House of Memory by irwan soetikno

HOUSE OF

MEMORY MEMORY

Irwan Soetikno 1

02.508

Final Project: Dwelling By Irwan Soetikno

Building, Dwelling, Belonging: An Anthropology of Domestic and Vernacular Architecture

This is a photo essay project of houses which I dwelled in the past twenty years. It is a reconstruction of the memory of individual existence in the built-space of different geographic locations and time. A place of dichotomy, the ways of seeing: near vs far; in vs out; internal self-liberation vs external social forces; abstract reality vs permanent dream.

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contents

introduction 09

Adaptation / The New Beginning

The Farmer’s House / Defining the Vernacular

The Little Dream House / Architecture as a Sign System

The Village / Vernacular Architecture and Critical Regionalism

The Garden / The Poetics of Space

The Shrinking Horizon / Post-modern Urban Domesticity

The Horror Interior / The modernity and affordability of Singapore Public Housing

The Gaze / The Continuum of Space

Daydream

Keppel Bay 2018

introduction

I left my born-house in Moluccas island, in Indonesia, at the age of 11 as my parents had to relocate to Java. Ever since, due to many reasons, I had to subsequently move to many different places and live in different rented rooms and houses. Ten years later, after being educated as an architect, I was fascinated by how the rooms and houses from different places influenced myself—being. This influence is not simply about the relationship of physical comfort and wellbeing, but also far beyond that. It covers the physiological consciousness, memory, and transcendental aspect of being. It is fascinating to understand how the physical built-form—architecture and interior—of the house encapsulate many meanings of the being. However, as an architect, I am also aware that there was so little evidence of these influences and meanings that we could consolidate to inspire and further influence the decision making in designing a house. And as a matter of fact, not many of us could ever live in our desired house, a place that meets our physical, psychological, and transcendental needs. As Alberto Perez-Gomez put it into his “Built upon Love”, architecture must be built upon love, with transcendental meaning beyond the form and function (2006), I believe that an ideal house should be built upon love too. It is not just a shelter for survival, nor protection to fulfil our basic necessity to live. It should be a ‘dwelling’, a place that is connected to the fourthfold, which includes the transcendental aspect of the earth, sky, divinities, and mortal (Heidegger 1971). It was always my interest to write about “House of Memory” which reflects my experiences in the different rooms and houses I encountered in my life journey. However, there was never a chance and a clear starting point to begin. Fortunately, this course—"Building, dwelling, belonging”—has given me an in-depth exposure to the theoretical and philosophical understanding of the house. It was shocking to me that the syllabus of the course captures a systematic idea from a series of canonical writings which I was always curious about, including Heidegger, Gaston Bachelard, and Walter Benjamin. Each story in the House of Memory starts with a ‘fictional story’ which is inspired by my personal experience. Most of these stories are followed by a theoretical review from the readings provided in the course syllabus and my other personal reading materials. The combination of ‘fictional story’ with a theoretical review is an attempt to relate my personal experience to the theories. The fictional story would give me the freedom to paint an abstract—and often philosophical—imagination, without being restricted to the scientific, academic method. As the final purpose of this project, at least for myself, is to learn how to build upon love and not technology.

Adaptation

Geylang 2006

Adaptation The New Beginning

“I knew every mark, everything in that cell. And pretty soon that cell became like part of me or I became a part of the cell. I couldn’t visualize living anywhere else in prison than in my cell. It was like coming back and greeting an old friend really because it was part of me.”– Leon ‘Whitey’ Thompson.1

