The Schloss and the Haus: A Comparative Study of Contemporary Preservation Practice in Berlin
Emily Conklin Difference & Design Prof. Moore GSAPP Fall 2022
Preservation, traditionally, is all about keeping history alive through renovation, replication, and modern ideas of status and “clean” or “well-maintained” aesthetics. But what does a preservationist do when a material history is intrinsically messy, cluttered, and decentralized? Preserving historic monuments and intangible cultural assets often requires preservationists to engage with unsavory histories – wartime conflict, racial and class violence – and also contend with stories that are outside mainstream readings of history. These “counter stories” are all around us, embedded in the urban fabric of cities, if only we understand how to read them.
In Berlin, there is a rich history of alternative lifestyles that flourished as the city was disinvested during its “divided” years, a time both difficult and complex: The city was carved into four zones, the French, the American, the British in West Berlin, and the Soviet Union claiming the East. The Berlin Wall divided the capitalist West zone from East Berlin, as well as from the surrounding “red sea” of East Germany at large. Never has there been a more concrete manifestation of the tensions between ideologies as the physical barrier of the wall — yet in realty, the wall was not very tall, or very intimidating a scale figure at all. The ideology was the force behind the separation. The youth and creatives of both the East and West sides of Berlin were living in terrible physical conditions, and definitely the most deteriorated of the European capitals postwar. Many buildings and entire blocks looked like they did in May 1945, though the year may have been 1985. To have interest in living and staking a claim in West Berlin meant you were an outsider, and/or a radical (one reason many young people moved to
Kreuzberg street, 1980
West Berlin at all was to avoid the draft ). Yet it attracted this set because of its island- 1 like nature: Western and other global ideas were allowed to infiltrate in the form of music, art and culture as opposed to the East, but the reach was extremely local. There was a feeling that stimuli could come in, but it was still difficult for new creativity to go out. Makers living in West Berlin were by and for West Berlin, as were their politics. And by extension, their architecture.
This essay interrogates the ways in which Berlin as a city has preserved its heritage from these divided years through two works of architecture: one colloquial and one monumental, one left and one right, one small and one large. Despite these differences in scale, however, even the smaller interventions have been able to permeate the city’s mythology, leading to Berlin’s current global image as a creative haven, and a radical hotbed of alternative activity.
In pre-1989 Berlin, buildings were badly wounded by bombs and general neglect. A particular condition of divided Berlin was also that the previously central, vibrant
neighborhoods became suddenly peripheral, their streets dead-ending into the wall.
Yet this new border condition ushered in a new concept: the creative district. The youth culture flourished on the outskirts where abandoned buildings and lots were ripe for usurpation and reimagination as local context presented little to no regulation, and global and national developers had little to no interest in a city as scarred as Berlin, especially its most depressed pockets — Kreuzberg and Mitte, for example: two wallbordering neighborhoods. Yet this oversight leg to the birth of the squatting movement, a subset of which this essay focuses on, called hausprojekt — collective living communities of artists and activists that challenged the binary of capitalist/communist in divided Berlin. This movement I examine through two case studies of this typology – 2 the KA86 squat and Haus Schwarzenberg arts center. KA86 started as a squat in Mitte, and therefore was very poorly maintained during the divided years — neighborhoods closest to the wall were heavily policed and physically uncomfortable to reside in, as they were close to the eastern military’s “no man’s land.” Consequently, many of the old buildings, apartment houses and shops were abandoned during these decades. When the wall came down, however, the proximity of these neighborhoods became an asset, not a burden, and the abandoned structures were well-poised for the takeover of artists and anarchists from the West looking for alternative housing and community. Nearby, the Haus Schwarzenberg was almost immediately recognized as an artist’s enclave, known for its courtyard that hosted art
exhibitions, parties and concerts late into the night. It, as well as the street facade, stairwells and many common spaces, were covered in ever-changing layers of graffiti, notably anti-capitalist and anarchic diatribes. This outward facing decoration, as it could be called, communicated very publicly what was going on inside: how the residents felt, and what their mission was as a collective. As the years went on, however, the Haus’ facade also continued to deteriorate underneath the paint, and conversely, the rest of the tree began to be cleaned up (or, gentrified). As aforementioned, Mitte became a hot, central neighborhood and many new wealthy residents sought updated apartments with clean, white facades and new stucco. As these popped up on either side of the Haus, however, the grimy and colorful facade became even more prominent, but also, more valuable.
