1978). Rehabilitation: Danville 1978: A strategy for building reuse and neighborhood conservation. Washington, DC: Department of the Interior, Heritage Conservation and Recreation Service. Vaccaro, A. (1996). Restoration and anti-restoration. In N. Price, M. Talley, & A. Vaccaro (Eds.), Historical and philosophical issues in the conservation of cultural heritage (pp. 308–313). Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute. Van de Weijer, M., & Van Cleempoel, K. (2015). New narratives for existing houses in Flanders, Belgium: Exploring the discourse on retrofitting dwellings. Architectural Research Quarterly, 19(1), 18–29. Van der Woud, A. (1983). Het nieuwe bouwen international: Housing town planning. Delft: Delfts University Press & Rijksmuseum Kröller-Müller. Vavik, T. (2009). Inclusive buildings, products, & services: Challenges in universal design. Trondheim: Tapir Academic Press. Viollet-le-Duc, E. E. (1967 [1854]). Dictionnaire raisonné de l’architecture Française du XIe au XVIe siècle (K. Whitehead, Trans. Vol. 8). Paris: F. De Nobele. Viollet-le-Duc, E. E. (1990 [1854]). The foundations of architecture: Selections from the dictionnaire raisonné (K. Whitehead, Trans.). New York: George Braziller. Wilkinson, S. J., & Remoy, H. T. (2011). Sustainability and within use office building adaptations: A comparison of Dutch and Australian practices. Paper presented at the PRRES 2011: Proceedings of the 17th Pacific Rim Real Estate Society Annual Conference. Wong, L. (2017). Adaptive reuse extending the lives of buildings. Basel: Birkhäuser.

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2

Intervention strategies

In the process of adaptive reuse, the existing building stock is considered as a rich container of successive layers of materials, history, and narratives. Hence, adapting or reusing an existing building is always accompanied with a process of revaluation of its values and meanings. Various architectural strategies may be applied to deal with the material and immaterial aspects of the existing and to make a new and contemporary contribution to it. In this chapter, we first elaborate on the concept of the palimpsest as a way to look at existing buildings and landscapes. Next, we present three strategies that have not yet been discussed in adaptive reuse theory: aemulatio, façadism, and ruination.

1. Monument versus palimpsest There are basically two ways to approach the existing building stock: as monuments or as palimpsests. Vecco (2010) has amplified the definition of the historic monument and has shown how the notion and definition have moved from pointing to a limited number of eminent buildings, to buildings from all typologies, periods, and backgrounds, and even to buildings and structures with primarily intangible values. Moreover, the notion of the historic monument is always a contemporary ‘construction’, determined by what a specific society chooses to proclaim as a monument (Riegl, 1982 [1903]; Choay, 1992; Nelson & Olin, 2003; Smith, 2006; Assmann, 2011). Approaching the historic built fabric as monuments implies their conservation and restoration in the ‘full richness of their authenticity’ (ICOMOS, 1964). About introducing a new use, the Venice Charter states: The conservation of monuments is always facilitated by making use of them for some socially useful purpose. Such use is therefore desirable but it must not change the lay-out or decoration of the building. It is within these limits only that modifications demanded by a change of function should be envisaged and may be permitted. (1964, article 5) Within this notion, reversibility – an intervention that can be fully reversed to bring back a monument to its earlier condition – has been introduced as a valuable or even necessary principle in adapting historic buildings to new needs and

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requirements (Cramer & Breitling, 2007; Williamson, 2010; ICOMOS Australia, 2013; Worthing & Bond, 2016). The bookshop Selexyz Dominicanen in the former Dominican church in Maastricht is a clear example of this approach. The twostory-high ‘bookcase’ that facilitates the new use is freestanding and can be removed without leaving any marks to the historic fabric of the church. Opposite to the conservational approach, the built environment can also be approached as a palimpsest. A palimpsest is a manuscript or other writing material from which a text has been scraped or washed off in order to use it again. After a period of time, the original text reappears, and different layers of text become visible. The concept of the palimpsest has been used as a metaphor to speak about the accumulation of material and immaterial traces of the past in relation to historic urban landscapes (Crang, 1996; Larkham, 1996; Hall, 2006; Khirfan, 2010; Semes, 2012Bartolini, 2014) but has also been applied on individual buildings and sites in the context of adaptive reuse (Machado, 1976; Robert, 1989; Assmann, 2011; Göbel, 2014). Crang (1996) states that, as a material witness of the past, the palimpsest is a product of a wide range of social and symbolic processes that can be reconstructed through the traces they leave and the representations they inform. Where the notion of the monument is constructed by political or intellectual authorities, the palimpsest is uncensored and therefore authentic. Bartolini (2014) criticizes the dominance of the metaphor of the palimpsest in architectural and urban theory, the improper use of the term, and its blurred meaning as a result of that. She argues that the main characteristic of the palimpsest is the chronological sequence of layers and that the metaphor should therefore be used only in the context of buildings and sites that represent a chronological superimposition of layers of history. As an alternative to the concept of the palimpsest, she introduces the metaphor of the breccia – ‘a rock that consists of coarse deposits of sedimentary fragments from different origins that are consolidated or cemented together as a result of intense heating and pressure, for example, along a fault wall or deposits from a volcano’ (Bartolini, 2014, p. 523). The concept of brecciation – the formation of breccia – could then refer to buildings and sites that comprise pieces of different origin, that do not represent a chronological sequence, but that nevertheless form an entity. This resonates with Semes’ (2012) description of Rome, a city shaped by the interweaving of various layers of history, which even have become a coherent composition of which, for the inattentive wanderer, the different layers may become undistinguishable from each other. Approaching the host space as a palimpsest or breccia allows different narratives to coexist in the process of adaptive reuse. This means that the heyday of a monument may also lay in the future. This approach is not necessarily averse to the preservation of the heritage values but applies another way of dealing with these values – dealing with heritage values in a less imperative and more inclusive manner.

2. A classification into strategies When approaching the built environment as a palimpsest, there are several ways to reveal or hide the concessive layers of the past and its ‘overwriting’ with a

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contemporary layer. Since in the 1970s adaptive reuse became an important aspect of architecture and conservation, various authors have formulated architectural strategies for intervening in a historical building. By doing so, they approach the questions and issues related to adaptive reuse from what Machado calls the ‘form/form relationship’, as opposed to the ‘form/function relationship’ explored by other scholars (see Chapter 1). These strategies can basically be dived into two systems. On the one hand are strategies that describe a physical intervention in the host space, including building within, building over, building around, building alongside, recycling materials or vestiges, adapting to a new function (Robert, 1989); intervention, insertion, installation (Brooker & Stone, 2004; Stone & Brooker, 2018); additions, transformations, conversions (Jäger, 2010); modernization, adaptation, replacement, corrective maintenance (Cramer & Breitling, 2007); reprogramming, intervention, superuse, artifice, installation, on/off site, insertion (Brooker, 2017). On the other hand are strategies that describe the aesthetic relationship between the old and the new: building in the style of (Robert, 1989); contrast and analogy (de Sola-Mozales Rubio, 1985; Crimson, 1995); correspondence, unification, junction, and delineation (Cramer & Breitling, 2007); narrative (Brooker, 2017). Most authors, however, do not differentiate between those two classification systems and combine both approaches in their presentation of strategies (an exception is Cramer & Breitling, 2007). These classifications into different types or strategies for interventions often overlap, and additionally they are formulated from different angles. As such, their value as a ‘scientific’ or ‘objective’ classification system remains limited. Nevertheless, describing and illustrating the various strategies applied in adaptive reuse practice is valuable in order to outline the scope of the discipline and show its variety. These strategies and illustrative cases may also serve as a source of inspiration for designers and support the discipline to move further. Since the last decade, new strategies appear that do not fall within the existing categories but that represent an original view on the existing building and deal with the palimpsest in a novel way. In this chapter, three new strategies are presented each of which demonstrates a rather extreme approach towards the host space: aemulatio, façadism, and ruination. Where the first searches for extreme amalgamation of the old and the new, the second is characterized by an extreme contrast, and the third builds on the ephemeral characteristics of a crumbling structure.

3.  Aemulatio: copy and improvement as a strategy for adaptive reuse1 The first strategy, aemulatio, departs from questioning the modern notion of adaptive reuse, which draws on the conviction that a clear division between the old and the new is essential in order to respect the historic and architectural significance of the existing building. International doctrine texts such as the Venice Charter and Burra Charter support this modern concept: The process of restoration is a highly specialized operation. Its aim is to preserve and reveal the aesthetic and historic value of the monument and is

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based on respect for original material and authentic documents. It must stop at the point where conjecture begins, and in this case moreover any extra work which is indispensable must be distinct from the architectural composition and must bear a contemporary stamp. The restoration in any case must be preceded and followed by an archaeological and historical study of the monument. (ICOMOS, 1964, article 9) New work [to places with cultural significance] should be readily identifiable as such, but must respect and have minimal impact on the cultural significance of the place. (ICOMOS Australia, 2013, Burra Charter, article 22.2) Many iconic adaptive reuse projects, such as the Tate Modern by Herzog & de Meuron, the Bundeswehr Military History Museum by Daniel Liebeskind, or more recently the Fondaco Dei Tedeschi by OMA (case 18) manifest this contrast between the old and the new. The last decade, however, internationally renewed examples of adaptive reuse deviate from this principle and seek to establish a new, more poetic relationship with the host space; a relationship that strives for similarity rather than contrast by incorporating the existing, hidden, or lost qualities of the building and re-establishing them in a novel way. Such projects seek to build further in the ‘interiority’ of the host space – its physical interior characteristics as well as the building’s ‘inner spirit’ or genius loci (see Chapter 4). Examples are Park Avenue Armory by Herzog & de Meuron, who until recently were mainly known for their iconic interventions to historic buildings but who in this project started from the original interior features and adapted them in a very subtle way as a means to recall the brilliant atmosphere of each of the historic rooms; David Chipperfield Architects, in the renovation of the heavily destroyed Neues Museum in Berlin, aimed to bring back the unique relationship between the interiors of the museum and its collection; Caruso St John explicitly work towards a similarity of the new with the already given throughout their work, among which are the Liverpool Philharmonic, New Tate Britain, and the Sir John Soane’s Museum shop.

The copy and the model: translatio, imitatio, aemulatio The preceding projects have one thing in common: they address two taboos described by Scott in On Altering Architecture: improvement and copying (2008). The interior approach is not strictly restorative – although it sometimes includes restoration of certain elements – neither is it an intervention in the modern sense of the word, showing a clear contrast between old and new. Instead, it embraces copying as a valuable method for intervention. Scott explains that in other art forms such as music and painting, copying has long been considered a serious activity; like the composer or the painter, the designer may find a source of sustained inspiration through the act of ‘copying’. Throughout history and during the Renaissance period in particular, imitation or copying of both nature and the Old Masters was highly valued in the fields of

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literature and art, and the particular relationship between the model and the copy has been the subject of much philosophical and artistic debate (Lowenthal, 1985). Three terms define the nature of the relationship the copy has to the model: translatio, imitatio, aemulatio. According to Pigman, this tripartite classification implies a certain progression, ordered in a sequence of increasing freedom from the model. The first step, translatio – some authors have used the term sequi (Pigman III, 1980) – signifies clinging to a model’s footsteps and aims at similarity; the second step, imitatio, aims at equality rather than similarity; and the final step, aemulatio, aims to improve upon the model itself. The limits of these different classes are fluid and have been interpreted differently by many writers, artists, and philosophers over the course of history. A concrete example of the application of these concepts may clarify their meaning. In Rubens’s Theory and Practice of the Imitation of Art, Jeffrey M. Muller (1982) describes how the work of the Flemish painter Pieter Paul Rubens (1577– 1640) was informed by copying Old Masters such as Titian and Raphael in order to come close to his ultimate goal: the perfect imitation of nature itself. Rubens’s most faithful copies, for example the Rape of Europa After Titian, may be considered an example of translatio, as they represent a close approximation of the original for the purpose of learning and understanding. Rubens also made a series of copies that were freer in their interpretation and involved adaptation; these works may be classified as imitatio. An example is his version of Raphael’s Baldassare Castiglione, where Rubens changed the frame of the painting, showing the figure’s hands completely, folded below his chest, while Raphael painted only a small part of the hands. Over the course of his career, Rubens produced several works in which he changed his model in critical ways, creating an aemulatio. An example is Rubens’s interpretation of Caravaggio’s Entombment of Christ, which counters two critiques of the original work: (1) that it was too simplistic an imitation of nature, leaving

Figure 2.1  Palazzo Farnese di Roma as completed by Michelangelo in 1534. Engraving by Giuseppe Vasi, eighteenth century.

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behind the Idea of Beauty, and (2) that it was poor in invention and design. Rubens modulated light and colour, tamed the figures’ emotional expressions, slightly changed the poses of the main figures in the scene, and added and removed figures from the background. Yet he only made very minor changes to the pose and physical characteristics of Christ in order to preserve the heart of Caravaggio’s intention – to create an almost physical presence of the dead body of Christ. A comparable example can be found in Renaissance architecture: the adaptation of the Palazzo Farnese by Michelangelo after the death of Sangallo the Younger, who was the initial architect of this palace. When Sangallo died, only two floors had been constructed while a third, lower floor was unfinished. Michelangelo changed the design of this third floor by making it higher and adding a massive and decorated cornice over the whole width of the façade. Moreover, he altered the central curved window at the piano nobile into a rectangular one and added three coats of arms above the windows (Zöllner & Thoenes, 2010). Although this intervention is at first side rather modest, it dramatically changes the proportions and central focus of the façade, or as noted by Ackerman, ‘‘[H]e created Sangallo’s masterpiece’’ (cited in Semes, 2012, p. 97).

Translatio, imitatio, and aemulatio as strategies for intervention The concepts of translatio, imitatio, and aemulatio are also particularly relevant in understanding the act of copying in relation to adapting and reusing historic buildings. The first step, translation/sequi, shows parallels to the act of restoration. According to the Burra Charter, restoration means ‘returning a place to a known earlier state by removing accretions or by reassembling existing elements without the introduction of new material’ (article 1.7). When this definition is interpreted in a material-oriented manner, restoration can result in an overly literal imitation of the original features of the building while ignoring the overall social, architectural, and functional qualities, as well as its genius loci – sequi or a blind following of the model. In contrast, translatio, means translation and does involve a critical and creative stance towards the model. Scott considers all interventions to be acts of translating a building from a past era into the present. He compares the process of altering an existing building with the translation of poetry: Translation in poetry is akin to the work of bringing a building from a past existence into the present. This carrying over of meaning in poetry is recognized as a work requiring inspiration equivalent to that of the original author and so similarly, one might come to view restoration as an art equivalent to any other related to building. Restoration that is separate from the literal. (2008, p. 80) The second step, imitatio, can be applied to projects that present a more liberal adaptation of the host space and that apply a more ‘selective restoration’. The historical exhibitions rooms of the Amsterdam Rijksmuseum (case 17) are an example. In the gallery of honour and the Night Watch hall, the original neo-gothic

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polychromy was very intense and strongly iconographical, and it was thought that a complete reconstruction could hinder a present-day experience of the art exhibition. Therefore, the reconstruction of the polychromy in these rooms was limited to the vaulted ceiling, columns, and partitioning wall between the two rooms while the walls against which works art were exposed were painted in a monochrome, deep blue colour. Another example is Park Avenue Armory in New York (case 13) where the original interior of the historic rooms were hidden underneath more recent layers of paint, carpets, and woodwork. The rooms were brought back to their original appearance as much as possible through acts of restoration of certain elements but also through subtle reinterpretation of other elements such as lighting fixtures and wallpaper. The third step, aemulatio, goes beyond a mere imitation of the original and attempts to surpass the original aesthetically as well as functionally. Various projects by Caruso St John Architects are a clear example of aemulatio, varying in scale of intervention from the monumental building to the interior, to furniture. For the Tate Britain’s building at the Millbank site, they improved and refurbished existing galleries and public amenities around the rotunda at the Millbank entrance. Their interventions are subtle, some almost invisible, drawing further on the decorum, materiality, and proportions of the original. Most remarkable is the introduction of a new spiral staircase connecting the ground floor with the basement. The parapet at the ground floor is constructed out of a scalloped-shaped grid that flows over into the pattern of the black–and-white terrazzo flooring. Caruso St John placed this staircase in the centre of the rotunda, intensifying its spatial experience. For the furniture in the members’ area on the balcony level of the rotunda, they copied and reinterpreted existing arts and crafts furniture by Gordon Russell (Marquez Cécelia & Levene, 2013). A similar approach has been applied when furnishing three historic rooms in the Sir John Soane’s Museum (case 14). Here, Caruso St John designed new furniture that shows strong resemblance to Soane’s furniture design. They used material that they also found in Soane’s designs such as varnished mahogany wood and mirrors to reflect light, combining it with curved glass and Corian to meet technical and functional requirements while fitting within the historical and sophisticated materiality of the restored historical rooms. Likewise, Sir John Soane’s house can in itself also be seen as an extraordinary example of an aemulatio, as its interior is a precise arrangement of furniture and objects from different periods and places. Selected with the eye of a connoisseur, all elements are brought together in a space in a unique composition. For the renovation of the Neues Museum in Berlin (case 10), a large intervention was necessary to make the building usable again after it was heavily damaged during World War II and neglected for several decades afterwards. Nevertheless, the project by David Chipperfield Architects and Julian Harrap shows great respect for the very elegant, original concept of the museum as well as its traumatic history. The architects decided to reuse nearly all of the remaining fabric, preserving its patina and fragmented characteristics that it gained through its ruinous state, and to add new elements to recomplete the building in a way that its original structure and layout are readable again. The materials used for the new

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interventions have a patina that comes close to the patina of the original building fragments, and hence the distinction between old and new becomes less obvious. This truly resonates with the renaissance idea of imitation, as explained by Sturm: ‘imitation lies hidden. . . . It conceals rather than reveals itself and does not wish to be recognized except by the learned man’ (Sturm cited in Lowenthal, 1985, p. 81), or by Lowenthal: Innovative imitation consciously married continuity with change: overcoming bondage to his precursors, the practitioner not only resuscitated but re-created. The confluence of ancient source with modern voice demanded awareness of the distinctive timbre of both the borrowed and the newly made. This mode of imitation, reshaping admired exemplars in accordance with modern perceptions and needs, materials and environments, moved beyond preservation to revival and renovation. (p. 82)

4. Façadism: working with the dichotomy of interior and exterior The term ‘façadism’ is traditionally used in the context of urban conservation to describe the practice of preserving historic façades and the construction of new buildings behind it or to the creation of replicas or facsimiles (representing a certain historical style) of historical façades and the construction of new buildings behind. Occasionally, façadism is also used in the context of new buildings to point to the practice where the main elevation is designed as a component in a larger streetscape and not necessarily as an expression of the building behind; this can be done to make new buildings fit within its context, for example to make them more acceptable for a larger public (Richards, 1994). Although façadism has been used extensively in historical cities all over the world, it has also been heavily criticized. From a conservational perspective, façadism may cause a loss of the building’s integrity: a loss of the values captured within the fabric behind the façade and a façade that is left out of context. From an architectural and urban perspective, retaining historical façades limits the opportunities for integrating contemporary architecture and may on a longer-term lead to a process of ‘Disneyfication’ of the historic core. We might, however, move away from the traditional interpretation of façadism referring to new, functional interiors behind historic façades and instead use the term in a broader sense: to describe buildings that do not fall into the modernist dogma of the façade being an immediate expression of the interior of a building but that built further on the dichotomy of the interior and exterior, creating a palimpsest in which different layers serve different functions. Within this context, façadism might be raised up from being a poor compromise between conservation and development towards a valuable strategy for adaptive reuse. Recent projects that work with the separation of façade and interior in a rich and intelligent way are, for example, Caixa Forum Madrid by Herzog & de Meuron, Museum of Childhood by Caruso St John and’S Hertogenmolens Aarschot by noAarchitecten.

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Façades, faces, and masks The façade as a vertical division of space can be considered humans’ first invention to create an enclosure (Semper, cited in Schumacher, 2002). However, the invention of the façade as a theatrical or symbolic architectural element of performance dates back to the Renaissance period. As the built environment is experienced primarily and above all through façades, façades are designed to address the passers-by and to take a certain position within its urban context. The design of the façade is about symmetry and balance, about the elevation of the centre, and about maintaining the balance between blank wall and transparency (Schumacher, 2002; Kohane & Hill, 2006; Verschaffel, 2012). The word façade comes from the Italian facciata or faccia, which means ‘face’. Numerous architects and theorists have indeed compared the composition of the façade with that of the human face. Leon Battista Alberti’s design of the church of Sant’ Andrea in Mantua (1458– 1470) is a remarkable example of a Renaissance façade. The façade does not exactly reflect the interior structure of church but is adjusted to its urban context, inserted in between an adjacent building and an existing tower. The oversized entrance – like a triumphal arch – has a symbolic value but also made the building instantly recognizable within the dense and cluttered urban fabric. A later and more extreme example of the façade as an independent building element, which becomes a decorum for the theatre of the city, can be found in Haussmann’s renovation of Paris in the nineteenth century. Haussmann designed buildings not as independent structures but as part of a homogeneous urban landscape. While interiors were left to the owners, façades were strictly regulated. Benjamin (1969 [1935]) states that Haussmann’s Paris transforms the city into a phantasmagoria of space, with its most important purpose appealing to the flâneur. Rather than a ‘face’ for the building, the façades in this context serve as a ‘mask’ that separates the public from the private, increased the tension between the two, and valorises the difference (Verschaffel, 2012, p. 83). However, the façade as an architectural element has lost its meaning in the twentieth century. Due to technical developments, such as the invention of the steel frame and reinforced concrete, large spans could be created, and the wall could eventually become all window. The concept of ‘flowing space’ led architects to design cornerless architecture that implied an ultimate continuity of space, a continuity between inside and outside. An exemplary example in that respect is Mies van der Rohe’s Barcelona Pavilion, or Le Corbusier’s generic model for Maison Dom-ino, in which architecture has become a mere framework and hence the façade has lost both function and meaning (Venturi, 1966; Aureli, 2013). The modernist dogma − ‘the outside is the result of the inside’ −implied that a building’s social programme, as well as its interior spaces and volumes, ought to be read quite literally on the outside. All adaptation of the façade for mere aesthetical purposes was considered inauthentic and taboo (Schumacher, 2002). With the rise of post-modernism from the 1960s and 1970s onwards, interest in the façade as an architectural element revived. As stated by Venturi: Architecture occurs at the meeting of interior and exterior forces of use and space. These interior and environmental forces are both general and

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particular, generic and circumstantial. Architecture as the wall between the inside and the outside becomes the spatial record of this resolution and its drama. And by recognizing the difference between the inside and the outside, architecture opens the door once again to an urbanistic point of view. (1966, p. 86) Jencks states that, in contrast to the minimalist buildings and interiors fashionable in the 1990s and 2000s, in the last decade, postmodernism has been revived once again, creating buildings and places that communicate to a broad audience, using irony to send a double message to a double audience, and iconic metaphors to stimulate the public; its architecture draws on complexity and contradiction, ornament, and multiple articulation, collage and juxtaposition, layering and ambiguity, multivalence and double coding; it seeks to stimulate the users, as well as to stimulate the passer-by (Jencks, 2011). The characteristics of this ‘radical post-modernism’ described by Jencks, and especially those related to the interior−exterior relationship, are recognizable not only in new buildings by offices as Caruso St John or Herzog & de Meuron but also in their adaptive reuse projects.

Façadism as a strategy for adaptive reuse Also in contemporary examples of adaptive reuse, façadism has been used as a strategy to improve a building’s functionality, aesthetics, and urban performance. For the transformation of a former power station in Madrid into the cultural centre Caixa Forum, Herzog & de Meuron preserved just the outer shell of the building. As the streets surrounding the building were very narrow, they removed the plinth of the façade and seemingly ‘uplifted’ the whole building from the ground to create a square beneath the building, which serves as a meeting space and entrance. Although the façade was kept, it was adapted to the new interior layout: former windows have been filled in with brick, new openings have been created wherever daylight or a view to the exterior was needed. An additional volume is added on top of the existing industrial building. When entering the building, the dichotomy between the outside and inside is emphasized by a strong contrast in the shape and materiality of the entrance hall and staircase. Whereas Caixa Forum is an example of a new interior behind an old façade, other examples illustrate the opposite approach of creating a new façade for an existing building. Given the interest and importance of the façade in Renaissance architecture, this form of façadism also emerged during this period. Leon Battista Alberti designed a Renaissance façade for the Sante Maria Novella in Florence (1458–1480), hiding the Romanesque church behind it. Andrea Palladio wrapped the Medieval Palazzo della Ragione in Vicenza in a new Renaissance shell (1546– 1549) by adding a colonnade, loggia, and portico. Although the building – renamed Basilica Palladiana – is strongly marked by a Renaissance style, the Gothic architecture of the original structure is not altered and remains visible at the interior. In both examples, the building reached its heyday only after the completion of the new façade.

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Figure 2.2  Basilica Sant’ Andrea, designed by Leon Battista Alberti in 1472; picture anno 1909.

A contemporary example that draws on a similar approach is the Museum of Childhood by Caruso St John architects. The host space of the museum has a remarkable history: its iron structure was initially built in west London to house the display of the Great Exhibition of 1851, on the site where today the main Victoria & Albert Museum is located; this structure was dismantled and rebuilt with new façades in east London as a museum. However, the full plans of the architect were not completed at the time due to a lack of funds, which left the museum without a proper entrance hall. Besides an interior renovation, Caruso St John also designed a new front for the building in the form of a portico, which

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Figure 2.3  Caixa Forum Madrid, Herzog & de Meuron.

Figure 2.4  Santa Maria Novella Florence, façade renovation by Leon Battista Alberti, 1470.

Part I

Figure 2.5  Loggia superiore della Basilica Palladiana.

includes some new amenities but at the same time serves as a billboard for the museum. As explained by Aureli: Caruso St John’s solution . . . refers us back to Alberti in that the public surface of a building is neither the projection of the interior nor its mask, but its complement. The Museum of Childhood facade can be understood as both an entrance and something completely independent. Of course, the portico is necessary to house the museum’s amenity spaces, but it also accentuates the institution’s role in the city. Recalling the façade of Santa Maria Novella, one wonders whether this façade was designed for the museum, or whether the city is its main focus. (Aureli, 2013, p. 35)

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The transformation of the ’S Hertogenmolens in Aarschot (BE) by noAarchitecten into a hotel is another example in which the building’s role in its urban context has been the most important aspect in the design of the façade. The mill and related buildings have evolved in the course of history, with its oldest parts dating back to the sixteenth century. Before renovation, the building had been in a very poor state of conservation. The west façade was cladded with wooden boards, an ‘emergency-repair’ that lasted for 20 years and that, in the meantime, had become a familiar urban view. Although documentation about the original outlook of the west façade was available, the architects did not opt to reconstruct it but chose to build further on the recent history of the site and its pictorial role in the urban context by cladding the west façade again with sheets of Corten steel. For Fouquet’s Barrière Hotel, the façade has also been used as a strategy to fit a building in its context. To accommodate the new hotel, seven buildings were combined. The façades facing the Champs d’Elysées were original Haussmann façades and were protected; the other façades were neoHaussmann and modern glass screens. Haussmann’s architecture is, in its original form, an extreme example of façade architecture. The designers, Maison Eduard François, worked with this notion. They made a scan of the protected Haussmann façades and constructed the new façades out of concrete blocks, as an abstracted copy of the original Haussmann façade. Similar to Herzog & de Meuron’s approach to the Caixa Forum façade, new window openings have been created where needed in correspondence with the interior layout of the building.

Figure 2.6  Museum of Childhood, Caruso St John Architects.

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Figure 2.7  ’S Hertogenmolens Aarschot, noAarchitecten.

5. Reusing the ruin: building upon the ephemeral characteristics of the fragmentary fabric The ruin as a cultural product of memory The third strategy discussed in this chapter seeks to work with the ‘beauty of decay’ and use the ephemeral characteristics of a structure in ruins as a quality in its adaptation and reuse. Throughout history and especially from the Renaissance period onwards, people have been intrigued by ruins – although the underlying motives and reasons for this interest have changed over time. During the Renaissance period, ruins were mainly appreciated for their archaeological and historical values, as a documentary source on the art and architecture from antiquity. Later, starting in the seventeenth century, responses to ruins became more emotional, and ruins became a topic in their own right in visual arts and poetry. The climax of interest in the ephemeral characteristics of the ruin is reached in the eighteenth century when ruins are considered not merely as individual objects but as elements of a landscape. Both authentic and artificial ruins become essential features of the English landscape garden (Zucker, 1961). Being the result of both human and natural processes, ruins are seen as emblematic of the cycle of life and death. The anti-restoration movement in the nineteenth century celebrated the beauty of decay over the meticulously restored ones. As stated by Ruskin: There was yet in the old some life, some mysterious suggestion of what has been, and of what it had lost; some sweetness in the gentle lines which rain and sun had wrought. There can be none in the brutal hardness of the new carving. Look at the animals as an instance of living work, and suppose

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the markings of the scales and hair once worn away, or the wrinkles of the brows, and who shall ever restore them? (Ruskin, 1849, p. 180) Riegl (1982 [1903]) described this value of imperfection as the ‘age value’, which he states is the most obvious of all values as it the immediate emotional effect caused by the visible signs of aging (decay, patina, crumbling, overgrown by nature, etc.) depends on neither scholarly knowledge nor historical education but is evoked by mere sensory perception. Simmel (1958 [1911]) sees the ruin as the manifestation of a shift in values, losing some of its qualities as an object of art but gaining new qualities and characteristics instead. The ruin becomes an object of reflection; a spiritual place confronting man with the struggle between his intellect or spirit and nature, both as an external force and as a vigour within. While restoration is always a result of a process of selection about which history, narratives, and physical elements to preserve and which to erase, the ruin, on the other hand, may be interpreted by the spectator in a very personal, intuitive manner (Garrett, 2015). As such, the beauty of ruins has inspired artists of all kinds, such as novelists, poets, and photographers (see e.g. Desrochers, 2000; Marot, 2003 on the work of Robert Smithson). In the field of architecture, the study of ruins has been a sustained source of inspiration, being the first step for nourishing architectural revivals such as the renaissance or gothic revival (Cairns & Jacobs, 2014). Cairns and Jacobs (2014) argue that modern or ‘new’ ruins, in contrast to classical ruins, do not have the same inspirational weight or evocative charm as earlier ruins. Although modern ruins indeed seem to escape the formal architectural and conservational concern and debate, for example being left out of international charters (Olsen & Pétursdóttir, 2014), they clearly do attract interest from and seem to inspire the more informal and alternative cultural scene. Examples are squatters that occupy empty buildings for cultural or social activities or for living or urban explorers who seek to capture the beauty of abandoned places (Edensor, 2005; Shaw, 2005; Göbel, 2014; Garrett, 2015). A different notion arises when the decay is not the result of gradual natural processes but is caused by an abrupt natural disaster or violent destruction by man (Hell & Schönle, 2010; Cairns & Jacobs, 2014; Sulfaro, 2014). Those ruins, which represent a trauma, are not merely a trace of tragic memory; they also become a sign to transmit a certain message to the future. Such ruins may become a commemorative monument, a place for remembrance or forgetting. How they are dealt with also determines the particular message passed on. In practice, ruins are often the result of both natural processes and human neglect and destruction. The underlying meanings and connotations are therefore often more complex and ambiguous than the romantic vision described by scholars like Ruskin (1849), Riegl (1982 [1903]), or more recently Garret (2015) or Edensor (2005).

Reusing the ruin: informal reuse and vernacular adaptation One of the main characteristics of a ruin is the fact that it is abandoned, that it has no use (Ginsberg, 2004; Hell & Schönle, 2010; Cairns & Jacobs, 2014).

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Nevertheless, examples of functional reuse of ruinous buildings do exist. Often, such examples are not part of the formal adaptive reuse practice but are informal, spontaneous, and utilitarian. Instead of being planned, the reuse and necessary interventions are therefore user led. An example is Kunsthaus Tacheles in Berlin (case 6), an art centre that was created in the 1990s by a group of artists who squatted the ruins of a former shopping arcade. The artists used the space ‘as found’, doing only the necessary interventions using reclaimed and salvaged materials. The transformation of the ruin was a continuous process, without a preset plan. As such, the spaces seemed ‘occupied’ rather than ‘redesigned’. The most obvious difference between the informal and the formal adaptive reuse practice is probably its aesthetics (on informal adaptive reuse practice see Chapter 3). Although the interventions are not always as extreme as in the urban squats, most of the user-led projects are characterized by minimal intervention, executed step by step on a try-and-error principle, using cheap or reclaimed materials while keeping the patina and roughness of the building or site as found. Sandler (2011) introduces the term ‘counter-preservation’ to point to such an informal approach towards the historical built environment. She explains: In contrast with official preservation practices sponsored, defined and approved by governmental agencies (including public projects and private developments), the informal treatment of historical buildings by diverse social groups is often more open-ended and dynamic by its very nature. Informal or unofficial approaches to the built environment often lack funding, support and permanent legal status; as a result these approaches involve improvisation, temporary solutions and incomplete or makeshift interventions. (p. 687) In most projects, the dilapidated and ruined state of the building has not been erased, which may evoke a rich and unique experience that differs significantly from the experience of a restored heritage building or site. Scott (2008) uses the term ‘vernacular’ to point to the informal, user-led building adaptation. Vernacular architecture in the traditional meaning of the term (see e.g. Asquith & Vellinga, 2006; Hourigan, 2015) is an important aspect of our cultural heritage (ICOMOS, 1999); by applying the term ‘vernacular’ to the informal adaptive reuse practice, Scott implicitly attributes a heritage value to such interventions. And in the case of Tacheles, the building actually has been protected as a monument not for its intrinsic values but for the values and qualities it gained through its reuse as an art centre. As argued by Pimlott (2016) and Göbel (2014), the aesthetical characteristics of the ruin, especially the informally reused ruins, have become a stylistic trope for more institutionalized and commercial (art) spaces. OFF Poitrkowska in Łódź (case 16) is such an example. This desolated former textile factory in the centre of the city was owned by a project developer who intended a commercial reuse of the site. However, due to the 2008 economic crisis, the

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project was put on hold. In the meantime, an artist collective started using part of the site as an art gallery and music club. And although they were not officially squatters – they had a formal arrangement with the owner – the outlook and atmosphere of the site resembled that of an urban squat. The old and more recent graffiti, in addition to the pragmatic, cheap, and spontaneous interventions conducted by the artists, somehow seem to merge with the strong patina, broken windows, crumbling stones, and rusted ironwork of the historical building. After some time, more people became interested in renting spaces in the factory, mainly people working in the so-called ‘creative industries’ and some alternative bars. In 2012, the developer named the site OFF Piotrkowska, indicating the start of a more conscious effort to brand and organize the site based on the characteristics and connotations it had earned over the years. The developer’s financial support for operating and maintaining the place, however, remained limited as no restoration had been executed and most necessary repairs, especially inside the reused spaces, were performed by the users themselves. In 2016, however, the first renovation work was initiated by the developer aiming to attract more upscale tenants and probably marking the start of the gentrification of the site, becoming a more commercial area, losing is raw and ambiguous atmosphere.

Reusing the consolidated ruin However, the aesthetic appreciation of decay can only exist when in contrast with the clean, organized, and conventional environment and can therefore only evoke a positive experience when it is applied on a limited number of buildings and sites (Edensor, 2005; Sandler, 2011). Moreover, counter-preservation is always a dead end as eventually buildings will need maintenance and repair, or otherwise they will fall apart. Although some maintenance and consolidation works will indeed be unavoidable in the long term, recent examples show that it is yet possible to conserve the characteristics of the ruin throughout a formal or architectural adaptive reuse project. An example that seeks to integrate the qualities of the ruin in the new interventions is the transformation of the ruins of the church Escuelas Pías in Lavapiés, Madrid, into a university library (case 8). The church was burned down during the Spanish Civil War and was kept as a ruin since then. In the new design, the typical characteristics of a ruin – rough texture because of crumbling stone, ephemeral boundaries between interior and exterior, and hence a unique and filtered incidence of light – have not only been preserved but even strengthened throughout the intervention. The ruin is preserved in its rough but delicate condition; brickwork seems restored only to a minimum, window frames are invisible from the exterior, and the church remains roofless. Where new façades had to be constructed, the architect Linazasoro used varying sizes of brick, in order to obtain a similar texture to the rough, crumbling brickwork of the ruin. Parts of the former interior of the church are kept as exterior space and function as a sort of patio, tranquil zones between the silent interior of the library

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and the turbulent urban life in the square in front. On the inside, too, the new additions are rather modest, showing a strong aesthetic synergy with the ruin. Different types of paving stone that are used at the square in front of the church are extended at the interior. The space is covered by wooden lattice under a glass roof and forms a subtle visual reference to the original vaulted ceiling of the church. This structure allows daylight to penetrate to the interior of the building, yet filters it to create an intimate and serene atmosphere; additional lighting is kept to a minimum. The subtle and sensitive relationship between the new interventions and the host space generates a sublime experience of the building and the place.

Staging the ruin as a strategy for adaptive reuse Building upon the consolidated ruin, in contrast with the restored building, allows the preservation of the ephemeral characteristics of the incomplete; in the case of OFF Poitrkowska, the raw outlook of the building gives the place a sense of freedom, stimulating creativity and experiment; in the library in Lavapies, the ruin reminds of the trauma of the Spanish Civil War while at the same time reintegrating the site into its surroundings. Some architects have applied the ruination of a building as a strategy for its transformation in order to give the building a new meaning, a sense of freedom, or to open up the building physically to the exterior. For the transformation of the monumental art deco building of the former Palais des Musées d’art moderne into a centre for contemporary art, currently called Palais de Tokyo, Lacaton and Vassal (case 7) stripped back the interior of the building to its basic, rough concrete structure. This intervention created large, open spaces filled with daylight and open vistas throughout the building; as such, the interior becomes a landscape rather than a sequence of separate rooms. Beside the act of stripping back, Lacaton and Vassal improved the vertical circulation, opened up the roof to let even more daylight into the space and limiting the necessity for artificial lighting. The new elements such as staircases and balustrades are made out of rough construction materials. As such, the interior of the Palais de Tokyo has the feeling and outlook of a construction site rather than a finished building. De Vylder Vinck Taillieu also used the concept of the ruin in several of their projects, most explicitly in the adaptation of one of the neo-gothic buildings of PC Caritas, a centre for mental care. Demolition of the building had started when the project for its adaptation was given to de Vylder Vinck Taillieu. They continued this process of dismantling the building but in a selective and fragmentary way: what is left is a building without finishings (e.g. roof covering, floor covering, plasters, etc.); the floors between different levels of the building have been partly removed; some windows have been completely removed, from others only the frames have been kept, and for a few, both frame and glazing are kept. In fact, the building is used as an enclosed exterior, open to the forces of weather. New interventions are executed using materials and elements for outdoor landscape design (e.g. gravel, greenery, and trees) or

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construction materials such as high-speed building brick and uncovered beams. To give some protection from wind and rain, glass houses are placed inside the building and on its terraces. Nevertheless, as these are fully transparent, they are not experienced as enclosed rooms – the enclosure here is created through the walls of the host space. Although the building from the outside still looks like a building rather than a ruin, it is used as an outdoor space, an enclosed garden for retreat.