That morning when I woke up and looked out through my window’s grills, I felt a moment of disorientation and anxiety, as it was my first day in my new rented room in the Geylang area. Yes, the infamous Geylang: Singapore red light district. In front of my window was a giant white wall of the adjacent building, a small side yard, and a row of detached houses at the back. There was a silence in the air which was unfamiliar to me. My room was small. It fits one queen-size bed, one table, one small wardrobe and just enough space to walk through in between the furniture to reach the window. The wall was painted in a dull green colour with the rough-screed finish, filled with dust and dirt. As I took my deep breath, I could sense the pungent smell from the humid wall and old cardboard wardrobe. I could feel the ache at my back after first night slept at the old spring mattress which sunk in the middle. You may ask, why chose to live here then? Because this is the cheapest room, I could afford at the central location, with easy access to my office at the CBD. One little voice that encouraged me to be grateful of this new tiny room was a recollection of memory from the story of an Alcatraz inmate, Leon ‘Whitey’ Thompson, who managed to develop an adaptation and even bond with his prison cell. Adaptation is the way to move forward. Having experienced living in many different rooms, which later became part of my dwelling, I had naturally developed a psychological malleability to a new environment. It is a condition which Sigmund Freud termed as autoplastic adaptation.2 With this in mind, I will survive and open to a new beginning with my dwelling.

Leach, Neil. “Adaptation”. Last Retrieved on 27 April 2019: https://materialismwithoutterritory.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/leach-neil-adaptation-article.pdf 2 Ibid. 1

The Farmer’s House

Chuansha, 2005

The Farmer’s House Defining the Vernacular

I could not remember how I arrived at that place. However, it was a vivid memory, the moment I stopped my steps when my consciousness was struck by the peculiar built environment, caught by my visual sensory. It was “the Other” realm, surrounded by the modern chaotic town, just at the periphery of Chinese most rapidly developing city, Shanghai. A tiny little house grew in the middle of the green field of Da Chong (Chinese onion) in the fresh air, cool and sunny spring weather. The house’s colourful appearance, made of eclectic patches of industrial materials, was one of the most beautiful objects I’ve ever encountered in the contemporary society who built the world’s tallest tower. How can one dwell in such an object?

What is vernacular architecture? Is that object, the Farmer’s House, a vernacular architecture? If we define it based on Oliver’s definition, yes, this house falls under the category of vernacular architecture. Oliver embraced all types of building made by people in peasant and popular societies without an architect or specialist designer as vernacular architecture (1978: P4). Furthermore, the Farmer’s House shares similarity in construction method with the ‘Bustee housing’—built from waste materials by migrants in East Calcutta, India—which was used by Oliver as a case study of vernacular architecture (1978: P11, see figure 1.7). Both look fragile and vulnerable as their inhabitants.

of methodological techniques (1978: P6). However, there is often debate and criticism towards anthropology as a domain which never paid attention to architecture, as commented by Humphrey in her writing ‘No Place Like Home in Anthropology: The neglect of Architecture’ (Vellinga, 2011: P173). The fact is, as pointed out by Vellinga, many anthropologists are aware of the importance of architectural design and its role in the formation of cultures and societies (2011: P173). If it seems that architecture has been neglected in anthropology, it could be due to the overlapping disciplinary domain with architecture. Vernacular architecture has always become the domain of architecture and architectural history disciplines, thus, may withdraw anthropologist from long-term sustained engagement (2011: P174).

Now, if we agree that the Farmer’s House is vernacular architecture, then why do we need to study it? What is the significance of studying vernacular architecture in the context of modernised Chinese society who possesses advanced building technology and architecture design, and is capable of producing series of world’s tallest skyscrapers and mega construction projects? What is the value of this tiny little house, which was built by Chinese onion farmer in the land which can be anytime transformed into modern development; as Shanghai is growing larger and expanding in every single day? (At this moment, I am not even sure if the house is still there).