This meant, however, that the Haus, as a public art center in a bustling tourist area, also became subject to inspection as it became a more public museological location than a veritable seat of anarchy. Conservation professionals explained to the residents that the loose and failing stucco on the facades posed a danger to street traffic, making repairs (and, in the residents’ eyes, “cleaning”) necessary. However to keep with the tradition of grime and graffiti, the collective decided to seek alternative, experimental preservation applications that would allow the old stucco and art to remain. This search eventually manifested in a unique, clear glaze coating applied to the entire building — the glaze kept loose stucco in place and helped weatherproof the structure, but its clear nature still let all the existing debris and decor beneath stay visible. It is worth noting from a preservationist perspective, though, that this application did indeed “freeze” the Haus facade in time — the facade is no longer aging, changing, and decaying as it was first meant to. What is notable about this act of preservation, though, is that it visibly preserves a bottom-up social construction through architecture that otherwise would have been swept up by the broom and dustpan of new, developed Berlin. While Mitte has changed and gentrified around the Haus, and ideas of squatting and art collective activity have changed and updated, this very tangible memory of the roots of the area, and its difficult past, is memorialized in the veneer of the KA86 walls. Yet while memories of the Wall and the red regime are still extant in the local memory, there is an older and more entrenched attitude towards German heritage favored by
many right-wing communities and individuals that disregards the mythologized expressions of space and politics that emerged in the 80s and 90s. If the hausprojekt like KA86 and arts centers like Haus Schwarzenberg are Berlin’s basis for being a SelfMade City, characterized by bottom-up emergence and governance, on the right of the country’s political spectrum, many communities and prominent capitalist figures still retain varying degrees of Prussian nostalgia. This attitude corresponds closely to other shades of nationalistic politics that we’ve seen embraced in many contemporary European governments like Italy and the United Kingdom. Broadly, these groups most ardently see their vision for a contemporary Berlin embedded in the histories of more monumental architecture. Newly opened in 2022, the new Humboldt Forum is right now the center of these imaginations — a stunning yet puzzling recreation of the
Outlined in yellow: the location of the schlossplatz on “Museum Island,” in the center of the city and surrounded by the River Spree
former Berliner Schloss, or Berlin Palace, whose Baroque-era mass claimed a key, central site on Berlin’s Museum Island, on the banks of the Spree.
Both the Haus and the new Schloss assert a period of significance – 1989 and the 16th century, respectively — through their intentional preservation of architectural façadism. Yet when viewed in direct comparison, we can begin to see the reasons why experimental preservation, and safe and open critical discourse, are important for design professionals throughout the world to pay attention to. While there is no “right” or “wrong” history inherent in these two buildings, the messages and assertions they embody are charged with political significance, and as designers we must be aware of how our design choices can, and should, be read by the city we would most like to see. The Schloss has a long history. The remains of the foundations of a monastery lie onsite, but the structure was mostly a Renaissance foundation with Baroque finishes. It, like many works of grand public architecture in Germany, was bombed during World War II though: so the Schloss’ engagement with contemporary preservation practices begins in the wake of its ruination in 1945. Those “original” ruins were demolished by the German Democratic Republic (GDR), as they were seen as a memory of an outmoded Germany, and a signifier of a capitalist, imperialist state. The Communist party wished to start afresh, and instead imposed a smaller, very Modern building in its
place, dubbed the Palace of the Republic. This glass, steel, and concrete structure looked every bit like a new office on Madison Avenue, though it held not only government offices and assembly spaces, but a unique mixture of public-facing entertainments, including:
“Two large auditoria, art galleries, a theatre, a cinema, 13 restaurants, 5 beer halls, a bowling alley, 4 pool rooms, a billiards room, a rooftop skating rink, a private gym with spa, a casino, a medical station, a post office, a police station with an underground cellblock, an indoor basketball court, an indoor swimming pool, private barbershops and salons, public and private restrooms and a discothèque. In the early 1980s, a video game arcade for the children of Volkskammer members and staff replaced one of the restaurants.”3
Yet to even further complicate the narrative arch of the Schloss site, as well as a monumental building, the People’s Palace was in turn demolished as well after only a few decades of use. After reunification, the former government complex fell into disuse, and moreover, it was deemed unsafe after the discovery of tons of asbestos in its walls. Over years, the structure was dismantled wall by wall, stripped down to only its structural frame. Ironically, its dissipation mirrored that of the old regime around it, being absorbed piecemeal into the “new,” or larger capitalist, western world.