Figure 2.8  PC Caritas, architecten de Vylder Vinck Taillieu.

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Evolving strategies The description of strategies by us and other scholars is based on the actual practice of building adaptation. Hence, as the discipline is moving ahead, strategies will also evolve. Technical and technological advancements and new materials and applications in the building industry will create new possibilities for intervention and construction. Changing societal needs will create new challenges to the built environment, such as various forms of co-housing concepts, a changing position of retailing in the urban environment, new transportation modes, and so on. Moreover, the disciplinary boundaries between adaptive reuse versus new construction and adaptive reuse versus conservation are becoming increasingly blurred. Rem Koolhaas in his polemic manifesto Preservation Is Overtaking Us (2014), states that ‘star architecture’ is dead and that instead preservation is the refuge for contemporary architects. Jorge Otero-Pailos (2014) elaborates on this in his supplement to Koolhaas’s manifesto: Preservation can offer a new path of cultural relevance for architects, but at the price of changing the core of what we believe architectural creativity should be focused on. If preservation is the enabling element of architecture’s cultural currency today, then why not expand architecture to include preservation? (p. 97) Strategies that combine conservation and restoration principles with architectural concepts might become more frequent. Furthermore, adaptive reuse is applied not only to heritage buildings but also to ‘ordinary’ buildings and infrastructural edifices for ecological or logistical reasons, which may also lead to new strategies in the future.

Note 1

This paragraph is derived in part from an article published in Interiors on April 27, 2015, available online: www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.2752/204191214X13944457108758

Bibliography Asquith, L., & Vellinga, M. (Eds.). (2006). Vernacular architecture of the twentyfirst century. London and New York: Taylor & Francis. Assmann, A. (2011). Cultural memory and Western civilization: Arts of memory. New York: Cambridge University Press. Aureli, P. V. (2013). The thickness of the façade: Notes on the work of Caruso St John. In F. Marquez Cécelia & R. Levene (Eds.), Caruso St John Architects 1993/2013 (Vol. 166, pp. 23–39). Madrid: El Croquis. Bartolini, N. (2014). Critical urban heritage: From palimpsest to brecciation. International Journal of Heritage Studies, 20(5), 519–533. Benjamin, W. (1969 [1935]). Capital of the nineteenth century. Perspecta, 12, 163–172.

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Brooker, G. (2017). Adaptation strategies for interior architecture and design. London and New York: Bloomsbury. Brooker, G., & Stone, S. (2004). Re-readings: Interior architecture and the design principles of remodelling existing buildings. London: RIBA Enterprises. Cairns, S., & Jacobs, J. (2014). Buildings must die: A perverse view on architecture. Cambridge, MA, and London: MIT Press. Charter on the Built Vernacular Heritage. (1999). Choay, F. (1992). L’allégorie du patrimoine (revised ed.). Paris: Seuil. Cramer, J., & Breitling, S. (2007). Architecture in existing fabric. Berlin: Birkhäuser. Crang, M. (1996). Envisioning urban histories: Bristol as palimpsest, postcards, and snapshots. Environment & Planning, A 28, 429–452. Crimson. (1995). Re-arch: Nieuwe Ontwerpen voor Oude Gebouwen. Rotterdam: nai010 Publishers. de Sola-Mozales Rubio, I. (1985). From contrast to analogy. Lotus International, 46, 37–45. Desrochers, B. (2000). Ruins revisited: Modernist conceptions of heritage. The Journal of Architecture, 5(1), 35–46. Edensor, T. (2005). Industrial ruins: Space, aesthetics and materiality. London: Bloomsbury. Garrett, B. L. (2015). Urban exploration as heritage placemaking. In H. Orange (Ed.), Reanimating industrial spaces: Conducting memory work in postindustrial societies (Vol. 66, pp. 72–91). Walnut Creek, CA: Institute of Archaeology Publications. Ginsberg, R. (2004). The aesthetics of ruins. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi. Göbel, H. K. (2014). The re-use of urban ruins: Atmospheric inquiries of the city. London: Routledge. Hall, M. (2006). Identity, memory, and countermemory. Journal of Material Culture, 11(1/2), 189–209. Hell, J., & Schönle, A. (Eds.). (2010). Ruins of modernity. Durham, NC, and London: Duke University Press. Hourigan, N. (2015). Confronting classifications − when and what is vernacular architecture? Civil Engineering and Architecture, 3(1), 22–30. ICOMOS Australia. (2013). Burra Charter. Australia: ICOMOS. Retrieved from https://australia.icomos.org/wp-content/uploads/The-Burra-Charter-2013Adopted-31.10.2013.pdf Jäger, F. P. (Ed.). (2010). Old & new: Design manual for revitalizing existing buildings. Basel: Birkhäuser. Jencks, C. (2011). What is radical post-modernism? Archit Design, 88, 14–17. Khirfan, L. (2010). Traces on the palimpsest: Heritage and the urban forms of Athens and Alexandria. Cities, 27(5), 315–325. doi:http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j. cities.2010.03.009 Kohane, P., & Hill, M. (2006). The decorum of doors and windows, from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century. Architectural Research Quarterly, 10(2), 141–156. Koolhaas, R. (2014). Preservation is overtaking us. New York: Columbia University Press.

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Larkham, P. (1996). Conservation and the city. London: Routledge. Lowenthal, D. (1985). The past is a foreign country. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Machado, R. (1976). Old buildings as palimpsest: Towards a theory of remodeling. Progressive Architecture, 11, 46–49. Marquez Cécelia, F., & Levene, R. (Eds.). (2013). Caruso St John Architects 1993/2013 (Vol. 166). Madrid: El Croquis. Marot, S. (2003). Sub-urbanism and the art of memory. London: AA Publications. Muller, J. M. (1982). Rubens’s theory and practice of the imitation of art. The Arts Bulletin, 64(2), 229–247. Nelson, R., & Olin, M. (2003). Monuments and memory, made and unmade. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Olsen, B., & Pétursdóttir, Þ. (2014). An archaelogy of ruins. In B. Olsen & Þ. Pétursdóttir (Eds.), Ruin memories: Materialities, aesthetics and the archaeology of the recent past (pp. 3–30). London and New York: Routledge. Otero-Pailos, J. (2014). Supplement to OMA’s preservation manifesto. In R. Koolhaas (Ed.), Preservation is overtaking us (pp. 81–98). New York: Columbia University Press. Pigman III, G. W. (1980). Versions of imitation in the renaissance. Renaissance Quarterly, 33(1), 1–32. Pimlott, M. (2016). The public interior as idea and project. Heijningen: Jap Sam Books. Richards, J. (1994). Façadism. London: Routledge. Riegl, A. (1982 [1903], Fall). The modern cult of monuments: Its character and its origin. Oppositions, 25, 21–51. Robert, P. (1989). Adaptations: New uses for old buildings. Paris: Editions du Moniteur. Ruskin, J. (1849). The seven lamps of architecture. Londen: Smith, Elder. Sandler, D. (2011). Counterpreservation: Decrepitude and memory in post-unification Berlin. Third Text, 25(6), 687–697. Schumacher, T. (2002). “The outside is the result of an inside”: Some sources of one of modernism’s most persistent doctrines. Journal of Architectural Education, 56(1), 23–33. Scott, F. (2008). On altering architecture. London: Routledge. Semes, S. (2012). Adaptation as a model for new architecture in historic settings: Some observations from Rome. Change over Time, 2(2), 88–105. Shaw, K. (2005). The place of alternative culture and the politics of its protection in Berlin, Amsterdam and Melbourne. Planning Theory & Practice, 6(2), 149–169. Simmel, G. (1958 [1911]). Two essays: The handle & the ruins. The Hudson Review, 11(3), 371–385. Smith, L. (2006). Uses of heritage. London and New York: Routledge. Stone, S., & Brooker, G. (2018). Rereadings 2: Interior architecture and the design principles of remodelling existing buildings. London: RIBA Publishing. Sulfaro, N. (2014). “A Memory of Shadows and of Stone”: Traumatic Ruins, Conservation, Social Processes. ArcHistoR, 1(2), 144–171.

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Vecco, M. (2010). A definition of cultural heritage: From the tangible to the intangible. Journal of Cultural Heritage, 11(3), 321–324. The Venice Charter (1964). International charter for the conservation and restoration of monuments and sites. Venturi, R. (1966). Inside/outside. In R. Venturi (Ed.), Complexity and contradiction in architecture. New York: Museum of Modern Art. Verschaffel, B. (2012). Face/façade: Van gevels en gezichten. Dietsche Warande en Belfort, 157(1), 74–83. Williamson, K. (2010). Development and design of heritage sensitive sites: Strategies for listed buildings and conservation areas. London: Routledge. Worthing, D., & Bond, S. (2016). Managing built heritage: The role of cultural values and significance. Wiley Blackwell. Zöllner, F., & Thoenes, C. (Eds.). (2010). Michelangelo: Life and work. Köln: Taschen. Zucker, P. (1961). Ruins. An aesthetic hybrid. The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 20(2), 119–130.

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3

Adaptive reuse for urban regeneration

Cultural heritage is today a key driver for urban regeneration in many historic towns and regions all over the world. Urban regeneration occurs through the functional use and reuse of historical buildings and sites but also as a means to create or strengthen a sense of local identity and enhance public well-being and social inclusion. However, exploiting the local heritage’s potentials as a planning policy is a rather recent practice. In this chapter, we first sketch the evolving position of heritage within planning principles throughout the twentieth century. Secondly, we elaborate on three ways in which adaptive reuse is employed as a driver for urban regeneration: 1 Development of new housing typologies through the adaptive reuse of existing buildings. 2  Transformation of heritage sites into urban parks. 3 User-led, or ‘vernacular’, adaptive reuse. To conclude, we describe the risk of gentrification related to heritage and urban regeneration.

1. Heritage and planning in the twentieth century The urbanization that took place from the mid-nineteenth century onwards, as the result of the industrialization of society, led to an increased importance of urban planning as a design discipline. Hence, the planning of new towns and urban areas was also one of the main points of the modernist agenda from the early twentieth century onwards. The modernist concept of the ‘functional city’ was the topic of the Fourth International Conference of Modern Architecture (CIAM), held in 1933 on a cruise boat between Marseille and Athens. Based on the comparative analysis of 33 case study cities, the problems of existing urban structures were discussed and solutions were presented in the conference conclusions, published the same year as Constatations du quatrième CIAM and again a decade later, after editing by Le Corbusier, as the Charter of Athens. The charter summarized the modernists’ planning concept of a rational and rigid planning system that would enhance safety, health, and efficiency of urban life – enhance the quality of life – in contrast with the historic urban structure, which was considered chaotic, unsafe, and unhealthy. The built heritage is herein seen as an obstacle for modernization; when

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old buildings had to be preserved, they were approached as individual monuments out of their historical and spatial context (Van der Woud, 1983; Lamandi, 1997). Opposite to this ambitious drive for modernization in urban planning, the conservation movement, also affected by the effects of industrialization to society and the built environment, was concerned with the preservation of existing historic buildings and urban cores. In 1931, only two years before CIAM IV, an international conference was held in Athens to compare different national approaches to conservation, in technical and legal terms. The conclusions of the conference were drawn up in seven resolutions, called the Carta del Restauro, which later became known as the Charter of Athens. The charter focussed on the protection, conservation, and restoration of individual monuments, although a reference to the spatial context of monuments is made in the concluding resolution, which states that ‘attention should be given to the protection of areas surrounding historic sites’. This clearly opposes the statement of the CIAM Charter of Athens of 1933, which presents a different view on the settings of historic building, namely to erase the existing fabric surrounding the monument and instead create an open plaza or park around it (Lamandi, 1997; Smith, 2006) (on the two Charters of Athens, see also Chapter 1). The conflict in interests and approach to the built environment between the modernist architects and planners on the one hand and the conservation movement on the other hand is even more strikingly illustrated by the discussion in the context of post-war reconstructions of destroyed towns and regions in the aftermath of the World Wars. While modernist architects promoted the creation of new, modern cities that symbolized a strong belief in the future and the progress of society, conservationists strived for the reconstruction and preservation of the historic urban layout and fabric in order to bring back the regional character and strengthen local identity. The reconstruction of Ypers, a small town in the north-west of Flanders that was the scene of the severest battles of World War I, is representative of the ongoing debate at the time. The first plans for the reconstruction of the town, which was completely reduced to ruins, were drawn up already in 1917 before the end of the war. During the 1920s and 1930s, the historical centre was completely restored to its former appearance: the market square with its important monuments including the Cloth Hall with belfry, town hall, Saint-Martin church, many town houses, street patterns, and fortified belt around the city. The lead architect in this process was Jules Coomans, city architect of Ypres at the time. The reconstruction was, however, much criticized, by, among others, the Belgian modernist architect Huub Hoste, because the plan focussed on aesthetical reconstruction of monuments, setting aside the industrial regeneration of the city and the urgent need for (affordable) housing (Delepiere, Huys, & Lion, 1987). After a few decades, problems to both approaches were felt. On the one hand, the newly built modern cities lacked historical roots and the rich layering found in old towns; they lacked a distinctive identity; the functional zoning led to social exclusion, a lack of social control, and eventually vandalism and crime; its public spaces were not fit to the human scale; and their spatial and social structures were not designed to allow any form of change, nor did they allow

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any creative intervention by its inhabitants. On the other hand, historical cities that were strictly conserved and frozen in their historic condition were incapable of integrating the needs of contemporary society as to transportation, public functions, and housing. As a reaction to that, more nuanced approaches were developed that combined modern planning principles with conservation and reinterpretation of historical structures and elements (Bandarin & Van Oers, 2012). During the CIAM of 1953 in Aix-en-Provence, a schism between the older and younger generations became apparent. The younger generation, which assembled under the name Team 10, led by Alison and Peter Smithson and Aldo van Eyck, openly questioned the concept of the functional city as laid down in the Charter of Athens of 1933 and wanted to investigate instead alternative concepts for urbanization that were more related to the human scale, were more integrated within the historic fabric, and allowed a greater ‘sense of belonging’ or local identity. However, most of the experiments by the Team 10 members between 1960 and 1980 were still very much indebted to by the early modernist principles and failed to present an alternative that truly answered the problems of the modern city (Frampton, 1980). An exception is Giancarlo De Carlo’s plan for Urbino, which is described by Frampton as the ‘true antithesis of the modernist city’ (p. 342). The master plan starts from an extensive analysis of the existing city: its topography and landscape, the various historic layers, socio-economic condition, traffic, physical condition and architectural quality of the existing building stock. This led to a plan in which the regeneration of the historic centre was done primarily through the conservation and reuse of existing buildings, with new housing development outside the fortified belt and integrated into the landscape (De Carlo, 1966). Rob and Léon Krier, in the 1970s and 1980s, developed an alternative urban project in the form of the concentric city with hybrid functionalities, which is capable of allowing urban growth and change. They criticized the uniformity of style and absence of clear typologies in modern architect and instead went back to classical canons and typologies and vernacular building principles (Krier, 2009). Aldo Rossi, in The Architecture of the City (1982), searched for the amalgamation of conservation of the historic environment and regeneration of the city to contemporary living standards. He approaches the city as a gigantic humanmade object, a work of architecture that is growing over time; ‘urban artifacts’ – monuments – that define the city’s distinct character play a crucial role in this development. Rossi states: ‘The dynamic process of the city tends more to evolution than preservation, and that in evolution monuments are not only preserved but continuously presented as propelling elements of development’ (1982, p. 60). He points to the multiplicity of functions that certain of these historic monuments can contain over time, without the need to change their form. Besides the critiques on the results of modernist planning versus conservation and reconstruction, the methods underlying urban planning were questioned. Authors like Jane Jacobs and Kevin Lynch have proposed different methods to analyse the condition of existing cities and enhance their livability based on the perception and needs of communities (Lynch, 1960; Jacobs, 1961). Hence, while in the first half of the twentieth century planning was seen as a linear

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and top-down process, from the late 1960s onwards, an increased interest was aroused in public involvement and participatory approaches. Local communities became more self-confident and organized themselves to react against the demolition of historic buildings and areas that often formed an anchor for the formation and preservation of a local identity (Tanghe, Vlaeminck, & Berghoef, 1984; van der Valk & Korthals Altes, 2010). From the 1980s onwards, the redevelopment of brownfields, former industrial sites, and historic urban cores and the reuse of individual monuments became a prevalent tool for urban development in Europe and North America. Tanghe et al. (1984) pleaded for a shift from ‘urban sprawl’, based on urban planning strategies, towards ‘inner growth’ through the redevelopment of derelict areas and buildings within the city. They describe urbanism as a ‘dynamic tradition’ in which the study of the architecture, villages, and towns of the past are an important and invaluable source of knowledge. ‘It is not merely a matter of admiring beautiful buildings and monuments, but rather of recognizing and appreciating the way of life and the values of our forefathers, as reflected in the environment they created’ (p. 93). They elaborate on successful examples such as Bruges, Copenhagen, and Bologna where historic residential areas are renovated into comfortable family housing or on cities like London and Rotterdam where former dockyards have been transformed into residential areas. They stress the social significance of such projects where streets and (intimate) public space regain importance and improve the quality of life in city centres, as well as social cohesion among people, and develop a stronger sense of local identity. Also in the field of conservation, there is a growing awareness of the heritage values captured in the urban core as a whole, apart from individual monuments, which is also reflected in international charters and declarations. Whereas the Athens Charter of 1931 asked for attention to the ‘surroundings’ of monuments in order to enhance – or at least not to harm – the values captured within the individual monument itself, the Venice Charter of 1964 refers in its first article to the intrinsic qualities of the urban or rural setting in itself. However, as argued by Houbart (2016), the lack of field experience with the conservation of larger urban areas at the time led to articles that were mainly addressing individual monuments and were not directed towards urban regeneration. Urban conservation only became more significantly imbedded in international doctrine texts from 1975 onwards with the Declaration of Amsterdam, which introduced the notion of ‘integrated conservation’. The declaration refers to the importance of heritage conservation for the sake of local identity, but also, vice versa, it refers to the importance of exploiting heritage buildings to make cities more livable. It states: The conservation of the architectural heritage should become an integral part of urban and regional planning, instead of being treated as a secondary consideration or one requiring action here and there as has so often been the case in the recent past. A permanent dialogue between conservationists and those responsible for planning is thus indispensable. . . . A policy of conservation also means the integration of the architectural heritage into social life. The conservation effort to be made must be measured not only against

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the cultural value of the buildings but also against their use-value. The social problems of integrated conservation can be properly posed only by simultaneous reference to both those scales of values. (ICOMOS, 1975) In 1987, the principles of integrated conservation are translated in the Washington Charter. The charter strongly focuses on the preservation of the material values, here named ‘qualities’ of historic towns, which are its morphology, formal appearance, relationship between the town and its surrounding setting, and its functionalities (ICOMOS, 1987). The Vienna memorandum of 2005 introduced the notion of ‘historic urban landscape’ in relation to world heritage and formulates recommendations on how to cope with new interventions and urban development in areas protected as world heritage or areas including sites that are individually protected as world heritage (UNESCO, 2005). In 2011, three different doctrine texts related to the integrated (urban) conservation have been published by ICOMOS and UNESCO: the updated recommendations on the historic urban landscape, the Paris Declaration on heritage as a driver of development, and the Valletta Principles for the Safeguarding and Management of Historic Cities, Towns and Urban Areas. All three documents have a stronger focus on intangible values, natural landscape and topography in relation to the built fabric, sustainable development, and involvement of local communities. In recent decades, using heritage as a catalyst for urban regeneration has been common practice in the regeneration of historic cities all over the world (Corten, Geurts, Meurs, & Vermeulen, 2014). An example is the regeneration of the former mining site of Winterslag in Genk into a creative hub: C-Mine (case 11). It houses various functions among which are a school of art and design, an incubator for young entrepreneurs, a cinema, a cultural centre, an art gallery, and a museum. The creation of C-Mine has been key in the regeneration of the city as a whole. Genk is an industrial city that developed only in the early twentieth century through its mining industry. After the closing of the mines in the 1980s, the city was confronted with large unemployment but also with the question of how to deal with the built relics of the mining industry and with its surrounding landscape that was also strongly shaped by this industry. Even more than a driver for the economic development of Genk, C-Mine is intended to become a new centre for the city and a key element in the formation of its renewed identity (Plevoets & Prina, 2017). Regeneration is implemented not only through the restoration and reuse of historical buildings but also through the preservation and reactivation of intangible aspects, such as traditions, craftsmanship, or local narratives, and through the restoration and upgrading of the natural landscape. Moreover, adaptive reuse as a tool to strengthen a sense of continuity and local identity is applied not only to heritage buildings but also to all sorts of buildings that are currently not considered to have any architectural or historical value but that are retained for social, ecological, or pragmatic reasons. In what follows, we describe three approaches for urban regeneration through adaptive reuse that contributed to the sustainability and quality of life in the city: the development of new housing typologies

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through adaptive reuse of derelict buildings and sites; the transformation of heritage sites into urban parks; and a user-led, or ‘vernacular’, approach towards adaptive reuse.

2. New housing typologies Housing is central to a viable city, and hence the organization of housing and its relationship to other urban functions have been central to urban planning theory since the advent of urbanization in the mid-nineteenth century. The need for housing of the working class at the time was handled in a very pragmatic way: rapidly constructed barracks without any comfort or facilities in walking distance from the factories. The pitiful housing conditions in these working-class neighbourhoods caused social problems and epidemics. The modernist agenda was therefore to first of all improve the living conditions of these lower-income families through massive housing estates at the outskirts of the city. Where the initial concept of the modernist housing estates, as for example le Corbusier’s Unité d’Habitation in Marseille, did include many community functions both inside the building and on the surrounding site, in the majority of the post-war buildings, such facilities have been eliminated, causing a programmatic impoverishment and turning buildings into a mono-functional ‘storage’ place of apartments. The generic characteristics of modern housing estates, their alienation from the human scale, the separation of functions and division of housing areas into income groups, however, caused the collapse of the modern dream. This has resulted in a process of de-urbanization with people moving to new housing estates and suburbs where housing conditions are more fit to the human scale but also more individual and mainly reliant on automobile transport (Tanghe et al., 1984; Powell, 2000; Druot, Lacaton, & Vassal, 2007). During the whole of this period, the focus has been on new construction, at the expense of open land or preceded by the demolition of whole areas, with little or no attention for the improvement of existing dwellings and neighbourhoods (Tanghe et al., 1984). Since the 1980s, a process of re-urbanization has started, and comfortable housing in the city centre is created in several ways: through the redevelopment of derelict areas and brownfields into newly constructed residential areas; through the renovation of the existing housing stock, including both individual town houses as modern housing estates; and through the adaptive reuse of non-residential buildings into housing.

New neighbourhoods in brownfields A first means to create a more compact city is through the infill of brownfields: newly built residential areas are constructed on empty land, created through the demolition of former (industrial) buildings. Different from the modernist approach, which created generalized solutions to housing that did not incorporate or only limitedly incorporated the local condition, more recent developments have attempted to build further on the historical urban structure and reinterpret the urban morphology and characteristics in a new urban layout and architecture.

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The Eastern Docklands in Amsterdam is such an area that has been redeveloped into a new, attractive urban quarter. The Eastern port had been created in the late nineteenth century and developed strongly in the first half of the twentieth century, mainly through trade with Asia and in particular the Dutch colonies. After World War II, partially because of the decolonization in the 1950s, the port activities came into decline with the last company leaving the area in 1979. Demolition of the former industrial buildings had started already in the 1970s without any vision for the future of the area. Squatters and artists, however, started to reuse the remaining buildings in the area and recognized their potentials. The five peninsulas of the Eastern Docklands have been redeveloped into housing districts. Each peninsula was given its own characteristics: Java and KNSM, located the closest to the river IJ, are mainly filled in with high-rise blocks, while at Borneo, Sporenburg, and Cruquius, located closer to the city, the buildings are lower. The intention was to attract families with children to this new neighbourhood, with a specific housing development at Borneo and Sporenburg. West 8 made a master plan for the area in which they proposed a new housing typology that based on the traditional Dutch canal house – copying its basic rhythm and scale – but that oriented the houses more towards the public space through ground-level access (instead of the traditional raised entrance) and the integration of patios and roof gardens. Each of the 60 houses is designed by a

Figure 3.1  Borneo Amsterdam Scheepstimmermanstraat.

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different architect, commissioned by the inhabitants themselves. The result is a great variation in dwelling modes and an animated street elevation that reflects the lifestyle and taste of the individual (Crimson, 1997; Geuze & West 8 urban design & landscape architecture, 2005). Although the majority of the buildings in this area are new constructions, its architecture is strongly influenced by local characteristics – the former port buildings, typical Amsterdam canal houses, and the specific building plots that are the artificially created peninsulas – and hence present a clear local identity. Another example is the housing collective Spreefeld, at the bank of the river Spree in Mitte. The plot was originally located in East Berlin, next to the Berlin Wall in an industrial zone. Several industrial buildings in the neighbourhood have been reused for new functions, such as offices, dwellings, small workshops, and conference and exhibition spaces. An empty plot, bordering the river, was bought by a group of people to develop a co-housing project. The ambition was to create sustainable and affordable housing in the centre of Berlin. This was realized by sharing as much space as possible, by allowing inhabitants to carry out construction works in their dwellings by themselves, and through low-cost construction and basic finishing. The project includes three newly constructed building blocks around a collective open space with private dwellings, communal spaces and functions for the inhabitants such as kitchens, fitness rooms, and a youth room, and spaces that are open to the neighbourhood such as co-working spaces, child day care, and spaces for social or cultural events (Becker, Kienbaum, & Schmal, 2015). The industrial character of the surrounding buildings inspired the efficiency of the construction of the new buildings. Moreover, the specific historical and spatial condition of the area created the opportunity to develop an affordable and innovative concept for living in the heart of Berlin. The informal activities that took place on the land of the former Berlin Wall since the 1990s, such as communal gardening, playgrounds, cafés, and all sorts of social and cultural events, initiated the communal engagement that led to the development of this co-housing project.

Reusing the modernist city The problems of modern housing estates in architectural and social terms led to the frequent demolition of such housing blocks during the last decades; examples are the Hulme Crescents in Manchester in 1993–1995 (see e.g. Hollis, 2009), the cité Lumineuse in Bordeaux in 1998, or more recently the demolition of the Robin Hood Gardens in London (see e.g. Postiglione, 2015). A new urban plan is realized on these sites, which is usually denser, more diverse in programme and typology, and better connected to the surrounding urban layout. As an alternative to a complete tabula rasa, some modernist housing districts have been redeveloped through densification and diversification of the area, eventually combined with partial demolition. The regeneration of Bijlmermeer in the Southeast of Amsterdam is such an example. Bijlmermeer was constructed as a new, modern housing district between 1966 and 1975. The project included 13,000 flats, divided among 31 almost identical massive housing blocks, laid out in a honeycomb pattern. Its design was ambitious and innovative, incorporating the

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CIAM principles: mono-functional, high-rise housing blocks amidst green parks, and separation of traffic flows with car traffic on raised streets. Large multistory garages were connected to the housing blocks by a covered passageway, and a metro line was created that connects Bijlmermeer to the centre of Amsterdam. The apartments themselves were rather spacious and luxurious, with individual storage spaces on the ground floor of the building. Soon after the realization of the project, problems in the area arose. Due to the lack of variation in the type of dwellings and the public facilities, whose realization was postponed, the intended families did not move to Bijlmermeer but preferred to live in single-family houses with private gardens. Most of the residents were not families but rather migrants, unemployed, elderly people, (illegal) refugees, or drug addicts. As the housing was nevertheless rather expensive, many tenants could not pay the rent, and landlords faced economic problems, which resulted in a lack of maintenance. The mono-functional character of the area and the separation of traffic caused a lack of social control. The green parks, garages, and covered passageways became areas of decline, vandalism, and violence. All this resulted in the vacancy of many flats, and other buildings and apartments were squatted and subleased, which made problems even worse (Crimson, 1997; Wassenberg, 2010, 2013). Measures were taken to deal with the problems in the area, but none of these had a sustainable impact. In the 1980s, discussions on the demolition of Bijlmermeer arose, and in 1986, Rem Koolhaas (OMA) was approached to draw a redevelopment plan for Bijlmermeer. Koolhaas argued that the problems of the area were not the result of the typology of the housing blocks but were caused by the neglect of the original concept. Instead of demolition, he focused on the qualities of

Figure 3.2  Aerial view of Bijlmermeer anno 1971.

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Figure 3.3  Bijlmermeer before renovation (buildings in grey are retained; buildings in red are demolished).

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Figure 3.4  Bijlmermeer after renovation (buildings in grey are retained; buildings in green are new constructions).

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the initial model and proposed to revive and improve the public functions near the central traffic line and fill in the open grass fields with new programs, such as sport fields, open air theatre, beach, private gardens and garages. In 1992, an aeroplane crashed on one of the housing blocks, and 43 people were killed. The disaster had put Bijlmermeer once again on the political agenda. In the early 1990s, a new plan was created to regenerate Bijlmermeer by consciously splitting up the project into separate areas. Different offices were appointed to work out the plans for each neighbourhood. Aspects to address were the management of the buildings and public spaces, increased differentiation in housing types in order to create a demographic shift, and the relationships among traffic flows, open spaces, and public facilities. How to address these aspects differed among neighbourhoods: while in some areas, almost all housing blocks have been preserved, in others most blocks have been replaced by owner-occupied low-rise dwellings (Crimson, 1997). The regeneration of Bijlmermeer took 20 years in total. The last block to be renovated was Kleiburg, one of the largest blocks with circa 500 dwellings and part of the area of Bijlmermeer that was protected as a monument. The building was sold to a consortium, De Flat, who renovated the building in a structural way but did not renovate the individual apartments. Instead, the apartments were individually sold as ‘DIY houses’ – dwellings that are sold at a relatively low price, under the condition that owners renovate it and move in themselves within a set amount of time (case 19). Beside the regeneration of modernist suburban developments through (partial) demolition, densification, and differentiating in programme and typology, regeneration of modernist housing may also focus on the adaptation of the apartment blocks themselves. An important contribution in that sense comes from the architects Druot and Lacaton & Vassal (Druot et al., 2007). In a study commissioned by the French Ministry of Culture and Communication, they have

Figure 3.5  Transformation of the Tour Bois le Prêtre, Paris, Lacaton & Vassal.

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investigated a strategy on how to improve post-war housing blocks in a practical and economically viable way. Their objective was to create a more pleasant environment for the inhabitants not just by changing the outlook of the building by painting the façade or replacing the window frames, nor by adapting the apartments to minimum standards of today, but by transforming them into luxury housing, comparable to the apartments in more upscale neighbourhoods. This could be realized by increasing the size of the living rooms, by creating transparent façades including terraces and balconies, by improving public areas such as entrance hall and circulation spaces, and by adding additional facilities for the exclusive use of the residents. In 2011, the architects have put their ideas into practice for the Tour le Bois de Prêtre in Paris. Like most such housing estates, this building was constructed according to the modernist principle of a load-bearing structure that can be filled in as a flexible space. The architects have worked with the benefits of this structural system, stripping the existing façade and adding new floors, built as a self-supporting structure, at all sites of the existing building at every floor, to extend the living rooms and create closeable terraces and balconies. This intervention was executed as a step-by-step procedure to avoid residents having to move out during the renovation (Marquez Cécelia & Poveda, 2015). A similar project is the redevelopment of nine modern housing blocks forming the neighbourhood Europarei in Uithoorn (NL) by Kempe-Till. The individual apartments were nice and spacious, but the common areas and outlook of the buildings were not. A few additions were therefore made to each building: a façade structure with glass balustrades, a new entrance hall, thermal insulation, and new brick façades at the sides of the block; solar thermal collectors were placed on the roof for water heating (Atelier Kempe Thil, 2018). In retrospect, the architects believe that demolition would have been more effective than renovation because of the very poor quality of the buildings’ structure. However, demolition was not an option as it was logistically impossible to house all inhabitants elsewhere during the renovation; Europarei housed circa 3,000 inhabitants in 1,100 dwellings, which means that 10% of the population of Uithoorn lived in Europarei. During the complete renovation process, all inhabitants could stay in their houses (Petzet & Heilmeyer, 2012). Whereas the regeneration of Europarei mainly focussed on improving the outlook and energy efficiency of the building, in Tour le Bois de Prêtre, private apartments have been significantly upgraded through increased space and lighting, and also public areas and functions have been improved. In these two cases, however, the residents could stay in their apartments during the renovation, which is not just a practical advantage but also a social one, whereas in the example of Bijlmermeer, for most of the renovation projects, people had to move out. However, as argued by Wassenberg (2010), efforts have been taken to avoid gentrification of Bijlmermeer by offering the renovated houses at a lower price to former inhabitants. Moreover, for a sustainable regeneration of modernist estates that face social problems, for which Bijlmermeer is an iconic example, the regeneration should focus not only on the building stock but also on the need to improve the social and economic conditions in the area.

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Adaptive reuse for housing Besides the renovation of existing residential buildings, buildings with initially other functions are nowadays reused and adapted for housing. This ‘trend’ started in the 1970s with the transformation of industrial buildings, such as warehouses or plants, into spacious apartments or ‘lofts’. Although the process of deindustrialization of cities had started before then, most industrial buildings in the 1960s were still occupied by manufacturing companies, accompanied by artists’ studios. Some of the artists and owners of small manufacturing companies also used the space for living, accepting the discomfort of noise, dirt, and the lack of facilities (e.g. grocery stores) in the neighbourhood. The typical characteristics of these lofts – one large open space instead of separate rooms, large windows, raw materials such as exposed red brick, iron, and polished wooden floors – soon also became fashionable with the bourgeois elites of society. Whereas initially there has been a mixed use between manufacturing and living, from the 1970s onwards complete buildings were bought by developers, transformed into lofts, and sold one by one to wealthy citizens. Sharon Zukin (1989) describes this phenomenon as a process of gentrification of industrial areas in cities: popularity of loft living affected property values and pushed the remaining manufacturers, the artists, and first-generation inhabitants out of these neighbourhoods. For Zukin, ‘loft living’ as an urban trend caused the definitive de-industrialization of cities. In the following decennia, the adaptation of former industrial sites into housing has become a frequent practice not only in vibrant metropoles like New York or London but also in smaller cities and towns. The type of housing has also deviated from the initial loft concept and has become more diverse moving from traditional apartments, student housing, housing for the elderly, or more recently various types of collective housing. Deindustrialization of cities has been felt most problematically in cities that were developed primarily because of their industries, such as Manchester (UK), Łódź (PL), Genk (BE), or Eindhoven (NL). In those cities, the closure or departure of industries has caused not only an economic crisis but also a social crisis as those cities had to reframe their local identity. Moreover, as the urban fabric and infrastructure in such cities have been shaped to serve its industries, the urban layout needs to be redefined. This was the case for Eindhoven, a city in The Netherlands that was developed through Philips, a company that started as producer of light bulbs but later became involved in all sorts of electronic devices. The development of Eindhoven as a city resulted from the rapid development of this company, which was not only responsible for the industrial infrastructure and most of the employment in the area but also took care of many other aspects of public life such as housing, leisure, sports and culture, education, medical care, etc. and its related architecture. When Philips from the 1980s onwards started to gradually withdraw from the city and move its activities to low-wage countries, the city had to come up with a strategy on how the regenerate in economic, social, and architectural terms. The growing high-tech industry in the region from 1990s onwards created an opportunity for economic regeneration. The city also worked towards attracting creative industries to the area (Aussems & Horsten, 2018).

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Key in this process was the regeneration of Strijp-S, one of the largest and most important former industrial areas of Philips. In the past, this area functioned as a ‘city within a city’ and was not accessible for the general public. Today, Strijp-S has become a vivid and attractive urban quarter. The industrial heritage and its reuse into all sort of new functions – cultural functions, retail, bars and restaurants, offices, and housing – were key in this process (Doevendans, 2009). Moreover, despite its rapid growth in the twentieth century, Eindhoven had never gained a sort of urban character; the redevelopment Strijp-S was hence an opportunity to create an urban ambiance through a mix of different functions that make the district attractive at all hours: public functions on the ground floor, offices and dwellings on upper floors (Aussems & Horsten, 2018). Besides industrial sites, other building typologies have been reused for housing, such as post offices, schools, convents, farmhouses, castles, etc. In some cases, such historical buildings are bought by several young families to realize a distinct housing programme for each individual family. Often, this results in a form of co-housing in which particular facilities are shared such as the garden, storage spaces, kitchen, guest room, laundry room, etc.

