Transcultural Architecture : the Limits and Opportunities of Critical Regionalism. 9781472463425, 1472463420

Citation preview

Transcultural Architecture

Reproduced by permission of photographer Naquib Hossein. © Naquib Hossein.

Transcultural Architecture The Limits and Opportunities of Critical Regionalism

Thorsten Botz-Bornstein Gulf University for Science and Technology, Kuwait

© Thorsten Botz-Bornstein 2015 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher. Thorsten Botz-Bornstein has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. Published by Ashgate Publishing Limited Ashgate Publishing Company Wey Court East 110 Cherry Street Union Road Suite 3-1 Farnham Burlington, VT 05401-3818 Surrey, GU9 7PT USA England www.ashgate.com 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 Botz-Bornstein, Thorsten. Transcultural architecture : the limits and opportunities of critical regionalism / By Thorsten Botz-Bornstein. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-4724-6341-8 (hardback) -- ISBN 978-1-4724-6342-5 (ebook) -- ISBN 9781-4724-6343-2 (epub) 1. Regionalism in architecture. 2. Architecture, Modern--20th century. 3. Architecture, Modern--21st century. I. Title. NA682.R44B68 2015 724'.6--dc23 2015010327 ISBN 9781472463418 (hbk) ISBN 9781472463425 (ebk – PDF) ISBN 9781472463432 (ebk – ePUB)

Printed in the United Kingdom by Henry Ling Limited, at the Dorset Press, Dorchester, DT1 1HD

Contents

List of Figures   About the Author   Acknowledgments   Note on the use of East-Asian names  



1

2

ix xiii xv xvii

Introduction: Critical Critical Regionalism or From Regionalism to Transculturalism   1. Transculturalism   2. Defense of Critical Regionalism   3. Different Critical Regionalisms   4. The Chapters  

1 2 3 3 4

Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited: About the Limits of Transcultural Architecture   Introduction   1. “City of Kuwait: A Future Concept”   2. The Sief Palace Buildings   3. Transcultural Architecture   4. The Ministry Transformed   5. Conclusions  

9 9 10 19 37 47 68

Empathy, Abstraction, Style, Non-Style: Reima Pietilä’s Philosophy   Introduction   1. Style and Non-Style   2. Empathy and Abstraction   3. Regionalism   4. Ironical Regionalism   5. “Making Things Strange”   6. Empathy and Alienation in the Architecture of Alvar Aalto and Reima Pietilä   7. Lifestyle   8. Dream   9. Conclusion  

81 81 81 83 84 85 86 89 91 92 94

vi

3

4

5

6

7

8

Transcultural Architecture

“Magic Internationalism” or the Paradox of Globalization: Louis Kahn’s National Assembly Complex in Dhaka, Bangladesh   Introduction   1. Metaphors, Symbols, Irony: Kahn and Pietilä   2. The Hermeneutics of Style  

99 99 101 102

Wang Shu and the Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in China   Introduction   1. Wang Shu   2. The Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in China   3. Conclusions  

107 107 108 112 117

When the Monumental Becomes Decorative: Thoughts on Contemporary Chinese Architecture   Introduction   1. Architecture in Hangzhou   2. The Semantics of Monuments   3. Stammering Monumentality   4. Nietzsche: The Decorative vs. the Monumental   5. Monuments and Identity in China  

121 121 121 123 125 126 127

Play, Dream, and the Search for the “Real” Form of Dwelling: From Aalto to Ando   Introduction   1. Anti-rationalism of Play in Aalto and Ando   2. Ando’s “Dreamlike Anti-Rationalism”   3. Conclusion  

129 129 130 132 134

Wittgenstein’s Stonborough House and the Architecture of Tadao Ando   Introduction   1. Simplicity   2. Form of Life   3. Emptiness, Silence   4. Body Architecture, Architecture as Gesture   5. Dreams  

137 137 139 139 140 140 141

Cardboard Houses with Wings: The Architecture of Alabama’s Rural Studio   Introduction   1. Kitsch Culture and Junk Culture   2. Regionalism and Kitsch   3. Colonial Space and Third World Architecture  

143 143 144 146 148

Contents

vii

9

H-Sang Seung: Design is not Design   Introduction   1. H-Sang Seung   2. Seung and the “Right Way of Living”   3. Landscript   4. Landscript and the Culture of Writing   5. Conclusion  

151 151 153 154 157 159 162

10

The Secularization of the Architectural Heritage through Wahhabism in Saudi Arabia   Introduction   1. Some General Thoughts on Conservation   2. The Case of Saudi Arabia   3. The Wahhabi Interpretation of Islam   4. The Past and the Sacred   5. Comparisons   6. Religion, Culture and Deculturation   7. Critical Regionalism   8. Conclusion  

163 163 164 165 167 168 170 173 174 176

Conclusion   Land, Place, and “Form of Life”  

179 181



Bibliography   Index  

185 199

This page has been left blank intentionally

List of Figures

1

Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited: About the Limits of Transcultural Architecture

1.1 The area of greater Kuwait city 1.2 Within the black line is Kuwait’s Old City which today represents only around 4 percent of Kuwait’s urban area 1.3 Sketches from the archive show that Pietilä has been obsessed with a T-form as an urban planning concept for the old city. Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture 1.4 Aerial view of the waterfront prior to large scale destruction of the traditional fabric 1.5 Approaching the Sief area from the land side today. On the right hand side is the stock exchange. Pietilä wanted the central shaft

1.6

1.7

1.8 1.9

1.10

1.11 1.12

of the “T” to be “flanked by parking structures, four stories high, and new buildings” Plan of the three buildings. Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture Today the Sief Palace Area is dominated by the “New” New Sief Palace One of the two authentic Sief Palace buildings from 1907 The addition to the Sief Palace by Pearce, Hubbard and Partners from 1963. Being originally made of yellow bricks, the central façade has been painted in pink Pietilä’s philosophical musings about the reality of Kuwait (Pietilä Archive Helsinki). Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture Pietilä’s Sief Palace Extension Extension archway with use of blue and green tiles

x

1.13 1.14

1.15

1.16

1.17

1.18 1.19

Transcultural Architecture

on only the first window and the door Protruding Main Entrance Reconstruction of an Uruk Temple Façade (Innin Temple in Kassite). The former city of Uruk is located 200 km north of Kuwait. Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, Baghdad. Graphic by Jürgen Fohrmann from 1957 The tiles arranged around the door of the 1963 Sief Palace have exactly half the size of Pietilä’s tiles Mashrabiya style wooden latticework on the windows. Most of those mashrabiyas remain intact today. Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture Painted aluminum sticks emulate traditional reed soffit structures throughout the Ministry. Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture Spruce theme window in the Ministry with mashrabiya Spruce shapes and inverted spruce shapes as used in the Hervanta Community Center Complex in Tampere, Finland. Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture

1.20 René Magritte: Le Double Secret. © 2015 C. Herscovici / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York 1.21 René Magritte: Le thérapeute. © 2015 C. Herscovici / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York 1.22 The “skin concept” (Archive Helsinki). Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture 1.23 The city-like plan of the Hervanta Community Center Complex in Tampere, Finland 1.24 Fake Japanese temple (private residence) in Dubai 1.25 Street view. Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture 1.26 Same street view today. The building is hidden behind a new façade. Some of the original cutout walls (on the left) are still visible 1.27 Detail of street view. Heavy arches and upright standing squares dominate 1.28 Detail of street view in 1986. Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture 1.29 Same detail today 1.30 The yellow bricks have been taken off on one part of the original building, which now appears in raw concrete. The intention was



1.31

1.32

1.33

1.34

1.35

1.36

1.37 1.38

1.39

List of Figures

probably to match this part with the color of the additions East façade. Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture East façade with additions from 2014. The Sief Palace clock tower can be seen on the left The kitchen is almost the only place where the colored tiles remain Main Hall before. Painted aluminum “reed” soffits are placed on the ceiling (right side). The ceiling has a “rugged” shape. Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture Main Hall today. The tiles have been eliminated and walls have been painted in white. The aluminum soffits have been taken off and the rugged structure of the ceiling has been rectified Plants, carpets, marble, wood and leather dominate the new aesthetics of the mail hall A new diwaniya has been placed on the seaside terrace Multicolored Coral Fountain in 1986. Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture Coral Fountain today with islamicizing patterns on black marble

xi

1.40 Courtyard in 1986 with pyramid fountain 1.41 Same courtyard today 1.42 Corridor of main axis in 1986. Reproduced by permission of Pietilä Archive in the Helsinki Museum of Architecture 1.43 Same corridor in 2012 1.44 The shapes of the door openings on the main axis have been adopted from the original door design (see below) 1.45 Those coral fountains disappeared when the additions (see present street view, Figure 1.26) were built on the terrace 1.46 Today the spot where the above terrace used to be looks like this. The place is covered by a dome 1.47 A dome covers the additions that have been built on the terrace 1.48 The north entrance and window have been laid out with granite plaques 1.49 Formal elements like arches have been added 1.50 In the public consciousness the Sief Palace Area is represented by the New Sief Palace as shows this stamp 1.51 Incoherence becomes extreme in the area opposite the Sharq Mall 1.52 Little thought is given to the orientation of buildings or their structural order

xii

Transcultural Architecture

3

“Magic Internationalism” or the Paradox of Globalization: Louis Kahn’s National Assembly Complex in Dhaka, Bangladesh

7 Wittgenstein’s Stonborough House and the Architecture of Tadao Ando 7.1

Stonborough House

National Assembly in Dhaka, Bangladesh. Reproduced by permission of photographer Naquib Hossein

8

Cardboard Houses with Wings: The Architecture of Alabama’s Rural Studio

Wang Shu and the Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in China

10

3.1

4

4.1 The Vertical House. Reproduced by permission of Wang Shu 4.2 Wenzheng Library of Suzhou. Reproduced by permission of Wang Shu 5

When the Monumental Becomes Decorative: Thoughts on Contemporary Chinese Architecture

5.1 Former Chinese Academy of Art, Hangzhou, Zheijang province

8.1 Music Man House The Secularization of the Architectural Heritage through Wahhabism in Saudi Arabia

10.1 Palace of the Soviets Project (1931–33). Reproduced by permission of Ilya Ilyushenko 10.2 Abraj-al-Bait Tower Complex

About the Author

Thorsten Botz-Bornstein was born in Germany and studied philosophy in Paris and Oxford. As a postdoctoral researcher based in Finland he undertook extensive research on Russian formalism and semiotics in Russia and the Baltic countries. He has also been researching in Japan, in particular on the Kyoto School and on the philosophy of Nishida Kitarô. At present he is Associate Professor of Philosophy at the Gulf University for Science and Technology in Kuwait. His publications are: Place and Dream: Japan and the Virtual (Rodopi, 2004); Vasily Sesemann: Experience, Formalism and the Question of Being (Rodopi 2006); Films and Dreams: Tarkovsky, Sokurov, Bergman, Kubrik, Wong Kar-wai (Lexington Books 2007); Aesthetics and Politics of Space in Russia and Japan (Lexington Books 2009); The Cool-Kawaii: Afro-Japanese Aesthetics and New World Modernity (Lexington 2010); La Chine contre l’Amérique. Culture sans civilisation contre civilisation sans culture? (Paris: L’Harmattan 2012); The Veil in Kuwait: Gender, Fashion, Identity (with Noreen Abdullah-Khan, Palgrave 2014); Editor of: The Philosophy of Viagra: Bioethical Responses to the Viagrification of the Modern World (Rodopi, 2011); Inception and Philosophy: Ideas to Die For (Chicago: Open Court, 2011); Re-ethnicizing the Minds? Tendencies of Cultural Revival in Contemporary Philosophy (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2006); The Crisis of the Human Sciences: False Objectivity and the Decline of Creativity (2010); and Nature Culture, Memes (2008).

This page has been left blank intentionally

Acknowledgments

This book contains revised versions of the following articles that have been published earlier: ‘WANG Shu and the Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in Chinese Architecture’ in The Nordic Journal of Architectural Research, 1, 2009, 4–17 (Chapter 4). Reproduced by permission of the association Nordisk arkitekturforskning. ‘Cardboard Houses with Wings: The Architecture of Samuel Mockbee’ in The Journal of Aesthetic Education 44: 3, 2010 (Chapter 8). ‘From Aalto to Ando or the Search for the “Real” Form of Dwelling’ in The Nordic Journal of Architectural Research 2, 2003: 1–5 (Chapter 6). Reproduced by permission of the association Nordisk arkitekturforskning. ‘H-Sang Seung: Design is not Design’ in The Journal of Aesthetic Education 48: 1, 2014, pp. 109–23 (Chapter 9). I thank the editors of those journals for having granted me the permission to reprint those articles here.

This page has been left blank intentionally

Note on the use of East-Asian names

With regard to Chinese, Korean and Japanese names I keep the order “personal name—family name” (ex. Wang Shu) except when the name is commonly known in another order (for example Yungho CHANG). In order to avoid confusions, I capitalize the family name except in cases where it is highly likely that the reader is familiar with the name.

This page has been left blank intentionally

Introduction Critical Critical Regionalism or From Regionalism to Transculturalism

The term Critical Regionalism was introduced in 1981 by Alexander Tzonis and Liane Lefaivre in their article “The Grid and the Pathway” (1981) and in 1983 Kenneth Frampton authored an article on the same subject (Frampton 1983).1 According to the definition of these authors, Critical Regionalism emphasizes the importance of “placeness” by considering contextual elements like scenery, historical references, and light, without falling into imitation and traditionalism. Critical Regionalism gained popularity as a synthesis of universal, “modern” elements and individualistic elements derived from local cultures. The idea to produce buildings that are modern without neglecting contextual elements like scenery and historical references has not only produced interesting architectural creations, but also spawned a whole range of new theoretical reflections. Contrary to the intentions of mere regionalism, Critical Regionalism does not aim to reinstall a strong vernacular “here” but attempts to vernacularize modern elements. Critical Regionalism is also constantly aware of the danger of the political instrumentalization of vernacular architecture in terms of globalization issues or political issues in general. In spite of its efficiency, Critical Regionalism should not be used as an ideology declaring any “non-critical” regionalism to be sentimental, kitsch or even fascist. Regionalism does not have to be critical. On the other hand, I believe that today some critical input has become more important than ever in any architecture because the transcultural world in which we are living constantly challenges our critical and self-critical analytical capacities. The cases presented in this book support this conviction. A self-critical movement such as Critical Regionalism is linked to the Western enlightenment tradition, a fact that can be beneficial as well as problematical. Certain complexities arise when Critical Regionalism is introduced into contexts where this Western tradition of critical thinking is not dominant or even inexistent. In particular, Critical Regionalism bears a strong link with “critical history,” a movement that developed within the realm of historical science as early as the eighteenth century in Germany. Discussions by Barthold Niebuhr (1776–1831)

2

Transcultural Architecture

and especially by Wilhelm von Humboldt (1767–1835) in his important The Idealist Theory of Historiography, laid the ground for a critical form of historicism. Further, German historian Leopold von Ranke (1795–1886) as well as a subsequent set of German philosophers represented by Wilhelm Dilthey, Wilhelm Windelband, and Heinrich Rickert, were trying to approach history “critically” (see Chapter 3 as well as Botz-Bornstein 2010). For this Western understanding of “critique” (by which Critical Regionalism is still fed), any critical approach requires a particular philosophical understanding of the relationship between history and the present as it has been developed in Western intellectual history. The problem is that such a historical understanding does not necessarily exist in an identical fashion in all cultures, which means that, paradoxically, though Critical Regionalism aims to help establish local identities that would otherwise be erased by a Western-minded globalization, it is still actively exporting a Western concept of “Critical Regionalism” that will not necessarily be interpreted by non-Western cultures in the same way. Given the above circumstances, I suggest to review Critical Regionalism within the context of a larger transcultural situation. In particular, I suggest to shift the focus from Critical Regionalism towards a broader concept of “Transcultural Architecture” and to define Critical Regionalism as a subgroup of the latter. I do not suggest to replace Critical Regionalism with Transcultural Architecture but rather to constantly view the former within the context of the latter. One of the benefits that this change of perspective can bring about is that a large part of the political agenda of Critical Regionalism, which consists of resisting attitudes forged by typically Western experiences, will be “softened” and negotiated according to premises provided by local circumstances. A further benefit is that several responses dependent on factors that initial definitions of Critical Regionalism never took into account can now be considered.

1. Transculturalism Transculturalism is more than the arbitrary combination of several cultures. According to some definitions, it is based on the process of seeing oneself in the other. Transculturalism transcends all particular cultures and invents a new common culture that is not meant to be a new universalism. Though transculturalism can also function without any critical input, in most cases a critical stance is important because central and peripheral elements need to be weighed against each other in a “reasonable” way. In many cases, a critical philosophy can indeed establish the right equilibrium. However, contrary to what often happens in Critical Regionalism, in transcultural architecture, the “critique” is able to adapt itself to local circumstances.

C ritical Critical Regionalism or From Regionalism to Transculturalism

3

2. Defense of Critical Regionalism Some critics of Critical Regionalism find the above insistence on critical philosophy too “Western” as they see any attempt to install a “Western” critical machine in the non-West as a postcolonial undertaking. Keith Eggener holds that Critical Regionalism is an optimistically designated postcolonial formation of colonialism or a “revisionary form of imperialist nostalgia” (Eggener 2002: 234) perfectly in keeping with Jane Jacob’s model of “postcolonial architecture” (Jacobs 2002: 14–15). Of course, this is a paradox. Though Critical Regionalism speaks out against Western globalization in order to protect local identities, the entire idea of viewing the West “critically” remains typically Western and can thus be inscribed into the logic according to which the West strives to dominate the East. Eggener’s critique pushes this paradox to an extreme when claiming that “regionalism is itself a construct most often imposed from outside, from positions of authority” (p. 228). According to this logic, Critical Regionalism, which sees itself as a combative movement protesting against the colonizing forces of Westernizing globalization, is part and parcel of the same Western forces that it tries to combat. The reproach of imperialism might be justified in some cases; however since Critical Regionalism is in the first place a self-critical movement that is constantly aware of the dangers of imperialist temptations, it should be able to solve the problem of “imperialist Critical Regionalism” by itself. Its redefinition in the context of transculturalism works towards such a solution.

3. Different Critical Regionalisms The cases of modern architecture in Kuwait, China, Korea, and Saudi Arabia that are presented in this book show that Eggener’s critique—though pertinent in some instances—does not apply in all circumstances. Eggener’s (as well as Marina Waisman’s) idea that regionalism is not always a response to the West but more often a consequence of local conditions can well be integrated into my defense of Critical Regionalism as a form of transculturalism.2 The problem that Eggener highlights—and with which I agree to some extent—is that Critical Regionalism has at times made “paramount a struggle where no struggle otherwise would have been said to exist” (Eggener: 232). Indeed, my case studies show that in some cases the “struggle” of Critical Regionalism is uncalled-for in the non-West or is simply not understood. But who is the guilty one? It is too simple to accuse only the Critical Regionalists. Both sides should view Critical Regionalism as a predominantly transcultural activity through which both sides can learn from each other. Apart from that there are different Critical Regionalisms and not all of them impose Western paradigms on non-Western cultures. In general, I hold that non-Western regionalists can also successfully participate in the Western enlightened discourse, even when they do not directly and consciously act against Western (capitalist, globalized) models.

4

Transcultural Architecture

Kenneth Frampton writes in a more recent article that some of the most sophisticated architectural work realized today is produced in peripheral countries and Third World countries (Frampton 2005: 197). Have those countries adopted a “Western” kind of Critical Regionalism or are their approaches based on their own cultural premises? The present book examines the difficulties arising from such constellations by looking at concrete cases of what can easily be perceived as examples of Critical Regionalism, but which have been submitted to various supplementary inputs. All cases examined in this book (except one) are shaped by regionalist intentions but additional elements have made their architectural expressions more complicated, more tortuous, and often paradoxical.

4. The Chapters This book is not trying to provide a consistent overview of the international development of Critical Regionalism. Instead, it concentrates on the theoretical problems pointed out above and discusses its aspects in the light of carefully chosen examples. This is why not all the world’s areas have been covered. Studies from Africa, for example, are missing. The reason is that this book is not an exercise in architectural history but a systematical elaboration of certain philosophical questions about architecture. The book starts with a very detailed analysis of Reima and Raili Pietilä’s “Sief Palace Area” mega project of Kuwait (1969–1986), which included the construction of three buildings as well as the development of a new plan for the entire city. I explain the architects’ intentions, the reception of the buildings as well as the transformations that the Ministry building and the site underwent during the last 30 years. The chapter is divided into three sections. First I discuss the urban plan of Kuwait on which the Finnish architects had been working for several years. Then I proceed to a discussion of “Transcultural Architecture,” its relationship with Critical Regionalism, and how the Sief Palace Area project reflects those differences. Last comes an analysis of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Kuwait, which I have revisited 30 years after its completion. Pietilä emphasized the tension between identity and internationalism and as a result, he ended up with a particular form of transculturalism. At the same time, he saw the use of traditional styles as “a defense mechanism against the domination of the sweeping identity of globalization.” Further analysis shows that the particularities of Kuwaiti culture, which unfortunately the architects did not fully understand, played an important role in the reception. The Sief Palace Buildings are a case in point whenever the topic “Can Critical Regionalism be applied in non-Western countries?” is discussed. The Kuwait project permits reflection on the “Westernness” of critical theories as well as on the possibilities and limits of transcultural architecture. The chapter’s length is justified by two reasons. First, the Kuwait project did consist of two different tasks that were interrelated: the establishment of an urban plan for Kuwait and the construction of three buildings in the central part of the city. Second, the Sief

C ritical Critical Regionalism or From Regionalism to Transculturalism

5

Palace Buildings are a school case permitting reflection on the possibilities and limits of Critical Regionalism. The project started with the best intentions but ran into problems that can be considered as paradigmatic. A thorough analysis of the planning history, the context, the reception of the building as well as the architect’s theoretical ideas can clarify the complications from which this project has suffered. Chapter 2 looks for explanations of the above phenomena by defining Reima Pietilä’s “architectural philosophy.” This philosophy becomes particularly interesting the moment it is applied to non-Western territory. Pietilä is searching for an “absolute non-style,” which he attempts to obtain through the negation of style as well as anti-style. His critical approach is different from Alvar Aalto’s who wanted to replace technique by a pantheistical kind of empathy. The differences between both approaches will be related to the topic of regionalism. Pietilä’s transcultural approach is related to the aesthetic strategies that can be extracted from another official building: Louis Kahn’s National Assembly in Dhaka, Bangladesh (Chapter 3). Like Pietilä, Kahn believed that the language of form is able to transcend cultural differences. And like Pietilä, Kahn refused the literal reproduction of local styles and attempted to mediate between global and local culture by means of transcultural procedures. And again, like Pietilä, Kahn attempted to transcend the creation of suitable, “correct,” and “understandable” metaphors. However, the Dhaka buildings seem to manage, in a paradoxical way, to transcend cultural differences just by making them obvious, which is how Kahn overcomes both universalism and regionalism. Contrary to Pietilä’s Ministry, the Dhaka building is understandable within the local environment. Cases that illustrate another aspect of the same problem come from China (chapters 4 and 5). In China, regionalism has never been established as a critical architectural movement though several architects are engaging in activities that can easily be described as regionalist. True, there has been a strong tradition of antiquarianism, but this tendency remained mainly restricted to a very narrow category of objects (calligraphy and painting) and was not related to architecture in the first place. Sometimes “postmodernism” could appear as an existential choice of grasping a lost cultural identity; in other cases, however, creative architectural aesthetics would be blurred by sublimated ideas from a recent noncritical, authoritarian past. All those are reasons why it is important to analyze the work of Wang Shu who was awarded the Pritzker Prize of architecture in 2012. Wang insists that his architecture is simply “spontaneous for the simple reason that for me architecture is a matter of everyday life” (interview with author). He criticizes modern architecture because it has lost contact with everyday life. Wang puts forward his regionalist ambitions by insisting on the temporary and amateur-like character of his architecture. There is not necessarily a self-conscious “critical” stance in his regionalism; in spite of this, the results come close to those of Critical Regionalism. Contrary to what Wang’s “spontaneous” approach might let us suspect, Wang recognizes the importance of critical thinking in architecture. In spite of all this, it remains difficult to install Critical Regionalism in China. Historically, the architectural tradition was steeped in a “mythical vernacularism.”

6

Transcultural Architecture

This means that in China, the historical background is represented by a virtual, non-critical cultural environment, which makes the application of critical premises very difficult. In Chapter 5, I extend the above reflections on modern architecture in China by showing how the imbrication of national monumentalism with globalism, with international aesthetics as well as with political correctness, has created a curious result that can be called “non-symbolizing symbolism.” More classical cases of Critical Regionalism receive attention in chapters 6 and 7, which focus on a conceptual triangle formed by Alvar Aalto, Reima Pietilä and Tadao Ando. Long before the term Critical Regionalism had been coined, Ando formulated non-modernist approaches reminiscent of modernists of the second generation such as Frank Lloyd Wright and Alvar Aalto. Pietilä defined many of his fundamental ideas in the sixties, but his thoughts on neo-regionalism would especially occupy him in the seventies. Both Pietilä and Ando define their approaches through a strong identification with their native environment. While Ando’s—like Aalto’s—regionalism can appear as anti-intellectual, with Pietilä things get much more complex. Pietilä refers to a creative model that is very much inspired by dreams. Aalto says that he designs his architecture according to the conviction that the “profoundest architecture is a variety of growth reminiscent of natural life.” Here, nature, style and modernity adopt three distinct strategies though all of them can be subsumed under the term Critical Regionalism. Chapter 7 is the only chapter that does not present a “regionalist” building. What is interesting here, however, are the philosophical connections. I show that Ando’s strategy is compatible with Wittgenstein’s architectural approaches as well as with his rational philosophy since Wittgenstein wanted to remove style from all practical but also aesthetic considerations. This theoretical idea remains important throughout the book. Wittgenstein’s concept of “form of life” contradicts what Juhani Pallasmaa has called the “populism and a reverence for consensus or popular taste as the sole authority of design” (Pallasmaa 2007: 139) and tries to base a “logic of architectural form” merely on architecture itself. Another example of Critical Regionalism is the architecture of the Rural Studio in Alabama that will be dealt with in Chapter 8. Again, the cultural situation of the site (rural Western Alabama) is distinct from many environments that most architects are used to working in. This puts Critical Regionalism to a particular test. Using predominantly junk, the success of the Rural Studio depends on the particularity of its place: only within the limited social sphere in which they are active can this architecture be recognized as a distinct style. While the Rural Studio’s junk art joins the aesthetic ways of the region, their regionalism is constantly confronted with the risk of falling victim to non-critical regionalism or “regionalist empiricism” determined by sentimentalities. This is why the Rural Studio’s strategy turns out to be similar to that of Pietilä’s and Kahn’s transcultural approaches. They use futuristic and avantgardistic forms that prevent their regionalism from becoming consumable primitivism. With the Korean architect H-Sang Seung (Chapter 9) we encounter a very radical, though still very different, Critical Regionalist agenda. Seung’s anti-

C ritical Critical Regionalism or From Regionalism to Transculturalism

7

aestheticism does not revert to the rationality of functionalism but tries to look for its own “architectural” logic. Seung attempts to redefine the meaning of design from scratch. He derives this logic from observations of the former slums of Geumho-dong in Seoul and creates a regionalism based on geomancy that is constantly controlled by critical functions. Here, Seung joins Pietilä who has been fascinated with geography and the strata, the lay of the land as well as the atmosphere created by geological constellations in order to contradict rigid, geometric, and two-dimensional plans. Chapter 10 approaches Critical Regionalism in the unique cultural context provided by Saudi Arabia. In this country, the demolition and erasing of the Islamic past has been carried out in the name of religion as well as of modernization. Mecca and Medina have been refurbished with anonymous façades of steel, glass and concrete. I concentrate on a paradox: the Wahhabi economy of the sacred, which limits the sacred to a very small architectural area, has led to the secularization of the rest of the environment. The Wahhabi strategy is opposed to Western (and some other) ideas of conservation, which tend to “spread out” the sacred and to declare sacred even those items that were mundane in the first place. At the root of the Wahhabi system is the radical separation of religion and culture, that is, the ambition to radically separate a concrete architectural cultural past from abstract religious ideals. When “sacredness” is so radically excluded from concrete cultural, architectural manifestations, religious zeal can create a “secular” environment that will be spelled out in more abstract terms of progressive civilization. The remedy is Critical Regionalism. Only a critical attitude towards history and religion is able to reunite culture and religion. While Critical Regionalism normally combats the powers of capitalist universalism or consumerist iconography current in secular cultures, in Saudi Arabia, Critical Regionalism is mostly needed as a counter weight to religion. This is interesting because religion is also one of the “regional” forces that Critical Regionalism usually defends. However, the case of Saudi Arabia shows how necessary any critical input can be. The diversity of the scenarios presented in this book shows that Critical Regionalism is more than a mere resistance movement. The unfortunate link between Critical Regionalism and colonialism that some critics perceive does thus not exist. To “think critically” should be seen as a universal value that can be entirely detached from any Western framework. Some people might still not be convinced. Should the non-West be prevented from thinking critically since “thinking critically” means to think in a “Western” way? The present book demonstrates that such questions are absurd.

Notes 1.

See also Tzonis and Lefaivre 1990, 2003, and 2001.

2.

Eggener refers to Waisman’s article “An Architectural Theory for Latin America” (1994).

This page has been left blank intentionally

1 Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited: About the Limits of Transcultural Architecture

Introduction In 1969, Reima and Raili Pietilä1 were invited to participate in an architecture competition for the improvement of Kuwait’s Old Town area. In 1969/70 the architects spent four weeks in Kuwait to become acquainted with Kuwait’s urban milieu; in 1970 they drafted a report entitled “City of Kuwait: A Future Concept.” No winner of the competition was announced. Instead the planning board asked each of the four participating offices to develop a particular area of Kuwait’s Old Town. The Pietiläs were assigned the development of the downtown shore area located east of the Sief (or Seif )2 Palace. In particular, they were asked to conceive three buildings: an extension of the Sief Palace (which served, at that time, as the administration and reception hall of the ruler), the Council of Ministers, and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Correspondence contained in the Pietilä Archive shows that, originally, also a fourth building, the Ministry of Awqaf [land attribution for Islamic purposes] and Islamic Affairs, was planned on the site.3 Work on the project would stretch over a period of 10 years and was accomplished in 1983. The main purpose of this chapter is to reevaluate the Ministry of Foreign Affairs 30 years after its completion. To my knowledge, the building has not been visited by any international person with an architectural interest since 1986. It is highly protected and cannot be accessed by persons not affiliated with the ministry. It took me three years of anxious administrative work to get (an unofficial) permission to visit the building.4 The main part of the chapter will thus describe and analyze the transformations that the Ministry buildings as well as its environment have undergone during the last 30 years. I argue that Pietilä’s approach, which I call “transcultural,” has been misunderstood by the people who were responsible for modifications and improvements of the building. Though the reasons for this misunderstanding are complex, the case of the Ministry demonstrates the limits of Critical Regionalism in general. The building represents an example of Critical Regionalism as its architects

10

Transcultural Architecture

attempted to return to cultural sources without reinstating them literally. The Pietiläs both respected and overcame regional elements through the use of metaphors, symbols, poetization and irony. They produce architectural expressions that can be seen as both individual and universal. Their approach can also be called transcultural because transcultural architecture produces new cultural expressions by simultaneously reinstating and overcoming local culture. The meaning of Transcultural Architecture and its relationship with Critical Regionalism will be explored in this chapter. The authorities who were in charge of the transformations of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs did not appreciate this transcultural approach and favoured either culturally “neutral,” modern architecture or more straightforward reinstatements of an architecture that appears to be generally “Islamic.” The differences between those options will also be discussed in detail. Modifications of the building have been carried out along the above lines during the last 30 years, that is, the building has been made more “neutral” and more “generally Islamic.” It has often been said that architects and architectural theorists tend to look at the dynamics of architectural production, but too often neglect the problem of the consumption and further re-production of architecture by the users (Hernández 2005b: 127). This chapter takes a lengthy look at the interactive dimension of architecture, which will turn out to be particularly interesting in the context of intercultural communication and confrontation. It will become clear that not all mistakes can be attributed to the users. Pietilä’s shortcomings will also be discussed. Did he, in spite of his eager appropriation of the local culture, withdraw himself from the Kuwaiti realities into a system of selfreferentiality meant to produce narratives for an imagined community? It will be shown that the case of the Sief Palace buildings is very complex. It is impossible to talk about the Sief Palace project without also considering the comprehensive urban development plans that the Pietiläs had finalized three years before beginning to work on the buildings. The plans deal with Kuwait City as a whole but also address the Sief Palace area in particular as they insist on the function of the Sief Palace area as the central point of Kuwait City. I will show that the urban environment of the buildings has changed since the 1980s in a way that contradicts the premises set out in Pietilä’s plan, and that this affects the value of the original Sief Palace area and of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in particular.

1. “City of Kuwait: A Future Concept” 1.1 Kuwait in 1969 The two plans developed by the Pietiläs were summarily called “City of Kuwait: A Future Concept.” It is important to put the architects’ ideas into the right historical context. The development of Kuwait City has been determined by a unique set of circumstances and it is necessary to draw an image of the situation out of which this long-term project, which was initiated in 1969, has developed. In the pre-oil period, the city of Kuwait was composed of traditional buildings dating from the



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

11

eighteenth century up to the first half of the twentieth century. Their vernacular design impressed visitors especially through its functionality and rational approaches. The Lebanese planner Saba George Shiber believed that old Kuwait was the most unique city in the world (Shiber 1964: 2) because its inhabitants had managed to build an aesthetically pleasing city by overcoming the most unfavorable physical conditions through inventiveness and good organization. However, when looking at the results of the first 15 years of Kuwait’s modern development, Shiber has only harsh words. In his 643 pages long The Kuwait Urbanization (1964), Shiber explains that in the early 1960s Kuwait had become “an encyclopedia of what is wrong in engineering and architecture” (p. 7) excelling in “spread and sprawl, mixture of uses, and wastage of land” (p. 252) as well as in “pseudo-futuristic attitudes” (p. 290). Urban qualities deriving from spatial relationships between buildings such as distance, scale, proportion, and contrast had simply been disregarded. Instead, land was divided arbitrarily and the old town was chopped up into “odd-shaped blocks” producing “a kaleidoscopy of shapes defying any attempts at rational planning or functional architecture … Little thought was given to the resulting orientation of buildings, their cross ventilation or their rational structural order” (p. 163). One problem was that planning had too often been guided by a “superficial understanding and application of the concepts behind so-called ‘modern’ architecture” (p. 17) as well as by forces of “exploitation, unprecedented speculation in land [and] arbitrary and non-scientific decisions” (p. 20). Building had proceeded quite wildly during these early years and “hardly were plans prepared before demolition and the beginning of the construction. A fortnight later one could see the lines becoming ditches” (p. 120). The Australian architect Evangelica Simos Ali, who has been specializing in Kuwaiti architectural heritage, confirms that in the 1960s “the destruction of everything that was old was indiscriminate, swift, permanent, and uncontrolled. This was in spite of the very prudent and comprehensive Law of Antiquities that was signed by Sheikh Abdullah Al Salem Al Sabah in 1960, but never implemented” (Al-Rashoud 1995: 106). Many problems arose also “from lack of clear zoning policies, regulation bylaws, and shortcomings in the adopted plans” (Abu-Ayyash 1980: 561). In general, buildings would be scattered over large spaces which prevented the formation of a real urban tissue. Kuwaiti society would simply be overlooked and “their problems were lightly disposed of by pencil and T-square” (Shiber: 120). Kuwaiti people became victims of “modern” planning. According to Shiber, by June 1960 things had become so bad “that certain urban suicide was at least incipient in the old city. The rate at which land was being devoured by streets, buildings, and dubious ‘leftover’ spaces was staggering” (p. 6). Shiber describes the “spiritual-social-psychological anomie” (p. 159) of “soulless and characterless streets” (p. 161) and asks himself why after 15 years of massive investment and foreign consultancy architects “have not bequeathed one noteworthy building to Kuwait worthy of the chance given by Kuwait to them and commensurate with the untold millions of dinars” (p. 36). During the 1970 the government of Kuwait became very concerned about the

12

Transcultural Architecture

downtown in which Kuwaitis were no longer living and which was abandoned after working hours. The authorities decided to have some residential complexes built in the city center (cf. Mahgoub 2008b: 168). It is at this moment that the Pietiläs—together with three other foreign architectural offices—were asked to intervene. Historically speaking, the Pietiläs’ first contact with Kuwait in 1969 was during the days of the so-called first phase of the post-oil period. However, from 1973 onwards, when work on the Sief area buildings actually began, Kuwaiti society would again undergo dramatic changes. This period is generally called the “second phase” of the post-oil period. The latter is linked to the 1973 oil crisis (or “first oil crisis”), which started in October with an oil embargo as members of the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) had agreed to use their leverage over the price setting mechanism for oil. With this crisis the standard of living in Kuwait sored to impressive heights and the real building boom began. The first tall buildings (max. 12 floors) were constructed. The boom spread over the whole Gulf. It has been stated that during those years, one quarter of all architectural activities in the non-communist world took place on the Arabian Peninsula (Kultermann 1985: 42). 1.2 A History of Master Plans A first urban master plan for Kuwait was implemented from 1952 to 1960. The predominant aim was to arrange neighborhoods spatially in order to organize the domestic economy. This master plan failed mainly because it had neglected the macro-scale of planning. The other problem was that it had not taken into consideration Kuwait’s dramatic population growth. It was thus decided to establish a centralized planning body (the Planning Board), which included also architects working in the field of modernism. This lead to the draft of a Second Master Plan (the baladiya design or municipality design), which included ideas more directly related to the regional urban development. This plan was used between 1960 and 1967. However, in the end, also this plan’s focus turned out to be too narrow as urban growth would again surpass expectations. In 1968, the so-called “Third Plan” by the British firm Colin Buchanan and Partners evolved as an attempt to design Kuwait on a macro scale suggesting completely new urban centers. It established the metropolis of Kuwait along coastal lines (at least in its updated version), which is the basis of the urban reality of present Kuwait (cf. Abu-Ayyash 1980: 562–3). One reason why all master plans failed was the rapid population growth. In 1969 Kuwait had a population of 600,000. In 1973 the population had already risen to 800,000 and in 1983 to 1,500,000. From then onward, it would increase roughly 100,000 per year, reaching 2 million in 1988 and then sharply declining after the Iraqi invasion in 1990 (source: index mundi). Today Kuwait has a population of 2.9 million. The other problem was that a master plan existed, but that there were not enough architects able to carry out the plan’s premises. This is why in 1969 four foreign teams were invited to express their thoughts about the city as well as about the existing plan. The purpose of the competition was thus not to overrule



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

13

Buchanan’s Third Plan, but rather to produce interesting supplementary views and recommendations in the form of visual media (and not through texts) about how they imagined Kuwait’s urban future. In that sense, it was not a competition. Correspondence in the archive shows that information about the ideas of other teams would be exchanged and evaluated (the correspondence passed through the head of the Master Planning Department, Hamid Shuaib). 1.3 The Pietiläs’ Two Plans for Kuwait All four teams pronounced themselves against the current urban spread and asked for a condensation of the urban fabric. Similar to earlier critics, the Pietiläs found that in Kuwait, “new constructions don’t give any identifiable shape for the city” (Pietilä Archive Helsinki); but they also pointed out that in spite of the destruction, traces of Kuwait’s traditional character remained extant in residential quarters as well as in the Souq (traditional market area). As a consequence, they proposed two alternative schemes for Kuwait. The first one suggested the redevelopment of old Kuwait as a habitation center for 100,000 inhabitants with medium and low density. The inner city would accommodate the central administration and cultural institutions. A new souk was also planned. The second plan, which employs more decentralizing strategies, suggests new supplementary centers for Kuwait in which additional population growth would be accommodated. Those centers were Air Port City, Al Ahmadi, and Doha Lake. The macro scale vision is characterized by the distinction between “east coast” and “west coast”: a “university city” was to be built on the west coast and a “harbor city” on the east coast. The location of the region called “Doha Lake” received particular attention. Under the name of “Doha Lake” is an extended area reaching from Jal Az-Zor, which is situated north of Jahra at 50 km distance from the city center, down to Doha, which is now part of Kuwait City. In morphological terms, Jal Az-Zor is a line of limestone and sandstone escarpment along the seashore with an altitude of 28 meters above the sea level. Parts of it reach a height of 116 meters. Notes from the archive show that the Pietiläs believed that this area had a general altitude of 100 meters above the sea level and decided that its microclimate would be particularly suitable for a new residential area. About 200,000 people were supposed to be located on this ridge in order “to avoid the sprawl over the flat desert.” The university center should also be built in this location. Furthermore, the Pietiläs planned to plant forest shelter areas from Jal Az-Zor down to the Doha peninsula; further recreational places would be constructed along the whole coastline up to Salmiya. They also suggested that transport from the old center to coastline agglomerations should be done by hovercraft. Today the Jal Az-Zor area contains a 320 square km fenced Natural Reserve containing many rare birds. Though the three “sister cities” (Air Port City, Al Ahmadi and Doha Lake) were supposed to be equal to Kuwait in importance, the Pietiläs suggested in parallel a maximum development of activities in the Old City. This would have had an effect on the Sief Palace area. The juxtaposition of two plans, that is, the mix of

14

1.1  The area of greater Kuwait city

Transcultural Architecture

limited centralization in the city and overall decentralization makes the full use of the waterfront possible without disconnecting it from other city functions. Once the two plans were applied, the Arabian Gulf Street, which isolates the central city from the waterfront, could have been closed (the Pietiläs were strictly against the idea of a corniche road). Then a more direct connection of the greenbelt with inner city and metropolitan area would have become possible. The limited use of the city center would also have been beneficial for the conservation of the remaining historic buildings. 1.4 The Sief Palace Area The Sief Palace Area buildings play a prominent role within the particular constellations produced by the two plans. A priori, the Sief Palace area has always occupied an extremely central position within Kuwait’s urban space; it would have become even more central had the Pietiläs’ measures been applied. Historically, Kuwait’s old town had been confined within the no longer extant city wall (see black line on map) and the Sief Palace is positioned right in the middle of the semi-circle’s diameter.5 In 1954, Kuwait’s city wall was replaced with what would be called the First Ring Road and in post-oil Kuwait, further ring roads would be added, all of them imitating the semi-circular shape of the old city wall. This means that—at least formally speaking—the entire plan of modern Kuwait maintains the Sief Palace’s predominant position. Both Jørn Utzon’s National Assembly (1972–1982) and Sune Lindström/ Malene Björn’s Kuwait Towers (1976) are placed more or less on the opposite extremities of the former city wall, at a distance of two resp. three kilometers from the Sief Palace. Arne Jacobsen’s old Central Bank of Kuwait (1973–1976) is



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

15

located opposite the Sief Palace area at only 300 meter distance from the clock tower (see map Figure 1.2). Another international building is the Kuwait National Museum (inaugurated in 1983), which is located right between the Sief Palace and the National Assembly. It was built by Michel Ecochard, the French planner and architect who developed Damascus under French rule. In 1980, Shiber’s statement from 1964 that in Kuwait, architects “have not bequeathed one noteworthy building to Kuwait worthy of the untold millions of dinars” could be replaced with Stephen Gardiner’s optimistic view that those buildings designed by important architects “will bring a natural unity, order and continuity to the city” (Gardiner 1984: 81).6 Gardiner believed that Kuwait now has “enough key buildings by key architects in key situations to hold the attention and maintain architectural order in this fast expanding city” (p. 73). The Sief Palace Area project can only be understood within the context of the Pietiläs’ two urban plans, but the plans make sense only once the meaning of the Sief Palace area has been understood. Shiber had already put forward the importance of the shore area around the Sief Palace. Until around 1960, the central shore had been the site of the Old Harbor and the historic dhow building area as well as the Sief waterfront were considered the living body of Kuwait. Under the pressure of the development of the Central Business District, the Sief

1.2 Within the black line is Kuwait’s Old City which today represents only around 4 percent of Kuwait’s urban area

16

Transcultural Architecture

waterfront would rapidly metamorphose. Shiber regrets the transfer of the harbor to an insignificant area outside the city: “One could have left the dhow building area as well as the old harbor, which could have become a sort of marina and lagoon for small craft” (p. 205).7 He also regrets the construction of the “New Sief Palace” under which name the clock tower complex in yellow brick was known at that time (and which is today called “The Old Sief Palace”), because it blocks the view on the sea. For Shiber, the Sief waterfront should have been part of a “grand corniche concept” (here he differs from the Pietiläs) transforming the shore area of greater Kuwait into a pleasant coastal strip beginning at the Sief Palace and reaching six kilometers south. The Pietiläs radicalize these ideas and suggest transforming the Sief Palace area into a seaside public park. However, contrary to Shiber, they see a proposed corniche as an unnatural barrier between the sea and the old city. Cars should be entirely banned from the Arabian Gulf Street (Pietilä Archive Helsinki), which had also been one of the Third Master Plan’s initial ideas. The Pietiläs interpret the central waterfront as “the main natural value of the old city” and want it to be “developed as an organic part of the new central city.” In concrete terms, they see the future of the central waterfront like this: there should be cultural and governmental buildings with high national importance, a pedestrian movement system with sheltered walkways, air-conditioned galleries where they are feasible, and underground parking at the edges. Further, the architects suggest a system of mass transport, ample shaded plazas on places for mass gatherings of people and squares lined by trees (Pietilä Archive). 1.5 The Morphology of the Inner City In general, Reima Pietilä is fascinated with orientation, form, and geography, that is, with the strata, the lay of the land, and the atmosphere created by geological constellations. Pietilä’s recognition of the Sief Palace area as the central part of Kuwait results from what he called “geological” studies, which he distinguished from “urbanistic” studies. As a result, Pietilä is interested in many things that had been absent from the agenda of Kuwait’s planners in the 1960s who considered the old city inexistent when superimposing a street plan and zonings on it. While they worked with “rigid, geometric, two-dimensional plans” that were “very simply and truly drawings” and excelling “in almost childish happiness and preoccupation with superhighways [and] roundabouts” (Shiber: 116, 118), Pietilä insists to see architecture as morphology: “The persistent bird’s eye view had made architects think of themselves as gods: avoid looking down at the ground” (from Lehtimäki’s lecture notes, 2007: 92). Any attempt to grasp the placeness in existential-morphological terms as an urban landscape is opposed to the conventional master plan method. Pietilä attempts to discover the form of the old city in the shape of “two hills of buildings where the valley between, filled with low structures around the Souq, carried on down to the sea, culminating with one strong architectural element, the recently built clock tower” (Gardiner: 70). Pietilä’s sketches and notes show his



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

17

obsession with a certain T-form: “Approaching the city from the land side you see a built form which could have an imaginary ‘T’ placed over it” (Pietilä Archive). The central shaft of the ‘T’ is today’s Mubarak Al-Kabeer Street that leads right toward the clock tower (Figure 1.3). Pietilä wanted the central shaft of the ‘T’ to be “flanked by parking structures, four stories high and new buildings. Through the center of the shaft, which is 15 meter wide, the panorama of the waterfront is visible” (Pietilä Archive). West of the T-form should be located low density housing as well as an education area. However, the “City Form” is experienced differently when the city is approached from the waterfront, as is shown by Pietilä’s notes: Approaching the Inner City from the Water Side You see a gradually stepped wall which parallels the coast of the inner city. The first tier is composed of motels and business buildings. Rising behind this strip the third layer of the housing appears. Just as the wall is not flat, it is not continuous Where the shaft of the long leg of the ‘T’ would intersect the wall, the wall widely splays as it opens to allow the C.B.D [Central Business District] to meet the central core area of the waterfront. Between the built form of the wall and the water. (Pietilä Archive)

Apart from that, Pietilä planned to design the inner city as a three layered city: at ground level would be only pedestrians; on a second level, traffic would pass above the ground; and on a third level there would again be only pedestrians. Pietilä’s Sief Palace project is hermeneutical because he derives the identity of buildings from the landscape, but at the same time he creates a landscape by seeing it through the buildings. Pietilä totally alters the existing road plan and decides to draw roads in loops around the base of “hills,” which necessitates a completely new street pattern in the “valley.” He is concerned about building

1.3 Sketches from the archive show that Pietilä has been obsessed with a T-form as an urban planning concept for the old city

1.4  Aerial view of the waterfront prior to large scale destruction of the traditional fabric

1.5 Approaching the Sief area from the land side today. On the right hand side is the stock exchange. Pietilä wanted the central shaft of the “T” to be “flanked by parking structures, four stories high, and new buildings”



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

19

heights because the valley-hill relationship is supposed to establish an organic and coherent urban system. We know that nothing came out of Pietilä’s suggestions because they were both too radical and too expensive. What remains are Pietilä’s Sief Palace Area buildings.

2. The Sief Palace Buildings 2.1 The Old and the New Sief Palace After having drafted the report “City of Kuwait: A Future Concept,” the Pietiläs were asked to develop the Sief palace area of Kuwait’s Old Town. The project consisted of two distinct tasks. The first was to build the extension to the existing “Old” Sief Palace in a relatively well-defined local style. The second was to design the Council of Ministers and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (today simply referred to as the Ministry of Foreign Affairs because the two buildings have been “fused”). Originally, a Ministry of Islamic Affairs had been planned on the same site (see note 2). The location of the three buildings is east to the Sief Palace at the bottom of a ridge parallel to the shore. For the ministry buildings no particular style was required though they had to be matched with the style of the overall site. The three buildings would occupy a collective area 15,000 square meters to be built on an area of 54,000 square meters of reclaimed land. All buildings were supposed to have two floors. A certain absurdity of the paradigms determines the style of the Sief Palace Extension and, indirectly, also the style of the Ministry. The original Sief Palace consists of two relatively small buildings constructed between 1907 and 1917 (Figure 1.8) forming an L-shape. The buildings are made of burnt yellow bricks and appear to be local without following a strictly local style. Their style might be vaguely Iraqi: Sikander Khan calls it “Baghdad style” (Khan 1988: 118) and Lewcock explains that the “semi-circular arches of the palace are set in rectangular panels in a style which was common to both Iraq and Iran” (Lewcock and Freeth: 32). Both buildings have details such as mashrabiyas (Arab projecting oriel windows enclosed with carved wooden latticework), balustrades as well as doors framed with brick reliefs. Mashrabiyas are indeed not indigenous to Kuwait but more so to Iraq and Saudi Arabia. In spite of this, the two buildings can evoke an impression of authenticity at least to some degree. The architecture is related to traditional architecture from some part of the Arab world. The Old Sief Palace is directly connected to the much newer but predominant clock tower complex designed by British architects Pearce, Hubbard and Partners in 1963 (Figure 1.9). This palace is equally made of yellow bricks (though on the central façade containing the gate, the bricks have been painted over in pink for many years). The new palace has a U-shaped plan and is open towards the sea. Malcolm Quantrill has called the style of this “New Sief Palace” “eclectic Arab” and “somewhat fanciful” (Quantrill 1985: 102, 104) and for Shiber it was representative of the “error and escapism” (Shiber: 291) current in Kuwait at the time. Its stylized

20

Transcultural Architecture

1.6  Plan of the three buildings

pointed battlements are perhaps supposed to evoke Omani forts. In any case, the palace reinstates the neo-classical Arab arch style and gives in to a considerable amount of plagiarism and cliché-ism. In 1988 began the construction of an immense government complex southwest of the two Sief Palaces (old and new). It was basically built on the old harbor area and joins Ecochard’s National Museum in the South-West (Figure 1.7). The construction of the palace was interrupted by the Iraqi occupation and could be finished only in the late 1990s. This complex would receive the name “New Sief Palace” making what had so far been called the “New Sief Palace” part of the “Old Sief Palace.” As a result, the entire “old looking” part of the Sief Palace, that is, the original two small buildings dating from 1917 plus the new pastiche part from 1963 would now be lumped together and receive the summary predicate “Old Sief Palace.” Today, tourist websites such as Kuwait-info.com and even the Government Website evoke the impression that the entire “Old” Sief Palace has been built between 1907 and 1917. The Arch net entry on Pietilä even talks about the “nineteenth century Sief Palace” adjacent to Pietilä’s buildings, which is wrong because what is immediately adjacent to those buildings is the 1963 addition. Many Kuwaitis will not designate the original, relatively small buildings as the “Old Sief Palace” at all, but will confer such a designation to the much more striking clock tower complex next to the old buildings although the clock tower complex is new. Even more, the “Old” Sief Palace with clock tower has become a cultural icon. The Kuwait Information Guide suggests that “the palace still retains its distinguishing feature, which has made it a shrine of Kuwait history from the outset of the twentieth century.”