“The People’s Palace” wikipedia.com
Of course eventually, it was erased. While the site remained empty for a short time, it wasn’t long until the government answered the campaign of a majority right-wing call to replicate the success of the Louvre, but for Berlin. Yet with the absence of any existing ruins or structures, the architects were challenged to fully rebuild this historic structure using new materials and techniques. The result is only three fully new Baroque facades (an awkward oxymoron) with the final fourth being the “modern” messenger, designed with contemporary materials and techniques by Franco Stella. It opened “virtually” over the pandemic, in December 2021. Visitors were finally 4 welcomed within its walls in Spring 2022.
While the Haus and the Schloss as case studies operate on much different scales — one being a three story building, at one point indistinguishable from the continuous row of homes and shops on a small residential street and one being an imperial and state-sanctioned political monument — they most poignantly illustrate two different preservation ethos. One of reconstruction, and one of preservation. While all forms of preservation involve levels of fallacy, as they resist the passage of time and change, there is a distinct choice made to maintain a building versus completely rebuilding a monument that had been lost. The techniques of material preservation and intervention used in these projects also display varying levels of preservation ethos, namely the standard mandate to “replace in kind.” The Haus did not want to replace or alter 5 anything, though when faced with a safety mandate, their choice to use the most minimal visually invasive application available at the time — a clear facade veneer
Tim Altenhof, Log 55 (Summer 2022) 4
Jorge Otero-Pailos, Experimental Preservation 5
coating — attempted to retain existing integrity, already maintained, edited, and otherwise manipulated in real time. Even if the application of the veneer came at the expense of further change and evolution in space, there can be an understood effort towards experimental preservation. On the other hand, though, the Schloss is a complete reconstruction, meaning that it’s a historic style but made completely of modern materials and techniques. Like a replica but at 1:1 scale. For example, the structure is steel and concrete, and its monumental walls are not solid limestone as in the original Baroque building, but brick forms merely clad in a few centimeters of the stone. It’s a hung facade, a curtain wall that just differs in aesthetic from Madison 6 Avenue. When people may think they are looking at a historic monument that has seen and witnessed the changing tides of a country from its capital, its heart, it’s a 21st century building newer than many of the contemporary apartment houses lining the city’s fashionable districts. Critics of preservation, of history, and of architecture likely be united in their reactions to such a trompe-l’œil. Yet to compare the effects of the presence of both the Schloss and the Haus in modern-day Berlin is to analyze the power of preservation and its methods when serving different political goals. The Haus serves the vision of the city held by leftleaning creatives, a vision that coalesced around a very recent date in history. The Schloss serves the vision of a right-leaning individual, someone who sees pride as a nationalistic return to innocence: their vision pre-dates the Wall or the red sea, events they may see as complicating, or curtly interrupting, the flow of German history. For
this reason, they chose to demolish the People’s Palace and reconstruct the Schloss, rather than preserve and maintain the structure that was indeed existing. The architectural ruin to be preserved. Because how can one preserve a form that does not, indeed, exist? That is not extant?