3. Landscapes and urban parks Parks are at the heart of the city life and are part the inhabitants’ everyday life: they provide a space for sports, play, walking, resting, reading, picnics, or meeting with neighbours, friends, or family; they are a venue for cultural celebrations and events and clean the air that we breathe. Large parks often house all sorts of facilities and infrastructure such as kiosks, cafés, sports fields, or an (open air) theatre. More recently, parks are increasingly used as a place for working and even professional meetings. The need for green, open public spaces in cities became apparent in the mid-nineteenth century due to the industrialization of society. Therefore, public parks have been developed in many cities in Europe and North America, with Central Park in New York as its most famous example; in Europe, this is also complemented with the opening up of royal parks for public use. The design of public parks was strongly influenced by the principles and characteristics of the English landscape garden. Functionally, parks created a whole new way of moving within the city and being in public and improved the living conditions of people of various social classes. Moreover, public parks could also have an economic impact as the value property close to the park often strongly increased (Cavallo, Komossa, & Gadet, 2015; Tate, 2015). The use of parks in the nineteenth century was still more limited than today, serving as a place for walking and strolling, as a meeting place, or as a place to rest and enjoy nature. In the mid-twentieth century, as a result of a process of suburbanization, interest and care for public parks decreased, and many parks became places of neglect and even violence. But in recent decades, cities are becoming again an attractive place to live for a wide variety of people and public parks regain importance. But as undeveloped land is becoming increasingly scarce, one has to be creative in where and how to create public green spaces. Often the available

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spaces are former industrial sites, waterfronts, rooftops, or obsolete (transportation) infrastructure such as rail tracks or highways (Harnik, 2010). Early examples of parks developed on industrial brownfields are Gas Works Park in Seattle (1975), Parc de la Villette in Paris (1987), and Landschaftspark Duisburg-Nord (1991). In each of these cases, the most remarkable buildings and structures are retained and reused for a new function or serve as a landmark within the park. While before the process of transformation these artefacts may not have been considered of historic or architectural value, after their reuse they often became heritage and a feature strengthening local identity. The Gas Works Park in Seattle is a pioneering project with the integration of heritage as a structuring element in the design of a public park. When landscape designer Richard Haag was commissioned to design the park, he considered the machinery of the former Seattle Gas Light Company cultural heritage as it was the sole remaining coal gasification plant in the United States. The park consists of a large lawn, surrounded by the lake in the south, and edged by threes in the north, with some of the industrial machinery preserved in the centre of the lawn, as a monument commemorating the industrial history of the site (Way, 2015). A similar approach to the integration of industrial machinery has been applied in Landschaftspark Duisburg-Nord, although on a much larger scale. Landscape Architect Peter Latz did not just preserve the heritage features of the site as monumental sculptures but also reused many of them for new functions: concrete bunkers became intimate gardens or rock climbing walls, gas tanks were transformed into diving pits, former industrial buildings are reused as a visitor’s centre, youth hostel, event and conference locations, etc. Also the landscape design works with the industrial features at the site such as a canal or pipelines. A light installation makes the site also attractive after dark (Tate, 2015; Weliacher,

Figure 3.6  Landschaftspark Duisburg.

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2008). Westergaspark in Amsterdam is another example that builds further on the pioneering project of the Gas Works Park. Unique here is the combination of a late nineteenth-century park, the Westerpark, with the redevelopment of a former industrial site, the Westergas site, located at the west end of the park. The factory was closed in 1967; in the 1990s, the former industrial site was transformed and integrated into the Westerpark. Several buildings at the site have been preserved and reused for cultural and leisure activities, such as a concert hall, cinema, clubs, restaurants, cafés, or offices for creative industries (Koekebakker, 2003). By doing so, the original function of the park and its relationship with the city has been changed, moving from a place for strolling and retreat to a cultural and social centre. Today, the Westergaspark is among the most popular parks in Amsterdam (Cavallo et al., 2015; Tate, 2015). Another pioneering project is Parc de la Villette in Paris. The park was developed to serve as a catalyst for urban renewal of the area. Besides its function as a green lung, the park had to integrate various facilities for the neighbourhood, house a mixture of high and low cultural activities, and serve as a new urban core for neighbouring districts. Architect Bernard Tschumi developed the design of the park, taking the layered history of the site as a starting point. Three different schemes that represent the different layers of activities are superimposed on one another. These layers are derived from the historical narratives of the site. Both layout and function the park are more indebted to architectural design than to landscape design. Hence, the project has also been criticized for ignoring the genius loci of the initial site and failing to exploit the rich potentialities of urban green (Hardingham & Rattenbury, 2012; Tate, 2015). Van der Velde (2012), however, states that the genius loci here is derived from the (immaterial) cultural heritage of the site rather than from the morphology of the site: In contrast to the practice of laying out public parks on greenfield sites, or converting existing urban green areas such as hunting forests and palace gardens to parkland, la Villette marks the beginning of a systematic shift in park designation in which urban brownfields increasingly became designated and developed as public parks. Urban relics on and around the site formed the new ‘topography’ of the park scheme. With little former landscape to work with, the importance of the natural and cultural landscape as a basis for place-making decreased, replaced by a genius loci instead derived from the urban landscape. (p. 3) More recently, Park Spoor Noord in Antwerp (case 12) is also a park that is intended to initiate the regeneration of the surrounding socially charged neighbourhoods: Dam, Stuivenberg, and Seefhoek. Park Spoor Noord, located at the site of the former railway infrastructure and depot, was designed by the studios of Bernardo Secchi and Paola Vigano. The park opened in 2008 and serves as a garden for the neighbourhood with many sport and leisure facilities and a youth centre. The park looks atypical as it is an ‘open’ park with hardly any trees to strengthen the feeling of safety; instead the park consists of open lawns, a pond,

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a skate park, bike lanes, a preserved cargo shed, and several newly constructed buildings. The park had a great impact on the neighbourhood and improved the quality of life. Another approach to find space in the city to transform unused rail tracks or roads into park land. Especially rail trails often have an ecological and historical

Figure 3.7  Highline New York: before conversion.

Figure 3.8  Highline New York: after conversion.

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value that fits very well the general objectives of a public park (Harnik, 2010). Historic rail and road tracks may witness historic economic and cultural bounds within and between regions. They have artefacts such as bridges, tunnels, signs, stations, and stops, which may be interesting features to work with. Moreover, railroads often have an interesting and rich biodiversity along the track. The most famous example is probably the High Line in New York. This elevated railroad was constructed in the 1930s to avoid conflict between motor and rail traffic and runs through and between buildings rather than above the streets. The infrastructure served until 1960 and later became neglected, and parts have been demolished. In 1999, the idea arose the reuse the remaining part for light (rail) traffic, which initiated the idea to create a green elevated promenade. The ‘as found’ character of the high line – the industrial character of the steel construction and wild vegetation on the tracks and raised platform – has been inspirational for the redesign: the construction has been restored and repainted, a system of precast concrete walking planks give the impression of invasive plants breaking through the concrete. The High Line opened in 2009 and immediately became a very popular place for locals as well as tourists. The impact of the High Line on the city has been compared with the impact of Central Park: increasing quality of life in the city, contributing to the local identity of the area, and raising property values along the line (Tate, 2015). The opportunity for creating urban green on heritage sites is, however, not limited to the conversion of large, open lands but extends to the reuse of building interiors. In the regeneration of the Atocha station in Madrid (case 5), the former train hall has been converted into an indoor public garden and serves as a waiting area for the new station. Developments in the context of urban farming (Thomaier et al., 2015) create new opportunities for reusing rooftop spaces and large, desolate structures and buildings such as former industrial sites.

4. User-led, or vernacular, transformation1 User-led, pragmatic interventions of the built fabric have occurred throughout history. From the nineteenth century onwards, however, a more conscious and theoryled approach towards heritage and its (re)use was developed in the opposition between the conservation versus the restoration movements. In the twentieth century, this theory on heritage conservation has been brought to an international level, which led to a more scientific approach and professionalization of the discipline (see Chapter 1). Today, heritage conservation and adaptive reuse are highly specialized and involves experts from all kind of domains such as archaeologists, historians, conservators, planners, engineers, architects, and interior designers. Some buildings, however, slipped away from the formal approaches and are used, reused, and adapted in a spontaneous, user-led, or ‘vernacular’ way. The term ‘vernacular’ is introduced in the context of building adaptation by Fred Scott (2008) in his book, On Altering Architecture, in the chapter entitled ‘The Literate and the Vernacular’. Elaborating on Boudon’s sociological study of Le Corbusier’s housing complex in Pessac (Boudon & Lefebvre, 1972), Scott reflects on the status of the adaptations made by its inhabitants – replacement of the continuous

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horizontal windows with traditional rectangular windows, closing of porches and terraces to enlarge the interior space, or even the addition of inclining roofs – in light of the heritage value of this building complex. Scott raises the question, ‘Which of the houses are most authentic: the houses adapted by its inhabitants in a spontaneous and user-led way or the houses that have been restored to their original state? The adoption of the term ‘vernacular’ in the context of the spontaneous, user-led transformations of existing historical buildings sheds new light on the discussion. Vernacular architecture has been perceived as an important aspect of our cultural heritage over the past several decades, and the specific problems related to conservation of this type of heritage have become a field of study in its own right.2 By applying the term ‘vernacular’ to spontaneous, user-led transformations of a more ‘formal’, or in this case even iconic, heritage building of the kind discussed by Le Corbusier, Scott implicitly attributes a heritage value to these spontaneous interventions. Laurajane Smith (2006) equally points to the value of heritage projects that derive from the highly professionalized or expert approach – what she calls the ‘authorized heritage discourse’ – and instead derive and strengthen a community discourse.

The power of community initiatives The reasons for the transformation of the Pessac houses and the ancient ruins in Split by its inhabitants were basically utilitarian. Apart from housing, however, derelict historical buildings and sites within the urban fabric have been reused in an informal, spontaneous way for artistic, cultural, or social activities, such as by squatting communities (Pruijt, 2003; Shaw, 2005; Göbel, 2014). The economic decline beginning in 2007 created ideal conditions for these types of initiatives: expensive, large-scale redevelopment projects had been put on hold, budgets for restoration projects were shrinking, and many derelict buildings remained unoccupied. Apart from these financial reasons, this crisis also initiated a mind shift as to private and collective ownership, sustainable redevelopment, and architecture for a significant part of society. Hence, numerous examples of the vernacular adaptation of derelict buildings have been realized, moving from public art installations (Zeiger, 2011; Iveson, 2013), to improvised performance and event locations (Göbel, 2014), bars or small restaurants (Zeiger, 2011; Carr & Dionisio, 2017), shared offices in derelict industrial or other historical buildings by creative industry professionals (Krivy, 2010; Sasaki, 2010; Kosmala & Sebastyanski, 2013; Cizler, 2014), or a combination of these different types of uses. An iconic example is the reuse of the former shopping arcade Tacheles in Berlin (case 6). After the fall of the Berlin Wall, a group of artists squatted in the ruins, transforming it into an informal art centre known as Kunsthaus Tacheles. The centre included a small movie theatre, Café Zapata, studios for artists, and exhibition spaces; the large open land where the actual arcade had once stood was used as a sculpture garden and event venue (Boym, 2001; Steward, 2002; Shaw, 2005; Sandler, 2011). The transformation of the ruin was a continuous process, led by the artists who occupied the building. Throughout the 1990s,

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Tacheles had a significant impact on the image and distinct urban identity of Berlin as a ‘creative city’ in which the economic, social, and cultural regeneration of the city has been steered by culture and creative industries. Another example is the reuse of the former Franciszek Ramisch factory in Łódź (Poland) by Fabrykancka, a group of young artists and students who wanted to stimulate social interaction and participation in the development of the city primarily through artistic events (case 16). Instead of squatting the abandoned site, Fabrykancka made an agreement with the project developer that owned the site to temporarily use some of the empty space as an art gallery and music club, in order to create a platform for local and upcoming bands and artists and to organize exhibitions and debates about current issues related to the city of Łódź. In doing so, Fabrykancka was actually able to create awareness about the local identity and generate certain changes in the municipal policy (Interview with Błażej Filanowski, one of the Fabrykancka founding members, 2016; Bendyk, 2015; Majer, 2015, pp. 153–154).

The influence of the vernacular on the formal adaptive reuse practice The power of community initiatives as a catalyst for regeneration may be used as a tool or strategy in urban development. Low-profile, community-driven reuse projects as opposed to large-scale commercial development may be an added value as to sustainable urban development and heritage management, and hence several authors have argued for implementing methods from and building on the dynamics of community-driven initiatives in the formal planning process (Pfeifer, 2013; Cizler, 2014; Finn, 2014). For the regeneration and reuse of the former drum factory in Sao Paulo as a sociocultural centre (case 4), Lina Bo Bardi was inspired by the spontaneous reuse of the abandoned buildings by the local community as a playground for children and space to play football, for picnics, and for all kind of informal gatherings. She searched to retain and incorporate the informal atmosphere of the place in her project. Moreover, aside from initiatives supported by local and regional governments, developers may also actively search for temporary users in order to increase the value of their property (Overmeyer, 2007). In the last decade, owners and developers of derelict buildings and sites have been frequently attracting temporary users and opening their sites for vernacular reuse initiatives in order to show the potential and values of their property. Following the user-led initiative by Fabrykancka, the developer who owned the Ramisch factory applied this as a strategy by creating OFF Piotrkowska. After Fabrykancka had been using the site for a few years, other creative people became interested in renting spaces there. In 2012, the developer named the site OFF Piotrkowska, indicating the start of a more conscious effort to brand and organize the site based on the characteristics and connotations it had earned over the years. After a few years, more expensive shops, bars, and restaurants attracted wealthier customers. In 2012, Fabrykancka left the site due to an argument with the developer, and since then, all remaining users are – in some form or another – commercial enterprises. In 2016, the developer officially announced a design for an intervention in the existing architectural

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tissue of the former Ramisch factory, including the restoration and transformation of one of the existing buildings into offices and retail spaces and the erection of a new building on the site with a similar programme (OFF Piotrkowska, 2016). The types of businesses targeted by this new development are more upscale than many of the site’s current tenants. OFF Piotrkowska is not an isolated example of the use of vernacular adaptation as a means to intentionally evoke a process of gentrification. In Gent (Belgium), the former Sidaplex site is soon to be redeveloped into a housing district. Awaiting the start of the project, the developers that owned the site worked together with Kerk (Dutch for “Church”) to provide a temporary use for the site. Kerk wants the place to be a venue where people from the neighbourhood can meet in an open, free, and creative atmosphere (Kerk, 2016). Similar to the other examples previously described, they use the site and spaces as found, without restoration, by adding reclaimed and cheap materials. Their activities are mainly social and cultural, without commercial interest. Unlike Fabrykancka’s initiative at the Ramisch factory, Kerk explicitly presents itself as a temporary initiative and clearly emphasizes their cooperation with the real estate developers that own the site. The developers, on the other hand, advertise the temporary use of the site extensively and openly as a marketing strategy, as this strategy has increased the popularity of the site. The planned housing development, which is called Rute, is presented to the market solely by exhibiting the ambience, convenience, and vibrant atmosphere of the site and its neighbourhood; not a single image of what is to be built has been presented thus far. Instead, Rute’s Facebook page and website advertise activities organized by Kerk and present a map and small description of nice shops, restaurants, bars, and other interesting venues in the neighbourhood (Vanhaerents Development & Re-Vive, 2016a, 2016b).

5. Urban regeneration versus gentrification3 The regeneration of buildings, initiated either bottom-up or top-down, may start a process of gentrification, which may be described as ‘an economic and social process whereby private capital (real estate firms, developers) and individual homeowners and renters reinvest in fiscally neglected neighbourhoods through housing rehabilitation, loft conversion, and the construction of new housing stock’ (Perez, 2004, p. 139, cited in Brown-Saracino, 2010). Although gentrification may be conceived as a positive phenomenon linked to “recapturing the value of the place” (Zukin, 1993, p. 192), this process also has its downsides, which have been brought to the forefront of development discussions by activists, planners, and academics. One main downside of gentrification is the relocation of the original population, which is a consequence of rising rents and property taxes, making the cost of living in the ‘revitalized’ neighbourhoods economically impractical (Pruijt, 2003; Shaw, 2005; Brown-Saracino, 2010; Zukin, 2016). Cizler (2014) has argued in favour of civil and bottom-up initiatives as opposed to commercial redevelopment in order to avoid gentrification. However, instead of avoiding gentrification, vernacular adaptive reuse projects may unintentionally become the driving force behind the long-term gentrification process by

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highlighting the social and economic value of a particular area or site. As stated by Douglas (2013): If neoliberal conditions such as uneven development make space for DIY urban design, it may also be the case that some DIY urban design enables or encourages the continuation of these very conditions. The creators of these interventions may not only be acting in the context of neoliberal processes, but may be inherently part of these processes through both their direct actions and their longer term impact. (Douglas, 2013, p. 19) Indeed, user-led projects are often initiated by people from the “creative class” (Douglas, 2013; Florida, 2011) – like artists or young professionals working in creative industries – and have repeatedly acted as pioneering projects in the gentrification process (Chapple, Jackson, & Martin, 2010; Sasaki, 2010). However, the success of these projects might threaten their survival (Shaw, 2005); this was the case for Kunsthaus Tacheles. Located in Mitte, the area surrounding Tacheles went through a process of gentrification, and in 1999, the plot where Tacheles was located came under the ownership of a project developer. At that time, Tacheles had become one of the most important alternative cultural centres in Berlin; its international appeal – making Berlin a major creative European city – helped the municipality realize its significance. In order to save Tacheles, the building was listed under a monument protection regulation, and the artist collective was granted a 10-year lease to continue using the building (Shaw, 2005). These measures did not stop the gentrification process; it only slowed it down by a decade. The lease expired in 2009, but the artists refused to leave, again becoming squatters. In 2011, however, all artists left the building and the art centre was shut down. Due to its protection as a monument, the building cannot be demolished, and it is currently awaiting a new use – likely a “formal” cultural use. The redevelopment strategies behind OFF Piotrkowska and Rute both employ the mechanism underlying vernacular adaptive reuse as a means to initiate a process of gentrification and, as such, increase the value of their sites. Nevertheless, there are many differences between the two projects. In the redevelopment of the Sidaplex site, the different phases are clearly publicized: the temporary use by Kerk, followed by the start of the demolition and erection of new construction. The temporary use serves as a way to attract attention to the site, letting people experience the place and the neighbourhood. The new project, however, will be built from scratch without any intention to incorporate any aesthetic or programmatic aspects of the temporary use. The activities undertaken in the area of OFF Piotrkowska by the developer, however, are introduced gradually and carried out over a longer term. In this way, smoothly implemented subsequent phases of the commercialization of the space are almost imperceptible to an average customer. An initial introduction of cultural grassroots activities, followed by the skilful use of a concept of creative activities, along with the well thought-out promotion of such activities with an emphasis on the unique nature of OFF Piotrkowska,

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allowed for the creation of a place that fell outside the negatively perceived commercialization (Sowińska-Heim, 2017). Thanks to connotations developed over the years and a consistently built brand, the aura of uniqueness and sense of ennoblement of the place, associated with the paradoxical impression of the location of the project beyond the consumer mainstream, are likely to remain. Risks of gentrification are seen in the case of the redevelopment of modernist ‘social’ housing estates such as Kleiburg in Bijlmermeer where the poor population has been replaced by more wealthy inhabitants. Equally so with the creation of urban parks that may increase property values in the area, as has been the case with the High Line in New York.

Notes 1 This paragraph is derived in part from the following article, with permission from Elsevier: Plevoets, B., & Sowinska-Heim, J. (2018). Community initiatives as a catalyst for regeneration of heritage sites: Vernacular transformation and its influence on the formal adaptive reuse practice. Cities, 78(August 2018), 128–139. doi:https://doi. org/10.1016/j.cities.2018.02.007 2 For example, the ICOMOS International Committee on Vernacular Architecture was founded in 1976. 3

This paragraph is derived in part from the following article, with permission from Elsevier: Plevoets, B., & Sowinska-Heim, J. (2018). Community initiatives as a catalyst for regeneration of heritage sites: Vernacular transformation and its influence on the formal adaptive reuse practice. Cities, 78(August 2018), 128–139. doi:https://doi. org/10.1016/j.cities.2018.02.007

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Houbart, C. (2016). Towards an “integrated conservation”: The contribution of R.M. Lemaire and Piero Gazzola during the first decade of ICOMOS (1965–1975). Paper presented at the Heritage in Transformation. Cultural Heritage Protection in the XXI Century – Problems, Challenges, Predictions, Florence – Lublin. ICOMOS. (1964). The Venice Charter: International charter for the conservation and restoration of monuments and sites. Venice: ICOMOS. ICOMOS (1975). The Declaration of Amsterdam. Paris: ICOMOS. ICOMOS (1987). Charter for the conservation of historic towns and urban areas. Washington, DC: ICOMOS. ICOMOS (2011a). The Paris declaration on heritage as a driver of development. Paris: ICOMOS. ICOMOS (2011b). The Valletta principles for the safeguarding and management of historic cities, towns and urban areas. Paris: ICOMOS. International Museum Office (1931). The Athens charter for the restoration of historic monuments. Paper presented and adopted at the First International Congress of Architects and Technicians of Historic Monuments, Athens. Iveson, K. (2013). Cities within the city: Do-it-yourself urbanism and the right to the city. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 37(3), 941– 956. Jacobs, J. (1961). The death and life of great American cities. New York: Vintage. Kerk. (2016). Kerk. Retrieved October 26, 2016, from www.kerkgent.be Koekebakker, O. (2003). Cultuurpark Westergasfabriek. Rotterdam: nai010 Uitgevers. Kosmala, K., & Sebastyanski, R. (2013). The roles of artists’ collective in the Gdansk Shipyard’s heritage protection. Journal of Cultural Heritage Management and Sustainable Development, 3(2), 116–129. Krier, L. (2009). The architecture of community. Washington, DC: Island Press. Krivy, M. (2010). The idea of empty space: Pro Kaapeli movement and the cable factory in Helsinki. Yhdyskuntasuunnittelu, 48(3), 9–25. Lamandi, C. (1997). The Charters of Athens of 1931 and 1933: Coincidence, controversy and convergence. Conservation and Management of Archaeological Sites, 2(1), 17–28. Lynch, K. (1960). The image of the city (Vol. 11). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Lynch, K. (1971). Site planning (2nd ed.). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Majer, A. (2015). Mikropolis: Socjologia miasta osobistego Łódź. Wyd: University of Łódź. Marquez Cécelia, F., & Poveda, P. (Eds.). (2015). Lacaton & Vassal, 1993–2015: Post-media horizon (Vol. 177/178). Madrid: El Croquis. OFF Piotrkowska. (2016). OFF Piotrkowska – centrum przemysłów kreatywnych. Retrieved November 12, 2015 from http://offpiotrkowska.com/ Overmeyer, K. (Ed.). (2007). Urban pioneers: Berlin. Stadtentwicklung durch Zwischennutzung/temporary use and urban development in Berlin. Berlin: Jovis Verlag GmbH. Perez, G. (2004). The near north-west side story: Migration, displacement and Puerto Rican families. Berkeley: The University of California Press.

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Petzet, M., & Heilmeyer, F. (2012). Reduce, reuse, recycle: Ressource Architektur. Berlin: Hatje Cantz Verlag. Pfeifer, L. (2013). The planner’s guide to tactical urbanism. Retrieved January 25, 2019 from https://reginaurbanecology.files.wordpress.com/2013/10/ tuguide1.pdf Plevoets, B., & Prina, D. (2017). Introduction. Paper presented at the Conservation/Adaptation. Keeping Alive the Spirit of the Place. Adaptive Reuse of Heritage with Symbolic Value. Proceedings of the 5th EAAE Conservation Network Workshop, Liège-Hasselt. Plevoets, B., & Sowinska-Heim, J. (2018, August). Community initiatives as a catalyst for regeneration of heritage sites: Vernacular transformation and its influence on the formal adaptive reuse practice. Cities, 78, 128–139. Plevoets, B., & Van Cleempoel, K. (2016). Heritage, adaptive reuse and regeneration in retail design. In A. Petermans & A. Kent (Eds.), Retail-design: Theoretical perspectives (pp. 114–134). Oxon and New York: Routledge. Postiglione, G. (2015, December). A day at RHG: Diary of a meeting. A+P Smithsons, 138–149. Powell, K. (2000). City transformed: Urban architecture at the beginning of the 21st century. New York: te Neues Publishing. Pruijt, H. (2003). Is the institutionalization of urban movements inevitable? A comparison of the opportunities for sustained squatting in New York City and Amsterdam. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 27(1), 133–157. Rossi, A. (1982). The architecture of the city. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Sandler, D. (2011). Counterpreservation: Decrepitude and memory in post-unification Berlin. Third Text, 25(6), 687–697. Sasaki, M. (2010). Urban regeneration through cultural creativity and social inclusion: Rethinking creative city theory through a Japanese case study. Cities, 27(Suppl. 1), S3–S9. Scott, F. (2008). On altering architecture. London: Routledge. Shaw, K. (2005). The place of alternative culture and the politics of its protection in Berlin, Amsterdam and Melbourne. Planning Theory & Practice, 6(2), 149–169. Silberman, N. (2011). Heritage as a driver of development? Some questions of cause and effects. Paper presented at the ICOMOS 17th General Assembly, 2011–2011–2027/2011–2012–2002, Paris. Smith, L. (2006). Uses of heritage. London and New York: Routledge. Sowinska-Heim, J. (2013). Conversions and redefinitions – Architecture and identity of a place. Art Inquiry, Crossing Borders: Imagining Europe, Representing Periphery, 191–204. Sowinska-Heim, J. (2017). Lodz as the creative city: Cultural industries and the process of urban revival. Paper presented at the Heritage and the city, Krakow. Steward, J. (2002). Das Kunsthaus Tacheles: The Berlin architecture debate of the 1990s in micro-historical context. In S. Taberner & F. Finlay (Eds.), Recasting German identity: Culture, politics, and literature in the Berlin republic (pp. 51–66). Rochester, NY: Camden House.

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Tanghe, J., Vlaeminck, S., & Berghoef, J. (1984). Living cities: A case for urbanism and guidelines for re-urbanization. Oxford: Pergamon Press. Tate, A. (2015). Great city parks. London: Routledge. Thomaier, S., Specht, K., Henckel, D., Dierich, A., Siebert, R., Freisinger, U., & Sawicka, M. (2015). Farming in and on urban buildings: Present practice and specific novelties of Zero-Acreage Farming (ZFarming). Renewable Agriculture and Food Systems, 30(1), 43–54. UNESCO (2005). Vienna memorandum – UNESCO world heritage and contemporary architecture – managing the historic urban landscape. Vienna: UNESCO. UNESCO (2011). Recommendations on the historic urban landscape. Paris: UNESCO. Van Boom, N., & Mommaas, H. (Eds.). (2009). Transformation strategies for former industrial cities. Rotterdam: nai010 Publishers. Van der Valk, A., & Korthals Altes, W. (2010). Ruimtelijke ordening en cultuurhistorie: een instrumenteel en planologisch perspectief. In K. Bosma & J. Kolen (Eds.), Geschiedenis en ontwerp: Handboek voor de omgang met cultureel erfgoed (pp. 114–139). Nijmegen: Vantilt. Van der Velde, R. (2012, October 16–19). Tracing the development of contemporary park−city relationships: Parc de La Villette, Paris. Paper presented at the EAAE/ISUF international conference “New urban configurations”, Delft. Van der Woud, A. (1983). Het Nieuwe Bouwen International: Housing Townplanning. Delft: Delfts University Press & Rijksmuseum Kröller-Müller. Vanhaerents Development & Re-Vive (2016a). Ontdek Rute. Retrieved October 26, 2016, from www. rute.gent Vanhaerents Development & Re-Vive (2016b). Facebook page rute. Retrieved October 26, 2016, from www.facebook.com/rutegent/?fref=ts Warnaby, G. (2009). Look up! Retailing, historic architecture and city centre distinctiveness. Cities, 26(5), 287–292. Wassenberg, F. (2010). The integrated renewal of Amsterdam’s Bijlmermeer highrise. Informationen zur Raumentwicklung, Heft 3/4, 2006, 191–201. Wassenberg, F. (2013). Large housing estates: Ideas, rise, fall and recovery. The Bijlmermeer and beyond (Vol. 48). Delft: Delft University Press. Way, T. (2015). The landscape architecture of Richard Haag: From modern space to urban ecological design. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Weliacher, U. (2008). Syntax of landscape: The landscape architecture of Peter Latz and partners. Basel: Birkhäuser. Zeiger, M. (2011, September). The interventionist’s Toolkit: 3. Places Journal. Retrieved from https://placesjournal.org/series/interventionists-toolkit/ Zukin, S. (1989). Loft living: Culture and capital in urban change. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Zukin, S. (1993). Landscapes of power: From Detroit to Disney World. Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press. Zukin, S. (2016). Gentrification in three paradoxes. City & Community, 15(3), 202– 207.

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An intervention criterion Genius loci

In heritage conservation, the notion of authenticity is generally used as an evaluation criterion. However, being directed towards mainly historical values, authenticity as a concept fails to address the quality of the contemporary intervention. Genius loci, or spirit of place, seems a richer concept to evaluate not only the conservative approach to the existing but also the new intervention. In this chapter, we first describe the concept of authenticity and its use in contemporary conservation policy and practice. Next, we present a literature study on the meaning and use of genius loci within different disciplines: landscape, poetry and literature, architecture, and conservation. To conclude, we present how genius loci might enhance adaptive reuse practice.

1. Authenticity as an objectified criterion Since the invention of ‘modern conservation’ from the twentieth century onwards (see Chapter 1), authenticity has been dominant as an evaluation criterion for any intervention to a heritage building or site. In 1964, the term appeared for the first time in an international doctrine text on heritage conservation, namely in the Charter of Venice, which states, ‘It is our duty to hand them [historic monuments] on in the full richness of their authenticity’ (ICOMOS, 1964, p. 1). In 2005, the ‘test of authenticity’ has been formally introduced as a criterion for inscription in the World Heritage List. As a result of that, the need for a definition of the concept of authenticity became inevitable, and a conference was held in Nara in 1994 that resulted in the Nara Document on Authenticity (Larsen, 1995; Cameron, 2006). The document defines authenticity based on various ‘aspects’ and ‘sources’: Depending on the nature of the cultural heritage, its cultural context, and its evolution through time, authenticity judgements may be linked to the worth of a great variety of sources of information. Aspects of the sources may include form and design, materials and substance, use and function, traditions and techniques, location and setting, and spirit and feeling, and other internal and external factors. The use of these sources permits elaboration of the specific artistic, historic, social, and scientific dimensions of the cultural heritage being examined. (ICOMOS, 1994, article 13)

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But the discussion on the concept and notion of authenticity did not come to a conclusion. Heynen (2006) argued that Nara does not offer a clearly fixed meaning but that its intended vagueness recognizes the underlying but hard-to-define qualities of authenticity. Jivén and Larkham (2003) present an extensive review of various views on the meaning and interpretation of the concept of authenticity, and, contrarily to Heynen, they argue for an elaborate theoretical framework on authenticity as a means for designers to intervene in the historical built environment. Some authors questioned the authority of experts in judging authenticity as opposed to the interpretation by the local community (Assi, 2000; Davison, 2008; Deacon & Smeets, 2013). Jokiletho in his writings on authenticity cites Philippot who defines authenticity in relation to works of art but points to its relevance also for the built heritage. ‘The authenticity of a work of art is a measure of truthfulness of the internal unity of the creative process and the physical realization of the work, and the effects of its passage through historic time’ (Philippot in Jokilehto, 1999, p. 296). Unlike most definitions, Philippot does not unravel the concept into different parameters. Instead he refers to both the concept and the context of a work of art, as well as to its physical appearance. Moreover, it refers not just to its original appearance but instead to all historical periods, the ‘passage of time’. In 2014, a new international document, called Nara+20 (ICOMOS, 2014) was developed that builds on the original Nara Document but explicitly points to (1) the importance of social inclusion and community participation in heritage conservation, (2) the relationship between the tangible and intangible aspects of heritage and its influence on conservation practice, (3) the role of heritage in sustainable development. Obviously the concept of authenticity is not limited to the field of heritage conservation but has been discussed within various disciplines such as philosophy (e.g. Baudrillard, 1994) and the visual arts (e.g. Benjamin, 2008 [1936]), to name but a few. Semantically, the word ‘authentic’ refers to the Greek authentikòs (autòs, myself, the same) and the Latin auctor (an originator, authority) and thus to ‘original’ as opposed to ‘copy’, ‘real’ as opposed to ‘pretended’, ‘genuine’ as opposed to ‘counterfeit’ (Jokilehto, 1999). According to Merriam-Webster, being authentic is having authority, being trustworthy, credible, convincing, real, genuine or original. But, different from other disciplines such as philosophy and visual arts, for example, the heritage conservation field has tried to ‘objectify’ authenticity by means of international charters and conventions and by introducing it as formal evaluation criterion for inclusion in the World Heritage List. The definition of authenticity as stated in the Nara Document has proved to be a valuable criterion to assess the quality of a restoration project (e.g. Van Balen, 2008; Plevoets & Van Cleempoel, 2011; Favaretto & Signorelli, 2017), but it seems to reach certain limits when projected on adaptive reuse. Indeed, the quality of an adaptive reuse project is the result of two elements: the new design interventions versus conservative or restorative interventions. Hence, we argue that the redesign of an existing (heritage) building or site cannot be approached merely by scientific evaluation criteria to measure its ‘authenticity’. Such an approach seems to look primarily at the present condition of the site in relation to its past condition. Successfully redesigned projects, however, strike

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a balance between new interventions that relate intelligently to its future use. This constant dialogue between past-present-future is characteristic for reuse (see Chapter 5). Aware of its limits to define or even to name this specific condition that makes some interventions so attractive, we introduce the historical and layered concept of genius loci.

2.  Genius loci: the intimate relationship between man and environment The concept of genius loci, or ‘spirit of place’, originated in Roman religion: not only did persons have a genius, a sort of guardian spirit that accompanied them through life and determined their character and essence, but also places such as buildings, towns, or landscapes. The active devotion of the genius loci, often visualized as a snake, took place at little house shrines (lararia) or at the city gates (Petzet, 2008), clearly illustrating the important relationship between humans and the places they inhabit. The genius loci of a place could be understood through the individual features of the place, just as a person’s character could be read from observing the particularities from his or her face and bodily expressions. Moreover, like the human character, the character of a place develops slowly but also admits fluctuations in mood and atmosphere following diurnal or seasonal cycles or patterns of use (Thompson, 2003). Throughout history, the concept of genius loci has been used in relation to poetry, literature, travel writing, landscape and garden design, urban planning, architecture, and conservation to point to places with a unique and distinct character and atmosphere. Unlike authenticity, which has been made into an objective criterion and has been turned into a ‘scientific’ evaluation criterion, genius loci has been approached as a much more layered and nuanced concept, open for personal or subjective interpretation.

Genius loci and the landscape: a poetic approach The introduction of the ‘genius of the place’ as a design principle is attributed to Alexander Pope (1688–1744) (e.g. Hunt & Willis, 1975; Thacker, 1979; Batey, 1999; Jivén & Larkham, 2003; Thompson, 2003), a poet and translator of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey and, as such, well versed in ancient culture. Pope showed a remarkable sensitivity to landscape already in his early pastoral writings. The writings of Pope but also of his contemporaries Antony Ashley Cooper, 3rd Earl of Shaftesbury (1671–1713) and Joseph Addison (1672–1719), who both had a great influence on Pope, were an inspiration for British garden and landscape designers at the time. More than Cooper and Addison, Pope was active in gardening and the elaboration of its theory. In 1719, he was invited as keynote on a gardening conference organized by Princess Caroline to present his reflections on beauty in relation to garden design. In the same period, Pope met William Kent (1685–1748), artist, garden designer, and architect. With the Earl of Burlington as a patron, they designed together his gardens of Chiswick estate (Batey, 1999). Pope, strongly

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influenced by Kent, further tested his ideas on gardening in the design of the gardens surrounding his house at Twickenham. He constantly changed and adapted the gardens according to his evolving ideas. In 1731, Pope tentatively turned his concepts into guiding principles in his fourth epistyle to the Earl of Burlington: To build, to plant, whatever you intend, To rear the Column, or the Arch to bend, To swell the Terras, or to sink the Grot; In all, let Nature never be forgot. Consult the Genius of the Place in all, That tells the Waters or to rise, or fall, Or helps th’ ambitious Hill the Heav’ns to scale, Or scoops in circling Theatres the Vale, Calls in the Country, catches opening Glades, Joins willing Woods, and varies Shades from Shades, Now breaks, or now directs, th’ intending Lines, Paints as you plant, and, as you work, Designs. Begin with Sense, of ev’ry Art the Soul, Parts answ’ring Parts, shall slide into the Whole, Spontaneous Beauties all around advance, Start, ev’n from Difficulty, strike, from Chance; Nature shall join you; Time shall make it grow A Work to wonder at – perhaps a STOW. Pope’s ideas on gardening are a reaction against the seventeenth-century French and Dutch gardens, like the famous gardens of Versailles, which he found too rigid, too pompous, and unnatural (Thacker, 1979). Hence: ’In all, let Nature never be forgot‘ and ‘Consult the Genius of the Place in all’ are direct critiques on the practice of planning a garden on a drawing board without any account of the particularities and qualities of the site. Pope, instead, calls for a close reading of the existing characteristics of the site and for employing these qualities to create an ‘improved’ version of the natural landscape; as argued by Batey (1999), Pope and Kent were both familiar with the principle of aemulatio in literature and visual arts (see Chapter 2) and applied this concept also to the design of a garden. The text also denotes Kent’s method for garden design – “Paints as you plant” – not starting from an overall plan but from drawings and paintings showing individual scenes and vistas, which were then realized on site. ‘Time shall make it grow’ equally refers to their way of working – letting a garden evolve rather than considering it as being static and planning all the scenes in advance. Pope’s conception of the genius loci as a guiding principle in gardening and landscape design has led to the Pitoresque movement and later to the public park movement and influenced contemporary professional landscape architecture. It directly induced the conception of the English Landscape Garden (Hunt & Willis, 1975). Indeed, many characteristics of the English Landscape Garden – partly natural setting, partly designed to look as such; strong scenographic qualities and

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Genius loci Figure 4.1  Chiswick Gardens by Pope and Kent, 1736, Jean Rocque print.

theatrical composition; reference to classical elements – were already present in Pope’s garden designs and reflected in his writings.

Genius loci in literature and travelogues Genius loci was also an important leitmotif in other literary genres such as novels and travelogues. Stojmenska-Elzeser (2013) describes the influence of literature on the perception of place, arguing that place is both a geographical notion and a cultural construct. She uses genius loci as a term that points to the uniqueness of a place, including its physical characteristics but also its history, narratives, and meanings. Her analysis shows that the encounter with the genius loci as expressed in novels, poetry, and travelogues represents an individual and subjective experience and a matter of relation, dialogue, and interaction between man and the environment. Sverko (2017) more specifically focuses on the expression of the genius loci in travelogues that result from a visit to the historical centre of Split (case 1) as part of a Grand Tour by eighteenth century architects, and the travelogue by Robert Adam and Bartolozzi (1764) in particular. She argues that where in the seventeenth century architects, among them Andreas Palladio, were mainly interested in the architectural characteristics of the palace of Diocletian of which the ruins were incorporated into the fabric of the city, Adam was more attentive to the genius loci of the place, formed not only by the beauty of the ruins of the Roman palace but also by the different historical layers, the life that takes place within it and its relationship with the surrounding natural landscape. His way of looking at the historic centre of Split as a palimpsest formed by different material historical layers and narratives also influenced him as an architect and made him deviate from the very strict classical models as described by Vitrivius and move towards a

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neoclassical architecture that is more rooted in the natural topography of the site and/or its urban context (Sverko, 2017; Vlaić & Šverko, 2017). The literary and visual description of the genius loci of particular places has been used as a source of inspiration and knowledge by historians, architects, artists, sociologists, and others. Walter Benjamin (1892–1940), for example, used travelogues to understand not just the physicalities but especially the sociocultural and atmospheric qualities of places. The ‘notes and materials’, which he collected in preparation of his essay ‘The Arcades of Paris’ – it was unfinished when Benjamin died in 1940 – include numerous excerpts from novels, travelogues, poems, and other sources that describe all sort of places (Benjamin, Tiedemann, & McLaughlin, 2002 [1932]). Via these descriptions, Benjamin wanted to gain insight into and understanding of the aspects that characterized nineteenth-

Figure 4.2  Plan and impression of the historic centre of Split, drawing by Robert Adam & Bartolozzi, 1764.