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

21

The extension had to be built to what is today called the “Old Sief Palace” (but which was called “New Sief Palace” when the Pietiläs were working on it). More precisely, the building contract stipulated that the Sief Palace extension was to follow the style of the “original building” and this irrespective of the latter’s questionable “originality.” The fact of being forced to relate to a local cultural environment that was partially fake has a symbolic dimension. The International Advisory Committee required Pietilä to demonstrate “new Islamic architecture” though, as Quantrill correctly estimates, in Kuwait during the 1970s, the “Islamic tradition was more a mirage than a presence: the notion of such a tradition had to be reinvented in order to become a reality” (Quantrill 1995: 171). Quantrill’s statement refers to the wholesale destruction of the old city as well as to the absence of important historical buildings that the Pietiläs could have referred to. Finally, the Pietiläs would be officially asked to accept the features of the mirage-like “old” building as a guideline because the Sief Palace with its indistinct affirmation of anything “Arab” was the most “authentic” model of cultural transmission that Kuwait could offer. Reima Pietilä’s philosophical musings about the reality of Kuwait’s inner city illustrate this problem (Figure 1.10). In summary, Pietilä’s entire project is a peculiar example of virtual architecture desperately striving to both retrieve a non-existent past and to anticipate an unclear future. Pietilä had the double task of (1) inventing a national architectural identity that had been wiped out 20 years earlier and could no longer be visited

1.7  Today the Sief Palace Area is dominated by the “New” New Sief Palace

22

Transcultural Architecture

1.8  One of the two authentic Sief Palace buildings from 1907

1.9 The addition to the Sief Palace by Pearce, Hubbard and Partners from 1963. Being originally made of yellow bricks, the central façade has been painted in pink

or—if we are looking for great “Islamic architecture”—had never existed; and (2) of inscribing Kuwait into a logic of modern urbanism that would only emerge in the future and was not yet visible at his time.



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

23

2.2 The Sief Palace Extension It has been said above that the Pietiläs had the double task of retrieving a non-existent past and anticipating an unclear future. How did they solve this conundrum? Was the 1963 Palace really an example of the “new Islamic architecture” that the advisory committee or Kuwaiti authorities had in mind? If yes, it is safe to assume that it was not what the Pietiläs had in mind. Shiber had already insisted in 1964 that a “literal return to classical style is not the course to be followed” (p. 290). The Pietiläs’ approaches vary from the Extension to the Ministry but, considering the context, an interesting logic remains constant. For the Extension, they were asked to follow the style of the “original” Sief Palace. Quantrill judges that Pietilä adopts the style of the old palace “only in the character and cadence of the outer skin,” which takes on the essential characteristics of the Old Sief Palace “in terms of regular openings, arch shape and so on.” However, the Audience Hall and the Divan are contained “within a completely enclosed volume” (Quantrill 1995: 172). The “outer skin” is indeed traditional, but it repeats the slightly pointed arches of the New Sief Palace entrance gate and not those of the original palace. It also has rectangular frames drawn around the arches that have been adopted from the 1963 Palace (Figure 1.15) and not from the original one. In the covered walkway we find a curious example of how an architect can comply with and, at the same time, rebel against the assignments given. The use of colored tiles on the entire extension would probably have been seen as inappropriate. As a consequence, Pietilä decides to lay out the framings of only the first window and the door with colored tiles while the other windows remain plain (Figure 1.12). Today, ironically, Pietilä’s extension has become part and parcel of the “Old Sief Palace” more than ever because the “New Sief Palace” multi-building complex from the 1990s covers an area five times larger (roughly 4.8 x 1.6 km) than the “old” one (see Figure 1.1).

1.10 Pietilä’s philosophical musings about the reality of Kuwait (Pietilä Archive Helsinki)

24

Transcultural Architecture

1.11  Pietilä’s Sief Palace Extension

1.12 Extension archway with use of blue and green tiles on only the first window and the door

2.3 The Ministry The Pietiläs had more liberty with the Ministry buildings. But which option would they choose? The concept of the Finnish embassy in Delhi as “a Finnish island floating within the Indian Sub-Continent” (Quantrill 1998: 53) was apparently no option. A literal return to an imagined Arab style as suggested by the 1963 Palace was equally unacceptable. Though eclecticism has dominated Kuwait’s



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

25

architectural landscape since the early 1950s, the question of cultural “identity” is a recurring issue. During a first phase of Kuwait’s development, architects invented an identity independently of the past: “Many of their attempts were in search of a new identity that had no link with the past, and rather than enhance and refine the traditional character in the context of the new, they simply discarded the old and started to build the new on very shaky grounds” (Al-Bahr 1985: 63). Since the 1970s, this radical modernism has been complemented with images of dream houses acquired during extensive travels, through television, and, most recently, through the internet. All this has reinforced the eclecticism and transformed Kuwait into what Al-Bahr called already in 1985 “a Disneyland of residential manifestations.” In 2006, Yasser Mahgoub asked the architectural community: “When will we in Kuwait and other Gulf countries have modern architecture suitable for our community, environment and heritage?” Mahgoub quotes Christopher Alexander who regretted that in the Gulf countries “we miss the connection that one could call ‘belonging’ or possession in the true emotional sense” (Mahgoub 2006: 2, 4). 2.4 Metaphors, Symbols and Analogies in the Ministry Sikander Khan sees the Ministry of Foreign Affairs as an example of the “new breed of contemporary buildings evolving in the Middle East incorporating all the pragmatic functions of the twentieth century but at the same time attempting to capture the spirit of indigenous architecture” (Khan: 70). Norberg-Schulz lauds Pietilä’s Kuwait buildings because they give “the Islamic world an important interpretation” (1996: 176). And Randall finds that, in general, “the sea elevation resembles Kuwaiti merchants’ houses [which is] a recall to the waterfront architecture that once existed near the site” (Randall 1985: 17). However, though the yellow color of the walls is clearly suggestive of indigenous housing, the appearance of the entire complex is clearly Western and modern in shape and the direct imitation of anything Arabic (arches, domes, and so on) has been avoided. The link with the Arab tradition is maintained in a very indirect fashion. A few elements can clearly be traced to local sources. The sun breaking eves are inspired by teak eves from Basra’s Old Town. Especially when fixed to the wall, they stick out like wooden poles and are reminiscent of vernacular Kuwaiti architecture. The protruding entrance arches have a similar “sticking out” effect (Figure 1.13). The external walls are staggered with vertical lines, which is inspired by similar walls in the city of Uruk (Figure 1.14). Uruk, an ancient city of Sumer and later Babylonia, is located 200 km north of Kuwait at half distance between Kuwait and Baghdad.8 Often windows are inserted into those vertical shapes (Figure 1.40). Pietilä also uses imitations of reed soffits that in traditional houses are attached to the ceiling; he reproduces them in aluminum painted in either green or blue (Figures 1.17 and 1.34). The objective of the complexes’ plan is to establish an essential link with the local environment, which will be examined below. Khan finds in the plan the same organizational principles as those of Babylon and Persepolis (Khan: 124). It is known

1.13  Protruding Main Entrance



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

27

1.14  Reconstruction of an Uruk Temple Façade (Innin Temple in Kassite). The former city of Uruk is located 200 km north of Kuwait

that Pietilä studied Gulf archeology and looked at Uruk city walls, which, according to Randall, influenced his floor plan design (Randall 1985: 17). Arab metaphors are also present in the form of modernized mashrabiya style wooden latticework (Figure 1.16) as well as in colored mosaic patterns placed on many walls though never on walls visible from the outside. The patterns represent horizontal stripes of colored bands. Apparently Pietilä thought of folkloristic handicraft, especially partition carpets consisting of bands that Bedouin women stitch together to make 2.5 meter high walls (Quantrill 1985: 164). The sadu motive is also found on all kinds of Arab cushions or carpets. In this sense, the tile pattern is vaguely Arab. On the other hand, since tiles are used, it is more likely that the design will be identified as a mosaic. If the design is understood as a mosaic, the size of the tiles will probably be deemed too large and be identified with bathroom or kitchen tiles. Above that, the poetical estrangement of Arab elements is taken very far especially since the tiles’ colors are not traditional but modern to the point of being experimental; they are almost unseen on exterior walls even in modern architecture.9 This concerns not only the colors as such but also an often very extravagant combination of colors, like orange juxtaposed with green (Figure 1.33). The following can be said about the size of the tiles: while the tiles are indeed much larger than any tiles used in traditional mosaics, one must say that the main entrance of the 1963 Sief Palace is also surrounded by unusually large dark blue tiles. As a matter of fact, those tiles have exactly half the size of all tiles used by the Pietiläs in the Extension and in the Ministry. It can be concluded that the tile motive is most probably borrowed from the entrance of the 1963 Sief Palace especially since the same dark blue color has also been adopted by the Pietiläs (Figure 1.15).

28

Transcultural Architecture

1.15  The tiles arranged around the door of the 1963 Sief Palace have exactly half the size of Pietilä’s tiles

The cutout arcades can be recognized as colonnades (though the shapes are very much estranged), which establishes a further link with the Arab tradition. Some of the cutouts might evoke the heads of camels though this fact is given to interpretation. Those arcades exist only in the original Ministry of Foreign Affairs part but not in the Council of Ministers. The “coral fountains” (Figure 1.44) can be considered a further “local” theme. Apparently, Pietilä chose the coral as a dominating theme because he believed that coral reefs once resided beneath the building site (Quantrill: 92). From a geological



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

29

1.16  Mashrabiya style wooden latticework on the windows. Most of those mashrabiyas remain intact today

point of view, this is probably not true and, in general, Kuwaitis will recognize the coral as only distantly related to anything “local.” In all the above cases, the Pietiläs establish a relationship with local tradition that transcends mere imitation and representation. Obviously they are looking for a new vocabulary. However, in many cases, the poetization results in a complete change of language that the local public might understand only with much difficulty. Khan calls this approach the “masquerading” of the vernacular (Khan: 286), but often the mask seems to adopt a life of its own. For example, the shapes of the “colonnades” are arguably too estranged and probably too experimental for the conservative local taste. The aluminum soffits are painted in blue and in light green, which will look unfamiliar and inauthentic to the local eye because normally reeds are used after having been dried and are thus brown (Figure 1.17). Further, the size of the tiles differs too much from the traditional size of mosaic tiles and the choice of their colors is not related to any regional set of colors. Another concept that might not be easily grasped by the Kuwaiti public is the idea that “from the land side the galleries in the elevation facing the courts resemble a serai” (Clouten 1983: 48).10 Pietilä adds that it resembles the serai “only poetically and vaguely, never explicitly” (Clouten: 48), but the lack of explicitness has probably contributed to misinterpretations. Occasionally, by shying away from any literal reinstatement of shapes and items, Pietilä plays with themes that are alien to the Arab culture and obviously imported. The most radical example are the silhouettes of spruce trees, which are typically European if not Finnish (Figure 1.18). While most of the cutout shapes are highly abstract and non-figurative, the concrete spruce tree shape is a recurrent

30

Transcultural Architecture

1.17 Painted aluminum sticks emulate traditional reed soffit structures throughout the Ministry

secondary theme on the building’s façade. For Finns, the tree symbolizes a deep felt relationship with nature and certainly makes much sense on the Hervanta Community Center because this suburb of Tampere is located in the middle of the forest (Figure 1.19). What feelings or thoughts does a Kuwaiti associate with those trees? Obviously, the cultural experience of these “trees” is entirely different. At the same time, the spruce motive makes the architecture truly “transcultural” as will be explained below. However, such literal transcultural transfers might precisely be the reason why the building’s reception has turned out to be problematic. 2.5 The “Skin Technique” It has been said above that the entire Ministry complex has the quality of being “halfopen” because of its city-like floor plan. The other means by which Pietilä achieves openness is the “skin technique” that relies on a sophisticated use of cutouts and arches. However, the openness is only the secondary effect of the skin technique. The basically modern skin of the buildings envelopes an interior part containing those elements derived from Arab heritage that have been described above. In this sense, the skin technique is a direct response to (a) the challenge of making a transcultural statement in Kuwait; (b) the right management of the tensions between identity and internationalism; as well as (c) a response to the absurd play with fake and reality enacted by the old and new parts of the Sief Palace. The technique of the “skin” is also present in the Sief Palace Extension, but in the Ministry buildings, it develops qualities of tailoring. Here the “envelop” appears like a curtain or a draped garment with cut-away openings in unusual shapes permitting the discovery of the interior. The breaking down of a building’s external surface is a modern and experimental idea as it fragments a three-dimensional

1.18  Spruce theme window in the Ministry with mashrabiya

1.19  Spruce shapes and inverted spruce shapes as used in the Hervanta Community Center Complex in Tampere, Finland

32

Transcultural Architecture

composition. This is not the internationalist reduction of architecture to “skin and bones” but rather a play with this modern concept of the architectural skin. The entire building suggests some of the surrealism also present in Pietilä’s Dipoli building (1961–1966) as well as in the Malmi Church project. However, in Kuwait the strategy is taken one step further. Here the skin concept engages in the surrealistic play with inside and outside presentations, which makes possible explicit comparisons with surrealist paintings such as René Magritte’s Le double secret (Figure 1.20) or Le thérapeute (Figure 1.21). At the same time, Pietilä never gives in to any kind of concrete symbolism. The Italian fashion designer Anna Battista has been fascinated by Pietilä’s Ministry as an example of “architecture through tailoring” because for her, the building offers a perfect “outside to inside vision” as she writes: Indeed the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building presented an outside wall cutaway to reveal an unexpected scale of openings to the wall that separated the outdoor and indoor environment. The transition zone was a bit like a colorful ‘lining’ and seemed to have the same purpose of the lining in a jacket or a coat. This feature was used by the architects to create a visual access from the street to what went on inside the building. … Can you think of other buildings that could be compared to garments? (Battista 2011)

The skin technique is intriguing because of some other connections. Paradoxically, Pietilä’s handling of the skin is not merely modern, but also refers back to archaic architectural practices. As a matter of fact, Adolf Loos has written about the skin as a primary architectural device, pointing out that in German the word for “ceiling” is still the same as “blanket” and that the parallelism between “cladding” (Bekleidung = clothing) should not be seen as a coincidence: In the beginning was cladding [Bekleidung]. … The covering is the oldest architectural detail. Originally it was made out of animal skins or textile products. This meaning of the word [Decke] is still known today in the German languages. Then the covering had to be put up somewhere if it were to afford enough shelter. … Thus the walls were added. … [But] cladding is even older than structure. (Loos 1982: 66–7)

Anthropologist Anne Anlin Cheng traces Loos’ thoughts back to those of the architect and foremost theoretician Gottfried Semper who even more explicitly insisted on the importance of textiles in the history of architecture: In this account, walls are of secondary concern and really come into being as an afterthought. Loos explicitly takes his ideas about the primacy of cladding from the German historian and architect Gottfried Semper, who believed that textile was the primary stimulus for all figuration in both architecture and art and considered the first art to be the human adornment of the body on skin, beginning with tattoos and extending to clothing. (Cheng 2009: 102)

1.20  René Magritte: Le Double Secret

1.22  The “skin concept” (Archive Helsinki)

1.21  René Magritte: Le thérapeute



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

35

For Semper, the first architectural space is the open pen, made of woven skins and other organic materials, and the first social institution is the open hearth (Semper 1989). By saying that skins and not walls are the most basic architectural forms, Loos and Semper enter—certainly unknowingly—the terrain of autochthonous “Gulf architecture,” and Pietilä, who equally unconsciously follows them, has chosen a device that could be presented as regional. However, in the context established by Pietilä, the “skin” does not clearly refer to textile architectures such as Bedouin tents. There is one aesthetic choice in the design that moves the “skin” away from textile metaphors: in the Ministry the overall impression of the wall openings is very sculptural. The “holes” produce an effect of depth comparable to that of caves inserted in the walls or, according to Quantrill, appear like “cavelike openings depicting natural erosion” (Quantrill 1987: 161). As Quantrill correctly points out, Pietilä does not follow the concept of transparency, but produces different layers of form and space (1995: 172). In any case, the openings break down primary masses and install a rhythmical pattern in an otherwise plain and monotonous skin. 2.6 The Ministry’s Connection to the Area The “skin concept” has still another significance. Quantrill writes that in Dipoli, which is built into a forest, “the external wall is not a barrier in the normal architectural sense, but a skin that adapts the building to fit the natural environment,” and that “Pietilä’s intention was to create an apathetic skin which adapts the built form to the natural context” (Quantrill 1987: 56). Also, walls appear to be “skins” (cf. Quantrill: 66) in the Hervanta Community Center Complex (Figure 1.19) on which Pietilä was working at the same time (since 1979) and which was completed right after the Sief Palace buildings. Since a skin is not a wall but a living organism, it enables, like the biological skin, a unique connection to the environment. Metaphorically, it is able to adapt to the environment and to reflect the surroundings. The other outstanding feature of the Ministry is the floor plan. As mentioned, it seems to follow organizational principles like those of Babylon and Persepolis and has been inspired by Uruk city walls. The genius loci of the Sief Palace area is determined by the fact that a certain historical urban fabric once used to exist right across the street. Though most historical buildings in the city had already disappeared at the time of the Ministry’s construction, Pietilä uses a “city-like” plan, just as if he was inspired by a non-extant inner city. Also, the city concept comes close to that of the Hervanta Community Center Complex (Figure 1.23). Even today, in spite of the essential modifications that the building underwent, the feel of the city has not entirely disappeared when walking through the Ministry; it is reminiscent of Hervanta where one can imagine walking through a medieval city. Since the Sief complex consists of two distinct buildings (Ministry and Council of Minister), Pietilä ties them together with a series of informal walkways as well as terraces and external and internal courtyards. The effect is very much like that of the meandering routes in many of Charles Correa’s buildings. All walkways are

36

Transcultural Architecture

shaded or half-shaded and all courtyards have different enclosures. The half-open main corridor of the Ministry runs parallel to the shore through the entire site while secondary walkways run perpendicular to the major axis of circulation. Pietilä obviously imitates some traditional city fabric; the unusual idea is that he installs the walkways on different levels. There might indeed be a connection with the multi-leveled plan of the inner city that Pietilä had in mind for the neighborhood. Today most of the courtyards and walkways have been covered. The largest one, which was open to the seaside, is still half open and the inner one in the Council of Ministers part has not been modified.

1.23 The city-like plan of the Hervanta Community Center Complex in Tampere, Finland



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

37

The corridors and courtyards represent an essential part of the structure to the effect that the visitors will never enter an “interior” space directly but will first have to pass through either the main corridor or through a courtyard. As a result, the entire complex has the quality of being “half-open” when seen both from the inside as well as from the street side. It is not a closed building but a city with several openings and entrances. The feeling of openness must have been palpable for passers-by because the 250 meter long wall running along the Arabian Gulf Street hides only the lower part of the Ministry. The height of this wall varies and amounts to only 1.50 meters in the central part, where it is topped up with concrete sun breakers that are transparent permitting viewers to see through to the elevated—and most interesting—parts of the building. As a matter of fact, most of the cutout arches are placed on locations higher than ground level. The elevated terrace protruding from the cutout walls and containing (no longer extant) coral fountains, for example, was located on the first floor and was thus clearly visible from Gulf Street.

3. Transcultural Architecture The architectural concept of the Ministry is transcultural. Transculturalism is more than the arbitrary combination of several cultures but transcends all particular cultures in order to invent a new common culture that is not meant to be a new universalism. Transculturalism rejects strong traditional identities and cultures as well as dogmatic religious values or other items that can be seen as linked to an imperialistic heritage. Instead it reinvents a new common culture based on the meeting of two cultures. The relationship between transculturalism and Critical Regionalism is complicated and will be submitted to particular scrutiny in this chapter. One problem is that the regional (no matter how critical it is) can easily be opposed to the transcultural because the latter clearly emanates from or is a consequence of globalization. Transculturalism is a form of internationalism and regionalism is opposed to any form of the latter for obvious reasons. In spite of this, I define Critical Regionalism as a sub-category of transculturalism. This means that Critical Regionalism is a part of Transcultural Architecture but does not represent the latter in its whole breadth. It has been said above that Critical Regionalism represents a sort of radicalized Transcultural Architecture, which remains true, since transculturalism is not necessarily critical while Critical Regionalism is. However, the anti-imperialistic attitude of transculturalism can also follow from a process of hybridization that is not necessarily based on critical reflections. Vice versa, all Critical Regionalism is transcultural because it overcomes one culture by critically reflecting it against another culture. As a matter of fact, most of the time, Critical Regionalism has not been seen as a coming to terms with two cultures but rather as a coming to terms with the past and the present. However, since the culture of the past is often indigenous while the present culture is often Western, one can also speak of an act of transculturation here and not merely of a combination of tradition and modernity.

38

Transcultural Architecture

Two or more cultural elements can be combined in different ways and it is important to specify differences in order to distinguish transculturalism from multiculturalism and other strategies destined to synthesize different cultural elements. 3.1 Transculturalism The concept of the transcultural was coined in 1940 by the South American scholar Fernando Ortiz in his book Cuban Counterpoint. Ortiz was inspired by José Marti’s article “Our ​​America” (1891), which puts forward the idea of métissage (the intercultural mixing of peoples) as a new identitarian concept. Ortiz writes: I am of the opinion that the word transculturation better expresses the different phases of the process of transition from one culture to another because this does not consist merely in acquiring another culture, which is what the English word acculturation really implies, but the process also necessarily involves the loss or uprooting of a previous culture, which could be defined as a deculturation. In addition it carries the idea of the consequent creation of new cultural phenomena, which could be called neoculturation. (Ortiz: 102–3)

The transcultural situation that Ortiz found so typical for Cuba has by now spread over all continents and determines the existential situation of many individuals. Philosopher Mikhail Epstein writes that today more and more individuals find themselves ‘outside’ of their native cultures and their ethnic, racial, sexual, ideological, and other limitations. Transculture is an open system of all symbolic alternatives to existing cultures and their established sign systems. As a transcultural being, I can ascribe to any ethnic or confessional tradition and decide the degree to which I make it my own. Transculture is a mode of being, located at the crossroads of cultures. (Epstein 2005)

3.2 Multiculturalism Transculturalism is different from multiculturalism. Whereas the latter conserves distinct elements of each culture and can therefore easily lead to ghettoization the former believes that the contact of the self with the other should lead to the construction of multiple identities. According to Epstein transculture does not add yet another culture to the existing array; it is rather a transcendence into a ‘meta-cultural beyond’ in the same sense in which culture is a ‘meta-physical beyond’ in relation to nature. If culture positions itself outside nature, then transculture is a new globally emerging sphere in which humans position themselves outside their primary, ‘inborn,’ naturalized cultures. (Epstein 2005)



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

39

3.3 Micro and Macro Levels Transculturality can appear on macro and on micro levels. In the modern, globalized world, entire cultures tend to interact and create new transcultural patterns. Even places of everyday life are, in the words of Andy Bennett, “highly pluralistic and contested, and are constantly being defined and redefined through processes of relocation and cultural hybridization” (Bennett 2005: 4). This concerns the transcultural on the macro-level. At the same time, individuals adopt increasingly transcultural identities, and most of the time they do so not because of the conscious choices they have made, but because of general biographical events to which they have been submitted. Here the individuals become transcultural, which concerns the micro-level. In the case of Pietilä’s building, an individual (the architect) has decided to make a conscious transcultural statement. The result is neither “Western modern” nor is it limited to a generic Islamic vocabulary resulting in a fake authenticity (a pastiche) simulated for others. 3.4 Fusion, Mosaic, Network In transcultural architecture, proper regional cultures will be rearticulated or seen under a new light because transculturation changes the focus. The rearticulation of heterogeneous elements signifies a renovation of cultures inasmuch as different elements are supposed to reinforce each other’s values. Transcultural architecture does not lead to an affirmation of clichés about each culture but rather to a sophisticated synthesis or to a hybridity that can make sense in its own terms. In other words, ideally, each culture does not only survive within transcultural architecture, but it manages to be at its best within the newly established transcultural context. Transcultural architecture is thus not merely a compromise, but a juxtaposition imbedded in an overarching structure able to establish logically sound lines of communication between diverse elements. A Hindu temple from the late seventeenth century in Goa showing European influences is transcultural. A glass tower with an Islamic arch as an entrance or some “clip-on regionalism” meant to make it contextually relevant is not. A decaying urban landscape that has been revitalized by new immigrants through the introduction of new cultural ambiances and economic networks is transcultural. A residence in an East Asian style Dubai (Figure 1.24) that the owner believed to look like a “Japanese temple” is not. In the above negative cases, the combination of cultures did not result in the creation of a new culture but, on the contrary, everything cultural seems to have died during the process of intercultural combination. The initially cultural elements have been transformed into commodities. In the worst case, the combination is driven by commercialism. Then the semiotic significance of the buildings might still be important and make them an interesting subject of study, as Charles Jencks has pointed out about Las Vegas (Jencks: 2002: 57). However, from the beginning to the end of the transformative process, the

40

1.24 Fake Japanese temple (private residence) in Dubai

Transcultural Architecture

perception of those elements never reached beneath the surface of images. As a result, the process could not mobilize the power of memory, myths and identities that are naturally enclosed to those cultures. Unfortunately, the postmodern trivial manipulation of signs and references, though often justified through high-flying intellectual discourses, most often follows the latter pattern. In the above positive cases, a new culture could arise because a lengthy process of intercultural negotiations was able to create a new context within which the old could survive as a culture. This does not mean that the old survived here literally and unaltered. As will be shown below, a certain cultural loss is inevitable in transculturalism. The important point is that transculturation must result in a new element that is culture thereby compensating for the loss suffered by the initial cultures. The conclusion is that transculturality does not lead to uniformity through progressive processes of cultural fusion. On the contrary, the transcultural process maintains and produces diversity as it creates complicated structures able to hold together various elements. The “mosaic” model is appropriate as a metaphor for transcultural transcendence insofar as it differs from the “fusion” metaphor, which uses the liquid element to indicate a process through which the self and the other become indistinct. Constant fusion will indeed lead to universalism.



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

41

Therefore the mosaic model is useful. It is also useful because it overcomes the idea of the multicultural juxtaposition. Guy Scarpetta writes in his book, Impurity, that in today’s world “each person is a mosaic” (1989: 26). In the mosaic, elements remain distinct but are coordinated by an overarching aesthetic structure that is not universalistic but dependent on the parts. At the same time, the mosaic model can be found problematic. There are actually two ways in which a mosaic can be thought of: in a transcultural and in a multicultural way and it is necessary to distinguish both. In the multicultural mosaic, each element remains distinct without communicating with other elements. This is why on the macro-level, multiculturalism can easily lead to ghettoization. The transcultural mosaic, on the other hand, combines the individual and the general in a paradoxical way without simply subsuming the individual under the general. While, in my opinion, a transcultural mosaic is workable, some thinkers declare any mosaic model inappropriate for transculturalism. Wolfgang Welsch, for example, refuses the mosaic and suggests instead the metaphor of the “network” for the description of transcultural situations when writing: transcultural webs are woven with different threads, and in different manners. Therefore, on the level of transculturality, a high degree of cultural manifoldness results again … It’s just that now the differences no longer come about through a juxtaposition of clearly delineated cultures (like in a mosaic), but result between transcultural networks, which have some things in common while differing in others, showing overlaps and distinctions at the same time. (Welsch: 206)

The network metaphor brings us close to another model that has been used for the study of transculturalism: the rhizome as it has been developed by Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari (cf. Hernández 2005a: xv–xix). The notion of the rhizome perfectly well illustrates the way in which different cultures can maintain their separate identities although they exist in a permanent relation with each other. In their book, A Thousand Plateaus, Deleuze and Guattari introduce the notion of structureless plateaus or rhizomes in which acts of territorialization and deterritorialization as well as of organization and rupture form a place that is stratified but without precise limits. The rhizome is made of lines without being shaped by profound, metaphysical structures. It remains undetermined by evolutionary linearity, hierarchy or geometrical orientations, but is entirely made of processes of variation and expansion. Rhizomes have no beginning and no end but begin in the middle and rely neither on transcendental laws (roots) nor on abstract models of unity. The authors write: “Every rhizome contains lines of segmentarity according to which it is stratified, territorialized, organized, signified, attributed, and so on, as well as lines of deterritorialization down which it constantly flees. There is a rupture in the rhizome whenever segmentary lines explode into a line of flight, but the line of flight is part of the rhizome” (1980: 16; Engl.: 9).11 Alan Colquhoun has explained that “the relationship between industrialization and traditional cultures and techniques is not one in which [both] become organically fused with one another, as Le Corbusier implied, but one of

42

Transcultural Architecture

hybridization, where different cultural paradigms, detached from their original contexts, coexist in an impure and unstable form” (Colquhoun 2007: 145). Hybridization, which signifies here the “fusion” of different regional cultures as well as the fusion of the modern with the past, corresponds to rhizomatic structures much more than the structures of the more rational organism. However, unlike the simple fusion, all hybridizations leading from the regional to the transcultural will probably require a critical consciousness, as will be shown in the next section. 3.5 Transcultural Architecture and Critical Regionalism I do not believe (as does Felipe Hernández) that Critical Regionalism necessarily leads to the harmonization and fusion of cultures and that it is distinct from Transcultural Architecture for this reason. Critical Regionalism lets cultures overlap, but the critical part takes care that distinctions will be maintained. Nor are the principles of Critical Regionalism opposed to the rhizomatic form of constant interaction. Both Critical Regionalism and transculturalism oppose rigid binary structures and challenge foundational, homogenizing, and hierarchical methods. Both transfer local forms of culture to the “next level” without preserving them literally. Frampton’s initial formulation requiring Critical Regionalism to achieve “a revealed conjunction between, on the one hand, the rationality of normative technique, and on the other, the arationality of idiosyncratic forms” (Frampton 1981: 22) is perhaps unfortunate because it can be understood in a way that rationality will always win (or is supposed to win) over the arational. Will—in the best case—the dominating rational not merely tolerate the arational, but still try to control and to restrict it at any moment? Though I support Frampton’s Critical Regionalism in general, I think the rational-arational dichotomy conveys a wrong idea. In reality, the local does have power. In Critical Regionalism, the idiosyncratic, the unique, the local as well as the quirky can challenge, transform and even dominate “rational” normative global techniques. This confirms my above assumption that Transcultural Architecture is not opposed to Critical Regionalism but that Critical Regionalism must be seen as a subcategory of Transcultural Architecture. Critical Regionalism is always critical while Transcultural Architecture is not necessarily critical. It has been said above that this is the reason why Critical Regionalism is more “radical.” In another sense, however, Transcultural Architecture is more radical than Critical Regionalism because it works more consistently towards the creation of networks and rhizomes. The latter is not necessarily the case of Critical Regionalism. On the long run, the result of Critical Regionalism must be Transcultural Architecture. If Critical Regionalism limits itself to merely affirming multiple regionalisms without emphasizing the tendency of networking as well as the pluralistic seeing of the familiar in the unfamiliar, it remains captured in a utopian sort of multiculturalism. On the other hand, would it merely insist on combination and métissage, it would end up—after a long chain of fusions—as a blunt universalism. However, this is not the case because the critical (or self-critical)



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

43

part of Critical Regionalism urges architecture of any origin to see the self in the other. When this is done in a consistent fashion, Critical Regionalism will end up producing Transcultural Architecture. But the importance of “critique” on each developmental stage is obvious. Another important consequence is that by inscribing itself into the larger framework of Transculturalism, Critical Regionalism will shun some of its foundation stones, which are the “regionally relevant” construction elements and techniques. Transculturalism transforms traditions, and Critical Regionalism has to face this reality. As will be shown with the help of other examples and as will be theorized in the conclusion of this book, a Critical Regionalism with a minimal regional (but maximal critical) input is not only thinkable but does exist. Transculturalism, on the other hand, can come about without any critical effort. The above mentioned Hindu temple in Goa with European influences or the decaying urban landscape that has been revitalized by new immigrants are examples of a transculturalism where no critical thinking effort had been invested. This is why the Goa temple will not be classified as Critical Regionalism. Also in the examples of failed Transcultural Architecture (like the glass tower with an Islamic entrance arch or the “East-Asian style” house in Dubai), the failure can be traced to a lack of critical thinking. Transcultural Architecture can evolve naturally or artificially. In the latter case it needs to be critical. 3.6 Pietilä’s “Skin Technique” and Transculturalism Pietilä’s Ministry responds to the above conditions of Transcultural Architecture. In a transcultural fashion, Pietilä reinstates neither local architecture nor expatriate architecture, but transgresses both in order to make an entirely new statement. This is how the ministry is, if we use Epstein’s words, “located beyond any particular mode of existence” and finds its place “on the border of existing cultures.” Finally, it settles in a realm beyond all cultures without belonging anywhere. Pietilä avoids fusion but uses a structure that comes close to the network. He produces a kind of métissage that does not transcend concrete identity merely in order to end up as an indistinct fusion of elements. First, the loose macro structure of the complex enables the existence of a rhizomatic micropolitics of individual elements. Second, it appears that the skin concept is able to express particularly well the transcultural pattern of “recognizing one’s own culture in the other.” In an almost literal fashion, it shows the one inside the other. The skin model conveys those complex interconnections that bind the different cultures together. Because it is also different from the multicultural mosaic pattern, it corresponds perfectly well to the network pattern. Correspondingly, Pietilä explains: “My aim was not to put old wine into new vessels. I have ‘gone around’ the problem of how to reconcile between the old and the new architectural traditions. My poetization of metaphoric elements is apparent” (from Quantrill 1985: 115). Pietilä once wrote that the concepts of location and time “extend beyond everyday limits into a poetic scale” (Pietilä 1985: 17). As a consequence, his “transformational syntax” (Quantrill 1985: 115) transcends all merely comparative

44

Transcultural Architecture

procedures in the Ministry. It produces mutual involvements and interferences. The building opens new aspects of cultural development: it neither absolutizes nor relativizes one or the other culture, but highlights differences helping us to understand one culture through a concept that has been derived from the interpretation of another. To use one of Kenneth Frampton’s key phrases, one can say that Pietilä’s approach attempts to “deconstruct the spectrum of world culture” and to produce a “synthetic contradiction” (Frampton 1983: 21). By wrapping a quasi “Western” skin around architectural elements identifiable as estranged Arab items, and by cutting openings whose shapes are neither Arab nor modern into the “Western” skin, Pietilä challenges all those who see cultural identities as fixed, static, and homogenous categories. The intercultural dialogue that he establishes is not authoritarian or determined by any hierarchy, but it is multi-directional and endlessly interactive. Cultural hybridization destabilizes systems of hierarchical differentiation. Through its hybridization, it points to the mutability of all cultures; and this is particularly well expressed in the Ministry building. The skin concept is a truly dynamic system of deterritorialization. It is playful to the extent that it uses divergence and destabilization of the self as well as of the other. Its language is, so to speak, pre-linguistic as it seems to suggest not-yet spelled out symbols. This has a further consequence: this architecture can never be a mere display of resistance to the modern architecture of the global world (a path that Critical Regionalism often chose while Transcultural Architecture does not do so necessarily). At the same time, the skin concept is not—in spite of its playfulness—a trivial manipulation of signs and references. Nor is Pietilä merely “translating” from one culture into the other. The skin concept implies a high degree of critical consciousness leading to the creation of new objects, new spatialities, and new aesthetic experiences. We need to conclude that Connah misunderstands Pietilä’s approach when asking why there is “no more plasticity, surface ornament and isolated symbolic elements with a special treatment of the external architectonic symbolism?” (1989: 343) Connah still thinks in terms of abstract multicultural synthesis and not in terms of Welsch’s networks or Frampton’s “synthetic contradiction.” He is not willing to recognize that Pietilä’s transcultural process has to include the strategy of fragmentation. 3.7 Postcolonialism Not by definition but certainly in practice, Critical Regionalism often has a postcolonial dimension. By postcolonial I do not necessarily mean the negative ideology that Eggener, Jacobs, and many others attach to the term by letting it appear as a continuation of colonization. The term postcolonial can also simply address all those elements and events that came after colonization. The emergence of regionalism is not only due to architects’ dissatisfaction with models of modernity, but also to the increasing self-confidence of non-Western architects after colonial occupation. There are thus reasons to say that the Ministry, as a foreign building in Kuwait containing local elements, illustrates the



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

45

complex relationship that Kuwait has with its “colonial” past. However, this past is different from the colonial past of most other non-Western countries. Though it is impossible to go into the details of postcolonial theory and its relationship with Kuwaiti history in this chapter, some points need to be mentioned. While, since the 1980s, postcolonial theory has had a significant effect on the way we understand intercultural relations today and historically, there might be no theory that fully represents the cultural interactions by which the Gulf region has been determined in colonial and postcolonial terms. The problem is that the discourses of Frantz Fanon, Edward Said and Gayatri Spivak concentrate on previously colonized countries as well as on Western metropolitan centers. However, the closest the Arabian Peninsula has come to colonization was under Ottoman rule, which spared the region much of the typical anti-colonial struggles. The harsh East-West confrontation, underlying, like a grammar, most postcolonial discourse, is here missing, which has shaped the national psyche of the region in a special way. Postcolonial resentment, for example, is almost absent. It has been said about the United Arab Emirates that they are “characterized by a general lack of resentment. With the sights set firmly on the future rather than in the past, the spirit that dominates is one of openness, discovery, [and] the authenticity problem in the sense experienced by directly colonized countries, is largely avoided” (Findlow 2000: 35). The same is true for Kuwait. All this means that in Kuwait, the “resistance approach” of Critical Regionalism is to a large extent unwarranted (except in those unfortunate cases where resentment has been reintroduced, most recently, by way of fundamentalist religious rhetoric). Can we not conclude that for all those reasons, Kuwait is an ideal playground for Pietilä’s transcultural destabilization of both the self and of the other? Both the “eastern” self and the “Western” other are here seen as more equal than in other previously colonized countries. Racism is internal and is almost exclusively what Kuwaitis direct towards poor Asian immigrants. At least in theory, Critical Regionalism can here be introduced without having to digest an essential postcolonial resistance theme. In praxis, the situation looks different. Paradoxically, the authorities12 were dissatisfied with Pietilä’s subversive patterns and preferred, as will be shown below, more authoritarian and identitarian narratives that they would produce themselves. Resistance arose but not towards the former “colonizers” nor towards “modern architecture” but merely towards Pietilä’s transcultural architecture. 3.8 Identity in Finland and in Kuwait Before looking at the reception of Pietilä’s transcultural architectural statement in Kuwait, some differences need to be pointed out concerning the status of identity in Kuwait and in Finland respectively. Kuwait is home to 200 nationalities and Kuwaiti people are a minority in their own country. To some extent, this diversity has influenced Kuwaiti architecture. Still it would be wrong to say that national identity is absent: traditional identity structures as well as the common experience of the Iraqi occupation have secured a sense of common roots and experience. According

46

Transcultural Architecture

to Omar Khattab, in Kuwait, more than in other Arab cities, the reassertion “of local identity has become a matter of great importance especially after Iraq’s claims in Kuwait and the second Gulf War” (Khattab 2001: 379). In the 1980s, a search for responsive architecture set in among some local architects. The most remarkable examples are the works of Saleh Al-Mutawa who attempted to revive the traditional architecture of Kuwait (see Al-Mutawa 1994). Al-Mutawa’s buildings might be the most vivid example of Critical Regionalism in Kuwait though his architecture is problematical because he often reinstates tradition in a very literal fashion. Also for Pietilä, architectural identity is of utmost importance and his thoughts about the genius loci as a catalyzer of “biological chromosomes” have become famous in the architectural community of his home country and beyond. Pietilä believed that “a genius loci trait is chromosomic for the growth of identity in the process of design” (Quantrill 1988: 20) and Christian Norberg-Schulz defines the genius loci as the “precognitive, immediate recognizing of the things themselves” (1996: 45). Finland, which, with its 5 million inhabitants, is not much bigger than Kuwait, has constantly been concerned with its identity, and very early developed ideas about how architecture should be used within the cultural identity of the country. In 1958, Sigfried Giedion would call Finland the leading country of “new regionalism” (Giedion 1958). The problem is that, at the same time, architectural identity in Finland appears as a multifaceted subject and cannot be reduced to Norberg-Schulz’s slogan that the Finnish building is a “successful translation of the Finnish environment into architectural form” (1996: 195). Moreover, NorbergSchulz believes that this “Finnish quality comes to fruition in the work of Reima Pietilä, who maintains Finnish space and form” (p. 45). Norberg-Schulz’s praise has not only been beneficial for Pietilä but his professional development has suffered from this reduction of his expressions to mere “Finnish space and form.” Even today Pietilä is often perceived in Finland as an isolated thinker steeped in “Finnishness” who is believed to be not closely linked to international regionalist movements (see Koponen: 139). Of course, this view is not justified. As Gareth Griffith correctly points out, many Finnish architects—among whom we have to count Pietilä—have been particularly concerned with the fact “that their work will always be interpreted from the essentialist point of view as a reflection of nationality or geography. But architecture cannot be simply derived from nature or nation” (Griffith 2004: 57). Since the 1970s, the Finnish search for architectural identity has been rather fractured by self-critical and anti-essentialist stances and is far from being straightforward; and Pietilä is a typical example of this development. Finally, the Kuwait Ministry is a result of those constellations. The above account of “identity in Finnish architecture” makes clear that Finland and Kuwait are entirely different architectural working environments. Roger Connah writes that while in the 1960s, Finland was still “a rather repressed environment,” new architects went to great length to appropriate “critical writing from abroad” in order to overturn cliché-ism and essentialism. Some Finnish architects made immense efforts to wrench contextualism from romantic ideas about cultural symbols and redefined it, at times in torturous fashions, with the help of phenomenology or diverse postmodern aesthetic theories. Here



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

47

architects went constantly against “official” political and academic doctrines. Pietilä in particular, rejected the rationalist aesthetics of the 1960s and 1970 because he “had seen too many older building parts of Helsinki torn down and replaced by mediocre second rate city developments” (Connah 2005: 193). At the same time, he rejected nostalgic approaches or simple vernacular solutions though the public—which still held Alvar Aalto in great esteem—favored those solutions. According to Connah, in the 1970s, Pietilä had become a “rogue thinker” in his own country (Connah 2005: 196), also because his complex thoughts went against the grain of the Finnish Architecture Review, which expressed very little interest in his theoretical musings (Connah 1989: 330). In Kuwait there is no equivalent of such a critical, intellectualist and antimainstream approach, neither in the 1970s nor today. Nor is there an equivalent of a “rogue thinker.” Apart from the modest attempts of Al-Mutawa, the country does not seem to be able to produce a solid brand of revised modernism either. And somehow this is true for the entire region. Though in the 1980s a postmodern attitude was established in the Arab world and “architects started to look back at the pre-modern period and historical references” (Mahgoub 2008b: 170), the fundamental cultural experiences preceding this relatively superficial postmodern wave—most visible in the battle opposing intellectualist architectural approaches and populist romanticism, and which finally lead to the formulation of a more critical regionalism—were not available in the cultural environment of Kuwait and most other Arab countries. Traditional “Islamic” architecture was the almost unique aesthetic response that a conservative climate prevalent in most places in the region in the 1970s could offer. The few outstanding examples of Critical Regionalism that do exist in the region have most often been implanted by foreign architects, and this most of the time in the 1970s and 1980s.

4. The Ministry Transformed 4.1 The Ministry Buildings What remains of Pietilä’s transcultural approach today? Ambitions such as Pietilä’s could have gained symbolical dimensions in a place like Kuwait where 70 percent of the population are foreigners. However, because of the above described context, the transcultural statement could not live up to the idealist intentions of its creators. In 1994, major “reconstruction” works began on the Ministry site, the most ambitious project being the elimination of the cutout wall openings (in spite of intensive research it has been impossible to obtain the names of the architects and companies that carried out the work). Further major transformations are: the open corridor has been muted into a closed corridor (Figures 1.42 and 1.43) by adding several supplementary buildings in front of the street side façade. Most of added building parts feature arch-like shapes decorated with modernist geometrical forms such as upright standing squares placed on the top of those arches or on rooftops (Figures 1.26, 1.27 and 1.32). Initially, the use of the arch as a

48

Transcultural Architecture

main motive has been against the initial guidelines for the design of the Ministry complex as issued by the Ministry of Public Works in 1970, which strongly advised against monumentality. The new monumental additions, placed right on the terrace that once permitted to see parts of the building’s interior from the street side, have been equipped with a dome made of stained glass (Figure 1.47). Again this runs counter to Pietilä’s intentions as he had most conscientiously avoided domes. Underneath the new dome, heavy wooden doors mark the official—though practically unused—main entrance of the Ministry. Smaller dome-shaped windows have been placed on the roof wherever possible. The yellow bricks have been taken off from a part of the original street façade wall, showing this section without cladding in raw concrete (Figure 1.30). Most recently, the east façade facing the fish market has been amended by placing additions in front of the original buildings occupying a surface of 9000 square meters (Figures 1.31 and 1.32). The project value of this latest addition is $15 million and the work has been carried out by the office of Dar Saleh Al Qallaf Engineering Consultants. The aesthetics of these buildings draws on the theme of the upright standing decorative squares from the earlier additions and as a result, the builders had more squares placed on the roof. The most important consequence of the transformations imposed upon the building during the last 30 years is that the “Arab” motives found at the interior of the building are no longer visible through “holes.” The holes no longer exist and most of the motives have been eliminated. First, this means that the “skin” concept has been totally cancelled and that, as a result, the skin has become a meaningless modern building shell whose strange cutouts—where they can still be seen—have no function but look rather pointless and awkward. Many long-term residents of Kuwait told me that they had never suspected those buildings to belong to a ministry, but had always identified the area as an industrial zone. Partially responsible for this misperception is Pietilä’s own decision to place the A/C center and the cooling towers on the street side, which tremendously diminished the aesthetic appeal of the complex right from the beginning. Second, by eliminating the openings, the language and structure of the building have moved from “halfopen” to “entirely closed.” Already a few years after the ministry’s completion began the systematic elimination of Pietilä’s “Islamic” motives. Colored tiles have been either torn off or—in rare cases—been painted over. Remaining tiles can be found almost only in the restrooms and kitchens (Figure 1.33). According to the Kuwaiti architect in charge of present renovation projects (whose name has been consistently withheld from the author), the elimination of the tiles had been seen as the most urgent task because they “did not add to the building but let it look uglier.” The author has also been told that Kuwaiti people often call the ministry “Kuwait’s largest public toilet” because of the predominant tile theme. Already a few years after its completion, the coral fountain had been refurbished with black granite plates. The “corals” have also been topped up with white marble stripes on which are engraved golden arabesques (Figures 1.38 and 1.39). (The



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

49

1.25  Street view

1.26  Same street view today. The building is hidden behind a new façade. Some of the original cutout walls (on the left) are still visible

1.27 Detail of street view. Heavy arches and upright standing squares dominate

present architect in residence is not aware that the fountain has ever had colored tiles though the colored coral fountain is probably the most documented element in any international publication of Pietilä’s Sief Palace project.) The remaining coral fountains (Figures 1.45 and 1.46) had to be demolished when major additions were placed on the terrace square. All other original fountains have been either modified or have disappeared. The architect and his assistant explained to the author why the sadu patterns emulated by the tiles had to be eliminated. One reason was that those patterns are not Kuwaiti but more universally Islamic or even Spanish, and that Pietilä’s ambition to use them as an expression of Kuwaiti identity has been inappropriate.