The symbolic changes both structures underwent after the fall of the wall that are relevant to our understanding of dominant and counter histories in Berlin’s urban fabric. The monumentality of the Museum Island site, and its lineage from medieval monks to today’s museum curators, has long been the contextual status quo. Extant Schloss or no Schloss, its monumentality is translated to anything and everything that has inhabited the Museum Island site. Even after the loss of not one, but two monuments. The third, however, is as we’ve discussed, is not another monument, a new idea. It’s a reconstruction of the first, and “reconstruction” is a far cry from the world “preservation.” The difference indicates a disinterest in a holistic expression of histories and complexities and rather a carte blanche attitude towards one particular form, and one particular time.
While West Berlin’s art scene was made possible by the thin, though nevertheless prevalent access to the greater world of Western European and the American pop culture, not everyone was an ardent capitalist, grateful for the return of Coca-Cola on the free market. West Berlin and the youth more generally at the time felt trapped by the systems of capital and labor and saw the city as an island in more ways than one: the rebellious spirit of the youth movement during the 60s, 70s and 80s was a reproach
of the rigid systems of thought and expression, as well as the limited capacity of capitalism to offer a better life. Conversely, those in the former Eastern districts have been given the term ostalgie, or literal “nostalgia for the East,” as they remembered certain comforts of the old communist regime in the face of the great changes wrought by the enveloping spirit of capital influx. I see in between my two case studies a 7 dominant discourse that still reflects the “neither/nor” attitude many were caught wishing for. Youth on both sides of the wall engaged in grassroots forms of socialist thought and practice that were different than either regime – the rigid binary encouraged artists and activists on both sides of the wall to not just choose a side and go to war, but to come together in many ways, both politically and culturally.
As Berlin evolved post-reunification, there was immense national and international interest in “revitalizing” the city that had so captured the world’s attention. However, many sought to aid the city in the form of self-serving spec financial development. While the city did clearly have a dire housing shortage and insufficient stock, the influx of international wealth quickly “cleaned up” the city visually to project a marketable image of a European capital worthy of investment.
Consequently, the Hausprojekt came under nearly immediate scrutiny, especially as property in East Berlin was returned to their “rightful” pre-Wall owners. Some landlords were willing to extend the stays of squatters or work to make legal arrangements. But most were not. Evictions were made very public demonstrations, but even the most
visible of hausprojekt – Tacheles, depicted even in contemporary media like Netflix’s TV series Kleo – was evicted in 2013. However, the clean, clear authority of a historic 8 structure such as the city’s historic monarchic center simultaneously became desirable: a symbol of strength and continuity. The reconstruction of the palace in a clean, modern way was also attractive to developers who already work in this vein. In a sense, the Humboldt Forum as it exists now can be read as a national gesture to urban renewal – the formal erasure of something unsavory for the erection of a new structure of power. Neither of these narratives could exist without the scholarship and practice of architectural preservation. The preservation praxis merely prioritizes different goals and different communities, which, as we see in this comparison, manifest in dramatically different urban scale narratives. A story that one man might view as trash is, metaphorically, another man’s treasure in this sense. Both histories did, and do, exist, it’s just the way they are remembered through architecture that can be critiqued. Social movements and structures are never meant to last forever. They burn bright in their moment of spark, but the lessons learned outlast them tenfold. Whether a text focuses on lessons learned from Berlin’s squatting movement or the long history of European monarchy, there is much to be learned as cities continue to grow and take on new challenges. I as a historian and preservationist see much to gain from the lesspublished counter-story of Berlin’s hausprojekt, however, as it’s a story of a minority
that has been long suppressed, especially internationally. While it would be foolish to recreate the heyday of this cultural youth movement, preservationists looking to grow and expand the field will find much to learn from historic hausprojekt and community collective design interventions, as well as the choice to reconstruct a Baroque palace. We as professionals are always told to “think in place of others” in our work towards protecting culture and architecture. These two case studies show just how important it is to identify who those others may be.