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century society. But, as argued by Hendrix (2009) and Sverko (2017), the representation of the genius loci in literary sources often also influenced the later restoration, adaptation, and development of buildings, towns, and landscapes. A remarkable example of literature that describes the genius loci of places are the travelogues by Vernon Lee, pseudonym for Violet Paget (1856–1935). Her writings have been approached and studied extensively in relation to gender studies, sexual identity, aesthetics, and cultural politics (Wanitzek, 2016). There are nevertheless rich passages with spatial descriptions that deserve our attention in relation to the concept of genius loci. Indeed, several passages explicitly aim at describing and revealing the genius loci of particular places (Lee, 1905, 1907, 1908, 1914, 1925). Lee’s travelogues are not documentary – they do not report a full journey in all its facets or serve as a tourist guidebook. Instead, they are collected reports of the author’s experience of particular place at a specific moment in time. Lee’s essays are extremely personal, some seemingly anecdotal, and describe the elements that moved her, that affected her state of mind. Besides these essays on concrete places and events, in most books she also elaborates on the concept of genius loci in more general terms. In Genius Loci: Notes on Places (1907), Vernon Lee describes her experience of genius loci as follows: To certain among us, undeniably, places, localities (I can find no reverent and tender enough expression for them in our practical, personal language) become objects of intense and most intimate feeling. Quite irrespective of their inhabitants, and virtually of their written history, they can touch us like living creatures; and one can have with them friendship of the deepest and most satisfying sort. . . . [T]he greatest good which human creatures can do us, good for transcending any practical help or intellectual guidance, it seems to express itself quite naturally in vague metaphors borrowed from those other friends who are not human beings: for it is the good of charming us, of raising our spirits, of subduing our feelings into serenity and happiness; of singing in our memory like melodies; and bring out, even as melodies do when we hear or remember them, whatever small twitter of music there may be in our soul. These are the highest gifts of our human affections; and surely we receive them equally, nay, sometimes even better, from the impersonal reality whom I call, for want of a better name, and from a lurking wish to bring some thanksgiving, the Genius Loci. (Lee, 1907, pp. 3–5) Lee uses genius loci to point to the extraordinary quality of particular places, which makes these places able to move people emotionally. She does not define genius loci, nor does she give explicitly her interpretation of the concept. Instead, her use, description, and implementation of the concept vary in her different books and even within a single book or chapter. As noted by Cary (1960), this is reflected not only in her generalizations on genius loci but also in her way of writing it – capitalized, italicized, sometimes neither, sometimes both. As such, perhaps Vernon Lee intentionally aimed to stress the ambiguous character of genius loci.

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Although in some passages she describes genius loci as being connected to concrete places, in others she approaches it as an artificial construction of the human mind and fancy. In the concluding chapter of Genius Loci: Notes on Places, she speaks about those places where we come across only by accident, passing by on our way to other places, where we stay only for a short while. The aroused love by such unexpected, intensive, and short encounters with a place is what she calls amours de voyage: And here comes in the value of my amours de voyage. Into the eternal instability they bring an element of consecutiveness, of peace: the element of happy remembrance. For love, of whatever sort intensity, ties us to the past; and, in a certain fashion, carries the warm present into the dreary, dim future. It knits things together otherwise quite separate, in the kindle meshes of association; and allows us to live, however, interruptedly, not where we are, but where we would be.  . . . All that I call amours de voyage are (but so is the best part of all loving, whether of persons, art, ideas, or ideals) mere drama of the imagination; and of the nature of what discontented persons are pleased to call unreality. They exist only for those who can make them up, perceivable only to the feelings and fancy of which they are a part; satisfying like art, religions, philosophic systems, and all the things we make to suit our liking. (Lee, 1907, pp. 204, 206) Also, in The Sentimental Traveler, Lee stresses the importance of the imaginary in the appreciation of places ‘ “The places for which we feel such love are fashioned, before we even see them, by our wishes and fancy’ (p. 4). In the concluding chapter of the same book, she goes even a step further, saying that the genius loci resides exactly in those aspects of the place that we do not know, which we can only imagine – the ‘beyond’, as she calls this – such as at ‘the pass between us and the seashore’ or ‘the turn of the road where our daily walk comes to an end’ (p. 273). Lee’s reflections do not aim at defining genius loci in general terms or to give a precise description of the genius loci of specific places. Instead, she aims to illustrate a way of looking at and experiencing the places that we pass by, visit, and inhabit; as she states it herself: ‘Not to teach others, but to show them how far I have taught myself, and how far they may teach themselves’ (Lee, stated in Colby, 2003, p. 256).

Genius loci in architectural theory The concept of genius loci has been introduced in architectural theory by the Norwegian architect and theorist Christian Norberg-Schulz, shouldered very much by Heidegger’s phenomenological writings on architecture. Heidegger criticized the fact that architecture was often evaluated in terms of aesthetics, while for him the quality of architecture lies in the intimate relationship between man and his environment, the way the place is used, for which he uses the term ‘dwelling’

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(Heidegger, 1997 [1971]). In the introduction of Genius Loci: Towards a Phenomenology of Architecture’ (1980) Norberg-Schulz writes that: ‘dwelling’, in an existential sense, is the purpose of architecture. Men dwells when he can orientate himself within and identify himself with an environment, or, in short, when he experiences the environment as meaningful. Dwelling therefore implies something more than ‘shelter’. It implies that the spaces where life occurs are places, in the true sense of the word. A place is a space which has a distinct character. Since ancient times the genius loci, or ‘spirit of place’, has been recognized as the concrete reality man has to face and come to terms with in his daily life. Architecture means to visualize the genius loci, and the task of the architect is to create meaningful places, whereby he helps man to dwell. (p. 5) To Norberg-Schulz, the genius loci is more than the ‘character’ or ‘atmosphere’ of a place – although atmosphere is an important aspect of genius loci – it is a quality that is fundamentally connected to a specific place and that is made visual through architecture. As such, he believes good architecture is always a ‘vocation’ of the place. This vocation of the place can be through the relationship between the building and the natural environment in which it is located. In that sense, Heidegger, in Building, Dwelling, Thinking (1997 [1971]), points to the dual meaning of the word ‘building’. In modern society, ‘building’ has been primarily understood as ‘constructing’, but in the past, dwelling and building were once understood as one and the same activity. Heidegger states that in German, bauen is the verb for ‘to build’ and der Bauer is the noun for ‘farmer’. As such, to build may be understood as to cultivate, to grow, to take care. Norberg-Schulz describes three different ways in which architecture may relate to nature. The first way implies that we ‘visualize’ our understanding of nature; for example, we create an enclosure where nature suggests a delimited space or a path where nature gives a direction. The second way is to ‘complement’ the given situation by adding what is lacking. In the third way, we ‘symbolize’ nature by translating a natural characteristic of the environment into the characteristic of a built structure. But the genius loci is established not only through the relationship between architecture and its natural surroundings but equally through its relationship with the (historical) built fabric in which it is located. Norberg-Schulz describes the genius loci of three historic towns that he believes have retained their genius loci throughout the course of history: Prague, Khartoum, and Rome. He describes how in each of these towns, the architecture is rooted in the natural topology of the earth, how historical layers of fabric are built up successively, coexist, and merge with one another and how different meanings, narratives, and uses are gathered. Although Norberg-Schulz’s theories on genius loci have widely influenced and inspired practicing architects and architectural theorists, they have not been free from criticism. Critiques are mainly directed towards his interpretation of modernist architectural theory and his interpretation of the ‘crisis of place’ as the exclusive

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result of modernist architectural principles and planning modes (Heynen, 1999); his romantic interpretation of Heidegger’s philosophy of dwelling (Cacciari, cited in Heynen, 1999; Haddad, 2010); and his nostalgic view on architecture, which shows a great appreciation for Antique and Medieval urban cores, vernacular architecture, and rural settings while overlooking contemporary reality (Wilken, 2013). Besides Norberg-Schulz, other theorists have also tried to describe the intangible, poetic quality of architecture as well as the elements or design features through which this quality can be established. Christopher Alexander, for example, argues that in architecture, high quality can be objectively distinguished from poor quality, but this distinction is made intuitively, irrespective of preset parameters. In two extensive works, The Timeless Way of Building (1979) and A Pattern Language: Towns, Buildings, Construction (with Ishikawa & Silverstein, 1977), Alexander tries to describe and unravel this quality of architecture, which he calls ‘the quality without a name’. In doing so, he looks at vernacular constructions, towns that have grown historically, constructions made by animals, and the naturally grown landscape; he takes into account not only their physical characteristics but also the way the space is adapted to and shaped by its use. Based on this analysis, he develops a ‘pattern language’ – a set of ‘guidelines’ to organize and improve buildings and places. Alexander has put his own theory into practice when building the Linz Café, a temporary construction that was part of the 1980 summer exposition Forum Design in Linz. In a small booklet, he describes the process to design and build the café, starting from his impressions and investigation of the site, to deciding upon the programme, the design of the building and its interior, the construction, and finally the building in use (Alexander, 1981). He refers to traditional architecture to which he ascribes a clear qualities ‘The forms of traditional societies . . . embody, above all, the deepest substance of what life is, both in functional terms, and also in much deeper terms’ (p. 86). Further in his reflections on the Linz Café, Alexander defines ‘an objective standard of spatial organisation’: Certain forms of spatial organization are so closely, and so deeply, allied to our own nature, that any object (building, door, window, plate, weaving, tile, carving) which contains this spatial structure, seems to us to be a mirror of the self. That is, it presents itself to us, as a picture of all that is in us . . . the best, the worst, the most ridiculous, the most wonderful, the happiest, the saddest and the most hilarious. Very few things possess this quality. But it turns out those which do are, amazingly enough, the same for everyone. They are the same for different people from entirely different cultures. So, this mirror of the self somehow presents us with an objective standard of spatial organization. (pp. 87–88) Isis Brook (2000) presents an analysis of the various notions and meanings of genius loci in architectural theory. She distinguishes between ‘spirit of place’ and ‘sense of place’, which both have been used as translations for the term genius loci and are usually considered synonyms. She argues, however, that ‘spirit of

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place’ implies that it is intrinsic to the place, while ‘sense of place’ – related to sensing place – can exist only through human interaction, implying that genius loci is an exclusively human construct of meanings and values imposed on a certain place. Although in the article, Brook primarily presents a literature review and does not give new or personal insights on the meaning or role of genius loci in architecture and architectural theory, she does formulate several acute and fundamental questions related to the conception of genius loci. (1) Does every place have a genius loci? She reflects that probably every place has one, but often the genius loci is being ignored, hidden, driven underground, or its quality is just neutral or even bad. (2) What is the role of human beings with respect to the genius loci? Is genius loci intrinsic to the place, or is it a social construct, a projection of human values to the place? Can human patterns be part of or be shaped by the genius loci? Perez-Gomez (2007), in his essay ‘The City Is Not a Post-Card: The Problem of Genius Loci’, elaborates on how architecture can acknowledge the specific cultural particularities of the genius loci. Different from Alexander and to a certain extent also from Norberg-Schulz, Perez-Gomez does not attempt to unravel the parameters or characteristics of the genius loci and does not believe in an objective approach to the genius loci. He argues that an objective analysis of the place is not a good starting point to create a more ‘rooted’ architecture. Instead, he calls for a personal engagement with a place through experiencing its physicalities and uncovering its narratives and meanings. Perez-Gomez compared this personal search of the architect with the search of the painter, the writer, or the musician, a search that is always oriented by a historical sense, by the identification of a founding tradition. ‘Good’ architecture, he argues, benefits from a certain ambiguity because it is rooted in locality but equally transcends it to allow for nondogmatic alternative interpretations: [A great work of] architecture is profoundly meaningful precisely because it does not have a meaning, like a logo of a company or a false idol, and rather opposes all strong dogmatic and ideological reductions. . . . When successful, architecture unveils the sense of place and returns it to us as that which has always been given, as the gift itself. (Pérez-Gomez, 2007, p. 46) In his Atmospheres (2006), Peter Zumthor is very explicit about this personal, subjective approach in his own work: These answers to the questions [on creating good atmospheric buildings] are highly personal. I have nothing else. They are also highly sensitive and individual. In fact, they are probably the products of sensitivities themselves, personal sensibilities, making me do things in a particular way. (p. 21) Buildings become particularly interesting when they relate to their surrounding in such a way that it becomes ‘impossible to imagine the place where they stand

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without them’ (2010, p. 17). About his work being embedded in the existing context, he continues: I have a passionate desire to design such buildings, buildings that, in time, grow naturally into being a part of the form and history of their place. Every new work of architecture intervenes in a specific historical situation. It is essential to the quality of the intervention that the new building should embrace qualities that can enter into a meaningful dialogue with the existing situation. For the intervention to find its place, it must make us see what already exists in a new light. (2010, pp. 17–18) In the case of his Kolumba Art Museum in Cologne (case 9), this meaningful dialogue becomes tangible in the specific dialogue created between the new and old volumes of the fabric and the texture of the new versus old materials.

Genius loci in heritage conservation Where genius loci had become an important concept for architectural theory from the 1980s onwards, it did not receive similar attention in conservation theory. Instead, as previously discussed, conservation theory was more focussed on authenticity as a key concept since it appeared in the Venice Charter in 1964. Nevertheless, as argued by Michael Petzet (2008), this is only because the meaning and importance of genius loci have always been accepted ‘as a matter of course’ as conservation always starts from appointing a specific place as ‘valuable’, ‘worthy to pass on to future generation’ based on its ‘unique character’, or, more generally, its genius loci (Jivén & Larkham, 2003). The concept of genius loci seems closely linked to authenticity (Norberg-Schulz, 1980; Jivén & Larkham, 2003; Markevičienė, 2012) for it is rooted in the concrete and unique local conditions. Indeed, the Nara Document of Authenticity mentions ‘spirit and feeling’ as one of the ‘sources of authenticity’. The interpretation of this particular aspect of authenticity, however, turned out to be rather ambiguous as it involved tangible and intangible elements. Therefore, ‘spirit of place’ became in 2008 the topic of the 16th General Assembly of ICOMOS in Quebec, giving particular attention to the relationship between the tangible and intangible aspects. The conference resulted in the Quebec Declaration on the Preservation of the Spirit of Place (ICOMOS, October 4, 2008). The definition given by the declaration is very broad and open for diverse interpretations, but it is nevertheless an important contribution to the investigation of the spirit of place as it states: Spirit of place is defined as the tangible (buildings, sites, landscapes, routes, objects) and the intangible elements (memories, narratives, written documents, rituals, festivals, traditional knowledge, values, textures, colours, odours, etc.), that is to say the physical and the spiritual elements that give meaning, value, emotion and mystery to place. Rather than separate spirit from place, the intangible from the tangible, and consider them as opposed

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to each other, we have investigated the many ways in which the two interact and mutually construct one another. The spirit of place is constructed by various social actors, its architects and managers as well as its users, who all contribute actively and concurrently to give it meaning. (ICOMOS, October 4, 2008, p. 2) The definition of the Quebec Declaration approaches genius loci as the totality of all values – tangible and intangible, intrinsic and actual – that are attributed to a site by its different actors rather than approaching it as one particular aspect of authenticity, as had been the case in the Nara Document. However, more than just the sum of the different values, we believe the genius loci becomes visible exactly where those individual values intersect and interact. Although the conference on spirit of place resulted in over 200 papers discussing the meaning, importance, and threats towards the genius loci of heritage buildings and sites, it did not steer an international discussion on this concept, as did the Nara conference for the concept of authenticity. Moreover, genius loci has not been used as a formal criterion for evaluation by UNESCO, ICOMOS, or any other internationally renewed heritage organization or agency. As such, as in the field of architecture, as well as in the field of conservation, genius loci has up to present remained a somehow ambiguous concept, open for various interpretations.

3. Preserving, or recreating the genius loci through adaptive reuse A true challenge for conservators, architects, and designers is how to preserve and revive this genius loci of buildings and places in the process of adaptive reuse. The genius loci in that case has to be translated into an actual context, as stated by Herbertson: There is a genius loci as well as a Zeitgeist – a spirit of place as well as of time. . . . The spirit of a place changes with the spirit of the time; it alters with man’s relation to the region. (in Loukaki, 1997, p. 308) Confronted with the task of adaptive reuse, both the genius loci as well as the zeitgeist have to be taken into account. The product of the overlap between place and time is memory. Memory is impossible without forgetting, just as buildings cannot be preserved without decline. Malpas (2012) explains that memory and forgetting are not separate or contradictory but are instead two sides of the same process. Where forgetting brings certain aspects to the background, it also enhances other aspects or opens up places for new impressions. This process of balancing memory and forgetting is crucial to the process of altering existing buildings. Rather than preserving all objectified and individual values of a building or site, altering existing buildings requires a sensitive judgement regarding which values to add, which to enhance or remember, and which values to let go. This judgement, however, has to be made very cautiously as the genius loci seems very delicate.

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Laurajane Smith approaches ‘heritage’ not as an object but as a process and states that the essence of heritage is therefore the sense of place rather than its physical condition (although this is also part of it): Whether we are dealing with traditional definitions of ‘tangible’ and intangible’ representations of heritage, we are actually engaging with a set of values and meanings including such elements as emotion, memory and cultural knowledge and experiences. It is value and meaning that is the real subject if heritage preservation and management processes, and as such all heritage is ‘intangible’ whether these values or meanings are symbolized by a physical site, place, landscape or other physical representation, or are represented within the performances of languages, dance, oral histories or other forms of ‘intangible heritage’. (Smith, 2006, p. 56) The process of adaptive reuse may hence be an opportunity to recreate, rethink, or strengthen the genius loci of a building, a site, or a landscape. An example where the adaptation of a site has charged it with new values and meanings is the adaptation by Carlo Scarpa of the Castelvecchio in Verona into a museum, probably the most famous and widely acknowledged example of adaptive reuse of the twentieth century (case 3). The castle has its roots in the thirteenth century but has been rebuilt several times in the course of history. In the early twentieth century, the rehabilitation of the site was executed as a ‘stylistic restoration’, emphasizing and enhancing elements from the Gothic period. Because the building was strongly damaged during World War II, the complex needed another renovation. Scarpa, commissioned for this task, applied a restauro critico; he did not intend to restore the building to its original or former condition, but he critically recomposed the building by selecting elements from the past through a process of demolition of more recent layers, excavating and uncovering older ones, and adding new elements. He visualized in his project simultaneously different historic layers of the site. This juxtaposing of different historical layers, however, did not compromise the authentic experience of the site. On the contrary, it enhances the richness and depth of its memory. Moreover, Scarpa redesigned the interior spaces in order to fit the exhibited objects. Thus the attention of the visitor is drawn not only towards the exhibited objects but equally to the building itself. This experience is enhanced by the presentation of the historic artefacts and works of arts on raised pedestals, uniquely designed for each individual piece. Scarpa’s most significant scenographic intervention is the relocation of the Cangrande (equestrian statue), which is the most importance piece of the museum collection, outside the actual museum. Scarpa’s recreating of the genius loci of the site is established through the relationships he creates: the relationship between the history of the site and the history of the Verona region, the relationships between the different historic layers of the site, and the relationship between the exhibited objects and the space surrounding them. A more recent example of adaptive reuse that successfully recreated the genius loci of the site is the transformation of the ruins of the church of Escuelas Pías de San Fernando in Madrid into a university library (case 8). The church was

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burned down during the Spanish Civil War in 1936 and has been preserved as a ruin ever since. The design of the new programme illustrates a deep understanding of the genius loci of the site, building further on its narrative as well as physical memory. Its contemporary function as a library is closely related to the original educational programme of the site. The ruin is preserved in its rough but delicate condition as a witness to its violent history, while new interventions evoke the atmospheric qualities of the crumbling ruin. As illustrated in the examples of Castelvecchio Museum and the library in the church of Escuelas Pías de San Fernando, the architect was able to recreate and intensify the genius loci through establishing meaningful relationships between the different values found at the site – tangible as well as intangible values. In order to visualize these relationships, a new layer is added that builds further on the narrative and physical memory of the given building or site. We believe that for the discipline to move further, the future practice and theory of adaptive reuse should aim not just at respecting what is handed over from the past to the present but instead should actively search for the values and memory of the host space and try to establish a meaningful relationship between the present and the past through a sequence of tangible and intangible associations.

References Adam, R., & Bartolozzi, F. (1764). Ruins of the palace of the Emperor Diocletian at Spalatro in Dalmatia. Printed for the author. Alexander, C. (1979). The timeless way of building. New York: Oxford University Press. Alexander, C. (1981). The Linz Café. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Alexander, C., Ishikawa, S., & Silverstein, M. (1977). A pattern language: Towns, buildings, construction. Berkeley: Center for Environmental Structure. Assi, E. (2000, November). Searching for the concept of authenticity: Implementation guidelines. Journal of Architectural Conservation, 3, 60–69. Batey, M. (1999). Alexander Pope: The poet and the landscape. London: Barn Elms. Baudrillard, J. (1994). Simulacra and simulation (S. Glaser, Trans.). Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Originally published as Simulacres et Simulation (Edition Galilee, 1981). Benjamin, W. (2008 [1936]). The work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction. London: Penguin Books. Benjamin, W., Tiedemann, R., & McLaughlin, K. (2002 [1932]). The arcades project. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Brook, I. (2000). Can ‘spirit of place’ be a guide to ethical building? In W. Fex (Ed.), Ethics and the built environment (pp. 139–151). London: Routledge. Cameron, C. (2006). Conservation in changing societies: World heritage inducators. In T. Patricio, K. Van Balen, & C. De Jonge (Eds.), Conservation in changing societies: Heritage and development (pp. 39–47). Leuven: Raymond Lemaire International Centre for Conservation. Cary, R. (1960). Aldous Huxley, Vernon Lee, and the Genius Loci. Colby Library Quarterly, 5(6), 128–140.

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Colby, V. (2003). Vernon Lee: A literary biography. Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press. Davison, G. (2008). Heritage: From patrimony to pastiche. In G. Fairclough, R. Harrison, J. Jameson, & J. Schofield (Eds.), The heritage reader (pp. 31–41). New York: Routledge. Deacon, H., & Smeets, R. (2013). Authenticity, value and community involvement in heritage management under the World Heritage and Intangible Heritage Conventions. Heritage & Society, 6(2), 129–143. Favaretto, G., & Signorelli, L. (2017). Which authenticity for Facist regime architecture? The case if the Santarelli Kindergarten in Forli (Italy). Paper presented at the REHAB 2017. 3th international conference in Preservation, Maintenance and Rehabilitation of Historic Buildings and Structures, Braga, Portugal. Haddad, E. (2010). Christian Norberg-Schulz’s phenomenological project in architecture. Architectural Theory Review, 15(1), 88–101. Heidegger, M. (1997 [1971]). Building, dwelling, thinking. In N. Leach (Ed.), Rethinking architecture: A reader in cultural theory (pp. 100–109). London and New York: Routledge. Heynen, H. (1999). Architecture and modernity: A critique. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Heynen, H. (2006). Questioning authenticity. National Identities, 8(3), 287–300. Hendrix, H. (2009). From early modern to romantic literary tourism: A diachronical perspective. In N. Watson (Ed.), Literary tourism and nineteenth-century culture (pp. 13–24). London: Palgrave Macmillan. Hunt, J. D., & Willis, P. (Eds.). (1975). The genius of the place: The English landscape garden 1620–1820. London: Paul Elek. ICOMOS (1994, November 1–6). The Nara document on authenticity in relation to the world heritage convention. Nara: ICOMOS. ICOMOS (2008, October 4). Québec declaration on the preservation of the spirit of place. Québec: ICOMOS. ICOMOS (2014, October 22–24). NARA + 20: On heritage practices, cultural values, and the concept of authenticity. Nara: ICOMOS. Jivén, G., & Larkham, P. (2003). Sense of place, authenticity and character: A commentary. Journal of Urban Design, 8(1), 67–81. Jokilehto, J. (1999). A history of architectural conservation (4th ed.). Oxford: Elsevier. Klingenberg, E. (2012). Conservation of cultural memories in interiors – A challenge for new use. Paper presented at the IE International Conference: Reinventing Architecture and Interiors: The Past, the Present and the Future, Ravensbourne, March 28–29. Larsen, K. (Ed.). (1995). NARA conference on authenticity in relation to the World Heritage on authenticity in relation to the World Heritage/Conference de NARA sur l’authenticité dans le cadre de la Convention du patrimoine Mondial. Paris: UNESCO World Heritage Centre. Lee, V. (1905). The enchanted woods, and other essays on the genius of places. London and New York: John Lane, Bodley Head. Lee, V. (1907). Genius Loci: Notes on places. London: John Lane, Bodley Head.

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Lee, V. (1908). The sentimental traveller, notes on places. London: John Lane, odley Head. Lee, V. (1914). The tower of the mirrors, and other essays on the spirit of places. London and New York: John Lane, Bodley Head. Lee, V. (1925). The golden keys and other essays on the genius loci. London and New York: John Lane, Bodley Head. Loukaki, A. (1997). Whose genius loci? Contrasting interpretations of the “Sacred Rock of the Athenian Acropolis”. Annals of the Association of American Geographers, 87(2), 306–329. Markevičienė, J. (2012). The spirit of the place – The problem of (re)creating. Journal of Architecture and Urbanism, 36(1), 73–81. doi:10.3846/20297955.2012.679789 Norberg-Schulz, C. (1980). Genius Loci: Towards a phenomenology of architecture. New York: Rizzoli. Pérez-Gomez, A. (2007). The city is not a postcard: The problem of genius loci. Arkitektur, 4, 42–47. Petzet, M. (2008). Genius Loci – The spirit of Monuments and Sites. Paper presented at the 16th General Assembly of ICOMOS Scientific Symposium, Quebec. Retrieved January 25, 2019 from http://openarchive.icomos.org/243/ Plevoets, B., & Van Cleempoel, K. (2011). Assessing authenticity of 19th century shopping passages. Journal of Cultural Heritage Management and Sustainable Development, 1(2), 135–156. Smith, L. (2006). Uses of heritage. London and New York: Routledge. Stojmenska-Elzeser, S. (2013). Representation and production of the genius loci in literature. Primerjalna Knjizevnost, 36(2), 115–122. Šverko, A. (2017). The views from the palace are no less beautiful: The context of Diocletian’s palace in Adam’s Spalatro. In M. Vučić (Ed.), Robert Adam and Diocletian’s palace in Split (pp. 193–224). Zagreb: Institute of Art History Zagreb & Školska knjiga, d.d., Zagreb. Thacker, C. (1979). The history of gardens. London: Croom Helm. Thompson, I. (2003). What use is the genius loci? In S. Menin (Ed.), Constructing place: Mind and matter (pp. 66–76). Oxon: Routledge. Van Balen, K. (2008). The Nara grid: An evaluation scheme based on the Nara document on authenticity. Association for Preservation Technology International (APT Bulletin) Special Issue, 39(2/3), 39–45. Venice Charter (1964). International charter for the conservation and restoration of monuments and sites. Vlaić, I., & Šverko, A. (2017). Analogous urbanism as discourse: Robert Adam and urban space in contemporary Split. Studies in History and Theory of Architecture studii de Istoria şi Teoria Arhitecturii (sITA), 4, 51–65. Wanitzek, L. (2016). ‘The South! Something exclaims within me’: Real and imagined spaces in Italy and the South in Vernon Lee’s travel writing. Cahiers victoriens et édouardiens, 83(Printemps), 2–10. Wilken, R. (2013). The critical reception of Christian Norberg-Schulz’s writings on Heidegger and place. Architectural Theory Review, 18(3), 340–355. Zumthor, P. (2006). Atmospheres. Basel: Birkhäuser. Zumthor, P. (2010). Thinking architecture. Basel: Birkhäuser.

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In this concluding chapter, we elaborate on a series of more poetic concepts in relation to the built heritage and its reuse and transformation: continuity, tradition, empathy, memory, and complexity. For this, we build upon literary sources from architectural theory and philosophy and on writing and speeches by practicing architects. We also elaborate on future perspectives in relation to adaptive reuse for research, education, and practice.

1. On context and continuity Successfully redesigned projects strike a balance between new interventions that relate intelligently to their future use. This constant dialogue between past-present-future is an obvious characteristic for reuse projects. Since the 1960s, adaptive reuse has been presented as a valuable alternative to the construction of a new building – provokingly described by Scott (2008) as alteration versus pure architecture. However, the conceptual and methodological boundaries between adaptive reuse and new construction are becoming blurred as contemporary architecture is often highly contextual and new buildings are approached as an intervention to its existing urban, rural, or natural context. It would therefore be unfair to raise expectations that the considerations of this chapter would be relevant only for adaptive reuse. This is witnessed by statements of practicing architects, such as, for example, Rafael Moneo, Peter Zumthor, David Chipperfield, Caruso St John, and noAarchitecten, whose oeuvre covers both new constructions as alteration to existing (historic) buildings but does not witness a clear conceptual distinction between these two aspects of their work. Raphael Moneo’s project for repurposing the nineteenth-century steel structure of Atocha’s train station into a lush city garden (case 5) is probably designed along the same methods as his new city hall in Murcia or his Roman Museum in Merida. The abstract façade of the city hall in Murcia is like a retablo facing the baroque cathedral respecting the pre-eminence of the buildings on the plaza that have occupied it for so long. Raphael Moneo explains the intentions to merge within its context: [O]rganized as a musical score, numerically, accepting the system of horizontal levels of the floor slabs. The balcony of the city hall annex is at the same height as the central balcony of the piano nobile of Carinal Belluga

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Palace. The new building floats without establishing any orthogonal relationship with the existing buildings, deferring only to the façade of the Cathedral despite the distance between them. (Moneo, 2002, p. 20) Similarly, Adam Caruso tries to put into words the intimate relationship between the creative act of new architecture and the huge reservoir of the discipline’s history: We feel more comfortable than we once did to follow these traditions quite closely. Anything that can contribute to the fragile continuity between the contemporary situation and past architectures is worth the effort. It is only by understanding and reflecting on the past that architecture can continue to be a relevant social and artistic discipline. (Caruso, 2008, p. 25) His interest is formal and tangible – ‘how buildings have been built in the past and how new constructions can achieve an equivalent formal and material presence’ – as well as intangible – ‘the emotional effect that buildings can have’. Caruso even invokes history as a method to feed and guarantee contemporary architecture with qualities he longs for: ‘We are confused by the laissez-faire state of contemporary architecture. In this environment of excess we have found ourselves attracted to the more intimate artistic ambitions of past architectural traditions’ (p. 25). Peter Zumthor phrases his approach as follows: I would like the buildings that I make to say: “I understand something about what is around me”. I don’t want them to give the impression of being aliens, of having nothing to do with what is already there. This is not an aesthetic matter, at least not primarily; it does not start with having to establish formal contact with the surroundings. It is like searching for a kind of sameness in

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the form of emotional contact − an emotional reaction to the surroundings, expressed through architecture. (Zumthor, 2018, p. 16) Dimitris Pikionis’s path to the Acropolis of 1957 equally weaves past, present, and future in a spatial intervention that blurs the boundaries between old and new. Pikionis’s assignment was to redesign the landscape and pathway leading to the Antique ruins of the Acropolis. To ease the steep climb, he introduced several rests stops and viewing platforms, olive trees to provide shade, and created a path, paved by spolia of fragments of neoclassical buildings and other building material. As argued by Nicholas Kehagias (2018), Pikionis’s intervention is humble and seems like it has always been part of the landscape; although his design is unnoticed by most visitors and often assumed to date back to antiquity, its scenographic quality clearly influences their experience of the archaeological site. This contemporary, yet traditional concept of spolia has also been applied by Wang Shu in the Ningbo History Museum (2008). The façade of this massive building is partly constructed out of reclaimed building material from recently demolished traditional villages near Ningo; other parts of the façade are made of concrete, cast in bamboo moulds to create an irregular and rather attractive texture. In these cases, architecture becomes a cultural object that embodies a poetic reflection as well as a critique on its own past. Tzonis and Lefaivre (1981) consider Pikionis’s intervention as an argument to the specifics of the actual situation or the vernacular – coined here for the first time as ‘critical regionalism’. The term has later been adopted by Frampton (1983) to describe an architecture that on the one hand works with the achievements of modernism but on the other hand rejects the ‘universal style’ dogma and instead searches to incorporate regional

Figure 5.2  Detail of the walls of the Ningbo Museum, Amateur Architecture Studio.

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characteristics, techniques, traditions, or narratives. Traces of the past are considered as anchors and references for a new use.

2. On traces, tradition, and empathy1 Considering history in the service of creation rather than becoming a discipline for the accumulation of death information, Pérez Gomez (1999) explains, the architect’s narratives and programs must begin by accounting for experiences of values. He must therefore ‘visit and interpret the traces and documents of our past, invariably with fresh eyes, to discover hitherto hidden potentialities for the future, much like one recovers coral from the bottom of the ocean, or extracts pearls our of ordinary looking mollusks’ (p. 340). Etymologically, ‘trace’, both in English and French, derives partly from the Latin trahere and its noun tractus (genitive tractūs), meaning ‘drawing’, ‘draught’. The Old French tracier also refers to ‘looking for’, ‘following’, or ‘pursuing’, probably deriving from the vulgar Latin tractiare. In Old English, it could also refer to ‘following a course, making an outline of something’ or figuratively, ‘to ponder or investigate’. The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Current English (Oxford, 1964) gives nine different meanings as variations on ‘sketching’, ‘copying’, and ‘following the track or path’. The final one is ‘visible or other signs of what has existed or happened’. The richness of the concept of trace opens various possibilities to move swiftly between past, present, and future. The hermeneutic spectrum from ‘drawing’ to ‘memory’ enriches the discourse. Hence, these lines – traces –refer to more than the topos itself and how drawings represent the existing sites in its past and current condition. They also represent a vertical section in time, a chronological bridge between the past and the future. Architects have used traces of the existing in their new design for centuries. Perhaps it was not even an issue before modern times. There is very long tradition in the discipline to incorporate previous structures and to assimilate with its syntaxis. This accumulation of references creates a historical tissue full of tangible knowledge and intangible associations. Incorporating these traces of the past have helped to (re)animate a collective memory, a local atmosphere, or even a genius loci (Bosma, 2010, p. 173). There is an intimate relationship between a given context – with its layered meanings, spatial conditions, morphology, materials, etc. – and the creative moment to transform it. It is precisely this performative relationship between tradition and creation that is of interest here. Albeit for another discipline – that of poetry (see also Chapter 2, aemulatio) – this creative movement through time is very precisely and elegantly described in TS Eliot’s essay, ‘Tradition and the Individual Talent’ of 1919 (published in The Sacred Wood, 1921). Reflecting on the particular relationship between a contemporary poet and the tradition of his discipline, he encourages young poets to study in depth the history and the métier of their discipline. At the same time, however, he warns them not to copy these schemes. An engagement with the ‘tradition’, so he argues, should result in a historical condition operating as a compass for the future: ‘historical sense involves a perception, not only of the pastness of the past, but of its presence’ (paragraph 3). Young poets should not only dwell in the ‘pastness of the past’ but instead use it for its presence. Eloquently, Eliot continues

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how this process operates in two directions: ‘what happens when a new work of art is created is something that happens simultaneously to all the works of art which preceded it’ (paragraph 4). The opposite effect of dealing in a static fashion with tradition is described by Heidegger (1977, p. 36): ‘The flight into tradition, out of a combination of humility and prescription, can bring about nothing in itself other than self-deception and blindness in relation to the historical moment’. To conclude this very crucial notion of history of a dynamic subject, we refer to Pérez-Gómez, who clearly observes that: ‘context’ [is] never simply given like unchanging objects: we have to make them at every moment. We weave them in the present through our own desire. Only when emerging from the deeply rooted language of a particular culture can an appropriate position be formulated, resulting in a program and eventually, an appropriate architecture. (2007, p. 43) A clear example illustrating Eliot’s active engagement with tradition is how Carlo Scarpa’s project in Verona (case 3) changed the canon with regard to architectural interventions in heritage sites. The new ensemble of Castelvecchio is powerful yet discrete, contemporary yet historical. A refined and sophisticated design method resulted in new type of dialogue, established on new relationships where layers of time and materials interact expressively. He invents relationships based on material and chronological properties in some kind of antithesis (Schulz, 2007). The set canon gave architectural design new possibilities in relation to heritage. Another key project in that regard is Chipperfield’s Neues Museum (case 10). In the design process, Chipperfield’s team explains they liked to work with traces of the past and the physicality of the ruined museum.2 One of the biggest challenges was the vast empty brick volume of the staircase. They were not interested in stressing the borderline between new and old (as was the case with Scarpa) but in the transition between new and old. In trying to create an Egyptian ‘feeling’, they worked with large concrete surfaces, creating an ambiguity between size and precision, making it extremely present on the one hand and yet also disappearing. It can be read as very heavy or very light at the same time. The intention was clearly to come forward with a new piece of architecture instead of a neutral space or a copy of the missing parts. A specific language and tectonics were needed to respect and dialogue with the craftsmanship and materiality of the remaining parts. If a missing part is very big, one needs an architectural idea, a theme in order to become architecture. This is probably best seen in the new dome room of the Neues Museum; the Renaissance theme of developing a square plan into a perfect cupola with a central oculus was newly created, yet breathing an architectural métier that accumulated over centuries. The team had to look for skilled bricklayers to actually realize the expressive tectonics of the dome. Also, for Zumthor, it is ‘essential that the intervention should embrace qualities that can enter into a meaningful dialogue with the existing situation. For the intervention is to find its place, it must make us see what already exists in a new light’ (Zumthor, 2010, pp. 17–18).