Now, let’s move to the second group of people: the architects. Why should architects and architectural student study vernacular architecture? Generally, there are three main motivations. First, for conservation. The study of vernacular architecture will benefit architects in gaining knowledge of traditional building which can be implemented for historical conservation, such as to palaces, cathedrals, and churches (Oliver, 1978: P9). Second, for design inspiration, whereby an architect can build a new modern building with similar qualities with vernacular tradition without imitating them (1978: P10). This approach in the architecture design theory is also recognised as ‘critical regionalism’. It is a term coined by Alexander Tzonis, which can be defined as an architectural design process which is contextual to its place and site-specific condition and often draws inspiration from local tradition.3 Draw from my previous personal experience as a graduate architecture student at Tsinghua University, under the influence of Alexander Tzoniz; I believe this would be the key motivation of architecture students, of this era, in studying the vernacular architecture. It supports Oliver’s observation that ‘attitude to the subject (of vernacular architecture)

The study of vernacular architecture has been conducted by at least two different groups of people with different methods and reasons. The first group is people who are not related to the architectural study, teaching or even practice. Oliver identifies these people as amateurs such as missionaries, commissioners or even army surveyors (1978: P6). To them, the purpose of studying vernacular architecture simply because of curiosity, for pure research, to contribute to the sum of human knowledge, without specific application to architectural practice (1978: P6). Anthropologies and historians are also included in this group, although they may have a better advantage Alexander Tzonis was the emeritus professor at TU Delft, and visiting professor of architecture at Tsinghua University, Beijing, China where he taught a class of critical regionalism. His latest work: Tzonis,

Alexander and Liane Lefaivre. Architecture of Regionalism in the Age of Globalization: Peaks and Valleys in the Flat World. Routledge, 2012.

Meanwhile, a trained architect like me will see it as a poetic-tectonic object, as its materiality expressed a pragmatic solution to provide a shelter against the force of nature. Plastics for protection against water, yellow fabric for insulation against cold weather, black cloth to wrap up the roof, and blue ribbon for structural stability: to tie the entire wall and roof together from falling apart due to the harsh wind. Despite all these different interpretation and views, the Farmer’s House is an important object to study. Unfortunately, its significance could be only fully obtained if all the different expertise from multidisciplinary domain work together, as implied by Oliver (1993: P1921).

have changed’ in architectural education (1978: P1). One evidence of the influence of the vernacular architecture towards the contemporary architectural practice in China can be traced through the work of Pritzker Prize-winning architect, Wang Shu, in his Ningbo Historic Museum. This monolithic building was built from the left-over building materials of traditional town with local construction method.4 The last motivation for architects to study vernacular architecture, according to Oliver, is to utilise it as an exploitative tool, for design source to build tourism architecture and ‘second home’ industries (1978: P10). Then, what is the importance of studying vernacular architecture in today’s digital world? If we return to the Farmer’s House, for instance, what is the significance of studying this house? To me personally, the answer can be found as what Glassie put forth, “building, like poems and rituals, realise culture” (1990: P09). I believe this also applies to the Farmer’s House. It realised culture of a local farming community at the periphery of urbanised Shanghai. Though it was unsophisticated and would never be comparable to the grand and delicate historical Chinese architecture, which has become the main subject for architectural study, it reflected the real condition of modern society. A condition which a political scientist will call: a social inequality. Or what a geographer will define as a pattern of peri-urbanisation. And an anthropologist will describe it as a sign of existence and survival.

Nevertheless, Oliver later pessimistically elaborated, “But the day when architectural studies are an integral part of the education of anthropologists may still be a long way off” (1993: P23) — a realistic view which, on the contrary, applies to architecture too. To me, the day when architectural anthropology becomes an integral part of architectural education seems a distance away, as the digital technology has become more a practical tool in solving human’s problem than the ‘study of human’.

https://www.dezeen.com/2016/08/18/videointerview-wang-shu-amateur-architecture-studioningbo-history-museum-movie/