1.28  Detail of street view in 1986

1.29  Same detail today

1.30  The yellow bricks have been taken off on one part of the original building, which now appears in raw concrete. The intention was probably to match this part with the color of the additions

1.31 East façade

1.32 East façade with additions from 2014. The Sief Palace clock tower can be seen on the left

1.33  The kitchen is almost the only place where the colored tiles remain

1.34  Main Hall before. Painted aluminum “reed” soffits are placed on the ceiling (right side). The ceiling has a “rugged” shape

1.35  Main Hall today. The tiles have been eliminated and walls have been painted in white. The aluminum soffits have been taken off and the rugged structure of the ceiling has been rectified

1.36  Plants, carpets, marble, wood and leather dominate the new aesthetics of the mail hall

54

Transcultural Architecture

Alternatively, more literally islamicizing patterns have been put on the coral fountain as well as on the walls of the newly constructed central corridor. The dome and the arches are also put forward by the present architect as appropriate means to reinforce the Islamic identity of the building. Pietilä’s emulations of reed soffits, traditionally used in in the construction of ceilings in traditional houses and which Pietilä attempted to reproduce with the help of long metal sticks (Figures 1.17 and 1.34) have equally been eliminated at a very early stage. The same goes for some of the mashrabiya style wooden latticework covering the windows (Figure 1.18) though most of them have remained in place. Because the seaside terrace could rarely be used in the Kuwaiti climate, a covered diwaniya13 style reception room has been constructed on the terrace. The diwaniya is covered by a white tent structure from whose pointed top hangs a chandelier imitating palm branches. The diwaniya’s walls are clad with artificial fur that has been strewn with metallic pallets. A conversation with the Kuwaiti architects yields the impression that the planning history of the Ministry represents a series of miscommunications between architects and clients. First, the complex had been planned as the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Council of Minsters but, due to misunderstandings, the delivered buildings were built in a way that made them unfit for the latter purpose. From the beginning both buildings were used by the ministry only and a new Council of Ministers had to be built elsewhere. Next, the architects repeat a reproach that had also been voiced by Connah: “Why had there not been more openings to the seaside?” (Connah 1989: 343) Pietilä himself had answered this question pointing out that in the hot climate large window openings are not useful. Meanwhile more window openings have been created. Pietilä’s collaborating engineer Vilho Pekkala, explains that “the façades on which the sun shone were provided with shades made from concrete elements, which decreased heat transfer through the windows. At that time thermal effective windows, as used nowadays, were unknown” (Pekkala 2007: 74). Pietilä’s “hot climate” argument is encountered by the Kuwaiti architects with the counter-question why, since he was so concerned about the climate, he designed an open corridor as the main passage way between two major buildings, forcing people to walk in the heat when going from one end of the complex to the other (Figure 1.42). Pietilä would certainly reply that at that time, these were two separate buildings (Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Council of Minsters) and that not many people would have to walk from one end to the other. He had gleaned the courtyard concept from regional architecture. Was that a mistake? Pietilä believed he had done enough. He had designed the arcades and galleries surrounding the buildings as “climatic sun-protecting shelters [that] also provide ample opportunity for a poetic imagery of shape and shadow” (Pietilä 1985: 87). Climatic questions had been meticulously considered as explains Vilho Pekkala: The exterior walls were of a brick-mineral construction. The mineral wool had a thickness of 50 mm and it was coated with aluminum foil to reflect the heat. This was a new solution and proved to be effective. Roof surfaces white, given effective



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

55

thermal insulation. … The Sief Palace included an air conditioning center with large, ceramic, water-evaporating cooling towers. Local specialists later wondered how it was possible that such small amounts of energy were needed for the cooling. (Pekkala 2007: 74)

The five meter large street side arcade kept the interior elevation in shade. Apart from that, all windows are recessed 30 centimeters from external surface (Figure 1.18). In 1998, in order to improve the situation, the entire former cutout outside wall has been closed and the terrace has been transformed into a five meter large air-conditioned corridor (Figures 1.42 and 1.43). A reception room covered by a dome made of stained glass has been built on the terrace. This is the most dramatic change the building underwent. For the Kuwaiti architects, Pietilä’s entire approach seems to be rather a subject of ridicule as further conversations revealed. Their own designs might have solved certain practical problems but lack character and originality. In many instances they give in to the cliché-ism and essentialism that Finnish architects have so desperately tried to avoid since the 1960s and that the Pietiläs avoided in particular. In any case, according to the architects, the ministry “looks now more like a ministry,” which seems to have been the main concern. A large part of the discrepancies between Pietilä’s intentions and the expectations on the receiving side can be traced to different ideas about how a modern building in Kuwait should protect people from the heat. Pietilä designed the arcades and galleries as climatic sun-protecting shelters and relished in the poetic imagery of the galleries’ shadows. “The people” (see note 11) simply wanted air conditioned corridors. However, beyond those more or less technical

1.37  A new diwaniya has been placed on the seaside terrace

56

Transcultural Architecture

problems, more original issues can be extracted from the short history of the Ministry. The unnamed Kuwaiti architects did not offer resistance to modern, Western architecture—which they actually welcome—but to Pietilä’s transcultural (and at times surreal) mixture of the Western and the local. As an alternative, they constructed more monolithic and univocal meta-narratives of “The Ministry,” which becomes clearest when they dismiss Pietilä’s transcultural attempts with the words: “a ministry should simply not look like that.” For them, hybridity and hybridization are allowed only as long cultural distinctions between “East” and “West” are not transgressed. Pre-colonial elements must remain pre-colonial and the modern should always be clearly identifiable as modern. Historical references should be in keeping with the officially sanctioned identity of the country. As a result, the Kuwaiti architects had to take “the strange” out of Pietilä’s acts of estrangement, for example when rectifying the rugged structure of the ceiling in the main hall. With their own design they do not necessarily return to the condition prior to colonization but they do something else: in order to keep the Western and the local distinct, they bring authority back into the architectural narrative of the Ministry. For them, this is the main purpose. At the same time it is, of course, precisely the strategy that transcultural architecture and Pietilä in particular, tries to avoid. 4.2 The Environment of the Ministry The transformation of the Ministry’s environment is as radical as that of the Ministry itself and needs to be analyzed if we want to understand the present status of Pietilä’s buildings. The state of the area also shows what kind of architecture the authorities (and probably also the largest part of “the public”) would have preferred. After the liberation from the Iraqi occupation in 1991, Kuwait entered into a fury of development projects whose result was not the reconstruction, but rather the reinvention of the entire city. According to the Historic Building Preservation survey, by 1995, 72 percent of the surviving old town buildings (of which there were not many in the first place) were under threat by government planning. Meanwhile, Kuwait has evolved into a city of glass towers and shopping malls and, according to Mahgoub, a recurring question among Kuwaitis is “why is our capital so unsightly?” (Mahgoub 2006). Anderson and Al-Bader attest that Kuwait faces “the general debilitation or eventual disappearance of the ‘sense of place’” (2006, quoted from Mahgoub 2008b: 180), a condition applying to most Gulf States where an “overarching sadness and sameness [is] reflected in the pervasive ‘Las Vegas’ veneer that has been lacquered upon them” (Mahgoub 208b: 180). Just like in other Gulf cities, communal life seems to have moved into an amazingly large number of shopping malls, which offers the only spatial experience and “public” life (though the space is private). At the same time, the use of traditional styles is viewed as “a defense mechanism against the domination of the sweeping identity of globalization” (Mahgoub 2007: 74–5) because a “return to the roots” ideology functions also as a reaction to the war (cf. Mahgoub 2008a). As a result, literally reinstated traditional architecture is idealized as the only valid Kuwaiti architectural

1.38  Multicolored Coral Fountain in 1986

1.39  Coral Fountain today with islamicizing patterns on black marble

1.40  Courtyard in 1986 with pyramid fountain

1.41  Same courtyard today

1.42  Corridor of main axis in 1986

1.43  Same corridor in 2012

1.44  The shapes of the door openings on the main axis have been adopted from the original door design (see below)

1.45  Those coral fountains disappeared when the additions (see present street view, Figure 1.26) were built on the terrace

1.46  Today the spot where the above terrace used to be looks like this. The place is covered by a dome

62

Transcultural Architecture

1.47  A dome covers the additions that have been built on the terrace

identity. This culminates in romantic emulations of the “traditional village,” which very much represents the “nostalgic historicism or the glibly decorative” (Frampton 1983: 20) feared by Critical Regionalists. The recent artificial construction of a traditional Kuwaiti souq inside the hypermodern Avenues Mall is a good example of this historicism. 4.3 New Buildings Construction of a huge New Sief Palace began already before the Iraqi occupation. It began a few years after the accomplishment of Pietilä’s Sief Area project. The work has been carried out by a Kuwaiti company named Archicenter and was accomplished only in the late 1990s because the occupation set a halt to all construction work. The project modified the coastline because the New Sief Palace would be built on claimed land, right behind (seen from the land) the old Sief Palace and along a new shoreline that ventures up to 280 meters into the sea. This makes the Old Sief Palace landlocked. Pietilä’s Ministry buildings are affected by this development because the sea elevation of these buildings now faces new installations that have been built into the sea, such as a dock for grand visitors’ yachts including a heliport (see Figure 1.7). Originally, the Pietiläs had placed the ministry buildings close to the shore in line with the older Sief Palace buildings. The authors of The Evolving Culture of Kuwait even highlight the fact that the Pietiläs “have built along the coastline skillfully deploying its natural formation and making the water front an integral feature of their design” (Royal Scottish Museum 1985: 91). While they attempted to produce an “imaginative

1.48  The north entrance and window have been laid out with granite plaques

1.49  Formal elements like arches have been added



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

65

portrait of the spirit of Kuwait that would be seen from out in the Gulf” (Gardiner: 143), at present the building can hardly be seen from the sea. Furthermore, the 1,250 meter long waterfront of the Sief Palace area is far from being the living body of the city because the entire Sief Palace Area is strictly closed to the public and thus literally dead. Nobody uses the colonnade of the Sief Palace Extension either. The Pietiläs’ interpretation of the central waterfront as “the main natural value of the old city” sounds today like a far-fetched slogan. Most of the Ministry’s neighboring buildings are “Pan-Arab style” buildings: the 1963 Sief Palace, the New Sief Palace, and the 45.000 square meters large Grand Mosque, which was equally completed in 1986. Gardiner found this mosque, which has a 70 meter high minaret, “a little conventional and over-concerned with perpetuating tradition” (Gardiner: 77). A recent building on the same side of the Arabian Gulf Street is the Al-Babtain Central Library for Arabic Poetry built by the Kuwaiti Alamiah Company in 2007. The library’s main feature is a stylized—though still very literal—Islamic arch. Its main buildings evoke the shape of an open book. The library’s website praises the architecture because it uses “traditional Kuwaiti characteristics” such as “huge wooden doors” and a “precise choice of colors and their harmonization with furniture and carpets.” A new “Heritage Village” (Mashrua Al-Karia Al-Torathia) is under construction almost across the street from the Ministry. However, the most dramatic change has been brought about by the construction of the new tower of the Central Bank of Kuwait, which is celebrated on the bank’s website as a new landmark symbolizing “the country’s significant economic power in the 21st century.” It supersedes Aarne Jacobsen’s old Central Bank building. The construction of the new tower will be finished in 2015 and it is located right opposite the Ministry. The 40-stories high slim pyramid has been commissioned by the international firm HOK specializing in skyscrapers and famous for its design of the Baku flame towers in Azerbaijan. The placement of such a tall building in this particular location contradicts all planning initiatives from the 1970s and especially those of the Pietiläs.”

1.50  In the public consciousness the Sief Palace Area is represented by the New Sief Palace as shows this stamp

66

Transcultural Architecture

The “new” New Sief Palace, which dominates the area, follows generic Pan-Islamic design with imposing Islamic arches, but makes also ample use of neo-classicist columns. The Kuwait Information Guide praises this new palace (which houses all institutions that were formerly included in the “Old” Sief Palace) as “an example of Islamic architecture inlaid with Kuwaiti art derived from its environment.” Particularly striking is the geometrical tile pattern of the ground of the premises (well visible on Google Earth). If we add the “Heritage Village,” which is under construction, to the list of main buildings of the Sief area, we can say that in this area, imitation has clearly prevailed over transcultural approaches. The “New Islamic architecture” that Pietilä was asked to build in 1980 has been materialized by following very “conventional” concepts. Some aesthetically questionable buildings like the Ministry of Planning do still face the Pietilä building. The former is about as old as the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but has not been well maintained. It is about to be refurbished only now because the neighborhood of the prestigious new headquarter of the Central Bank does not tolerate such a rundown building. The ideas of the older planners to build more cultural buildings of national importance have been adopted by the new planners; unfortunately only after having neglected the Sharq area for almost 30 years. The Al-Babtain Poetry Library is the first cultural building that has been added to the area since 1986. The driving force of the recent renewal is the new Central Bank high-rise. 4.4 The Macro-Scale The Sief Palace area is affected by the macro-scale of the area’s urban development. By the time Pietilä’s Sief Area project was finished, Kuwait’s urban condition had totally developed towards a cityscape without hierarchy or layering dominated by a number of unconnected tall buildings and mega-projects whose cultural and environmental sustainability often remained questionable. This tendency remains particularly visible in the neighborhood of the Ministry because here urban planning and architecture did not seem to matter for three decades. Given the urban development east of the Ministry as well as the relative quietness of the New Sief Palace area, the Ministry’s place is now no longer in the center of the crescent shaped area enclosed by First Ring Road, but instead it is situated at the periphery of the urban context of the Sharq district. This designates a completely different value to the Sief Palace area. Officially, almost the entire Ministry is located in the Sharq district as the district border cuts from the Sief roundabout right through the Ministry premises up to the parking lot. The rest of the Sief area is in Qibla. This means that in spite of the geometrical continuity produced by the parallel ring roads, the significance of the Sief Palace site has considerably changed and the transformations have made the Ministry particularly isolated in geographical terms. While in the 1980s the purpose of the Sief area project had been to revive the old central city by designing three new buildings, today the Ministry buildings find themselves “locked away” in the most Western corner of the Sharq district. The Sharq area is dominated by the Sharq shopping mall, the first grand project to be



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

67

built after the Iraqi invasion. Any natural connection with the Sief buildings and the area has thus been cancelled: both Ministry and Sief buildings are forbidden to the public; the former cannot even be seen from the street because it is hidden behind monumental additions. The arches and the emphasis on monumentality create a distance between the building and the spectator. (As a result of the Iraqi invasion trauma, a machine gun mounted on an army vehicle is constantly pointing at passerbys and makes them feel uncomfortable.) The area that accommodates five buildings by world class architects in three districts (Qibla, Sharq and Dasman), is extremely incoherent. The incoherence becomes extreme in the area opposite the Sharq Mall, which is practically faced by as show the many sand fields in the Google Earth picture of the area (Figure 1.51). The “key buildings” that aroused Gardiner’s enthusiasm in 1980 are there but any sense of urban coordination is lacking. As shows Figure 1.52 buildings are still placed on empty fields and, as Shiber had written 40 years earlier, little thought is given to the orientation of buildings or their structural order. The Museum of Modern Art is located in an old high school building in the middle of a sand field. No “tailoring” of the urban fabric has been done. There is coherence neither between the important buildings nor between the Sharq area as a whole and the Sief Palace area. To a very large extent, the inconsistent handling of “Sief vs. Sharq” is responsible for the feeling of urban desolation that persists in this part of the city in spite of the realization of multiple projects. Given that the Pietilä’s main purpose

1.51 Incoherence becomes extreme in the area opposite the Sharq Mall

68

Transcultural Architecture

1.52 Little thought is given to the orientation of buildings or their structural order

had been the informal integration of the area into the urban fabric as well as the metaphorical appropriation of the genius loci, the result is rather ironical.

5. Conclusions Pietilä’s Ministry could have been a good example of a successful Critical Regionalism inspired by transcultural thinking. The confused reception of the Ministry can be traced to several factors: badly organized urbanism in Kuwait, inadequate aesthetics of the building, difficulties of installing Critical Regionalism in the non-West in general, and the subordinate status of critical thinking in the receiving culture in particular. The latter point will be dealt with in detail in this conclusion. 5.1 The Urban Problem It has been said that the best regional architecture has been produced by “desert regionalism” in India, the Middle East, and Mexico (Curtis 1985). On the other hand, even in desert regions, successful regionalism is not achieved easily. Even Hassan Fathy faced immense problems in rural communities “whose distorted aspirations and values attached to their understanding of comporaneity did not match the environment that Fathy offered them” (Özkan 1985: 12). To produce a successful regionalism, it is helpful to have an environment in which a variety of other examples of regionalism are already present. Harwell Harris has said that



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

69

“to express this regionalism architecturally it is necessary that there be building, preferably a lot of building at one time” (Harris: 58). The Sief Palace Area Project was born into particularly unfortunate circumstances. A complete restructuring of the entire area, which started even before the invasion with the construction of the New Sief Palace, has changed the environment and made it relatively incompatible with the Ministry’s character. Furthermore, poor urbanistic choices are responsible for the fact that the Ministry never had a chance to “speak” to a larger public. 5.2 The Aesthetic Problem Pietilä’s architectural agenda does not accord with a Kuwaiti mindset as it is too much determined by the ambition to go beyond geometry, to create unpredictable shapes and to implement a fragmented “pluralizing antisystem, antihierarchy, disentity, [and] the context of assembling-disassembling” (Quantrill 1985: 25), which resulted in surreal abstractions. Conservative Kuwait is probably not the right place to experiment with such ideas. About Pietilä’s surrealistic Dipoli building, Pauline von Bonsdorf notes that “one would expect these surfaces in a barn but not in a convention center. [It is] breaking the norm of good architectural behavior and common-sense taste, and it may cause rejection and aversion in the visitor” (Bonsdorf 2007: 14). Similarly, Kuwaitis argue that tiles should be expected in a public bath but not in a ministry. Khan noted in 1988 that “there must be mass appeal in the form that is communicable to and understandable by the public” (Khan: 136) and found that this appeal did not exist in the case of the Ministry. Connah had similar thoughts. Obviously, the Kuwaiti authorities had difficulty fully grasping Pietilä’s intention to embody “the spirit and rhythm of Islamic work but not its actual forms” (Quantrill 1995: 172). Pietilä’s expressions are too abstract, too ironical and too poetically vague. For example, Pietilä had pointed out that “the windows are guardian shapes, … [and] that the function of these wall openings is to allow friendly forces in and hold out enemy powers, spirits …“ (Quantrill 1985: 130). Even to enlightened researchers it might not be entirely clear what is meant by this. It can perhaps be best interpreted as an attempt to produce a sense of “wonder” in the way in which Columbian architect Rogelio Salmona’s expressions were believed to be based on “syncretism and its power to provoke wonder” (Castro 2005: 157). Pietilä’s “Metso” library in Tampere, which is supposed to be a “genius loci with a touch of mysterious charm,” works better along those lines and is also much better understood and appreciated by the public. In the Ministry, the renovators either eliminated the walls containing guardian shapes or sealed them with monumental structures.14 The problem seems to be that Pietilä’s locally inspired symbols, even in instances where they are recognized by locals, will remain “mere symbols” with which they cannot establish a more intimate contact. The case is similar to the Ciudad Universitaria in Mexico (designed by Mario Pani and Enrique del Moral), which also abounds with local symbols like pyramids and piloties and which, in the opinion

70

Transcultural Architecture

of Harwell Harris, “has given the Mexican something familiar to take hold on. But unless the Mexican finds other uses for the stilts, the thin vaults, the cantilevers, and the sun-breaks than are exhibited in the national University buildings, they will remain mere symbols of an alien modernity” (Harris: 64). Also here the modern language failed to create a living architecture. As pointed out by Tzonis and Lefaivre, Critical Regionalism does not merely establish affinities or familiarities but is more dependent on the device of “defamiliarization” which is supposed to “challenge the legitimacy of the possible world view in the minds of the people” (1991: 3); and defamiliarization is one of Pietilä’s main aesthetic strategies.15 However, by applying such modernist devices, Pietilä took for granted a Western intellectualist paradigm that searches for architectural identity by relying on fractured, self-critical, and anti-essentialist procedures. In Kuwait, especially after the Iraqi invasion, the search for identitysymbols has evolved along rather straightforward lines. If it is true that Critical Regionalism can emerge only through “a new kind of relations between designer and user” (Tzonis and Lefaivre 1981: 5), it needs to be stated that in Kuwaiti such a relationship has not been established. While for a “Western” critic like Alan Colquhoun it is “no longer possible to envisage an architecture that has the stable public meanings that it had when it was connected with the soil and with the regions” (Colquhoun: 155), people in non-Western countries are much more likely to search for such an identity. 5.3 The Kuwait Project and the Problem of Critical Regionalism The examples of Critical Regionalism most often cited by Frampton are smallscale projects with a strong personal input. However, in the Kuwaiti case, the main problem has not been the size or not even the official character of the building. At the end of this chapter and in the next chapter we will look at two other examples of official buildings (Utzon’s National Assembly in Kuwait and Louis Kahn National Assembly in Dhaka, Bangladesh), where the method of Critical Regionalism has led to successful results. A more important problem is different perceptions of the term “liberation” that is inherent in the ideology of Critical Regionalism. Strangely, liberation is supposed to function through ambiguity. According to Tzonis and Lefaivre, ambiguity is important in Critical Regionalism because it can function as a means of liberation from repression and chauvinism. For those authors as well as for other authors of texts on Critical Regionalism, liberation anything Western is important. However, what happens when the users of this newly constructed architecture do not find such liberation useful at all? And what happens when they do not see why a liberating vocabulary should be ambiguous? Then those liberating and ambiguous narratives will not fall on a fertile ground. There is a dichotomy: on one side, regionalism tries to install time and history in buildings while on the other side, anti-historical modernism tries to base its expressions on “eternal” truths—or at least on a timeless concept of eternal innovation. It is obvious that this dichotomy is useless in the Kuwaiti context. Critical regionalism can only be understood in relationship with certain perceptions of



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

71

modernity. The problem is that the understanding of “modernity” is not necessarily the same in the non-West and in the West. Modernism as a utopian and purist ideology has been accepted by many non-Western countries in the past and has more recently been rejected by neo-traditionalist or religious cultural movements. Different from this is the kind of “modernity” that is often on the “Western” mind today. This modernity speaks out against the above utopian proto-modernity with its innocent faith in the future, belief in progress, and so on. The new, predominately “Western” modernity sees itself rather as a “critical” (some might say “cynical”) type of modernity that is disillusioned by humanism though it still somehow clings to it. This “new modernity” sees itself mainly as a resistance movement attempting to slow down a soulless process of unification, industrialization, and technization of an “old modernity.” At the same time it has difficulties spelling out its own alternative vision of the future. Critical Regionalist thought is derived from this critical type of modernity, which is why it cannot be installed in regions where the image of the first type of modernity persists (either as an example to emulate or as an example to reject). It has been said above that Transcultural Architecture settles in a realm beyond all cultures without belonging anywhere. With regard to the Ministry, this turns out to be a problem rather than a solution. First, in a globally compressed world determined by the transnationalization of capital and internationalization of labor, many people might desire not to transcend their ethnic and cultural roots but rather to reinstate them. “Liberty” in this case is the freedom to choose, emphasize, and demonstrate one’s identity. Second, politics are a factor. According to Nezar Al-Sayyad, “many Middle Eastern governments resorted to using local and foreign architects to help them create such a new national style” (Al-Sayyad: 259). It is certainly no coincidence that almost all important commissions in the 1970s and 1980s have been given to foreign architects who pledged to build on the continuation of the Arab tradition. And when the Kuwaiti guidelines said that the Ministry should demonstrate “new Arab architecture and a character tailored for the local identity” (Clouten: 48), the authorities probably did not have “transcultural architecture” in mind. As for them, new Arab architecture was too much a matter of national pride and identity. A large part of the architectural activity in this region has been concentrated on official buildings and palaces. Since, according to Kultermann, those foreign buildings represent “an image of the country’s power and authority” (Kultermann: 42), it is not surprising that Pietilä’s abstract transculturalism, which is supposed to undermine authorities and hierarchies, has been found unacceptable. While Critical Regionalism sees the political instrumentalization of vernacular architecture as a danger, for the Kuwaiti authorities, architecture should construct national identity in a relatively direct fashion. This is especially true in the case of a Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which is supposed to show how official representatives want to appear in the national arena. Here, Critical Regionalism offers no solution since it constantly avoids univocal narratives and favors ambiguous hybridity. In a world without aesthetic hierarchies, all styles are equal and everybody is free to add his/her

72

Transcultural Architecture

option to the transcultural mosaic. This is not the way to be chosen for an official building in Kuwait. 5.4 Critical Thinking in Kuwait Another problem is that Pietilä’s radical attempts at provoking his Finnish students “to start thinking in another way” and to “reject any ‘face-value’ or banal connotation in over-simplifying the complexities of architecture” (Quantrill 1987: 161), is rather unheard of in Kuwait until today. Pietilä wanted to free students from didactic constraints, and to “fight against thinking routine that has been taught in high school” (Quantrill 1987: 161). Wherever transculturalism is applied, such a critical stance becomes necessary because central and peripheral elements need to be weighed against each other. In his typical fashion, Pietilä offered with his Kuwait project not a solution, but rather a problem that the public was supposed to solve. In general, in Kuwait, critical thinking and critical evaluations of given patterns of thinking are rarely taught in schools and universities. A study at Kuwait University done with 77 students shows a score of 12.45 in critical thinking tests for Kuwaiti students against a score of 18.0 for American students (Al‐Fadhli and Khalfan 2009: 553).16 May Ann Tétreault reports that at Kuwait University, students “are assigned only summaries of novels along with summaries of critiques, which they were to memorize. One student remarked that she wanted to write about her own ideas, but this was not permitted by most of her professors” (Tétreault 2011: 85). Ilene Winokur finds that while critical thinking and problem-solving are deemed more and more necessary for entrepreneurship in the contemporary world, in Kuwait “traditional methods of teaching and learning, such as lecture and memorization of content, do not prepare students with the cognitive skills required to think like an entrepreneur” (Winokur 2014: 121). As a result, “the youth are mostly unprepared to seize these opportunities because they lack the critical thinking and problem solving skills to adapt to an ever-changing economic environment” (p. 120). One of the basic findings of Tony Blair and Associates’ report entitled “Kuwait Vision 2035” is that students are not receiving an education that prepares them for jobs in the Kuwait of the future because thinking skills are weak (Blair 2009). The Blair report also quotes professionals saying: “The students go through the public school system without learning any real life skills or critical thinking, and end up relying heavily on family connections [in lieu of an education].”17 Furthermore, the 2009 Singaporean study, A Diagnostic Study of Education in Kuwait, analyzed the quality of the current teachers in Kuwaiti public schools and attested “a lack of understanding and competencies in using a repertoire of teaching methods to enhance critical thinking and to develop problem-solving skills” (NIE-Singapore 2009: 112). I have myself been teaching Critical Thinking classes at a Kuwaiti private university for five years and would judge the students’ achievements at around 30 percent on average compared with students who would take the same class at an American university of average standing. The inability to retrace Pietilä’s thinking patterns might be one of the reasons why, during the 30 years that the building has been used by Kuwaitis, all traces of Pietilä’s thoughtful eclecticism have been eliminated.



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

73

Of course, in the above critique of critical thinking skills, the classical problem of Critical Regionalism’s rampant colonial attitude recurs once again. Does “the West” have the right to force all the world’s peoples to “think critically”? Is the non-Western world not allowed to have its own (perhaps “non-critical”) way of thinking? Is the non-West not allowed to enjoy authoritarian traditions, straightforward symbols and (what Westerners would call) kitsch? It remains a fact that the “Western” obsession with criticism puts a strain on people who believe that some things simply do not need to be criticized. Why should architecture be submitted to critical standards that have been established by Western critical philosophy? A common pattern tends to put the ascetic and intellectual standards of critically minded architecture on one side and those things that “the people really want” on the other. Vincent Canizaro has characterized the situation like this: “In critical theory, one’s personal or local history was available only through the technique of defamiliarization, lest one fall prey to nostalgia. … and yet we crave for comfort, even postmodernists” (Canizaro 2007: 11). Why does beauty need to be perceived critically? Why can it not be “enjoyed” straightaway? Only because some Westerners (probably the intellectual heirs of puritans) think that any kind of enjoyment is naive? In aesthetics, the kind of liberalism believing that all standards must be established internally and that external authorities need to be refused per se, is known as “kitsch liberalism.” Kitsch liberals insist that kitsch is not aesthetically inferior for the simple reason that it is real—at least more real and less pretentious than much of the so-called high culture. Selle and Nelles defend this liberalist attitude like this: “[kitsch] is not founded merely on deceit; it is not an ‘as if’ culture, it is ‘lived’ culture, and whoever calls it kitschy is making an absolute of a position based on educational tradition and normative interest” (Selle and Nelles: 41). I do not agree with the above argument. However often one turns the topic around, it remains absurd to speak of an intellectual “imperialism of critical thinking” (just as it is wrong, in my opinion, to condemn any criticism of kitsch). The reason is that the instruction of “critical thinking” always leaves open the “what” of the subjects’ thoughts and teaches those subjects only the “how.” Therefore, at least theoretically, Critical Regionalism will never be forced into the straightjacket of protest against those things that some people might perhaps enjoy (authoritarian traditions, straightforward symbols, kitsch …). The practice might look otherwise in certain cases. But theoretically, protest is not an ideologically established value transmitted by Critical Regionalists at the moment they are teaching non-Western nations to think critically about the global architectural situation as well as about their own architectural standards. The liberalism and relativism by which Keith Eggener’s attack against Critical Regionalism is driven is thus not pertinent. Eggener presents the case of Mexican architect Luis Barragán—whose work is held up by Frampton as exemplarily regionalist—as a counter example. Eggener points out that Barragán is an elitist, conservative, and romantic bourgeois and thus no Critical Regionalist at all:

74

Transcultural Architecture

His elegant walled compounds, elite subdivisions, and equestrian enclaves may, as Frampton suggested, mark a kind of critique, but it is worth keeping in mind just what sort of critique this was: hardly radical or progressive, but romantic and reactionary. His elegant walled compounds, elite subdivisions, and equestrian enclaves may, as Frampton suggested, mark a kind of critique, but it is worth keeping in mind just what sort of critique this was: hardly radical or progressive, but romantic and reactionary. (Eggener 234)

However, this is Critical Regionalism, too. Barragán submitted his environment to critical scrutiny and chose the elements he preferred. He did not make use of Pietilä-style surrealism and estrangement nor did he choose nostalgic clichés and stereotypes. Critical Regionalism does not need to look progressive or anticolonialist in whatever context. If the conclusion (the result) would be fixed before the premises are solved, the procedure could not be called “critical.” What matters is the critical reflection that led Barragán to choose this particular aesthetics. He was not reinstating romantic clichés for their own sake. The real problem (and Eggener’s main criticism addresses this point) is that Critical Regionalism very often does seem to think that good architecture must look resistant, progressive, and anti-colonialist. Ironically, this is not even the “fault” of Critical Regionalism but, this time, simply of regionalism. Harwell Harris (2007) has explained that any regionalism seeks liberation, expansion and diversity simply because the region is in conflict with the nation. Historically speaking, regionalism is not only about “conservative” items like soil, community (Tönnies’ Gemeinschaft), and romanticism, but paradoxically, it also is inherently progressive. While nationalism seeks consolidation of existing structures, regionalism attempts to break those structures. This means that any regionalism is critical to some extent, and Eggener’s thesis about the intrinsic colonialist attitude of Critical Regionalism needs to be revised in accordance with this fact. The reason why so many people tend to think of regionalism as apolitical while they see theories defining the nation as critical, is that within our relatively stable, uniform and highly centralized political entities called “nations,” random, unstable and unpredictable regions are allowed to flourish (as long as they do not claim independence). Of course, as mentioned, it cannot be denied that Critical Regionalism very often does think that good architecture must look resistant. In order to circumvent this problem, I have suggested to shift the focus of attention from Critical Regionalism to Transcultural Architecture. If Critical Regionalism does really stress “place, identity, and resistance over all other architectural and extra-architectural considerations” (Eggener: 234) and therefore becomes a “revisionary form of imperialist nostalgia” (of which I am not convinced), we are definitely on the safe side with Transcultural Architecture. Transcultural Architecture merely attempts to see the individual in the general in a hermeneutic fashion. It does not submit the other to the self (through protest and resistance) but simply tries to design a transcultural language in which individual attributes can subsist. Let me come back for one last time to the paradox of “imperialist anti-imperialism” and the idea that anybody who asks non-Western people to think critically is



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

75

colonizing them, even when the critical thinking process is directed against colonization. Eggener quotes Marina Waisman who insisted that “Latin American architecture of a regionalist character is not primarily a reaction to the West, or to ‘world culture,” as the word resistance would imply, but a response to local circumstances. It should be seen not as a marginal practice, but as a development parallel to contemporary architecture in the industrialized West” (Eggener: 233). This means that Latin Americans can enjoy their regionalism without producing it “critically;” they produce it merely in the form of cultural continuity. There is only one possible comment to this. If the result of this Latin American regionalism comes close to what Westerners can attain only by submitting themselves to an immense effort of critical thinking, then this should be fine with everybody. What would be the use of forcing Latin Americans to adopt a critical protest culture if their architecture is perfect the way it is? It would be absurd to require that regionalism always be a critical response to the dominating and imperialist West. Regionalism can flow “uncritically” and directly out of cultural as well as religious conditions. The problem is that on a more general level, critical thinking becomes more and more important during the age of globalization. Most regionalisms are exposed to transcultural movements and a critical spirit has become necessary almost everywhere. The same goes for Faramarz Hassan Pour’s critique of regionalism that he formulates in the context of an analysis of Iranian Qajar architecture. The Qajar dynasty of the late Persian Empire lasted from 1781 to 1925. Qajar architects attempted to revive traditional styles and to “strengthen the credibility of their government within the public by emphasizing Iranian identity.” At the same time, the influence of Western technology and aesthetics is obvious. Hassan Pour states that “Qajar architecture may look like a mere misinterpretation of European architecture” (Hassan Pour 2013: 17) and he believes that Frampton will dismiss those styles because they are neither “critical” nor modern enough to be classified as Critical Regionalism. Like Eggener, Hassan Pour is convinced that Western Orientalism can speak the regionalist language and is therefore suspicious of all attempts to impose a critical attitude in non-Western cultures. In the end, for him, Frampton’s system of regionalism is not comprehensive enough because it does not accept popular architectural expressions such as Qajar architecture. I would counter this by using the same argument used above in the context on Latin American architecture: Transcultural Architecture does not have to go the way of Critical Regionalism. On the other hand, Hassan Pour’s further explanations that “Qajar architecture truly represented Qajar society, which aspired to a Western appearance while it was ideologically traditional and even anti-Western” (p. 17) shows that it actually is amazingly close to Critical Regionalism. It is not the spontaneous, popular movement that it appears to be at first sight. It is not merely driven by unreflected eclecticism. Instead it has also thought critically about its position within the larger colonial picture. The conclusion is that this Transcultural Architecture did go the path of Critical Regionalism, even if the critical input is not obvious at first sight.

76

Transcultural Architecture

The Kuwait case is distinct from the Latin American and the Iranian ones. Pietilä asked Kuwaitis to adopt his pluralizing aesthetic anti-system of anti-hierarchy and disentity and this was simply “too much” for the consumers. However, a lack of critical thinking on the Kuwaiti side is equally flagrant and it would be wrong to talk it away by insisting on the colonizing effects of Critical Regionalism. There is another reason—closely linked to the one above—why Pietilä’s language could not be accepted: it is too abstract, and here it actually moves away from classical precepts of Critical Regionalism. Traditionally, abstraction is allowed and encouraged in Arab culture in the form of ornaments; but in Pietilä’s vocabulary, the concreteness has been taken out of “the Arab” as well as out of “the Western.” Both Arab culture and Western culture are represented in an utmost abstract fashion and subsequently combined. To understand such forms requires an intuition shaped by a critical culture. It requires, for example, some sort of critical thinking if one wants to recognize, as does Sikander Khan, that Pietilä’s cutout arches might be “voids of a lost reality” (Khan: 130). Other examples are the mosaic with large tiles, reed soffits with aluminum sticks, and arches presented as strange cutout holes … Not everyone can appreciate this abstract kind of aesthetic play. It takes a reflective mind used to swift leaps from concrete facts to abstract concepts. 5.5 The Limits of Critical Regionalism In the Kuwaiti case, the Ministry has been built in the spirit of transcultural architecture. During the 30 years of its existence it has been transformed by the Kuwaiti authorities into a vehicle of populism and a relatively simple means of gratification. Pietilä’s thoughtful eclecticism has been transformed at least partly into a pastiche similar to the buildings by which the Ministry is surrounded. The failure of Pietilä’s Sief Palace Area project makes us stop and ponder because here it has not been just any architect who failed. Pietilä was the contrary of a starchitect but he demanded of architects to “suppress individuality in order to transmit the genius loci and feelings of the people, and the ‘people’ is not limited to one generation” (Lehtimäki 2007: 90). Pietilä’s failure indicates the limits of Critical Regionalism as well as transcultural architecture in general. When the critical side of critical regionalism is not supported by a consensus of the receiving side, mutual understanding is impossible. Connah predicted all this in the 1980s by asking “how legible in an Arabic manner was such a project?” pointing out that the Kuwaiti “people” would most probably have preferred “the more accommodating shift to a scenic referential project and architecture” such as the “parodic” precedent of the Hubbard Sief Palace (1989: 338). Critical Regionalism, as it flows out of postmodernism, post-colonialism, post-industrialism, post-communism and still some other “posts,” is dependent on ironies and playful attitudes that will not necessarily be understood in countries in which more straightforward histories tend to shape expressions in more literal fashions. As mentioned, it is difficult to estimate what the “general” Kuwaiti public has been thinking of the building because the premises have never been public. To some extent the decisions of the “authorities” might reflect the tendency of



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

77

“the public.” However, I have also been talking to many Kuwaitis who expressed regrets and found the present modifications, as far as they were aware of them, very unfortunate. 5.6 A Brief Comparison with Two Other Buildings It is useful to have a brief look at how two other official buildings have been conceived by Western architects in similar situations. Utzon’s National Assembly, located only two kilometers away from the Ministry down the Gulf Street, is a similar example of Critical Regionalism. However, this building is regularly put forward in Kuwaiti government discourses as a building that the nation should be proud on. What saved this building in the eyes of the Kuwaiti public might be the fact that Utzon applied principles of Critical Regionalism without taking the imponderable risk of making his statement too radically transcultural. Mahgoub believes that Utzon “incorporates the essence of the tradition in its contemporary design. The building was designed as a grand souq covered by a large tent” (Mahgoub 2007: 78). Also Connah perceives a “noble heroism” (1989: 343) in this building. Like Pietilä, Utzon uses Arab elements in a very abstract fashion, but the result as well as the reactions it provokes are almost opposed to that of Pietilä’s Ministry. I do not agree with Mahgoub’s and Connah’s evaluations. I rather think that Utzon’s abstraction went even further with the result that any link with the realm of the concrete got almost lost; and that this is what eventually saved his case. Pietilä’s “skin architecture” could have claimed Bedouin heritance but Pietilä never attempted to do so. As a matter of fact, Utzon’s Bedouin tent metaphor is not much clearer than Pietilä’s. However, what saves Utzon’s building is that it can also look plainly modern and this without any ambiguity. The regionalist input (especially for superficial observers) remains extremely limited. To the Kuwaiti passerby the Assembly will most probably appear like a straightforward Chandigarhian modernist expression, radical in its own right, but clearly “Western” and not at all regionalist. In other words, Utzon’s National Assembly can best be interpreted as an example of a Western modern design that has been “liberated” from certain Western constraints—but not more. Another parliament building is Louis Kahn’s National Assembly in Dhaka. Like Pietilä, Kahn believed that the language of form can transcend cultural differences and like Pietilä’s Ministry, Kahn’s Parliament is definitely “strange.” Also Kahn refused local style while attempting to mediate between global and local culture through transculturalism (Faruki: 15). However, what kind of mediation has this been? Much more than Pietilä’s, the building is overpowering and—even more—it appears as a Western and foreign imposition. Kahn’s explanation that the water and the mounds employed in this building are essential characteristics of Bangladesh appears rather facile and far-fetched. However, for some reason, Kahn managed to establish the emotional dialogue with the local public that Pietilä’s Ministry could never attain. How Kahn managed to do this is difficult to establish but one reason might be that the Dhaka building emanates a mysterious and spiritual aura for which Pietilä’s was perhaps striving, but which he never achieved. The result is that

78

Transcultural Architecture

local architects imitate Kahn’s style (Ali 1985) and about 50 percent of architects working in Bangladesh “are in some manner or another coping with it” (Curtis 1985). Connah concluded already in 1989 that in the future the Kuwaiti public will probably reject Pietilä’s Ministry building because the “eclectic Arabic taste may not have wanted such a dominant, directional, literally (willful) modern design” (1989: 339). However, the present chapter has made clear that the real reason why it has been rejected is not its modernism. Given that Utzon’s building is equally modern in appearance, this simply cannot have been the reason. Modern buildings are in general well received in Kuwait. Even more, the Ministry did contain Arab elements inside and the Kuwaiti architects sealed these openings by using stereotypical modern geometrical shapes, making the remaining Arab input invisible from the outside. What the Kuwaiti “public” found disturbing was not the modernist aspect of the building, but Pietilä’s transcultural interpretation of the Arab elements. What they abhorred was neither regionalism nor modernism, but the adventurous mixture of both, that is: they abhorred transculturalism and Critical Regionalism. Paradoxically, a blandly modern Western building would probably not have produced a culture shock at all, while Pietilä’s careful transcultural approach obviously did.

Notes 1.

Most of the projects discussed were signed by Reima Pietilä and his wife Raili. Though I normally mention both where appropriate, for convenience’s sake I refer in some contexts only to Reima Pietilä.

2.

Since in Arabic ‘i’ and ‘e’ are the same letters, both transcriptions are possible.

3.

This building was supposed to have half the size of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and have about 600 employees. The project was abandoned and the ministry would finally be built inside the compound of the Ministry Complex in neighbouring Al-Mirqab.

4.

An official permission could never be obtained. Several petitions from official organizations (universities, embassies, and so on) have been rejected.

5.

Shiber noted that the plan of Kuwait is formalistic like that of eighteenth century Karlsruhe where concentric radials revolve around the chateau (Shiber: 79).

6.

Apart from Kenzo Tange’s Kuwait Airport, these remain the only internationally known buildings in Kuwait. I.M. Pei’s Hilton Area Housing (1977) and the Al Salaam Plan are not very well known, just like Skidmore, Owings & Merrill, Al-Ahli Bank (1987). The AlHamra Tower, equally by SOM, has just been accomplished.

7.

Zahra Freeth relates—in a humorous fashion—how the population would perceive the transfer of the harbor. Seafaring families had been asked to attend a meeting of the Council of Ministers to offer their point of view on the matter. Here is an exchange: “I hope you told them that we all want the boats along the sea-front, as this is one of the most delightful and picturesque features of Kuwait.” “No, we all agreed that it was a good idea to get rid of them from new Kuwait. Then we can have an elegant promenade along the front, and not the untidy mess that boats make when they come into harbor” (Freeth 1971: 101).



Reima Pietilä’s Kuwait Buildings Revisited

8.

The semi-mythical king Gilgamesh is said to have ruled Uruk in the twenty-seventh century BC. The city lost its importance around 2000 BC.

9.

The choice of colors seems to have been Raili Pietilä’s work. See Quantrill 1985: 164.

79

10. A serai is a Turkish or Middle Eastern palace or a caravansary. 11. “Tout rhizome comprend des signes de segmentarité d’après lesquelles il est stratifié, territorialisé, organisé, signifié, attribué, etc. mais aussi des lignes déterritorialisation par lesquelles il fuit sans cesse. Il y a rupture dans le rhizome chaque fois que des lignes segmentaires explosent dans une ligne de fuite, mais la ligne de fuite fait partie du rhizome” (Deleuze and Guattari 1980: 16). 12. It would of course be interesting to not only comment upon the “authorities’“ view and treatment of the building, but also upon its reception by the larger Kuwaiti public. Unfortunately this is not possible because the complex finds itself completely “locked away,” first because it is not accessible to the public and second, because the original buildings are hidden behind new structures. Even Kuwaitis with a keen interest in local culture are often not aware of the existence of the Ministry, let alone its history. The few Kuwaiti people who have been in contact with the building are visitors of the ministry, and their opinions are not representative of the average population. 13. The diwaniya is typically Kuwaiti. It is a reception area where a man receives his business colleagues and male guests. It is an indispensable feature of a Kuwaiti man’s social life. 14. Jacobsen’s National Bank of Kuwait and to Kenzo Tange’s Kuwait Airport have been submitted to similar treatments. 15. On Pietilä’s defamiliarization and its affinities with the Russian ostranenie will be discussed in Chapter 2. 16. The critical thinking skills were measured by California Critical Thinking Skills Test (CCTST), a standardized assessment tool. 17. The Blair report, which has been heavily criticized in Kuwait, is not accessible to the public but parts of it can be found on wikileaks (http://www.wikileaks.org/plusd/ cables/09KUWAIT1196_a.html). This is what the report says about education in Kuwait: “The Blair report polled over 40 countries from around the globe, and cites the results of the Trends in International Mathematics and Science Study (TIMSS) and the Progress in International Reading Literacy Study (PIRLS). TIMSS measures the mathematics and science achievements of fourth and eighth grade students in the United States against data gathered from students of the same age in other countries. In 2007, the last year the test was administered, Kuwait ranked near the bottom among both fourth and eighth graders in mathematics. Among eighth graders, Kuwait ranked 44 out of 48 countries surveyed, immediately below Botswana. In the 2006 PIRLS, Kuwait’s students ranked 42 out of 45 countries surveyed. According to 2008 figures from the Ministry of Education, recently documented in the press, 50,000 Kuwaiti citizen children between the ages of 10 and 14 (out of a total of 131,000 Kuwaiti children in that age group) have not completed elementary school.”

This page has been left blank intentionally

2 Empathy, Abstraction, Style, Non-Style: Reima Pietilä’s Philosophy

Introduction While Chapter 1 examined particular buildings by Pietilä, this chapter approaches the architect from an angle that some might consider the most difficult: through his theoretical writings. Pietilä is difficult to handle though (or just because) as a writer, he was very active in “explaining” his practical activities with the help of theoretical reflections. I am trying to get access to Pietilä’s architectural expressions by concentrating on three notions that I believe to be essential: style, empathy, and abstraction. The question of style also includes what can be called the contrary of style, that is, style in its “negative” form as not just an “anti-style” (see below), but as the negation of any style aiming at the formation of a quality that can be designated as “absolute stylelessness.” The results of this analysis will be used for further interpretations of the Kuwait project. Another question I am trying to answer is whether the strategies of style, empathy, and abstraction are compatible with Critical Regionalism or with any kind of regionalism for that matter. Much has been said about Pietilä’s relationship with Critical Regionalism in the preceding chapter. In general, Pietilä’s anti-functionalist approaches relate to cultural and historical references as well as to an outspoken philosophy of the genius loci. Still, the experimental character of his works seems to make them unsuitable for regionalist applications, at least in certain situations as could be concluded from studying the Kuwait project.

1. Style and Non-Style The problem of style and non-style appears in a passage in which Pietilä comments on his best known work, the Dipoli building in Otaniemi (1966): Dipoli is contrary to good taste (inasmuch as style is the consistency of convention). It is the contrary of the tried and accepted rules of composition.

82

Transcultural Architecture

Defends the right to be different, yet it is architecture, and believes that architecture is more than just one (architecture favored) type of building. Adds to our insight what a building is. Opposes the view that architecture is only good if deadly serious. (Pietilä 1988: 55)

The Dipoli building is “styleless” in a radically negating or even nihilist sense. It is against conventions (stylistic as well as others) and carefully avoids any identification with new anti-styles (functionalist or postmodern, to cite only two examples).1 For Pietilä, the aim of “being styleless” is to create aesthetic, conceptual, and architectural confusion: “There are no preconceived, readymade unit areas in Dipoli; there is also no single-concept pattern to regulate the way in which the space takes shape. In Dipoli the aim is no longer that one should see and remember a morphological event just by looking” (Pietilä 1988: 55). Pietilä creates confusion but he does not intend to simply leave us in a nihilistic state of disorientation. On the contrary, this nihilism is so absolute that it seems to negate itself. Looking at Pietilä’s buildings we are confused because we perceive deviations from the norm that we cannot classify or explain. Finally, this is supposed to lead us to the most essential architectural insight that one can desire: according to Pietilä it adds “to our insight into what a building is” (Pietilä 1988: 55). How does Pietilä produce this state of disorientation? He does so by assuming a “childlike” role. Thus, in his words, the aim is “to re-experience my environment in a new way each time. And like a child, finding a new way, I apply it” (Pietilä 1988: 55). Obviously, the act of “re-experiencing” is not derived from the classical strategy of empathy (that will be examined in the next section), but it takes place on the ground of the absolute negation of all prior experiences. In other words, there is a kind of radical nihilism at the basis of Pietilä’s “styleless” architecture. This “stylelessness” is also the reason why Pietilä maintains such a fundamentally negative relationship with postmodernism. Pietilä himself did not believe the concept of the “postmodern” to be relevant in any way, nor did he see any link between postmodernism and his own work. On the other hand, there are statements by Pietilä that can make us inclined to associate at least some of his thoughts with typical postmodern concepts such as pluralism, relativism, and the reliance on concrete experience over abstract principles. Pietilä claims, for example, that by “rejecting technocratic determinism and architecture’s present analytic form, [we should] develop new parameters [which] must include ‘plurality”.” By plurality he understands “architecture subcultures [and] languages with their own syntax” (1988: 33). Pietilä’s “pluralism” can also be understood as a theoretical basis for Critical Regionalism. However, I would argue that his thoughts on plurality and subcultures do function only within a more fundamental aesthetic system determined by the approach towards a “styleless style.”

Empathy, Abstraction, Style, Non-Style: Reima Pietilä’s Philosophy

83

2. Empathy and Abstraction Several insights into Pietilä’s work can be gained by concentrating on the concept of empathy and abstraction. Both notions have been abundantly discussed in German philosophy of the early twentieth century and it is interesting to retrace the terms’ meanings by looking at those theoretical discussions. At the beginning of the twentieth century abstraction has often been described as the contrary of empathy. One of the most influential books about aesthetic theory (if not the most influential) of that time is Wilhelm Worringer’s book Abstraktion und Einfühlung (Abstraction and Empathy, 1907). In this book, Worringer develops an aesthetic conception for which all art is divided into two categories: one dependent on an act of Einfühlung (empathy), and one dependent on an act of abstraction. Worringer’s understanding of these terms is specific in at least one point. Einfühlung is seen as the active re-experiencing of an object and it requires a particular condition: it can only take place at the moment when the subject possesses a “happily pantheistic relationship of familiarity” (“glückliches pantheistisches Vertraulichkeitsverhältnis,” p. 48) towards the world she is living in. This means that only a subject who identifies herself with the world can also re-experience (“sich in etwas einfühlen”) it. This has one decisive consequence: in the last instance, while re-experiencing the world, the subject re-experiences herself since what she finds in the re-experienced object is always—more or less—a projection of her own self. Worringer finds that empathy always follows a circular pattern: in the last instance, while re-experiencing the world, we merely re-experience ourselves, since what we find in the re-experienced object is always (at least partly) a projection of our own selves. Worringer thus claims that the act of Einfühlung should be seen as an act of self-affirmation (Selbstbejahung). The contrary of Einfühlung is abstraction. Logically, the preconditions of abstraction are diametrically opposed to those of Einfühlung. Abstraction takes place when humans do not feel “comfortable” within their world, when they see reasons to feel disquieted (beunruhigt) about their environment and are unable to empathize it. The state of “being disquieted” is most typically produced by the loss of a (pantheistic) center that lets humans perceive the world as no more than an arbitrary constellation of forces and appearances. The “loss of the center” is a motive linked to Enlightenment philosophy and will be examined below. Humans who feel uncomfortable in this decentered world, strive to establish a “quiet place” (Ruhepunkt) by abstracting the disordered objects from their natural forms and contexts. Then they will find a lawful and necessary order of the world in the form of an abstraction. Worringer’s opposition of empathy vs. stylizing and abstracting activities in culture has been accepted, by and large, by more than one generation of twentieth-century aestheticians. In a typically modern context, “stylization” (the act of imposing a style on objects) is seen as an activity able to establish a pleasurable balance within aesthetic expressions by working with the device of abstraction. And in many cases where this approach has been criticized, the critique called

84

Transcultural Architecture

for a surplus of humanistic empathy able to soften a world entirely governed by abstraction. Then “direct experience” replaces scientific enquiry; warmth and feeling replaces functions; regionalism replaces internationalism; and sometimes, the irrational-organic replaces rationalism.

3. Regionalism The latter dichotomy opposing the irrational-organic to the rational echoes Frampton’s definition of Critical Regionalism as a combination of “the rationality of normative technique” and the “arationality of idiosyncratic forms” (Frampton 1981: 22). We finds similar thoughts in earlier writings related to architectural regionalism, for example in Sigfried Giedion’s Space, Time and Architecture where the author attributes much attention to the “split between thought and feeling” in modern life (Giedion 1967: 395), and designs a concept that has been adopted by many architects and thinkers interested in regionalism ever since. The following quotation from Giedion perfectly well illustrates how much regionalist thought is in keeping with Worringer’s premises: A good share of the misfortunes of the past century came out of the belief that industry and techniques had only a functional import with no emotional content. The arts were exiled into an isolated realism of their own, completely insulated from everyday realities. As a result, life lost unity and balance; science and industry made steady advances, but in the now detached realm of feeling there was nothing but a vacillation from one extreme to the other. (1967: 350)

By its nature, Worringer’s ‘empathy vs. abstraction’ concept is related to questions of regionalism in architecture inasmuch as at the root of all regionalism resides the quest for a certain amount of empathy directed towards concrete cultural and historical expressions. On the other hand, more abstract systems can also be called for once the (cultural, traditional, historical) center is believed to be lost. Then a more abstract style that is unrelated to concrete historical patterns is asked for and is supposed to reestablish a lawful and necessary order of the world in the form of an abstraction. However, once again this style can be seen as too abstract; in that case, a call for more empathy and more regionalist vocabulary will be issued, and so on. While regionalism is clearly on the side of empathy, Critical Regionalism seems to work towards a balance of empathy and abstraction. It is not wrong to conclude that some architects who are linked to Critical Regionalism have successfully managed to steer a middle course between abstraction and empathy. Aalto stands perhaps more than anybody else for this option because his expressions are modern though manifesting at the same time a “deep identification with his native environment” (Benevolo 1971: 703). Demetri Porphyrios and many others have put forward the “Scandinavian Arts and Crafts Ideology” as a combination of vernacular primitivism which, as “quality guarantor,” also fosters (in a very modern way) industrial production. Porphyrios holds that the phenomenon “Alvar Aalto” can be

Empathy, Abstraction, Style, Non-Style: Reima Pietilä’s Philosophy

85

explained only on the grounds of this Scandinavian craft movement (Porphyrios 1982: 80–81) because we find in Aalto naturalistic metaphors that are conceptually intertwined with modern expressions of industrial aesthetics which, in some way, represents the perfect state of balance between abstraction and empathy that nineteenth-century aestheticians were dreaming of. I said “nineteenth century,” which means that the belief in the possibility of such a balance is basically pre-modern, if not to say romantic. It goes back to the romantic will to harmoniously coordinate “natural savageness” and institutionalized order. In cases where this aesthetics has been applied, the Hegelian “kunstschöne” became a “naturschöne,” which is another Nordic idea, developed in particular by Gustav Strengell in his book Staden som Konstwerk (1922) by which Aalto was very much influenced. Strengell wanted any “intentional, conscious will to style” (“medveted stilvilja”) to be replaced with “unconscious instinct.” Can the above ideas on empathy and abstraction still be used today? The combination of “nature” and “order,” in which we hear the distinct echo of empathy and abstraction, reappears once again, in a more modern form, as the ideology of “lifestyle” that will be the subject of the final section of this chapter. The problem is that older philosophies combining instinctive nature and rational order had mainly occupied the heads of those thinkers that had not yet been confronted with the reality of the consumer society, industrial production, and competition. “Critical Regionalism,” on the other hand, is related to all those newer cultural phenomena. Pietilä’s unusual position becomes clear here. With his “styleless style,” he breaks with “regionalist” ideologies and goes beyond all forms of regionalism (including the “critical” one). He creates a new form of regionalism that has been called “ironical regionalism” in the preceding chapter. In other words, while Aalto still represents a compromise of abstraction and empathy, Pietilä’s “styleless style” confronts us with something that cannot be grasped with the help of Worringer’s system. “Styleless style” is neither an abstract structure nor a mere subject of empathy. In still other words, Pietilä deconstructs the dichotomy of empathy and abstraction in his very own fashion.

