I was interviewed by the curator of the museum. He tried to sound me out by means of clever, unexpected questions. What did I think about architecture, what was important to me about my work-these were the things he wanted to know. The tape recorder was on. I did my best. At the end of the interview, I realized that I was not really satisfied with my answers.
Later that evening, I talked to a friend about Aki Kaurismaki’s latest film.
I admire the director’s empathy and respect for his characters. He does not keep his actors on a leash; he does not exploit them to express a concept, but rather shows them in a light that lets us sense their dignity, and their secrets. Kaurismaki’s art lends his films a feeling of warmth, I told my colleague-and then I knew what it was I would have liked to have said on the tape this morning. To build houses like Kaurismaki’s make films-that’s what I would like to do.
The hotel in which I was staying was remodeled by a French star designer whose work I do not know because I am not interested in trendy design. But from the moment I entered the hotel, the atmosphere created by his architecture began to take effect. Artificial light illuminated the hall like a stage. Abundant muted light. Bright accents on the reception desks, different kinds of natural stone in niches in the wall. People ascending the graceful stairway to the encircling gallery stood out againt a shining golden wall. Above, one could sit in one of the dress circle boxes overlooking the hall and have a drink or a snack. There are only good seats here. Christopher Alexander, who speaks in pattern language of spatial situations in which people instinctively feel good, would have been pleased. I sat in a box overlooking the hall, a spectator, feeling that I was part of the designer’s stage set. I liked looking down on the activity below where people came and went, entered and exited. I felt I understood why the architect is so successful.
She had seen a small house by Frank Lloyd Wright that made a great impression on her, said H. Its rooms were so small and intimate, the ceiling so low. There was a tiny library with special lighting and a lot of decorative architectural elements, and the whole house made a strong horizontal impression which she had never experienced before. The old lady was still living there. There was no need for me to go and see the house, I thought. I knew just what she meant, and I knew the feeling of “home” that she described.
The members of the jury were shown buildings by architects competing for an architectural award. I studied the documents describing a small red house in a rural setting, a barn converted into a dewelling which had been enlarged by the architect and the habitants. The extension was a success, I thought. Althought you could see what had been done to the house beneath the saddle roof, the change was well modeled and integrated. The window openings were sensitively placed. The old and the new were balanced and harmonious. The new parts of the house did not seem to be saying “I am new”, but rather “I am part of the new whole.” Nothing spectacular or innovative, nothing striking. Based perhaps
On a somewhat outdated design principle, an old-fashioned approch attuned to craftsmanship. We agreed that we could not award this conversion a prize for design-for that, its architecture claims were too modest. Yet I enjoy thinking back on the small redhouse.
5 In a book about timber construction, my attention was caught by photographs of huge areas of closely packed tree trunks floating on wide expanses of water. I also liked the picture on the cover of the book, a collage of lenghts of wooden buildings, despite the fact that they were architecturally commendable, were less appealing. I have not built wooden houses for a long time.
A young colleague asked me how I would go about building a house of wood after working for some years with stone and concrete, steel and glass. At once, I had a mental image of a house-sized block of solid timber, a dense volume made of the biological substance of wood, horizontally layered and precisely hollowed out. A house like this would change its shape, would swell and contract, expand and decrease in height, a phenomenon that would have to be an integral part of the design. My young colleague told me that in spanish, his mother tongue, the words wood, mother, and material were similar:madera, madre,materia. We started talking about the sensuous qualities and cultural significance of the elemental materials of wood and stone, and about how we could express thee in our buildings.
6 Central Park South, New York, a hall on the first floor. It was evening. Before me, framed by the soaring, shining, stony city, lay the huge wooded rectangle of the park. Great cities are based on great, clear, well-ord-ered concepts, I thought. The rectangular pattern of the streets, the diagonal line of Broadway, the coastal lines of the peninsula. The buildings, packed densely in their right-angled grid, looming up in the sky, individualistic, in love with themselves, anonymous, reckless, tamed by the straitjacket of the grid.
7 The former townhouse looked somewhat lost in the park-like expanse. It was the only building in that part of the town to have survived the destryction of the Second World War. Previously used as an embassy, it was now being enlarged by a third of its original size according to the plans of a competent architect. Hard and elf-assured, the extension stood side by side with the old building:on the one hand a hewn stone base, stucco facades, and balustrades, on the other a compressed modern annex made of exposed concrete, a restrained, disciplined volume that alluded to the old main building while maintaining a distinct, dialogic distance in terms of its design.