The Little Thai House

Dawnridge, 1980

The Little Dream House Architecture as a Sign System

My little dream house is situated deep inside the green lush tropical garden where the sunny sky and raindrops nurture the fertile land from the firmament. It is a tiny structure of iron, brick and wood of the local tropical forest. It has many rooms with large windows to enjoy the breezy wind which carries the mild fragrance of the wildflowers and moss. The opening of each window is framed by Indonesian teak wood, with the unique decorative patterns of Southeast Asian folk art. The changing interplay of sunlight intensity on the surface of each frame reveals the imaginative story of Ravana and Hanuman in the living room, or the story of Rama in the corner guest room, and the Palace of Heavenly Cloud in the main bedroom, just underneath the rooftop. Moving inside the house, from one space to another place, is like floating into the surprising dream. Unlike the path of men in modern society—whose will and action are suppressed by the social facts5, here, your journey is unobstructed and liberated by your conscious imagination. This is the place where your spiritual being is regaining its connection to the universe while maintaining its attachment to the ground that provides continuous protection. One moment in the front porch, you’ll be embraced by the little pagoda with iconic Hindu’s gods who guard the sacred pocket garden with thousand tropical flowers. There, the natural spring from the backyard forest will whisper gently into your soul that this is the beginning of life and it is safe to enter. Next moment, when stepping into the corridor that leads into the fiesta chamber, your palatal desire will instantly evaporate with the smoke of the freshly served dishes. The smoke rises high, reaching into the ceiling where ornamented chandeliers made of jewellery are hanging like a tree bear its fruits. The paintings from your thousand forgotten memories are embedded there too with surreal and abstract stylistic imageries. Some of them are strangely projected from your future, the place where you never even aware of their existence. The existence which is triggered by your consciousness. Conscious decision to be here, right now, in the Little Dream House, which is built by my imagination to fulfil the need to communicate my existence as a human being. In this Little Dream House, I dwell6. It is not just a structure of functions but a language of my relationship with the land, firmament, gods, and my conscious-self: my shelter in the tropical garden. Unlike the Little Thai House of Tony Duquette, which sits deep inside the Dawnridge garden in L.A., my Little Dream House has no particular site and location. Though, both of them communicate a language of cultural phenomena.

This term refers to Emile Durkheim’s definition of ‘social facts’ (1895). The term ‘dwell’ here refers to Heidegger’s concept of dwelling, which encompasses the ‘fourthfold’ of the earth, sky, divinities, and mortal (1971).

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Figure 01. Interior of the Dawnridge.

use” (1998: P167). As a result of this, modern architecture is signified by pure and clean geometric forms, which represents its function and does not communicate, as it did before. This phenomenon was probably the basis that inspired Eco to come out with ‘semiotics and architecture’ during postmodernism era, and published his essay on Function and Sign: The Semiotics of Architecture in 1973, following the 1967 Expo World Fair.

Why is architecture a particular challenge to semiotics? Umberto Eco, in the section of ‘the semiotics and architecture’, argued that architecture is a challenge to semiotics because most of the architectural objects do not communicate but just function (1997: P174). This claim is, for me, very controversial and contradictory to his next explanation of, for example, gothic architecture which communicates religiosity (P181). He is probably right, if ‘architecture’ here, refers to 20th-century modern architecture, which is driven by Louis Sullivan’s maxim: Form Follows Function. This idea proceeded Austrian modernist architect’s theory, Adolf Loos, who rejected the ornamentation in modern architectural form, as articulated in his essay ‘Ornament and Crime’ (1913). Loos’ idea influenced the development of a modern architecture which stripped off the ornamentation due to its uneconomical value and ‘wasted labour’ (1998: P171). Loose also claimed to make a ‘discovery’, which must be passed to the world: “the evolution of culture is synonymous with the removal of ornamentation from objects of everyday

The Little Thai House, which sat inside Dawnridge garden in Los Angles was designed and built by Tony and Elizabeth Duquette in 1949. As an internationally acclaimed artist and designer who produced luxurious jewellery to the costumes and interior design for fashion stage and photoshoot, he believes in ‘more is more’. His works are recognized through exquisite and luxurious ornamentation and eclectic elements. His “Thai” house was built with eclectic architectural fragments from Thailand and Bali within the green lush tropical garden setting. It was also embellished with English gothic spires, and Victorian gingerbread savaged from Los

house and dwelling for its new owner. Eco describes this function—the denoted meaning—as ‘primary’ function (P179).