4. Ironical Regionalism Pietilä says that his work settles between the rational and the irrational thus relativizing both. While Frampton suggests something similar for the purpose of Critical Regionalism, it is far from certain that Frampton would idealize Pietilä’s “ironical” expressions or his thoughts about it. Still it is tempting to see Pietilä’s above suggestion as a recipe for “Critical Regionalism.” In his early (sometimes called “rationalist”) phase, Pietilä mocks the popular idea that “the artist creates an artistic synthesis only by intuition, which is a conception that has by now become flat and vulgar” (Pietilä 1957/58a). At that time, whenever it came to forms and morphologies, Pietilä decided to believe in mathematics rather than in intuition or empathy. Of course, this point, that mathematics should replace empathy, is difficult to reconcile with Pietilä’s later phase unless we qualify Pietilä as an ironist

86

Transcultural Architecture

able to simultaneously handle rationality and irrationality. The idea of “ironism” referred to here, has been formulated by Richard Rorty in his book Contingency, Irony and Solidarity, where he writes: “The liberal metaphysician wants a final vocabulary with an internal organic structure, one which is not split down in the middle by a public-private distinction, not just a patchwork” (Rorty 1989: 92). It follows that Aalto should be called a liberalist metaphysician while Pietilä appears like an ironist preferring the existence of patchworks not held together by any structure: neither by rational (modern, scientific, international) structures nor by irrational (regionalist, organic) ones. The liberalist manages to unite different realms through compromises uniting the public with the private as well as the abstract with the empathic. Aalto is doing precisely this by means of his crafty and primitivist—though still modern—architecture of the organic. “Nature,” a subject that will be dealt with below, plays an important role here. First of all, however, it needs to be emphasized that Pietilä’s irony consists of playing the modern game of experimental patchworks without pretending, in a seriously humanist or liberalist manner (as did Aalto), that he is able to produce patchworks with organic structures. Pietilä fights anti-functionalist approaches by using references strongly linked to the environment, to history, and to culture (his main reproach towards Gropius is that “he cast history out of the Bauhaus,” 1979, p. 5). Pietilä uses the same strategy when fighting eclectic, superficial, collage-like, historicist postmodernism. True, with regard to the latter, Pietilä continues the work of the second generation of “modernists,” especially that of Aalto. However, for Pietilä the distinction between an abstract/unfamiliar/estranged environment and a familiar/normal/pleasant one has become irrelevant. Malcolm Quantrill draws on precisely this point when highlighting Pietilä’s “ability to look at what is familiar … [in order to] discover in that familiarity something that is entirely and often shockingly new.” Quantrill quotes Pietilä’s claim that “architecture, like natural growth, needs to be studied in order to seek out its generative forces, which depend not upon predetermined patterns of material behavior but are subject to accidents and quirks” (Quantrill 1983: 174–5).

5. “Making Things Strange” The ambition to discover something “shockingly new” in what is believed to be the most familiar is, of course, reminiscent of the typically modern device of Russian Formalism called ostranenie popularized through Viktor Shklovsky’s essay “Art as a Device.” Ostranenie means “making the familiar strange,” to alienate or to “de-automatize,” and in the context of modernist aesthetics, it can be related to Worringer’s concept of abstraction. At the same time, we are staying in the proximity of Critical Regionalism. Tzonis and Lefaivre use Shklovsky’s term precisely pointing out that Critical Regionalism “pricks the conscience” of the viewer by disrupting “the sentimental embrace between buildings and their consumers [and] ‘de-automatizing’ perception” (Tzonis and Lefaivre 1991: 3). The authors contrast

Empathy, Abstraction, Style, Non-Style: Reima Pietilä’s Philosophy

87

ostranenie with the Romantic regionalist method of familiarization. Through ostranenie, Critical Regionalism challenges “not only the established actual world but the legitimacy of the possible world view in the minds of the people” (Tzonis and Lefaivre 1991: 3). One thing that ostranenie will avoid is, for example, kitsch. The above pattern of thought refers us back to Worringer’s opposition of empathy and abstraction. An important point is that, curiously, thoughts about “making things strange” were formulated at a time when many people felt that the world is becoming stranger and stranger. Empathy was needed in order to make the estranged world “feelable” again. Worringer’s book is a reflection of this ambition. Humans felt estranged or alienated from the world because the world had become too abstract. What was needed in their view were concrete objects permitting more empathy. However, how can this empathy be obtained? Simply by adding more feeling, more regionalism and more nostalgia? If we follow this approach, we might possibly end up with kitsch. Here the Russian Formalists’ ostranenie turns out to be a unique suggestion. In their view, ostranenie and empathy are not opposed to each other but linked since a maximum of empathy can be obtained precisely through ostranenie. The complex relationships between ostranenie, empathy, and abstraction need to be explained. 5.1 Verfremdung, Entfremdung, Ostranenie “Alienation” is ostranenie in Russian and Verfremdung in German. Verfremdung is an aesthetic term coined by Brecht usually translated into English as “distancing effect” but also occasionally as “alienation effect” or “estrangement effect.” Entfremdung is a term popularized by Karl Marx when pondering in his early writings about the alienating effects of life under capitalism. Marx did not invent the term himself but borrowed it from Hegel’s legal philosophy in order to draw attention to a degeneration of modern society. Throughout Marx’s works, the term is primarily used in the sense of psychological alienation.2 According to the German philosopher, alienation appears when the producers can no longer identify themselves and their own objectives with the products they produce. They are alienated or estranged because society has lost its historical mission of producing a world adequate to human conditions. What is the semantic link between Verfremdung (making things strange) and Entfremdung (being estranged)? It would be hasty to conclude that Entfremdung is produced by one or several acts of Verfremdung. The world’s Entfremdung has not been brought about by humans through any conscious acts of Verfremdung. The contrary is true: the Entfremdung of the world has not been directly imposed upon the world by humans in the same way they would impose a certain aesthetic form or a certain “style” on the world in which they live. Entfremdung has rather been produced by the development of science, and science did not really alienate (verfremden) the human world. Modern science did not change an already existing world by alienating it from its original state, but it simply separated the human world from its own realm of science. Afterwards this scientific world would be declared to

88

Transcultural Architecture

be the only “real” world. This means that the production of the “entfremdete” world was not due to an act of Verfremdung but to an act of creation. Though having the same linguistic root, Verfremdung and Entfremdung can be opposed to each other. Entfremdung did not come about through Verfremdung. The character of another relationship—that between Verfremdung and Einfühlung—is no less surprising. Verfremdung and Einfühlung are not clearly opposed to each other, but they have certain things in common. Even more, the concept of Verfremdung has developed out of the idea of Einfühlung. The act of abstraction is a kind of Verfremdung and this is the reason why Verfremdung could once be seen as the opposite of the Einfühlung (given Worringer’s scheme which opposes abstraction to Einfühlung). However, this scheme is problematic. Though the concept of Einfühlung has been dealt with by several philosophers throughout the nineteenth century, a real aesthetics of Einfühlung has been developed mainly by the German philosopher Theodor Lipps (1851–1914) and his followers. Lipps’ aesthetics characterizes the culminating point of subjectivist philosophy for which aesthetic examination should not focus on the object of understanding but on the subject. For an “einfühlender” subjectivist it is not the form of the aesthetic object but the disposition of the contemplating person that constitutes the decisive moment in human understanding (Lipps 1902). It is at exactly this point that we meet with an objection to the preceding reflections on Einfühlung and abstraction. If the object of aesthetic contemplation is not perceived as it “really is,” and if it is “verfremdet” (estranged) through the perceiver’s subjectivity, then the act of Einfühlung needs to be seen as an act implying a moment of Verfremdung. Einfühlung and Verfremdung are opposed to each other but they are derived from the same root. And the same is true for Worringer’s couple Einfühlung and abstraction. Worringer depicts the entire history of art as a development shifting between the two aesthetic principles. However, what he neglects is that none of the two principles can ever appear on its own without being assisted by the other. An “einfühlende” act which re-experiences an object always abstracts from this object because the object will never enter “directly” into the contemplating person’s mind. This interdependence of Einfühlung and abstraction is essential for aesthetics. 5.2 Estrangement and the Loss of the Center If we want to understand the underlying philosophical reasons for the conceptual difference between the terms Verfremdung and Entfremdung we need to go deeper into that part of intellectual history in which alienation or estrangement were for the first time felt and formulated. Though ostranenie—the act of making things strange, of estranging or alienating familiar expressions—was developed by the Russian Formalists, the idea of alienation or estrangement has ancestors that are much older. The human feeling of being “alienated” can be traced back to the seventeenth century. French philosopher Alexander Koyré has shown how in early European enlightenment man loses not only his central place in the world, but also the

Empathy, Abstraction, Style, Non-Style: Reima Pietilä’s Philosophy

89

world itself, which causes a feeling of estrangement. The thought of Bacon, Montaigne, Pascal, and Descartes incites a crisis of belief because according to those philosophies “man had to transform and to replace not only his most fundamental conceptions, but also the very structures of his thought” (Koyré 1962: 10). The central place in the universe has been lost, but humans will exchange the lost center of their emotional and intellectual life with an abstract center which they still call “God,” but also “Absolute Being.” This new center is not physical (it is not a part of the “real” world), but metaphysical (it is alienated from the “real” world man is living in). The new metaphysical God is thus not concrete but abstract. However, the power of this abstract God is not infinite, and the new, abstract center cannot last forever. It is Newton’s world view and the work of modern science that let any centralized universe appear as an idealist illusion. Finally, one finds that the world as a calculable object of science cannot have a particularly “human” center. The scientific world is, strictly speaking, “another world” which does not overlap with the everyday world of human beings. “Newton split our world in two [by] substituting our world of quality … in which we live, and love, and die, by another world in which there is no place for man,” writes Koyré in his Newtonian studies (Koyré 1968: 23–4). Once again, humans have lost their world as a central place of life, love, and feeling. This time, however, the center cannot be replaced by some sort of idea nor can it be replaced by something concrete. The state of affairs resulting from this situation has often been characterized as one of estrangement of the human from her world. The physicists Prigogine and Stengers write that the “real world” (meaning the world of science) has become “estranged” and “utterly divorced from the world of life” (Prigogine and Stengers 1985: 36). Humans will see the scientific, modern world as something that is “estranged.” As a result, they have difficulties establishing any personal links to this world. Their particularly human thoughts, ideas, and feelings are not reflected by this “real” world. There is no “feeling,” and certainly no “empathy” as a possible relationship between man and science. The term Einfühlung is of particular interest in this context because it has played such an important role in the transformation of the relationship between man and his world in the age of science. It has been shown that Einfühlung is not just “feeling” but that in the history of particularly German aesthetics, the concept of Einfühlung has developed into something quite ambiguous and complex.

6. Empathy and Alienation in the Architecture of Alvar Aalto and Reima Pietilä Pietilä’s intellectual and practical strategies need to be reconsidered against this historical background. Aalto chooses a “middle way” between empathy and alienation, which is the “balanced aesthetic state” within which an alienated and “made strange” reality offers the possibility of empathy. Worringer attributed the creation of abstract expressions to the human “disquietude about nature.” It is

90

Transcultural Architecture

essential to point out that in Finland, it was exactly not such a disquietude which produced Aalto’s modernism. On the contrary, the idea of modernity, including abstractness, functionalism, simplicity, and so on invaded Finland while the “happily familiar relationship with nature” (Worringer’s expression) still existed. We encounter here a philosophical problem that Martin Heidegger has described as the main philosophical tasks of our time: the necessity to “twist out” (“herausdrehen”) reasonable Platonism out of a course of eternal reversals. What he means is that we should try to overcome a certain thought pattern (Platonism in his case) not only by merely inverting it, but also by developing “new” ways of thinking and of aesthetic expression (see Heidegger, 1961: 233). In architecture this signifies that the “reasonable-functional” should not simply be overcome through its reversal into something “irrational-organic.” While Aalto’s humanism appears like a compromise, Pietilä appears as the architect who found the alternative that goes (in the Heideggerian sense) beyond both Platonism and anti-Platonism. The modern concept of “alienation” has constantly been exposed to the danger of becoming formalized by being reduced to an aesthetic device that follows certain “rules of alienation.” This is actually due to the fact that “alienation” has been seen as a kind of “inverted empathy.” As a result, the modern idea of alienation (Verfremdung) has, in general, led to the creation of a world of estrangement (Entfremdung). I can follow Porphyrios’ argumentation that the “Scandinavian Arts and Crafts Ideology” used vernacular primitivism as “quality guarantor.” We find in Aalto crafty, “natural,” forms, naturalistic metaphors, primitivist devices intertwined with modern expressions of industrial aesthetics, which might represent the perfect state of balance between abstraction (alienation) and empathy. However, as mentioned, I think that the belief in the possibility of such a balance is basically pre-modern. How will the “empathy vs. abstraction” theme be handled today? Aalto’s unique attempt to reunite alienation and empathy, abstraction, and feeling has been continued by Pietilä who added some new elements. Pietilä strives to “alienate” his architectural expressions, but his concept of “alienation” or “estrangement” is different from its modern, and also from its post-modern use. The Russian Formalists had the idea of bringing the estranged world back to man by making it even stranger. The world, they said, is lost only because its purely technological routine has made humans “dull” until they no longer “feel” the world as it really is. For this reason we need to “alienate” (“verfremden”) the world with all its perceptible aesthetic expression. The routinized way of seeing the world must be exposed to “shocks” by confronting it with something unusual and “strange.” Then the world will become “feelable” again. In the end, this means that “alienation” helps cancel the situation of estrangement and to produce empathy. Pietilä ambition is to create spaces in which empathy is absolutely impossible. This means that the newly created space cannot be perceived as an “alienation” from a preceding form. In other words, the world he creates is not an “alienated” one but a deconstructed one: Pietilä’s works cannot be seen, understood, remembered, in the same way we can see pre-modern, modern, or post-modern architecture. Pietilä writes that “in Dipoli the aim is no longer that one should see and remember

Empathy, Abstraction, Style, Non-Style: Reima Pietilä’s Philosophy

91

a morphological event just by looking at it” (Pietilä 1985: 55). “Deconstruction” should here be understood in its broadest sense as a sort of radical “alienation,” radical to the point that it has been freed of its counterpart called “empathy.” It has been shown above that this counterpart has accompanied alienation through all phases of modernity—including post-modernity. With Pietilä, the older device of alienation has been overcome in the most consistent fashion: the familiar is not “made strange” and alienated from its everyday expression but it is adopted as an expression of familiarity and then used in order to express something “shockingly new” (Pietilä). At the moment the concept of alienation is deconstructed, the other concept, that of empathy, loses any ground and justification. Let us summarize. In Pietilä’s work we encounter ostranenie in its most radical fashion because his “making things strange” is not destined to produce any form of empathy as a final product. Nor does it effectuate an abstraction from an original “real” world (that could still be empathized), to a “strange” world that cannot be empathized. For Pietilä, “making things strange” means to place familiar associations into a “strange” light—and to leave them there. In this sense, Pietilä uses ostranenie in a more radical fashion than the Russian Formalists had ever intended. The Formalists’ declared aim was to make the world “feelable again” just by making it stranger. Ostranenie manages to “make the stone stony,” said Victor Shklovsky (1990/1965: 67/18). For Pietilä, the final result is neither empathy nor some abstract form of style but simply, as Pietilä affirms in the quote presented at the beginning of this chapter, an “insight into what a building is.” In other words, through ostranenie, architecture becomes more architectural—but nothing more. No empathy, no organic structure, no style. This elucidates Pietilä’s apparently obscure concept of “styleless style.” Though there is a formalist intention at the root of Pietilä’s approach, his work differs from almost all early modern aesthetic approaches because his “making things strange” leads towards a completely different end. Pietilä’s “making things strange” produces an anti-style while “modernists” tend to make things strange in order to produce a certain style or, more and more often, lifestyle. I would hold that Critical Regionalism represents the most recent stage of this continuous line of developments and Pietilä stands outside this entire field, paradoxically, because he is too critical.

7. Lifestyle To make the point clearer, I will now present some approaches that differ from Pietilä’s radical philosophy of non-style. The fusion of abstract aesthetic structures (generally called style) with “real” life that can be empathized, results in a typically modern project aiming at the production of a certain style of life or a lifestyle. Pioneer of abstract art Piet Mondrian writes along these lines in a manifesto from 1947: “We must tend towards universal representation and detachment from the pressure of nature. Then we shall no longer have need of paintings and statues,

92

Transcultural Architecture

because we shall be living within art. Art will disappear from life in the measure in which life itself gains in balance.”3 If we follow this project to the end, life will become art and art will become life, which represents precisely the formula of “lifestyle.” The lifestyle project is obviously fed by the Nietzschean nostalgia for a cultural truth able to represent a harmonious whole composed of life, thought, appearance, and will. It is important to point out that Mondrian needs the category of nature in order to express such a state of affairs. The first item that will be transformed into art is not really life but nature and Mondrian explains why. We, who prefer the playful dealings of style and of aesthetics, feel that nature is pressuring us too much with its mundane necessities. Nature should remain the all-embracing, impenetrable, and eternal model for life, but at the same time, it should be replaced with new shapes and new creations. It should be replaced with a new version of art covering all aspects of human life. This new model of nature-culture will be called “lifestyle” and it will be as comprehensive as nature. In other words, life will be turned into a work of art as self-evident and easygoing as nature. This is obviously more than an Aaltonian synthesis of empathy and abstraction. In a way, it transcends both. Lifestyle is supposed to be a utopian state of human civilization in which (natural) life has become indistinguishable from art. Could this be the formula that also Pietilä was looking for? Of course not, because Pietilä does not want lifestyle but non-style. His non-style is neither an Aaltonian fusion of empathy and abstraction nor is it a re-edition of style in the sense of Mondrian or the De Stijl project. Pietilä explicitly refuses De Stijl-like humanism, a philosophy that intended to give a “total vision” back to the world not through ostranenie, but through a fusion of nature with art. In a carré bleu article from 1980, Pietilä dismisses all of the De Stijl’s strategies because according to him, they are “based on a pantheistic and spiritual view of nature” (1980).

8. Dream What is Pietilä’s view of nature? Superficial interpretations of Pietilä associate his way of “making things strange” to an approach aiming at the perfect interpenetration of nature and life, most probably because this seems to make perfect sense in a Nordic environment. This perspective usually perceives Pietilä’s work—as if he were Aalto—as strongly related to the Scandinavian Arts and Crafts Movement. Carmine Benincasa, for example, offers this view when writing about Pietilä: Architecture is in symbiosis with nature, and not an artifact or a contradiction invented by man (as the classical idea would affirm). Architecture serves humans and their well-being when they can experiment the presence of architecture in the same way in which they experiment the natural environment. This becomes possible when the architectural space has been composed in the same way in which is composed the natural space. (Benincasa 1979: 47)

Empathy, Abstraction, Style, Non-Style: Reima Pietilä’s Philosophy

93

Most often, such analyses are supported by reflections on Aalto and Finnish architecture, together with certain considerations of the meaning of the “organic” in architecture. However, Pietilä does not express his ideas of “strangeness” in terms of style or any other sort of coherent structure; the “organic” is entirely uncalled-for here and labelling Pietilä an “organic” architect is entirely misleading. Instead, his leading conceptual metaphor is that of dream. It is indeed possible to link Pietilä to some of those European thinkers who developed a sort of “aesthetics of dream,” among whom are Walter Benjamin, Antonin Artaud and Andrei Tarkovsky.4 One point that those three thinkers have in common is that they lived within a very tense relationship with modernity without being in the slightest sense “postmodern.” For Benjamin, to gain knowledge about the world is a matter of a sudden “awakening” to the real world. He finds that many “images” through which we perceive the world settle right between reality and dream. To illustrate the quality of these images, Benjamin quotes a passage from Proust, which describes the experience of awakening at night in a dark room, while we are trying to reconstruct our own position in the midst of darkness. Benjamin quotes the corresponding passage from Proust’s Du cote de chez Swann (Vol 1, p. 15) in his Passagenwerk at length: For it always happened that when I awoke like this, and my mind struggled in an unsuccessful attempt to discover where I was, everything would be moving round me through the darkness: things, places, years. My body, still too heavy with sleep to move, would make an effort to construe the form which its tiredness took as an orientation of its various members, so as to induce from that where the wall lay and the furniture stood, to piece together and to give a name to the house in which it must be living. Its memory, the composite memory of its ribs, knees, and shoulder-blades offered it a whole series of rooms in which it had at one time or another slept; while the unseen walls kept changing, adapting themselves to the shape of each successive room that it remembered, whirling madly through the darkness. And even before my brain … had collected sufficient impressions to enable it to identify the room, it, my body, would recall from each room in succession what the bed was like, where the doors were, how daylight came in through the windows, whether there was a passage outside, what I had had in mind when I went to sleep, and had found there when I awoke. (Swann’s Way Vol. I, p. 5, trans. Charles Kenneth Scott-Moncrieff, New York: Holt 1922)

Here, “dream” as a concept represents no absolute dreamlike quality obtained simply by making reality strange. The kind of dream described by Benjamin has no link with the relatively simplistic ideology of surrealism either, nor is it based on the approach of empathy pursued by the impressionists. Proust’s dreamlike world is produced neither emphatically nor intellectually; it is based neither on “feeling” nor on a calculated anti-rhythm that would later become the specialty of futurists. Like in Pietilä’s work, any possible rhythm has become a non-rhythm just because it arises not out of abstract calculations, but out of the shock-like contact that follows when reality meets dreams. This is exactly what is taking place in a building like Dipoli, where the aim is no longer, as Pietilä explains, to “see and remember a morphological event just by

94

Transcultural Architecture

looking at it.” And it is also the case in Tampere’s “Metso” library which is, according to Pietilä, a “genius loci with a touch of mysterious charm.” Again Pietilä’s strategy is “to discover in familiarity something that is shockingly new.” Dreamlike trance seems the best metaphor to describe the attitude attached to these buildings, in which we are moving around exactly like Swann in the early morning hours. Without being a collage, the phenomenon transcends the strangeness of postmodern eclecticism by consciously producing a dreamlike experience.

9. Conclusion Although both Aalto and Pietilä chose a “middle way” between empathy and alienation, both arrive at different results. A balanced aesthetic state of affairs within which an alienated and “made strange” reality still offers the possibility of empathy, remains a constant in Aalto’s works while in Pietilä’s works such a balanced state does not exist. The shift from Aalto to Pietilä can only be described as a shift from Regionalism to something entirely different. I hesitate to call it Critical Regionalism because the above mentioned shock-like confrontation of different realities remains rather incompatible with the idea of “critique.” Still it is possible to formulate such thoughts by proceeding “critically.” The link with Critical Regionalism is thus maintained. Worringer traced the creation of abstract expressions to human’s “disquietude about nature.” In Finland, Aalto’s modernism cannot have been produced through such a disquietude. As mentioned, the idea of modernity invaded Finland while the “happily familiar relationship with nature” (Worringer’s expression) still existed. Within this cultural context, Aalto dared, according to Giedion, “the leap from the rational-functional to the irrational-organic” (Giedion 1967: 24). Porphyrios has pointed to the difficulty underlying this formulation saying that creating the “organic” is never an irrational gesture but it demands reason. Aalto, the architect of the organic, is a “liberal metaphysician” because he combats modernism as an empathy-like organism in which things have centers and origins. Pietilä, the ironist, surmounts liberalist architecture and produces “patchworks” without center or origin. Thinking along these lines, the conclusion must be that Aalto is neither modern nor post-modern, but pre-modern. Aalto’s profound belief that “growth reminiscent of natural life,” once it becomes a profound feature of architecture, can still create something like style. Pallasmaa has shown how much Aalto is anchored into romantic aesthetic conceptions (cf. Pallasmaa 1978: 34) and Paul Pearson finds that Aalto’s own house evokes “both romantic and functional styles at once” (Pearson 1978: 154). What does this tell about Aalto’s idea of functionalism? Aalto did not want, as the modernist Mondrian intended, to turn nature into art, nor to make art a “second nature.” He simply wanted to give art the status of nature. In this sense, Aalto’s much praised “humanist functionalism” uses the same strategy that nineteenth-century aesthetics used when thinking about theories enabling the most successful type of Einfühlung.

Empathy, Abstraction, Style, Non-Style: Reima Pietilä’s Philosophy

95

Pietilä, on the other hand, strives to “alienate” architectural expressions. By saying that “Dipoli is contrary to good taste,” Pietilä goes much further than any humanist modernist (and also post-modernist) could go. Pietilä does not take the “modern” or “functionalist” rules of convention for granted in order to subsequently surmount them by rendering them, through emphatic approaches, more adequate to human emphatic perception (which was Aalto’s approach). By claiming that that architecture “defends the right to be different,” Pietilä settles his buildings within an absolute space of “difference” or, in his own words, in a ““No-Man’s-Land between opposing parties” within which they can become neither a “norm” nor a “no norm.” In Pietilä’s work, any newly created space cannot be perceived as an “alienation” from a preceding form, nor can it be perceived “spontaneously” through empathy. During his carré bleu period, Pietilä wrote that “intuition” is a conception of a “flat and vulgar metaphysics” (Pietilä 1957/58a). The modernist idea of “anti-empathic” Verfremdung, however, can be equally flat. As a consequence, Pietilä’s world is more deconstructed than “made strange.” “Deconstruction” should be understood in its broadest sense as a sort of radical abstraction, radical in that it has been freed of its counterpart called “empathy.” It has been “twisted out” (Heidegger’s expression) of a series of overturnings that move from abstraction to empathy and back again. Pietilä’s absolute non-style, which is against all sorts of good taste (as long as “good taste” is understood as a culturally determined submission to more or less conventional rules), can nevertheless become a subject of appreciation for taste. And in the same way, Pietilä’s non-style might—finally—become style. It has at least more chances to become a style than, for example, the aesthetic productions of post-modernism. In most of the post-modern attempts at stylistic playfulness, the “play” is either too formal (heritage from modernism?) or too eclectically superficial. It could be said—by borrowing the relevant terms from Alois Riegl—that the aesthetic play has much “Wollen” but lacks “Kunstwollen” (Riegl 1983). The seriousness of Pietilä’s aesthetic play, on the other hand, resides in the fact that in his works, architectural elements are not willfully arranged as they are in (still rational) post-modernism. Instead they collide within a “sudden clash of incompatible interlocking” (a quotation from A. Koestler that Malcolm Quantrill uses when describing Pietilä’s work 1985, p. 164). The extent to which Pietilä has overcome alienation and empathy—the two most important categories of modern and post-modern aesthetics—has become obvious. Material, form, and facts are not made strange in order to enable a more spectacular aesthetic perception, nor are “estranged” forms “softened” and made more humane. Pietilä looks at the familiar and discovers the extremely strange (“shockingly new”) in even this familiarity. The old device of alienation has been overcome in the most consistent way: the familiar is not “made strange” and alienated from its everyday expression, but it is taken as an expression of familiarity and then used to express something “shockingly new.”

96

Transcultural Architecture

9.1 Consequences for Critical Regionalism As long as Critical Regionalism relies on a coordination of Worringer’s empathy and abstraction, of local culture (or even nature) and (international) civilization, Pietilä cannot be classified as a Critical Regionalist. Pietilä is not a liberal and not even a humanist, but an ironist who produces experimental patchworks while regionalism is liberal and organic by definition. Like their modernist precursors, regionalists aim at the creation of a coherent lifestyle or even at the creation of a total vision of life. Whoever becomes aware of the limitations of this slightly utopian approach will most probably become a Critical Regionalist. Chapter 1 has shown that Pietilä’s ironical regionalism of non-organic patchworks and styleless style faced difficulties when staged in international contexts. The phrase that perhaps best summarizes the problem is that Critical Regionalism cannot be subversive. Critical Regionalism is provocative when it subverts modern, Western models. However, it cannot be subversive within the territory of “the region.” It becomes clear how outdated postcolonial schemes, to which the militant form of Critical Regionalism still clings, have become in a globalized world. Pietilä is entirely subversive, while Critical Regionalism, in its search for cultural compromises, cannot afford the luxury of total provocation. In other words, shocklike confrontations of different realities are not permitted. This has become clear in the study of the Kuwait buildings. Pietilä’s negation of any style and his ambition to establish an “absolute stylelessness” could have been a school case of transcultural architecture. The problem is that this negation is too abstract and does not provide enough possibilities of empathy. It is not abstract in the sense of the international style, which is unrelated to concrete historical patterns. The Ministry is abstract because its “styleless style” is absolutely unable to incarnate any concrete style. What the Kuwaiti authorities were missing in this ironical and experimental patchworks was a more serious, organic, and liberal form of humanism or at least some style that could be identified as style. The Kuwaiti architects who were “improving” the building attempted to add precisely those elements. The distinction between an abstract/unfamiliar/estranged and a familiar/normal/ pleasant needed to be reestablished at any cost. Unfortunately this has been done in an aesthetically mediocre way. In the end, Critical Regionalism has not been reappropriated by regionalism but by ready-made essentialist clichés informed by the authoritarian claim of “what a ministry should look like.” A new architectural method with altered premises is not a sound alternative to Critical Regionalism, on the contrary, what is needed is a radicalization of Critical Regionalism.

Notes 1.

See Botz-Bornstein 2005 on the evolution of “anti-style” in twentieth-century aesthetics.

2.

Later Marx restricted the meaning of alienation to the appropriation of surplus value from the worker by the employer.

Empathy, Abstraction, Style, Non-Style: Reima Pietilä’s Philosophy

97

3.

Piet Mondrian: “Plastic Art and Pure Art,” quoted from Benevolo, 1971, p. 409.

4.

It is certainly not without importance that Pietilä was attracted by the Hungarian architect Imre Makovecz. In an interview with Makovecz (Pietilä being the interviewer) Makovecz declares: “My buildings are to a great extent the result of conscious actions. Imagination and fantasy are only required to bring the solution out in detail. However, I cannot deny that this consciousness bears a resemblance to objective awareness similar to dream-consciousness.” Interview with the Hungarian Makovecz Group” in Architecture and Urbanism 3, 1984.

This page has been left blank intentionally

3 “Magic Internationalism” or the Paradox of Globalization: Louis Kahn’s National Assembly Complex in Dhaka, Bangladesh If you eliminate the fairy tale from reality, I’m against you. It’s the most sparkling reality there is.

Louis Kahn1

Introduction When it was commissioned, Louis Kahn’s monumental National Assembly Complex in Dhaka (today capital of Bangladesh) was supposed to be a Pakistani response to Le Corbusier’s Chandigarh complex in Delhi. Its construction took a long time: begun in 1962, the complex remained unfinished at the time of Kahn’s death in 1974 to be completed only in 1983. More recently, the world has been reminded of the existence of this unusual building through Nathaniel Kahn’s award winning documentary film on his father’s life and work (2003).2 When I visited the building in 2004, I was not blindfolded as was Kahn’s son who wanted to experience a sort of empathic shock effect on his arrival. Keeping my eyes open I could see masses of people, many of them underfed or misshapen as well as begging children. The National Assembly towers on an artificial mount and the first impression it yields is rather “Nordic.” The brick boxes with their pop-up circles and triangles look like oversized climbing constructions for a playground. The wooden windows that lurk through the cutout triangles of the concrete boxes—an effect that is not clearly visible on photos—evoke the homeliness of Black Forest log cabins or Russian dachas while the brick part is vaguely reminiscent of Pietilä’s Hervanta housing complex in Finland. The first impression is: this is no regionalism, not even a critical one but the complex sticks out as entirely extraterrestrial in the Bangladeshi context. At the same time it is undeniable that this building is a success, which remains true despite the fact that so many details fail to work in the service of straightforward intercultural communication. The building’s main concept seems to have been accepted by the local community. Very different from what happened to Pietilä’s Ministry in Kuwait, Bangladeshi people are proud of their National Assembly and accept it as the embodiment of their nationhood. They pay dearly for its maintenance: every minute of parliamentary session costs the state 15,000 Taka, about the monthly salary of a university professor.

100 Transcultural Architecture

3.1  National Assembly in Dhaka, Bangladesh

The building complex is not situated in the proverbial Bangladeshi ocean of poverty but enjoys its own sub-environment. When Kahn visited the site in 1962, he saw 1000 acres of farmland (an additional 2000 acres were accredited in 1973) bordering the city limits and touching upon a corner of the airport. Meanwhile the city has developed. The airport is no longer used—a new international airport has been built further away from the city—and the site now appears as integrated into the urban tissue of Dhaka. The complex is situated in the middle of a large park which I visited on a public holiday. Masses of young middle-class people hang out here with music devices or skateboards, similar to what young people do in Tokyo or other Asian cities. Those people are rich compared to most of their countrymen, but still poor enough to escape stigmatization as a privileged minority. The National Assembly is visible from almost any point of the park and it can be approached by walking through labyrinthine brick corridors of the Capital complex linking offices, hostels, a hospital and other facilities. In certain areas of this “brick part” the civil population can circulate relatively freely. Part of the Assembly’s “hostels” are used by the staff (drivers, cleaners, and so on) who have hung out their clothes on drying stacks on the little verandas in front of the round shaped windows. This is very different from the Kuwait Ministry where a machine gun mounted on an army vehicle points at passerbys. The “brick part” of the complex is much less documented and written about than the actual Assembly. This might be justifiable from the point of view of architectural aesthetics. With regard to the anatomy of the environment and its daily use by people, however, the “brick part” is, in my opinion, the more interesting part since it provides people much more space and many more opportunities for concrete associations. Originally Kahn projected to build also this part in concrete but reverted to bricks for financial reasons, using not only the locally produced bricks but also the simple Bangladeshi building techniques. The result is vaguely



“Magic Internationalism” or the Paradox of Globalization

101

reminiscent of local Mughal architecture or of the hybrid colonial architecture that can be seen everywhere in the area in which red brick served as a substitute for sandstone. Some historians have been searching for concrete parallels with Mughal or vernacular South Asian architecture, trying to prove that Kahn has picked up the one or the other architectural element while traveling through the region.3 However that may be, at the same time his choice can be interpreted as an homage to Roman brick construction.

1. Metaphors, Symbols, Irony: Kahn and Pietilä Locals walking through the hybrid brick constructions of the Capital Complex might be communicating with the building but the language they use remains obscure. It is safe to assume that the vocabulary of the main building remains relatively strange to them as its language is more familiar to the Western observer who recognizes the round concrete towers, especially as they border on the artificial lake, as possible evocations of medieval water castles. The Bangladeshi observer might have seen pictures of European medieval castles but these associations remain poor on a cognitive and emotional level. It has been suggested that for Bangladeshi observers the lake evokes the flooding by which Dhaka is regularly haunted rather than graceful water castles of Germany or France. The same problem arises with regard to Kahn’s idea of buildings as “constructed ruins.” Strictly speaking, “constructed ruins” are uncalled-for in a city where hundreds of unfinished buildings are literally “in ruins” as a result of financial miscalculations. “Constructed ruins” are even more absurd in a city whose old colonial sector is definitely in ruins and above that, partly flooded.4 The Indian architect Charles Correa holds that Kahn failed in Dhaka “on the level of poetic invention.”5 Correa is right if poets are supposed to invent only verses, symbols and metaphors. It is perfectly true that Kahn’s poetic vocabulary is misleading and perhaps entirely senseless in the context in which it is embedded. However, in spite of all that it seems to work. Is it possible that this happens because Kahn has created a certain style? Kahn’s building is not “style-less” in the sense on which Pietilä’s buildings are supposed to be, and this is perhaps why the Dhaka Assembly was spared the fate of the Kuwait Ministry. A model of poetics that sees poetry merely as a web of symbols is too simple to function in real life. No poet invents only metaphors and images but she will also create a certain style; and this style is able to transcend the creation of suitable, “correct,” and “understandable” metaphors. On the one hand, there is in Dhaka a surrealist language similar to Pietilä’s. On the other hand, there is definitely less irony, and compared to the Ministry, the Dhaka Assembly looks much less like a patchwork. Somehow it manages to confer a serious and organic feeling of liberal humanism. Compared to Pietilä, Kahn looks here much more like Rorty’s “liberal metaphysician” mentioned in Chapter 2 whose language might be strange and not local but still universal enough to be understood by a wide range of people. This makes the Dhaka Assembly different

102 Transcultural Architecture

from the Ministry where space and time were supposed to “extend beyond everyday limits into a poetic scale” (Pietilä 1985: 17). Still it seems that for Charles Correa, the Dhaka Assembly is still not liberal, humanist and serious enough. Correa wishes for something like an Aalto-like identification of architecture with its native environment, perhaps sporting the palpable poetry of Indian bazaars that sprawl and wiggle, waiting to be caught up by the empathy of their daily users. First, it is doubtful if an American architect could ever do this without becoming hypocritical, mannerist and artificial. Second and more importantly, certain arguments derived from poetics show that Kahn’s solution appears “reasonable” in spite of his illogical use of architectural signs.

2. The Hermeneutics of Style Kahn was relatively insensitive to Aaltonian regionalist hermeneutics (that is, to the dialectical relationship between the building and its environment) and was much more given to Corbusian structuralism. By the latter I mean the most powerful idea underlying the principle of “form follows function” which is that of “form flowing out of itself,” regardless of the context within which it is imbedded. The Dhaka building looks much more “Nordic”6 in the sense of “wild,”“natural,” and “anti-progressive” than anything built by Le Corbusier. In a way, Kahn could afford Aalto’s anti-modernism without passing through its intrinsic environmentalist hermeneutics of Critical Regionalism. How was this possible? One of Kahn’s most famous sentences is that “A house should be in the first place not ‘a house’ but simply ‘House’.” Kahn’s sources of inspiration when coining this sentence are unknown, but the idea itself can very well appear as an architectural blueprint of Cocteau’s sentence that one should “not try to have a style but style.” What is produced here, in Cocteau as much as in Kahn, is a strange kind of hermeneutics that willfully pushes common-sensical dialectics (usually operating with ideas of the ‘general’ and the ‘individual’ and their relationships) towards a cognitive shortcut. Individual expression and general environment are no longer explained as mutual derivations: in “House” they are simply declared to be identical: a house should not be a house but House. For Cocteau, the only way to solve the contradiction is to enact the total absence of style: “Je propose l’absence d’un style. Avoir du style au lieu d’un style.”7 Pietilä’s “styleless style” follows the same spirit. In Dhaka, the simultaneous overcoming of both “Form Follows Function” and the Aaltonian identification of form with the surrounding environment led to the simultaneous transgression of Le Corbusier’s functionalist grammar and the poetic language of bazaars. As a result, the creations could settle within the non-linguistic domain produced by the stylistic tension between several elements. Within this tension, “style” is no longer a linguistic phenomenon, meaning that it cannot be defined as the dialectical fusion of different linguistic elements. Style itself represents the domain where architectural forms begin to manifest themselves not through poetic metaphors or images but simply “as such,” that is, by evoking the style they “want to have.”“The brick was always talking to me, saying you’re missing



“Magic Internationalism” or the Paradox of Globalization

103

an opportunity,” is one of Kahn’s ways of describing this procedure. Or: “Brick was saying: I want an arch.” Certain forms or certain rules flow out of architecture itself, independently of stylistic, functional or cultural imperatives. In this book this pattern will be analyzed in different contexts. The Dhaka buildings manage, in a paradoxical way, to transcend cultural differences just by making them obvious. The reason might be that Kahn was simply listening to the brick. Kahn sees no reason to cancel cultural differences and to give in, for example, to globalized universalism; nor does he attempt to fuse, in a post-modern manner, different cultural (linguistic) elements. This represents a clear parallel with Pietilä’s approach in Kuwait. However, instead of emulating local culture through surrealist juxtapositions, Kahn simply insist on cultural paradoxes as if he hopes that out of these paradoxes will flow a particular style. What can be called Kahn’s “magic internationalism” is meant to overcome both universalism and regionalism. It goes without saying that there is no place for Critical Regionalism in the proper sense in Kahn’s case. Kahn himself offered rather mystical explanations for his procedures, but in fact, they can be explained. Kahn suggests that we should “listen to the house” and that the house will “say what it wants to be” (that is, it will “communicate” the entity that it has always been by nature). The essential point of Kahn’s paratheoretical elaborations is that the house speaks no particular language, neither the international nor the regional one. Of course, later, once the house is built, everything “the house has said” can be translated into real languages. Then, Western visitors, for example, will find the National Assembly “classic” while visitors from the Indian cultural sphere might find it “indigenous.” In any case, it is wrong to expect a concrete poetry from this building, in the sense of the “Bangla-spirit,” or of “universalism,” or perhaps in the form of the one or the other idea of what National Assemblies are usually expected to express: democracy, freedom, modernity … The difference with the Kuwaiti Ministry becomes clear. Pietilä’s styleless alternative cannot be interpreted in terms of a language because the large amount patchworks stitched together with irony can be recognized only by anti-metaphysical Westerners. This is also the reason why the Kuwaiti renovators of the building went to the other extreme: they believed to know what language “a Ministry” is speaking (the language of arches, domes and heavy wooden doors, for example), which was a mistake. They did not listen to the language of the building beyond its official function. Kahn, on the other hand, went from the beginning in another direction: he went for metaphysics, non-modern spiritual depth and non-ironical archaism whose languages can be understood internationally. At the end of Nathaniel Kahn’s film, Shamsul Wares, the Bangladeshi architect who had been working with Kahn claims, with tears in his eyes, that “Kahn gave us democracy.” If he gave it to them, it must be permitted to ask where it is now. I am not talking about parliamentary democracy (which officially exists) but about a possible democratic attitude that could be manifest, for example, in how people behave in the heavy traffic of Dhaka City. Nothing is democratic here: the strongest simply paves his way through the traffic, putting at risk the lives of others. In the

104 Transcultural Architecture

same way, Kahn’s building was not supposed to yield anything concrete: all Kahn suggested was the vague possibility of intercultural communication. Walking through vaults and over bridges past threatening towers and heavy walls, I arrive in the canteen of the housekeepers who offer me Pepsi-Cola. Outside is Bangladesh with its never-ending rhythm of mudslides, strikes, floods, and trade deficits. The inside of the building is dark and looks like in a medieval cloister. Curiously, the walls have no windows but large holes yielding a view on lush greenery, on the shallow and swanless lake, as well as on the main building. Many a visitor must have felt something “medieval” but they should be aware that this are neither the European Middle Ages nor the Bangladeshi Middle Ages but simply—“Middle Ages.” This architecture is based on the principle of superposition. The undeniable dizziness created through the confluence of several realities joining a single super-reality called the Dhaka National Assembly makes me think that this architecture is best experienced like a film in which images can overlap or like a dream in which elements or cultures are brought together but cannot “clash.” I am waiting for “brick” to talk to me in the language of Freudian dream speech. Nothing is here resolved in a “critical” fashion and regionalism is neither defended nor offended. Everything coexists, mocking what Enlightenment philosophers like to call “logic.” Aalto needed pre-industrial Finland in order to let the rationalist laws of architectural ecology work in the service of regionalist internationalism. Pietilä needed surrealist collages to overcome the trite expressions of regionalist imitations. Kahn needed the underdeveloped Bangladesh to make his architecture “speak” a unique stylistic language purified of all logic of fusion or subordination.

Notes 1.

From John Wesley Cook, Conversations with Architects (New York: Praeger, 1973), p. 192.

2.

My architect: A Son’s Journey. Film by Nathaniel Kahn.(USA, 2003).

3.

See William Curtis 1986: “He surely realized that the pre-Moghul mosque type of Bengal (…) was a centralized building type. More than that, it was a fusion of two great universal traditions: the Islamic from the West, and the Buddhist from the East. May it not be that the Dhaka Assembly rests upon local substructures and continuities of great antiquity, making its way back through the strata of time?” See also D. Hossain’s Thesis Architecture and Identity: Bangladesh and the Spirit of Louis Kahn, London, University College, 1992.

4.

Those of Kahn’s buildings that look as if they have no windows, like the Exeter Library for example, are indeed reminiscent of high rise buildings from Dhaka in which windows had never been installed.

5.

Charles Correa: “Chandigarh: The View from Benares” reprinted in: Chandigarh: Planning and Architecture http://chandigarh.nic.in/architec.htm#arch.

6.

I insist on the “Nordic character” of Kahn’s architecture. Contrary to what Vincent Scully states, Kahn was not “Russian after all” (Introduction to Louis Kahn: In the Realm of Architecture) but born in Estonia. Anybody who has visited Estonia will have recognized that this country is as different from Russia as is, for example, Germany.



“Magic Internationalism” or the Paradox of Globalization

105

Estonians and Finns belong to the same ethnic group and share similar psychological dispositions, which in many respects makes Estonia just as much a part of Northern Europe as Finland. 7.

Jean Cocteau, Le Rappel à l’ordre, p. 241. A similar quote can be found in Opium—Joumal d’une désintoxication. Paris: Stock, p. 155.

This page has been left blank intentionally

4 Wang Shu and the Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in China

Introduction In today’s China, “elitist” architecture by Rem Koolhaas, Zaha Hadid or Steven Holl is present as much as quick imitations of some indistinct “international style” or—much worse—the so called “Disneyland syndrome buildings” recurrent in satellite towns with distinctly German, Italian, or Tudor architectural styles (Beech 2005). Attempts to be creative are easily blurred by sublimated ideas from a recent authoritarian past even when—or especially when—they opt for the “postmodernist,” existential choice and decide to grasp something of China’s lost cultural identity. As many Chinese architects are still lost in translating Western aesthetic forms for a Chinese public, creativity remains most often restricted to the production of experimental skyscrapers with large cutouts and occasional pagoda roofs. In Russia it had become obvious in the 1980s–1990s that architects working during socialist eras “had never been exposed to the kind of building practice which is required to produce subtly differentiated objects” (Cooke 1997: 139. Cf. also Hanlon 1987). China discovered a similar truth a little later. The first problem is that the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976) crippled the country’s architectural development by suspending the entire higher education system for more than 10 years; the second problem is that today’s outmoded institutional practices seem to be unable to handle the architectural challenges brought by the overwhelming economic boom. In general, according to John Czaplicka regarding Russia, “socialist architecture tends to be unresponsive to the natural environment, local customs, and the built heritage of particular places or regions.” Usually, “derisive epithets such as ‘feudal,” ‘bourgeois,” and ‘capitalist’ were directed at the historical substance” (Czaplicka 2005: 173). This is certainly also true for China, but in spite of this, China’s architectural history is full of relatively successful attempts to combine foreign construction methods with Chinese aesthetics, reaching from the so-

108 Transcultural Architecture

called “adaptive Chinese Renaissance” of the 1920 and 19301 to I.M. Pei’s overtly modern though unmistakably Chinese Fragrant Hill Hotel from 1982. The problem is that these examples are limited and restricted to certain periods. In the 1970, the communists ended up with a sort of extreme modernism and even when they had been tempted by traditional stylistic expressions2 they opted rather for a blunt form of imitative traditionalism that is so well exemplified by the metaphorically charged design of the Beijing Railway Station. Xin Ruan holds that “much of the Twentieth Century Chinese architecture, unfortunately, does not seem to have matched the expectations of ‘critical regionalism’ (as modern architecture did in Japan or India)” (Ruan 2006: 14). Part of the phenomenon might be due to the Chinese addiction to modernism. Everywhere in the world, as explains Douglas Reichert Powell, “since the high period of modernism in the 1950s, ‘regional’ has been a pejorative term” (Reichert Powell 2007: 19) and certainly also in “modernist” China one would translate “regional” as “limited,” “local,” and “provincial.” Contrary to such evidence, one cannot state that the Chinese architects were striving to become particularly cosmopolitan.

1. Wang Shu Wang Shu (王澍, born in 1963) is one of the most experimental Chinese architects and is often mentioned together with Yungho CHANG, MA Qingyun, and LIU Jiakun as a typical representative of a new generation.3 Above that, Wang Shu is one of the few architects who practice “Critical Regionalism” in China. In this chapter I take his work as a starting point for further reflections on the significance of “Critical Regionalism” in the particular cultural and historical environment of China. While many of Wang’s colleagues seem to excel in copying skyscraper projects from architectural reviews or specialize in façades for commercial architecture, Wang insists that he designs “a house instead of a building:” “When I say ‘house’ I think of something that is closer to life, closer to everyday life.”4 Wang’s apparent architectural fundamentalism is not supposed to create an out-of-the-world attitude but strives to attain professional and political freedom and to resist ideological and commercial purposes. Amateur Architecture (the name of his studio) is therefore “spontaneous and experimental” as opposed to “official;” “temporary” as opposed to “monumental;” “critical and thoughtful” as opposed to “built”; and “illegal” as opposed to “sanctioned.” His insistence on “critique” is remarkable here, especially since it is preceded by the word “spontaneous.” Wang explains that his architecture is “spontaneous for the simple reason that for me architecture is a matter of everyday life. I criticize in modern architecture the fact that it has not really found a method enabling architects to get back to the realities of everyday life.” Wang does not want his architecture to be “significant” in any political sense, but rather establishes it in terms of place and local history. An architect, he insists, is first of all a researcher and scholar; secondly a craftsman; and only thirdly a builder. Above that Wang defines himself as an intellectual or a writer.



Wang Shu and the Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in China

109

Amateur Architecture invites the active participation of architects and artists and remains open to spontaneous changes. In particular, Wang has developed the “free design process,” a design able to adapt itself constantly in response to the conditions of the environment as they appear during the building phase. In principle, “free design” is the method of creating a Chinese garden, explains Wang, for the simple reason that a Chinese garden cannot really be designed: A Chinese garden is the result of a construction process. I would like to make this a principle of modern architecture. When I build something I am always free to change certain things. Incidentally, this is also typical for the Chinese situation. Lots of unforeseeable things happen here all the time and you have to improvise. It is useless to make a precise plan but it is better to solve problems at the moment they arise.

As a consequence, for Wang’s work not jian 间 (place)—or its Japanese equivalent ma 間—but yuan 园 (garden) represents the most significant conceptual guideline. Wang is less well known than the extremely successful MA Qingyun and less international than the Beijing-based CHANG Yung Ho, both of whom have been classified as ‘regionalist.’ Wang considers TONG Jun (1900–1983), one of the first architects to undertake systematic research into the Jiangnan Gardens in Suzhou, as his principal Chinese influence.5 From the international set Wang likes Carlo Scarpa, Aldo Rossi, Alvaro Siza, and Louis Kahn while Tadao Ando has interested him only briefly. If anything, Wang likes only Ando’s early works and believes that, in general, Ando’s regionalism unfolded almost from the beginning too much on an international level: “Ando’s focus is not on particular cultural items while my regionalism is more preoccupied with details.” Provocatively, Wang insists on the temporary character of amateur architecture, which is not meant as a “throw away architecture”: I simply think that architecture should work hand in hand with time. Sometimes I like to use cheap material that can be exchanged when it is damaged. And I like to associate buildings and plants. When buildings and plants come together it becomes most obvious that, as long as time keeps running, architecture is subjected to constant changes.

Wang is a rebel who feels close to the culture of his generation often called liumang (hooligan) culture claiming that, at one point, he had been influenced by the liumang writer Wang Shuo:6 When I graduated from university I was a liumang. Our generation was against all sorts of systems but we had no alternative to offer. However, I am not cynical like Wang Shuo because even though I destroy things I build something new in their place. I am always thinking of the future, which has not been the case for the hooligans of the 1980s. In 1986 there was a conference held in Beijing called ‘How Can we Internationalize Chinese Architecture?’ I went there and said: ‘Since in China we have neither architects nor architecture, the title of your conference simply does not make sense.’ You can believe me that there was quite a stir in

110 Transcultural Architecture

the audience. But what I said was true. At that time there was no architectural critique, there was no theory in China. An architect was somebody who knew how to draw, he could be drawing all day long but he was not necessarily thinking about what he was drawing.