I found myself thinking about the old castel in my village. It has been altered and extended many times over the centuries, developing gradually from a cluster of free-standing buildings into a closed complex with an inner courtyard. A new architectural whole emerged at each stage of its development. Historical incongruities were not architecturally recorded. The old was adapted to the new, or the new to the old, in the interest of the complete, integrated apperance of its latest stage of evolution. Only when one analyzes the substrance of the walls, strips them of their plaster, and examines their joints do these old buildings reveal their complex genesis.
I entered the exhibition pavilion. Once again, I was confronted by sloping walls, slanted planes, surfaces linked loosely and playfully together, battens and ropes hanging, leaning, floating, or puling, taut or projecting. The composition disclaimed the right-angle and sought an informal balance. The architecture made a dynamic impression, symbolizing movement. its gestures filled the available space, wanting to be looked at, to make their mark. There was hardly any room left for me. I followed the winding path indicated by the architecture.
In the next pavilion I met with the spacious elegance of the Brazilian master Niemeyer’s sweeping lines and forms. Once again, my interest was captured by the large rooms and the emptiness of the huge outdoor spaces in the photos of his work.
9 A. told me she had seen many tattooed women on the beach of a small seaside resort in the Cinque Terre region, a holiday destination visited mainly by ltalians. The women underline the individuality of their bodies, use them to proclaim their identity. The body as a refuge in a world which would appear to be flooded by artificial sings of life, and in which philosophers ponder on virtual reality.
The human body as an object of contemporary art. Surveys, disclosures that seek knowledge, or the human body as a fetish of self-assertion that can only succeed when looked at in the mirror or seen through the eyes of others ?
This autumn I visited the room with the exhibition of contemporary architectural projects from France. I saw shining objects made of glass, gentle shapes without edges. Taut, elegant curves rounding off the geometrical volumes of the objects at specific points. Their lines reminded me of Rodin’s drawings of nudes and endowed the objects with the quality of sculptures. Architectural models. Models. Beautiful bodies, celebrations of surface texture, skin, hermetic and flawless, embracing the bodies.
10 A glass partition divided up the length of the narrow corridor of the old hotel. The wing of a door below, a firmly fixed pane of glass above, no frame, the panes clamped and held at the corners by two metal clasps. Normally done, nothing special. Certainly not a design by an architect. But I liked the door. Was it because of the clamps, the gleaming of the glass in the muted colors of the dark corridor, or was it because the upper pane of glass, which was taller than the average-height swing door below it, emphasized the height of the corridor ? I did not know.
11 I was shown some photographs of a complicated building. Different areas, planes, and volumes seemed to overlap, slanting and erect, encapsulated one within the other. The building, whose unusual appearance gave me no clear indication as to its function, made a strangely overloaded and tortured impression. Somehow, it seemed two-dimensional. For I moment I thought I was looking at a photograph of a cardboard model, colorfully painted. Later, when I learned the name of the architect, I was shocked. Had I made a mistake, a premature, ignorant judgment ? the architect’s name has an international ring, his fine architectural drawings are well known, and his written statements about contemporary architecture, which also deal with philosophical themes, are widely published.