Angeles’s historic Bunker Hill (Duquette 2019). This beautifully decorated house was not created just for function (i.e. as a house or to dwell), but it was a piece of the architectural object that communicates (the culture).

Architectural objects are also capable of connoting certain ideology of the function or also known as symbolic meaning (P178). Other than functioned as a house, the Little Thai House was also used as a stage for fashion photo shoots, and known as a representation of high fashion, luxury and ‘maximalist style’—an aesthetic ideology which opposes the modernist minimalism. It housed a collection of Duquette’s signature designed objects such as the 18th century red lacquered Venetian “Queen Anne” chairs, and his signature leopard vinyl cloth; the 18th century red lacquered Burmese Buddha, and a turquoise painted rhino from an American 19th century carousel; the canopy bed with iridescent Thai silks and Japanese tassels; and the alabaster-like lighted Chinese style lanterns (Duquette 2019). These rich decorative and ornamental patterns and objects communicate a language of luxurious fashion and beauty. Here, the house connoted its symbolic meaning of a cultural product, which Eco described as a secondary function or connotative code (1997: P179). In this secondary function, the eclectic architectural fragment of the house, which was derived from Thai or Bali, became a mnemonic device. Thai pagoda, for example, as a sign of denoted meaning of spiritual building for praying in Thai society, in this context—Tony’s house—no longer functioned in its original meaning; but simply a decoration, an exotic symbol of Southeast Asia’s identity.

What does it mean exactly to communicate? How do architectural objects communicate? To Umberto Eco, architectural objects, as a sign, communicate at least two meanings: denotative and connotative (P175-178). Architectural denotation, to him, means the expression of architectural objects of its denoted meaning, such as its ‘function’ or ‘form of inhabitation’. The Little Thai House, which was built with rich decorative, stylistic, and ornamental forms, served a function as a house and home for its owner, Tony Duquette and his family, to dwell. After Tony’s death in 1999, The house was purchased by his long-time business partner, Hutton Wilkinson, who now lives there with his wife, Ruth (Lindsay 2013). In this event, the house as a sign of architectural denotation, a form of inhabitation, still retains its function as a

The semiotics of architecture, from Eco’s analysis, has three different categories of architectural codes. The first one is technical code, which dealt with technical components of architectural engineerings, such as beams, columns, flooring systems, etc. (P184). The tiny structure of ‘iron, brick and wood’ from my Little Dream House is an example of this technical code. Iron structure is a basic element to support the building. Brick and wood are the structural partition element to infill the building. These elements are rudimentary, which communicate the technical code of the Little

Figure 02. Sharon Stone at the Dawnridge for the October 1999 issue of Town & Country magazine.

shaped floor plan; and connote a Christianity ideology: a representation of the Kingdom of Christ on earth. These codes are generally accepted by society and become a socioarchitectural prescription. The moment these accepted codes become the prescriptive rule—in which architect is no longer possess the freedom to introduce a new creative form or type of a church— architecture is not a creative act, but rather a system of rules for giving society what it expects (P186).

Dream House. The second code is syntactic codes, which refers to typological codes or spatial types (P185). ‘House’ is a syntactic code for both: The Little Thai House and my Little Dream House. It represents the typology of the building, as a space for dwelling, which differs from office—for working; shopping mall—for commercial activities; school—for educational activities; or even temple—for worship and religious activities. The last code is semantic codes, which signifies the relationship of the individual architectural sign with their denotative and connotative meanings (P185).

Toward this argument, I agree with Eco. Modern architecture is designed and built according to and conforming to its typology. Office building looks like an office typology, residential apartment as a residential typology, shopping mall as a commercial typology, and even house looks exactly as— what we expect—a house.