According to Wang, the situation has changed, but not necessarily for the better: “If I would say the same thing today at an architectural conference it is very much possible that simply nobody would bother. Today people are mainly interested in money and business.” By calling his agency “Amateur Architecture Studio” and by simultaneously insisting on the importance of the “handicraft aspect” of architecture Wang aims to distance himself, in a provocative manner, from the professionalized, technicized, and soulless “architecture as business” attitude of present China: A hundred years ago architecture had no theoretical foundation at all in China but the people who built houses were artisans. Now an official architectural system has been established reaching from the city to the countryside. I chose handicraft and amateur spirit in order to oppose something to this system. In the end, for me, to be an artisan or an amateur is almost the same thing.

Since its foundation in 1998, Wang’s “Amateur Architecture Studio” (which Wang manages with his partner LU Wenyu) has realized three large scale projects: The Wenzheng Library of Suzhou University (2000); the Harbor Art Museum in Ningbo (2003–2008); and the Xiangshan Campus of the Chinese Academy of Art built on a 65000 m2 ground in Hangzhou which is composed of 10 buildings, including a library, a gallery, a stadium, a workshop tower, six academic buildings, two traditional style bridges, and two hillside art studios (2007). Worth mentioning is also the impressive Vertical Apartment House in Hangzhou on the Qiantang River (strangely reminiscent of Paul Rudolph’s Wisma Dharmala House in Jakarta). In addition, the Amateur Architecture Studio has been engaged in various experimental research projects such as the “Ceramic Tea House” at the Jinhua Architecture Park in Jinhua. Wang pays scrupulous attention to the genius of place. When designing the Library of Wenzheng College of Suzhou University on an artificial lakeside,7 for example, he considered the traditional prescription of Suzhou gardening, which suggests that buildings located between mountains and water should not be prominent. This led to the decision to sink nearly half of the library underground. Another traditional gardening principle is to use different scales for each building which is the reason why the four additional buildings of the library are much smaller than the main body. Though Xin Ruan finds that “internally the building is a simple shed” (New China Architecture, p. 180), the twisted building with a white, box-like pavilion at the end overlooking the lake seems to find its justification within the forested hill site. Wang was guided by similar ideas when designing the Xiangshan Campus in Hangzhou: “As slopes, twists, and turns occur on site, the building twists and transforms accordingly, and thus addresses uniformity and variability at the same



Wang Shu and the Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in China

111

time. The inevitable bulk of the buildings is purposefully lowered and the horizontal sunscreen slope emphasizes the horizontal extension of the corresponding mountain range.” The use of agriculture as the main element of the landscape design instead of ornamental landscaping is remarkable. Like CHANG Yungho, Wang is fascinated by Chinese quadrangle courtyard houses and the plan of the campus integrates the Chinese character ‘回’ which can also be interpreted as a ‘营’ and which Wang serially reproduced. In the character ‘回,” building and nature occupy, each of them, one half. Finding that the simple and straightforward shape of the traditional Chinese court is able to accommodate nearly all architectural functions, Wang created a free typology based on the 回 court able to respond to the requirements of this gigantic space. Some of Wang’s principles echo CHANG Yung Ho’s premise of “basic architecture” or “architecture-in-itself.” However, though it might be similar in certain aspects to Chang’s “Unusual Architecture” (feichang jianzhu), Wang’s architecture is “more concrete” as he intensively explores traditional construction techniques and building cultures. The stone base of the Craft Shop School of the Xiangshan Campus, for example, is laid using a method common in the local construction of tea fields. Wang had also salvaged over two million tiles of

4.1 The Vertical House

112 Transcultural Architecture

different ages and sizes from demolished traditional houses which now cover the roofs of the campus buildings. The Ningbo Contemporary Art Museum is located in the Ningbo Port area and is, as Wang affirms, “a typical example of good cooperation with regional politicians” because the local government actively supported his ideas about regionalism. Most parts of the historic port buildings had to be destroyed for security reasons. Still, Wang attempted to rebuild a “Chinese ceremonial space” by dividing the building perpendicularly into upper and lower parts, which corresponds not only to Chinese tradition but also responds to contemporary economic needs. The lower part of the museum is reserved for commercial exhibitions while the upper part holds art exhibitions. The gray bricks that are used for the foundation of the main building are original bricks salvaged from the destroyed building; the steel and timber elements in the upper part, on the other hand, suggest an affinity with ships and harbor buildings. Along the river, there is a group of caves laid with bricks containing Buddha figures, which evokes the historical fact that the building had once been the starting point for pilgrimages.

2. The Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in China

4.2 Wenzheng Library of Suzhou

When it comes to Critical Regionalism in China we face problems similar to those pointed out in Chapter 1 with regard to Kuwait. The question that recurs is, of course, whether China should have Critical Regionalism or whether any assumption that the Chinese should be able to deal critically with regionalist architecture (or



Wang Shu and the Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in China

113

with architecture in general) denotes a colonial attitude or not. Some answers to this question will be provided in the conclusion of this chapter. First, however, it is necessary to draw an image of the Chinese situation. Kenneth Frampton saw critical regionalism exemplified by Jørn Utzon’s Bagsvaerd Church (1973–1976) near Copenhagen, which represents, according to Frampton, a self-conscious synthesis of universal civilization and world culture. The combination of “universal” elements like the concrete outer shell of the church, with an organic and individualistic interior and a roof shape reminiscent of pagodas as a reference to “world culture,” make, in the eyes of Frampton, this architecture simultaneously “resistant” (by which he means “critical”) and modern (Frampton 1983: 154). This self-conscious “critical” stance is necessarily included in Critical Regionalism, which enables the architect to be both resistant and modern, that is, to embrace Enlightenment values, but to simultaneously distance himself from the Enlightenment myth of progress. At the same time, the Critical Regionalist distances herself from the pre-industrial past (Frampton 1981). This attitude is far from natural in China. Though the Chinese (like the Japanese) had developed doctrines relatively early that emphasized the necessity of Asian essence (ti, 体) and Western functionality (yong, 用)8 and aimed, at least sporadically, at a reconciliation of Chinese and Western elements in architecture, regionalism has never been established as a critical architectural movement. If Critical Regionalism—as understood by Frampton and others—insists on self-critical resistance, then the lack of it in the Chinese environment is more flagrant today than ever before. Today it has become impossible to impute these difficulties to the country’s lack of prosperity or to the absence of a desire to realize a national identity (Frampton had pointed out in 1983 prosperity and the desire to realize a national identity as necessary conditions for the emergence of Critical Regionalism). Finally, even the hangovers of the past communist modernist style as well as the aggressive influence of the present “capitalist” international style might turn out to be minor issues. I would hold that the main obstacle for the establishment of critical architecture in China is rather the absence of a real Chinese self-critical enlightenment tradition.9 This is not the place to discuss Chinese intellectual history in general; still I would like to highlight some points that I consider being important for the formation of regional architecture in China. “Architecture-in-itself is not found before in modern China,” confirms ZHU Jianfei (Zhu 2005: 479). Peter Eisenman extends this judgment to all of Asia and states that architecture in Asia is, in principle, conservative and accommodating because there is no tradition of resistance. Eisenman refers to the importance attributed to critical thinking in late eighteenth-century Europe—developed, in particular, by Kant and Giovanni Battista Piranesi—that strongly contributed to the formation of a critical consciousness among European architects (Eisenman 1995). The “critical” instance of Critical Regionalism cannot be traced back to aesthetics or architectural theory only, but has been developed even more abundantly in the realm of historical science as generations of European intellectuals attempted to give meaning to the concept of “critical history.” This concept is thinkable only

114 Transcultural Architecture

within a European intellectual development caught within the tensions created by a juxtaposition of Enlightenment and anti-Enlightenment discourses. As a result, proponents of Critical Regionalism usually support the necessity of subversive critique with references to Jürgen Habermas and the Frankfurt School, whose ideas are for Frampton “the only valid basis upon which to develop a valid form of (post) modern critical culture” (Frampton 1988: 63–5). However, the critical roots go deeper. As mentioned in the Introduction, discussions by Barthold Niebuhr and Wilhelm von Humboldt laid the ground for a critical form of historicism. Furthermore, the idea of culture as a particular phenomenon (often opposed to civilization as a universalizing force) was developed in the eighteenth century by Humboldt and Herder and has been initiated even much earlier by Vico. Ranke as well as Dilthey, Windelband, and Rickert, helped to define historical science as a discipline distinct from both inductive scientific research and metaphysical speculation. Ranke, who has often been called the father of historical science (Moltke 1973: xv), argued that the works of Antiquity and the Renaissance should be used to reconstruct history and that preservation or the establishment of authenticity should never be an end in itself. Ranke explained that the present always organizes the past but that at the same time the goals of the present will always be achieved through history: “The particular is transformed by the universal, at the same time defending itself against the latter and reacting to it” (Ranke 1981: 250). Ranke viewed history not in the sense of Hegel’s absolute ideas but as the intentions and thoughts of concrete individuals and institutions. His conclusion is that “only critically researched history can be regarded as history” (Ranke 1981: 157) and that the “problem for the historian is not the relevance of the past period to the present, but rather the difficulty of seeing each era from an objective universal perspective” (Ranke 1981: 157). There are many more examples of complex or even paradoxical concepts of “history” and its perception in European thought. In China such a tradition is not present and that this must have consequences for the development of Chinese Critical Regionalism. In Qing China, during the years of attempted reforms, intellectuals became aware of a certain lack of a critical method with which to approach history. The late nineteenth-century Chinese reformer LIANG Qichao complained that “China, so proud of its ancient civilization and long history, had failed to use them to its advantage. The past had become a dead weight that held society back” (Kwong 2000: 664). Liang had been influenced by the reform philosophies of Meiji Japan, where he had studied. The reform that he and other Chinese intellectuals suggested, however, entered history as the “Hundred Days Reform” because it was cut short by nationalist politicians.10 Many Chinese intellectuals of this time regretted the absence of a critical tradition, among them the historian Luo Jialun who wrote in 1920: “Chinese culture and society are truly depressing these days. Not only are they depressing at the present, but they may be said to have been this way for two thousand years. Europe, on the other hand,



Wang Shu and the Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in China

115

has experienced ceaseless progress since the Renaissance. The creative force in Western civilization is, simply, the spirit of criticism.”11 The “Chinese Renaissance,” led by the philosopher and linguist HU Shih, has been most instrumental for a revolution in sinological studies but had limited influence on other branches of the humanities because of long term political developments in China. The “Chinese Renaissance” also tackled the problem of history, as reports Hu Shi: “When, in 1917, I began my course on the History of Chinese Philosophy with the age of the poets and ignored all the previous periods of sage-rulers, the treatment was considered by the conservative students as so outrageous that it almost created a revolt in my class.” Students criticized, for example, his denial of the historical existence of the Hsia Dynasty, one of the three dynasties of antiquity (Hu Shih: 1963: 76). Still Hu Shi and his group had understood what China was lacking: “It was not enough to have a critical method; the method must be self-conscious so that it may be able to criticize itself against loose application” (p. 77). It is not difficult to link these facts to concrete expressions of Chinese architecture. In the 1970s, the sinologists Simon Leys and F.W. Mote expressed their amazement at the utmost negligence with which the Chinese used to treat the material heritage of their past (Leys 1991: 11). This China, which has had such a long history and which was so heavily loaded with memories, had remarkably few historical monuments to visit. While Europe has kept, in spite of its wars and destructions, monuments dating from Antiquity, the Middle Ages, and the Renaissance, in China—except for the few most famous items—the monumental past has been practically absent. Leys insists that this is not just the result of the destructions carried out during the Cultural Revolution but, that in the beginning, the revolutionaries did not find much to destroy. Behind all this Leys and Mote find a particular Chinese concept of civilization through which the cultural development of a country is not interpreted in terms of material manifestations but in terms of “writing.” While the West has an antique presence made of authentically ancient physical objects, China does not have those “because of … a different attitude towards the way of achieving the enduring monument” (Mote 1973: 49).12 Derk Bodde has reduced this phenomenon to a brief formula by opposing Western civilization of buildings to a Chinese civilization of writing: Our word ‘civilization’ goes back to a Latin root having to do with ‘citizen’ and ‘city.’ The Chinese counterpart, actually a binome, wen hua, literally means ‘the transforming [i.e. civilizing] influence of writing.’ In other words, for us the essence of civilization is urbanization; for the Chinese it is the art of writing. (Bodde: 1981: 39)13

116 Transcultural Architecture

2.1 Vernacular Mysticism The thought of Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari has been important in Chapter 1 as it was used for the purpose of establishing transcultural architecture through the concept of the rhizome. In this chapter, the same philosophy will be used in order to structure the phenomenon of Critical Regionalism. Deleuze and Guattari divide human language into four categories: vernacular language (here), referential language (there), vehicular language (everywhere), and mythical language (beyond) (Deleuze and Guattari 1975: 33–43). In the domain of architecture this constellation can be reproduced like this: While the international style speaks the vehicular language of the everywhere, Critical Regionalism does not aim, as does regionalism, at the reinstallation of a strong vernacular “Here” but rather at the vernaculazation of referential elements. Here we recognize that something is different in China. What is so particular about Chinese architecture, and what is relevant in the context of the present discussion, is that in China tradition is marked off by the combination of the vernacular (here) and the mythical (beyond), that is, by “mythical vernacularism.” In the past, no matter if it came to Confucian movements, mathematics or architecture, scholars and architects dealt mainly with “sacred” writings that had their origin in an ideal order of reality and were supposed to contain all knowledge pertinent to the field (Elman 1984: xiv). “Mythical vernacularism,” that is, tradition inscribed in the realm of the ideal, represented a kind of “virtual reality” in which culture—of which also architecture is an example—was contained in a non-material fashion. The manifestations of this ideal architectural reality (the buildings), on the other hand, were relatively rarely represented by concrete items that could be seen and visited but were rather systematically destroyed. Architectural culture (like the rest of Chinese culture) was rather preserved, in a “virtual” manner, in texts and in the minds of China’s (learned) people. The provocative question that we are confronted with today is how Critical Regionalism can function in a culture in which the architectural past is more virtual than concrete. The European enlightenment tradition which led from the late eighteenth century to the avant-garde, and which was constantly refashioned with regard to new intellectual elements flowing out of the ideological struggle of or with the rising bourgeoisie, left its distinctive mark also on European architecture. Whatever this struggle might have looked like in each particular case, enlightened or “avant-garde” architects had to combat a real past and a real tradition present in the form of objects. Critical Regionalism flows out of this tradition. Curiously, in Europe, the avant-garde tradition faded out just at the moment cultural reality came to be presented in a more and more virtual-globalized fashion. Eisenman claims that the 200-year European project of critical enlightenment thought exhausted itself in the middle of the twentieth century, for economic reasons, but also because the concept of architecture had undergone dramatic changes. A new media-based concept of architecture (already criticized by Frampton in his 1983 essay) which explores the iconic, image-like, or “sceneographic”



Wang Shu and the Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in China

117

character of architecture at the expense of its more “authentic,” object-like, tactile aspect, and which is, above that, globalized, has made any critical discourse on architecture difficult. In China, on the other hand, it is the historical background that is represented by a virtual, non-critical cultural environment.

3. Conclusions When we ask here if the new generation of Chinese architects will be able to take a critical view not only at the West but also at themselves we mean more precisely: will young Chinese architects be able to do more than complacently add some more images to the stock of “Chinese looking buildings” referring to a virtual past? The task is difficult, especially given the fact that still in the 1980s, according to Wang Shu, “there was no architectural critique, there was no theory in China.” Will Chinese architects be able to create a valuable Chinese environment with works that flow out of a critical interchange with China’s own history? Obviously, “history” is here not just the classics. Most probably these architects will have to refer to May 4th values, to Westernized Shanghai architecture or to the “adaptive Chinese Renaissance” of the 1920s, or even to a Shanghai film culture that appeared already 90 years ago in the form of what film scholars call today “vernacular modernism.”14 We are at the beginning of a new era. In the midst of this situation Wang Shu remains optimistic. Though in China, “destroy and rebuild” is an important tradition and though, in his view, “this time they want to destroy absolutely everything,” Wang also believes that “in China the tension between central government and regional politics is less intense than foreigners generally think.” The reason is that traditionally, central and regional powers have always been kept at a distance and do not interfere very much with each other. And “regionalist politics certainly does have a closer relationship with unofficial, traditional architecture.” The conclusion is that Critical Regionalism will most probably install itself within niches created by a unique tradition of regional politics and hopefully begin to face its own past and formulate its own Chinese principles. 3.1 Is Critical Regionalism in China Necessary? One question that needs to be discussed is whether Chinese architecture should be critical. Is my analysis of the lack of a critical tradition in China not a postcolonial evaluation, resulting in just another postcolonial formation, which is, according to Keith Eggener, Critical Regionalism? Wang Shu would probably dismiss those apprehensions. He insists on the necessity of Critical Regionalism in China and does not use it merely as a fashionable formula or as a catchword. Nor does it seem that I have in this chapter unduly appropriated Wang’s work for the purpose of Critical Regionalism. More importantly, we should be aware that in the contemporary Chinese context we are confronted with a completely new constellation. Would it not be

118 Transcultural Architecture

more appropriate to worry about the Chinese imperialist nostalgia? Instead of being alarmed by Western colonization led by means of the introduction of critical thinking and calling Critical Regionalism a “revisionary form of imperialist nostalgia” (Eggener: 234), it is more cogent to fear Chinese revisionism because of China’s growing nationalism. As mentioned, sublimated ideas from a recent authoritarian past are present in China as well as in Chinese architecture (more on this will follow in the next chapter). Once again, only critical procedures can eliminate those ideas.

Notes 1.

The term goes back to the American architect Henry Killiam Murphy (1877–1954) and his efforts to combine national and modernist elements in China.

2.

This had happened about two decades earlier. Cf. Rowe and Kuan 2002: 134).

3.

See Charlie Q.L. Xue’s chapter “Experimental Architecture: The Rise of the Younger Generation” in Xue 2006 as well as Li Xiangning 2008.

4.

Mr. Wang’s statements are taken from a personal interview that I conducted with him in May 2007. I thank Yan Shaojie who functioned as an interpreter.

5.

Tong Jun studied architecture at the University of Pennsylvania from 1925 to 1930 and taught at Nanjing University.

6.

Wang Shuo (born 1958) is a popular Chinese writer and the leader of so-called “hooligan literature” became fashionable in China in the 1980s.

7.

1999–2000, in cooperation with Lu Wenyu and Tong Ming.

8.

Modernizer Feng Guifen launched the famous self-strengthening movement (1861–95) and produced the slogan of “Chinese learning for fundamental principles; Western learning for use” (Zhongxue wei ti; xixue wei yong). Interestingly, the thesis was brought from China to Japan and the Japanese slogan of “Japanese spirit and Western technology” even preexisted in the form of the earlier version “Japanese spirit and Chinese technology.”

9.

I am aware that the existence of an enlightenment movement or a scientific revolution has been a point of issue among sinologists for at least 30 years. See Nathan Sivin who writes: “A scientific revolution, by the criteria that historians of science use, did take place in China in the eighteenth century. It did not, however, have the social consequences that we assume a scientific revolution will have.” Chapter 7 of Sivin’s Science in Ancient China entitled “Why the Scientific Revolution Did Not Take Place in China—Or Did It?” (Aldershot, Hants: Variorum, 1995). The chapter can also be found on Sivin’s website. Sivin points out that European science, between the time of Copernicus and Laplace, created a knowledge “that had no value except truth value” and that “the same leap was not taken in seventeenth-century China.” This might be true but it says nothing about a subsequent development of a critique of reason that was equally absent in China.

10. As a matter of fact, some historians hold that reforms had been “unofficially” pushed through once the reformers had been condemned to exile, and even “far surpassed the objectives of the Hundred Day Reform Movement” (cf. Jin 2001: 164). 11. “The Study of Criticism: Three W-sims” in Xinchao (New Tide) 2: 3 April 1920, pp. 601–3 (quoted from Schwarcz 1986: 123).



Wang Shu and the Possibilities of Critical Regionalism in China

12. The text is mentioned by Leys. 13. The last section has been adopted from my article ‘Hyperreal Monuments of the Mind: Traditional Chinese Architecture and Disneyland’ in Traditional Dwelling and Settlements Review (TDSR) 22: 2, 2012. 14. See Miriam Bratu Hansen’s article: “Fallen Women, Rising Stars, New Horizons: Shanghai Film as Vernacular Modernism” in Film Quaterly 54: 1, 2000, pp. 10–22.

119

This page has been left blank intentionally

5 When the Monumental Becomes Decorative: Thoughts on Contemporary Chinese Architecture

Introduction In this chapter, I want to reflect upon an architecture that is more difficult to discover than fancy Shanghai skyscrapers and the Disneyland residences of the suburbs of major Chinese cities because it develops in the province. Over the last 10 years, an architectural phenomenon that is difficult to classify has made its appearance in the shadow of international architectural competition and concerns mainly “semi-official” buildings like universities and museums but not official projects like government buildings. I will present two buildings (that are very different from each other) but that have come to my attention in Hangzhou, a provincial city two hours southwest of Shanghai.

1. Architecture in Hangzhou Like most major cities around Shanghai, Hangzhou, a city of 6.5 million inhabitants famous for its picturesque Westlake, has experienced a spectacular building boom, sporting the usual set of experimental skyscrapers with large cutouts and pagoda roofs, as well as a dense net of flyovers that distinguish contemporary Chinese cities. The great dreams created by the 2008 Olympics also accelerated the building activities in this city. However, some more “elitist” projects stand out at least in some way. The former Chinese Academy of Art, designed by Beijing-based architect Li Chengde in 2003, is a pleasant walk-in campus made of gray, ivy-clad bricks and blackened steel elements. In the interior there is a spacious garden featuring rocks, ponds, and Chinese-style bridges. The overall humanist impression of the Aalto-like environment might be marred only by the rather pompous design of the entrance. Looking closer, however, the design is not just pompous but strange. A group of eight thin obelisk-like white granite pillars stand like needles in front of the

122 Transcultural Architecture

5.1 Former Chinese Academy of Art, Hangzhou, Zheijang province

stairs. On top of them, two heavy glass and steel roofs seem to be floating in the air. The small one hovers directly over the group of pillars while the other, which is of immense dimensions and protruding, covers a large part of the entire entrance section. Further back, the assembly of pillars continues; some of the pillars are hidden behind bushy bamboos. The syntax of this hidden monumentalism will most probably not be grasped at first sight. Everything seems to strive towards the construction of an arch though a “real arch” is more suggested than really built. A massive arch-like composition can only be discovered when looking backwards at the different elements from the inside. The architect seems to have done everything to elude the construction of a real massive arch by loosely combining horizontal and vertical elements. However, though attempting to neutralize the pompous character of a monumental design, the presence of a real arch would not be entirely avoided: four tiny versions of an arch appear innocently and playfully right behind the pillar assembly. Ritually arranged in a circle, they seem to form their own, private space. Behind the stairway, a strangely floating inner court supported by thin pillars makes the vertical structures appear even more fragile. Square-shaped ornamentations on walls and lamps contribute to an alleviation of the monumental design. Further tentative “arches” can be found in the park in the form of “overstretched” pergolas.



When the Monumental Becomes Decorative

123

The other building that I want to present is the Department of Architecture on the Zijingang Campus of Zhejiang University built by the Shanghai-based architect Dai Fu Dong between 2002 and 2003. At first sight, nobody might suspect this building to contain classrooms and offices since it looks much more like an airport. It leans towards what Charles Jencks termed “Late-Modernism.” Two ocean liner chimneys and peculiar long horizontal white marble rails that rise from the roof like rows of teeth give the whole complex a somewhat extraterrestrial appearance. There is also a protruding roof but this time it comes in an undulated shape, as if it is meant to represent the final splash of the waterfall inspired glass roof. The most peculiar item a small arch, which is, like in the case of the Chinese Academy of Arts, a miniature one standing rather forlorn and awkward 20 meters right to the tidal wave covering the main entrance. Its positioning in front of a huge cutout niche in the glass front lets us suspect that this arch decorates a secondary entrance. But beware—there is no door. Inside the building, we are confronted with similar devices of self-negating monumentalism. There are no symbols exposed in central places. Instead, the entrance hall is decorated with an imposing though semantically insignificant red square placed on the left side of one wall. The disproportionably low ceiling of one part of the hall creates a strange contrast with the rest of the glass hall, which is high and almost gothic in appearance. The contrast is reinforced because through its unusual positioning, the square looks like crashing into the floor at any moment. The size and the weight of the square are “monumental.”

2. The Semantics of Monuments In the past, communist countries like China and the former Soviet Union insisted on monumental components in their national architecture. Stalinist architecture fused neo-classicism and neo-Muscovite elements and developed a distinctly archaic style of monumentality able to incorporate, for example, seventeenthcentury motives into skyscrapers or to evoke imperial palaces almost anywhere it wanted. Later, the Soviet monumental style became less formal and tended towards decoration: buildings could now be strewn with figures, most of which expressed the virtues of socialist endeavor. Wherever monumentality appeared, it expressed a political truth, no matter if this was done by using formal or concrete elements. Monumentality always spoke or at least evoked, in a silent manner, those facts that the viewer was supposed to know about the subject. In other words, monumentality has always had a literal and metaphoric quality transmitting (most of the time) a historical or political content. This is also—or especially—true for Chinese monumental architecture. Chairman Mao transformed Beijing into a modern metropolis rife with monuments, public squares, exhibition halls, and government offices that clearly bear monumental features. The “Great Hall of the People” is an interesting example of totalitarian architecture combining the features of an Egyptian temple with that of a Mussolinian palazzo (Leys 1976: 51). Tiananmen

124 Transcultural Architecture

Square itself became a monumental complex and a relic of the Maoist regime. Western styles were avoided, one of the reasons being that many Chinese saw as one of the failures of modern Western architects their incapacity “to produce monuments of any value” because technical expertise had thrived at the expense of the architecture’s soul. Even the Memorial Hall of Chairman Mao (completed in 1977) applied modern lines and materials but followed a classical concept (Rowe and Kuan 2004: 123). When, in 1989, protesters erected a “statue of liberty”—modeled after the New York statue—on the square, the authorities destroyed it and replaced it with a seven meter high new statue representing a young woman holding a torch with both hands, bringing the total number of monuments on the square to seven. It is true that monuments do not need to be political, but in that case the emphasis will still lie on permanence and the stability of certain structures. And even then, when the monument is deprived of any political content, monumentality will still be defined, in the words of Louis Kahn, as “a spiritual quality inherent in a structure which conveys the feeling of its eternity, [the feeling] that it cannot be added or changed” (Brownlee and De Jong 1992: 43). The two Hangzhou buildings introduced above contain monumental elements but are no longer “monumental” if monumental is supposed to be, as WU Hung has said about the Tiananmen design, “objectified in manner, permanent in construction, static in form, geometric in shape, grandiose on scale” (Wu 1991: 52). Conventional monumental architecture speaks mainly through these elements because, as its monumental discourse is supposed to dominate our understanding, few other items are allowed to speak. It is true that also in Western democracies monumentality has been submitted to tricks and devices of deception, which made Henri Lefebvre once say that most “monumental buildings mask the will to power and the arbitrariness of power beneath signs and surfaces which claim to express collective will and collective thought” (Lefebvre 1991: 143). However even this sophisticated monumentality is still likely to embody and impose “a clearly intelligible message” (Lefebvre 1991: 143). The new Chinese position also transcends Kenneth Frampton’s schedule of either historicism or the “glibly decorative” that he has singled out as the two typical postmodern approaches Frampton 1981: 20). In these Chinese cases, the monumental (the expression that is most likely to refer to historicism) is decorative. Most recently, in the West and also in the East, postmodern playful symbolisms have rekindled an architectural interest in monuments. On the other hand, wherever monuments appear today in Western democracies, they are not supposed to spell out ethical messages linked to narratives of progress or well-defined historical orientations about countries or people. In post-world war Germany, for example, a certain anti-monumental approach is common. The past abuse of heroic architecture for fascist aims has made any attempt to represent political ideas through monumental buildings suspicious in the eyes of most Germans. As a consequence, buildings with monumental potential are often small scaled, lightweight, and playfully structured, which gives them the quality of “authenticity” in the sense of being just what they are.



When the Monumental Becomes Decorative

125

Germany’s case is extreme but the pattern is generalized. Ours is an era of apology in which presidents apologize for slavery, wars, murders, and colonization. As a consequence, monuments have to be humble and signify—what? It is wrong to suppose that “postmodern” monuments have become merely decorative. As a matter of fact, they still continue symbolizing something. Mario Carpo, in his article on the postmodern cultural monument, speaks of “micronarratives, microhistories, and microcultures” that monuments are now supposed to evoke, and which are most typically presented by the case of the replica of the flame held by the Statue of Liberty situated in Paris. The flame has been reinterpreted by Lady Diana’s fans as a cenotaph to her memory (Carpo 2007). Another task of monuments is to register grave errors and to deplore abomination. In almost no cases do new monuments today provide role models and have no “incitement to action” (p. 53). Carpo attributes this new modesty and the attitude which resists the monumental celebration of great deeds to the “non-socialist” world because in the capitalist world “we can hardly honor any act of valor accomplished after the end of World War II: the heroes we now tend to remember are most often the innocent victims of someone else’s crimes” (p. 54). As a consequence, monuments have become part of the material world of anthropology rather than of history or politics. This in agreement with the UNESCO Operational Guidelines for the World Heritage Convention, which decided that the identification of cultural heritage as monumental architecture is a Western construct and that in the post-modern era of preservation, heritage does not need to have, or should not have, monumental value (Droste and Bertilsson 1995: 6). What do monuments look like in the “socialist” world? Is the ideologically loaded monument also here subject to discomfort? What makes the case of the Chinese buildings presented above so curious is that they do not provide the slightest discourse of domination. These arches do not register grave errors nor do they evoke the small micronarratives or microhistories. Instead of dominating our understanding in any way, those monumental elements are dominated. However, dominated by what? They are dominated by global or international ideas that are not only alien to the architectural elements themselves but also, to a certain extent, to the cultural environment in which they appear. Those ideas are: international aesthetics, modernity, humanism, political correctness, democracy … This is the reason why this stammering monumentalism is not allowed to symbolize anything concrete. It has even ceased to speak the lofty language of eternity that Louis Kahn established as the minimal requirement of monumentality. Through its degree zero of monumentality it reflects China’s relationship with the world.

3. Stammering Monumentality Nor should the above monumentality be confused with the “degree zero of the monument” that Roland Barthes once attributed to the anti-monumental structure of the Eiffel Tower which, while being useless, stimulates peoples’ imagination (Barthes 1997: 7). The two Chinese buildings do not offer this advantage either

126 Transcultural Architecture

because the monumental elements are here simply pushed towards a secondary and absurd context in which they appear not as speechless and sublimely silent but rather as stammering. The monumental discourse appears as neither unified/ firm nor absent but simply as “timid” in the sense of no longer daring to convey anything substantial. Finally, the monumentality of the Hangzhou buildings should not be confused with what Sigfried Giedion has called “the devaluation of symbols” Giedion 1969: 329). The devaluation of symbols can mainly be encountered in eclecticism where it expresses a state of diffuseness and disorientation. The monumentality of the Hangzhou buildings is rather a stammering and “liquid form of monumentality” because here the firm monumental ideological content as well as the form of the monument have been transformed into liquid decorative images that appear to be acceptable in a modern, globalized context. The signifier has been detached from the signified which, as a rule, produces a liquefaction of meaning. No artist, not even Krzysztof Wodiczko, who specializes in the absurdification of monuments, would be able to appropriate or misappropriate those arches. The same phenomenon has been observed in other contexts. However, wherever they appear, such liquefied decorative images will most likely be inserted into complex historical surroundings, which are postcolonial settings in which the past needs to be evoked in a stammering, indirect fashion. Ackbar Abbas describes the Hong Kong Cultural Center where the red brick clock tower from the demolished colonial railway station has been saved and been incorporated into the modern design of the new building. Far from perceiving the tower as a monument of history, Abbas concludes that it is “not more than decorative, an image of history meant for visual consumption” (Abbas 1996: 219). Hangzhou does not provide such a context either. The absurd way in which both Hangzhou buildings make use of the arch becomes emblematic of a decorative-monumental procedure that is different from that of the Hong Kong clock tower. Normally, arches are supposed to heighten the sense of spatial distinction, as they suggest the existence of an ideal environment situated in a “within” that needs to be separated from the “without.” It is, of course, possible, that “nothing” is inside, that the arch is merely part of a device of simulation. However, in that case there will at least be an “inside” whose economic or symbolic value can be designated as an act of simulation. In Hangzhou, the arches are “all there is” without leading towards any “inside.” They continue to symbolize everything arches are supposed to symbolize, but they do so in an empty and merely decorative fashion. Even their way of displaying follows the paradoxical rhetoric that all arches have in common, which is: being sober and unemotional though at the same time always dangerously close to kitsch.

4. Nietzsche: The Decorative vs. the Monumental It was Nietzsche who categorically opposed the monumental to the decorative because he believed that only the monumental character of culture is able to provide culturally creative people the strength to create something new.1 Weak



When the Monumental Becomes Decorative

127

imitators do not understand anything of culture’s inner driving force, since all they want to do is decorate. They have no real access to the power of creation. By hiding and dissimulating a cultural truth (which normally should represent a harmonious whole composed of life, thought, appearance, and will), decorators end up creating an absurd universe of cultural pastiches. Nietzsche’s opposition of the monumental and the decorative is anti-modern in the sense that it contrasts a “deep” historical-monumental approach towards the world with a superficial, “modern” one which grasps only the “image,” that is, the world’s decorative surface. Certainly, Nietzsche does not condemn decoration per se. “Decoration” can be part of the monumental but it needs to be clearly subordinated to the latter’s rules and its language. To take a more recent example, Stalinist architecture developed corniches, obelisks, and figures that were decorative but participated in their own way in the discourse of monumentality. Only a self-sufficient decoration speaking about nothing but itself (and which is therefore de facto silent) is deprived of cultural power. The monumental elements in the Chinese buildings described above are powerless. They do not even influence the attitude of the visitor because people do not attend these places but simply look at their monumental elements. Here it becomes clear that the strategy pursued by the stammering monumentalists is also different from the subversive procedure of Pop Art, which declared that decoration must be seen as the most essential element art has to offer. Opposing Adolf Loos’s view that ornament is a crime, pop artists would put the modern system of ‘monumentality vs. the decorative’ upside down, as has explained Mark C. Taylor: “For the pop artist ornament is not a crime but is the very ‘essence’ of art. When ornament is essential, however, essence becomes ornamental and vanishes in a play of appearances grounded in nothing beyond itself” (Taylor 1995: 35). This is an inverting strategy. As to its essence, it remains modern to the bone. Pop Art “decorations” are exposed in art galleries or in public space just like monuments. In agreement with Nietzsche’s thoughts are those of Lewis Mumford who claims that modernity simply cannot produce any monuments: “The very notion of a modern monument is a contradiction in terms: if it is a monument, it cannot be modern, and if it is modern, it cannot be a monument.”2 What Mumford means is that history-denying modernity is unable to pay tribute to lasting beliefs. However, it is not the geometrical character of modern architecture that he condemns. On the contrary, simplicity and formalism of design can be very beneficial for expressions of monumentality. The problem is that modernist geometry does not intend to say anything because it is devoted to the speechless lack of ornamentation.

5. Monuments and Identity in China In China, clear, outspoken monumentalism has in many places been abolished. In Shanghai, for example, communist symbols like the red star on the Hong Kong-Shanghai Bank have been removed in order to prepare a smooth passage into the capitalist future. This creates an at least apparent freedom from

128 Transcultural Architecture

political statements about the past, future and present. It is therefore amazing that a ghostlike form of monumental aesthetics survives in some—otherwise modernized—parts of the province. The scheme exposed above turns out to be very characteristic of the present Chinese political situation since the partly neutralized or domesticated monumentalism works along the lines of other “neutralizing” ideologies. Minority cultures, for example, far from being integrated in the social tissue of the Chinese Republic, appear almost nightly in insipid State Television shows to perform their folk dances. They are encouraged to do this not in order to develop their own cultural strength but in order to provide a spectacle. While they are presented as living monuments of a multicultural China, in reality they are nothing more than its decorations or, in the worst case, objects of touristic consumption because the political context of present China does not foster their real cultural development. All this goes hand in hand with the pop versions of a new “Mao cult” selling badges bearing the portrait of the chairman as decorative accessories; or with the pop treatment of Chinese revolutionary songs by rock singers like Cui Jian in the 1980s. Far from being a simple parody of the revolutionary aesthetics (which would never be permitted), Lao Cui’s “rock tunes dismantle and deconstruct the revolutionary ethos offered by the literal meaning of the words” (Hsiao-Peng-Lu 1996: 156). And when words are put in the alien musical context of Western rock music, their monumental character is neutralized to become merely decorative. The new Mao cult or the “Mao Zedong Fever” that broke out at Mao’s birthday centennial in 1993, are manifestations of the same stammering monumentalism that is manifest in the architectural examples presented. The most obvious examples of “decorative monumentalism,” however, might be the “Eiffel Towers” that can be spotted on the roofs of thousands of suburban Chinese family homes. What would Roland Barthes have to say about them? Having no other function than conveying the social prestige of its owners, the Eiffel Tower, this Western symbol of monumental concreteness, becomes here fully “liquidized” into decorative fantasies symbolizing nothing other than a very vague idea of Western lifestyle.3

Notes 1.

Cf. Untimely Considerations II. It needs to be pointed out the Nietzsche distinguished the monumental attitude from the antiquarian one whose conservatism he criticized. The result of his lengthy examination of the theme in the UC is that “critical monumentalism” is the best attitude.

2.

Mumford 1964 quoted from Cecil Elliot: “Stalinist Architecture 1933–1955: Monuments and Monumentality” in Journal of Architectural Education 1964, 18: 4, pp. 51–3.

3.

“They are antennas” is a frequent justification. It is interesting to note that Walter Benjamin has been particularly interested by the fact that, initially, the Eiffel Tower has not been created for any use but was later “justified” as a transmitter of radio waves that had not been invented when the tower was conceived. See Jeffrey Mehlman: Walter Benjamin for Children: An Essay on his Radio Years, p. 14.

6 Play, Dream, and the Search for the “Real” Form of Dwelling: From Aalto to Ando

Introduction In the history of modern architecture, an active and ample criticism of all too conventional and standardized forms effectively voiced itself through the works of Frank Lloyd Wright and Alvar Aalto. Furthermore, as standardization and internationalization progressed, their ideas about the human value of architecture as well as about place as a genius loci, remained forgotten for some decades, but reappeared in the mid-1970s in several countries. This happened before the term Critical Regionalism was coined. Tadao Ando is the architect who, in Japan, consistently formulated non-modernist approaches reminiscent of those of the above “modernists of the second generation,” but which nevertheless bear differences. I want to show in this chapter, how anti-modern architectural counter movements remained constant to some extent over the last 50 years, though they had to change their strategies at the moment the face of “international reality” was changing. The juxtaposition of Aalto and Ando serves this purpose. The clarifications of Ando’s architectural philosophy that I provide in the second part of the chapter need to be understood against this background. Aalto’s or Wright’s rejection of modern rationalism led to a reevaluation of an organic method often widely associated with “romantic” ideas. “Warmth” and “feeling” were opposed to “coldness” and “ratio” (Benevolo 19871: 616). In terms of aesthetics, “organic” forms as well a “naturalness” in architecture bring about a shift from what German idealism has called the “Kunstschönheit” (artistic beauty) to the “Naturschönheit” (natural beauty). Such a shift implies self-restriction of the architect’s artistic liberty, or, if we want to use a term by the German aesthetician Riegl, it asks for a restriction of the architect’s “will to style” in order to favor more unconscious, instinctive approaches. Accordingly, for Aalto architectural space was considered a successful creation when it was composed in a “natural way.” “Style” would here, necessarily, become secondary because it could only appear as just another abstract concept, as just another intellectual hypothesis bound to

130 Transcultural Architecture

contradict the creation of an organic place supposed to be almost as convincing as nature. It would however, be too simple to identify Aalto’s approach with that of a vague Romanticism. In spite of its pronounced regionalist identity, his vocabulary has never slumped into a quasi-kitsch that the preceding Finnish National Romanticism would probably have fallen into, had it continued on the same path it had been exploring for some time. Though rarely noted, in Aalto’s thinking there are some ironical or paradoxical lines that make him interesting even today and which were, beyond that, continued by Pietilä. An important point is that Aalto saw his break with rationalist modern architecture not as a break with rationalism as such, but thought that so far in modern architecture, “rationalization would not have gone deep enough.”1 That this represents a consistent way of seeing things becomes clear if one looks at the continuation of modern architecture and at Aalto’s position within it. What Aalto alludes to is the existence of a form of rationality that is not structural or formal, but which manages to incorporate in itself all forms of concrete life. What did Aalto mean by this kind of rationality? It is in keeping with his own approaches to suggest that it is related to the rationality that human beings use when playing games. Aalto himself has put forward the idea of play as a quality opposed to modern approaches as he wrote in 1953: “Though we are in the midst of an experimenting, calculating and utilitarian age, we still have to believe that play has a vital role in building a society for man, the eternal child” (Aalto 1953: 10).

1. Anti-rationalism of Play in Aalto and Ando The link between Aalto and Pietilä can, in my opinion, not be established more efficiently than by insisting on the role of play in both architect’s procedures. Malcolm Quantrill writes that “the sense of play, so essential to Aalto’s design method—as it is also indeed to Pietilä’s—is offered as a means of escape from the straightjacket of fore-knowledge, just as a child plays to reach beyond the limits of its knowledge and experience” (Quantrill 1985: 168). It has been shown in this book that in Pietilä, Aalto’s paradoxical anti-rationalism that is constantly looking for a deeper form of rationality, becomes something like an “unstable language” (Connah), that is, a language so unstable that it cannot even be grasped by means of intuition. “Intuition,” be it “feeling” or a matter of reason, would, in any case, be romanticist, based on a direct approach attempting to grasp architecture in the same way in which it attempts to grasp nature. What is needed, according to Pietilä, is not nature or art but mathematics and empiricism (cf. Pietilä 1957/58a). Only a surplus of mathematics can alter those rigid and scholastic structures that modern architecture so desperately clings to, and only “empiricism” can bring about an “experience with concrete objects” that modernity has lost hold of (cf. Pietilä 1957/58b). Both Aalto and Pietilä show that modernity should not be critiqued by issuing a blunt “back to nature” call or an appeal to be “against reason.” More important is



Play, Dream, and the Search for the “Real” Form of Dwelling

131

the overcoming of insufficient forms of rationality. This is where I see—within the context of the present analysis—a developmental line leading from Aalto to Ando within which Pietilä (and also Louis Kahn) plays a mediating role. Both Pietilä and Ando define their approaches through a strong identification with their native environment. Pietilä defined many of his fundamental ideas in the sixties, but his thoughts on neo-regionalism occupied him especially in the seventies, thus at a time when also Ando formulated thoughts about the relationship between architecture and society. Similar to what Aalto produced 40 years earlier in Finland, Ando’s architecture appears, at first sight, like a manifestation of a strong anti-intellectualism. Architectural spaces, Ando says, should not be “born of intellectual operations, but of emotions rooted in the desires of many different people.” This indicates a rejection of thought in general. However, like for Aalto and Pietilä, Ando’s alternative is a rationality that is meant to “go deeper” than the overall “rational” structures created by society for so called “free” individuals. In the twentieth century it has often been believed that if intellectualism leads to a separation of architecture from society, the link can be reestablished by modeling architecture according to social needs. However, this is merely another form of intellectualism. It has been said of Ando’s houses that they are “irrational” and “inconvenient.” Is the juxtaposition of the two terms not revealing? Is rationality really supposed to be “convenient?” In reality, the deep structure of human dwelling to be rethought in modernity can be discovered neither inside the human mind nor simply “outside,” in social life. The true structure of human dwelling is neither a scientific law nor is it an artistic style imposed upon buildings by seeing architecture as art. If there is a way of finding the structure of dwelling that is “convenient” for people, it is most likely to be found by looking at it from the angle of an architectural anthropology of games suggested by Aalto and Pietilä. The playing of games implies a paradoxical negation and simultaneous affirmation of social reality within itself. In order to find such game-like structures one can establish, as does Ando, an “individual zone within society” within which the significance of daily life is allowed to develop new dimensions. Within this “individual zone” or “primitive image scene” (Ando 1978: 12), which—paradoxically—still communicates with its environment, a new style of life can arise. This will be a really new “style” much more than the stylization of another, arbitrarily chosen, previous style (many modern “Japanesestyle” buildings are merely imitations of a pre-supposed “Japanese styles”). This new approach, which is also far removed from the idea of “architecture as art” will be “fundamental” and can therefore also be opposed to all ideas of convenience. Eventually, this style can also be called “natural,” for real style is as natural as nature. There are very few plants in Ando’s houses, a fact that could let him stand apart from the “close-to-nature” architecture of Aalto. However, De Stijl had no plants either and the “general revulsion against green and growth” (Sylvester 2001: 133–4) of De Stijl contributor Mondrian is proverbial. Still De Stijl houses appear, when compared to those of Bauhaus or Le Corbusier (who had no plants either) as almost pantheistically natural. Nature is a matter of spirit and not of plants. Too

132 Transcultural Architecture

often modern architecture reveals a profound misunderstanding of this fact by putting plants into buildings and thus committing lazy acts of stylization (would it be wrong to say that Ando’s houses are Japanese “dry gardens” and Aalto’s are European “organic” ones?). These are also reasons why I disagree with interpretations like those of Katsuhiro Kobayashi who develops, in regard to Ando, a dialectics of rationality and humanism that would already have been questionable in Aalto’s case. Kobayashi believes that Ando, though a rationalist, would constantly be pursued by the humanist in himself (Kobayashi 1991: 138). It is rather because of his rationalism that Ando is a humanist and not in spite of it. Finally, rationality is a part of the human being. The fact of being confronted with an “inconvenient rationality” that seems to be removed from the rationality of everyday life, though at the same time bearing the strict and consistent traits of rationality, is reminiscent of the experience we are making when playing a game. Some suggestions concerning the importance of play in Aalto and Pietilä have been made above. However, it is also certain that the experience of a convincingly self-sufficient, though at the same time infinitely “strange” reality also reminds us of experiences we are making when we are dreaming. It has been shown in Chapter 2 that Pietilä’s architecture provides some interesting references with regard to the “architecture and dream” topic. Ando’s aesthetics is related to dreams in a similar fashion.

2. Ando’s “Dreamlike Anti-Rationalism” Yonel Schein has spoken of the “profound reverie of Wright” (Schein 1964: 2). A continuation leading from Wright to Ando could be indicated by the fact that Ando continues Wright’s “lightness reachable with the serenity of the one who had gone beyond the anguish of the present with a long march toward higher stages of alienation” (Tafuri and Dal Co on Wright). “Wind, light, earth, and water. This is a reverie and rest for humanity,” says Ando (1986: 58). Ando’s “architecture of dream” can be explained through the connection it has with the idea of “play” as it has been developed by a preceding generation of anti-rationalist architects of whom Aalto has so far served as an example. Ando calls for “dreaming and lunacy that conceivably occupy an important position in the work of architecture” (1986: 58) and admits that many of his commissions “have emerged from a dream” (cf. Ando 1989: 11). A part from that, the dream-like vocabulary came to Ando from Isozaki who often uses dream motives in a mannerist fashion. Isozaki attempts to undermine reality with the purpose of creating illusionary effects. Also Ando’s architecture creates, at times, a dream-like atmosphere but the means and aims he pursues are different from Isozaki’s. Ando’s “aesthetics of dream” is more a matter of participation than of contemplation. First, there are the labyrinthine structures of his houses. The labyrinth bears a clear metaphorical link with dreaming (as much as it does with play). Then there are the concrete walls, which enclose space by being absolute and physically concrete



Play, Dream, and the Search for the “Real” Form of Dwelling

133

or by being abstract and ungraspable. Ando says that he uses concrete because in this way “walls become abstract, are negated, and approach the ultimate limit of space. Their actuality is lost, and only the space they enclose gives a sense of reality existing” (Ando 1982a: 12). One could hardly better describe the way how space is experienced in dreams. The absolute enclosure of dream-space exists, but at the same time this space appears to be unlimited because the dream itself exists “as such” and is not contained in any other space. Also on a more abstract level, Ando’s aesthetic comes close to an “aesthetic of dreaming.” The fact of obtaining a level of purity that exceeds function completely overlaps with the principles underlying any ontology of dream. Would the dream only follow functions it could not exist: only because the (normal and representative) form of the dream is severed from its function (through, according to Freud, condensation, distortion, and so on), a strange phenomenon like the dream is allowed to arise. Finally, there is the silence: “Silent spaces cannot be seen with the eyes; they are felt with the heart,” says Botond Bognar (1982: 26). Takefumi Aida has almost canonized the parameters essential to the “architecture of silence,” writing that silence is dark, is contained in materials, is nature, is pessimistic … (Aida 1971). Silence is also the form of purity that is essential to games as well as to dreams. Not all dreams are silent but silence is an aesthetic device used by film directors to produce dreamlike impressions (cf. my section of “dream speech” in film in BotzBornstein 2009: 40–43). Silence is essential to dreams just like a dreamlike quality might be enclosed to silence, as is confirmed by the scrupulous examinations of the function of speech in dreams by Freud and Kraepelin. In dreams, every spoken word weighs very heavily and “purity of expression” becomes a stylistic imperative. In this context, style becomes a sort of “logic” that can be opposed to “aesthetic form.” Ando expresses precisely this when saying: “What is important is the clarity of one’s logic. Not the transparency one associates with superficial beauty, or a simple geometrical quality, but the transparency of a consistent logic” (Ando 1991: 14). Ando’s points do also apply to games and to dreams. In dreams, the above logic establishes itself and develops from the inside to the outside. Is it necessary to say that also Ando always works “from the inside to the outside”? And like the creator Ando, also dreams do not really create an “imaginary space” but a space rhythm called ma, which is objective and subjective at the same time. In dreams, like in Ando’s buildings, there is no overall structure (except the one attributed by the analyst) and nothing can be seen from the outside. But like dreams (and like the Japanese tea pavilion, the sukiya) Ando’s houses contain a totality coordinating all details thus contributing to the creation of a more profound stylistic expression. “I prefer for the space to speak and for the walls to produce no sense of their own entities,” says Ando. Is this not something like “the space of dream” in which space is not geometrically defined but exists “for itself” only through (gamelike) experience? The ideas about space and silence in connection with dreams are also essential to traditional Japanese culture. In Noh-plays, the quality of yûgen (commonly translated as ‘grace,” ‘sublime’ or ‘mystical depth’) is able to create a

134 Transcultural Architecture

spatial experience that comes close to the experience of dreams. Typical motifs of Noh-plays are scenes in which dreams and reality interpenetrate and cannot be distinguished. Then, the stylized and silent way of walking of the Noh-actors creates a kind of unreal space or ma in which temporal continuity is abolished. In other words, the Noh-play creates a space of silence in which the experience of dream can be essential. It is impossible to talk in this context about Ando’s search of a fundamental style without mentioning the role played by the body. Space is experienced with the body, which brings us once again to a particular spatial experience in dreams: “And even before my mind had identified the habitation, he, my body, remembered everybody’s bed, the place of the doors, the position of the windows, the existence of the corridor ….“2 This is how Proust describes, in the passage quoted in Chapter 2, the sleepwalking experience of orienting oneself, half asleep, in a dark room. It is the body which knows the space so well, much better than the mind. Body experience is commonly emphasized when combating the image character of modern architecture, as does Paul Zumthor when proclaiming: “We walk on floors, goddammit, we don’t walk on images! You cannot live in a TV box. We are here physically on earth, not virtually” (quoted from Bowring and Swaffield 2004: 2). Similarly, Bernhard Lane writes that “the body is in danger, it wants to come back! You can see this in the last twenty years in the arts. We’re living in a world of images. Substance—real stuff—has to be emphasized” (Lane 2004). However, when the conclusions offer not more than a mere “get real” assignment, the most authentic bodily experience cannot be retrieved. The point is that in architecture, like in the above mentioned Noh-plays, the real and the unreal are constantly linked. Proust’s passage suggests that “body knowledge” is most efficiently experienced not in “real” waking life but in the “in-between” state of sleepwalking. Nishida Kitaro, the main Japanese philosopher of the twentieth century, believes that the body is the center of our thought, that the body thinks and that only the body permits us to be linked to the environment. When Ando says that he would be interested in seeing what “life-patterns can be extracted and developed from living under severe conditions” (1984: 8) it becomes clear that Ando addresses the phenomenon of “life-style” not superficially as a matter of aesthetics but as profound layer of human existence. This also transcends any idea of functionalism. Through “severe experience” the “right” way of living leaves the sphere of theory in order to become a matter of the body.