12 A townhouse in Manhattan with a good address, just completed. The new facade in the line of the street of buildings stood out distinctly. In the photographs, the natural stone shield, surrounded
ฉันถูกสัมภาษณ์ โดยภัณฑารักษ์ที่พิพิธภัณฑ์ เขาพยายามหยั่งผมโดยใช้คำถามที่ฉลาด ไม่คาดคิด อะไรไม่ได้คิดเกี่ยวกับสถาปัตยกรรม สิ่งสำคัญกับฉันของฉันงานขั้นได้ในสิ่งที่เขาอยากรู้ เครื่องบันทึกเทปอยู่ ฉันไม่ดีที่สุด ในตอนท้ายของการสัมภาษณ์ ฉันรู้ว่า ฉันไม่พอใจจริง ๆ กับคำตอบของฉันภายหลังที่เย็น ฉันคุยกันเพื่อน Kaurismaki อากิล่าสุดฟิล์มผมชื่นชมผู้อำนวยการเอาใจใส่และเคารพในตัวของเขา เขาไม่ให้นักแสดงของเขาในบังคับ เขาไม่ใช้ให้แสดงแนวคิด แต่แทนที่จะ แสดงในแสงที่ทำให้เรารู้สึกศักดิ์ศรีของพวกเขา และความลับของพวกเขา ศิลปะของ Kaurismaki ยืดฟิล์มของเขาความรู้สึกอบอุ่น ฉันบอกเพื่อนร่วมงานของฉัน- แล้ว ผมรู้ว่าสิ่งที่มันเป็นจะได้เสียดายจะได้กล่าวในเทปนี้ การสร้างบ้านเช่นของ Kaurismaki ทำให้ฟิล์ม-นั่นคือสิ่งที่ฉันอยากจะทำโรงแรมที่แพงใช้ได้อยู่ถูกออกแบบ โดยนักออกแบบดาวฝรั่งเศสทำงานผมไม่ทราบ เพราะผมไม่ได้สนใจในการออกแบบที่ทันสมัย แต่จากช่วงเวลาที่ ฉันป้อนโรงแรม บรรยากาศที่สร้าง โดยสถาปัตยกรรมของเขาเริ่มที่จะมีผล แสงประดิษฐ์อร่ามศาลาเช่นขั้น ไฟออกเสียงมากมาย เน้นสดใสบนโต๊ะพนักงานต้อนรับ ชนิดต่าง ๆ ของหินธรรมชาติในตรงไหนในผนัง คนจากบันไดสง่างามที่ยืนออกขุ่นส่องแสงสีทองผนังเก็บ encircling ข้างต้น หนึ่งสามารถนั่งในกล่องวงกลมชุดที่มองเห็นศาลา และมีเครื่องดื่มหรือขนมขบเคี้ยว มีที่นี่เท่านั้นดีนั่ง คริสโตเฟอร์อเล็กซานเดอร์ ที่พูดในรูปแบบภาษาของปริภูมิสถานการณ์ที่คน instinctively รู้สึกดี จะได้รับความยินดี ฉันนั่งในกล่องมองเห็นศาลา การแข่งขัน ความรู้สึกที่ได้เป็นส่วนหนึ่งของชุดของแบบขั้น ชอบมองลงในกิจกรรมด้านล่างที่คนมาไป ป้อน และออกจาก รู้สึกว่า ใช่ทำไมสถาปนิกความสำเร็จดังนั้น เธอได้เห็นบ้านหลังเล็ก ๆ โดยแฟรงก์ลอยด์ไรต์ที่ทำความดีประทับใจในเธอ ว่า H. ของห้องมีขนาดเล็กมาก และใกล้ ชิด เพดานต่ำดังนั้น มีห้องสมุดเล็ก ๆ มีแสงสีเสียง และมากขององค์ประกอบทางสถาปัตยกรรมตกแต่ง และทั้งบ้านทำผลดีแนวนอนซึ่งเธอไม่เคยมีประสบการณ์ก่อน หญิงยังอยู่มี มีไม่จำเป็นสำหรับ การไปดูบ้านฉัน ฉันคิดว่า ฉันรู้เพียงเธอความหมาย และฉันรู้ว่าความรู้สึกของ "บ้าน" ที่เธออธิบายThe members of the jury were shown buildings by architects competing for an architectural award. I studied the documents describing a small red house in a rural setting, a barn converted into a dewelling which had been enlarged by the architect and the habitants. The extension was a success, I thought. Althought you could see what had been done to the house beneath the saddle roof, the change was well modeled and integrated. The window openings were sensitively placed. The old and the new were balanced and harmonious. The new parts of the house did not seem to be saying “I am new”, but rather “I am part of the new whole.” Nothing spectacular or innovative, nothing striking. Based perhapsOn a somewhat outdated design principle, an old-fashioned approch attuned to craftsmanship. We agreed that we could not award this conversion a prize for design-for that, its architecture claims were too modest. Yet I enjoy thinking back on the small redhouse.5 In a book about timber construction, my attention was caught by photographs of huge areas of closely packed tree trunks floating on wide expanses of water. I also liked the picture on the cover of the book, a collage of lenghts of wooden buildings, despite the fact that they were architecturally commendable, were less appealing. I have not built wooden houses for a long time.A young colleague asked me how I would go about building a house of wood after working for some years with stone and concrete, steel and glass. At once, I had a mental image of a house-sized block of solid timber, a dense volume made of the biological substance of wood, horizontally layered and precisely hollowed out. A house like this would change its shape, would swell and contract, expand and decrease in height, a phenomenon that would have to be an integral part of the design. My young colleague told me that in spanish, his mother tongue, the words wood, mother, and material were similar:madera, madre,materia. We started talking about the sensuous qualities and cultural significance of the elemental materials of wood and stone, and about how we could express thee in our buildings.6 Central Park South, New York, a hall on the first floor. It was evening. Before me, framed by the soaring, shining, stony city, lay the huge wooded rectangle of the park. Great cities are based on great, clear, well-ord-ered concepts, I thought. The rectangular pattern of the streets, the diagonal line of Broadway, the coastal lines of the peninsula. The buildings, packed densely in their right-angled grid, looming up in the sky, individualistic, in love with themselves, anonymous, reckless, tamed by the straitjacket of the grid.7 The former townhouse looked somewhat lost in the park-like expanse. It