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An obvious consequence, of course, is that such an attitude generates new historical references and constantly pushes the horizon of the discipline. In this respect, Caruso quotes from a biography of Bergdoll, Karl Friedrich Schinkel. An Architecture for Prussia (New York, 1994): History has never copied earlier history and if it ever had done so that would not matter in history; in a certain sense history would come to a halt with that act. The only act that qualifies as historical is that which in some way introduces something additional, a new element, in the world from which a new story can be generated and the thread taken up anew. (Caruso, 2008, p. 25) Indeed, an exclusive focus on the history seems to imply that the whole history of a site has already been written. This respectful way of engaging with tradition in a process of assimilation is probably best described as ‘empathic’, derived from the Greek em for ‘in’ plus pathos for ‘feeling’, or empathei. The German philosopher Johan Gottfried Herder was the first to create this association and coined it in 1778 as ‘Einfühlen’ to mean ‘to understand sympathetically’ – or feel into – a historical agent. It came from an emerging theory of art to argue that appreciation depends on the viewers’ ability to project their personality into the viewed object. But there is a clear shift in meaning since it was first used over 200 years ago: from object-based to feeling-based. Nowadays, many associate empathy with an intimate understanding of another’s inner life. We do not think of it as a way of understanding inanimate objects. Yet Curie (2011) convincingly explains how a century ago, talk of empathy for objects would have seemed very natural. In fact, it was the theme of a group of thinkers whose writings helped to found the notion of empathy itself. ‘They were particularly interested in empathy as a means of attending to the aesthetic properties of things’, she explains and quotes from contemporary sources (Novalis, 1802, p. 105): one who understands nature is one ‘who almost without effort recognizes the nature of all things and . . . in an intimate and manifold relationship mixes himself with all of nature by means of his feelings . . . who so to speak feels himself into them’. Fred Scott (2008, p. 80) refers to an ‘act of sympathy’ and makes the analogy of translating poetry when bringing a building from past existence into the present. He refers to the lecture ‘The Craft and Context of Translation’ from Kenneth Rexroth. By replacing ‘poet’ with ‘architect’ in following passage, we come close to our discourse on tradition as an active subject: When discussing the poet as translator, since time immemorial it has been the custom to start out by quoting Dryden. I shan’t, but I will try to illustrate Dryden’s main thesis – that the translation of poetry into poetry is an act of sympathy – the identification of another person with oneself, the transference of his utterance to one’s own utterance. The ideal translator, as we all know well, is not engaged in matching the words of the text with the words of his own language. . . . So the prime criterion of successful poetic

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translation is assimilability. . . . Finally, what does all this mean to the poet himself? What has it all meant to me? Translation . . . can provide us with poetic exercise on the highest level. It is best to keep your tools sharp until the great job, the great moment, comes along. More important, it is an exercise of sympathy on the highest level. The writer who can project himself into the exultation of another learns more than the craft of words. He learns the stuff of poetry. It is not just his prosody he keeps alert, it is his heart. The imagination must evoke, not just a vanished detail of experience, but the fullness of another human being. (Rexroth, cited in Scott, 2008, p. 79) There are possibly two angles to approach this rich passage: craftsmanship and meaning. First there is the aspect of craft, similarly to Eliot’s plea to study one’s métier in order not to copy predecessors. The previously mentioned examples by Scarpa, Chipperfield, and Zumthor shoulder this and can perhaps be complemented with one more example to bridge it to the second aspect of ‘meaning’: noAarchitecten redesigned the nineteenth-century prison of Hasselt into a faculty of law (case 15). Located on the former periphery of the medieval tissue of Hasselt, the prison façade forms a clear landmark of the city environment. The radical programmatic shift from prison to a university faculty significantly altered the meaning of the building and its relation to the city: from a closed enclave to an urban interior, an enclosed public space that serves as a place for social interaction but at the same time a place for study and shelter and retreat. Where the prison was originally conceived as a very functional, infrastructural building, by introducing the aspect of métier, noA profoundly alters its atmosphere and meaning: the strategy of this project entails the blurring of the powerful and symbolic star-shaped form of the former prison building by creating new spaces between the openings of the arms and creating subtle openings to let daylight into the spaces, to redesign the central panopticon as an orientation point and representative space for the building, and to transform the former cells into spaces for individual study. This modest and discrete design strategy served the programme, and it helped shift the rather negative connotation of the building.

3. On meaning and memory The notion of meaning is in adaptive reuse often linked to the ‘narrative’ and the ‘palimpsest’. Machado (1976) coined palimpsest as a metaphor to widen the discussion on ‘remodelling’ (see also Chapter 2). Particularly interesting is also how he links the process of alteration and reuse with meaning: In the process of remodelling the past takes a greater significance because it, itself, is the material to be altered and reshaped. The past provides the already-written, the marked ‘canvas’ on which each successive remodelling will find its own place. Thus, the past becomes a ‘package of sense’, of built-up meaning to be accepted (maintained), transformed, or suppressed (refused). (p. 49)

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In several of our cases, the patina of the palimpsest became an essential part of the design methodology, among which are the church project in the ruined Roman baths of Diocletian by Michelangelo in 1563 (case 2) and the library project in the ruined church of Escuelas Pías in Madrid by José Ignacio Linazasoro, 1996–2004 (case 8). In Madrid, the baroque church was built by Gabriel Escribano between 1763 and 1791 as part of a faith-based school for poor and abandoned children. During the Civil War, in 1936, the school and church were burned and looted. The new project clearly shows the predominance of the ruin and the texture of the unplastered walls and broken baroque ornaments. The new design presents the visitor a very contemporary experience; the wooden airy vaults, the intimacy of the studio-like furniture in combination with the vast space of the central nave and the play of natural light against the damaged walls, are just a few architectural choices to articulate the concept of the palimpsest. The newly added exterior walls, too, enter into an interesting dialogue with the eighteenth-century walls. The positions of the windows and composition of the brickwork are clearly contemporary, but the tension comes from incorporating spolia fragments of the original building. The play between the new occupation of a university library and the original use of a church and a school for children provides meaning for the overall work; its narrative layers give the architect a rich reservoir to play with. It is the architectural method to bridge these functions by the simultaneous act of memory, taking the ruin as basis and forgetting it at the same time, creating the conceptual space for a new design. A rather revealing case of adaptive reuse based on memory and palimpsest is Michelangelo’s intervention in the ruined baths of Diocletian. Modelled after the baths of Caracalla (c. 212–217), they were completed in 306 but suffered from the Sack of Rome in 410. After the collapse of the aqueducts in the sixth century, they were completely abandoned and used as a quarry throughout the middle ages and Renaissance. As a source for spolia, the rich internal decoration with many columns and rare stones was used for centuries for churches and palazzi. Aged 89, Michelangelo accepted this as his final commission in 1563, possibly attracted by the challenge to work with an ancient ruin. During the Renaissance, there was a clear interest to work with classical ruins, in the same way that sculptors looked at Greek and Roman examples. The creative process to deal with this heritage was based on concepts of immitatio and aemulatio (see Chapter 2). Because of the deep respect for antiquity – albeit sculpture, poetry, or architecture – one would first have to be capable of imitating the original in order to fully master and understand the classical principles to then attempt a new work of art, as an ‘improvement’ or ‘aemulatio’. In addition, for architecture, there was a precise distinction between preservation(conservare) and restoration (instaurare), as defined in Biondo Falvio’s Roma instaurata (1444–1446). Actively rebuilding ruins was a recognized practice where a structure could be returned to a more stable and secure condition. Michelangelo’s approach to the Roman bathhouse must probably be understood against this framework. The part that he choose to work in was well preserved: the vaults of the great hall (former tepidarium and frigidarium) and their supporting columns were intact, as were those of the two chambers between the great hall and the palaestrae on the north-west and

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south-east (Ackerman, 1961). Michelangelo had only to insert curtain walls into the arches of the two innermost chambers to make vestibules at the ends of the long axis. He created a Greek cross design, leaving unchanged several right-angle frames with three entrances: two on the sides of the transept and one towards the exedra. By integrating modern functions into the existing structural shell, he preserved as much as possible the original character with an architectural preservation scheme. Karmon (2008) calls the method ‘minimalistic’ and argues this by studying the accounts of the builders showing that Michelangelo did not introduce spolia from other antique monuments. Accounts between April 24, 1563 and February 18, 1564 record acquisitions of common building materials such as bricks, volcanic sand, and lime. But after his death, the accounts of 1565 refer to ‘four ancient columns with bases and capitals’ and ‘ten horses drag[ging] blocks of travertine from Esquiline Hill to decorate the new chancel’. There is distance of c.1350 years between completing the bathhouse and Michelangelo’s discrete and rather humble approach. The seemingly easiness of this architectural intervention and the ‘palimpsest’ approach are in contrast to the twist in the significance of the programs: from a public bathhouse partly built by Christian slaves to a Catholic church. It probably shows us how memory can be both a generous database as well as a selective process. How memory and oblivion are two essential conditions for architecture to negotiate with heritage. Each project is the residue of the choices made from what we remember and from what we forget. One could state that there are two mnemonic landscapes: a physical and a mental one. And both are the product of an ongoing selective and creative process. Pierre Nora (1984) uses the term lieux de mémoire (realms of memory) to point to the coinciding of these two landscapes: ‘A lieu de mémoire is any significant entity, whether material or non-material in nature, which by dint of human will or the work of time has become a symbolic element of the memorial heritage of any community’ (Nora, 1984, p. xvii). For a building to become an object of historic preservation, its mnemonic function must clearly transcend individual purposes and become useful for constructing a collective identity. Despite its importance to most visitors, the question of personal experience is rarely addressed in preservation theory (Otero-Pailos, 2009). Memory makes present what is absent, and there are two possibilities to deal with memory in the process of transformation: either by recreating what actually happened or existed (the past) or by creating something that never existed (the imagination) (Uyttenhove, 2010)Building and storytelling are therefore both instruments of memory, and Paul Ricœur (2006) explores this analogy between the architectural project – inscribed in stone – and the literary narrativity – inscribed in language in his essay Architecture and Narrativity. The first one would be located in space, the other in time. For Ricœur, architecture and literature perform as two different sorts of built form; both the architect and the author activate the same human faculty – ‘anticipation’ – and occupy the same human dimension of time – ‘present of the future’. Mediating between anticipation and the ‘present of the future’ is memory, which links Ricœur’s discourse to the transition of the meaning of architectural projects that receive a new life. His

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notion of memory is not limited to the physicality of the site. He argues that in Plato’s Theaetetus, for example, it is linked to the concept of eikōn and to ‘making the absence present’. There are two kinds of absence: the absent as simply the unreal, which would then be the imaginary, and the absent-which-once-was, the previous. Honoring the definition of the Ancients, Ricœur elaborates the concept of the previous-made-present. He considers the discipline of architecture as a medium to illustrate this mediation in time: the glory of architecture is to make present what is no longer. The memory of the topos, one could thus argue, opens up forces and generates energy to project itself into the future. The relationship with adaptive reuse comes from his notion of ‘refiguration’: the rereading of our towns and of all our dwelling places. We might therefore say, firstly, that inhabiting is the presupposition of building and, secondly, that building actually takes charge of inhabiting, so that the last word is given to a thoughtful inhabiting, an inhabiting that remakes memory from construction. Such is to be the progression of my itinerary of thinking (Ricœur, 2006, p. 33) In Building Memory, Malpas (2012) elaborates this triangle between time, space, and memory, and he introduces the important notion of place making. For him ‘architecture is as much a response to place, a conversation with place as it is a making of place’. There can be no doubt, he argues, that story and memory are related – as are narrative and place – but not every story secures or is secured by memory, just as not every story told about a place belongs to it. The question to be asked of every narrative is the extent to which it is indeed embedded in that which it also aims to narrate – to what extent does the story belong to the material and the material to the story. In many cases the connection at issue is tenuous at best, and the materiality of the built is lost in the narrated fabric with which it is clothed. Projected on our discourse on adaptive reuse, one could read Malpas in this respect as a warning and as embellishing adaptive-reuse with hollow narratives. He seems to gives a fair advice: The question to be asked of every narrative is the extent to which it is indeed embedded in that which it also aims to narrate – to what extent does the story belong to the material and the material to the story. In many cases, the connection at issue is tenuous at best, and the materiality of the built is lost in the narrated fabric with which it is clothed. (p. 19) Fundamentally, for Malpas, place is not static but dynamic, and it is through this performative character that place, memory, and buildings are bound together. The implications are very valuable in the context of adaptive reuse as he continues to argue that we should think of buildings, not as inert structures that stand apart from remembrance, from felt experience, sentiment, or affect, but as constituted

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romantically and materially at one and the same time. In terms of memory, buildings carry memory as an essential and inevitable part of what they are, and they do this in several ways. (p. 16) The proposed transformation of the Saint-Joseph Church in Ghent (case 20) illustrates this argument. Built in 1880, it is a classic example of gothic revival style with a richly decorated, polychromic interior strongly influenced by the English Victorian style. The church was constructed as part of a newly planned neighbourhood, called Rabot, providing housing for the workers of the rapidly developing textile industry. Conceived as the hearth of the new neighbourhood, both in spatial and social terms, the church was closed in 2015 and stands as an island amidst a challenged area with many migrant communities, large families, a considerable number of young people with a low-level education, and a quick succession of tenants for shops and dwellings. The city of Ghent commissioned a research-by-design feasibility study to examine how a new programme could be integrated in the church and its spatial and financial implications. The envisioned programme was a sociocultural use that would serve the inhabitants of Rabot. As the church with its pristine neo-gothic interior was protected as a monument, the architects had to come up with solid argumentation to intervene in the original fabric of the building. In general, heritage protection imposes strict regulations of conservation instead of intervention, based on the unique tangible heritage values of the interior ornaments. Yet, inspired by the mentioned notions of place making, memory and the performative character of a monument, the architects adapted to the terminology of the heritage grammar and develop an alternative discourse and concept. Instead of focussing on the tangible values, the architects moved to intangible values and the original meaning of the building. They studied ideas that inspired ideological narratives of the neo-gothic revival such as critique on the negative effects of the industrial cities, craftmanship as opposed to mass production, social role of architecture and the central role of the church as a place for encounter. Augustus Pugin’s influential book Contrasts of 1836 was an important and legitimate source for contemporary themes and narratives. Combined with the newly desired programme of the city council and the societal pressure on the neighbourhood, using the neo-gothic intellectual schemes, suddenly gave the architects anchors to negotiate with the heritage councillors. The discussion was thus opened by introducing societal and intangible values as an alternative option to approach heritage from an architectural point of view. This resulted in a new conceptual common ground that allowed for an open discussion between all the partners, and it was eventually allowed to operate architecturally in the neo-gothic interior in order to fully re-engage the building with its environment.

4. On complexity and competences Robert Venturi’s seminal Complexity and Contradiction (1966) invites for an interesting rereading in the context of adaptive reuse. The enduring significance of this ‘gentle manifesto’ has many reasons, but for the sake of our argument

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we propose two: the concept of ‘inflection’ on the one hand and, on the other hand, the association between a personal experience and a creative relationship towards architectural history. Venturi describes ‘inflection’ as: a means of distinguishing diverse parts while implying continuity. It involves the art of the fragment. The valid fragment is economical because it implies richness and meaning beyond itself. . . . In terms of perception it is dependent on something outside itself, and in whose direction it inflects. It is a directional form corresponding to directional space. (pp. 88–89) I speak of a complex and contradictory architecture based on the richness and ambiguity of modern experience. (p. 16) The metaphorical implication of ‘inflection’ is, again, easy to link with Pikionis’s path near the Acropolis (cf. supra). By including archeological fragments, like spolia, he created historical continuity, yet ‘inflected’ in a contemporary way. Peter Zumthor calls this classical modernity: Looking at his work [Pikionis] I sense his familiarity with the classical modernity of his time but also his origins in which his creations are grounded. For the paved paths on the Acropolis he used stone which he had collected from the rubble of older buildings all over town. (2018, p. 77) Another rather interesting detail in this respect is Pikionis’s methodology: working with few drawings but relying on the skill and intuition of the collaboration with the labourers and the possibility to constantly ‘inflect’ the situation (Kehagias, 2018). This resonates with Lina Bo Bardi’s approach for SESC Pompeia (case 4), where she installed an office on the building site to allow frequent and continuous dialogue with the workers and users who were already occupying some of the spaces of the existing building. The second aspect of Venturi that we wish to associate with adaptive reuse is the personal experience and emotional relationship with architectural history: how, as Caruso refers to Venturi (2008, pp. 18–19), ‘built environment connect[s] form and material production, meaning and history . . . how buildings operate on an emotional level’. More often than not, Venturi’s argument is reduced to questions of style heralding postmodern architecture. But perhaps it is more interesting to see how he considers the history of architecture as abstract compositional rules that were to be emulated for contemporary production and how it establishes an intimate and meaningful relationship with the user. Again Caruso: If architecture is to be an effective critique of the extremes of contemporary development, it needs to engage more fully with the enormous emotional range held within our existing places of inhabitation; Venturi’s call for

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Figure 5.3  Path to the Acropolis, with olive trees and resting places, designed by D. Pikionis.

an architecture of inclusion is worth revisiting with a stronger emphasis on construction and emotional presence to protect his discourse from being reduced to one purely of appearance and style. (2008, p. 25) In discussing the design strategies of eight architects with his students, Raphael Moneo also includes Venturi’s desire for complexity, ambiguity, and tension that: he found attractive, and that he wanted to be able to analyse and explain. Venturi preferred both and at once . . . elements with double functions abound in the history of architecture . . . Borromini and Le Corbusier, the elements enabled him to explicate the ‘both-and’ phenomenon that would lead to contradiction becoming the basis of his work. (2004, p. 55) Rodolfo Machodo’s essay on Palimpsest (1976, p. 48) somehow elaborates on that notion of contradiction and inclusion of historical values, considering the past as a moral force, as a complex package of interrelated repositories, of things already built, drawn, and written. The repository can be creatively approached ‘to learn from, to copy, to transform’. Indeed, the question of the necessary skills and competences surfaces. Many curricula of architectural schools still orientate their design studios from building anew, but their graduated architects will have to work increasingly with the already written canvas. Additionally, schools of architecture are generally animated by a design-led ethos, with “design” and “conservation” as uneasy bedfellows.3 More sophisticated, perhaps, is Pérez Gomez’s advice that, in order to ‘reconcile[e] what is given with what is possible,

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in order to open up the possibility of poetic dwelling’, it needs ‘rhetorical and political thinking and not instrumental or stylistical deduction’. He believes that ‘only an architect with a broad cultural understanding and roots in the humanities is liable to succeed in this task. As we know well, these are conditions that unfortunately do not respond to the pedagogical priorities of contemporary architecture schools and professional corporations’ (2007, p. 44). But already in the early sixties, albeit more polemically, Sibyl Moholy-Nagy laments the reduced importance of historical knowledge in schools of architecture with rather interesting comparisons: Fact is that historical significance in architectural education is considered about as entertaining and non-essential as night-life or culture. Dispensers of architectural history and theory occupy a place in the faculty hierarchy comparable to that of the red-coated gentleman at English banquets, proposing a toast to the Queen after which the real fun can begin. This embarrassed nod to cultural continuity is rather recent in architectural education. It dates from the early 1920’s when a new species of men assumed design leadership, fancying themselves their own beginning. The purity of the Muse was uncompromised by illicit love affairs with past practitioners. (1961, p. 65)

5. Future perspectives With a saturated building stock and growing discourse on Umbau, or reuse of existing buildings and sites − also when it concerns protected heritage sites − there is need for a stronger theoretical body and methodological reflections. Many curricula of European schools of architecture still operate from the paradigm of new construction. Courses on design methodology, therefore, seem more concerned with creating new sites instead of integrating the existing. It seems increasingly legitimate, however, that learning how to engage in an interesting and sustainable way will become an essential competence. The potential of adaptive reuse as a way to regenerate heritage buildings and sites and historic urban and rural areas is also recognized in the field of conservation. It is, however, seen as something that is supplementary to restoration, that only comes afterwards, and that preferably is executed in a reversible manner. Although heritage as a driver for development has been widely discussed in many international charters, declarations, and recommendations, the role of adaptive reuse in this process is hardly ever mentioned. Moreover, adaptation of protected buildings to allow a new use is still a provocative issue in conservation fields and often not approved by conservation authorities or even imposed by legal restrictions. We believe, however, that the use and reuse of heritage is key to its value and meaning for society (see also Poulios, 2011; Smith, 2006). A recent survey on public appreciation of heritage in Flanders showed that (re)use should be the top priority for heritage policy in Flanders (Agentschap Onroerend Erfgoed, 2016), and a similar tendency is seen in other (European) countries with ‘heritage in transition’ as one of the key initiatives of the 2018 European Year

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of Cultural Heritage. Adaptive reuse will therefore take a more prominent role in conservation theory and practice, not only for heritage sites with local or national importance but also for sites with international appeal and eventually World Heritage sites. This book largely draws on European and by extension Western examples and reflections. Yet the use of heritage by the current and future societies is a universal question. We do realize that the concepts and cases presented here are not merely applicable in other areas and cultures because of the notion of heritage and the relationship with the (historic) built environment might be different, as are the societal and economic needs and context. Conversations with our international students about the particular circumstances in their home countries and the projects that they develop for particular heritage sites there strengthen our belief in the importance of the use of heritage as a tool for conservation and regeneration. With adaptive reuse becoming an obvious way to deal with the built environment, its underlying principles might be challenged by new societal and economic trends, evolution, and problems. We have hinged towards the use of heritage sites to meet the need of public urban green; we have shown examples of user-led initiatives that had a sustainable impact on the regeneration of particular heritage sites and by extension on the regeneration of urban areas; we have elaborated on the potentiality of reusing existing buildings to create new housing typologies that meet contemporary needs for more affordable, more sustainable, and therefore less exclusive housing. However, new participatory design principles, new models for (public) investment, and new societal needs will create new challenges and opportunities to adaptive reuse practice and will push the discipline to move further.

Notes 1 See also Van Cleempoel, K. (2018). On short note on traces and memory. TRACE – Notes on Adaptive Reuse, 1(1), 7–12. 2

In a public lecture by Alexander Schwarz, ‘Strategies and seeing – Neues Museum, from ruin to museum’, Alteration Session 2. Retrieved August 22, 2018 from www.youtube. com/watch?v=iOyNoYK6Lf4

3

See the final online report of the Erasmus+ project: I. Cabrera i Fausto (ed.) ‘Confronting wicked problems: Adapting architectural education to the new situation in Europe’, 2007.

Bibliography Ackerman, J. A. (1961). The architecture of Michelangelo. London: Zwemmer. Bosma, K. (2010). Draden spannen tussen verleden en toekomst: concepten voor grensoverschrijding. In Geschiedenis en ontwerp: Handboek voor de omgang met cultureel erfgoed. Nijmegen: Vantilt. Caruso, A. (2008). The feeling of things. Barcelona: Ediciones Polígrafa.

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Currie, G. (2011). Empathy for objects. In A. Coplan & P. Goldie (Eds.), Empathy: Philosophical and psychological perspectives (pp. 82–97). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eliot, T. S. (1919). Tradition and the individual talent. In The sacred wood: Essays on poetry and criticism. London: Methuen & Co. Frampton, K. (1983). Toward a Critical Regionalism: Six points for an architecture of resistance. In H. Foster (Ed.), The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on postmodern culture (pp. 16–30). Port Townsend: Bay Press. Heidegger, M. (1977). The age of the world-picture. In The question concerning technology. New York: Garland Publishing. Herder, J. G. (1779). Vom Erkennen und Empfinden der menschlichen Seele. Riga: Hartknock. Karmon, D. (2008). Michelangelo’s “Minimalism” in the design of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Annali di Architettura, 20, 141–152. Karmon, D. (2011). The ruin of the Eternal City: Antiquity & preservation in Renaissance Rome. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kehagias, N. (2018). Paving a Greek path to a Western monument. Retrieved September 3, 2018, from www.nicholaskehagias.com/the-acropolis-pavement/ Machado, R. (1976). Old buildings as palimpsest: Towards a theory of remodeling. Progressive Architecture, 11, 46–49. Malpas, J. (2012). Building memory. Interstices: Journal of Architecture and Related Arts, 13. Moneo, R. (2002). The freedom of the architect – 2001 Raoul Wallenberg Lecture. Detroit: The University of Michigan. Moneo, R. (2004). Theoretical anxiety and design strategies in the work of eight contemporary architects. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Nora, P., & Gallimard, É. (1984). Les lieux de mémoire. Paris: Gallimard. Novalis (Georg Philipp Friedrick von Hardenberg). (1802). Die Lehrlinge zu Sais. In P. Kluckhohn & S. Richard (Eds.), NovalisSchriften. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Otero-Pailos, J. (2009). Mnemonic value and historic preservation. In M. Treib (Ed.), Memory in architecture and landscape. New York: Routledge. Pérez-Gomez, A. (1999). Architecture as science: Analogy or disjunction? In P. Galison & E. Thompson (Eds.), The architecture of science (pp. 337–351). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Pérez-Gomez, A. (2007). The city is not a postcard: The problem of genius loci. Arkitektur, 4, 42–47. Poulios, I. (2011). Is every heritage site a ‘living’ one? Linking conservation to communities’ associations with sites. The Historic Environment, 2(2), 144–156. Pugin, W. (1836). Contrast: Or a parallel between the noble edifices of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and similar buildings of the present day; shewing the present decay of taste. London: Welby Pugin. Ricœur, P. (2006). Architecture and narrativity. Études Ricœuriennes/Ricœur Studies, 7(2), 31–42. Schulz, A.-C. (2007). Carlo Scarpa, layers. Stuttgart: Edition Axel Menges GmbH. Scott, F. (2008). On altering architecture. London: Routledge.

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Smith, L. (2006). Uses of heritage. London & New York: Routledge. Tzonis, A., & Lefaivre, L. (1981). Critical regionalism. Paper presented at the Critical Regionalism: Pomona Meeting Proceedings. Uyttenhove, P. (2010). Landschap en geheugen. In K. Bosma (Ed.), Geschiedenis en ontwerp: Handboek voor de omgang met cultureel erfgoed (pp. 238– 255). Nijmegen: Vantilt. Van Cleempoel, K. (2018). On short note on traces and memory. TRACE – Notes on Adaptive Reuse, 1(1), 7–12. Zumthor, P. (2010). Thinking architecture. Basel: Birkhäuser. Zumthor, P., & Lending, M. (2018). A feeling of history. Zurich: Scheidegger & Spiess.

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Case 1

Historical centre of Split Location: Split, Croatia Architect: Informal transformation throughout history of the Diocletian palace Transformation: Since seventh century CE Index: Vernacular adaptation

The building The Diocletian palace was probably constructed between 295 and 305 CE on the peninsula in the bay just south of Salona. The palace was a remarkable piece of architecture, including several separate buildings and outstanding sculptural work and mosaics. The typology was unique because of the programme and location of the palace. The programme included the residences for the emperor, his family, and personal guard; several ritual buildings such as temples and mausoleums; and a large military quarter (at the time, the borders of the large Roman Empire were under constant threat of invasion). Because the palace was constructed as a retirement residence, there was no need for administrative offices. The rectangular plan of the complex can be compared to traditional Roman military camps, but the interior layout is completely different in order to allow more luxurious imperial living. The imperial residence is located in the southern part of the palace, facing the sea with at that side its most attractive façade. Two main roads crossed the palace: a first one ran from the east to the west gates, a second one from the north gate to the centre. Just south of this centre, was the peristyle, which formed the connection between the military northern part and the residential southern part and which gave access to the most important buildings such as temples and mausoleum. Most of the construction materials were local, such as the white limestone and the brick; other materials for luxurious detailing were imported, such as such Italian and Greek marbles and granite pillars and sphynxes from early ancient Egyptian structures. The emperor died in 316, and the palace was largely left abandoned and fell into decay.

New programme and concept In the seventh century, the residents of Salona took shelter in the ruins of the Diocletian palace after their town had been invaded by the Avars and Slavs. Within the fortified walls of the palace, they started to build up a new and organized city life. The early process of transformation reflected the hierarchy of the society, reusing the most significant spaces of the palace for ritual buildings, such as the church, or for residences for the wealthy inhabitants, while less powerful or poorer people

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resided in the outskirts or even the basements of the palace. The first phase of transformation, however, largely followed the original layout of the palace, and the merging of the original Antique structure and the pre-Romanesque style of the additions was remarkable and created a unique architectural style. When Split in the twelfth century became an independent commune, the city plan changed drastically because of new constructions that densified the fabric and narrowed existing streets and squares to the minimum. The city was extended at the west of the palace, and by the end of the fourteenth century, this new part was also fortified, defining a new boundary for the city centre. In the following centuries, significant buildings were added in the historical centre, among them several monasteries, a Belford, a Lazareth, and a Venetian castle. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the suburbs of the city were spread out, and new constructions were built in the historic core. The social structure in the historic centre also started to change, transforming the historical houses into poorly maintained rental flats. From the 1960s onwards, however, restoration and rehabilitation works have been executed, and in 1979 the historical centre of Split was protected as a World Heritage Site.

Transformation Today, the Diocletion palace, embedded in the historical centre of Split is the best preserved Roman imperial palace. Indeed, during its more than 1700 years of existence, it never suffered from severe physical destruction due to war or natural disasters. Its fabric therefore is a witness of continued development and an extremely rich palimpsest including significant layers from all different epochs. In spite of the seventeen-century-long transformation of the original architectural structures of the palace, some segments and architectural wholes are perfectly preserved and contribute a unique wealth to the world’s cultural heritage. This preservation was possible since some ancient buildings have been continuously used for new purposes up to and including the present (Marasovic, 1998, p. 12). The site has been studied from the sixteenth century onwards and has been part of the Grand Tour of some more adventurous travellers. Hence, visuals and written records of the place have been included in travelogues and have formed an important source of knowledge about Ancient architecture and an inspiration for architects. For example, a detailed study of Diocletian’s mausoleum was made by Andrea Palladio in 1556. A more extensive study was published by Robert Adam in 1764, who, for the first time, approached the site as a palimpsest and not only as a ruin from antiquity; he studied and represented the palace in its natural and contemporary spatial context, showing its different layers of history. His view on the site has significantly influenced conservation works executed since then. Today, mass tourism creates new problems and challenges for the preservation and presentation of the historical centre of Split. As argued by UNESCO, the commercial development near the ancient walls of the historic centre harm the experience of the heritage site. Moreover, mass tourism may threaten the quality of life in the historic centre, and commercial pressure on the real estate may push local people out.

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Figure 1.1  Reconstruction drawing of the Diocletian palace in Split by Farlati.

Figure 1.2  Peristyle of the Diocletian palace, transformed in the course of history, drawing by Robert Adam, 1764.

Figure 1.3  Southern wall of the Diocletian palace Split, drawing by Robert Adam, 1764.

Figure 1.4  Aerial view of Split.

Historical centre of Split Figure 1.5  Ancient wall of the palace with more recent constructions attached to it.

Bibliography Belamarić, J. (2017). Robert Adam’s lesson of Split. In M. Vučić (Ed.), Robert Adam and Diocletian’s palace in Split (pp. 193–224). Zagreb: Institute of Art History Zagreb & Školska knjiga, d.d., Zagreb. Čović, I., Raič Stojanović, I., & Šverko, A. (2017). Grand tour Dalmatia workshops 2015–2016. Zagreb: Institute of Art History. Marasovic, J. (1998). Rehabilitation of the historic core of split 2. Split: City of Split, Agency for the Historic Core. Marasovic, J., & Marasovic, T. (1970). Diocletian palace. Zagreb: Zora. Pérez de Arce, R. (1978). Urban transformations & the architecture of additions. Architectural Design, 4, 237–266. Poulios, I. (2011). Is every heritage site a ‘Living’ one? Linking conservation to communities’ associations with sites. The Historic Environment, 2(2), 144– 156. Šverko, A. (2017). The views from the palace are no less beautiful: The context of Diocletian’s palace in Adam’s Spalatro. In M. Vučić (Ed.), Robert Adam and Diocletian’s palace in Split (pp. 193–224). Zagreb: Institute of Art History Zagreb & Školska knjiga, d.d., Zagreb.

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Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri Location: Rome, Italy Architect: Michelangelo Client: Pope Pius IV Transformation: 1563–1564 Index: Aemulatio–Ruination

The building The baths of Diocletian were commissioned by Emperor Maximilian in 298 and completed in 306. But when the aquaducts were destroyed in the siege of Rome in 537, the imperial thermae quickly decayed, and, like many ruined monuments of the Roman era, they became a source of spolia for other buildings sites. The design was modelled after the baths of Caracalla, and it contained a total surface of 130.000 square metres. In large part built by slaves – presumably including Christians1 – the building contained materials from all over the empire: from granite of Egypt for the decoration to wood from the Bavarian forests for the beams and frameworks to construct vaults and arches. The original floor plan is lost, but already in the Renaissance, artists and architects made reconstruction drawings, including Antonio da Sangallo the Younger, Antonio Palladio, and Rondolfo Lanciani. It was located on the smallest of the Seven Hills of Rome, the Viminal, just inside the ramparts of the city. The water supply came from Aqua Marcia, one of the largest of the 11 Roman aqueducts. The plan of the baths was defined by a large perimeter wall enclosing the exterior grounds, and its design followed the internal structure of the actual bathing complex. This large exterior space contained a theatre in the large exedra, flanked by two buildings that probably served as libraries. Visitors would enter from the north-east to the south-west. The rectangular central block measured 280 by 160 metres. Along a central vertical axis were three linked bathing rooms at different temperatures: caldarium, tepidarium, and frigidarium. The visitor would respect a hierarchical bathing sequence, beginning in the warm caldarium and ending in the cold frigidarium. Two octagonal room halls flanked the caldarium. The innermost space was the large frigidarium, flanked by a series of enfilade rooms and two spacious lateral rooms, or gymnasia, called palaestra. The spacious frigidarium was covered by a system of large internal cross vaults, supported with four external buttresses, considered to be one of the first application of this system in architectural history. These vaults played an important role in Michelangelo’s design approach. The walls and floors were covered with

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intricate mosaics, monolithic columns of Egyptian granite, frescoes, and sculptures. The typical nineteenth-century reconstruction drawings of Edmond JeanBaptiste Paulin (1848–1915) tried to recreate the extreme luxury and immense scale: Les Termes de Diocletien Restauration des Monuments antiques par les architects pensionnaires de l’Academie de France a Rome (Paris, 1890).

New programme and concept In early Christian times, Roman buildings had been remodelled into churches: the Pantheon as Santa Maria Rotonda, the tomb of Constantia as Santa Constanza, or the temple of Antonius and Faustina as SS. Cosmas and Damian. This tradition died in the Middle Ages and resurfaced with this project at the time of the CounterReformation. Ackerman explains this as symptomatic for the Renaissance failure to resolve the conflict between an intellectual adoration of the pagan past and a spiritual adherence to Christianity (p. 123). In the sixteenth century, the ruins were on the outskirts of the city, and it was used as a pleasure retreat. In 1541, the priest Antonio del Duca visited the site and experienced a vision of the Christian slaves who were forced into the construction of the baths. He wanted to create a new church dedicated to these martyrs as well as to the cult of angels. But Pope Paul III considered the Baths ‘troppo gran macchina’, and the concept was put on hold for 20 years until del Duca could finally persuade Pope Pius IV who issued a statement in 1561 that ‘preservation [conservari] of the ancient bath complex was a primary papal concern: after having lain for many centuries derelict and neglected’. He consecrated part of the ruin as the church and monastery of Santa Maria degli Angeli. The Pope then approached the 89-old-Michelangelo to convert the central frigidarium into a church in remembrance of the Christian martyrs. The main concept was deliberately reusing the existing, authentic structure as much as possible in order to accommodate the programme for the new church. Catalani, an eyewitness who recorded a visit of Michelangelo on site, notes that he proposed to ‘design it as a cross, restricting the size and removing low chapels where the vaults had collapsed, so that the highest parts would constitute the main portion of the church, the vault of which is supported by eight columns on which the names of the martyrs and angels are inscribed: and he designed three portals’ (in Ackerman, 1961, p. 132).

Transformation Differently from other proposals, Michelangelo changed the orientation of the church by respecting the symmetrical vertical axis of the baths. He integrated the four subsequent baths as follows: the caldarium became the main entrance, followed by the circular tepidarium as baptistery, then the magnificent frigidarium as nave with whitewashed interior walls and, finally, the chancel addition towards the natation. The impressive frigidarium was the best preserved part of the Roman bathhouse with its original vaults and granite columns. In the floor plan, this resulted in a Greek cross with a dominant transverse nave. There is

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no clear façade, but as part of the caldarium had already become the informal entrance to the ‘ruin’, it so seems that Michelangelo chose to incorporate into his design the existing circulation as a way to create a strong connection to the rest of sixteenth-century Rome. The importance and appreciation of the design of the new entrance already appears in Vasari’s first biography on Michelangelo in 1568: [D]esigned by his hand prevailed over many other made by excellent architects, being executed with such beautiful considerations. . . . He availed himself of all the skeletons of those Baths, out of which was seen formed a most beautiful temple with an entrance surpassing the expectations of all the architects; from which he acquired infinite praise and honor. What Michelangelo is accomplishing here, is a very sympathetic response to the existing historic fabric (Stiles, 2015, p. 74). Michelangelo clearly left aside the obvious option to completely redesign the pagan site into a new church. Instead he deliberately choose to show the original but aged vaults and bare walls stripped from its original decorations. He inserted curtain walls into the arches of the two innermost chambers only to make vestibules at the ends of the long axis. He created a Greek cross design, leaving unchanged several right-angle frames with three entrances: two on the sides of the transept and one towards the exedra. The interventions were so light that construction drawings were probably not needed. That would have been a great witness, though, as much of his original design is now lost – only the orientation and the bare vaults remain. An engraving by Codazzi Viviano (1604–1672) is a rare and exceptional opportunity to see the Michelangelo interior: a tunnel view inside the former frigidarium with its open lateral entrances, the wonderful light entering from the large lunettes reflected on the vaults, and the eight granite columns in front of the bare walls. The floor pavement also seems to be a design intervention

Figure 2.1  Vincenzo Scamozzi, reconstruction of the baths of Diocletian and detail, 1580; Graf von Auersperg collection of architectural prints.

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of Michelangelo: each bay below the vault has two levels with a recessed inner parts. Perhaps he wanted to refer to the absent baths? Sadly, little remains of Michelangelo’s elegant yet discrete intervention as his interior disappeared when the Carthusian monks commissioned Luigi Vanvitelli in 1749 to rebuild the church.