3. Conclusion The link between Ando’s “phenomenology of dream” and the preceding reflections on Aalto’s architecture of play might have appeared as being covered, in the last third of this chapter, under philosophical descriptions of Ando’s “architecture of dream.” Still, the purpose of the present chapter has been to describe a line leading



Play, Dream, and the Search for the “Real” Form of Dwelling

135

from Aalto to Ando, represented, in the first place, by a common protest against standardization and internationalization. If this line is difficult to recognize, then only because “internationalization” has changed its face. Aalto made a case against modern impersonalism as well as against an idyllic consumer society and offered an “organic” alternative. Today at a further stage of internationalization involving reality’s quasi “virtualization” through the media as well as through the computer, “organism” as an alternative concept is no longer sufficient. In our virtualized and globalized modernity, Ando’s spaces appear, through the affinities they bear with dreamlike expression, as convincing “anti-rationalist” alternatives. At the same time they are, just because of their dreamlike input, linked to earlier “playful” attempts of Aalto as well as to those of Pietilä. Like Aalto’s architecture, Ando’s spaces make a case against cold and technocratic modernism but at the same time they do more: they also make a case against the idyllic global village offered by visions of a world represented by virtual reality which blurs, in its own “impersonal” way, the distinction between dream and reality.

Notes 1.

Statement from 1940. Quoted from Quantrill 1983, p. 241.

2.

Marcel Proust, Du Côté de chez Swann I, p. 15. Transl. as Swann’s Way Vol. I, p. 5 (trans. Charles Kenneth Scott-Moncrieff, New York: Holt 1922).

This page has been left blank intentionally

7 Wittgenstein’s Stonborough House and the Architecture of Tadao Ando

Introduction In the preceding chapter, Ando’s view that in architecture “life patterns can be extracted and developed from living under severe conditions” (Ando 1984: 8)1 has been reflected against the demands of Critical Regionalism. I would like to clarify Ando’s position by comparing it with the concept of “form of life” coined by the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein. In some way, it formulates the most extreme position that can be opposed to the “populism” which, after “the assumed failure of the mythical hero architect” sees “popular taste as the sole authority of design,” as has said Juhani Pallasmaa (2007: 139). Wittgenstein happened to be an amateur architect and “the clarity of one’s logic” (Ando) to which aesthetic and functional decisions must be subordinated, is manifest not only in his philosophy but also in his architectural creation. Wittgenstein’s Stonborough House is a unique example of a philosopher’s attempt to express his ideas through architecture. At the end of a psychological crisis, which had led to a temporary suspension of all his philosophical activities, Wittgenstein was asked by his sister Margaret to build a house for her in the suburbs of Vienna. Though having no training as an architect, Wittgenstein accepted enthusiastically. The planning and construction of the house (1926–1928) falls into the intermediate period of what are called the earlier and the later phases of Wittgenstein’s philosophical work. Wittgenstein was about to renounce his earlier extremely logically oriented philosophy, in order to find new ways of expression in less formal reflections. Suffering until the late 70s from indifference from the part of philosophers as well as architects, the Wittgenstein House has by now been thoroughly evaluated with regard to its position in the history of modern architecture and its relation with Wittgenstein’s philosophy (see Gebauer 1982, Bouveresse 1986, Leitner 1986, Wijdefeld 1994). The aim of the present chapter is not necessarily to add anything new to these analyses, but to show that a certain attitude towards modernity

138 Transcultural Architecture

proper to Wittgenstein can also be seen as the dynamic driving force in the work of the Japanese architect Tadao Ando. I shall first list the most striking points of resemblance between Ando and Wittgenstein that appear in their architectural expression as well as their personalities. First, neither Wittgenstein nor Ando benefited from fulltime architectural training. A kind of self-conscious “dilettantism” might thus have contributed to the development of similar phenomena in their respective works:

7.1  Stonborough House

1. The firm decision to resist all fashionable tendencies in architecture. 2. The principle to value intuition much higher than any geometrical rule (for Wittgenstein, pre-established rules can only intuitively be shown). 3. The appreciation of craftsmanship. 4. The decision to stick to a certain kind of material particularly well suited to the ideal of precision within the context of certain architectural ideas. 5. The choice of “hard” and durable materials (metal, concrete). 6. The evaluation of the effect of light and shadow (more or less forgotten in mainstream Western modern architecture) leading to a severity of abstraction, whose scope goes beyond the creation of a merely “abstract space.” As a consequence, the perception of depth and shallowness can appear as “pure.” 7. An extremely simple exterior of their houses hides a unique interior.



Stonborough House and the Architecture of Tadao Ando

139

1. Simplicity Simplicity is central to Wittgenstein’s later philosophy, which is, in general, characterized by the refusal of any essentialism. This means that Wittgenstein refuses to see appearances as determined by an essential content. Instead he develops a “formalist philosophy” insisting on the self-sufficiency of form without thinking “form” as something that is cut off from life. However, for Wittgenstein the “form” is never purely abstract, although it is not a “function” either, since a function could still be fashioned according to the needs of life. For Wittgenstein, the (aesthetic or moral) “form” represents the highest ideal according to which life should be shaped. This “form of life” or “style of life” cannot simply be expressed through principles derived from life, but appears as a “picture” imposing its validity at the very moment it comes into being. In other words, the “form” appears through the silence of that about which one cannot speak. In this way, it appears as a transcendental input, uniting ethics and aesthetics as a self-sufficient entity. By designing the Stonborough House, Wittgenstein suggested a way of expressing philosophical thoughts through an activity that does not create language but which comes closer to the creation of pictures. It is an activity supposed to give a form to the life of human beings. This activity is architecture. Wittgenstein’s ideas about the refusal of both aestheticism and functionalism as long as these remain merely linguistic principles (arbitrarily) derived from life, would find very few supporters among Western “modern” architects. It took a Japanese soul-mate to apply similar thoughts in a similarly radical fashion. In both Wittgenstein’s and Ando’s work we are confronted with a simplicity and sobriety able to produce a sense of the “objective.” The “sobriety” is not applied in the service of a functionalism admitted as the highest aim of architecture. Nor is “simplicity” the result of a mere “aestheticizing” aversion against ornamentation (as in the case of Loos). Both Wittgenstein and Ando are in search of a purity exceeding the requirements of both function and mere aestheticism.

2. Form of Life What is a “form of life” in architecture? As mentioned, in 1980, Ando claimed that “life patterns can be extracted and developed from living under severe conditions” (1984: 8). This idea is indeed rather Wittgensteinian. When Ando decides to combat the “superfluous,” he is not looking for a functionalism able to provide superficial comfort. As mentioned in Chapter 6, his Townhouse at Kujo has been called irrational and inconvenient. Ando decided not to listen to the demands of society. What is more important than social, functional or aesthetic imperatives is “the clarity of one’s logic.” Wittgenstein’s house, however “logical” it might appear through the formal and pure structures of its realization, is also totally impractical and thus “illogical” in some sense. Let us say it has its “own logic.” For Wittgenstein and Ando, the genuine architectural pursuit is not to “create rules for the pleasure of it” but to create rules

140 Transcultural Architecture

whose necessity flows out of their own logic (see Ando on “Shintai” in Frampton 1989). This logic cannot be explained because it is an entirely “private logic.” As mentioned, for Wittgenstein it represents the coincidence of ethics and aesthetics. Ando expresses the same idea when claiming that “beauty dwells in the function” (1984: 9). Ando and Wittgenstein do not simply oppose function and aesthetics but ask for the aesthetic and moral justification of the function. They do not accept the function itself as an explanation. Both Wittgenstein and Ando find that modernity is lacking such a genuine approach towards architecture inasmuch as it is lacking a morality able to coordinate aesthetic form with a “form of life.”

3. Emptiness, Silence The “emptiness” sought by Wittgenstein when requesting silence at the moment the unspeakable (“das Unsagbare”) has crystallized, corresponds to Ando’s call for silence as the degree zero of symbolization. There is no speech except the speech uttered by the empty space, which becomes obvious when Ando says: “I prefer for the space to speak and for the walls to produce no sense of their own identities.” In Ando’s work, the silence is inspired by the Buddhist concept of emptiness.2 The similarity becomes clear when one considers that both Ando’s and Wittgenstein’s silence is opposed to that of Loos, which is merely a refusal of semiotic signs. Hubert Damisch speaks of Loos’s “desire for emptiness” which led him to refuse different (ornamental) styles which, as a result, ended up as a new, distinct style (Damisch 1975: 811). What will never be found by such an approach is a “form of life.” Such a form of life is not just any style (not even one resulting from a refusal of other styles) but a style expressing the “unspeakable.” Wittgenstein would say that such a style is a quality that “shows itself,” like an image. Ando says that the space (and not the concrete elements surrounding the space) will “speak” this silence and create a “form.” Through this approach, form or style are removed from all practical considerations. For this reason “impractical” people like Wittgenstein and Ando are more predestined to find such a style than a practical person like Loos. Loos was an artist creating “for life” by developing outspoken ideas about lifestyles. Wittgenstein and Ando are craftsmen who work in silence, creating places that cannot be grasped by language but only “felt” as images.

4. Body Architecture, Architecture as Gesture To say that images are “felt” means in this context that they have a relationship with the body. The link between architecture and the body represents an important element for any appreciation of both Wittgenstein’s and Ando’s architecture. Ando insists on “architecture’s physical, carnal quality or … the labyrinthine quality of the body” (Ando 1995: 454). Wittgenstein says that “architecture is a gesture,” suggesting that any form of life expressed through architecture must be linked to its bodily



Stonborough House and the Architecture of Tadao Ando

141

interiorization (Wittgenstein 1984: 510). Gestures are bodily expressions, and this, finally, is what distinguishes architecture from language. Ando’s reevaluation of the Japanese notion of “shintai” (“body-spirit”) aims at a similar articulation of the world through the body. Architecture makes lifestyles more “profound” (Ando says this in regard to the traditional Japanese tea-house) because, being bodily itself, it necessarily has an effect on the body. Here, a “form” or a “style” of life is not a matter of rationality in the usual sense of the word, but it is able to create its own form of rationality. It is obvious how much this is in keeping with Wittgenstein’s thinking.3

5. Dreams When Ando says that the body is for him an “oneiric prison,” he aims at a “purity exceeding function,” and this purity comes very close to the logic or “function” that we encounter in dreams. Wittgenstein says about dreams: “What impresses us in dreams is not its causal connection, but rather the fact that it is like a story … whose rest remains in the dark.”4 It is this “part of the story” which is able to create its own logic independently of an overall linguistic structure. A German journalist once wrote that when walking through the Wittgenstein house, one has the impression of walking through the strange and dreamlike corridors of the films of Andrei Tarkovsky. For Ando as well as for Wittgenstein, the limitation of all expression to an internal structure that is at once complex and simple creates a feeling of purity that is not the one common in modern aesthetics, but rather reminiscent of the experience of dream.

Notes 1.

First published in Japan Architect 1980: 4.

2.

For rapprochements of Wittgenstein and Eastern philosophy see my article “Nishida and Wittgenstein: From Pure Experience to Lebensform or New Perspectives for a Philosophy of Intercultural Communication” (2003). See also Paul Wienpahl’s article from 1958, “Zen and the Work of Wittgenstein” (Chicago Review 12: 2, pp. 67–72), in which the author explains the coincidence of Wittgenstein’s complete clarity or simplicity with the Zen notion of no-mind: “Wittgenstein said: For the clarity we are aiming at is indeed complete clarity. But this simply means that the philosophical problems should completely disappear” (Philosophical Investigations, 133). A famous Zen mondo is: Of a master, it is reported: when asked what he was doing sitting cross-legged quietly, Yao-shan said: “Thinking of that which is beyond thinking.” “How do you go on with thinking that which is beyond thinking?” asked a visitor. Yao-shan: By not-thinking” (Wienpahl, pp. 70–71).

3.

A related principle we find perhaps only in Paul Virilio’s “oblique architecture” of the 1960s that was meant to turn human dwellings into a permanent training ground for the body. Lotringer and Virilio 2005: “Buildings would be entirely made of inclined planes that required a special effort, and would make sure that we would remain conscious of our concrete existence through obstacles in everyday life. Consumerism

142 Transcultural Architecture

was beginning to make everything abstract and insubstantial—merely comparing signs—and [Paul Virilio was] rushing in emergency remedial features. Oblique architecture was a version of Artaud’s theater of cruelty, a modernist strategy meant to counter people’ increasing absorption in a universe of signs and images. A spiritual antidote to the Society of the Spectacle” (44–5). 4.

Vermische Bemerkungen, p. 547 (1948). For Wittgenstein’s general attitude towards dream see my article “The Dream of Language: Wittgenstein’s Concept of Dream in the Context of Style and Lebensform” in The Philosophical Forum 34: 1, 2003, pp. 73–90.

8 Cardboard Houses with Wings: The Architecture of Alabama’s Rural Studio

Introduction The Rural Studio, which was founded by Samuel Mockbee in 1992 and led by him until his death in 2001, continues its activities. Led by Andrew Freear since 2001, the educators of the Rural Studio still believe that students receive an education not only about buildings but also about society as they are forced to seek solutions “within the community’s own context, not from outside it.” As its mission statement, the Studio quotes the aim to “allow students to put their educational values to work as citizens of a community” (website). Being part of Auburn University’s outreach program, the Studio invites around 30 students per year to study in Newbern, Western Alabama, for periods between six and 12 months. The Studio’s specialty is, now as before, the design of innovative houses for poor people living in Alabama’s second poorest county, Hale County, by relying largely on donated and salvaged materials. The houses are made of car windshields, surplus carpet tiles, baled cardboard, old street signs and license plates and lots of other items. Alexis de Tocqueville (1963) has said that democracy lowers the standards of creation and it seems that, for architecture, this has become a sad truth in many cases in industrialized countries. The Rural Studio wants to contradict this tendency by showing that even within the context of civic engagement elements like style and art are not bound to disappear. It is for those reasons that Sarah Wigglesworth and Jeremy Till suggest that the work of the Rural Studio represents a “true ‘critical’ regionalism” because it is “critical of the structures of power that ignore, and therefore maintain, the plight of the very poor …” (Wigglesworth and Till 2007: 428). “Participatory design,” as well as “community design,” are common in the USA in the public as well as in the private sector.1 However, few of them would be associated with Critical Regionalism. The Rural Studio’s aim to offer not only decent architecture in terms of material quality but to remain also consistent when it comes to aesthetics, sticks out of

144 Transcultural Architecture

the landscape not only of community design but even the history of modern Western architecture. While there is nothing new in reducing rich people’s lives to functionalism, the ambition to enhance poor people’s lives through art can still be considered as rather eccentric.

1. Kitsch Culture and Junk Culture Negotiating style when being engaged in compassionate projects is certainly a difficult task. Everybody needs food, clothing, and shelter, but who needs art?

8.1 Music Man House



The Architecture of Alabama’s Rural Studio

145

The worst outcome that such negotiations can have is, of course, the victory of social pragmatism over art, simply declaring that “they don’t need that.” However, this is not the only miscarriage to be expected. Another likely disaster is that the suggested artistic activity will be refused by the clients at the onset. Community design architects confirm that “when it comes to houses people are much more conservative” (Ball 2004: 138). The problematic reception of Critical Regionalist aesthetics by clients who do not want such buildings is actually a recurrent theme in this book. The case of Pietilä’s Kuwait buildings, though produced on a completely different scale, faced the same problems as community design architecture in rural Alabama. Also in the latter case, the aesthetic standards of the lower class or lower middle-class especially are often ridden by numerous prejudices about “how a house should look like.” The aesthetic standards of the status seeking middle class are generally more open as their visions of an ideal house are often determined by a moderately adventurous hedonism striving to conquer new aesthetic models and experiences. The problem is that, sometimes, their projects will run directly into the aesthetic dead-end-road of kitsch (or, in the better case, camp) because their openness is often superficial. Instead of being determined by a kind of post-modern selfcriticism it remains rather dependent on thoughtless consumer attitudes. Could Critical Regionalism also here be the remedy? The desire to display and impress at any cost—a strain already put forward by Tocqueville—corrupts the taste of many American middle class members and makes truly artistic architectural expressions oftentimes impossible. In the worst case, this attitude will be conducive to the desire to “acquire beautiful junk” which is, according to the aesthetician Matei Calinescu, the classical mechanism leading to the creation of kitsch culture (Calinescu 1987: 245). The original German definition of kitsch is indeed that “which makes use of refuse taken bodily from the rubbish dump” (Dorfles 1975: 3). The architects of the Rural Studio use predominantly junk, which forces us to consider the question: how do they manage to escape the aesthetics of kitsch? From a historical perspective, kitsch-culture is the product of the European middle classes (though it has subsequently also been imitated by lower income classes). It becomes clear that the Rural Studio operates on a completely different anthropological ground. The typical clients of the Rural Studio are not integrated in the spectrum of capitalist societies, as their social habitus eludes most attributes of hedonistic consumer society and comes amazingly close to that of traditional, pre-capitalist societies. The main characteristics of their economies are frugality and thriftiness. This shows that the success of the Rural Studio depends on the particularity of its place: only within the limited social sphere in which they act can an architecture using junk and waste become a distinct style that will not be retrieved by kitsch. It is well known that elements of waste, once they are employed in an artistic context, can lead to visions of extreme realism. Some of the elementary, run-down houses photographed by Alabama photographer William Christenberry look as though being made of waste and appear, for that reason, as more real than reality. To be made of junk and waste means to be composed of objects of daily use, and

146 Transcultural Architecture

elements of waste can present powerful citations about life. This mechanism has also been used by Pop Art where basic symbols of the consumer world become subjects of artistic expression. The concentrated simplicity conveyed through the Rural Studio’s assemblage, as a union of sundry quotidian items with formal artistic elements, is also known from Marcel Duchamp’s ready-mades and Kurt Schwitters’ multicomponent Merzbau. The Merzbau bears strong similarities with the Rural Studio’s architecture as it is built with industrially manufactured materials, employs dynamic shapes, and relies often on chance. The aesthetic expressions of the Rural Studio do not end up in the “heavy” way as kitsch but have the “lightness” of functionalism as much as of art. These houses have “wings” (the Butterfly House would be an apt example) exactly like the Alabama house described by Max Belcher, who alludes to the propped open sheet metal shutters of a vernacular building when writing: “… it’s almost as if they were walking … and look at these wings they are all collapsed in and I don’t know, I just expect the house to flap upwards and take off.”2

2. Regionalism and Kitsch Having escaped the colonizing brain drain of capitalist kitsch culture by choosing Hale County as a field of activity, the Rural Studio’s junk art joins, in an entirely miraculous way, the aesthetic ways of the region. Despite the provocative forms and the use of industrial materials, these houses seem to have become part of the landscape, something they have in common with the Alabama houses photographed by Christenberry or Walker Evans. Again, this shows the exceptional constellation of cultural and cognitive elements into which this architecture is embedded. While the vernacular represents classicism created out of economic need, the Rural Studio creates avant-garde architecture out of economic need. Within the thrifty economies of the poor American South people have always used junk not only for construction but also for matters of aesthetic enhancement. Shannon Criss observes the “creative ways in which people transformed commonplace objects into yard art” which led them (as well as the architects/ students working on the territory) to discover a “new potential for commonplace material” (Criss 2004: 211). She notes that the inhabitants “collect and stockpile things with the sense that they may someday come in handy” (p. 212). A kind of vernacular experimental art, dependent on an unusual economic situation, seems to be practiced here since decades. People have the artistic intuition that “things are contingent, as there is not a definite plan [and that] everything has potential” (p. 212). The “regionalist” character of the Studio’s work can be understood only in this context. The Studio strongly emphasizes the regionalist dimension of its creations and insists on its rural Southern architectural grassroots identity, which is determined by “farms, sheds, barns [and] trailers” (Oppenheimer and Harsky 2006: 22). However, other architectures would, for this reason alone, be propelled towards the swampy pool of regional kitsch culture. As a matter of fact, regionalism



The Architecture of Alabama’s Rural Studio

147

is constantly confronted with the risk of falling victim to “regionalist empiricism” determined by sentimentalities or even chauvinist motives producing—in the mildest case—cottage style coziness. A certain “critical” attitude prevents the Studio from falling into the kitsch trap. Also, this Critical Regionalism does not run counter the regional aesthetic feeling but seems to be accepted in spite of some experimental attitudes. The work of the Rural Studio shows that the most efficient remedy of regionalist kitsch is not necessarily the reduction of regionalist inputs but a limitation of its formalization by using avant-garde elements that are normally incompatible with regionalism. Somehow this comes very close to Pietilä’s strategy in Kuwait. Very often regionalism leads to kitsch because it confirms vernacular clichés by formalizing—in a too straightforward way—emotional, “regional” content instead of combining the vernacular with the artistic. In the architecture of the Rural Studio we still recognize the humanity of the handmade as well as an existential and spiritual self-sufficiency, but those elements will, because of the futuristic forms used, not appear as consumable primitivism. The parallel with Pietilä’s approach in Kuwait is obvious because also here modern (and not postmodern) devices of deconstruction are supposed to prevent imitative regionalism. Second, we have here “young professionals” who try to be, on the one hand, as “formal” as possible,3 but are, on the other hand, also unusually open to communication with the regional subjects. This solves an essential paradox. Wherever architects attempt to design “the vernacular” they are confronted with the paradox that the vernacular lives up to its truest definition when it appears not as designed architecture but as an unpretentious, private niche that looks just as if it has been made by locals. The buildings of the Rural Studio yield the impression that here the vernacular has been reinstated in a relatively original sense as something that looks halfway self-built. Of course, the locals themselves would never build such houses but most probably end up with functional boxy creations emanating the spirit of bricolage rather than that of professionalism. Or, if monetary means increase, they might even engage in kitsch. Contemporary Chinese self-made peasant architecture would be a good example showing that this is possible. There is a third trick which makes the Rural Studio’s success. This architecture incorporates some of the charm of the “self-made” not only because of its politics of participation but because of the particular cultural or “aesthetic” situation in which the vernacular itself has incorporated some of the anti-capitalist experimental art which, in more urban contexts, would be necessarily interpreted as progressive. This is why any pedagogy similar to the Rural Studio’s will most probably not work in an urban context. Only in Hale County, where the living style of the people becomes a work of spatial, ritualized art in itself on which the Studio projects its works, can these conceptually modern, futurist concepts be introduced as if they were a matter of an absolute present, without yielding the slightest indication towards a progressive future. In some cases, like that of Music Man’s house, the house has been transformed retrospectively by the inhabitant into what looks superficially like a piece of assemblage art by stuffing

148 Transcultural Architecture

it with excessive quantities of junk. Similar to what has happened with Kahn’s Dhaka building, a critical form of regionalism does not necessarily depend on the conscious and critical use of regionalist elements but it can flow out of a peculiar relationship between individual creativity and the general environment. In order to make as clear as possible how much these houses, just like the vernacular Alabama houses photographed and painted by artists like Christenberry, Max Belcher, and Beverly Buchanan (see Belcher et al. 1994), avoid regionalist kitsch, I would like to bring forward that they approach—at least on some levels—the Japanese aesthetics of wabi-sabi. The main resemblance between these houses and Japanese tea houses is provided by: 1) their aesthetic appreciation of poverty; 2) their casual asymmetry and irregularity; 3) their absolute orientation towards the present; and 4) their refusal of “progress” in its broadest (capitalist-economic) sense. The Noble Harbor Tea Series website, a populist authority in matters of Japanese tea ceremony in the West, announces that “an old car left in the field” and becoming part of the landscape, or “an abandoned barn, as it collapses into itself” should be seen as American aesthetic expressions of the Japanese mystique of wabi-sabi. Leaving aside wabi-sabi’s claim for refined elegance as well as a whole gamut of deeper Zen-Buddhist philosophical connotations, it is obvious that some parallels are simply too striking to be overlooked. Like the architects of Hale county, the architect of the Japanese teahouse not only revels in organic, imperfect, and incomplete expressions; the tea house architect is also determined by a “here and now” attitude which pushes him to search for highly personalized solutions. This is why, in these architectures, both regionalism and modernity are simply “what they are” and do not advertise themselves as ideologies (again there is a parallel with Kahn’s Dhaka buildings). Much of the aforesaid is contained in Mockbee’s paradoxical formula “we don’t try to be southern, we just end up that way because we try to be authentic” (Oppenheimer and Hursley 2002: 9) through which he appears as a true artist of everyday life.

3. Colonial Space and Third World Architecture Participatory design as an educative project works within a political parenthesis that has become possible through the combination of social engagement with elements of “Architecture without Architects” whose tradition goes back to Bernard Rudofsky.4 Participation, as it overcomes the strict framework of community design, relativizes the “paternalistic complex” of civic architecture. The students become members of the community, they “make the community” as much as the clients become members of the student group. This constellation definitely overcomes the patterns of third world architecture. From time to time the American South is compared to a third world country,5 and when crossing the thick forests of Hale County, where empty coke bottles splattering the dirt road seem to be the only traces of civilization, one has indeed the impression of leaving the industrialized world of America. However, to classify the backwoods of Hale County as a Third



The Architecture of Alabama’s Rural Studio

149

World Country might be correct with regard to the standard of living of some individuals as well as to the level of architectural standardization, but it overlooks an essential difference. Kenneth Frampton writes in his more recent article on Critical Regionalism that “some of the most sophisticated [architectural] work realized today is being produced in countries that are variously distanced from the traditional centers of cultural power and influence” and lists, as examples, also some Third World countries (Frampton 2005: 197). Frampton thinks that these countries’ peripheral position fosters the “cultivation of hybrid world culture” (p. 197). Similarly, Donald Kunze suggests in the context of community design, that “these practices seek inspiration for what is left of the historical building material cultures that once characterized their respective regions” (Kunze 2007: 61). There is no doubt that both Frampton and Kunze intend to advocate the best architecture possible, and their observations make sense in some way. However, they overlook the imminent danger of the political instrumentalization of vernacular architecture in terms of globalization issues or political issues in general. If the Third World really does what Frampton suggests, its “Third World Architecture” will immediately be lifted on the international political stage and forced to play a “global” role that it was not destined for in the first place. To play out the vernacular against the international makes sense as a political agenda but not necessarily as an artistic or architectural one. Architects like Philip Johnson and Henry-Russell Hitchcock favored an international style because it was “good for an increasingly hegemonic US international politics” (Tzonis and Lefaivre 2003: 28), and the Third World might therefore try to contradict internationalist globalism by producing its vernacular architecture en masse. The problem is that, as I have shown above, the vernacular cannot be produced in such a “professional” way. Maiken Umbach and Bernd Hüppauf summarize this problem when writing that the political instrumentalization of the vernacular “has a tendency to solidify that which we want to define as fluid and constructed” (“Introduction” to Umbach and Hüppauf, p. 2). Soon this instrumentalization will create a “nostalgic idealization of a past that never actually existed” (p. 2). What the authors describe is exactly the above-mentioned danger of kitsch production—the only difference being that here it would appear on a global scale. Umbach and Hüppauf suggests that we should look for regionalist identities not in solidified but “fluid” expressions and name Mockbee as a typical representative of “Vernacular Modernism” (p. 21), a movement which contends that “that the vernacular itself is one of the generative principles of the modern condition” (p. 7). This constellation comes closer to a politics that eludes modernity because it installs itself—like wabi-sabi—instead of in a progressive globalized economy, in an absolute vernacular present. If Hale County really were a Third World country, Southern style architecture would have been solidified. We prefer the liquid forms of the Rural Studio.

150 Transcultural Architecture

Notes 1.

Bryan Bell confirms that 30 percent of American universities run community design and research centers (Bell 2004: 46).

2.

Belcher in Belcher et al. 1994: 39. Belcher is not aware how dangerously close he comes to kitsch aesthetics. Max Broch refers as a typical example of kitsch poetry to Eichendorf’s poem “Oh hätt ich, hätt ich Flügel; Zu fliegen da hinein.” Quoted from Dorfles 1975: 50.

3.

Amy Marie Green describes in the Master thesis how the students defined the exact position of 89 cars parked in the region, 34 of which were working, 45 being immobile (Green 2005: 20).

4.

Bernard Rudofsky (1905–1988) was an Austrian-American architect and social historian best known for his influential book Architecture without Architects (1964) and the organization of a series of MOMA exhibits in the 1940s, 1950s and 1960s. By confronting modern architecture with studies of vernacularism and alternative ways of living he challenged modern conventions and “called into question modern culture’s ‘myth’ of rational utility and … functionalism” (Scott 1999: 61).

5.

The Birmingham News had compared Western Alabama to a third world country (Proceed and be Bold 147) and Richard Carlson (2006) speaks of “America’s Third World” after Katrina.

9 H-Sang Seung: Design is not Design

Introduction As a philosopher, the architectural question that fascinates me most is the extent to which architecture imposes a certain way of life on people. Some might answer that architecture should impose as little as possible on peoples’ lives and that, in the ideal case, things will work in the converse: people impose on architecture the way of being that they believe to be most compatible with their lives. I guess that the leading thought underlying the latter scheme is that we cannot trust architecture, that all too often architecture has made peoples’ lives difficult, inconvenient, and unaesthetic. Being led by motives of commerce or vanity, architects have often been deaf to the demands of “the people.” However, can we trust “the people”? How much does the average consumer of architecture know about—not just architecture but—the “right way of living”? In many cases, “the people” ask architecture to work in the service of mere aestheticism, reproduce certain images, build dream houses and so forth. Functionalism has long appeared as an acceptable compromise because here the architect applies those functions to her buildings that she believes to be most desirable for those who are on the users’ end. However, what is the basis for the assumption that the “functional” way is the right way of living? Like Ando’s “life patterns” and Wittgenstein’s “form of life,” Seung’s concept contradicts what Pallasmaa has called the “populism and a reverence for consensus or popular taste as the sole authority of design” (Pallasmaa 2007: 139). Even the word style, traditionally representing a bridge between ethics and aesthetics, can appear as an abstract intellectual hypothesis not necessarily leading to the “right way of living.” In philosophical terms, the question is thus: is it possible to find a way of living that is “right” without having been derived from either aesthetics or functionalism but simply because it is—“right?” In other words, is there a right way of living that will be imposed on us neither by the architect nor by “the people” but by architecture itself? Those questions are important for Critical Regionalism, which

152 Transcultural Architecture

struggles to find the “right” expression in a critical fashion. I will show below that H-Sang Seung solves this question in an original way. Within the context of popular conceptions of architecture our question seems odd: is there a right way of building and living that is a matter neither of beauty nor of practicality but simply of architecture itself? For the larger public, the dichotomy ‘functionalism vs. aesthetics’ does not seem to leave any space for a third option. In summer 2010, millions of people watched the film Inception in which Cobb the architect (Leonardo DiCaprio) declares that he does not want to engage in “attic conversions and gas stations” but wants to let his creativity run freely. Cobb’s fellow architect Ariadne (Ellen Page) points out that architecture is most fun when it is “pure creation,” looking for perfection, uniqueness, and aestheticism without being bound by functional imperatives and practicality. This interpretation of architecture probably remains fascinating for most people, though, in the “real world,” functionalism will also find enough supporters. As mentioned, Tadao Ando has been experimenting with the idea of “the right way of living” in the early years of his career claiming that “life patterns can be extracted and developed from living under severe conditions” (Ando 1984: 8). Ando can be seen as the precursor of Ed van Hinte’s ideology of “fuzzy interaction” or intentional obstructions to optimal function meant to intensify interaction with and attachment to the designed object. Van Hinte holds that at the age of perfect technology “imperfections can be endearing and help to create a bond with the user” (van Hinte 1997: 189). Paul Virilio’s “oblique architecture” of the 1960s (see Chapter 7) would be another example. It has been shown in Chapter 6 that Ando’s houses can be considered “irrational” and “inconvenient” and that they attempt to establish a deep structure of human dwelling dependent on neither a scientific law nor an artistic style imposed upon buildings by seeing architecture as art. Ando promotes sobriety, purity, and simplicity as the main principles of his architecture, but he does so not because he believes that these principles make architecture more functional or more aesthetically pleasing. Instead, these principles are flowing out of his architecture’s own logic. They create a purity exceeding both function and style. One of Ando’s early creations, his small Row House in Sumiyoshi, has a courtyard in the middle, which the inhabitants need to cross to move from one part of the house to the other. This is “impractical” especially during Osaka’s cold winters, but it is justified because this architecture has created its own form of rationality. This does not mean that consumers of architecture have to obey any of the architect’s whims. On the contrary, Ando once criticized students because, for most “whyquestions,” they could not provide more than the bland answer “because I wanted to” (Ando 1989: 15) which is, indeed, not more than a whim. In the ideal case, the architect should not “want” anything. Instead, she should merely listen to those imperatives that flow out of the architecture itself. Louis Kahn’s advice to find out “what the window wants to be” should probably be understood in precisely this sense.



H-Sang Seung: Design is not Design

153

1. H-Sang Seung The Korean architect H-Sang Seung (Seung Hyosang, 승효상, born in 1952) derives architectural necessities from two sources: the Korean tradition and the imperatives of territorial qualities he calls “landscripts.” The latter can be traced back to the Korean tradition of geomancy. Apart from this, many of Seung’s principles about simplicity and purity come close to those of Tadao Ando, and they are explained in Seung’s book The Beauty of Poverty (빈자의 미학, 1996). Seung is one of the most prolific contemporary Korean architects and has most recently gained international recognition through projects like the Chaowai SOHO Complex in Beijing and the Guggenheim Pavilion in Abu Dhabi called “Floating Weights.” He has also received international attention as the co-organizer of the 2011 Gwangju Design Biennale in South Korea. Being Korean puts Seung into a special position. Alain Delissen believes that “nothing is as lively and original, nothing as modern though rooted deep in the past as South Korean culture at the turn of the millennium” (Delissen 2001: 24). As a young man, Seung worked under Korea’s foremost architect, Kim Swoo-Geun (김수근, also “Kim Sugun,” 1931–1986), who approached questions of Korean identity and tradition in a very explicit fashion. In 1980, Kim’s influential group Konggan (空間) staged “itself as a prominent actor in the field of ‘national learning’ (kukhak)” and called in its eponymous magazine for “more inner selfcultivation (an-uro chihyang)” as well as for a “critical reception of foreign cultures” (Delissen 2001: 247). Korean architecture has had a hard time finding its identity, which turns “Korea and Critical Regionalism” into a particularly tricky topic. During the Japanese occupation (1910–1945), public buildings such as railway stations, hotels, city halls, and police stations featured a mix of Japanese and Western styles. Korean architects were required to train in Japan and encouraged to follow Japanese models when building in Korea. During that time, Korea had no direct contact with international modern developments such as Art Nouveau or Bauhaus. After the war, impersonal modernist architecture was practiced on a large scale. In the 1980s, when the country became a market-oriented democracy, the question of national identity could be discussed in a more sophisticated fashion, to which Seung very much contributed. So far, the most striking feature of many of Seung’s buildings is the use of CorTen steel, which develops a stable, rust-like appearance and makes the buildings reminiscent of sculptures by Richard Serra (though Seung is no longer using this material in more recent buildings but has switched to gray basalt lava as a cladding material). One of the purposes of using Cor-Ten steel is to give buildings supplementary weight, as Seung has explained with regard to the Lock Museum: I have decided to introduce some weight into this dense area, where buildings of so many numbers of styles, the confusing signboards, the electric cables and telegraph poles overhead are not offering one bit of feeling of stability. No windows, no adornments, but only he weight of the metal will be there. It is a negative void to create tension in this brawling scenery. (Delissen 2001: 247)

154 Transcultural Architecture

The way the Lock Museum is wedged into the dense neighborhood is indeed reminiscent of Ando’s early row houses. I would also contend that Cor-Ten steel makes buildings that are more fragile. It can easily be associated with vernacular buildings of the North American South, for example those photographed by Walker Evans during the Great Depression or the office building of the Alabama Rural Studio. Only seen from the distance, these façades appear to be “totally flush” and “rid of any and all protrusions and additions” (Pai 2008: 241). The Welcomm Center (Seoul), for example, when approached more closely, is wearing sheets slightly transforming and coming off a little on the edges due to weathering, being thus reminiscent of some of Walker Evan’s Alabama barns. In this sense, the use of Cor-Ten steel as a transient, fragile material seems also to evoke the Japanese aesthetics of wabi-sabi, whose rust-like appearance on pottery signifies the aesthetic appreciation of poverty and whose casual irregularity also expresses the refusal of “progress” in its broadest (capitalist-economic) sense. With his conceptualization of the madang, the courtyard of the traditional Korean house (hanok), Seung might have found the most distinctly Korean architectural quality. The idea is similar to Wang Shu’s commitment to the traditional Chinese court, which he believes to be able to accommodate nearly all architectural functions. The madang is different from the Japanese central architectural concept of ma (間, space) but also from the Chinese yuan (园, garden) that Wang Shu uses as a model for his construction process. While the Japanese see emptiness (to which ma is related) as a space of silence and meditation, the madang is a “space that you occupy” (Pai 2007: 269). While nothing can enter the Japanese or Chinese garden and nothing inside can change its position, the madang is more plebeian. Seung sees the madang as an undefined communal space covering the meaning of “useless space,” which is, in a Buddhist understanding, useful just for that purpose. According to Yim SeockJae, “Uselessness (無用) is, in effect, great Utility, and only Uselessness can be Great Utility” (Yim 2005: 22).

2. Seung and the “Right Way of Living” Seung’s work is immediately related to the above thoughts on the “right way of living.” To build means for him to “organize life” and architecture builds not just houses and buildings but ways of living.1 As a consequence, architects need more training in literature than in drawing because, in Seung’s opinion, their trade requires conceptual imagination inspired by the reading of texts, logical thinking and knowledge of history. The profession of architecture is closer to poetry than to the fine arts and is a human science more than an art. Seung goes even as far as saying that any talent to draw or paint will be a handicap for an architect (p. 15). Seung’s teacher Kim Swoo-Geun made a first step in the direction of an architecture looking for “the right way of living,” but he stayed too general when asking for a shift of architectural design from aesthetics to craft. His approach



H-Sang Seung: Design is not Design

155

came thus close to the most common understanding of Critical Regionalism: “The conception of architecture not as an art but as a craft—that is, an expression not of the desire to create aesthetically from valid forms but rather of a response to practical, functional, and also traditional needs—is common to the whole Far East” (Kim 1996: 139). The problem, from Seung’s point of view, is that this is not radical enough because it Kim still cites “function” as the alternative of aesthetics. In his prologue to “Architecture, Signs of Thought,” Seung mentions the Hundertwasser House in Vienna and finds that it is merely a product of art, “not an architectural building. The apartment does not offer any suggestions for residents living in that co-op., while the architect failed to create a new space for living within the building.”2 This way of building is artistic play and has nothing to do with architecture. A house should not simply be put somewhere but be “produced.” Seung admires Adolf Loos because he was not one of those “artists” who imagine nice buildings and make sketches but a real revolutionary (2004: 14). Architecture, Seung holds, is no tool of pleasure but is supposed to “build our life.” However, his rejection of aesthetic hedonism does not lead him to functionalism: Functionality does not always lead to a good way of living. Mankind really isn’t very functional. As humans our feelings and emotions often govern us, not our rational minds. Dysfunction, it seems, is closer to how we live, so perhaps architecture should follow that. Maybe buildings should be uncomfortable, they should make us move around more than we like. (Seung 2008)

Also Buddhists believe that the “right way” of architecture can only be found through a simultaneous overcoming of aestheticism and functionalism. Seock-Jae Yim explains that the use of natural materials in temples is supposed to eschew symbolism and utilitarianism: Symbolism overstates the value, meaning and condition of the architecture through elaborate ornamentation. Symbolism tends to orient itself toward pretentiousness by resorting to an architectural language that aims too much to compliment and to flatter. Utility is based on monetarianism which perceives architecture as a materialistic tool. In this case, architecture is reduced to a means for further accumulation of wealth. Symbolism and utilitarianism are the two prominent ideas through which architecture eventually subjugates men to the material world. (Yim 2005a: 20)

An anti-aestheticism that does not automatically switch to the rationality of functionalism but tries to look for its own “architectural” logic will have to redefine the meaning of design from scratch. It cannot be content with merely pushing architectural design from aesthetics toward crafts; and Seung is attempting such a radical redefinition. First, he identifies the very broad use of the word design as “design thinking” that seems “to mistake design for management and planning in general and favors business applications of planning processes under the name ‘design” (Seung on the AndDesign website). Then, he locates the aesthetico-creative conception of design as an artistic approach able to invent, for example, new

156 Transcultural Architecture

shapes of cars. However, will the same approach be useful for the invention of the “right way of living?” Certainly not. Seung and his organizing team of the Gwangju Design Biennale express the necessity to rethink the definition of design by launching the paradoxical theme “Design is Design is not Design” (dogadobisangdo) as the event’s theme. The theme, which can also be written by using only Chinese characters (圖可圖非 常圖), is inspired by the first words of Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching: “The way that is the way is not always the way. The name that is the name is not always the name (道 可道, 非常道. 名可名, 非常名).”3 The way (tao, 道) is not a method that should be followed mindlessly. In this sense, the tao is at the same time a non-tao. One commits a similar mistake if one believes that the name is actually the thing itself. A name (ming, 名) is never the real name, and the blind belief in concepts does not lead to understanding. The tao cannot be found by following the rules of the tao but it needs to be internalized until it has become a second nature. Only when the tao is followed in a natural way (without really following it word by word) has enlightenment been reached. Submitting design to a fundamental scrutiny by involving it in such the paradoxical koen-like pattern of “Design is Design is not Design” is also strongly reminiscent of Martin Heidegger’s reflections on technology and, finally, on design. Heidegger suggested that technology always functions within a “project” (conceptualized through his German neologism Gestell) that has been set up by technology itself. Technology is only what technology thinks to be because its entire body of thought—including the one on itself—is technological. Being thus caught in a circle, technology will never find ways of defining or thinking of itself in a new manner. Technology is a “self-contained system” because technology is “stipulated in advance as what is already-known.” (Heidegger 2003, quoted from Engl. translation p. 119). In Taoist terms, the technologist is blinded by a concept. Technologists might believe that they are producing something new, but this is merely their “fantasia” that comes to pass: “But man as a representing subject ‘fantasizes’ that is, he moves in imaginatio in that his representing imagines, pictures forth, whatever is, as the objective into the world …“ (Heidegger 2003: 106. Engl.: 147). Marxist philosophers like Louis Althusser might even say that design is the typical example of an ideology. Ideologies are characterized by the fact that they move within closed circles, producing instead of knowledge only those things that we already know, taking as already established facts exactly those premises that we are actually supposed to question (Althusser 1971: 173). Glen Hill has suggested that Heidegger’s concept of “Gestell ” (project) should be understood as “design” (Hill 2003). The problem with design is that it works within the limits it has set up through its own designing process: the aforementioned qualities of “beauty” (criticized by Seung) or ‘function’ are typical components of such a Gestell. Hill uses the example of the environmental crisis that has been produced by design or technology. It is useless to look for solutions within an “improved design” because even the improvements take place within their own Gestell. Design itself has been the cause of the crisis, and, as long as we stick to design, even if we turn it into “sustainable design,” we remain trapped within our



H-Sang Seung: Design is not Design

157

own Gestell. The circular model of design thinking can only be fractured through the paradoxical assumption that design is design and simultaneously not design. But how can this be done precisely? We get some ideas from Seung.

3. Landscript Seung promotes the concept of “landscript” (teomune) as a necessity able to lead us toward the “right” way of building and living. Seung does not simply design a building on a piece of land, but he “needs to be in it, be over it, touch it, walk around it before he ever draws the first plan” (Pai 2007: 323). Land is different from “area” because, within the latter, one can functionally or aesthetically design anything one wants, while the land provides “stories of land,” sceneries, and townscapes (Seung 2009: 85). In other words, land provides a logic of its own, a logic flowing out of its nature and history. Seung explains that, in Korea, “what we conserve is the space that forms a building, rather than the building itself” (Seung 2010: 102). Historical buildings are rarely intact because wood was the primary building material. However, the preparation of an empty space on which the building used to stand can function as an act of conservation: “More important is that the layers of time surrounding the building should be conserved. Rather than size and shape, content is more important, as it holds the space where life has unfolded. Again, the space embraced by a construction and the traces located in the surroundings are more important than the building itself” (p. 102). A design process considering landscript disengages the notion of landscape from its strict association with earth and interprets it in terms of urban development. With his concept of landscript, Seung goes beyond the “naturalistic interpretation of the traces in the landscape” and considers “the social and political history that has shaped and inscribed these practices into that landscape” (Sanin 2003: 23). Tadao Ando has had similar ideas in mind when discussing his Times I building in Kyoto: “One cannot speak about architecture without mentioning where it is to belong. I sought to create a building which I should call the ‘architecture of the landscape,” where the building and the site are mutually dependent” (Ando 1989: 57). “Designed” architecture might be beautiful or functional but it lacks, in the words of Ando, a “logical vision” (p. 101). Seung has observed this logic (which does not flow out of design or Gestell) in the former Seoul slums of Geumho-dong where he found “an architecture molded from the land” and “the wisdom of sharing” (Seung 2009: 59). For Seung, “landscript implies [that] the natural site is to be inscribed by the architectural presence. This mixture of landform, terracing, rooftop gardens, punctured walls, and framed views … is inseparable from landscape” (Ingersoll 2003: 23 and 15). Our ancestors did not understand architecture as determined by aesthetics and function, but instead they saw it as inseparable from the history inscribed onto the land. If we take this vision seriously, we will be able to lift design out of the Gestell limited by the dichotomy opposing aesthetics and functionalism.

158 Transcultural Architecture

If we look at the two principal options offered by design, aesthetics (imagination, expression of the self) and ethics (consideration of others and moral necessities), the concept of landscript appears, indeed, as a third way. Landscript suggests neither mere beauty nor abstract, functional, social imperatives but manifests itself in the form of traces of culture through the land. Seung quotes Heidegger who insisted that “dwelling leaves traces on the land” (Seung 2009: 70). This means that the ethicsaesthetics of landscript does not produce a Gestell of beauty or certain functions but formulates itself “between land and building, building and building, man and man” (Sanin 2003: 51). This is what differentiates landscript from the conventional notion of design: it appears as a concrete necessity similar to the necessities of nature. Seung’s philosophy of the landscript joins basic principles of geomancy (pungsu in Korean, feng shui in Chinese), which was very important in Korea during the Yi dynasty (1392–1910) and remains even important in modern times. During the Japanese occupation, the Japanese studied Korean geomancy when placing their government building next to the site of the Korean Gyeongbokgung palace and “attempted to cut off the vein to the main building of the palace to nullify the geomantic benefits of the palace” (Yoon 2006: 278). Also Kim Swoo-Geun referred to the importance of geomancy (Kim 1996: 27). Traditionally, geomancy sees topography as celestially charged: Heaven, Earth, and Man converge at exact timespace coordinates (Nemeth 1987: 101). Most important for the development of this organic philosophy were the works of Sung dynasty Neo-Confucian philosopher Chu Hsi (1131–1200) who held that not only is social order placed in nature, but that nature also has certain aspects of social order: “In the view of Chu Hsi, the vast ‘pattern’ of Nature was normal because it was inevitable that moral values and moral behavior would appear when the Universe had developed sufficiently far” (Barrow and Tipler 1986: 96). The basis of geomancy is the Neo-Confucian vision of “a heavenly and terrestrial microcosm within one macrocosm” (Nemeth 1987: 97). The fact that this tradition has also been used for locating ideal family gravesites gives the project a historical dimension. However, the important geomantic principles serve more for choosing a person’s residence rather than choosing gravesites (Yoon 2006: 10). Geomancy has a relatively practical dimension that has often been eclipsed by certain mystical penchants. According to Hong-Key Yoon, originally, geomancy “was probably studied by cave dwellers in search for ideal cave sites in the Loess Plateau” (p. 15). Geomancy attempted to establish which landscape would manifest better benefits (p. 101). Auspicious sites were supposed to back toward the hill with an open front (p. 109) and a city should be built within a “topically flat basin with protective hills in the background. A useful watercourse such as a river, stream or lake is situated in the front. The watercourse should not be a straight line but flow slowly in a meandering shape” (p. 217). Sometimes one “planted trees on mountains that were auspicious but lacked lush vegetation” (p. 116). In spite of these practical aspects, geomancy was not a form of “design” striving to establish a maximum of beauty or functionality, but its theories were based on observations of “energy flows” through landscapes. It was found that humanity’s modifications “such as cutting off mountain ridges or changing the direction of



H-Sang Seung: Design is not Design

159

water courses, can harm its flow. Nature is vulnerable since its vital energy stays only in a place with auspicious geomantic harmony, which can be disturbed easily by slight human modification of the natural landform” (Yoon: 141). Seung describes landscript in a similar vein as “an ever-changing organism and a life force that demands that something be added to it” (Sanin: 23). The basic premises of geomancy as well as the use Seung makes of it are in perfect keeping with the philosophy of Heidegger. It has been said above that Heidegger held design to be responsible for the consumption of the Earth and that “designed” solutions to our environmental crisis will remain inefficient. In his essay “Poetically is Dwelling Man,” Heidegger explains that dwelling takes place between earth and sky, but that dwelling does not consist of a realistic measuring of the space that extends itself between both. The event of dwelling that “takes place” between earth and sky is not a mere extentio, but it is the landscape as a poetic event (Heidegger 1954a: 18). In this case, the earth is not understood as a geological phenomenon, but it has become cultural (or spiritual) through the dwelling of the people. This is why human existence is grounded in dwelling. In his famous essay devoted to architecture and building, Heidegger introduces dwelling in a way that brings it very close to geomantic conceptions, explaining that the task of dwelling is to mind the “Fourfold” (Geviert) of earth, sky, mortals, and gods (Heidegger 1954b: 151). Buildings should not merely be designed in a technological fashion in the sense of the Greek technè. The task of buildings is not to express or symbolize something (p. 154), nor are they merely functional objects. Buildings reunite (versammeln) in themselves (that is, within a place of dwelling) earth, sky, gods, and mortals. The activity of building should not be determined by a Gestell projecting us beyond the Fourfold, but by the act of dwelling taking place within the Fourfold.