was the only building in that part of the town to have survived the destryction of the Second World War. Previously used as an embassy, it was now being enlarged by a third of its original size according to the plans of a competent architect. Hard and elf-assured, the extension stood side by side with the old building:on the one hand a hewn stone base, stucco facades, and balustrades, on the other a compressed modern annex made of exposed concrete, a restrained, disciplined volume that alluded to the old main building while maintaining a distinct, dialogic distance in terms of its design.I found myself thinking about the old castel in my village. It has been altered and extended many times over the centuries, developing gradually from a cluster of free-standing buildings into a closed complex with an inner courtyard. A new architectural whole emerged at each stage of its development. Historical incongruities were not architecturally recorded. The old was adapted to the new, or the new to the old, in the interest of the complete, integrated apperance of its latest stage of evolution. Only when one analyzes the substrance of the walls, strips them of their plaster, and examines their joints do these old buildings reveal their complex genesis.I entered the exhibition pavilion. Once again, I was confronted by sloping walls, slanted planes, surfaces linked loosely and playfully together, battens and ropes hanging, leaning, floating, or puling, taut or projecting. The composition disclaimed the right-angle and sought an informal balance. The architecture made a dynamic impression, symbolizing movement. its gestures filled the available space, wanting to be looked at, to make their mark. There was hardly any room left for me. I followed the winding path indicated by the architecture.In the next pavilion I met with the spacious elegance of the Brazilian master Niemeyer’s sweeping lines and forms. Once again, my interest was captured by the large rooms and the emptiness of the huge outdoor spaces in the photos of his work.9 A. told me she had seen many tattooed women on the beach of a small seaside resort in the Cinque Terre region, a holiday destination visited mainly by ltalians. The women underline the individuality of their bodies, use them to proclaim their identity. The body as a refuge in a world which would appear to be flooded by artificial sings of life, and in which philosophers ponder on virtual reality.The human body as an object of contemporary art. Surveys, disclosures that seek knowledge, or the human body as a fetish of self-assertion that can only succeed when looked at in the mirror or seen through the eyes of others ?This autumn I visited the room with the exhibition of contemporary architectural projects from France. I saw shining objects made of glass, gentle shapes without edges. Taut, elegant curves rounding off the geometrical volumes of the objects at specific points. Their lines reminded me of Rodin’s drawings of nudes and endowed the objects with the quality of sculptures. Architectural models. Models. Beautiful bodies, celebrations of surface texture, skin, hermetic and flawless, embracing the bodies.
10 A glass partition divided up the length of the narrow corridor of the old hotel. The wing of a door below, a firmly fixed pane of glass above, no frame, the panes clamped and held at the corners by two metal clasps. Normally done, nothing special. Certainly not a design by an architect. But I liked the door. Was it because of the clamps, the gleaming of the glass in the muted colors of the dark corridor, or was it because the upper pane of glass, which was taller than the average-height swing door below it, emphasized the height of the corridor ? I did not know.
11 I was shown some photographs of a complicated building. Different areas, planes, and volumes seemed to overlap, slanting and erect, encapsulated one within the other. The building, whose unusual appearance gave me no clear indication as to its function, made a strangely overloaded and tortured impression. Somehow, it seemed two-dimensional. For I moment I thought I was looking at a photograph of a cardboard model, colorfully painted. Later, when I learned the name of the architect, I was shocked. Had I made a mistake, a premature, ignorant judgment ? the architect’s name has an international ring, his fine architectural drawings are well known, and his written statements about contemporary architecture, which also deal with philosophical themes, are widely published.
12 A townhouse in Manhattan with a good address, just completed. The new facade in the line of the street of buildings stood out distinctly. In the photographs, the natural stone shield, surrounded
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