Figure 2.2  Hieronymus Cock, third view of the baths of Diocletian, 1561, etching and engraving.

Figure 2.3  Codazzi Viviano; Cerquozzi Michelangelo (sec. XVII), Interno delle Terme di Diocleziano.

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Figure 2.4  Ground floor plan of baths of Diocletianus with additions of Michelangelo.

Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri Figure 2.5  Roof structure interior (only original element left).

Note 1

Diana DePardo-Minksy, Paper, ‘Renovatio Romae: Rhetoric of the Renewal at the Baths of Diocletian from the Tetrarchs to Michelangelo’, Chapter 1, refer to 136–144 in a discussion of the possible scarcity of the tradition of Christian slaves. Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences, Columbia University 2014). This world of the slave, to this day, has yet to be fully excavated or even explored, but from excavations completed at the Baths of Caracalla, also in Rome, the mechanical systems that kept the complex running can be imagined here as well. The slaves were forced to build and maintain the Baths of Diocletian, but their identity was hidden (Stiles, 2015, p. 15).

Bibliography Ackerman, J. A. (1961). The architecture of Michelangelo. London: Zwemmer. Fikret, Y. (1992). Baths and bathing in classical antiquity (1st ed.). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Karmon, D. (2008). Michelangelo’s minimalism in the design of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Annali di architettura, 20, 141–153. Stiles, A. J. (2015). Michelangelo and the baths of Diocletian: An analysis of his re-use of the ruin for the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli dei Martiri (unpublished thesis for the degree of Science in Historic Preservation), Columbia University.

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Castelvecchio Museum Location: Verona, Italy Architect: Carlo Scarpa Client: City of Verona Transformation: 1959–1973 Index: Ruination

The building The Castelvecchio, or ‘old castle’, of Verona was built between 1354 and 1356 by Cangrande II della Scala as a military construction to defend the northern entrance to the city from the Adage River. The castle was conceived as a rectangular plan with four wings surrounding a central courtyard, constructed in Gothic style and surrounded by a moat. A part of the medieval commune wall was integrated in the construction of the castle and formed a separation between the residential and the military parts of the building. The castle stands on much older structures, probably a Roman fortification; remains of this were found during Scarpa’s renovation. The Castelvecchio has long retained its military function but has been altered several times throughout its history. In 1779, Napoleon’s troops occupied the castle and constructed barracks and a staircase along the medieval city wall. When they were dislodged in 1799, they destroyed five of the seven towers. In 1923–1926, a first restoration campaign was undertaken in the context of the transformation of the castle into a museum. The restoration, led by the museum director Antonio Avena (1882–1962) and architect Ferdinando Foriati (1882–1975), applied a stylistic restoration in historicized Gothic style: towers were reconstructed, battlement walkways and crenellation were created, and drawbridges were replaced. The actual museum was organized in the Napoleonic barracks, which formed the northern wing of the complex and which were strongly adapted to fit the notion of a medieval residential castle. Gothic windows were created in the façade, and its interior was decorated with frescos, new ceilings, fireplaces, and furniture to create a setting for the exposition of objects of art.

New programme and concept Because the building was heavily damaged during World War II, the complex needed another renovation. This renovation was also an occasion to reassess the 1920s restoration and concept for the display of the collection. Carlo Scarpa, commissioned for this task, worked on these two levels. On the one hand, he applied a restauro critico; he did not intend to restore the building to its original or former condition, but he uncovered and exposed the different historic layers 126

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of the building, juxtaposing it with a contemporary layer. On the other hand, he rethought the museum’s exhibition concept, creating a setting in which the objects of art are displayed in a more balanced relation to the building. In Scarpa’s scenographic concept, he leads the visitor along the exposed objects of art and through the site. By doing so, Scarpa not only makes a functional and aesthetical intervention to the site but also creates a new narrative. A prominent position in the museum’s exhibition is given to the fourteenthcentury equestrian statue of Cangrande della Scala, one of the cities most distinguished rulers whose successors founded the Castelvecchio. The position of this statue on the site, as a symbol of the city and the museum, has been key in the development of the project. Throughout the design phase, Scarpa has tested different options for the position of this statue, which can be seen in the models, photo collages, and many sketches of the design process.

Transformation Scarpa’s approach to the Castelvecchio is most apparent in his intervention on the junction between the north wing and the Torre del Mastio and communal wall west of the site. It is in this zone that Scarpa intervenes most in the existing situation by demolishing a full bay of the west wing and the Napoleonic staircase built against the communal wall. Doing so, he exposes older, Roman layers of the site. In the space that he creates – between the Gothic west wing and the medieval communal wall and above the Roman layer – he makes a clear contemporary intervention as a critical incision where he places the museum’s highlight: the Cangrande statue. To protect the statue from weather conditions, Scarpa creates a new roof as an extension of the roof of the west wing. The statue is placed high up on a concrete pedestal, seemingly floating above the site. On the level of the ground floor, the visitor is guided over the archaeological findings over a concrete slab; on the first floor, a bridge leads the visitors beside the Cangrande statue through the communal wall. Scarpa’s concept for the design of the exhibition gallery is most remarkable on the ground floor of the west wing. While he preserves the general layout of the rooms, he radically changes the materialization and atmosphere of the interior: the walls are covered with a grey, textured stucco layer; the floors have an elegant pattern of polished cement, bordered with Prun stone; a steel beam on the longitudinal axe of the wing not only has a structural meaning but also visually stresses the enfilade created by the consecutive rooms. The sculptures are exposed on elevated platforms, meticulously positioned within the room, taking into account the natural lighting of the statues, the movement of the visitor through the room, and the relationship between the exposed object and the gallery room. The juxtaposition of different historical layers is also applied in the finishing of the façades and interiors. Where Scarpa preserves the early twentieth-century Gothic windows in the exterior of the façades, he contradicts this in the interior by introducing there rectangular, modern windows; the stucco of the façade is interrupted to show the Prun stone construction underneath; and also in the interior the stucco is interrupted to show underlying frescos. On all scale levels and in each area of the site, the refined and sensitive materialization and detailing of the interventions is typical of Scarpa’s oeuvre. 127

Figure 3.1  Castelvecchio before the 1920s restoration.

Figure 3.2  Position of the Cangrande statue (upper left) between the Gothic west wing and the medieval communal wall, above the Roman layer. 

Figure 3.3  Castelvecchio during renovation by Scarpa, indication of intervention in pencil on picture. 

Figure 3.4  Drawing of the façade by Scarpa, showing the function where he placed the Cangrande statue. 

Figure 3.5  Castelvecchio, exterior view.

Figure 3.6  Interior Castelvecchio after the 1920s restoration.

Castelvecchio Museum Figure 3.7  Enfilade of the exhibition rooms.

Bibliography Canadian Centre for Architecture. (Ed.). (1999). Carlo Scarpa architect: Intervening with history. Québec: Monacelli Press. Di Lieto, A. (1999). The renewal of the Castelvecchio. In Canadian Centre for Architecture (Ed.), Carlo Scarpa architect: Intervening with history (pp. 227–236). Québec: Monacelli Press. Di Lieto, A. (2011). Carlo Scarpa in Verona. A+U, 11(9), 46–121. Hoh-Slodczyk, C. (1987). Carlo Scarpa und das Museum. Berlin: Ernst. Murphy, R. (2017). Carlo Scarpa and Castelvecchio revisited. Edinburgh: Breakfast Mission Publishing. Rab, S. (1998). Carlo Scarpa’s re-design of Castelvecchio in Verona, Italy. Paper presented at the Constructing Identity – 86th ACSA Annual Meeting, Cleveland, OH.

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Case 4

SESC Pompeia Location: São Paulo, Brazil Architect: Lina Bo Bardi Client: Social Service of Commerce (SESC) Transformation: 1977–1986 Index: Urban regeneration–Vernacular adaptation

The building The SESC Pompeia combines the reuse of the buildings of a former Irmãos Mauser drum factory with three newly constructed concrete towers. The original drum factory, later used for the manufacture of refrigerators, dates back to the 1920s. The factory consists of a row of shed roof barns that are one of the only examples in Brazil of a Hennebique concrete construction: a monolithic structure of columns and beams in reinforced concrete, filled in with brickwork. The factory site was crossed by an internal factory street underneath it that runs along an underground stream, making this part of the building plot a non-buildable area.

New programme and concept SESC (Social Service of Commerce) is a non-profit organization, founded in 1946 and funded by private companies, that aims at improving the welfare and quality of life for (at first instance) the working-class people and the local community in general, through offering health care, sport, and cultural activities. When they obtained the site of the former Irmãos Mauser factory for the development of a new SESC centre, they began to use the site in an informal way without a big intervention, in an ad hoc and hands-on manner. When the architect Lina Bo Bardi first visited the site, she was struck by this spontaneous reuse of the buildings by the local people as a place for strolling, picnics, playground, and other purposes and also by the honesty and elegance of the original industrial architecture. These two aspects steered the concept for this project. Instead of a completely newly built centre, the architect decided to reuse the existing factory buildings and complement them with three new concrete towers. The honest and raw character of the industrial site inspired the design of the towers, which are an example of Brutalist architecture. Moreover, Lina Bo Bardi and her team wanted to build further on the ambiance and atmosphere of the existing informal reuse of the site and therefore created a temporary office on site to best establish a participatory approach. Or as Rachel Sara puts it: ‘the buildings have been kept in a state of “incompleteness”, allowing a collaborative occupation by

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its users’. Also after the opening of the project, Lina Bo Bardi stayed involved in, for example, the organization of exhibitions held at the site. SESC Pompeia is a place for leisure and education through offering social services, recreational sports, and popular cultural and creative activities and aims to reach out to different age groups and social classes. The actual programme emerged from the activities that already were taking place at the site. The former factory houses art and craft workshops, a theatre, a self-service restaurant and bar, a library, exhibition space, and public multifunctional spaces. The two largest new towers house sports activities, including a swimming pool, gymnasium, rooms for dancing and wrestling, and sports courts. The chimney-like tallest tower is a water tower. Lina Bo Bardi described SESC Pompeia as a ‘Citadel of Liberty’: ‘citadel’ as it is a ‘place for defending the city’ and ‘liberty’, referring to the very open, generous, and social character and atmosphere of the place.

Transformation The actual transformation of the factory buildings is a minimal intervention: stripping back the buildings to reveal their basic structure and tectonics through removing the plaster and sandblasting the walls. The separate buildings are interconnected and are at the same time very open to the existing factory street running through the site, making the former factory into a public interior. All fixed interventions are made in concrete or other raw, industrial materials, while small, more delicate, and colourful elements give the site a friendly and homely atmosphere. In the largest space, which houses the library, exhibition, and multifunctional space, different levels of privacy and atmospheres are created within one space through the addition of mezzanines as rooms for reading or playing board games, a fireplace for gathering, and an artificial pond. The warm and welcoming atmosphere is strengthened by the carefully designed wooden benches, chairs, and tables; hidden wheels in the square sofas maximize the flexibility of the space. Also, in the building used for creative workshops, low walls are added to create smaller, circular ‘rooms’ as separate workshop spaces. A similar concept is applied for the newly constructed buildings. The two largest towers are massive, concrete constructions that are left in their rough condition; irregular and randomly placed holes without glass, which serve as a natural ventilation system, mark the character of the largest tower and give it a rather ‘primitive’ outlook. Bright red windows in the second tower seem to be placed randomly all over the façade. The decision to accommodate the sport facilities into two separate towers is dictated by the fact that the unbuildable zone runs through the whole site. As such the existing street throughout the factory buildings is prolonged and also separates the two sport facility towers. Hence, the connection between both towers is made through bridges. As in the factory buildings, in the new part, small interventions bring more life into the buildings: the exterior space between these buildings serves as a wooden platform for sunbathing; mosaics in the bathrooms and pool refer to folk art; the floor of the sport hall is turned into a colourful piece of graphic art. All over the site, a bright red colour is used to mark out small

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elements of the original iron roof construction ribs, newly added iron balustrades, and ventilation grilles, doors, and window frames in one of the new towers. Since the opening in 1986, hardly any interventions are made to the complex, which reveals the true sustainable and flexible character of the project.

Figure 4.1  Plan of the site SESC Pompeia, ground level.

Figure 4.2  Overview of the site with the preserved industrial sheds in the foreground and the new concrete towers in the background.

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Figure 4.3  Library and communal space.

Figure 4.4  Large event and exhibition hall.

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Figure 4.5  Workshop spaces.

Bibliography Condello, A., & Lehmann, S. (Eds.). (2016). Sustainable Lina: An introduction. Cham: Springer. de Oliveira, O. (2002). Lina Bo Bardi: Obra construida/Built work (Vol. 23/24). Barcelona: Editorial Gustavo Gili, sa. Ferras, M. (2012). Lina Bo Bardi: Together. The making of SESC Pompeia. Retrieved June 8, 2018, from http://linabobarditogether.com/2012/08/03/the-making-ofsesc-pompeia-by-marcelo-ferraz/ Sara, R. (2013). Citadels of freedom: Lina Bo Bardi’s SESC Pompeia factory leisure centre and Teatro Oficina, São Paulo. Architectural Design, 83(6), 52–57. SESC São Paulo, & Instituto Lina Bo e P. M. Bardi. (Eds.). (1999). Cidadela da Liberdade. São Paulo: Instituto Lina Bo e P.M. Bardi.

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Case 5

Station Atocha Location: Arganzuela Madrid, Spain Architect: Rafael Moneo Client: Spanish Ministry of Transportation Transformation: 1985–1992 Index: Urban regeneration–Urban park

The building Atocha station was inaugurated in 1851 as Estación de Mediodia, or South Station. It was and still is Madrid’s largest train station. The name ‘Atocha’ comes from the nearby basilica dedicated to Our Lady of Atocha. A fire destroyed the station, and it was rebuilt in 1892 following a design by Alberto De Palacio Elissague (1856–1939), who collaborated with the office of Gustave Eiffel. Following the typical typology of large metropolitan train stations, it combined a large wrought-iron hall accommodating six train platforms, with brick buildings. The vast hall is 157 metres long, 48 metres of span, and 27 metres high. The central nave is a mixture of brick walls in an eclectic style with cast iron arches resting on steel pilasters placed against the lateral brick walls. The administration buildings were separated from the iron and glass hall of the station at the beginning of Avenida Ciudad de Barcelona (the so-called La Campanilla site). The complicated construction was granted to the Belgian Société Anonyme de Construction et des Ateliers de Willebroeck, based in Brussels and directed by Leopoldo Valentín. The inverted U-shaped iron roof was indeed partly built in Belgium and transported to Madrid. The hall was open to the southern side but closed with an impressive glass-steel curtain wall on the northern side, facing the Plaza del Emperador Carlos V. This urban façade makes this station rather unique among similar steel stations in Europe of that period. It also provided an important asset in remodelling the station. The ornamental brickwork of the lateral walls shows an elegant combination of strong red colours from the sands of Murcia and Guadalajara, with white tiles from Ariza in Zaragoza. The terracotta decoration further completes the eclectic style of the interior.

New programme and concept In 1985, the station had to be expanded to incorporate additional tracks, including the fast AVE lines to Seville that would accommodate the Seville Expo in 1992. The main concept of architect José Rafael Moneo was to remove the tracks from the nineteenth-century steel hall to a new railway station at the southern side

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with ticketing offices as a connecting area. The vast empty hall was converted into a ‘commercial’ complex with travel agencies, cafés, restaurants, and most impressively a tropical garden of over 4,000 square metres as a waiting lounge or, more appropriately, a generous city garden. Between the old and new stations is a considerable height distance that was bridged by two sets of large escalators, offering visitors a unique experience to view the tropical garden from a bird’s-eye perspective. Moneo explains his objective: ‘We did not want an action that distorted the previous one, it was about increasing capacity without changing much its form, but not to the extent of using the old materials’. The work respects what has already been done, keeping the lines and similar materials: steel and aluminium. And it breaks with the past through colour. ‘The white can make the difference with the previous’, says Moneo.

Transformation The transformation was threefold: remodelling the former train hall with a new programme, creating a new train station at the southern end, and, finally, adjusting the complex traffic conditions around the new site. The new station was organized over two levels, and provided access to the underground platforms for the local commuter lines. The entrance to the train platforms is located on the first floor. As the long-distance trains can be boarded from the second floor, the check-in and boarding systems are similar to the procedures in airports. The vaults of the new stations recall motifs frequently found in Soane’s work – recognizing implicitly that in architecture there is no need to fear precedents, Moneo explains. The seemingly simple transformation to reuse the former train hall as a tropical garden creates an impressive atmosphere, but most of all, since its opening in 1992, it still seems to be an intelligent and sustainable new programme with

Figure 5.1  Historic image of Atocha station.

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Station Atocha

thousands of daily users. Commuters, shoppers, or tourists still marvel over the vast scale of palm trees inside a massive ‘greenhouse’. Located near the former Royal Botanical Garden, alongside the Museo del Prado, the city garden of Atocha is an urban response to this historical fabric on a metropolitan scale. Indeed, as in many other projects of Moneo, he looks for the ‘right scale of intervention’. The new railway station is clearly set aside from its nineteenth-century precedent; its morphology and colour are very different, but Moneo still manages to calibrate both buildings. Perhaps, through the unusually high ceilings of the new extension, there is same sense of freedom and airy atmosphere as in the steel hall.

Figure 5.2  Exterior view of Atocha station with the historic building in the foreground and the new station in the background.

Figure 5.3  Botanical garden in the former station hall.

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Bibliography Alvares, P. (2010). Moneo reinventa Atocha otra vez [online]. Retrieved September 30, 2018, from https://elpais.com/diario/2010/12/13/madrid/12922 43055_850215.html Jones, R. (2000). Estación Ferroviaria de Atocha, Madrid (1985–1992) [online]. Retrieved September 30, 2018, from http://people.seas.harvard.edu/~jones/ lab_arch/moneo/atocha.html Moneo, R. (2017). Rafael Moneo: ‘Architectural culture needs a new paradigm’ [online]. Retrieved September 30, 2018, from www.architectsjournal.co.uk/ news/culture/rafael-moneo-architectural-culture-needs-anew-paradigm/ 10025341.article

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Case 6

Kunsthaus Tacheles Location: Berlin, Germany Architect: A group of artists in informal settlements Transformation: 1990s Index: Ruination–Urban regeneration–Vernacular adaptation–Gentrification

The building Kunsthaus Tacheles in Berlin was originally constructed in 1907. Originally called ‘Friedrichstraßenpassage’, it was a five-storey shopping arcade located on the crossing between Oranienburger Straße and Friedrichstraße in the district of Mitte, at the centre of Berlin. Although the building followed the traditional typology of an arcade having shop units at both sides under a covered gallery, its retail concept was slightly different as goods were paid at a central cashpoint. However, the project was not successful and went bankrupt only six months after its opening. The building was later used by AEG, an electronic appliance company, in 1928 and then occupied by the Nazis for offices beginning in 1934. By the end of World War II, the building was seriously damaged by bombing. After the war, parts of the building were used temporarily as, for example, a warehouse. In 1981, the central part of the former arcade was completely destroyed by a controlled explosion. A ruined façade and a section of the front building were all that remained.

New concept and programme Since 1990, a group of artists living in an informal settlement in the ruins of Tacheles transformed the building into an informal art centre. In West Berlin, informal settlements had grown since the 1970s. However, after the fall of the Berlin Wall, building ownership was often uncertain, which created an excellent opportunity for squatters to occupy empty buildings. Therefore, Off-Kultur in Berlin flourished and diverse people from the West and East gathered in unoccupied and often dilapidated buildings, mostly in Mitte and Prenzlauer Berg. The art centre, called Kunsthaus Tacheles, included a small movie theatre, Café Zapata, studios for artists, and exhibition spaces. The large open land where the actual arcade had stood was used as a sculpture garden and event location. The spaces seemed ‘occupied’ rather than ‘redesigned’, as the new interior developed spontaneously without a preset plan, using mainly reclaimed and salvaged materials. The main characteristics of the ruins, which included distorted boundaries between the interior and exterior, roughness, and strong patina, were retained and even strengthened through interventions.

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Transformation and evolution The transformation of the ruins was a continuous process led by the artists who occupied the building. Interventions were either pragmatic or artistic in nature. The open backside was initially left open, but a number of the rooms were gradually closed using different types of reclaimed materials. Graffiti and other artworks decorated the original walls, floors, and ceilings of the building. Large artworks and found objects ornamented the open land out back, called the sculpture garden. The area surrounding Tacheles went through a process of gentrification. In 1999, the plot where Tacheles was located came under the ownership of a project developer. At the time, Tacheles was among the most important art centres in Berlin with international appeal; the city council agreed to keep the art centre. The building came under monument protection, and the artist collective obtained a ten-year lease to continue using the building. A number of measures, however, were taken for safety reasons, such as the closing of large parts of the back façade with glazing and installation of balustrades in parts that were left open. In the following years, apart from being an alternative art centre, Tacheles became an attractive tourist venue; particularly, Café Zapata became more commercial. The protection of the building, however, did not stop the process of gentrification; it only slowed it down by a decade. The lease expired in 2009, but the artists refused to leave, choosing to become informal settlers again. In 2011, most of the artists agreed to leave the building, others were forced to do so, and the art centre was closed down. As the building is protected as a monument, it cannot be demolished. It is currently waiting for its new use. In the autumn of 2017, the redevelopment plan for the site has been announced: a commercial centre based on the original function and layout of the building. Although the details of the

Figure 6.1  Backside of Tacheles, 1995.

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project remain unclear, it seems that the historical reference is limited to the early history of the building and ignores other aspects and narratives of the buildings past, such as its use during the World War II, the communist period, and its more recent history as an alternative or ‘underground’ art centre.

Figure 6.2  Front façade of Tacheles, 2008.

Figure 6.3  Backside of Tacheles, 2006.

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Bibliography Boym, S. (2001). The future of nostalgia. New York: Basic Books. Sandler, D. (2011). Counterpreservation: Decrepitude and memory in post-unification Berlin. Third Text, 25(6), 687–697. Shaw, K. (2005). The place of alternative culture and the politics of its protection in Berlin, Amsterdam and Melbourne. Planning Theory & Practice, 6(2), 149–169. Steward, J. (2002). Das Kunsthaus Tacheles: The Berlin architecture debate of the 1990s in micro-historical context. In S. Taberner & F. Finlay (Eds.), Recasting German identity: Culture, politics, and literature in the Berlin Republic (pp. 51–66). Rochester, NY: Camden House.

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Case 7

Palais de Tokyo Location: Paris, France Architect: Lacaton & Vassal Client: Ministry of Culture and Communication, delegation of visual arts/OPPIC Transformation: 2000–2002 and 2012–2014 Index: Ruination

The building Palais de Tokyo is located in the west wing of the former Palais des Musées d’art modern, built in 1937 at the bank of the Seine, at the Quai de Tokio (the present-day Avenue de New York). The design of the monumental, neoclassical building is a collaboration between Jean-Claude Dondel and André Aubert. The building consists of two wings, each four floors high, that are connected through an open colonnade and a square between the two wings. At the advent of World War II, the collection was moved to different locations in France, and in 1941, the basement of the museum was requisitioned by the German government and used as a warehouse for Jewish goods and property. The west wing of the museum was reopened in 1947. In 1977, however, the collection moved to the newly constructed Centre Pompidou. From 1986 onwards, the building was reused as a museum and cultural centre related to various aspects of film and photography, but, despite its ambition and planned renovation, the centre was closed, and the buildings were abandoned in 1998. From 2002, the west wing has housed a centre for contemporary art, called Palais de Tokyo, after the original name of the street where it is located.

New programme and concept The architects Lacaton & Vassal were approached to renovate the Palais de Tokyo and update it for its new use. During the 1990s renovation, which intended to transform the building into a cinema, the interior had been stripped back and partly demolished, an act that revealed the massive, concrete structure of the building. The architects, however, were intrigued by the spatial qualities and rough character of the building and decided to do as little as possible to the existing structure to accommodate the new function – an approach also partly dictated by the limited budget available. Their role was more to bring the building, as found, in line with regulations for public buildings than to make any large spatial or aesthetical interventions.

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The difference in atmosphere between the interior and exterior is striking: while the exterior is monumental in its form and rich in materials and decoration, the exterior is rough and looks more like a construction site than a finished building. The interior is conceived as one large, open space without a separation between spaces and without a clear routing common to exhibition spaces. Instead, visitors are invited to stroll in or roam the spaces. The architects were inspired by Cédric Price’s Fun Palace, where boundaries between different functions in a building disappeared completely, and all spaces are flexible and open for various uses and interventions.

Transformation The first phase of transformation was done in 2001 and the second phase in 2011–2012, following the same concept but extending the gallery space from 7,000 to 22,000 square metres. By stripping back the interior of the building to its basic, rough concrete structure, Lacaton & Vassal created large, open spaces filled with daylight and open vistas throughout the building. Moreover, they improved the vertical circulation, opened up the roof to let even more daylight enter the space and limiting the necessity for artificial lighting. To enhance the open character of the building and its flexible circulation, additional entrances were created at different floors levels. The new elements, such as staircases and balustrades, are made out of rough construction materials. All wiring and installations have been left visible. Lacaton & Vassal have also worked with artists to intervene in the site. In 2002, the Jardin aux Habitants (Garden of Inhabitants) was created on a small green strip between the building and the street by the artist Robert Milin. The gardens are used by local people and families as small vegetable gardens. In the more recent renovation, street artists have been invited to create permanent works on selected walls in the buildings.

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Figure 7.1  Musée des Arts modernes, Paris, 1937.

Figure 7.2  Aerial view of the museum site next to the Seine.

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Figure 7.4  Exterior view of the Palais de Tokyo.

Figure 7.5  Revealed concrete structure of the building and introduction of new staircases.

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Figure 7.6 Revealed concrete structure of the building and introduction of new staircases.

Figure 7.7 Interior of the Palais de Tokyo in use as an art centre.

Bibliography Didelon, V. (2008). Doing without architecture: Reflections on the renovation of the Palais de Tokyo. In Looking at European architecture: A critical view (pp. 182–192). Brussels: Civa. Marquez Cécelia, F., & Poveda, P. (Eds.). (2015). Lacaton & Vassal, 1993–2015: Post-media horizon (Vol. 177/178). Madrid: El Croquis.

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Case 8

Library Escuelas Pías Location: Madrid, Spain Architect: Linazasoro & Sanchez Arquitectura, in collaboration with H. Sebastián de Erice, and J. F. de la Torre (structure). Client: Gerencia Municipal de Urbanismo del Ayuntamiento de Madrid Transformation: 1996–2004 Index: Ruination–Urban regeneration–Gentrification

The building The church and the school of Pías de San Fernando is situated in Lavapiés, a historical quarter of the city of Madrid just south of the central Puerta del Sol. First came the school, founded in 1729 and extended in 1740. It was open to the children living in poverty without access to formal education. Then came the large baroque church constructed between 1763 and 1791 by priest Miguel Escribano. The plan is composed of a quadrangular shape attached to a rotunda with a sumptuous dome, resting on an impressive tambour with pilasters between the alternating square and ellipse-shaped window openings. The rotunda was decorated with eight istrian columns composed of capitals and had access to an enormous semicircular arch decorated with the coat of arms of the Pious Schools, work of Alfonso Vergaz. Ramón de Mesonero de Romanos (1803–1882), a contemporary Spanish writer, notes that: The temple is one of the most beautiful in Madrid, for its plant, which consists of a large rotunda preceded by a quadrangular space covered by a beautiful dome, which stands out remarkably among all the other churches in Madrid. It was built by Brother Miguel Escribano, and finished in 1791, and the beautiful collection of sculptures that decorate its altars, all works of modern artists. In 1838, there were 1660 registered students receiving free education, and the library housed over 17,000 volumes. During the Spanish Civil War, on July 20, 1936, the site was burned down and looted. But different from many other ruins in the capital, it was never restored until 2002 when the current library programme surfaced.

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New programme and concept The site of the former school houses today a university faculty that consists of a building with classrooms and auditoria, and a library is built within the ruins of the church. The design of the new programme builds further on the narrative as well as the physical memory of the existing building. Its contemporary function as a library is closely related to the original educational programme of the site, and the atmosphere of silence, concentration, and study reminds of the contemplative, sacral atmosphere of the church. The spatial elements that are added, such as a rood loft in the side nave and a vaulted ceiling, are elements that are found in church typology. Moreover, the characteristics of the new materials fit the weathered condition of the ruin.

Transformation The ruin of the church is preserved in its rough but delicate condition as a witness of its violent history; brickwork seems restored only to a minimum, window frames are invisible from the exterior, and the church remained roofless. Where new façades had to be constructed, the architect used different sizes of brick in order to obtain a texture similar to the rough, crumbling brickwork of the ruin. Parts of the former interior of the church are kept as exterior space and function as a sort of patio, tranquil zones between the silent interior of the library and the turbulent urban life in the square in front. On the inside, too, the new additions are rather modest, showing a strong aesthetic synergy with the ruin. Different types of paving stone that are used at the square in front of the church are extended in the interior. The space is covered by wooden lattice under a glass roof and forms a subtle visual reference to the original vaulted ceiling of the church. Instead, however, of reconstructing the vault at its original height, it is somehow lowered, which makes the interior less monumental but instead more intimate and related to the human scale. The open structure of the new vault allows daylight to penetrate to the interior of the building, yet filters it to create an intimate and serene atmosphere similar to the filtered light entering a crumbling ruin. Additional lighting is kept to a minimum. Functional lighting for reading is integrated in the furniture, and new lighting fixtures hang low from the ceiling; a chandelier marks the former altar space, which is the centre of what is now the reading room. The classroom and auditoria building is a new construction that follows the contours of the former school and leans against the exterior façade of the ruins of the church. The old wall of the church is a prominent feature in the interior of the new building; an open staircase connecting the different floors is positioned next to this wall. A terrace on the roof of the new building, used as a bar, gives a magnificent view of the city.

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Figure 8.1  Cross section through the church and school building.

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Figure 8.2  Exterior view of the church Escuelas Pías converted to a library.

Figure 8.3  Interior view of the church Escuelas Pías converted to a library.

Figure 8.4  View from the outside, looking at the interior of the church converted into a library.

Figure 8.5  New staircase in the school building against the walls of the ruins.

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Bibliography Ignacio Linazasoro, J. (2005). Evocando la Ruina. Sombras y Texturas. Centro Cultural en Lavapiés, Madrid. Madrid: José Ignacio Linazasoeo. Mesonero de Romanos, Ramón de (1860). El antiguo Madrid: Paseos históricoanecdóticos por las calles y casas de esta villa. Madrid: Oficinas de la Ilustración española y americana.

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Case 9

Kolumba Art Museum Location: Cologne, Germany Architect: Peter Zumthor, in collaboration with Rainer Weitschies Client: Archdiocese of Cologne Transformation: 1997–2007 Index: Aemulatio–Ruination

The building The precursor of Kolumba, the Museum of the Archdiocese of Cologne, was constructed in 1853. Saint Kolumba parish dominated Cologne at that time and wanted to demonstrate its power by founding the museum, dedicated to religious art from early Christian times onwards. The museum was accommodated in the former Archbishop’s Palace and close to the city’s cathedral. During World War II, the museum and its surroundings were destroyed by the allied air strike and left in ruins. The exterior walls, part of a tower and a gothic Mary figure remained unscathed. Large components of the art collection were saved due to previously evacuation into the Westerwald forest. Immediately after the war, in 1949, a small chapel, Madonna in the Ruins, designed by the local architect Gottfried Böhm (born 1920), was erected in the ruins of the site as a place for reflection, in remembrance of the bombings. The chapel was dedicated in 1950 but was finished only later. In 1954, the choir windows, designed by Ludwig Gies (1887–1966) and carried out by Oidtmann in Linnich, were installed, portraying yellow circles of 34 angel heads; small ribs of concrete structured the windows as the Madonna was centred in the space. A northern extension, The Chapel of the Sacrament’, was dedicated in 1957. Gottfried Böhm designed the furniture in white-grey marble. The altar and four candle stands that were as high as the room topped up the space. In the east wall, the Stations of the Cross were chiselled into the basalt. The museum reopened in 1954 at another site in Cologne and only moved back to its historic site in 1972, but soon it became clear that there was not enough space for large exhibitions. In 1996, a competition for the renovation of the museum was advertised, which was won by Peter Zumthor.

New programme and concept The main intention of the renovation of the museum was not only to improve its scenographic and functional qualities but also to create a place of inertia and concentration. The historic character of the place had to be maintained by integrating

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the existing collection of old and modern art; this collection had been in possession of the diocese for more than 150 years. Moreover, due to its liturgical use of the existing chapel for the small Kolumba parish, its individual use was very important, and its independence from the museum was one of the conditions for the new project. The new building literally builds further on the ruins of the late-Gothic church, and the so-called ruin-hall ‘frames’ the archaeological remains. A new side wing and upper floor levels house the exhibition areas. Minimalistic courtyards, one at the heart of the building, house works by famous sculptors like Richard Serra and Joseph Wolf and function as contemplative gardens.

Transformation The ruin-hall is the largest room of the museum and is like one big archaeological field. Thin metal columns support this double height space. The temperature is low to protect the archaeological objects and also influences the visitor’s experience tremendously. A winding passage in dark brown wood leads you through the war relics. This monumental space is dramatically lit up as the diffused light is filtered through openings, created by omitting bricks. Beside the shades, the penetration of the street noises influences the ambience. The original chapel is enclosed by the large ruin-hall but remains fully functional and accessible from the outside. The new building includes 16 exhibition rooms organized on three levels. Every room has a different ceiling height and atmosphere. Large windows from ceiling to floor frame the surrounding cityscape, as the view becomes a painting itself. The scenography is sober and gives space to each individual piece of art. The very minimalistic character of the exhibition rooms is counterbalanced by the luxurious, gentleman’s club–like interior of the reading room: a space of 6 metres high with dark brown mahogany walls and floor, leather lounge chairs, and brown cushions on the wide windowsill. Exceptional materials and sustainable detailing also characterize the exterior of the building. The handmade materials unite the destroyed fragments of the site and bring old and new together. The grey bricks with a thickness of 60 centimetres were designed by Tegl Petersen of Denmark specifically for this project. These new bricks, in combination with the remnants of the church, tell the story of the contemporary museum. The new is reflected in the old, the past is altered in the present and perceived in a new way. Peter Zumthor was able to revalue the historic cityspot with a sense of serenity and meditation, without losing sight of the organization of the new programme.

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Figure 9.1  Exterior view from street.

Figure 9.2  Interior view of historic hall.

Figure 9.3  Patio.

Kolumba Art Museum Figure 9.4  Exhibition room.

Bibliography Carrington, B. (2008). Kolumba, art museum of the archdiocese of Cologne (Peter Zumthor). Architectural Record, 196(1). Zumthor, P. (2008). Peter Zumthor-Kolumba, art museum of the Cologne Archdiocese. A+U − Architecture and Urbanism (451), 38–59. Zumthor, P., & Durisch, T. (2014). Peter Zumthor: Buildings and projects. Zurich: Scheidegger & Spiess.

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Case 10

Neues Museum Location: Berlin, Germany Architect: David Chipperfield Architects, in collaboration with Julian Harrap (restoration) Client: Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz represented by Bundesamt für Bauwesen und Raumordnung Transformation: 1997–2009 Index: Aemulatio–Ruination

The building The Neues Museum in Berlin was constructed between 1843 and 1855 to house the state collection of ancient and classical art. It was the second museum constructed on the Museumsinsel, the northern part of an island in the Spree River that today houses five state museums. It was designed by Friedrich August Stüler (1880–1865), a student of Karl Friederich Schinkel (1781–1841), who earlier designed the Altes Museum on the Museumsinsel. The exterior of the Neues Museum is in sober, neoclassical style not to compete with the monumentality of the Altes Museum aside. The plan shows a central stairwell with a courtyard at both sides, each enclosed by a sequence of museum rooms. The splendour and innovative aspect of the building can, however, be found in its construction technique and interiors. Stüler employed the newest iron construction techniques, which he borrowed from industrial buildings; whereas in the most representative rooms of the lower floors the iron construction is hidden, in other rooms the iron construction is exposed, an extremely modern feature for its time. The interiors were richly decorated with reliefs, murals, and decorated floorings and ceilings. Both the shape and decoration of the different rooms represented historicized styles, forming an aesthetic entity, with the works of art exposed in the room, and was in line with the educative role of the museum. For example, the Egyptian department, which was the richest of its time, was decorated with large panoramic landscapes of the area of the exposed findings, with hieroglyphs and motifs found in ancient Egyptian architecture. This unity between building and collection was unique and has not been repeated, not even by Stüler himself in other museums he designed later in his career. In the 1920s, the museum has gone through a renovation and slight adaptation, and some of the interior decorations have been covered to create more neutral exhibition spaces. The museum closed in 1939 at the beginning of World War II, during which the museum was heavily damaged through bombing. Fortunately, the major part of the collection had been stored elsewhere. After the war, the building was left in ruins, just stabilizing the structure through infill with red bricks without any aesthetic consideration. A first renovation campaign was started only in the 1980s but was put on hold because of the fall of the Berlin Wall. 162

Neues Museum

New programme and concept After the reunification of Berlin, the renovation of the Neues Museum was immediately put on the table again. In 1994, a first competition was organized, which was won by Giorgio Grassi. Nevertheless, the decision of the jury became subject to discussion, and a new competition was organized, and David Chipperfield Architects, second in the initial competition, was appointed as the winning team. As the fabric was severely damaged, a reconstruction seemed impossible. On the other hand, a clear and contrasting architectural gesture seemed also inappropriate given the traumatic destruction of the building. As a sort of ‘third way’, the architects decided to reuse nearly all of the remaining fabric, preserving its patina and fragmented characteristics that it had gained through its ruinous state and added new elements to recomplete the building in a way that its original structure and layout are readable again. The degree of destruction varied greatly among different parts of the buildings: while some parts had been destroyed almost completely, in other parts interior finishings such as terrazzo flooring and frescos were still intact. Therefore, the level of intervention differs among various parts of the building depending on their condition, moving from a strictly ‘scientific’ conservation and restoration, to recomposing the historic layout of the exhibition rooms, to creating completely new spaces.