4. Landscript and the Culture of Writing Geomancy is, according to Hong-Key Yoon, “reading landscape as a text” (Yoon: 10): “In most cases, cultural landscapes, which are transformations of nature by different cultural groups, have textual qualities and can reflect certain social and political ideologies, cultural values, or even social structures” (p. 279). Similarly, Seung describes teomune (landscript) as “a pattern inscribed on the ground. When one says that ‘there is no teomune,” it means that there is no basis or reason of something” (Sanin: 22). Richard Ingersoll believes that Seung is acting like a calligrapher composing characters on a page when designing (Ingersoll 2003: 15). Yoon points to resemblances between geomancy and Christian hexameral literature that interprets nature as a text through the concept of the “book of nature” (Yoon: 279). These ancient sources are also important for those branches of modern cultural geography that treat landscape as text. The method has been initiated by James Duncan with his book The City as Text: The Politics of Landscape Interpretation in the Kandyan Kingdom (Duncan 1990) in which the author delivers a dense analysis of landscape symbolism in a remote kingdom of the Sri Lankan highlands. Duncan uses concepts from literary theory such as textuality and

160 Transcultural Architecture

intertextuality and explains why landscapes can be seen as ideologies made concrete, that is—natural. Seung renders “landscript” in Chinese as diwen (地文), which is also the Chinese word for “physiography.” It is impossible not to discuss in this context the Chinese notion of wen (文) which means pattern, structure, writing, and literature in Chinese. In the Chinese history wen is a “pattern of interrelating structures that emerge out of concrete situations and reflexively organize and regulate human life in the world” (Ames and Hall 1988: 322). “Wenhua” (文华) is generally translated as “culture.” The root meaning of wen is “lines” or “design” as they appear in the decoration on pottery. However, this “design” is based on Confucian cosmological interpretations related to the “belief that heaven and earth had not been ‘created’ at all but have ‘evolved’ in the course of a natural process of polarization and diversification” (Zürcher 1995: 134). The pattern of wen is not a symbol that has been “designed” in order to overcome nature and to become culture. It is not a mute sign that needs to be read aloud in order to become real nor is it a script in the form of a plan that needs to be materialized (for example, by architecture). Wen is an inscription or a form of writing that produces patterns of civilization that are not distinct from nature but are understood as having overcome the distinction between nature and civilization. In other words, wen is a cultural script integrated into the nature-ness of all reality. We cannot perceive nature as such, but nature becomes manifest through forms, figurations, or patterns. Taoists interpret wen as a spontaneous manifestation of the natural and cosmic Dao.4 In the Chinese tradition, writing and literature are seen as simultaneously natural and cultural phenomena. For the Chinese, writing and literature are not, as explains Zhang Longxi, “a human invention [whose purpose is] to imitate nature but [are] part of nature or of the cosmos itself” (Zhang 1996: npn). According to the classical theory of Liu Xie (pp. 465–522), the coming into the world of wen is simultaneous with the genesis of the world (Xie 1983: 13). Stephen Owen defines wen as a realization through which the natural order of things becomes visible because “all phenomena have an inherent tendency to become manifest in wen, and their manifestations for the sake of being known and felt” (Owen 1985: 20). Remarkably, Pai Hyungming explains Seung’s landscript in a very similar way: The key idea here is that the plan is an inscription: an inscription of not only structure, form, material, texture but also of life. The peculiarity of Seung’s writing surface thus arises from the nature of the architectural plan. Whereas in painting, calligraphy, and land art, the inscription itself is the object, in architecture the plan stands as the cognitive boundary between concept and sense. We generally think that the architectural plan is the medium between concept and object, between ideas of the design and the actual building. … we think that the ideas of the architect are inscribed into the plan, and it is the plan that becomes the instrument used by the construction company to build the house. (Pai 2007: 371)

In this sense, Seung’s “plan” is not the design of a civilizational project to be built, but rather the realization of a natural pattern that becomes indistinct of



H-Sang Seung: Design is not Design

161

civilization once it is recognized as a sort of wen. A strict separation of nature and culture does not apply to wen, which is one of the reasons why culture (wenhua) remains dynamic. In this Eastern worldview, “the natural world and human world are continuous” (Ames and Hall 1998: 241). It is clear that the saying to be “in accord with nature” adopts here a much deeper meaning than in “sustainable design” because the search for the cultural pattern of landscript does not strive for scientific materialism but is supposed to foster an aesthetic approach towards the universe. This is exactly what Seung suggests with the notion of landscript. Landscript “has a soul, a spirit, and it even speaks” (Sanin 2003: 23) and architecture is “the visualization of the character of a place.” Architecture listens to the demands of the land. It is a land that has experienced the great expanse of history and “architecture is the respectful act of revealing its fascinating language. It is the act of thinking deeply and then humbly adding to the land by building on to it a new poetic language” (Sanin 2003: 23). Seung wants to extend the metaphor of “writing” to any architectural plan: “The plan is not a drawing to be seen. It is a drawing to be read. That is, we admire a plan not because it is a figure made of lines but because we have to read the thought of the architect written in it in order that we may know the organization of life inscribed in that plan” (Pai 2007: 369). The mentioned Christian hexameral literature interpreting nature as a text in the form of the “Book of Nature” (Liber Mundi) is also of importance in the context of comparative studies of wen because Christian theology solved the nature/culture problem in a way similar to Confucianism. In early Christian doctrine, God was seen as the author of the Bible as well as of the “Book of Nature.” Reading the “Book of Nature” was meant to recover the meaning that God had laid into it. The “Book of Nature” represents a totality through which the Christian tradition attempts to make sense of nature and reality. The parallel with the phenomenon of wen exists in the fact that nature is seen as being able to generate writing and writing is seen as a form of nature. For both Christian theology and Confucianism, nature is not simply “out there” and eternally opposed to culture, but it can be brought in line with cultural thoughts about either Biblical revelation or Confucianist cosmology. Both currents conclude that culture cannot be “designed,” but that certain patterns arise inside a realm within which nature and culture have never been distinct. What is created is a cultural-natural space. Conventional design, on the other hand, introduces, in an empirical fashion, objective elements into an abstract space that Heidegger has defined as a three-dimensional abstractum with extensions and algebraic relations (Heidegger 1954b: 154). Seock Jae Yim, in his book on traditional Korean architecture, explains that it is a simple void in which “only simple placement of objects is possible” (Yim 2005: 81). Buddhists believe that these physical objects that are merely “designed” have not been created within an existential space of emptiness but within a mere cultural/natural void. When this is the case, walls become mere objects. In reality, walls should not be simply designed but they are supposed to establish meaning within a cultural space. Or, in Confucian terms, to take the walls for walls is like taking the way for the way and the

162 Transcultural Architecture

name for the name. In the end, within this space we will never encounter cultural selves, but only designed objects composed of sequences of encoded information.

5. Conclusion When Korean newspapers reported in 2011 that the Gwangju Biennale searches for “new definitions of design” it did probably not anticipate the radical character of those measures. Seung’s principles are not limited to the reinstatement of architecture as craft. Seung introduces landart as an alternative plan based on inscription and suggests the purposeless madang as a central theme for architectural design. His non-design establishes a particular ethical relationship between land and building, puts forward the place as a spirit of the age and not of society, and rediscovers ethnic influence as well as architectural and social wisdoms such as sharing as eternal architectural principles. Seung’s landscript approach appears at a time were a Google search for feng shui yields millions of results, clearly indicating the general public’s desire to create architectural space in more meaningful ways. At the same time, the gadget and fetish character of architecture has never been as extreme as in our times and where cultural, economic and legal conditions have destroyed our logical vision of buildings. Taoists believed technologists to be blinded by concepts and this is truer today than ever before. Only a clearer and more essentialist definition of design can help us to overcome concepts of architecture as mere tools of pleasure or of sophistry and help us to use design in order to rebuild our lives.

Notes 1.

H-Sang Seung, 2004, quoted from the German trans., p. 17.

2.

Seung, 2004. English translation was available on the Iroje website in October 2012.

3.

One of the most important English translations of this sentence goes like this: “The Tao that can be trodden is not the enduring and unchanging Tao. The name that can be named is not the enduring and unchanging name” (trans. James Legge, 1891).

4.

In the twelfth to ninth centuries BC, the dao had been related to wen. See Chow 1979: 28.

10 The Secularization of the Architectural Heritage through Wahhabism in Saudi Arabia

Introduction In Saudi Arabia, the demolition and erasing of the Islamic past is carried out in the name of religion as well as of modernization. Mecca and Medina have been refurbished with anonymous façades of steel, glass and concrete. By smashing artifacts, Saudis turn out to be simultaneously religious and modern. At the same time, they escape both traditionalism and the progressive attitudes of environmentalism. Also in this chapter I concentrate on a paradox: the Wahhabi economy of the sacred, which limits the sacred to a very small architectural area, leads to the secularization of the rest of the environment. As a result, religious architecture other than the Ka’aba must be declared secular and destroyed. The Wahhabi strategy is opposed to Western (and some other) ideas of conservation, which tend to “spread out” the sacred and to declare sacred even those items that were mundane in the first place. At the root of the Wahhabi system is the radical separation of religion and culture, that is, the ambition to radically separate a concrete architectural cultural past from abstract religious ideals. When “sacredness” is so radically excluded from concrete cultural, architectural manifestations, religious zeal can create a “secular” environment that will be spelled out in more abstract terms of progressive civilization. This pattern explains the present building boom in Mecca. While much has been reported on how Saudi Arabian authorities destroy Islamic heritage in Mecca and other cities because Wahhabi ideology believes that historical sites and shrines encourage shirk, that is, the sin of idolatry or polytheism (Pope 2004; Howden 2006; Musaji 2007; Crowcroft 2010; Ouroussoff 2010), the common discourse in articles does not go beyond the description of facts and the detection of iconoclasm. However, it is the separation of religion and culture that determines the Saudi attitude towards conservation. I show in this chapter that the remedy for a religious fundamentalism that situates itself in the camp of modern

164 Transcultural Architecture

science and technology and produces an extremist form of modern architecture is Critical Regionalism.

1. Some General Thoughts on Conservation Before examining the Saudi case, some general observations of how conservation is handled in different regions are necessary. Certain aspects have already been addressed in Chapter 4. Given its history, conservation is a predominantly “Western” idea starting with the rediscovery of antiquities in Rome in the early fourteenth century (cf. Jokilehto 1999: 21–46). Non-Western, and in particular Middle Eastern nations had difficulties to accept the Venice Charter of the UNESCO from 1964 as a global concept (Ariffin 2005: 1). Even today “the properties on the World Heritage List are unevenly distributed internationally, with the overwhelming majority of sites located in Europe or constructed following European traditions” (Jerome 2008: 4). However, it is also true that since the Second World War, many non-Western countries have followed Europe and America in celebrating antiquities as national icons. The most recent UNECO World Heritage List shows 154 cultural properties for the Asia-Pacific region and 86 cultural properties for Africa. The way countries handle the preservation of their architectural heritage is often an expression of how they deal with their past in general. First of all, preservation addresses questions of what is “authentic.” The World Heritage Convention’s Operational Guidelines state that in order to be designated, cultural properties must meet the test of “authenticity” and “integrity” (UNESCO 2012: 79–95). Because of the immediate link between authenticity and integrity, discourses on preservation are often closely connected to moral or political ideas. In Europe, historic preservation arose in conjunction with early nineteenth-century nationalism and also in America, “the motive behind the earliest preservation effort was neither artistic nor intellectual: it was patriotic” (Barthel 1989: 87). When it was not driven by nationalism, historic preservation has been fuelled by a general “discontent with industrialization” (Barthel: 92) and the transformations of urban landscapes it incurs. Today, ever larger resources are devoted to the salvaging and conservation of remnants of the past, and this in spite of the fact that the commitment to stewardship has become especially difficult in modern, post-industrial societies. A survey launched by the French review Beaux Arts in 2002 asked whether creation or protection is more important. French readers voted massively for protection. The preservation of the authentic has even been extended to larger entities: it may apply to whole historic city districts, to historic valleys or to states or bio-regions (cf. Mansfield 2000: 250). The heritage enthusiasm has been criticized or even ridiculed as being due to nostalgic feelings for a “better” past, resulting from the disappointed expectations of progress or even from nationalism. The criticism works through the same patterns with which regionalism is sometimes criticized for its “uncritical” and literal adoption of local elements. For example, heritage activists have been accused of



Secularization of the Architectural Heritage through Wahhabism

165

“cloaking unsavory practices, of disempowering the lay public, and of failing to address current urgent issues” (Lowenthal 1999: 7). Some do indeed believe that in the contemporary world material preservation has turned into a “rampant cult” as constantly larger resources are devoted to the salvaging and conservation of remnants of the past (cf. Lowenthal 1989: 67). The cult of the authentic has even been said to be part of a regionalist “heritage industry,” which consigns “living history to archaeological sites, satirizing it into ‘magical realism’“ and transforming it into sanitized and marketable commodities” (Sardar 2003: 198). Cynics might say that here modernity, whose principle is to go always for the newest of the new, needs the “heritage” in order reaffirm its good conscience.

2. The Case of Saudi Arabia Within this context, the case of Saudi Arabia sticks out as peculiar. Around the holy cities of Mecca and Medina, but also elsewhere in the country, sites associated with early Islam such as mosques, burial sites, homes, and historical locations associated with early Islamic history, have been destroyed for almost two centuries. The destruction occurred mainly in the Hejaz region and in particular around the holy cities of Mecca and Medina. All together 11 mosques, nine tombs and 11 historical religious sites have been destroyed (Ahmed 2006; Al-Islam.org). The destruction concentrates on religious buildings but concerns the entire architectural heritage. It is generally stated that during the past 50 years, the Saudi authorities have destroyed more than 300 historical sites in Mecca and Medina1 and in the past two decades alone, Saudi authorities have destroyed 95 percent of Mecca’s ancient and historical buildings.2 At present only 20 structures are left that date back to the time of the Prophet (Musaji 2007). The only recognized and protected traditional site is the Ka’aba, the cube shaped granite building, which is the most sacred site in Islam and which is contained in the Masjid al-Haram. Though the Ka’aba had been reconstructed a number of times due to floods or other incidents, contrary to the buildings by which it is surrounded, it cannot be deliberately modified or reconstructed. Future destructions might hit the seventh century green dome in Medina, where the Prophet is buried as Abu Abdul Rahman Muqbil bin Hadi Al Wadi, one of the most senior Wahhabi clerics, has called for its demolition (Shaw 2013). Hardline clerics have also called for the destruction of the Hira’a Cave (Ghar Hira) situated on the mountain of light (Jabal al-Nour) outside of Mecca where the Prophet is said to have received the first verses of the Koran (Howden 2006). Occasionally, buildings that are directly linked to the Saudi national narrative are preserved. The Masmak Fort in Riyadh (built around 1865), for example, has been preserved for its extraordinary historical significance. It was from here that Ibn Saud, the kingdom’s first monarch, led the recapture of Riyadh in 1902.3 The fort has been inaugurated as a Museum in 1995. Most of the time, the sites on which historical buildings used to stand have been covered with modern structures. A library has been built over the house where the

166 Transcultural Architecture

Prophet was born and there are plans to demolish the library to build skyscrapers (Musaji 2007; Usborne 2014). Over the house of Khadija, the wife of Muhammad, have been built public lavatories and on the grounds of Abu Bakr’s (the prophet’s senior companion’s) house stands a Hilton Hotel (Howden 2006). Massive building of high rises started in the mid-1970s around the Holy Mosque or Grand Mosque (Masjid al-Haram). At present, over 100 buildings are under construction in this area. The five hills which used to form a rim around central Mecca have been either razed or diminished or covered by modern development. The Masjid al-Haram, which developed under Mamluk, Abbasid, and Ottoman rules, has not been destroyed but has been altered, repaired, renovated and expanded several times. During the last finished expansion project, which lasted from 1988 to 2005, the hired British firm used Islamic architectural elements such as arcades, minarets, and Islamic ornamentation. Gwendolyn Wright has called this work “cut-andpaste” architecture because none of those elements “were familiar idioms in the peninsula” (Wright 2008: 232). The current extension project, which is supposed to be accomplished in 2020, will increase the mosque’s capacity to two million. Several new structures in Mecca establish world records with regard to their dimensions. The mall-hotel complex Abraj-al-Bait tower (also known as the Mecca Royal Hotel Clock Tower) is the largest single building in the world and is located only meters away from the Masjid al-Haram which contains the Ka’aba. The complex houses 100,000 people in 15,000 housing units and has 70,000 square meters of retail space. It occupies a built-up area of 1.4 million square meters, costs 3 billion US dollars, and holds a few other world records: it is the world’s second tallest building surpassed only by Dubai’s Burj Khalifa, it is the tallest hotel in the world, and it has the tallest clock tower as well as the world’s largest clock face. The most spectacular feature is indeed the clock tower, which represents London’s Big Ben scaled to 600 meters, and is thus seven times higher than the minarets of the Holy Mosque. The complex has been built right on the site of the Ottoman Ajyad Fortress, a building dating from 1781, which had to be demolished for this purpose. The tower is part of the urban re-generation scheme called the “Jabal Omar Development Project” according to which the built up floor area will cover two million square meters when finished and sport 38 luxury hotel towers (10 of which have been built by 2013) (cf. Fattah 2012). The destruction of Saudi Heritage has a long history. Under Wahhabi rule, the dismantling of historical sites began in the early nineteenth century when the Wahhabi army leveled Ottoman mausoleums at a vast burial site in Medina (the Maqbaratu al-Baqi’), which houses the remains of members of Muhammad’s family as well as those of central figures of early Islam. When Al Saud-led forces raided the area between the Najd and the Hejaz in 1790–91, and especially in the conquest of Taif in 1802, the Wahhabis “set about destroying all the holy tombs and burial grounds of the city, followed by the mosques and madrasas” (Yamani 2006: 9). When Medina surrendered in 1805, “the Wahhabis destroyed all mausoleums, domed mosques and other buildings considered un-Islamic” (Yamani: 9). The Wahhabi rule did not last long, but when the Hejaz region was reconquered in the 1920s, the religious reformers continued their actions of iconoclasm. The



Secularization of the Architectural Heritage through Wahhabism

167

tomb of Fatima, the daughter of Muhammad, was smashed in 1924. In January 1925, Wahhabis ““purified’ the holy cities as they had in the early nineteenth century: by destroying places of worship deemed un-Islamic—including the shrine of Mawlid al-Nabi (birthplace of the Prophet), the house of Khadija, the Prophet’s wife, and Bait Abu-Bakr” (Yamani: 10). Most of the domes over the tombs of prominent early Muslim leaders were then destroyed, “including those of the Caliph Uthman, the legist Malik ibn Anas, and four Shia imams, but the tomb of the Prophet himself was not altered. However, the dome and the minaret built at the mosque marking the birthplace of the Prophet Muhammad in Mecca were torn down. Many Muslims inside and outside the Hejaz objected to the destruction of such structures and sites” (Ochsenwald 2007: 21–2). In 1950, the grave of the Prophet’s wife was destroyed. Until today, “five of the renowned ‘Seven Mosques’ initially built by Prophet Muhammad’s daughter, and four of his ‘greatest Companions’ (Abu Bakr, Salman al-Farsi, Umar ibn al-Khattab, Sayyida Fatima bint Rasulillah, and Ali ibn Abi Talib) have been demolished” (Musaji 2007).

3. The Wahhabi Interpretation of Islam The Saudi view of how historical heritage should be dealt with is not generally Islamic. Ariffin points out that “the Quran invites and encourages mankind to visit the historic relics and observe them with earnest” (Ariffin: 19). Ariffin even believes that a well-defined “conservation thinking” does exist in the Middle East. The Saudi case represents thus a controversial Wahhabi interpretation of Islam. Controversies of what behavior should be considered as shirk were already present during the lifetime of the founder of Wahhabism, Sheikh Muhammad Ibn Abd al-Wahhab (1703–1792) who disagreed with a diverse group of contemporary religious leaders on such matters, including his own brother, the judge Sulayman (Commins 2006: 20–23). I want to show in this chapter that the peculiar Saudi approach can only be understood if one considers that the Wahhabi attitude towards Saudi heritage is based on the strict separation of religion and culture, that is, on the ambition to radically separate a concrete cultural past from abstract religious ideals. Quintan Wiktorowicz explains that many innovations, according to Salafis, resulted from the expansion of Islam to new locales, where practitioners blended local culture and Islamic tradition. This helped conversion by rendering Islam accessible through local vernacular customs, but Salafis cite this syncretism as a major source of innovation. Culture is thus seen as the enemy of pure Islam. (Wiktorowicz 2006: 210)

The Saudi approach towards religion is thus one of deculturation. Its aim is the establishment of a pristine form of Islam freed of cultural innovations. Though this represents a clearly anti-cultural approach towards religion, one also has to keep in mind that this approach is only possible because from the Wahhabi point of view,

168 Transcultural Architecture

culture and religion are supposed to overlap or more precisely, culture should be absorbed by religion. Those parts that cannot be absorbed should be rejected. Historically, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia lacks any true universalizing past before or apart from Islam that could be recognized by all ethnic and religious groups.4 Therefore Saudi Arabia defines its national identity mainly in terms of religion and abstains from the redefinition of those religious identitarian components in terms of culture. From another point of view it can appear that Saudis are not emptying religion of its cultural components but are doing exactly the contrary: they use religion for the purpose of politics by transforming it into a political culture. Again, the reason is that here religion is supposed to replace culture. As a result, other Muslims have difficulties to recognize this culture as their religion. Khaldoun Samman thinks that the new Saudi state “exploited religious notions of purity that referenced early imagery and notions of Islam and redefined them to serve nationalist, rather than religious initiatives” (Samman: 139). However, no matter how religion is used, the Saudis stick to a definition of religion as religion, which absolutizes politico-cultural notions such as ‘nationhood’ through religion. This would not work would the premise be based on a “religion as culture” conception.

4. The Past and the Sacred The Saudi reasoning is consistent though it remains curious at the same time. Usually, religious fundamentalism is believed to be submitted to a cult of the past. Yi-Fu Tuan observes that today “something like a cult of the past has infected both developed and developing countries” and names religious fundamentalism as one of those cults. Other cults are those of “ethnic pride” or of a “quasireligious environmentalism that posits organic wholeness and virtue in the pristine past” (Tuan 2003: 879). By smashing artifacts, Saudis escape both “conservative fundamentalism” (which is usually submitted to the cult of the past) and the progressive attitudes of environmentalism. The Saudi logic is sustained through the false dichotomy suggesting that all heritage protectors are idol worshippers and polytheists because they worship buildings that are not erected (at least indirectly) by God but merely by humans. No third option is left between the idol worshiper and the idol destroyer. This contradicts contemporary mainstream ideas about conservation, which are driven by the ambition to see the sacred in items that are not intrinsically sacred (i.e. that are not religious buildings but are “sacred” in a way of speaking). 4.1 “Progressive Fundamentalism” and “Progressive Traditionalism” The anti-cultural stance and adherence to an abstract concept of architectural civilization that exceeds cultural conditions can also be seen as progressive. We encounter here the paradoxical notion of “progressive fundamentalism.” It is paradoxical because normally, a progressive spirit and fundamentalism are believed



Secularization of the Architectural Heritage through Wahhabism

169

to exclude each other. Sociologist Bassam Tibi has questioned the opposition of “fundamentalist” and “progressive” and has put forward a progressive spirit as a general condition of fundamentalism. This is how, for Tibi, fundamentalism is distinct from traditionalism: “Fundamentalism is not traditionalism, and although fundamentalists do draw on traditions, they do so clearly within a modern context and with a nontraditional mindset” (Tibi: 29). For example, though fundamentalists are against various reforms, they still want technology. After having defined fundamentalism as progressive, Tibi concludes that Wahhabis are not such progressive fundamentalists but the Islamic world’s only existing traditionalists. Tibi identifies religious fundamentalism “not as a spiritual faith, but as a political ideology based on the politicizing of religion for sociopolitical and economical goals in the pursuit of establishing a divine order” (p. 20). Wahhabis do not display such features but stick to the spiritual and divine order for its own sake. They do not let religion work in the service of a progressive political ideology. Therefore they must be qualified as traditionalists. The characterization of Wahhabis as traditionalists corresponds with the general idea of Salafism as a conservative return to the religious practices of early Muslims (salaf as-salih). Such a return has been preached by Muhammad ibn Abd al-Wahhab. True, Al-Wahhab’s works, especially the Kitab at-Tawhid, are still widely read by Salafists today and its author is often cited as the first figure of Salafism in the modern era (As-Salafi 1998). However, my above account of the architectural situation in Mecca shows that Wahhabis should not be seen as traditionalists in the conventional sense. Wahhabis are spiritual in a traditional way but they have limited the spiritual to a very particular cultural area (the Ka’aba) that they designate as almost the only “religious” architectural item. Reflected against this particular item, the rest of the environment becomes secular. Once this constellation has been created, it is very well possible to be both traditionalist and progressive. In other words, Wahhabis are “progressive traditionalists.” Saudi religious authorities have solved the problem of traditionalism and progressivism in a unique way in the realm of architecture. The destruction of the old (which has been declared secular) leaves ample space for the construction of new architecture, which is why the Saudi example can appear as not merely religious but also as particularly modern. Officially, Saudi authorities justify the destruction of the heritage with the need for installations that can accommodate and service the massive amount of pilgrims. They maintain that the rapid development of Mecca and Medina is a response to the yearly increase in pilgrims to the holy sites. The demolition and erasing of the Islamic past is thus carried out not only in the name of religiously motivated iconoclasm but also in the name of modernization. As a consequence, Mecca and Medina have been refurbished with façades of steel, glass and concrete and been transformed into a sprawling image of modernist architecture in which history and tradition are absent.5 Another striking aspect is the predominant commercialism attached to the renovation project because the entire Abraj-al-Bait Tower Complex has always been linked to intense real estate speculation (see Taha 2013). This contradicts, once again, intrinsic religious prerogatives because,

170 Transcultural Architecture

as say critics, “the new skyscrapers, shopping malls and luxury hotels built in Mecca are turning it into a city for the few, rather than a place for the masses” (Shaw 2013). Further, in order to negate the architectural environment’s cultural-spiritual value, Saudi planners must overcome the age-old Aristotelian architectural tradition of creating places or topoi. Their ambition must be to design culturally neutral spaces. Intellectually, they situate themselves thus in the camp of modern science and technology, a tradition that has always been fundamentally averse to the notion of a topos able to activate symbolic and memorial functions. Therefore the Wahhabi gesture is spectacularly modern and also technologically motivated, which is made clear in the response of a Saudi government spokesman to a proheritage activist and architect Sami Angawi: “He doesn’t like change because it changes the city that he knew” (Pope 2004). The development of Saudi Arabia into a technostate is not a recent phenomenon. Toby Jones explains that since the 1960, “Saudi Arabia became not just an oil state but also a modern technostate, one in which science and expertise, scientific services, and technical capacity came to define the relationship between rulers and ruled. The result was a strong technopolitical central authority that used science and technology as instruments of power” (Jones 2010: 14). Even more, “science and expertise also influenced how political authorities came to ‘see’ society, as officials and technocrats embraced quantification, the principles of scientific management, and the pursuit of making nature and society legible” (p. 15).6 In the realm of architecture, Saudis join, in a seemingly paradoxical way, New World models of civilization that bear striking resemblances with American urbanization. They imitate a “culturally neutral” architecture that is purely Western and often reminiscent of Disneyland and Las Vegas. Mecca becomes a second Dubai.

5. Comparisons 5.1 Comparisons with the West In most countries, conservation has been linked to an element that is sacred in the broadest sense. John Ruskin has made the arguably most influential contribution to the debate about the philosophy of conservation in the nineteenth century. Ruskin was, with William Morris, one of the founding fathers of the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings. For Ruskin, “the chief justification for conservation was contained within the idea of age itself: the quasi sacred character of that which has endured through generations of inhabitants and successions of historical events” (Ruskin, 1906, quoted from Barthel 1989: 90). At the same time, the strategy of deculturation is not as unusual as some might think, but it has a parallel in Europe. Also the Romans tried to perpetuate the irrational fascination with the magical power of some places, which they called “genius loci.” Those places were cultural and not necessarily religious. While the Christians first accepted much of this culture, the European Reformation fought



Secularization of the Architectural Heritage through Wahhabism

171

against it, because, according to Mario Carpo, “it deemed this belief a superstition, a relic of paganism, and a possible source of idolatry; the Counter-Reformation defended it, within some limits” (Carpo 2007: 54). The parallel with the Saudi situation is manifest. The genius loci of Mecca depends on the relationship of the mosque with the surrounding landscape, as reports Ouroussof: “Many people told me that the intensity of the experience of standing in the mosque’s courtyard has a lot to do with its relationship to the surrounding mountains. Most of these represent sacred sites in their own right and their looming presence imbues the space with a powerful sense of intimacy” (Ouroussoff 2010). This genius loci had to be destroyed. Apart from that, it is true that the destruction of heritage and the neglect of old buildings once existed in Europe as well; however, it would rarely be extended to monuments. Around 1850, the Baron de Haussmann destroyed a large part of historical Paris in the name of modernization policies; but as the cult of historic preservation that reached its peak almost at the same time in Europe, Haussmann was not allowed to destroy historical monuments; and at that time nobody would attribute monumental value to ordinary houses in the center of Paris. The Saudi “cult of destruction” is also different from the Western “cult of decay” described by Alois Riegl in 1903. Sometimes, in the West, the architectural heritage is permitted to disappear as long as it happens through decay and not through willful destruction. In certain cases, instead of eliminating all cultural values from the object, the slow and “natural” decay can even be believed to heighten the authenticity of the object: “The cult of age value condemns not only every violent destruction of monuments through the hand of man as a heinous interference with nature’s lawful activity of disintegration … but in principle it condemns every effort at conservation, every restoration, as nothing less than an unauthorized inference with the reign of natural law” (Riegl 1982: 26). Demolition is bad not only because it makes the building disappear, but also because it interferes with the natural rhythm of decay. Restoration must be condemned for the same reason. The Saudi logic entirely inverts the above model. Religious ideas are believed to be too pure and too abstract to be legitimately contained in concrete artifacts. In the end, one is hostile towards any idea of architectural authenticity. However, at the same time, the Saudi hostility towards authenticity opens the door to all those modern elements that the Western “cult of the authentic” has always tried to keep abreast, which becomes obvious in the present building boom in Mecca. 5.2 Comparison with China It is interesting to compare the Saudi attitude with another non-Western model of conservation. First of all, iconoclasm, which is the politically or religiously motivated deliberate destruction of religious icons, monuments or other symbols, is most often practiced to incur damage to the enemy and his identity. In exceptional cases it can be inflicted on one’s own culture. Iconoclasm reached dramatic dimensions in China during the Cultural Revolution where the Chinese themselves destroyed

172 Transcultural Architecture

many items of Chinese culture because they would not fit the value systems of their newly invented political ideology. This represents a parallel with Wahhabism. In Saudi Arabia, an edict by the kingdom’s senior council of religious scholars ruled in 1994 that preserving historical buildings should be restricted because it can lead to polytheism (source from The Washington-based Saudi Institute). Wahhabis direct iconoclasm against the icons of a religion and a culture that is Islamic, but which will be declared alien according to an ideology, which radically limits the instances where religious concepts are allowed to be expressed through material manifestations.7 When it comes to traditional attitudes towards heritage, however, parallels between Saudi Arabia and China are ambiguous. In general, in China, abstract concepts symbolizing certain historical values (names, emplacements, historical lineages) remain more important than the concrete material manifestations of the artifact. This contrasts with the Western approach that attributes more importance to the preservation of the material. As mentioned in Chapter 4, Sinologists Simon Leys (1991, 1998) and F.W. Mote (1973) were amazed at the negligence with which the Chinese treat their material heritage and concluded that Chinese ignore any idea of “material originality.” For the Chinese, the “authentic” does not reside in the artifact’s material component but rather in its psycho-historical associations. The Great Pagoda of Suzhou, for example, passes as Suzhou’s “Statue of antiquity” though “no building with such a pedigree would count for as much as an authentic antiquity” (Mote 1973: 50). Though the Pagoda’s origins go back to the third century, in reality it is a twentieth-century construction that has constantly been rebuilt over the centuries.8 In the context of Chinese civilization, the Chinese communist iconoclastic strategy of the 1950s represents an exception and is incompatible with the traditional Chinese approach towards historical heritage. The common ground between the Saudi approach and the traditional Chinese one is that both refuse to make the authenticity of religious concepts dependent on concrete material. However, in Saudi Arabia the systematic destruction of concrete artifacts is not organized in view of their possible rebuilding; the place and the genius loci need to be destroyed as well. About China, French ethnographer Victor Segalen could say that its architecture embodies a sort of “in-built obsolescence,” letting the buildings decay more rapidly because “eternity” is reserved for the concept and not for the material building (cf. Leys 2008). Still the Chinese would feel the need to sustain the existence of at least some sort of building, even if this building could appear as faked according to some standards. The Great Pagoda might never have been more than an idea, but at least it was an idea symbolized by a structure. In Saudi Arabia the artifact is not allowed to preserve any idea, but cultural and religious concepts must exist independently of any built environment except for the Ka’aba. While the Chinese do not free their minds of the past but merely abandon the physical part of the object, the Saudis negate their entire built history in order to look into a future that is not marred by cultural biases but only determined by their current interpretation of Islamic religion. As a consequence, the contemporary architectural world has to be



Secularization of the Architectural Heritage through Wahhabism

173

invented from scratch. In practice, both systems, the Chinese and the Saudi one, are not as opposed to each other as they appear to be. The mission of the Chinese “renovator” is not to create anything anew, but merely to transmit the heritage of the Ancients. However, in reality, given that the antiquity that the original building refers to has often been lost or is not well documented, transmission can easily become mere reinvention.

6. Religion, Culture and Deculturation By destroying its cultural heritage (or what other Muslims would deem its religious heritage), Saudi authorities establish a religious utopia. However, because they cannot establish it in terms of architectural culture they have to refer to a progressive model that they call religion and which is distinct from culture. Chinese might create a new and unauthentic architecture, but they are still able to believe in the authenticity of this “new” architecture because it is anchored in a certain cultural tradition. Saudis, on the other hand, recognize an “Islamic” cultural-architectural tradition not even in abstract terms but cling instead to abstract religious values. By doing this they can adopt a great deal of that fluidity, which is contained in the Chinese concept of history as a progressive and flexible force just because they do not insist on the literal preservation of material things and do not attach their values to history as an object. On the other hand, Saudis negate the spiritual value of architectural tradition that is merely cultural or in which religion appears as mingled with culture. As a consequence, they have to opt for either a culturally neutral model of architecture (modern architecture) or cultural architecture that is clearly free of religious claims and in keeping with strong political claims, such as vernacular Najd architecture or the Masmak Fort. 6.1 “Authoritarian Architecture” The combination of fundamentalism with radically modern attitudes tends to produce the kind of technocratic civilization that is the preferred option of many authoritarian governments, no matter if religious or atheist. For example, it has been typical for the former Soviet Union whose “Palace of the Soviets” project (1931–1933) bears an uncanny resemblance with the Abraj-al-Bait tower. The Soviet palace was planned as an administrative center and a congress hall to be built in Moscow on the site of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, which had been demolished during the 1921–1928 antireligious campaign. Under the state atheism espoused by the USSR, many church institutions were systematically destroyed. Like the Abraj-al-Bait tower, the Palace of the Soviets was planned to break records (it would have been the world’s tallest structure). Construction started in 1937 but was terminated by the German invasion in 1941 and never resumed after the war.

174 Transcultural Architecture

10.1 Palace of the Soviets Project (1931–33)

7. Critical Regionalism What is the remedy for a religious fundamentalism that situates itself in the camp of modern science and technology and produces an extremist form of modern architecture? The remedy is Critical Regionalism. The only thing that can help here is the cultivation of one of the genuine virtues of Enlightenment: a critical spirit able to use historical elements in a reasonable fashion because, according to Tuan, a “historical consciousness, a keen appreciation of the past is an achievement of disciplined imagination” (Tuan 2003: 879). In the Saudi context this can be translated as such: only a critical attitude towards history and religion is able to reunite culture and religion. Critical Regionalism aims to create places or topoi instead of culturally neutral spaces. While Critical Regionalism normally combats the powers of capitalist universalism or consumerist iconography current in secular cultures, in Saudi Arabia, Critical Regionalism is most needed as a counter weight to religion. More precisely this means: Critical Regionalism can simultaneously point out the cultural character of religion and the religious character of culture. The problem is that in Saudi Arabia, there seems to be no critical tradition destined to control or moderate the frenetic search for the



Secularization of the Architectural Heritage through Wahhabism

175

newest of the new. As this chapter on architecture has shown, religion in the way it is perceived by Wahhabism, represents a civilizational (progressive) element that is not allowed to interfere with culture (heritage). Elaraby (1996) thinks that in the Middle East, Neo-Islamic design is a “critical regionalist option” able to create a certain way of life. However, in the Saudi case, apart from some superficial ornamentation, no adherence to regional culture is permitted. What is permitted is an adherence to an abstract idea of religion. Strictly speaking, Critical Regionalism (and even more transculturalism) are options that Wahhabi authorities are unable to accept as those critical movements reject strong traditional identities and all elements linked to an imperialistic heritage as well as dogmatic religious values. Critical Regionalism is thus a most unlikely option for the Saudi government be it only because, officially, Saudi Arabia is a highly deregionalized country in which regional identities have been suppressed because the ruling Saud family imposed upon other regions a unique culture derived from their own Najd region in order to emphasize the cultural unity of the newly founded Saudi Arabia.9 Again this shows the political and critical power contained in regionalism independently of Critical Regionalist theories. Saudi Arabia has some architecture that can be classified as Critical Regionalism and not merely as historical parody or imitation. In the 1970s, in the context of national modernization programs, Western architects had been invited to practice their trade in a liberal atmosphere free of the modernist restrictions that they had perhaps often been submitted to in their own countries. Frei Otto’s tent cities as well as the International Airport’s Hajj Terminal by Skidmore, Owings and Merrill count among those examples. Juhani Pallasmaa has called Henning Larsen’s Foreign Ministry in Riyadh “one of the most convincing achievements of Western architecture in an alien context is” (Pallasmaa 2007: 135). The most prominent Saudi architect, Sami Angawi (born in 1948), attempts to prolong this tradition by highlighting the role of the critical mind in architecture. His architecture can definitely be understood as Critical Regionalism. Angawi has developed a critical

10.2 Abraj-al-Bait Tower Complex

176 Transcultural Architecture

architectural approach through his central concept of mizan (balance), which depends on ingenuity and enables the architect to mix modern and traditional aspects. Angawi is clearly not a traditionalist because he has also designed thoroughly modern projects such as a hospital in Jeddah. He summarizes his critical and cultural approach like this: There is a big misunderstanding that I would like to correct. People say, are you a traditionalist, or are you a modernist? There is no such thing in my way of thinking. It is all using what you need to serve what is needed from the functional, from the social, from the environmental and so on. When talking about al mizan we say what are the factors and what is the weight of those factors in the function of the building. (In Crowcroft 2010)

Characteristically, Angawi believes that “imitation is the biggest threat to Saudi Arabia at a time when it is opening its doors to bigger projects and international firms” and points out that “the majority of schemes that are on the boards at the moment have no relationship to the country or its people” (Crowcroft 2010).

8. Conclusion It has been shown that the Saudi case strives towards the separation of religion from culture and that this separation leads, in the very end, to the secularization of the environment. The logic of fundamentalism in the way it is practiced by Wahhabism does not follow the lines of a traditionalism trying to install traditional religion in modern (secular) life. With regard to the architectural situation it has been shown that here religion will rather be excluded from the national culture or limited to a tiny part of this national culture. This runs contrary to how “traditionalist” religious governments tend to install religion in public life, and even to how secular people try to bring back the “spiritual” into a world that they deem too secular. For Saudi film maker Al Alawi, the expansion of Mecca’s center runs therefore “counter to the spirituality of the city, as well as the sense of equality fostered during the Hajj” (Shaw 2013). Ruskin and William Morris saw preservation as a part of a battle against an increasingly commercialized and despiritualized world. In the Saudi case, once the desire to save the “spiritual” has been lifted or reduced to one single building (the Ka’aba), there is no moral instance able to defend items situated outside the Ka’aba. When all space around the Ka’aba has become secular, the paradoxical result is that anybody desiring to save the Saudi heritage will appear as non-secular. Within the logic solidified by Ruskin’s and Morris’ thoughts on “spritualization through conservation,” any (particularly Western) attempt to defend the Saudi heritage can be understood as a quasi-religious attitude because it aspires to salvage the sacred in the broadest sense.



Secularization of the Architectural Heritage through Wahhabism

177

In other areas of public life, Saudi Arabia remains purely traditionalist in the sense of non-progressive. For example, a religiously sanctioned dress code and gender segregation are imposed upon matters that are cultural and not religious. Here religion is imposed upon culture. However, when it comes to architecture, we find a curious form of “progressive traditionalism.” Secular architecture is not “made religious” but religious architecture is declared to be secular by contrasting it with the Ka’aba. If we use the term secularization in the sense of religion’s loss of authority in social life and governance—of which architecture is a part—then the Saudi case exemplifies how any religious state radically denying cultural content in religion and also religious content in culture, will end up creating “secular” spaces in the sense of culturally neutral spaces. Apart from that, the typically “modern” fusion of politics with science and technology becomes an easy task once the entire material environment able to contain cultural, historical, sacred, or spiritual values has been negated, or, more precisely, limited to the Ka’aba. All over the world, heritage preservation has been linked to a fight for power. The act of looking back to the past in order to legitimate present power is full of controversy because alternative interpretations and claims will soon arise. In practically all countries apart from Saudi Arabia, interest in heritage preservation is understood as a counter reaction to industrialization and uniformization. This works in parallel with the agenda of regionalism. All this makes clear how politically charged preservation as well as regionalism has always been. Only a perfectly managed technocratic state will deem that it does not need heritage preservation. Robin Fedden pointed out this problem already in 1960 writing that “in a Utopia where a perfect sense of values prevailed there [is] no place for a National Trust” (1968: 53, quoted from Barthel: 97). The result is that in a technocratic state denying the cultural past, power can be exercised in an entirely uncomplexed and direct fashion; and Critical Regionalism as a protest movement is the only power able to reform the architectural situation. Eymen Homsi concludes that the Saudi audacity of placing the Abraj-al-Bait tower “precisely here, at the point of greatest friction and proximity, exposes the raw and insatiable power of Empire” (Homsi 2011: 305). Muslim scholars’ ambitions to replace GMT with Mecca time (among other things because the clock of the Abraj-al-Bait is the world’s largest), indicate such a link between the destruction of heritage, modernization, and the will to power. The Saudi Arab News reports: “Many scholars are of the opinion that Makkah Time can provide the world an alternative to the GMT. These people have scientific arguments to back their contention, as Makkah is situated in the center of the world” (Ali 2010). In the end, the secular Saudi architectural world, which is determined by the overlap of religious fundamentalism and modern attitudes, will be addicted to the same evils that, according to anti-secularists, secular societies tend to be addicted to: lack of respect for the past, the will to power, and commercialism.

178 Transcultural Architecture

Notes 1.

New Statesman (London), July 18, 2005. See also Musaji 2007.

2.

The Independent, Aug. 6, 2005; The Toronto Star, Aug. 17, 2005.

3.

He infiltrated Masmak, killed the governor and claimed sovereignty over the city.

4.

Though from an official, politico-religious point of view the Saudi population can appear as homogenous, in reality it is characterized by a high degree of social stratification. There are four distinct regions and diverse populations in Saudi Arabia. Tribal identities were paramount among the nomadic population and remain present among town and village dwellers. The Eastern Province has a substantial Shia population and Asir in the South-West is closely linked to Yemen by population and geography.

5.

Though it is true that Saudi culture cannot be reduced to Wahhabism, the models of progressive architecture at work in present Mecca can be traced to Wahhabism. The Saudi state—who backs those projects—uses Wahhabism in all domains of social life.

6.

It is a curiosity that the study of science was at the same time suppressed. Lacey interviewed an Aramco planning consultant who reports: “‘Modern science, geology, the history of civilization, the history of Europe—I remember studying all that in my Saudi school in the 1970s. That vanished. Now it became just the history of Islam and the Al-Saud, with hours of extra religious studies—and even science and math had to include some Islamic content.’ By 1986 no fewer than 16,000 of the 100,000 university students would be pursuing religious studies whose foundation involved long hours devoted to learning the Koran by heart” (Lacey: 52).

7.

It is true that at some point the Wahhabi aspiration was also to destroy Meccan or Hejaz culture and identity in order to affirm their supremacy over this region that they had conquered. I neglect this aspect here because, while it is a minor addition, it would complicate the discussion.

8.

The same is true for the Forbidden City, which was built in 1421 though none of the original material subsists. Still Chinese will hold that it dates from the Ming period. Another example are the famous “Terracotta Soldiers,” statues of warriors of the Qin emperor, which were obtained by a French department store in the 1970s, and turned out to be not “original” in the Western sense but copies, which created a scandal. Westerners learned that Chinese do not have the same standards of “authenticity” (Chieng 2006: 112). A similar attitude towards the “eternity” of the constructed environment can be found in the Japanese tradition. The primary Shinto shrine of imperial Japan, the Ise Shrine, was established around 680 AD and has been ritually rebuilt every 20 years ever since. The shrine is thus “physically” never more than 20 years old though the Japanese do consider it an original building dating from the Seventh Century.

9.

Cf. Ochsenwald on regional clothing culture in Saudi Arabia. The all-black tenure which is presently obligatory stems from the region of Najd in the center of Saudi Arabia: “Hijazi were obliged to wear concealing external clothing that, among other things, obscured any possible regional variations between Saudi women coming from different regions of the kingdom” (Ochsenwald 2007: 29).

Conclusion

This book has presented several architects whose work can be linked to Critical Regionalism. It has also considered cases where a critical regionalist attitude was lacking. The diversity of the scenarios shows that Critical Regionalism is more than a mere resistance movement using local styles in order to resist globalization. Pietilä, when working in Kuwait, adhered to no clear form of “Finnishness” or “Arab style” and the Ministry is, according to the terminology that could be derived from his theoretical writings, absolutely “styleless.” As a result, it is difficult to rephrase the Ministry’s language in terms of resistance: the regional does not merely resist international tendencies by applying identifiable local themes but Pietilä creates a completely new transcultural language. Still the architecture of the Ministry corresponds to that of Critical Regionalism. It could actually be characterized as the most self-critical form of Critical Regionalism, which has been called “Ironical Regionalism.” Because any clear resistance rhetoric is missing, theoretically, this architecture could also most successfully circumvent Keith Eggener’s paradigm of “Critical Regionalism as colonialism by other means.” In practical terms, however, the Ministry turns out to be the less successful one of all architectures presented. The local environment perceived Pietilä’s work as an example of avant-garde intellectualism by which it could feel “colonized.” References to well-meant regionalist intentions could then even appear as cynical. What the “locals” found disturbing was not the fact that here a resistance spirit was trying to impose a resistance attitude on a public that did not want to be affiliated with such a spirit, but rather that here a totally self-critical attitude had created ironical expressions that the local culture could not absorb. Was this Pietilä’s fault or that of the Kuwaiti authorities? Most definitely both’s. Pietilä had expected the “Kuwaiti mind” to be structured in a way similar to that of postwar Western societies able to perceive official buildings from a distanced, playful and relativist point of view. He was building for a society that had acquired a critical understanding of its own history and environment. The reception of the building has shown that the “Kuwaiti mind” remains dominated by straightforward

180 Transcultural Architecture

ideas of identity, nationalism and monumentalism. Playfulness will rarely be accepted beyond the point of modestly applied postmodernism. Another branch of critique reproaches Critical Regionalism to strive towards harmonization and the perpetual fusion of elements. This critique has been formulated by Felipe Hernández. Pietilä’s Ministry shows that this assumption is wrong. The “skin concept” (the idea of showing the one in the other) prevents fusion or harmonization and instead engages in contrasting juxtapositions. Hernández insists on the necessity of replacing Critical Regionalism with Transcultural Architecture. I have shown that though Critical Regionalism lets cultures overlap, the “critical” part of Critical Regionalism will take care that distinctions be maintained. While in this book Critical Regionalism has been presented as a critical subcategory of Transcultural Architecture, in most cases, the latter cannot survive without some kind of “critical” input. In other words, most—though not all—Transcultural Architecture depends on critical regionalist reflections. It makes thus little sense to replace Critical Regionalism with Transcultural Architecture as is demanded by Hernándes. Critical Regionalism should be seen as a part of a larger transcultural movement. Apart from that, Transcultural Architecture and Critical Regionalism are in constant communication. Even the most transcultural patterns, that is, the network and the rhizome, can today rarely be produced without the help of Critical Regionalism. Wang Shu’s case is very different from Pietilä’s. Though his premises are clearly regionalist (he uses a traditional organization of space, different scales for each building, and salvages old tiles and bricks), in the end, his regionalist efforts help China to acquire the self-critical architectural enlightenment tradition that critics (including Wang himself ) believe China so desperately needs. Of course, in the eyes of critics of Critical Regionalism like Eggener, this represents precisely the case of colonialism to which Critical Regionalism seems to be linked by misfortune. Should Chinese architects be required to think critically? Should Chinese culture as a whole be required to think critically since—as those critics seem to believe—“thinking critically” means to think in a “Western” way? I have shown that Wang Shu’s work establishes a “critically researched history” in the sense of Leopold von Ranke and that this produces positive results. Wang’s approach must be supported within a Chinese environment in which politically backed historicism and what Frampton has called the “glibly decorative,” become so much interspersed that the monumental and the decorative can often hardly be distinguished (as has been shown in Chapter 5). Also this problem can only be “solved” through critical approaches. If we compare the Chinese case with the Kuwaiti one we can say that while the “Kuwaiti mind” appears to be dominated by straightforward ideas of identity and monumentalism, the Chinese concept of “ironical” monumentalism seeks to deconstruct monumentalism along the lines of a distanced and relativist playfulness. However, in the examples given, the language of this ironical discourse appeared clumsy and inadequate.

Conclusion

181

Chapter 10 has shown that In Saudi Arabia Critical Regionalism is probably more necessary than anywhere else in the world. First, the regionalist “region” has here practically no value because in the Wahhabi ideology everything is subordinated to religion. Critical Regionalism, like philosophies of conservation, believes that artifacts preserve ideas simply because artifacts are cultural. When a religious ideology denies the existence of ideas in artifacts because (religious) ideas can only exist abstractly and in the realm of religion, critical regionalist approaches can salvage the sacred and mobilize the power of memory, myths and identities by reestablishing the genius loci of regions. Otherwise architecture remains stuck in postmodern trivial manipulations of signs and references (which is the case of modern Mecca). How “critical” Critical Regionalism can be, has been shown by presenting the example of H-Sang Seung. Seung is not a “concrete” regionalist because he does not use local styles. He practices what Suha Özkan (1989) has called “abstract regionalism” which is, at least in my understanding, always critical. Most important for Seung is the morphology of the land, which provides the more sophisticated notion of “landscript.” In many respects, his approach can even be seen as opposed to regionalism as much as to postmodernism. For example, when he introduces a building with neither windows nor adornments (the Lock Museum) into the dense urban environment of Seoul’s Jongno-gu area that is dominated by a confusing postmodern mosaic of styles, the “negative void” (Seung’s own term) created by this building is not related to anything regional. Still Seung’s critical way of thinking seems to flow out of the same critical tradition by which also Critical Regionalism is inspired. Is the “void” the same “void of a lost reality” that Khan suspects to be Pietilä’s secret message when creating the cutout arches in the Ministry? However that may be, here, in Seoul, the language of the void is more understandable and has also apparently been accepted by the environment.

Land, Place, and “Form of Life” Most architects presented in this book have paid scrupulous attention to the genius of place. In Pietilä’s case, the problem was that the “place” had almost disappeared at the time of construction and eroded even more during the years following the buildings’ accomplishment. The case of Saudi Arabia is diametrically opposed. Here the destruction of buildings is not directed at the architecture in the first place but strives to destroy the genius loci of the area by building a new environment. Some of the architects discussed, attribute particular importance to the land. Seung needs to be in and over the land and considers “the social and political history that has shaped and inscribed these practices into that landscape.” For Wang Shu the building twists and transforms according to slopes, twists and turns occur on site. The concept of “form of life” (Lebensform) comes from Wittgenstein and has had a central position in this book. In particular, it has been discussed in Chapter 7 in the comparative study of Tadao Ando’s and Wittgenstein’s architecture. Those thoughts on the “form of life” have been linked to Critical Regionalism. Frampton argues that

182 Transcultural Architecture

Critical Regionalism offers something well beyond comfort and accommodation. What he has in mind are ethical prescripts closely linked to a culture of protest and resistance. This book has shown that this is not a wrong assumption per se, but that Critical Regionalism can also go “beyond comfort and accommodation” by investing in the search for the “right way of living” or in a “form of life.” The idea that regularly surfaces in several of the presented architects’ statements is that an architectural rationality can be contained in architecture itself. The rationality in question is not imposed upon by outside parameter like aesthetics, comfort or even tradition, but it flows out of a social game of which architecture is part. For Aalto and Pietilä for example, it is important to trace an architectural “anthropology of games” that can provide insights into the right way of living. As has been shown in Chapter 6, for them, the playing of a game implies a paradoxical negation and simultaneous affirmation of social reality. In most cases, the search for the “form of life” can only be obtained by critique and a critical consciousness, which is the reason why any architecture searching for the right “form of life” can be seen as the most radical form of Critical Regionalism (though, strictly speaking, it is not necessarily inspired by anything “regional”). Of course, this position can be easily criticized by saying that an “architectural rationality” indifferent to aesthetic and functional requirements is simply “irrational” in terms of architectural production. In the end, as writes Canizaro, we all do “crave for comfort, even postmodernists” (2007: 11). The search for a “form of life” or an “architectural rationality” that is based only “on itself” (similar to the rules of a game that are based only on the game itself) also seems to contradict the principles of Critical Regionalism because it neglects aesthetics and tradition. For all those reasons I suggested to enlarge the concept of Critical Regionalism in order to include also “forms of life” that are intrinsically architectural. When Ando says that certain “life patterns can be extracted and developed from living under severe conditions” (Ando 1984: 8), he suggests another form of critical architecture that is not regionalist in the first place, but still compatible with Critical Regionalism. What matters is not even an artistic style (as in architecture as art), but a “form of life” understood as a deep structure of human dwelling that will be rethought within the context of modernity. Louis Kahn’s principle of “form follows function” also indicates such a form of life because here a form was permitted to flow out of itself, regardless of the context within which it is imbedded. According to Kahn, we should simply “listen to the house” and the house will “say what it wants to be.” One of Kahn’s most famous quotes is that “a house should be in the first place not ‘a house’ but simply ‘House”.” This means that any style is here not derived from the general environment nor is it simply based on the architect’s creativity. Style exists “as such” by representing the form that the house “wants to have.” It’s the brick that is saying “I want an arch.” The style will be created accordingly. Decades later, H-Sang Seung joins Ando and Kahn by putting forward the “landscript” as a notion oscillating between ethics and aesthetics. Also Seung declares that the only thing he cares about is the “right way of living.” What those two architects, whose approaches are in many respects not strictly “regionalist,”

Conclusion

183

have in common is that they do not believe that architecture can simply be designed by introducing, in an empirical fashion, objective elements into an abstract space. Good architecture flows out of human cultural activity, which creates its own patterns and its own logic. The thought comes close to Frank Lloyd Wright’s idea that architecture should “owe its ‘style’ to the integrity with which it was individually fashioned to serve its particular purpose” (Wright 1914: 406). Once again, the similarity with the playing of games is obvious. All of the above thoughts on the “form of life” are not entirely unfamiliar for Critical Regionalists though they are, it must be said, not central to the movement. Central is rather Frampton’s characterization of the regional as “arational” and the Western-modern as “rational,” a dichotomy that has been discussed in different places in this book. Frampton perceives “on the one hand, the rationality of normative technique, and on the other, the arationality of idiosyncratic forms” (Frampton 1981: 22). Though Frampton wants to effectuate “a revealed conjunction between both,” it seems to me that a Transcultural Architecture able to speak its own language and to produce its own rationality is the more durable and more desirable option. In reality, there is no reason to revert to anything “irrational” or to compromise our rationality in order to produce Critical Regionalism. Like games, architecture has its own logic that is rational in itself through which it transcends other kinds of logic: the logic of messianic utopianism, of commodified, of populist consumer-oriented architecture, but also the logic of merely aestheticizing beauty and of comfort. An architecture that has its own logic is able to produce poetic and metaphysical content integrating images, memories, and dreams; and in most cases this can only be achieved through critical reflections.

This page has been left blank intentionally

Bibliography

Aalto, Alvar. 1953. “Experimental House at Muuratsalo” in Arkkitehti, pp. 9–10. Abbas, Ackbar. 1996. “Hyphenation: The Spatial Dimensions of HK Culture” in Michael Steinberg (ed.), Walter Benjamin and the Demands of History. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press. Abu-Ayyash, Abdul-Ilah. 1980. “Urban Development and Planning Strategies in Kuwait” in International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 4: 4, pp. 549–71. Ahmed, Irfan. 2006. “The Destruction of Holy Sites in Mecca and Medina” Islamica Magazine, Issue 15. Reposted at http://www.preserve-heritage.com/the-destruction-of-holy-sitesin-mecca-and-madina.html Aida, Takefumi. 1971. “Revitalized Architecture” in Japan Architect 10/11. Al-Bahr. Huda. 1984. “Traditional Kuwaiti Houses” MIMAR 13. ____. 1985. “Contemporary Kuwaiti Houses” in MIMAR 15. Al-Islam.org. History of the Cemetery of Jannat al-Baqi, History of the Shrines, Al-Islam.org (Ahlul Bayt Digital Islamic Library Project). http://www.al-islam.org/history-shrines/ history-cemetery-jannat-al-baqi Al-Rashoud, Claudia Farkas. 1995. Kuwait Kaleidoscope. Kuwait: Kuwait Bookshops Co. Al Sayyad, Nezar. 1987. “Space in the Islamic City” in Journal of Arch and Planning Research 4: 2, pp. 108–19. Ali, Meer Mobashsher. 1985. “Panel Discussion” in R. Powell (ed.), Regionalism in Architecture: Exploring Architecture in Islamic Culture 2. Singapore: Aga Khan/Concept Media. Ali, Syed Faisal. 2010. “Makkah Time a New Alternative for GMT” in Arab News (Riyadh) August 11. http://www.arabnews.com/node/352403 Althusser, Louis. 1971. “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses” in Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays. New York and London: Monthly Review Press. Ames, Roger and David Hall. 1988. Thinking through Confucius. New York: SUNY Press. ____. 1998. Thinking from the Han. New York: SUNY Press. AndDesign URL: http://anddesignmagazine.blogspot.com/2011/05/what-is-design.html

186 Transcultural Architecture

Anderson, Richard and Jawaher Al Bader. 2006: “Recent Kuwaiti Architecture: Regionalism vs. Globalization” in Journal of Architectural and Planning Research 23: 2, pp. 134–46. Ando, Tadao. 1978. “The Wall as a Territorial Alineation” in Japan Architect 53, p. 12--13. ____. 1982a. “From the Periphery to Architecture” in Japan Architect 57, p. 12--20. ____. 1982b. “From Self-enclosed Modern Architecture toward Universality” in Japan Architect 57, pp. 8–12. ____. 1986. “A Concrete Teahouse and a Veneer Teahouse” in Japan Architect 61: 354, p. 29 ____. 1989. Yale Studio: Tadao Ando. Current Works. New York: Rizzoli. ____. 1991. Japan Architect 1 [special issue Tadao Ando]. ____. 1995. “Representation and Abstraction” in F. Dal Co (ed.), Tadao Ando Complete Works. London: Phaidon. ____. with Kenneth Frampton (ed.). 1984. Tadao Ando: Buildings Projects Writings. New York: Rizzoli. Ariffin, Syed A. 2005. Architectural Conservation in Islam: Case Study of the Prophet’s Mosque. Kuala Lumpur: Penerbit UTM. As-Salafi, Abu ‘Iyad. 1998. “The Principles of Salafiyyah: A Brief Introduction to the Salafi Dawah” http://www.salafipublications.com/sps/sp.cfm?subsecID=SLF02&articleID=SLF 020001&articlePages=1 Ball, M Scott. 2004. “Expanding the Role of the Architect” in B. Bell (ed.), Good Deeds, Good Design: Community Service through Architecture. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Barrow, John D. and Frank J. Tipler. 1986. The Anthropic Cosmological Principle. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Barthel, Diane. 1989. “Historic Preservation: A Comparative Analysis” in Sociological Forum 4: 1, pp. 87–105. Barthes, Roland. 1997. The Eiffel Tower and Other Mythologies. New York: Farrar Straus. Battista, Anne, 2011. “Buildings like Garments: Al Seef Palace.” Last accessed on 12.6.2011: http://irenebrination.typepad.com/irenebrination_notes_on_a/2011/04/ sief-palace.html Beech, Hannah. 2005. “Ye Olde Shanghai” in Time Feb. 14. Belcher, Max, Beverly Buchanan, William Christenberry. 1994. House and Home: Spirits of the South. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Bell, Bryan (ed.). 2004. Good Deeds, Good Design: Community Service through Architecture (New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Benevolo, Leonardo. 1971. History of Modern Architecture. London: Routledge. Benincasa, Carmine. 1979. Il labbirinto dei Sabba. Bari: Dedalo. Bennett, Andy. 2005. Culture and Everyday Life. London: Sage. Blair, Tony. 2009. “Vision Kuwait 2035 Final Report.” Reviewed by T.A. Aldowaison in “A reconciled country vision.” Retrieved from http://www.designpro-kw.com/portfolio/ GLC/publications/Reconciled.Kuwait.Vision.E.pdf. Important parts of the Blair report can also be found on wikileaks http://www.wikileaks.org/plusd/cables/09KUWAIT1196_a. html.

Bibliography

187

Bodde, Derk. 1981. Essays on Chinese Civilization. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Bognar, Botond. 1982. “Vivre dans l’austérité et dépouillement” in F. Chaslin (ed.), Tadao Ando: Minimalismes. Paris: Electa Moniteur, pp. 26–9. Bonsdorf, Pauline von. 2007. “The Sorcerer’s Hat and the Carpenter’s Hands: Material Imagination in Pietilä’s Architecture” in Niskanen (ed.), pp. 9–22. Botz-Bornstein, Thorsten. 2003. “Nishida and Wittgenstein: From Pure Experience to Lebensform or New Perspectives for a Philosophy of Intercultural Communication” in Asian Philosophy 13: 1. ____. 2003. “The Dream of Language: Wittgenstein’s Concept of Dream in the Context of Style and Lebensform” in The Philosophical Forum 34: 1, pp. 73–90. ____. 2005. “Style and Anti-Style: A Modern Adventure” in International Yearbook of Aesthetics, Vol. 9. Helsinki: International Association for Aesthetics. ____. 2007. ‘Empathy vs. Abstraction: Twentieth Century Interactions of German and Russian Aesthetics or Attempts to Retrieve the World” in CLCWeb: Comparative Literature and Culture 9: 2. ____. 2010. “Is Critical Regionalist Philosophy Possible? Some Meta-Philosophical Considerations” in Comparative and Continental Philosophy 2: 1, pp. 1–15. ____. 2012. ‘Hyperreal Monuments of the Mind: Traditional Chinese Architecture and Disneyland’ in Traditional Dwelling and Settlements Review (TDSR) 22: 2, pp. 7–17. Bouveresse, Jacques. 1986. “Wittgenstein et l’architecture” in J. Clair (ed.), Vienne 1880–1938. Apocalypse joyeuse. Paris: Centre Pompidou. Bowring, Jacky and Simon Swaffield. 2004. “Think Global, Think Local: Critical Regionalism and Landscape Architecture” in Landscape Review 9: 2, pp. 1–12. Brownlee, David B. and David De Long. 1992. Louis Kahn: In the Realm of Architecture. New York: Rizzoli. Calinescu, Matei. 1987. Five Faces of Modernity: Modernism, Avant-Garde, Decadence, Kitsch, Postmodernism. Durham: Duke University Press. Canizaro, Vincent. 2007. “Preface” in V. Canizaro (ed.), Architectural Regionalism: Collected Writings on Place, Identity, Modernity and Tradition. Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, pp. 10–13. Carlson, Richard. 2006. “Louis Armstrong International Airport” in CTheory 4/11. Carpo, Mario. 2007. “The Postmodern Cult of Monuments” in Future Anterior 4: 2. Castro Ricardo L. 2004. “Syncretism, Wonder and Memory in the Work of Rogelio Salmona” in F. Hernández, M. Millington and I. Borden (eds), Transculturation: Cities, Spaces and Architectures in Latin America. Amsterdam, New York: Rodopi, pp. 155–68. Cheng, Anne Anlin. 2009. “Skins, Tattoos, and Susceptibility” in Representations 108: 1, pp. 98–119. Chieng, André. 2006. La Pratique de la Chine. En compagnie de François Jullien. Paris: Grasset and Fasquelle. Chow, Tse-Tsung. 1979. “Ancient Chinese Views on Literature, the Tao, and their Relationships” in Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews 1, pp. 3–29. Clouten, Neville. 1983. “Sief Palace area Buildings” in Architecture and Urbanism 6, pp. 26–50. Cocteau, Jean. 1948. Le Rappel à l’ordre. Paris: Stock.

188 Transcultural Architecture

____. 1983. Opium—Journal d’une désintoxication. Paris: Stock. Colquhoun, Alan. 1996. “Three Kinds of Historicism” in Kate Nesbit (ed.), Theorizing a New Agenda for Architecture: An Anthology of Architectural Theory 1965–1995. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, pp. 202–9. ____. 2007. “Critique of Regionalism” in V. Canizaro (ed.), Architectural Regionalism: Collected Writings on Place, Identity, Modernity, and Tradition. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, pp. 140–45. Commins, David. 2006. The Wahhabi Mission and Saudi Arabia. London: I.B. Tauris. Connah, Roger. 1989. Fantômas Fragments Fictions: An Architectural Journey through the Twentieth Century. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. ____. 2005. Finland. London: Reaktion. Cooke, Catherine. 1997. “Beauty as the Route to ‘The Radiant Future’: Responses of Soviet Architecture” in Journal of Design History 10: 2, pp. 137–60. Criss, Shannon. 2004. “Small Town Center” in B. Bell (ed.), Good Deeds, Good Design: Community Service through Architecture. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, pp. 209–16. Crowcroft, Orlando. 2010. “Arabian Nightmare” in Construction Week Online, August 4. http:// www.constructionweekonline.com/article-9119-arabian-nightmare/1/print/ Cuccioletta Donald. 2001/2002. “Multiculturalism or Transculturalism: Towards a Cosmopolitan Citizenship” in London Journal of Canadian Studies 17, pp. 1–11. Curtis, William. 1985 “Panel Discussion” in R. Powell (ed.), Regionalism in Architecture: Exploring Architecture in Islamic Culture 2. Singapore: Aga Khan/Concept Media. ____. 1986. “Presence of Absence: Louis I. Kahn and Modern Monumentality” in Perspecta 20, pp. 191–3. Czaplicka, John. 2005. “The Vernacular in Place and Time: Relocating History in Post-Soviet Cities” in M. Umbach and B. Hüppauf (eds), Vernacular Modernism: Heimat, Globalization, and the Built Environment. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Damisch, Hubert. 1975. “L’autre Ich ou le desir du vide: pour un tombeau d’Adolf Loos” in Critique, pp. 339–40. Deleuze, Gilles and Felix Guattari. 1975. Kafka. Pour une littérature mineure. Paris: Minuit. ____. 1980. Mille Plateaux: Capitalisme et schizophrénie. Paris: Minuit. Engl. trans by B. Massumi: A Thousand Plateaus. London and New York: Continuum, 2004. Delissen, Alain. 2001. “The Aesthetic Pasts of Space 1960–1990” Korean Studies 25: 2, pp. 243–60. Dorfles Gillo. 1975. Kitsch: The World of Bad Taste. New York: Bell. Droste, Bend von and Ulf Bertilsson. 1995. “Authenticity and World Heritage” in K.E. Larsen (ed.), Nara Conference on Authenticity. Trondheim: Tapir Publishers, pp. 3–15. Duncan, James S. 1990. The City as Text: The Politics of Landscape Interpretation in the Kandyan Kingdom. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Eggener, Keith L. 2002. “Placing Resistance: A Critique of Critical Regionalism” in Journal of Architectural Education 55: 4, pp. 228–37.

Bibliography

189

Eisenman, Peter. 1995. “Critical Architecture in a Geopolitical World” in Cynthia Davidson and Ismail Serageldin (eds), Architecture Beyond Architecture: Creativity and Social Transformations in Islamic Cultures. London: Academy Editions. Elaraby, K.M. G. 1996. “Neo-Islamic Architecture and Urban Design in the Middle East: Threshold to Adaptive Design” in Built Environment, 2: 2, pp. 138–50. Elman, Benjamin A. 1984. From Philosophy to Philology: Intellectual and Social Aspects of Change in Late Imperial China. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Epstein, Mikhail. 2005. “On Transculture” in Re-placing Cultures: A Dialogue among Disciplines (Journal) 7: 5 April/May. Retrieved from http://www.emory.edu/ACAD_ EXCHANGE/2005/aprmay/sidebar.html Eymen Homsi. 2011. “Genuflection and Empire” in Kari Jormakka (ed.), Architecture in the Age of Empire: 11th International Bauhaus-Colloquium. Weimar: Verlag der BauhausUniversität. Faruki, Mustafa Ali. 2003. “Locating Dhaka: A Study of Potential Inspirations for Louis Kahn’s National Assembly” in GBER 3: 1, pp. 15–25. Fattah, Zainab. 2012. “Saudi Arabia’s Jabal Omar Plans to Build 10 Hotels in 2013” in Bloomberg News Aug. 8 http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2012–08–08/saudi-arabia-sjabal-omar-plans-to-build-10-tower-hotels-in-2013.html. Last accessed March 20, 2013. Fedden, Robin. 1968. The Continuing Purpose: A History of the National Trust, Its Aims and Work. London: Longmans. Findlow, Sally. 2000. The United Arab Emirates: Nationalism and Arab-Islamic Identity. Abu Dhabi: The Emirates Center for Strategic Studies and Research. Finn, Helena K.; 8 Oct. 2002. “Cultural Terrorism and Wahhabi Islam” in Council on Foreign Relations Publication October 8, 2002 http://www.cfr.org/world/cultural-terrorismwahhabi-islam/p5234. Last accessed March 20, 2013. Frampton, Kenneth. 1981. “Towards a Critical Regionalism: Six Points for an Architecture of Resistance” in Hal Foster (ed.), The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture. Port Townsend: Bay Press, pp. 16–30. ____. 1983. “Prospects for a Critical Regionalism” in Perspecta 20, pp. 147–62. ____. 1988. “Place-Form and Cultural Identity” in J. Thackara (ed.), Design after Modernism London: Thames and Hudson, pp. 51–66. ____. 1989. “Tadao Ando and the Cult of Shintai” in Tadao Ando: The Yale Studio and Current Works. New York: Rizzoli International Publications. ____. 2005. “Epilogue: Critical Regionalism Revisited—Reflections on the Mediatory Potential of Built Form” in Maiken Umbach and Bernd Hüppauf (eds), Vernacular Modernism: Heimat, Globalization, and the Built Environment. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Freeth, Zahra. 1972. A New Look at Kuwait. London: Allen and Unwin. Gardiner, Stephen. 1984. Kuwait: The Making of a City. Harlow, Essex and New York: Longman. Gebauer, Gunter (ed.). 1982. Wien Kundmanngasse 19. Bauplanerische, morphologische und philosophische Aspekte des Wittgenstein-Hauses. München: Fink. Giedion, Sigfried. 1958. Architecture, You and Me: The Diary of a Development. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

190 Transcultural Architecture

____. 1967. Time Space and Architecture. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. ____. 1969. Mechanization Takes Command. New York: Norton Library. Greene, Amy Marie. 2005. House for Christine: A Rural Project in Mason’s Bend, Alabama. Master thesis Auburn University. Griffith, Gareth. 2004. “Minimal Information Content in Finnish Architecture” in Nordisk Arkitekturforskning 4. Hanlon, Don L. 1987. “Architectural Education in Post-Maoist China” in Journal of Architectural Education 41: 1, pp. 26–9. Hansen, Miriam Bratu. 2000. “Fallen Women, Rising Stars, New Horizons: Shanghai Film as Vernacular Modernism” in Film Quaterly 54: 1, pp. 10–22. Harris, Harwell Hamilton. 2007. “Regionalism and Nationalism in Architecture” in V. Canizaro (ed.), Architectural Regionalism: Collected Writings on Place, Identity, Modernity and Tradition. Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, pp. 56–65. Hassan Pour, Faramarz, Lewis Miles and Qinghua Guo. 2013. “The theoretical inapplicability of regionalism to analysing architectural aspects of Islamic shrines in Iran in the last two centuries” in International Congress of Imam’s Descendants (Imamzadegan), Esfahan, Iran. Retrieved from http://repository.unimelb.edu.au/10187/18145 Heidegger, Martin. 1954a. ”… dichterisch wohnet der Mensch …”, in Vorträge und Aufsätze. Pfullingen: Neske, pp. 163–85. ____. 1954b. “Bauen, Wohnen, Denken” in Vorträge und Aufsätze. Pfullingen: Neske, 139–56. ____. 1961. Nietzsche I. Pfullingen: Neske. ____. 2003. “Zeit des Weltbildes” (1938) in Holzwege. Frankfurt: Klostermann. Engl.: “The Age of the World Picture” in The Question Concerning Technology and Other Essays. New York: Garland, 1977. Hernández, Felipe. 2005a. “Introduction: Transcultural Aesthetics in Latin America” in F. Hernández, M. Millington and I. Borden (eds), Transculturation: Cities, Spaces and Architectures in Latin America. Amsterdam, New York: Rodopi, pp. ix–xxv. ____. 2005b. “Translation Theory and Translational Architectures: Reading between History, Architecture and Cultural Theory” in F. Hernández, M. Millington and I. Borden (eds), Transculturation: Cities, Spaces and Architectures in Latin America. Amsterdam, New York: Rodopi, pp. 126–43. Hildebrand, Adolf. 1918. Das Problem der Form in der bildenden Kunst. Strassburg: Heitz. Hill, Glen. 2003. “Is Design the Danger? Theorizing Heidegger’s Distrust of Design in Modernity” in Architectural Theory Review 8: 2, pp. 71–95. Howden, Daniel. 2006. “Backgrounders: Shame of the House of Saud: Shadows over Mecca” in The Independent April 19. Hsiao-Peng-Lu, Sheldon. 1996. “Postmodernity, Popular Culture, and the Intellectual: A Report on Post-Tiananmen China” in Boundary 2, 23: 2, pp. 139–69. Hu, Shih. 1963. The Chinese Renaissance: The Haskell Lectures 1933. New York: Paragon. Ingersoll, Richard. 2003. “Reverse Orientalism: The Work of Seung, H-Sang” in U.J. Lee (ed.), Seung H-Sang. Paju: C3 Publishing Co, pp. 8–15. Jacobs, Jane. 2002. “Placing Resistance: A Critique of Critical Regionalism” in Journal of Architectural Education 55: 4, pp. 228–37.

Bibliography

191

Jencks, Charles. 2002. New Paradigm in Architecture: the Language of Post-Modernism. New Haven: Yale University Press. Jerome, Pamela. 2008. “An Introduction to Authenticity in Preservation” in APT Bulletin: Journal of Preservation Technology, 39: 2–3, pp. 3–7. Jin, Guantao. 2001. “Interpreting Modern Chinese History through the Theory of Ultrastable Systems” in Gloria Davis (ed.), Voicing Concerns: Contemporary Chinese Critical Inquiry. Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield. Jokilehto, Juha. 1999. A History of Architectural Conservation. Oxford: ButterworthHeinemann. Jones, Toby Craig. 2010. Desert Kingdom: How Oil and Water Forged Modern Saudi Arabia. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Khan, Sikander I. 1988. In Search of a Direction in the Contemporary Architecture of Arabia. Thesis submitted at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Khattab, Omar. 2001. “In Search for a Local Image in the Arab City: The Case of Kuwait City” in Lynn Beadle, Tall Buildings and Urban Habitat. London: Spon Press. Kim, Swoo-Geun. 1996. A Collection of Architectural Works. Seoul: Space Group. Kobayashi, Katsuhiro. 1991. “Tadao Ando and his Architectural World—Fertile Abstraction” in Japan Architect 1 [special issue Tadao Ando], pp. 134–41. Koponen, Olli-Paavo. 2007. ““Finnishness’ in Reima Pietilä’s Architecture” in Niskanen (ed.), pp. 139–42. Koyré, Alexandre. 1962. Du Monde clos à l’univers infinie. Paris: Gallimard. ____. 1968. Newtonian Studies. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Kultermann, Udo. 1985. “Contemporary Arab Architecture: The Architects in Saudi Arabia” Mimar 16, pp. 42–53. Kunze, Donald. 2007. “Minding the Gap” in Architectural Speculation” in Journal of Architectural Education 61: 1, pp. 54–61. Kuparinen, Marja. 2007. “Architects in a Foreign Culture: Raili and Reima Pietilä: A Proposal for the Competition ‘City of Kuwait—A Future Concept’“ in Niskanen (ed.), pp. 63–72. Kwong, Luke S.K. 2000. “Chinese Politics on the Crossroads: Reflections on the 100 Days Reform of 1898” in Modern Asian Studies 34: 3, pp. 663–95. Lacey, Robert. 2009. Inside the Kingdom: Kings, Clerics, Modernists, Terrorists, and the Struggle for Saudi Arabia. London: Penguin. Lane, Bernard. 2004. “Giving Buildings Body Awareness: A Swiss Architect Wants His Profession To Go Beyond Concepts and Get Real” in The Australian, 7 September 2004. Lao-tzu. 2009. Tao Te Ching. Trans. James Legge. New York: Abrams. Lawton, A. 1988. Russian Futurism through its Manifestoes 1912–1928. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Lefebvre, Henri. 1991. The Production of Space. Oxford: Blackwell. Lehtimäki, Marianne: “Conversational Training in Environmental Knowledge” in Niskanen (ed.), 81–96. Leitner, Bernhard. 1986. “La Maison Wittgenstein” in J. Clair (ed.), Vienne 1880–1938. Apocalypse joyeuse. Paris: Centre Pompidou.

192 Transcultural Architecture

Les français et le patrimoine. 2002. Special Issue of Beaux Arts Magazine 222, November. Lewcock, R.B. and Z. Freeth. 1978. Traditional Architecture in Kuwait and the Northern Gulf Art and Architecture Research Papers. Leys, Simon [Pierre Ryckmans]. 1976. Ombres chinoises, Paris: Laffont. ____. 1991. L’humeur, l’honneur, l’horreur. Paris: Laffont. ____. 1998. Essais sur la Chine. Paris: Laffont. ____. 2008. “The Chinese Attitude Towards the Past” in China Heritage Quarterly 14. Online at http://www.chinaheritagequarterly.org/articles.php?searchterm=014_ chineseAttitude.inc&issue=014 Li, Shiqiao. 2008. “Mediated Architecture in China” in Architectural Theory Review 13: 2. Li, Xiangning. 2008. “‘Make-the-Most-of-It’ Architecture: Young Architects and Chinese Tactics” in City 12: 2, pp. 226–36. Lipps, Theodor. 1902. Von der Form der Ästhetischen Apperzeption (Gedenkschrift für Rudolf Haym). Halle: Niemeyer. Loos, Adolf. 1982. “The Principle of Cladding” in Spoken into the Void: Collected Essays, 1897–1900, trans. Jane O. Newman and John H. Smith. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, pp. 66–7. Lotringer, Sylvère and Paul Virilio. 2005. The Accident of Art. New York: Semiotext(e). Lowenthal, David. 1989. “Material Preservation and Its Alternatives” in Perspecta 25, pp. 67–77. ____. 1999. “Heritage Stewardship and the Amateur Tradition” in APT Bulletin 30: 2/3, pp. 7–9. Mahgoub, Yasser. 2006. “Socio-Cultural Sustainability and Urban Development in Kuwait.” Paper presented at the Gulf First Planning Conference (February 22–24) in Kuwait. ____. 2007. “Hyper Identity: The Case of Kuwaiti Architecture” in Archnet-IJAR, International Journal of Architectural Research 1: 1, pp. 70–85. ____. 2008a. “The Impact of War on the Meaning of Architecture in Kuwait,” Archnet-IJAR, International Journal of Architectural Research 2: 1. ____. 2008b. “Kuwait: Learning from a Globalized City” in Elsheshtawy (ed.), The Evolving Arab City: Tradition, Modernity and Urban Development. New York: Routledge, pp. 152–83. Mansfield, Howard. 2000. The Same Ax Twice: Restoration and Renewal in a Throwaway Age. Hanover: University Press of New England. Mehlman, Jeffrey. 1993. Walter Benjamin for Children: An Essay on his Radio Years. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Moltke, Karl von. 1973. “Introduction” to Leopold von Ranke, The Theory and Practice of History. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill. Mote, F.W. 1973. “A Millennium of Chinese Urban History: Form, Time and Space Concepts in Soochow” in Rice University Studies 59: 4, pp. 35–65. Mumford, Lewis. 1964. “Death of the Monument” in J. Martin, B. Nicholson, and N. Gabo (eds), Circle: International Survey of Constructive Art. London: Faber and Faber, 1937, pp. 263–70.

Bibliography

193

Musaji, Sheila. 2007. “Saudi Destruction of Muslim Historical Sites” in The American Muslim 9 Mar. http://theamericanmuslim.org/tam.php/features/articles/saudi_destruction_of_ muslim_historical_sites1. Last accessed March 20, 2013. Nemeth, David J. 1987. The Architecture of Ideology: Neo-Confucian Imprinting on Cheju Island, Korea. Berkeley: University of California Press. NIE-Singapore/NCED-Kuwait. 2009. A Diagnostic Study of Education in Kuwait. Singapore: NIE. Niskanen, Aino (ed.). 2007. Hikes into Pietilä Terrain. Helsinki: Rakennustaiteen Seura. Norberg-Schulz, Christian. 1996. Nightlands: Nordic Building. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Ochsenwald, William. 2007. “Islam and Loyalty in the Saudi Hijaz, 1926–1939” in Die Welt des Islams, New Series, 47: 1, pp. 7–32. Oppenheimer, Andrea and Timothy Hursley. 2002. Rural Studio: Samuel Mockbee and an Architecture of Decency. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. ____. 2006. Proceed and be Bold: Rural Studio after Samuel Mockbee. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Ortiz, Fernando. 1995. Cuban Counterpoint: Tobacco and Sugar. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. (Original Spanish edition published in 1940). Ouroussoff, Nicolai. 2010. “Hardline clerics in the kingdom fear that it might focus attention on the civilisations which flourished there before the rise of Islam—and thus, in the long term, undermine the state religion” in New York Times December 29. http://www. nytimes.com/2010/12/30/ar… n/30mecca.html Owen, Stephen. 1985. Traditional Chinese Poetry and Poetics: An Omen of the World. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Özkan, Suha. 1985. “Introduction: Regionalism within Modernism” in R. Powell (ed.), Regionalism in Architecture: Exploring Architecture in Islamic Culture 2. Singapore: Aga Khan/Concept Media. Pai, Hyungmin. 2007. Sensuous Plan: The Architecture of Seung, H-Sang. Paju: Dongnyok. Pallasmaa, Juhani. 2007. “Tradition and Modernity: The Feasibility of Regional Architecture in Post-Modern Society” in V. Canizaro (ed.), Architectural Regionalism: Collected Writings on Place, Identity, Modernity and Tradition. Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, pp. 128–39. Pallasmaa, Juhani and A. Ruusuvuori (eds). 1978. Alvar Aalto 1898–1976. Helsinki: Museum of Finnish Architecture. Pearson, Paul David. 1978. Alvar Aalto and the International Style. New York: Whitney Library of Design. Pekkala, Vilho. 2007. “The Structural Engineer in the Realization of Architecture” in A. Niskanen (ed.), Hikes into Pietilä Terrain. Helsinki: Rakennustaiteen Seura, pp. 73–6. Pietilä, Reima. 1957/58a. “The Morphology of Expressive Space” in Le Carré Bleu 1. ____. 1957/58b. “La théorie de la composition et les mathématiques contemporaines. Dans quel sens constituent-elles des notions équivalentes?” in Le Carré Bleu 1. ____. 1979. “Eight ways to Break from Rabbit-Hutch Architecture,” Arkkitehti 3: 39, pp. 5–6. ____. 1980. “Idéation architecturale innovante dans le champ du dessin,” in Le Carré Bleu 1.

194 Transcultural Architecture

____. 1985. “Intermediate Zones in Modern Architecture” in R. Connah (ed.), Reima Pietilä: Exhibition at the Museum of Finnish Architecture. Helsinki: Museum of Finnish Architecture. Pope, Hugh. 2004. “Architect Sees a Terror Link In Razing of Monuments; Princes Don’t Muzzle Him” in The Wall Street Journal, August 18. Porphyrious, Dimitri. 1982. Sources of Modern Eclecticism: Studies on Alvar Aalto. London: Academy Editions. Powell, Robert (ed.). 1985. Regionalism in Architecture: Exploring Architecture in Islamic Culture 2. Singapore: Aga Khan/Concept Media. Prigogine, Igor and Isabella Stengers. 1985. Order out of Chaos. London: Fontana. Proust, Marcel. 1922. Swann’s Way Vol. I, trans. Charles Kenneth Scott-Moncrieff. New York: Holt. Quantrill, Malcolm. 1983. Alvar Aalto, a Critical Study. Helsinki: Otava. ____. 1985. Reima Pietilä: Architecture, Context and Modernism. New York: Rizzoli ____. 1987. Reima Pietilä. Helsinki: Otava. ____. 1995. Finnish Architecture and the Modernist Tradition. London: E. and F.N. Spon. ____. 1998. “Breaking the Culture of Silence; or, the Case of a Talkative Finnish Architect” in M. Quantrill and B. Webb (eds), The Culture of Silence. Architecture’s Fifth Dimension. College Station: Texas A&M University Press. Randall, Janice. 1985. “Sief Palace Area Buildings, Kuwait” in MIMAR 16, pp. 28–35. Ranke, Leopold. 1981. The Secret of World History. New York: Fordham University Press. Reichert Powell, Douglas. 2007. Critical Regionalism: Connecting Politics and Culture in the American Landscape. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Riegl, Alois. 1982. “The Modern Cult of Monuments: Its Character and Its Origin” in Oppositions 25 (originally published in 1903), pp. 21–51. ____. 1983. Stilfragen: Grundlegungen an einer Geschichte der Ornamentik. Berlin: Siemens. Rorty, Richard. 1989. Contingency, Irony and Solidarity. Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press. Rowe, Peter and Seng Kuan. 2002. Architectural Encounters with Essence and Form in Modern China. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Royal Scottish Museum. 1985. The Evolving Culture of Kuwait. Edinburgh: HMSO Books. Ruan, Xing. 2006. New China Architecture. Hong Kong: Periplus. Ruskin, John. 1906. The Seven Lamps of Architecture. New York: E.P. Dutton. Samman, Khaldoun. 2007. Cities of God and Nationalism: Mecca, Jerusalem, and Rome as Contested World Cities. Boulder: Paradigm. Sanin, Francisco. 2003. “Interview” in Lee, U.J., Seung H-Sang. Paju: C3 Publishing Co, pp. 16–27. Sardar, Ziauddin. 2003. Islam, Postmodernism and Other Futures: A Ziauddin Sardar Reader. London: Pluto Press. Saudi Institute. www.saudiinstitute.org

Bibliography

195

Scarpetta, Guy. 1989. L’Impurité. Paris: Seuil. Schein, Ionel. 1964. “Madame de …“ in Le Carré Bleu 2. Schwarcz, Vera. 1986. Chinese Enlightenment: Intellectuals and the Legacy of the May Fourth Movement of 1919. Berkeley: California University Press. Scott, Felicity Scott. 1999. “Underneath Aesthetics and Utility: The Untransposable Fetish of Bernard Rudofsky” in Assemblage, 38, pp. 58–89. Selle, Gert and Peter Nelles. 1984. “There Is No Kitsch, There Is Only Design!” in Design Issues, 1: 1, pp. 41–52. Semper, Gottfried. 1989. The Four Elements of Architecture and Other Writings, trans. Harry Francis Mallgrave and Wolfgang Herrmann. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Seung, H-Sang. 2004a. “Do You Know Why You Write Poetry?” prologue to ‘Architecture, Signs of Thought,” Dolbegae. On the Iroje website http://iroje.com/essay/040801e.htm. Last accessed 1.July 2013. ____. 2004b. Geonchuk, Sayu-ui, Giho. Paju: Dolbegae. German trans.: Bauen als Zeichen des Denkens: Seung Hyo-Sang über Klasssiker der Architektur des zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts. Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 2007. ____. 2008. “Seven Questions for H-Sang Seung” on Aaron Britt’s blog Dwell, at Home in the Modern World 10/29/2008. http://www.dwell.com/articles/seven-questions-for-h-sangseung.html. Last accessed 13 Aug. 2013. ____. 2009. Landscipt. Paju: YeolHwa. ____. 2010. “Interview” in Space Magazine (Seoul) 507, Feb. Shaw, Anny. 2013. “Old Mecca Falls, Luxury Hotels Rise” in The Art Newspaper (London) October Issue. Shiber, Saba George. 1964. The Kuwait Urbanization: Documentation, Analysis, Critique. Kuwait: Al-Madianah Al-Kuwaitiyyah. Shklovsky, Viktor. 1990. “Искусство как прием” in Гамбургский счет. Moscow: Limbus Press, pp. 58–72. Engl.: “Art as Technique” in L. Lemon and M. Reis (eds), Russian Formalist Criticism: Four Essays. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1965. Sivin, Nathan. 1995. Science in Ancient China: Researches and Reflections. Aldershot, Hants: Variorum. Sylvester, David. 2001. About Modern Art: Critical Essays, 1948–1997. New Haven: Yale University Press. Tafuri, Manfredo and F. Dal Co. 1976. Modern Architecture. Milano: Electa. Taha, Sharif M. 2013. “Hotel Investments in Makkah to Reach SR500bn by 2015” in Arab News (Riyadh) July 22 http://www.arabnews.com/news/458801 Taylor, Mark C. 1995. “Skinscapes” in Pierced Hearts and True Love: A Century of Drawings for Tattoos. New York, Honolulu: The Drawing Center and Hardy Marks Publications. Tétreault, Mary Ann. 2011. “Identity and Transplant-University Education in the Gulf: The American University of Kuwait” in Journal of Arabian Studies 1: 1, pp. 79–95. Tibi, Bassam. 1998. The Challenge of Fundamentalism: Political Islam and the New World Order. Berkeley: University of California Press. Tocqueville, Alexis de. 1963. Democracy in America. New York: Mentor.

196 Transcultural Architecture

Tuan, Yi-Fu. 2003. “Perceptual and Cultural Geography: A Commentary” in Annals of the Association of American Geographers 93: 4, pp. 878–81. Tzonis, Alexander and Liane Lefaivre. 1981. “The Grid and the Pathway” in Architecture in Greece 5. ____. 1990. “Why Critical Regionalism Today” in Architecture and Urbanism 236, pp. 22–33. ____. 1991. “Critical Regionalism,” in S. Amourgis (ed.), Critical Regionalism. The Pomona Meeting, Proceedings. Pomona: College of Environmental Design. ____. 2003. Critical Regionalism: Architecture and Identity in a Globalized World. Munich. New York: Prestel. Tzonis, Alexaner, L. Lefaivre, and B. Stagno. 2001. Tropical Architecture: Critical Regionalism in the Age of Globalization. Chichester: Wiley-Academy. Umbach, Maiken and Bernd Hüppauf (eds). 2005. Vernacular Modernism: Heimat, Globalization, and the Built Environment. Stanford: Stanford University Press. UNESCO. 2012. Operational Guidelines for the Implementation of the World Heritage Convention. Paris: UNESCO and Intergovernmental Committee for the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage. UNESCO. 2013. “World Heritage List” http://whc. unesco.org/?cid=31&l=en&&searchSites=&search_by_country=®ion=&search_ yearinscribed=&themes=&criteria_restrication=&type=&media=&order=country&desc ription=& Usborne, David. 2014. “Redevelopment of Mecca: Bulldozers Bear Down on Site of Mohamed’s Birth.” The Independent, February 20. http://www.independent.co.uk/ news/world/middle-east/redevelopment-of-mecca-bulldozers-bear-down-on-site-ofmohameds-birth-9142458.html Van Hinte, Ed. 1997. Eternally Yours: Visions on Product Endurance. Rotterdam: 010 Publishers. Waisman, Marina. 1994. “An Architectural Theory for Latin America” in Design Book Review, pp. 28–33. Welsch, Wolfgang. 1999. “Transculturality—the Puzzling Form of Cultures Today,” in M. Featherstone, and S. Lash (eds), Spaces of Culture: City, Nation, World. London: Sage, pp. 194–213. Wienpahl, Paul. 1958. “Zen and the Work of Wittgenstein” in Chicago Review 12: 2, pp. 67–72. Wigglesworth, Sarah and Jeremy Till. 2007. “Strong Margins” in V. Canizaro (ed.), Architectural Regionalism: Collected Writings on Place, Identity, Modernity and Tradition. Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, pp. 428–31. Wijdefeld, Paul. 1994. Wittgenstein Architect. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Wiktorowicz, Quintan. 2006. “Anatomy of the Salafi Movement” in Studies in Conflict & Terrorism, 29, pp. 207–39. Winokur, Ilene K. 2014. “From Centralized Education to Innovation: Cultural Shifts in Kuwait’s Education System” in Alexander W. Wiseman, Naif H. Alromi and Saleh Alshumrani (eds), Education for a Knowledge Society in Arabian Gulf Countries (International Perspectives on Education and Society, Volume 24). Bingley: Emerald Group Publishing Limited, pp. 103–24. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. 1984. Vermischte Bemerkungen: Werkausgabe Vol. 8. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Worringer, Wilhelm. 1959 [1907]. Abstraktion und Einfühlung. Munich: Piper.

Bibliography

197

Wright, Frank Lloyd. 1914. “In the Cause of Architecture II” in The Architectural Record 35, May, pp. 405–13. Wright, Gwendolyn; 2008. “Global Ambition and Local Knowledge” in S. Isenstadt and K. Rizvi (eds), Modernism and the Middle East: Architecture and Politics in the Twentieth Century. Seattle: University of Washington, pp. 221–54. Wu, Hung. 1991. “Tiananmen Square: A Political History of Monuments” in Representations 35, 1991, pp. 84–117. Xie, Liu. 1983. The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons: A Study of Thought and Pattern in Chinese Literature. Transl. Vincent Yu-chuno Shih. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Xue, Charlie Q.L. 2006. Building Revolution: Chinese Architecture since 1980. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Yamani, Mai. 2006. Cradle of Islam: The Hijaz and the Quest for an Arabian Identity. London: I.B. Tauris. Yim, Seock-Jae. 2005a. Stone, Walls and Paths: A Study of Korean Architecture. Seoul: Ewha Woman’s University Press. ____. 2005b. The Traditional Space: A Study of Korean Architecture. Seoul: Ewha Womans University Press. Yoon, Hong-Key. 2006. The Culture of Feng Shui in Korea: An Exploration of East Asian Geomancy. Lanham: Lexington. Zhang, Longxi. 1996. “What is Wen and Why is it made so Terribly Strange?” in College Literature, Feb. Zhu, Jianfei. 2005. “Criticality in Between China and the West” in The Journal of Architecture, 10: 5, pp. 479–98. Zürcher, Eric. 1995. ““In the Beginning’: 17th Century Chinese Reactions to Christian Creationism” in E. Zürcher and Chun-Chieh Huang (eds), Time and Space in Chinese Culture. Leiden: Brill.

This page has been left blank intentionally

Index

Aalto, Alvar 5, 6, 84–5, 89–90, 92–3, 104, 129–35 Abbas, Ackbar 126 Abraj–al–Bait 166, 169, 173 abstraction 83–4, 87–8, 92 Aida, Takefumi 133 Al Sabah, Abdullah Al Salem 11 Althusser, Louis 156 Al-Babtain Central Library for Arabic Poetry 65 Al-Mutawa, Saleh 46 Ando, Tadao 6, 109, 129–41, 152 Angawi, Sami 175–6 Artaud, Antonin 93 authentic 19, 21, 29, 39, 45, 114, 117, 124, 134, 148, 164–5, 171–3 Awqaf Ministry 9

“City of Kuwait: A Future Concept” 10 civilization 7, 92, 114–15, 160–61, 163 Cocteau, Jean 102 Confucianism 116, 158–62 Connah, Roger 44, 67, 77 conservation 164–5 Correa, Charles 35, 101–2 Council of Ministers 9 courtyards (Asian) 111, 154 critical history 1–2, 113–14 Critical Regionalism 1–2, 3–4, 9–10, 37, 42–3, 70–72, 76–7, 96, 112–13, 116–17, 143–8, 151, 174–6, 170–81 critical thinking 72–5 Cultural Revolution 115, 171–2 culture 40, 114, 160–61, 163, 167, 173

baladiya 12 Barragán, Luis 73 Barthes, Roland 125, 128 Bauhaus 86, 131, 153 Bedouins 27, 77 Belcher, Max 146, 148 Benjamin, Walter 93, 128n3 Björn, Malene 14 Blair, Tony 72, 78n17 Bodde, Derk 115 body 93, 134, 140–41, 141n3 Brecht, Berthold 87 Buddhism 104n3, 140, 141n2, 148, 154–5, 161

de Stijl 131 deconstruction 91, 95, 147 defamiliarization 70 Deleuze, Gilles 41, 116 Descartes, René 89 design theory 156–60 deterriorialization 44 Dhaka 77–8 dilettantism 138 Dilthey, Wilhelm 2, 114 Dipoli 32, 35, 69, 81–2, 91 Disneyland 23, 107, 121 dream 92–4, 132–4, 141 Dubai 39 Duchamps, Marcel 146

Chang, Yung Ho 111 China 5, 107–16, 171–3 Chinese gardens 109 Chinese Renaissance 108 Christenberry, William 145–6

eclecticism 19, 23–5, 72, 75–6, 86, 94, 126 Ecochard, Michel 15 education 72, 78n17, 178n7 Eggener, Keith 3, 73, 75, 117–18, 180 Eisenman, Peter 113, 116

200 Transcultural Architecture

empathy 83–4, 87–9, 92 Enlightenment 83, 114 Epstein, Mikhail 38 essentialism 46, 55, 70, 96, 162 Evans, Walker 154

Iran 75 Iraq 56 irony 85–6 Islamic architecture 47 Isozaki, Arata 132

Fanon, Frantz 45 Fathy, Hassan 68 Feng, Guifen 118n8 feng shui 158–9, 162 Finland 46–7, 90, 104 Forbidden City 178n8 form of life 6, 137, 139–40, 151, 154–5, 181–2 formalism 139 see also Russian Formalism Frampton, Kenneth 1, 4, 43, 44, 113 Freeth, Zahra 78n7 Freud, Sigmund 104, 133 functionalism 7, 11, 90, 94–5, 113, 134, 139, 151, 155 fundamentalism 45, 168–9 fusion 39–42, 91, 104, 180

Jacobs, Jane 3 Jacobsen, Arne 14, 65, 78n14 Jal Az–Zor 13 Jencks, Charles 39

Gemeinschaft 74 genius loci 35, 46, 68–9, 76, 81, 94, 129, 170–71, 181 geomancy 158–9 Gestell 156 Geviert 159 ghettoization 41 Giedion, Siegfried 46–7, 84, 94, 125 Gropius, Walter 86 Guattari, Felix 41, 116

labyrinth 132–3, 140–41 landscript 157–60 Lao Tzu 156 Latin America 75 Le Corbusier 41–2, 131 Lebensform see form of life Lefaivre, Liane 1, 70, 86–7 Lefebvre, Henri 124 Leys, Simon 115 lifestyle 91–2, 134, 151 Lindström, Sune 14 Lipps, Theodor 88 logic 133, 139, 157–8 Loos, Adolf 32, 127

Hangzhou 121–6 hanok 154 Heidegger, Martin 90, 95, 156–9 Herder, Johann Gottfried 114 hermeneutics 74, 102 Hervanta 30, 31, 35, 36 historiography 2 Hong Kong 126 Hu, Shih 115 humanism 90, 125, 135 Humboldt, Wilhelm von 2, 114 hybridization 37, 39, 42 iconoclasm 171 identity 4–5, 17, 23, 45–6, 56, 62, 70–71, 75, 107, 113, 127, 130, 146, 153, 180 imitation 1, 25, 29, 66, 107, 131, 175–6 intercultural 10, 38–40, 44, 99, 104

Kahn, Louis 5, 77–8, 99–105, 124, 182 Kahn, Nathaniel 103 Khan, Sikander 19, 25 Kim, Sugun 153, 154, 158 kitsch 1, 73, 126, 130, 144–7, 149 koan 156 Kobayashi, Katsuhiro 132 Koyré, Alexandre 88–9 Kraepelin, Emil 133 Kuwait 4, 45–6 Kuwait Old Town 9

ma 109, 134, 154 madang 154, 162 Magritte, René 32–4 Makovecz, Imre 97 Malmi Church 32 Mao, Zedong 123–4, 128 Marx, Karl 87 mashrabiyas 19, 31 Masmak Fort 165 mathematics 85, 116, 130 Meiji 114 metaphysics 41, 86, 89 Metso library 69, 94 mizan 175

index

Mockbee, Samuel 143–9 Moltke, Karl von 114 Mondrian, Piet 91–2, 131 Montaigne, Michel de 89 monumentality 48, 122–8 Mughals 101 multicultural 38, 41–4 Mumford, Lewis 127 Najd 173, 175 nature 90, 92, 129, 130–33, 159–61 New Sief Palace 20, 62 Newton, Isaac 89 Niebuhr, Barthold 1, 114 Nietzsche, Friedrich 92, 126–7, 128n1 Ningbo Contemporary Art Museum 112 Nishida, Kitaro 134 Noh 133–4 Old Harbor of Kuwait 15–16 Old Sief Palace 19, 22 OPEC 12 organic 90, 94, 113, 129, 148 Orientalism 75 ornaments 76 Ortiz, Fernando 38 ostranenie 86–8, 90, 91 Otto, Frei 175 pantheism 5, 83, 92, 131 participatory design 143–4 Pascal, Blaise 89 Pei, I.M. 78n6, 108 Persepolis 35 Pietilä, Reili 4, 9–79 Pietilä, Reima 4, 9–98, 101–3, 130 play 130–32, 155, 179–80, 182–3 Pop Art 127, 146 postcolonialism 44–5, 96, 148 postmodernism 46, 82, 86, 124, 181 Prigogine, Ilya 89 Proust, Marcel 93 Qajar architecture 75 Qing Dynasty 114 Quran 167 Ranke, Leopold von 2, 114 rationalism 130–32, 152 Reformation 170–71 regionalism 1, 44, 75, 84–6, 146–7 relativism 44, 73, 82, 85, 179–80

201

Renaissance 114 rhizome 41, 43, 180 Rickert, Heinrich 2, 114 Riegl, Alois 95, 171 Rorty, Richard 86 Rudofsky, Bernard 148. 150n4 ruins 101 Ruskin, John 170, 176 Russian architecture 107, 123, 173 Russian Formalists 86–7, 90–91 Said, Edward 45 Scandinavian Arts and Crafts Movement 84, 90 Schwitters, Kurt 146 Segalen, Victor 172 Semper, Gottfried 32, 35 Seung, H–Sang 6, 151–62 Shanghai architecture 117 Shiber, Saba George 11, 15 shintai 140 shirk 163 Shkolvsky, Victor 86, 91 Shuaib, Hamid 13 Sief Palace area 4, 66–8, 69 Sief Palace Extension 20, 23, 30 silence 133, 139–40 Simos Ali, Evangelica 11 Singapore study of Kuwait (NIE–Singapore) 72 Siven, Nathan 118n9 “skin concept” 23, 30–35, 43–4, 48 space 46, 56, 90, 92, 95, 129, 133–4, 154, 180–83 Spivak, Gayatri 45 Stengers, Isabelle 89 Strengell, Gustav 85 style 5, 81–2, 87, 91, 102, 129–30, 139–41, 145, 182 sukiya 133 Suzhou gardens 110 symbolism 44, 155 Tange, Kenzo 78n6 and 14 tao 156, 160 Tarkovsky, Andrei 93 Third World 148–9 ti (essence) 113 Tiananmen Square 123–4 Tocqueville, Alexis de 143 Tong, Jun 109 tradition 169–70, 172

202 Transcultural Architecture

transcultural 2–4, 9–10, 30, 37–45, 47, 56, 68, 71–2, 74–8, 116, 180–83 Tzonis, Alexander 1, 70, 86–7 universalism 2, 40, 43 Urban Master Plan for Kuwait 12–13 urbanism 16, 22, 68–9 Uruk 25, 35, 78n8 utopia 177 Utzon, Jørn 14, 77, 113 Verfremdung see ostranenie vernacular 116, 146–7, 149 virtual reality 135 wabi–sabi 148–9, 154 Wahhabis 166–8

Waisman, Marina 3, 75 Wang, Shu 5, 108–19 Wang, Shuo 109 Wares, Shamsul 103 Welsch, Wolfgang 41 wen 160–61 Windelband, Wilhelm 2, 114 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 6, 137–41, 151 Wodiczko, Krzysztof 126 World Heritage Convention 125, 164 Worringer, Wilhelm 83–4, 87 Wright, Frank Lloyd 6, 129, 132 yong (functionality) 113 yugen 133–4 zen 141n2, 148