Transformation Throughout this process of recompleting the building, the architects strived for continuity rather can contrast. David Chipperfield explains that when applied on the small scale (e.g. a missing piece in a terrazzo flooring), the repair may be simple, but on a larger scale (e.g. replacing a part of a missing wall), the repair becomes an intervention that needs a material character in its own right. As a result of this approach, the recompleted museum is sober in its architectural representation but shows its greatness in its construction, detailing, and materialization, as was also the case in Stüler’s original concept for the building. The new and the old form an aesthetic entity in which different time layers are juxtaposed and create a dialogue with the exhibited art objects. The original volume of the building, the façades and sequence of spaces, has been brought back through a combination of conserving the preserved fabric and recomposing and rebuilding missing elements. The missing northwest wing and southeast bay are constructed out of bricks whose colour comes so close to the conserved original fabric that the buildings at first sight are perceived as one volume. The formal idea of the disappeared monumental staircase in the entrance hall has been brought back using white cement mixed with Saxonian marble chips, creating a grandeur not only through shape but also through materiality, especially in dialogue with the exposed brick walls in which a subtitle decorative character is created by the use of different types of brick varying in colour and texture. The interior courtyards are both covered with a new glass roof and used as exhibition spaces. They also function as a visual connection between the different floors of the museum and give orientation to the visitor. Through two underground passages, the building is connected to the Altes Museum and the Pergamon museum. 163

Figure 10.1  Neues Museum design by August Stüler 1862, section through northern wing.

Figure 10.2  Section though the courtyards facing northeast.

Figure 10.3  Exterior Neues Museum exterior.

Figure 10.4  Sequence of exhibition rooms.

Figure 10.5  Greek courtyard.

Figure 10.6  Egyptian courtyard.

Figure 10.7  Central stairs.

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Bibliography Ham, O. (Ed.). (2009). The Neues Museum Berlin: Conserving, restoring, rebuilding within the World Heritage. Liepzig: Seemann Verlag. Van Wezel, E. (1999). Over het concept van kunst-en cultuurgeschiedenis in het Alte en Neue Museum te Berlijn (Band 1+ 2). in eigen beheer. Verlag nicht ermittelbar.

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Case 11

C-Mine Location: Genk, Belgium Architect: 51N4E, Bogdan and Van Broeck Architects, De Gregorio and Partners Client: City of Genk Transformation: 2004–2010 Index: Urban regeneration

The building In the early twentieth century, a concession was given to create a coal mine in Winterslag, Genk. The construction of the infrastructure and houses for the workers started in 1908, and in 1917 the mine became operational as the first of many coal mines in the region. The deepest tunnels were located almost 1,000 metres underground. The most prominent buildings at the site included the administrative building, energy building with compression and ventilation hall, two enormous shaft towers with elevators to transport workers and coals, and several cooling towers. A massive spoil tip marks the landscape surrounding the site. Winterslag was the last mining site to operate in the region but closed in 1988 due to decrease in demand for coal and competition from cheaper, international coal mines. As of 1993, 11 of the 45 buildings at the site are protected as a monument, including some machinery. In the early twentieth century, Genk was a village with only 3,000 inhabitants. Through the creation of three coal mines – Winterslag, Waterschei, and Zwartberg – Genk rapidly became industrialized and grew into a city of 65,000 people. After the closure of the mines in the 1980s, the city was confronted with widespread unemployment and with the question of how to deal with the built relics of the mining industry and with its surrounding landscape, also strongly shaped by this industry. New industries were attracted to Genk in order to create jobs and give a new dynamic to the city.

New programme and concept In the late 1990s, Genk started the redevelopment of the former mining site of Winterslag as a space for creative industries that would serve as a driver for the regeneration of the area. The most significant buildings were preserved, which are the shaft towers, the administrative building, the energy building, and some smaller stables and sheds. The former spoil pit, taken over by natural overgrowth, is used as a recreational area. The site itself is transformed into a creative hub,

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organized around four key aspects − education, creative economy, recreation, and artistic creation − and houses various functions, including a school of art and design, an incubator for young entrepreneurs, a cinema, a cultural centre, an art gallery and a museum. As Genk mainly developed its spatial and social structure around its three mining sites, the closure of the mines also caused a loss of local identity. C-Mine, however, functions as a new physical centre and point of identification for the city. De Gregorio and Partners drew up a master plan for the site. Various architects have worked on the different buildings at the site; some of these are adapted industrial buildings, while others are new constructions but respecting the original layout of the site.

Transformation The most prominent and best preserved historical building is the energy building, transformed into a cultural centre by 51N4E. This building, which once controlled the oxygen in the underground tunnels of the mine, serves today as the backbone of the site. A large black steel volume marks the entrance at its front façade and serves as a buffer between the interior of the building and the square in front. Visitors access the building at what was originally the basement, which now serves as the central foyer of the cultural centre. This floor, however, is kept rather dark and feels somehow like a labyrinth due to the presence of the original machinery that fills the space. Original spiral staircases and massive new concrete stairs give access to the upper floor. In contrast with the lower floor, the upper floor is open and filled with daylight. Two auditoria are added as new volumes at each side of the central turbine hall. Rooftop spaces serve as terraces between the existing building and auditoria. The rich finishings of the original interior, such as the dado in local faience, cast iron staircases, and red-and-white-tiled floor, are all preserved, including the patina it gained over time, and define the character of the interior still today. An underground tunnel that connects the energy building with one of the former shaft towers houses the C-Mine Expedition: an interactive exhibition on the history of the site, the mining industry more generally, and the more personal story of the workers in the mine. When visiting the exhibition, people can climb up to the shaft towers and enjoy a view of the area. The former administration, building facing the street, is developed in a more commercial way, housing the cinema, bars, and restaurants but also offices and co-working spaces for creative industries. A new building by Bogdan and Van Broeck Architects houses the MAD-Faculty (Media Art and Design Academy). The industrial character of the site informs the typology and tectonics of the new building: the open spaces and transparency of the building stimulate creativity and the exchange of ideas. The materials and textures of the façades evocate the rugged, black coal. Behind this new building, an empty plot gives space to new development of single-family housing. A former shed building is reused as art gallery and atelier of Piet Stockmans, internationally renowned ceramist.

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Figure 11.1  Exterior view, historic image.

Figure 11.2  Energy building exterior.

Figure 11.3  Exterior view site with shaft towers in the foreground and energy building in the background.

Figure 11.4  Interior Energy building.

Figure 11.5  Rooftop extension of energy building.

Part II Figure 11.6  View from the shaft tower towards the spoil pit.

Bibliography Grafe, C. (Ed.). (2012). Radicale gemeenplaatsen – Europese architectuur uit Vlaanderen (Architectuurboek Vlaanderen n°10). Antwerp: Vlaams Architectuur Insitituut. Van Cleempoel, K., & Cuyvers, R. (2014). Ökosystem für Kreative: Die C-Mine in Genk. Belgien. Werk, Bauen + Wohnen, 1−2, 28−35.

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Case 12

Park Spoor Noord Location: Antwerp, Belgium Architect: Studio Associato Bernardo Secchi Paola Viganò Client: City of Antwerp Transformation: 2003–2009 Index: Urban regeneration–Gentrification

The building Park Spoor Noord is located at a former railway yard, constructed in 1873 over an area of ​​24 hectares. Developed for parking, maintaining, and repairing the trains, it consisted of rail infrastructure and depots. Also, the education of the train workers was organized on the site. The train company accomplished its last activities in 2001 when the depot moved further north of the city. The former industrial zone was indicated in the urban planning regulation as a ‘zone for urban development’. A new park would bring open space and fresh air to a very dense part of the city of Antwerp that was challenged in various ways, mostly socially and economically. The negative connotation of the site and its sombre, grey appearance was not very helpful in that respect. In 2002, the design competition entitled ‘A Park for the Twenty-First Century’ was organized.

New programme and concept In 2005, the construction of the park took off, designed by the winning team of Bernardo Secchi (1934–2014) and Paola Viganò (1961−present). They approached the city of Antwerp as a series of both villages and a metropolis and considered Park Spoor Noord to be ‘a garden for the neighbourhood, a park for the city’. On one hand, the park had to serve the daily activities of the close community; on the other hand, it had to give scale in the bigger picture. In 2006, the city of Antwerp also coined a Strategic Spatial Structure Plan, also in collaboration of the city services with Secchi and Viganò. The plan had legal status and aimed at developing a long-term coherent urban design ‘for accessible and high quality spaces with a high recreational or nature value and for an optimal integration into the urban public space and green structure’. According to Secchi and Viganò, the challenge was to reform the link between the residential areas Dam, Stuivenberg and Seefhoek, because the railway cut them off from the city and from each other. Therefore the intention arose of an intermediate zone with a communal character, to enhence the quality of life

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in the city. It had to become a new ‘social space’, a modern ‘Res Publica’, where social life can take place and where every visitor gets the opportunity to gain experiences. The park is designed as a large green meadow, equipped with different facilities. The wide and simply designed lawn is crossed with paths that connect the different vicinities with one another and with the park. Playgrounds, fountains, a skate park, bicycle and walking facilities, and sports fields but also gardens and open forests accommodate various formal and informal social practices and define multiple atmospheres. Several industrial buildings are preserved and adapted for new uses. To make the project economically viable, a zone of 6 hectares at the west end of the area is developed for commerce and residences in the form of high-rise buildings. In 2008, the western part was opened; in the summer of 2009 the Eastside was released.

Transformation In contrast with the high-rise development in the west, the buildings and other facilities and structures in the park itself are more integrated into the landscape, such as ponds, open air sports fields, and the skate park, or in existing buildings on the site. The network of the paths and the choice of big trees positioned in groups leave the sightlines open and ensure the feeling of safety. The largest preserved cargo shed is reused as a summer bar and space for events. The design of the new intervention, by Stramien, is rather sober and enhances the original structure and character of the building. The shed is approached as a roofed outdoor space: the structure is opened up at the sides and can be closed off from the park by large metal fences; a new floor is made of concrete. The interior is kept as one large, open space without adding heavy infrastructure. Instead, functional elements are added as separate boxes in the space. The fountain and water pond in front of the shed was the result – which is also true for the whole design process – of an intensive participation process by future users of the park. Another group of adjacent sheds is reused as a space for events, offices, and sport facilities. Here, a stronger intervention in the historic fabric has been made. Four sheds have largely been preserved, but new infrastructure has been added, roofs have been renewed, and the upper part of the side façade of the largest shed has been replaced by a new, translucent façade to allow more daylight into the space. Of the four other sheds, only the façades have been preserved, and a new sport hall was erected behind it as a translucent volume. The countours of the new sport hall rise just above the old façades and light the park at night, giving the building a subtle iconic character. The opening of the park has had a positive influence on the attractiveness of the adjacent district. The park is one of the most successful examples of modern urban development and has become an instant success. Thousands of people gather in the summer. However, the increased housing prices in the surroundings of the park are a clear sign of gentrification.

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Figure 12.1  Conceptual drawing of the foot paths.

Figure 12.2  Park Spoor Noord with large cargo shed in the background.

Figure 12.3  Water pond in the foreground and large cargo shed in the background.

Figure 12.4  Interior cargo shed.

Part II

Figure 12.5  Sports field at Park Spoor Noord.

Figure 12.6  Adjacent sheds reused for events, offices, and sport facilities.

Bibliography De Wever, H., & Lamberts, E. (Eds.). (2003). Antwerp. Spoor Noord: A city park off the beaten tracks. Gent: Ludion. Grafe, C. (Ed.). (2014). Architectuur middenin (Architectuurboek Vlaanderen n°11). Antwerp: Vlaams Architectuur Insitituut. Lamberts, E., Vandenbroecke, H., & Schoeters, S. (Eds.). (2003). Park Spoor Noord: van idee tot park. Antwerp: Stad Antwerpen.

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Case 13

Park Avenue Armory Location: New York City, United States Architect: Herzog & de Meuron Client: Park Avenue Armory Transformation: 2006–ongoing Index: Imitatio

The building The Park Avenue Armory was built between 1877 and 1881 by the Seventh Regiment of the National Guard, a prestigious regiment that included several of the most important Gilded Age families of New York as its members. The complex, designed by Charles W. Clinton, occupies an entire city block and consists of the Head House (the administrative building) and the Wade Thompson Drill Hall. The building not only served as a military facility but also housed social events for its members. As such, the interiors of the reception rooms in the Head House were designed by the most prominent designers at the time, among them Louis Comfort Tiffany, Stanford White, Herter Brothers, and Pottier & Stymus. The large, open, and uncolumned drill hall is a remarkable piece of engineering. It was the only armory in the United States that was financed solely by private funds. In the course of history, the building underwent several adaptations. Between 1909 and 1914, the belfry above the central tower was removed, and a fourth and fifth story were added to the Head House; the historic interiors were not removed, but most were altered or covered under new finishings. In 2007, a large renovation campaign was started to restore the historical features of the building but also to adapt it to house a cultural institution dedicated to the creation and performance of visual and performance arts.

New programme and concept Herzog & de Meuron were approached to execute the renovation of the Armory. Their first idea was to breathe new life into the building through a few dramatic interventions, as they had, for example, done at the Tate Modern in London or the Caixa Forum in Madrid. Here, they envisioned to add a new volume on top of the Head House, which served as a white cube for dance rehearsal, and to install a foldable mechanism in the drill hall to transform the space into a fully functional stage. Initially, the owner agreed with this approach, but when the project was temporarily put on hold, they started to consult future users of the building such as curators and artists. They found out that they liked the spaces just as

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they were, with their particular atmosphere, limitations, but also opportunities. Therefore, Herzog & de Meuron changed their approach towards a more subtle intervention into the historical fabric. Dealing with the historical rooms, they balance aspects of conservation, restoration, reconstruction, and simulation. The exact approach differs for each of the rooms, depending on its characteristics and condition. Nevertheless, they applied the same three-step procedure everywhere in the building: first, delayering what is left from the original state; second, stabilizing what is found, including damaged areas; third, reinforcing and refurbishing the room in order to retain its original character and atmosphere through overprinting the wall, designing specific furniture or interior features, reconstructing certain elements, or adding new materials.

Transformation The renovation project for the Park Avenue Armory is a long-term mission, which is executed in different phases, part of which has been realized: Company D Room and Company E Room (2009–2011), Board of Officers Room (2012–2013), and Veterans Room (2015–2016). Company D Room, designed by Pottier & Stymus, had undergone several changes, and therefore the intention of the renovation of the room was to give it back its cohesive style. The original mahogany woodwork was cleaned and the plasterwork, which was added in a later phase, was removed in order to reveal the original decoration. Because in some spots the original decoration was in a rather poor condition, the architects decided neither to apply a full restoration nor leave it in its rough state. Instead, they left any damaged areas measuring less than half an inch and filled in larger ones with the local field colour. This method was inspired by restoration techniques for paintings, adding to the readability of the pattern while still showing the wash of time. In order to unify the different conditions of the historic layer of paint, an abstraction of the original pattern was printed on top of it, complementing the copper tone of the background. The Board of Officers Room was strongly altered during the twentieth century: original lighting fixtures were replaced, walls were overpainted, stained glass had been removed, and a new floor was added. The restorative interventions include uncovering of the original decorative pattern on the wall, restoration of the red colour of the mahogany woodwork, and the repositioning of the original furniture. Newly designed chainmail curtains, which are a reinterpretation of the original curtains, are added to filter the incidence of light. Due to its outstanding quality and heritage value, the Veterans Room, designed by Tiffany in collaboration with several renowned artists and craftsmen, has been restored as closely as possible to its original condition. The architects’ role was mainly to bring the room to technical standards for its contemporary cultural use without harming its atmosphere. In each of the rooms, the architects were especially attentive to the lighting and lighting fixtures. To meet the lighting requirements for the various uses of the rooms, lighting sources and techniques had to be updated. In the Company

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D Room, they have designed a new chandelier in a contemporary form, imitating the original one that had been removed. In the Veterans Room and Board of Officers Room, the original chandeliers were equipped with new lighting sources. In any case, they wanted to create a warm light, reminiscent of the original gaslight.

Figure 13.1  Seventh regiment armory, 1893.

Figure 13.2  Drill hall, 1984.

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Figure 13.3  Section through the administration building, showing the historic interior of each room.

Figure 13.4  Company D Room after transformation.

Figure 13.5  Consecutive layers of interior finishings on the wall of the Company D Room.

Part II

Figure 13.6  Drill hall in use (Philippe Parreno’s H {N)Y P N(Y} OSIS).

Bibliography Mack, G. (Ed.). (2014). Herzog & de Meuron: Transforming Park Avenue Armory New York. Basel: Birkhaüser.

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Case 14

Sir John Soane’s Museum Location: London, UK Architect: Caruso St John Architects (furniture) & Julian Harrap Architects (restoration) Client: Sir John Soane’s Museum Transformation: 2012 (shop) and 2015 (study room) Index: Aemulatio

The building The Sir John Soane’s Museum is located in three adjacent properties at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, which are the former house and office of the architect Sir John Soane (1753–1835). Soane was a neoclassical architect, strongly inspired by the ruins of antiquity, which he had studied extensively during the Grand Tour that he undertook as a young architect between 1778 and 1780. His most important works include the Bank of England (1788–1833) and the Dulwich College Picture Gallery (1811–1814). Besides being an architect, Soane was also a collector of paintings and (architectural) drawings, plaster casts, books, sculptures, and architectural fragments from a wide variety of periods and places. His house is perceived as a museum for his personal collection. Soane bequeathed his house and collection to a trustee with the condition that the building should be opened to the public and none of its arrangements could be altered. Although the houses at Lincoln’s Inn Fields today look like a single, planned composition, the museum has been altered and adapted several times during Soane’s life and afterwards. Initially, Soane and his family lived at N°12, but when Soane became more successful as an architect, the family in 1812 moved to the adjacent property N° 13, which occupied a much larger site. In 1824, Soane also rebuilt the house at N°14 to create a more balanced and symmetrical façade, but he never occupied the house as it was rented out. At the interior, the house is a remarkable sequence of reception rooms, study and office rooms, and display rooms for his collection. The largest and one of the most significant rooms in the house is the Library Dining Room. The room, painted in Pompeiian red with green – imitating bronze – ornamentation, is lined with mahogany and glass-fronted bookcases. Two white marble chimney pieces give an orientation to the room. The room is an illustration of Soane’s the intelligent use of mirrors to bring in light into the room and create a unique optical experience of the space: Soane places mirrors above the chimney pieces, around paintings, and in niches and convex mirrors in the upper corners of the room. The ceiling is decorated with inset canvases. Some of the furniture in the room is designed by Soane; others are collector’s pieces, as are the objects that decorate the room. 189

Figure 14.1  Sarcophagus room in the John Soane’s house, drawing from the Illustrated London News, 1864.

Figure 14.2  The Soane’s Museum, Sir John Soane’s house and studio, on Lincoln’s Inn Fields in the Borough of Camden, London.

Figure 14.3  Ground floor plan intervention, Caruso St John Architects.

PICTURE ROOM 13 RmG/19

COLONNADE 13 RmG/16

DOME AREA 13 RmG/13 APOLLO RECESS 13 RmG/14

EAST CORRIDOR 13 RmG/18

INTERPRETATION ROOM 13 RmG/15

SOUTH PASSAGE 13 RmG/17

13

13

RmG/5

RmG/6

SOANE ANTE ROOM 13 RmG/11

DRESSING ROOM 13 RmG/4 WILD ANTE ROOM 13 RmG/12

NEW COURT

MONUMENT COURT BREAKFAST ROOM 13 RmG/2

(Disabled route around Ground Floor not illustrated)

MONKS' YARD

STUDY 13 RmG/3

13 RmG/10

LIFT 12 RmG/5

WC 14 RmG/3

BREAKFAST PARLOUR 12 RmG/2

EDUCATION OFFICE 14 RmG/2

13 RmG/9

12 RmG/4

LIBRARY DINING ROOM 13 RmG/1

14 RmG/6

14 RmG/4

13 RmG/8

ENTRANCE ANTE ROOM RECEPTION (With Shop) 12 RmG/1

EDUCATION / LECTURES 14 RmG/1

ENTRANCE HALL 13 RmG/7

ENTRANCE HALL 12 RmG/3

14 RmG/5

Rev. B (28.03.11) Tender Information Issue Rev. A (29.03.10) Issued for Information Rev. * (18.01.10) Issued for Information

Information Issue Proposed Ground Floor Plan

Sir John Soane's Museum Caruso St John

Architects

1Coate Street Lo n d o n E2 9AG tel +44(0)20 7613 3161 fax +44(0)20 7729 6188 Scale 1:50 @ A1

Date 10/08/2009 25/03/2011 first/latest issue

Drwg 269_L12/01B

bs

Figure 14.4  First floor plan intervention, Caruso St John Architects.

SHAKESPEARE

RECESS 13 RmF/3

LIFT 12 RmF/3

WC 14 RmF/3

13 RmF/6

GALLERY 12 RmF/2

NORTH DRAWING ROOM 13 RmF/2

RESEARCH LIBRARY 14 RmF/2

13 RmF/7

12 RmF/4

14 RmF/6

14 RmF/5

13 RmF/4

SOUTH DRAWING ROOM 13 RmF/1

GALLERY 12 RmF/1 RESEARCH LIBRARY 14 RmF/1

13 RmF/5

Rev. B (28.03.11) Tender Information Issue Rev. A (29.03.10) Issued for Information Rev. * (18.01.10) Issued for Information

Information Issue Proposed First Floor Plan

Sir John Soane's Museum Caruso St John

Architects

1Coate Street Lo n d o n E2 9AG tel +44(0)20 7613 3161 fax +44(0)20 7729 6188 Scale 1:50 @ A1

Date 10/08/2009 25/03/2011 first/latest issue

Drwg 269_L12/02B

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Figure 14.5  Museum shop.

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Figure 14.6  Cabinet room with contemporary furniture by Caruso St John Architects.

In the course of the nineteenth century, the appreciation and attention for Soane as an architect was limited, and the museum was not very successful. Ironically, renewed attention for Soane as an architect and collector came with the demolishing of the Bank of London in 1925. After World War II, the museum needed restoration work, and an annual grant was appointed to the museum to assure its conservation and accessibility. In 1969 and 1996, Lincoln’s Inn Fields N°12 and N°14 were added to the museum to house facilities and to accommodate temporary exhibitions without compromising the historical rooms of the museum.

New programme and concept In 2011, the museum launched a long-term project Opening Up the Soane, which aimed to restore the historical rooms and improve museum facilities and strengthen the visitor’s experience. The first phase of this project focussed on Lincoln’s Inn Fields N°12. Once the Soane family moved to N°13, the interior of the house at N°12 had been refurbished by its consecutive inhabitants. The project was two-folded. One the one hand, it aimed to return the house to its 1790s condition when the Soane family lived there; the restoration was led by Julian Harrap Architects. On the other hand, three of the rooms were given a new function, creating a shop on the ground floor and two gallery rooms on the first floor; the freestanding furniture that was added to accommodate this new use was designed by Caruso St John Architects. The furniture design is strongly indebted

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to Soane’s furniture, using similar materials such as mahogany and mirrors, but is at the same time clearly contemporary in its detailing.

Transformation The interior of the rooms in N°12, although clearly more modest than those in N°13, do represent Soane’s architectural vision and taste, which are even strengthened by the recently added furniture. The quality of the restored and refurnished interiors is most clearly felt in the largest gallery room, located in the former drawing room. The atmosphere of the room noticeably refers to the Library Dining room at N°13, using the same Pompeian red on the wall and the positioning of the mirror above the white marble chimney piece. The furniture here is particularly refined. The largest cabinet takes up the full width of the wall, its curve following the shallow curve of the wall behind. The polished mahogany body of the cabinet is combined with inlaid mirrors and curved glass doors, and lighting is subtly integrated to light the exposed drawings. A door connecting the gallery room with the adjacent historic Drawing room at N°13 is integrated in the cabinet. The smaller gallery room, in the former bedroom of Ms. Soane, is a more narrow room; the light pink colour on the wall, aligned with red detailing, gives the room a brightened atmosphere. The furniture has the same richness in materiality and detailing as the larger gallery room. The shop on the ground floor, although coloured in the same Pompeian red with mahogany pieces of furniture, is more sober in its realization than both gallery rooms.

Bibliography Bradbury, O. (2016). Sir John Soane’s influence on architecture from 1791: A continuing legacy. London and New York: Routledge. Knox, T. (2009). Sir John Soane’s Museum London. London and New York: Merrell. Marquez Cécelia, F., & Levene, R. (Eds.). (2013). Caruso St John Architects 1993/2013 (Vol. 166). Madrid: El Croquis.

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Case 15

Former prison Location: Hasselt, Belgium Architect: noAarchitecten Client: Hasselt University Transformation: 2008–2012 Index: Urban regeneration–Contradiction

The building Hasselt’s old prison was constructed in 1859, designed by architects François Derré (1797–1888) and Herman Jaminé (1826–1885). The design was inspired by the typology of the panopticon, a type of prison invented at the end of the eighteenth century by Jeremy Betham (1748–1832). In the original design, the panopticon follows a circular plan with an observation point in the centre, surrounded by several levels of cells. From the central point, a single guard could observe all prisoners, whereas the prisoners could not see whether the guard was watching them. After recognizing the problems with ventilation and noise, the typology was adapted: the cells were placed in different wings planned in the shape of a star, instead of a circular plan that includes several levels of cells. The adapted design retained the placement of an observation room in the centre. Hasselt’s prison was composed of 58 cells, a number considered small when compared with other prisons of the same type and period. The prison had a star-shaped plan, but instead of cells at both sides of each wing with a central corridor, two rows of cells were placed back to back centrally in each wing with narrow corridors at the side. This change in the typology undermined the fundamental concept of the panopticon as it was impossible to see the inside of any of the cells from the centre of the prison. However, the idea behind this special concept was to isolate prisoners from one another, giving them the chance ‘to reflect upon their sins’ in total isolation. The entire site was surrounded by a wall within the centre of the front façade of the building entrance, which also included the director’s house on the first floor. The prison had been operational until 2005. Although the building seemed barely functional at the end of the nineteenth century, there were hardly any structural changes made throughout its history. The capacity of the prison was intended for 58 prisoners, but an additional bed was placed in most of the cells in the 1940s. At a certain point, the number of prisoners reached 120.

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Figure 15.1  Plan of the former panoptic prison.

Figure 15.2  Section through the prison transformed into a faculty building, administrative building in the background.

Figure 15.3  Aerial view of the prison building after the transformation.

Figure 15.4  Centre of the panopticon after transformation.

Figure 15.5  Green corridor, which gives access to the study cells and auditorium.

Figure 15.6  Courtyard with extended corridors.

Former prison

Figure 15.7  Roof view showing the newly build auditoria in the courtyards.

New programme and concept Since 2012, the prison has been used by Hasselt University. In 2005, the university changed its name from University Centre Limburg to Hasselt University, but its campus was located in the city’s outskirts. As the university searched for a location inside the city centre to house its Rector’s offices and new Faculty of Law, the old prison came to be available. The university, which prides itself as an open and approachable institution, did not want at first to preserve the existing building’s characteristics as these features seemed the exact opposite of what the university envisioned as a ‘city campus’. Hence, the redesign was opened to a competition, which was won by noAarchitecten. In noAarchitecten’s design, the prison building houses two auditoria, a student’s secretary, a cafeteria, meeting rooms, and study spaces. Classrooms and offices for the Faculty of Law are located in a new building attached to the old prison; a new building next to the prison also houses the Rector’s offices. The architects’ concept considers the prison as an enclave within the city. Instead of a symbol of imprisonment, the walls serve as a symbol of prestige of belonging to a community of university’s students and staff.

Transformation The original prison wall was preserved in its entirety, and no changes were made to the front façade, except for the entrance doors at the side, which were replaced with fencing doors to allow views to the green courtyards behind the wall. The interior’s basic structure and characteristics of the typology were preserved. The 201

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centre of the panopticon served as the main entrance hall, which were made more monumental with the addition of a new staircase and terrazzo flooring. The former cells were kept, serving the new function of individual study cells for students. To fit the large programme in the existing building, the triangular courtyards between the different wings were partly filled with two auditoria and a cafeteria. The original corridors running along the side of each wing were enlarged and given access to these new spaces. Throughout the interior, solid materials, such as concrete and steel, were combined with warm materials, such as wood. The detailing refers to materials used in the old prison, such as the tiles on the corridors’ floor and lavatories. In the original prison building, daylight could barely enter the building interior owing to the extremely small windows. Throughout the transformation, daylight was brought into the building through the roof where old and new parts of the building were connected. A number of the green roofs, from where the prison and the city can be viewed, were made accessible. The connecting link between the prison building and the classroom and office building behind opened up into a spacious plaza, which functions as a meeting place for students or as a foyer for the large auditorium during events. With its labyrinth plan and surprisingly spacious indoor and outdoor courtyards, the building became a public interior used not only for learning by students but also for seminars and other events of the university or its partners.

Bibliography De Greeve, K. (2005). De oude gevangenis van Hasselt. Hasselt: Erfgoedcel Hasselt. Grafe, C., Bates, S., Vandermarliere, K., & Pieter, T. J. (2014). NoAarchitecten. Amsterdam: Architectura + Natura.

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Case 16

OFF Piotrkowska Location: Łódź, Poland Architect: user-led regeneration by tenants Transformation: Since 2011 Index: Urban regeneration–Vernacular adaptation–Gentrification

The building OFF Piotrkowska is located in the abandoned Ramisch cotton factory in the centre of Łódź. During the second half of the nineteenth century, the development of the textile industry in the city happened very rapidly, and new factories were constructed not only at the outskirts of the city but also in the historical centre and even in courtyards or just behind residential buildings of the main street. The Ramisch factory is one of the few remaining examples of an industrial plant located just off the city’s main street of Piotrkowska. The company was established in 1889, and the plant evolved over several generations into a large complex of factory buildings, warehouses, and offices. Although some of the buildings have been demolished in the course of history, the site still represents a unique entity of buildings with different functions.

New programme and concept After the textile industry in Łódź declined in the 1980s and 1990s, many industrial sites became abandoned, among them the Ramisch factory. As the city largely developed through its industries, it lacked a pre-industrial past. After the collapse of its industries, besides large social problems, the city also needed a revitalization of its buildings stock and a redefinition of its identity. Since the 2000s, various industrial buildings and sites have been transformed into housing, offices, and retail, leisure, and cultural venues. Around 2010, the city started a campaign branding itself as a ‘creative city’, considering both its high-end cultural activities and organizations, such as its famous film school and art museum, as well as its flourishing alternative scene, or ‘off-culture’. One of the groups that were active in Łódź’s alternative cultural scene was Fabrykancka, a group of young artists and students who wanted to stimulate social interaction and participation in the development of the city through mainly artistic events. In 2007, Fabrykancka started to compile the Red Book of Endangered Monuments for Łódź as they wanted to draw attention to the many interesting and beautiful buildings in the city that were abandoned, neglected, or in a poor state of conservation. In order to take action to save at least some of these

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buildings, they tried to meet with the owners. During this process, they also met with the owner of the Ramisch factory. The owner, a real estate developer, had planned a commercial revitalization project for the site, including offices, highend apartments, and some shops on the ground floor levels. However, awaiting the start of the project, Fabrykancka agreed with the owner to use some of the empty spaces as an art gallery and music club. The initial agreement was for only one year, but due to the financial crisis, the revitalization project was put on hold, and Fabrykancka could stay at the site and even moved its activities to a larger building. During those three years, they were able to create a platform where local and upcoming bands and artists could perform or show their work, and they organized exhibitions and debates about current issues related to the city of Łódź. After Fabrykancka had been using the site for a few years, other creative people became interested in renting spaces there. The owner therefore decided to use this opportunity and started to apply a more conscious branding and organization of the site based on the characteristics and connotations it had gained over the previous years. The project was named OFF Piotrkowska, adopting the Łódź city branding concept as a creative city with vibrant ‘off culture’. The financial outlays necessary for activation of the place by the owner, however, remained

Figure 16.1  Street view, OFF Piotrkowska.

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OFF Piotrkowska Figure 16.2  Street view, OFF Piotrkowska.

limited as no restoration had been executed, and most of necessary repairs, especially inside the reused spaces, were performed by the users themselves. The aesthetics of unrenovated, abandoned post-industrial buildings corresponded with the unofficial character of the undertaken artistic activities. The climate of OFF Piotrkowska fostered a positive relationship between owners of small clubs, art studios, and cafeterias or designers and their regulars through the creation of a kind of community. Only two years after the official creation of OFF Piotrkowska, the first symptoms of gentrification of the site appeared: more expensive and more exclusive shops, designer shops, hipster bars and restaurants attracting better-off and more mature customers. While the interiors initially consisted almost solely out of rubbish and second-hand furniture and decoration, they now seem to be professionally designed, combining carefully selected vintage pieces with fashionable new materials. In 2012, Fabrykancka left the site due to an argument with the developer, and since than all remaining users are in some way commercial enterprises. Currently, OFF Piotrkowska is entering the next phase. In 2016, the developer officially announced a design for an intervention into the existing architectural tissue of the former Ramisch factory, including the restoration and transformation of one of the existing buildings into offices and retail spaces and the erection of a new building on the site with a similar programme. The outlook of the new and renewed buildings and the impact of this development on the current programme and atmosphere remain a question mark.

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Transformation and evolution The buildings are not yet restored but instead still have their rough outlook with a strong patina, broken windows, crumbling stones, rusted ironwork, and old and more recent graffiti. Although Fabrykancka did not squat the place but made a formal arrangement with the owner, the outlook and atmosphere of the site showed much resemblance to an urban squat. The place has been accompanied by a sense of freedom, typical of grassroots-initiated cultural activities, combined with the characteristic aesthetics of an unrenovated, partially abandoned site. The graffiti and the pragmatic, cheap, and spontaneous interventions done by the new users somehow seemed to merge with the strong patina, broken windows, crumbling stones, and rusted ironwork of the historical building. During the first, spontaneous phase of the reuse of the site, the tenants got a rather large freedom to adapt the site according to their needs. They furnished and decorated their spaces with reclaimed or cheap materials in a spontaneous and continuously ongoing process. The increased popularity of the site and the coming of more upscale tenants also have had their effect on the spaces. While the interiors initially consisted almost solely of rubbish and second-hand furniture and decoration, they now seem to be professionally designed, combining carefully selected vintage pieces with fashionable new materials. Also, on the outside, the subtle marks of gentrification become visible in the strictly outlined ‘legal graffiti wall’, the newly paved paths, and summer terraces equipped with furniture sponsored by multinational beer brands.

Bibliography Plevoets, B., & Sowinska-Heim, J. (2018, August). Community initiatives as a catalyst for regeneration of heritage sites: Vernacular transformation and its influence on the formal adaptive reuse practice. Cities, 78, 128–139. Sowinska-Heim, J. (2013). Conversions and redefinitions –Architecture and identity of a place. Art Inquiry, Crossing Borders: Imagining Europe, Representing Periphery, 191–204. Sowinska-Heim, J. (2017). Lodz as the creative city: Cultural industries and the process of urban revival. Paper presented at the Heritage and the city, Krakow.

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Case 17

Rijksmuseum Location: Amsterdam, The Netherlands Architect: Cruz y Ortiz (architectural design); Van Hoogevest (restoration); Wilmotte & Associés (interior); Copijn Tuin- en Landschapsarchitecten (gardens) Client: Rijksgebouwendienst Nederland Transformation: 2000–2013 Index: Imitatio

The building In the 1860s, the idea to build a museum in Amsterdam was launched by the local dignitary, soon supported by the national government. After a competition, Pierre Cuypers (1827–1921) was appointed as the architect for the Rijksmuseum, officially opened in 1885. Cuypers focussed his concept on three different levels: the relationship with the city (or the ‘mise-en-scene’), the circulation and organization of the spaces and the incidence of light, and the ornamentation. He designed a rectangular floor plan with successive rooms without corridors. The staircases in towers attach the main building and two covered courtyards. The style of the building was neo-gothic in all its facets – its organization, its materials and construction, and its decoration. Cuypers conceived the building as a gate to the city and made proposals for interventions in the immediate surrounding to strengthen the mise-en-scene. The city of Amsterdam asked for an underpassage for traffic through the museum, which made it almost literally a gate between the centre of the city and Amsterdam South which was under development at the time. However, this underpassage interferes with the creation of a monumental entrance in the centre of the front façade. Cuypers proposed to use the underpassage as the main entrance and then as an entrance to the interior for one of the sites of the passage. Instead, two entrances were positioned in the main façade at both sites of the underpassage. Even though Cuypers had to revise his design for the building several times and some elements had not been executed as he wished, the Rijksmuseum is seen as the apex of his oeuvre. In the course of history, the museum underwent numerous transformations, mainly because of a lack of space, the increasing number of visitors, and changing fashion and ideas in museology. The first changes took place in the 1920s and included the removal of some of the neo-gothic decorations. Between 1946 and 1957, the eastern courtyard was used as additional exhibition space, the visitor’s infrastructure was expanded, and the house of the director was used as an administrative building. Between 1958 and 1969, the second courtyard was also filled in, and almost all interiors of the exhibition rooms were refurbished. In 1984,

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a first ‘restoration’ – to return to Cuypers’s concept – took place, which attempted to free the inner courtyards from later additions and to reconstruct some of the interior decorations. A master plan for a large renovation of the museum was set up in the 1990s, and a competition was organized.

New programme and concept The question of the competition was threefold and encompassed different scale levels: firstly, to re-establish, on an urban scale, the relationship between the museum and the city and the museum square in particular and to find a solution for the underpassage and entrance, which was problematic at that stage; secondly, there was the need for a restoration to return to Cuypers’s original concept but the challenging aspect here was the level of detail – to reconstruct all decorations and interior finishing or to focus on the structure and façades; thirdly, on the level of the interior, the museum infrastructure and concept needed to be updated to contemporary standards. Furthermore, these different goals were not always compatible, and the main challenge was to find a balance between all these different interests and objectives. Spanish office Cruz y Ortiz won the competition. The jury appreciated their unpretentious approach to the existing building and their innovative solution for the entrance of the building. They proposed to deepen the courtyards and connect them below the underpassage to create one large entrance square that could house all visitor facilities such as ticket desks, clock room, shop, and café. Visitors would enter through staircases centrally positioned in the underpassage, with bicycle paths at both sites. Initially, the only proposed additions were a glass porch above the entrance of the underpassage and the Asian pavilion between

Figure 17.1  Eastern entrance hall, Rijkmuseum, 1903–1910.

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Figure 17.2  Section through the building showing the intervention to create the entrance square.

East-West section

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C ruz y O rtiz arquitectos

The New Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Figure 17.3  Exterior, Rijksmuseum.

Figure 17.4  Entrance square.

Figure 17.5  Restored entrance hall.

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Figure 17.6  Gallery of honour with Nachtwacht hall in the background.

Figure 17.7  Exhibition space.

the main building and the southern wing. As to the Cuypers’s interior decoration, Cruz y Ortiz proposed to reconstruct the decorations only in those rooms that were not used as exhibitions spaces and to soften the original colours as they found them too intense.

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Although Cruz y Ortiz won the architectural competition, other aspects of the project were assigned to specialized offices such as Van Hoogevest for the restouration, Wilmotte & Associés for the interior and exhibition design, and Copijn Tuin- en Landschapsarchitecten for the gardens. Because of varying opinions among these different offices and discussions with the client and other stakeholders – as in the time of Cuypers – the executed design differs in many aspects from the initial concept of the architects Cruz y Ortiz. Nevertheless, the clarity of the design and humble attitude towards the historic monument that characterized the initial proposal have remained.

Transformation The position of the entrance is the most important change compared to the original plan of the architects. After a very intense public debate about the position of the bicycle paths at both sites of the stairs leading visitors to the entrance square beneath, the plans were changed and instead Cuypers’s original idea, with entrances at both sites and traffic in the centre of the underpassage, was realized. The lowering of the courtyards to create the entrance square is the most extreme intervention and technically a real challenge. The brick façades of the courtyards have been restored, and a new base for the façades is created as a sort of ‘dado’ in a light-greyish, polished Portuguese limestone, which is also used for the floor, staircases, and all fixed furniture such as the ticket and information desks and entrance gates. Two enormous ‘chandeliers’ with integrated lighting and acoustic qualities are suspended from the restored glass roof at both sides of the square. The reconstruction of the interior decoration has been another topic of discussion because the intense colours and strong iconographic decoration might interfere with contemporary preferences as to art exhibition. Therefore, decorations were reconstructed in all rooms that did not serve as exhibition spaces, namely the entrance hall, stairwells, corner towers, and library. Moreover, in order to respect the important axis of the entrance hall – gallery of honour and Nachtwacht-hall – the decorations in the gallery of honour and the Nachtwacht-hall are partly reconstructed. Despite the idea of the architects to soften the colours, the original polychromy has been applied. In all other exhibition spaces, floors and ceilings have been painted with a single colour, applying different colours in various parts of the building, depending on the characteristics of space (with or without daylight, large or small, etc.) and depending on the types of objects that would be exhibited in the space. For example, the dark rooms in the basement where jewellery and silver objects are shown, a dark grey colour is applied to contrast with the objects and let them stand out even more.

Bibliography Meurs, P., & van Thoor, M-T. (2013). Rijksmuseum Amsterdam: Restauratie en transformatie van een nationaal monument. Rotterdam: nai 010 Publishers.

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Case 18

Fondaco dei Tedeschi Location: Venice, Italy Architect: OMA, in collaboration with Ippolito Pestellini Laparelli Client: Edizione Transformation: 2009–2016 Index: Contradiction

The building The Fondaco dei Tedeschi, located on the Canal Grande at the foot of the Rialto Bridge, was first constructed in 1228 as a trading post for German merchants. The building was owned by the city of Venice, and the incomes from rent and taxes of goods that passed through the Fondaco was essential for the Venetian economy. The original building burned down in the early sixteenth century, and a new building was constructed, designed by Antonio Abbondi, called Lo Scarpagnino, in early Renaissance style with Gothic crenellation. The four-storey-high building with large inner courtyard housed various functions: the lower floors were used as depot, offices were on the higher floors, and living quarters for the merchants were on the top floor. The courtyard was used as a market space. The façade initially contained frescos by Giorgiono and Titian, but these have deteriorated due to the humid and salty climate conditions; the interior also included outstanding artworks, which also have disappeared in the course of history. In the eighteenth century, under Napoleon, the building lost its function as a trading centre and was used as a customs house and in the early twentieth century as a post office. Besides a change in use, the building was also transformed several times in the course of history: the two towers crowning both sides of the main façade have been removed, the inner courtyard has been covered with a glass roof, the façade has been restored, new windows were added, and in 1938 the building underwent an invasive restoration in which it was consolidated through replacing its stone construction by a concrete structure. Since 1987, the building is protected as a monument.

New programme and concept In 2008, the building was bought by the Benetton family, who wanted to revitalize it into a commercial and cultural centre. The project has been developed by OMA, who transformed the building into a public interior, accessible for both tourists and local people. The programme includes a department store but also had to house cultural programs and events. Moreover, as to OMA, the building may function as

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Figure 18.1  Apollonio Domenichini Venezianische Vedute mit Fondaco dei Tedeschi, 1770.

Figure 18.2  Axonometric intervention.

Figure 18.3  Model showing the intervention.

Figure 18.4  Central hall.

Figure 18.5  Circular incision in the building with new escalators in the foreground.

Fondaco dei Tedeschi Figure 18.6  Confrontation between old and new forms and materials.

a shortcut though the city for locals. This concept somehow resonates with the nineteenth-century shopping arcades that functioned as a commercial space but at the same time were also public spaces for strolling or meeting with others and as an urban connection. OMA describes the preservation of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi as the preservation of a ‘history of change’. They explicitly approach the building as a palimpsest,

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revealing its consecutive layers of history and adding a distinctive new layer to it to accommodate the new use. Initially, OMA experienced strong resistance from a preservation agency for making interventions to the building. This led them to develop their hypothesis for the exhibition Cronocaos, in the Venice Biennale in 2010, in which they criticize the mere conservation of historic buildings for their historic value and plead for a more flexible approach where existing buildings from all periods are adapted to meet contemporary needs.

Transformation As the building serves as a landmark for its prominent position at the Canal Grande near the Rialto Bridge, its façade has been preserved in its existing condition without distinctive interventions. Contrarily, the interior of the building has been altered more extensively. The overall layout of the building has been kept, with shops are located in the four wings surrounding the central courtyard, which functions as a public space. The various layers of history are exposed in the interior of the building, among them the twentieth-century concrete structure with brick infill, which is shown in its rough, unfinished condition and forms a strong contrast with the polished and shiny characteristics of the newly added materials. Two new entrances were added from the Rialto Bridge and the Campo San Bartolome to improve circulation through the building. Vertical circulation routes are added in the form of escalators and new staircases, which are prominent elements in the new design due to their position and materialization. Cut-outs in the original structure allow a view from the escalators to the inner courtyard. The existing glass roof, which was added in the twentieth century, was initially not accessible. To create an accessible roof terrace and viewing platform, this roof has been dismantled, repositioned, and supported by a new construction underneath. This new supportive roof is designed as a cassettoni, a newly added cassette ceiling for the inner courtyard, referring to historic Venetian buildings. This rather invasive structural addition to the building created an intermediate space between the newly added supportive structure and the reused glass roof, which now functions as an event space.

Bibliography Koolhaas, R. (2014). Preservation is overtaking us. Columbia: GSAPP Transcripts. Panagiotopoulou, S. (2016). The Fondaco dei Tedeschi in Venice: OMA Architect, Silva Sandor, Talks to Yatzer [online]. Retrieved March 2, 2018, from www. yatzer.com/fondaco-dei-tedeschi-venice-benetton-oma Partridge, L. (2015). Art of renaissance Venice 1400–1600. Oakland: University of California Press, pp. 115–116.

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Case 19

De Flat Kleiburg Location: Amsterdam, The Netherlands Architect: NL Architects and XVW architectuur Client: Consortium De Flat Transformation: 2012–2016 Index: Urban regeneration–New housing typology–Gentrification

The building Kleiburg is one of the 31 almost identical housing blocks in Bijlmermeer, a modernist city in the south-east of Amsterdam built between 1966 and 1975 and designed to house 100,000 inhabitants. The enormous buildings were laid out in a honeycomb pattern with large grass fields and water ponds between the buildings. Motorized traffic was organized on elevated streets, while the ground level was solely for pedestrian use. Kleiburg, designed by the architect Fop Ottenhof and constructed between 1969 and 1971, is a 10-storey-high concrete gallery flat. The building is in total 450 metres long and included 500 dwellings. The ground floor initially served as individual storage spaces for the inhabitants. The first floor included an interior street that connected with the elevators and a covered street that connected with the nearby garage building. The apartments on the upper floors all had access through the outdoor galleries. As in the whole of Bijlmermeer, also in Kleiburg problems arose already in the 1970s and only became worse in the following decades: lack of public facilities in the area, lack of maintenance for the buildings and public spaces, noise, dirt, tensions between different ethnic groups, violence, and drug dealing. In the 1990s, the regeneration of Bijlmermeer started and included the demolition of more than half of the housing blocks. Kleiburg, however, was kept and was inhabited until 2009. Several plans have been drawn for its renovation, but due to the high estimated costs, the housing corporation renounced renovation and instead wanted to demolish the building. However, due to strong protest by a group of local people, who gathered as the Bijlmer Believers, the housing corporation decided to sell off the building for one euro. More than 50 interested parties have sent in a proposal for its reuse, out of which the proposal by consortium De Flat was selected.

New programme and concept The selected proposal by De Flat intended to renovate the basic structure and common facilities of the building (elevators, galleries, installations) and to sell

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off the individual apartments unfinished and unfurnished, as ‘do-it-yourself dwellings’. Hence, people could buy the apartments at very low prices but under the condition that they renovated and inhabited the units within a period of one year. It was also possible to combine several apartments into one. By making vertical and horizontal connections, more diverse types of dwellings were created in the block. Kleiburg had been renovated in the course of its history, but these interventions had no architectural quality and, contrarily, harmed the brutal and massive outlook of the initial concrete building. Therefore, the concept for the renovation was also to bring back as much as possible the original aesthetic qualities of the building but at the same time solve its most problematic aspects such as the relationship with the street and surrounding public space and the interior circulation. Today, Kleiburg is part of a protected urban landscape, named the BijlmerMuseum, which includes six original Bijlmermeer building blocks, a part of the elevated metro line, and the open areas between the buildings. The Bijlmer Museum is considered the remaining witness of the utopian Bijlmermeer concept.

Transformation To restore the verticality of the original block, the elevator shafts that were added in the 1980s at the outside of the building were removed and instead new elevators were installed in the original shafts. The precast concrete elements of the balustrades of the galleries were sandblasted to bring back the solid appearance of the façade. The opaque façades of the apartments at the galleries were replaced by transparent double glass. The new owners could choose from a catalogue of façade modules: with openable parts, double doors, sliding doors, etc. To improve accessibility, elevators were connected to the street level, instead of starting only from the interior street at the first floor. Therefore, the interior street became unnecessary, and the space was added to the first-floor apartments. This intervention also allowed for enlarging the underpassages and making them double high and more pleasant. The storage spaces at the ground floor acted as a barrier between the building and the street. By moving the private storage spaces to the upper floors, the ground floor could be reused for more interactive functions such as day care, workspaces, collective bicycle storage, and apartments.

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Figure 19.1  Kleiburg just after its construction with metro line in the foreground, 1970s.

Figure 19.2  Basic interventions to the building.

Figure 19.3  Kleiburg after renovation, seen from the metro line.

Figure 19.4  Kleiburg with enlarged underpassage and entrance hall.

De Flat Kleiburg Figure 19.5  Gallery giving access to the individual flats.

Figure 19.6  Do-it-yourself house under renovation.

Bibliography Avermaete, T., Hannema, K., van der Heijden, H., & Oostmeije, E. (2016). Architecture in the Netherlands 2015/2016. Rotterdam: nai010 Publishers. Magni, C. (2018). 1 euro per Kleiburg. CASABELLA, 882, 18–28.

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Case 20

Saint-Joseph Church Location: Ghent, Belgium Architect: TV TRACE (collaboration between UR architects, Saidja Heynickx Architect, Broeckx-Schiepers Architecten, Hasselt University) Client: City of Ghent Transformation: Feasibility study, executed in 2017 Index: Aemulatio–Urban regeneration

The building The church of Saint-Joseph, constructed in 1880 following a design by architect Auguste Van Assche (1826–1907), is a classic example of gothic revival style. While its exterior in brown and red brickwork is rather sober, the interior of the church is richly decorated with polychromic ornamentation, strongly influenced by English Victorian style. The church was constructed as part of a newly planned neighbourhood, called Rabot, providing housing for the workers of the rapidly developing textile industry. The urbanist plan for Rabot was very ambitious, with an axial street pattern and small private row houses with individual gardens, located just outside the historic centre. In this plan, the church is clearly conceived as the hearth of the new neighbourhood, both in spatial and social terms. Ever since its emergence, Rabot is a socially charged neighbourhood, with the church fabric as an important mediator between communities. The neighbourhood today has a high density, many migrant communities, large families, a considerable number of young people with a low level of education, and a quick succession of tenants for shops and dwellings. The city of Ghent, however, initiated an urban redevelopment project to improve the living conditions in the area. The church was protected as a monument in 2003. Since 2015, the church is not in use anymore for religious services and is waiting for a new use.

New programme and concept This church is one of many in Flanders that in recent years lost its religious function as the result of a process of the secularization of society – with a strongly decreasing number of priests and a very limited group of inhabitants still attending mass regularly. Many churches are therefore abandoned or underused. To encourage a meaningful adaptive reuse, various organizations in Flanders jointly launched a research programme, supervised by the Team Flemish Government Architect, to conduct feasibility studies for the transformation of parish churches. For Saint-Joseph Church, one of the selected churches for this research

224

Saint-Joseph Church

programme, the envisioned new function was a social use that would serve the local community of Rabot. However, a detailed programme for the building has not been defined yet. TRACEtv was appointed to conduct the feasibility study. As there was no detailed programme for the building, the research focussed on spatial questions such as how to increase the useful area, improve accessibility and circulation, and strengthen the relationship between the interior of the building and its surroundings. The architects did not consider the envisioned project as a radical break with the original use and meaning of the church. Though the church was planned to be officially deconsecrated, the sanctuary or central choir of the church would be used as a ‘silent space’ for repose, contemplation, or prayer. Moreover, in the gothic revival concept of the church, the building had a strong social role as a catalyst for a harmonious public life and the local identity of the community of Rabot. Translating these ideas to the situation today could inform and to some extent legitimize the reuse of the church as a neighbourhood centre. The original inhabitants of relatively poor descent, lured to the city by employment, could today be replaced by a young migrant community looking for good fortune but often adrift in the globalized society of today. This is confirmed by the continuous social role of the church fabric until recently. The position of the church building in the centre of the area could allow it once again to become a meaningful focal point of encounter and support between the various inhabitants of the neighbourhood.

Transformation The reuse strategy for the church was defined based on two spatial studies: a typological study that analysed the potential capacity of the church in the form of increased floor surfaces and a circulation study that outlined possible new connections between interior and exterior and within the church space itself. The produced strategy employs the vaulted basement as functional space, at the same time introducing additional floors in the side aisles of the nave and choir. Hence, extra surface is provided while preserving the spatial experience of the church by respecting the open central axes of the nave and transept. Given the unique condition of the gothic revival interior, the added new floors are aligned with the decorative layers of the interior walls and pillars of the church. Two additional entrances are necessary to allow the increased capacity and are to be integrated at the crossing of the nave and transept. The main intervention involves the basement of the church. By partly excavating the direct surrounding of the church and opening up the façade, the closed character of the church can be countered. This intervention allows the access of daylight and may solve existing humidity problems but above all improves the relationship between the building and its surrounding.

225

Figure 20.1  Saint-Joseph Church in 1908.

Figure 20.2  Interior of the Saint-Joseph Church, anno 2016.

Figure 20.3  Impression of the interior intervention.

Figure 20.4  Conceptual drawing showing the strategy to densify the church.

Kelder

Schip

+ Transept

Koor

=

Figure 20.5  Section through the church, showing the excavated area around the church.

Part II

Bibliography Vande Keere, N., & Plevoets, B. (2018). Heritage without heirs? Reconnecting church and community through adaptive reuse. In M. Banks (Ed.), Proceedings of the interpret Europe conference 2018 (pp. 195–207). Köszeg: Köme. Vande Keere, N., Verplaetse, R., Heynickx, S., Broekx, J., Schiepers, M., Plevoets, B., & Van Cleempoel, K. (2017). SINT-JOZEFKERK GENT Ontwerpend haalbaarheidsonderzoek nalv de transformatie van de Sint-Jozefkerk voor herbestemming [online]. Retrieved May 3, 2018, from www.herbestemming kerken.be/Documents/eindrapporten%20haalbaarheidsstudies%20her bestemming%20kerken/HAALBAARHEIDSONDERZOEK%20TOEKOM ST%20SINT-JOZEFKERK%20GENT.pdf

230

Index

Note: Page numbers in italic indicate an illustration on the corresponding page. abandoned buildings and sites 3, 7, 43, 71, 103, 115; OFF Piotrkowska and 203, 205; Palais de Tokyo and 145; Saint-Joseph Church and 224 Acropolis 98, 107 – 108, 108 Adam, Robert 83, 84, 117 – 118 adaptation 2, 109; and genius loci 85, 92; and historical background 10, 12 – 14, 17 – 18, 20 – 23; and intervention strategies 30, 32 – 33, 36, 42, 46, 48; Neues Museum and 162; Park Avenue Armory and 183; spontaneous process of 7 – 8; and urban regeneration 62, 64, 69 – 70; see also vernacular adaptation adaptive reuse 1 – 3, 96, 102 – 103, 105 – 107, 109 – 110, 224; contemporary adaptive reuse theory 16 – 20; and cultural heritage conservation 8 – 16; evolution of 16; façadism as a strategy for 37 – 42; and genius loci 79 – 80, 91 – 93; the influence of the vernacular on 71 – 72; and intervention strategies 28 – 31, 35, 44 – 45, 48; as a new approach 14 – 16; and pre-nineteenth century building reuse 7 – 8; staging the ruin as a strategy for 46 – 47; terms for 20 – 23, 22; and urban regeneration 52, 56 – 57, 69, 72 – 73 aemulatio 2, 4, 28, 30 – 35, 99, 103; and genius loci 82; Kolumba Art Museum and 157 – 161; Neues Museum and 162 – 167; Saint-Joseph Church and 224 – 229; Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri and 120 – 124; Sir John Soane’s Museum and 189 – 195 aesthetics xvii, 1 – 3, 97, 101; Castelvecchio Museum and 127; De Flat Kleiburg and 220; and genius loci 85 – 86; and historical background 14, 17, 21 – 23; and

intervention strategies 30, 34, 36 – 37, 44 – 46; Library Escuelas Pias and 152; Neues Museum and 162 – 163; OFF Piotrkowska and 205 – 206; and urban regeneration 53, 73 Alberti, Leon Battista 36 – 37, 40; Basilica Sant’Andrea 38; Santa Maria Novella Florence 39 Alexander, Christopher 88 – 89 alteration 20 – 23, 96, 102 Amateur Architecture Studio 98 Amsterdam 58 – 60, 67; see also De Flat Kleiburg; Rijksmuseum Antwerp see Park Spoor Noord architecten de vylder vinck taillieu see PC Caritas architecture 1 – 2, 96 – 98, 100, 103 – 109; architectural approach 17 – 18; architectural theory 86 – 90; dichotomy between conservation and 13 – 14; and genius loci 79, 81, 84, 86 – 91; and historical background 7 – 8, 10, 19, 21 – 23; and intervention strategies 30, 33, 35 – 37, 41, 43 – 44, 48; landscape 59, 82; SESC Pompeia and 132; Split and 115 – 116; Station Atocha and 138; and urban regeneration 54 – 55, 57, 59, 64; vernacular 15, 44, 54, 70, 88 Athens Charters 13, 52 – 55 Atocha Station 69, 137 – 139, 138 – 139 authenticity xvii – xviii, 11 – 12, 28, 90 – 91; as an objectified criterion 79 – 81 Bartolozzi, F. 83, 84 Belgium see C-Mine; Hasselt; Park Spoor Noord; Saint-Joseph Church Benjamin, Walter 36, 84 Berlin 59; see also Kunsthaus Tacheles; Neues Museum

231

Index

Bijlmermeer 59 – 63, 60 – 61, 74, 219 – 220 Bo Bardi, Lina 15, 71; see also SESC Pompeia Boito, Camillo 12 – 14 Borneo Amsterdam Scheepstimmermanstraat 58 Brazil see SESC Pompeia Brook, Isis 88 – 89 Brooker, Graeme: and Sally Stone 18 – 22 brownfields 55, 57, 66 – 67 built environment xvii, xix, 14 – 16, 19, 107, 110; and genius loci 80; and intervention strategies 29, 36, 44, 48; and urban regeneration 53 Burra Charter 30 – 31, 33 Caixa Forum 35, 37, 39, 41, 183 Cantacuzino, Sherban 7 – 8, 16 – 17 Caravaggio 32 – 33 Caruso, Adam 97, 101, 107 – 108 Caruso St John Architects see Museum of Childhood; Sir John Soane’s Museum Castelvecchio Museum 92 – 93, 100, 126 – 131, 128 – 131; Cangrande statue 92, 127, 130 Chiswick Gardens 81, 83 city see modernist city; urban planning C-Mine 56, 169 – 176, 171 – 176 Cock, Hieronymous 123 collective memory xvii, 99 Cologne see Kolumba Art Museum community initiatives 70 – 71 competences 106 – 109 complexity 1, 3, 96, 106 – 109; historical background and 8, 12, 18; intervention strategies and 37 Congresses of Modern Architecture (CIAM) 14, 52 – 54, 60 conservation xvii, 14 – 16, 19, 23, 106, 108 – 116; conservation theory 2, 7, 12, 90, 110; dichotomy between architecture and 13 – 14; Fondaco dei Tedeschi and 218; and genius loci 81; and intervention strategies 28 – 30, 35, 41, 43, 48; Neues Museum and 163; OFF Piotrkowska and 203; Park Avenue Armory and 184; Sir John Soane’s Museum and 194; and urban regeneration 53 – 54, 56, 70; see also heritage conservation context xviii, 16, 29, 35 – 36, 41, 99 – 100; and continuity 96 – 99; genius loci and 84, 91; Split and 116; urban regeneration and 53, 60 continuity 3, 7 – 8, 13, 22, 107, 109; context and 96 – 99; and intervention strategies

232

35 – 36; Neues Museum and 163; and urban regeneration 56 contradiction 11, 108, 196 – 202, 214 – 218 Copijn Tuin- en Landschapsarchitecten see Rijksmuseum copy see aemulatio Croatia see Split Cruz y Ortiz see Rijksmuseum Cuypers, Pierre 9, 207 – 208 David Chipperfield Architects see Neues Museum de Arce, Perez 8 Declaration of Amsterdam 55 – 56 De Flat Kleiburg 62, 74, 219 – 223, 221 – 222 demolition 1, 14, 46, 92; De Flat Kleiburg and 219; and urban regeneration 57, 59 – 60, 62 – 63, 73 development 1 – 2, 8, 14, 35, 107, 109; housing development 54, 58, 72, 170; Park Spoor Nord and 177; Split and 116; sustainable development 1 – 2, 18, 56, 80; and urban regeneration 55 – 56, 71; see also redevelopment Diocletian palace see under Split DOCOMOMO International 2 Douglas, J. 22 – 23, 73 Dujardin, Filip 47, 172 education 9, 43, 93, 106, 109, 133; C-Mine and 170; Library Escuelas Pias and 151 – 152; Park Spoor Nord and 177; Saint-Joseph Church and 224 Eliot, T.S. 99 – 100, 102 empathy 3, 20, 96, 99 – 102 Enlightenment 9 European Year of Cultural Heritage 2, 109 – 110 exterior 35 – 41, 45 – 46, 103, 120, 127, 133; Kolumba Art Museum and 158; Kunsthaus Tacheles and 141; Library Escuelas Pias and 152; Neues Museum and 162; Palais de Tokyo and 146; SaintJoseph Church and 224 – 225 Fabrykancka 71 – 72, 203 – 204 façades 36 – 41, 39, 45, 63, 96 – 98, 102, 115; Castelvecchio Museum and 126 – 127, 129; C-Mine and 170; De Flat Kleiburg and 220; Fondaco dei Tedeschi and 214, 218; and a former prison 196, 201; Kunsthaus Tacheles and 141 – 142, 143; Library Escuelas Pias and 152; Neues Museum and 163; Park Spoor Nord and 178; Rijksmuseum and 207 – 208; ­Saint-Joseph

Index

Church and 225; Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri and 122; SESC Pompeia and 133; Sir John Soane’s Museum and 189; Station Atocha and 137 façadism 2, 4, 28, 30, 35 – 41 faces 36 – 37, 40 Fehn, Sverre 15 51N4E see C-Mine Frampton, K. 54, 98 France see Palais de Tokyo French Revolution 7, 9 genius loci 3, 31, 33, 67, 99; and adaptive reuse 91 – 93; in architectural theory 86 – 90; and authenticity 79 – 81; in heritage conservation 90 – 91; and the landscape 81 – 83; in literature and travelogues 83 – 86 Genk see C-Mine gentrification 4, 45, 52, 63 – 4, 141 – 143, 151 – 155; De Flat Kleiburg and 219 – 223; OFF Piotrkowska and 203 – 206; Park Spoor Nord and 177 – 182; urban regeneration versus 72 – 74 Germany see Kolumba Art Museum; Kunsthaus Tacheles; Neues Museum Ghent see Saint-Joseph Church Gothic, the 9, 37, 92, 126 – 127, 130, 157 – 158, 214 Green Lines Institute Sustainable Development 2 Hasselt: former prison in 3, 102, 196 – 202, 197 – 201 Haussmann, George-Eugène 36, 41 Heidegger, Martin 86 – 88, 100 heritage 7, 15, 65 – 67, 71, 92, 103 – 104; heritage buildings 1, 44, 48, 55 – 56, 70, 79, 109; heritage sites 3, 69, 100, 109 – 110, 116; heritage values 29, 44, 70, 106, 184; and planning in the twentieth century 52 – 57; see also heritage conservation Heritage and Urbanism Conference 2 heritage conservation 1, 13, 19, 55, 69, 79 – 80; and adaptive reuse 8 – 11; genius loci in 90 – 91 Herzog & de Meuron see Caixa Forum; Park Avenue Armory Highfield, D. 18 High Line New York 68, 69, 74 Hollis, Edward 8, 19 housing 19, 23, 69 – 70, 74, 106, 178; cohousing 48, 59, 65; housing development 54, 58, 72, 170; ­Saint-Joseph Church and 224; see also new housing typology

imitatio 4, 31 – 35, 183 – 188, 207 – 213 improvement see aemulatio interior 34, 45 – 46, 70, 102, 106, 115; Castelvecchio Museum and 126 – 127; C-Mine and 170; De Flat Kleiburg and 219 – 220; the dichotomy of exterior and 35 – 41; Fondaco dei Tedeschi and 214, 217 – 218; and a former prison 201 – 202; and genius loci 88, 92; interior approach 19 – 20; interior architecture 19, 22 – 23; Kolumba Art Museum and 158; Kunsthaus Tacheles and 141; Library Escuelas Pias and 152; Neues Museum and 162 – 163; OFF Piotrkowska and 203 – 204; Palais de Tokyo and 145 – 146; Park Avenue Armory and 183 – 184; Park Spoor Nord and 178; Rijksmuseum and 207 – 208, 212 – 213; Saint-Joseph Church and 224 – 225; Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri and 121 – 123; SESC Pompeia and 133; Sir John Soane’s Museum and 189, 194 – 195; Station Atocha and 137; see also interior design interior design 1 – 2, 7, 19, 22, 69 Interior Educators 2 interiority 31 Italy see Castelvecchio Museum; Fondaco dei Tedeschi; Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri Julian Harrap Architects see Neues Museum; Sir John Soane’s Museum Kent, William 81 – 82; see also Chiswick Gardens Kerk 72 – 73 Kolumba Art Museum 159 – 161 Koolhaas, Rem 48, 60 Kunsthaus Tacheles 44, 70 – 71, 73, 141 – 143, 142 – 143 Lacaton & Vassal see Palais de Tokyo; Tour Bois le Prêtre landscape design 7, 28 – 29, 36, 42, 46 – 47, 81 – 82; and urban regeneration 54, 56, 66 – 67 landscapes 59, 88, 90, 92, 98, 104; C-Mine and 169; De Flat Kleiburg and 220; genius loci and 81 – 86; Neues Museum and 162; Park Spoor Nord and 178; and urban parks 65 – 69; see also landscape design Landschaftspark Duisburg 66, 66 Lanz, Markus 134 – 135

233

Index

Laparelli, Ippolito Pestellini see Fondaco dei Tedeschi Le Corbusier 36, 52, 57, 69 – 70, 108 Lee, Vernon 85 – 86 Library Escuelas Pías 45, 92 – 93, 103, 151 – 155, 153 – 155 Linazasoro & Sanchez Arquitectura see Library Escuelas Pías literature 8, 20, 32, 81 – 86, 104 Łódź see OFF Piotrkowska Loggia superiore della Basilica Palladiana 40 London: Tate Modern 31, 183; see also Sir John Soane’s Museum Machado, Radolfo 8, 15 – 18, 20 – 21, 23, 30, 102 Madrid see Caixa Forum; Library Escuelas Pías; Station Atocha Malpas, J. 91, 105 masks 36 – 37, 40 meaning 10, 17 – 18, 46, 101 – 104, 106 – 107, 109; Castelvecchio Museum and 127; and genius loci 89 – 92; Saint-Joseph Church and 225 memory 91 – 93, 152; collective xvii, 99; meaning and 102 – 106; the ruin and 42 – 43 Michelangelo: Palazzo Farnese di Roma 32; see also Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri model 31 – 33, 36, 62 modernist city 54, 59 – 63 Moneo, Rafaël see Station Atocha monuments 1, 7, 9 – 15, 104, 106; Fondaco dei Tedeschi and 214; and genius loci 79; and intervention strategies 30 – 31, 43 – 44; Kunsthaus Tacheles and 142; Rijksmuseum and 213; Saint-Joseph Church and 224; Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri and 120; and urban regeneration 53 – 55, 62, 66, 73; versus palimpsest 28 – 29 Morris, William 9 – 11, 14 Musée des Arts modernes 147 – 148 Museum of Childhood 35, 38, 40 – 41, 41 Nara Document on Authenticity 79 – 80, 90 – 91 narratives xviii, 2 – 3, 99, 102 – 103, 105 – 106; Castelvecchio Museum and 127; and genius loci 83, 87, 89 – 90, 93; and historical background 8, 18, 20; and intervention strategies 30, 43; Kunsthaus Tacheles and 143; Library Escuelas Pias and 152; and urban regeneration 56, 67

234

neighbourhoods 57 – 59, 62 – 63, 67 – 68, 72 – 73, 106; Park Spoor Nord and 177; Saint-Joseph Church and 224 – 225 Netherlands, The see De Flat Kleiburg; Rijksmuseum Neues Museum 31, 34, 100, 162 – 167, 164 – 167 new housing typologies 3 – 4, 56 – 57, 110, 219 – 223 New York City see High Line New York; Park Avenue Armory Ningbo History Museum 98, 98 NL Architects see De Flat Kleiburg noAarchitecten see Hasselt Norberg-Schulz, Christian 86 – 89 OFF Piotrkowska 3, 45, 71 – 73, 203 – 206, 204 – 205 OMA see Fondaco dei Tedeschi Paget, Violet see Lee, Vernon Palais de Tokyo 46, 145 – 150, 149 – 150 palimpsest 8, 15, 18, 20, 102 – 103; and genius loci 83; and intervention strategies 30, 35; monument versus 28 – 29; Split and 116 Palladio, Andrea 37, 83, 116 Palladio, Antonio 120 Paris 9, 36; Parc de la Villete 66 – 67; see also Musée des Arts modernes; Palais de Tokyo; Tour Bois le Prêtre Park Avenue Armory 3, 31, 34, 183 – 188, 185 – 188 parks see urban park Park Spoor Noord 67, 177 – 182, 179 – 182 PC Caritas 46 – 47, 47 Pérez Gomez, A. 89, 99 – 100, 108 philosophy 80, 88; see also theory Pikionis, D. see Acropolis planning 71, 82, 88; heritage and 52 – 57; see also urban planning Poland see OFF Piotrkowska Pope, Alexander 81 – 83; see also Chiswick Gardens prison see under Hasselt programmatic approach 19 property values 64, 69, 71, 74 Quebec Declaration 90 – 91 reactivation 2, 56 redevelopment 55, 63, 65, 67, 70, 72 – 74; C-Mine and 169; Kunsthaus Tacheles and 142; Saint-Joseph Church and 224 refurbishment 20, 22 – 23, 34, 184, 194, 207

Index

rehabilitation 20, 22 – 23, 72, 92, 116 remodelling xviii – xix, 15 – 17, 20 – 22, 102, 121, 137 – 138 Renaissance 3, 7, 12, 100, 103; Fondaco dei Tedeschi and 214; and intervention strategies 31, 33, 35 – 37, 42 – 43; Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri and 120 – 121 regeneration 55, 57, 62 – 64; Castelvecchio Museum and 126; De Flat Kleiburg and 219 – 220; and genius loci 92; Kolumba Art Museum and 157; Neues Museum and 162 – 163; Palais de Tokyo and 145 – 146; Park Avenue Armory and 183 – 184; Rijksmuseum and 208 renovation 14, 20 – 23; and intervention strategies 31, 34 – 36, 38, 41, 45; and urban research 16, 106, 224 – 225 restoration 8 – 15, 20, 103, 109; Castelvecchio Museum and 126 – 127; Fondaco dei Tedeschi and 214; and genius loci 80, 85, 92; and intervention strategies 28, 30 – 31, 33 – 34, 42 – 43, 45, 48; Neues Museum and 163; OFF Piotrkowska and 205; Park Avenue Armory and 183 – 184; Rijksmuseum and 208; and the Roman tradition 23 – 24n2; Sir John Soane’s Museum and 194; Split and 116; and urban regeneration 53, 56, 69 – 70, 72 reuse 9 – 10, 13, 81, 132, 138, 145; C-Mine and 170; De Flat Kleiburg and 219 – 220; Fondaco dei Tedeschi and 218; Neues Museum and 163; OFF Piotrkowska and 205 – 206; Park Spoor Nord and 178; and the ruin 42 – 46; Saint-Joseph Church and 225; see also adaptive reuse Ricœur, Paul 104 – 105 Riegl, Alois 11 – 12, 43 Rijksmuseum 33, 207 – 213, 208 – 210 Robert, P. 18 Rocque, Jean 83 Rome see Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri Rossi, Aldo 8, 54 Rubens, Pieter Paul 32 – 33 ruination 2, 4, 28, 30, 46, 120 – 124; Castelvecchio Museum and 126 – 131; Kolumba Art Museum and 157 – 161; Kunsthaus Tacheles and 141 – 143; Library Escuelas Pias and 151 – 155; Neues Museum and 162 – 167; Palais de Tokyo and 145 – 150 ruins 3, 42 – 45, 53, 70, 98, 103; and genius loci 83, 92; Kolumba Art Museum and 157 – 158; Kunsthaus Tacheles and

141 – 142; Library Escuelas Pias and 151 – 152; Neues Museum and 162; Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri and 121; Sir John Soane’s Museum and 189; Split and 115 rule books 11 – 13 Ruskin, John 8 – 12, 42 – 43 Sangallo, Antonio da 33, 120 Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri 7, 120 – 124, 122 – 124 São Paulo see SESC Pompeia Scamozzi, Vincenzo 122 Scarpa, Carlo see Castelvecchio Museum Scott, Fred 10, 20 – 21, 96, 101; and intervention strategies 31, 33, 44; and urban regeneration 69 – 70 Scott, George Gilbert 9 SESC Pompeia 4, 107, 132 – 136, 134 – 136 ‘S Hertogenmolens Aarschot 35, 41 – 42, 42 Sir John Soane’s Museum 31, 34, 189 – 195, 191 – 194 Smith, Laurajane 70, 92 Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings (SPAB) 10 soft values 2, 20 Spain see Caixa Forum; Library Escuelas Pías; Station Atocha Spanish Civil War 45 – 46, 93, 151 Split 70, 83 – 84, 84, 115 – 119, 118 – 119; Baths of Diocletian 122 – 124; Diocletian Palace 117 spontaneity 3, 44 – 45, 69, 70 – 71, 132, 141; OFF Piotrkowska and 206; in prenineteenth-century building reuse 7 – 8 Studio Associato Bernardo Secchi Paola Viganò see Park Spoor Noord Stüler, August see Neues Museum sustainable development see under development Sverko, A. 83 – 85 Tate Modern 31, 193 technical approach 18 – 19 theory 1 – 2, 13, 69, 81; adaptive reuse 2, 16 – 20, 93; architectural 29, 86 – 90, 109; of art 101; conservation 2, 12, 90, 110; preservation 104; urban planning 57 Tour Bois le Prêtre 62 traces 3, 11, 29, 43, 99 – 102 tradition 3, 55 – 56, 89, 97 – 102, 121 translatio 31 – 35 travelogues 83 – 86, 116 TV TRACE see Saint-Joseph Church typologies see new housing typologies

235

Index

UNESCO 56, 91, 116 United Kingdom (UK) see Sir John Soane’s Museum United States (USA): Gas Works Park 66 – 67; see also Park Avenue Armory urban park 3 – 4, 47, 65 – 69, 74, 137 – 139 urban planning 2, 8, 52 – 55, 57, 81, 177 urban regeneration 2 – 4, 52, 55 – 56, 132 – 136, 137 – 139, 141 – 143; C-Mine and 169 – 176; De Flat Kleiburg and 219 – 223; and a former prison 196 – 202; Library Escuelas Pias and 151 – 155; OFF Piotrkowska and 203 – 206; Park Spoor Nord and 177 – 182; Saint-Joseph Church and 224 – 229 user-led interventions 3, 44, 57, 69 – 73, 110, 203 – 206; see also vernacular adaptation use-value 11 – 13, 56

44, 70, 106, 184; historical 1, 42, 56, 79, 108; and urban regeneration 55 Van Hoogevest see Rijksmuseum Vasi, Giuseppe 32 Venice see Fondaco dei Tedeschi Venice Charter 15, 28, 30 – 31, 55, 90 Venturi, Robert 36, 106 – 108 vernacular, the see vernacular adaptation; see under architecture vernacular adaptation 4, 43 – 44, 115 – 119, 132 – 136, 141 – 143, 203 – 206 Verona see Castelvecchio Museum Viollet-le-Duc, Eugène Emmanuel 8 – 12, 14, 17 Viviano, Codazzi 122 – 123, 123 Weitschies, Rainer see Kolumba Art Museum Wilmotte & Associés see Rijksmuseum XVW architectuur see De Flat Kleiburg

values 2, 11, 17, 28, 35, 43; architectural 23, 66; and genius loci 89 – 93; heritage 29,

236

Zumthor, Peter see Kolumba Art Museum