So, what is the importance of understanding these inventories of codes? One important argument that Eco presented at the end of his essay is the role of architecture as a form of the creative act. To him, if the codes dictate the architecture design process in such a way that only ‘slight difference/improvement’ is allowed in design—to maintain the ‘standardised message’, which are accepted by society— then architecture is no longer an act of creative freedom (P186). Let’s take church for an example. As a religious building, the church has specific technical codes: such as tall structure, with a grand tower with a cross on top. It also has a typological code: as a religious building, typically with cross-

What set Tony Duquette apart from many modernist architects—although Tony is not an architect—is his concept for a house which did not conform to the general code of a house. It is a garden, a paradise, an imaginary world, a mnemonic device of cultural fragments, a peculiar world which is only celebrated in the realm of art. Just like my Little Dream House, they are a sign, a language of being human.

Figure 03. Interior of the Dawnridge.

The Village

Ciumbuleuit, 1998

The Village

Vernacular Architecture and Critical Regionalism

The little village on the hill of Ciumbuleuit, which was situated along the bank of Cikapundung river, was a symbol of the modern city’s disease. It was known as an informal development; some even called it a slum. It was an image of poverty, the underprivileged society who were either oppressed or left behind by the growing pace of economic development. This village should be either removed or rebuilt as they looked very unpleasant and disturbing. And it was imperative, especially in the modern city such as Bandung which was reputable for its culture, art and liveability. The good news was, on the opposite side of the village, sit the established architecture school which hold the national reputation as the producer of professional architects who would change the future of this country. And the bad news was, my bedroom at the rented boarding house was overlooking the village. So, every single day when I awake from my dream, this poor little village of the modern city’s disease was there, right in front of my eyes. And every time I looked into it, I remember the strong message from my architecture professor during a field trip, who pointed his finger into the village while loudly appealed to the students, “Design a luxurious house to make a living, but these would be your main job!” The moment I think more about it, I started to struggle. Especially now, in this age, after being exposed to the disease of the modern city, of what Georg Simmel called the ‘psychological impacts of the metropolis’ (1903). What was wrong with the village? By using Louis Henri Morgan classical anthropology theory (1881) as a reflective tool, the village can be read from its material culture and built environment, which represented its social organisation. The village, which the local residents built the tiny, vulnerable houses, were actually very poetic. They were irregular in forms, randomly organised, and closely knitted one to another. The material expressions were very pure, a mix of affordable industrial building material with local natural material from the site, such as timber and bamboo. They were ‘modern’ vernacular7--the architecture of the people in the modern urban environment. The physical planning of the village resembled the social organisation. The close attachment of architectural form showed the close relationship of its people. The openness of external spaces, with its interconnectedness of small circulation routes and steps, represented the safety, security and trust among resident who knew each other well. The growth of the village must be incremental. This could be traced through the different layers of materiality and spaces. And the built environment was specifically curated to fulfil the needs of the resident with their economic limitation. Here, as Simmel 7 The term vernacular here refers to Paul Oliver’s definition of vernacular, which means all the types of building made by people and popular society without engaging architect or specialist designers. (1978, P4).

put it in his “The Metropolis and Mental Life”, the people were dealing with each other with an emotional connection (1997, P70). In this built environment, life was moving slower as compared to the modern metropolis. People within the community knew each other well within their group and neighbourhood. There was a sense of belonging and sense of place, a term which is also known as ‘Kampung Spirit’8 in modern Southeast Asia contemporary society. And in seeking of the Kampung Spirit, to bring back the social solidarity and cohesiveness which are disappeared from the modern urban (built) environment, we are now looking back to the villages again. Just like this one, in front of my bedroom!

One central question in the study of vernacular architecture is about its purpose. Why study vernacular architecture? Why does it matter? Why do we need to look backwards, to the nostalgic past, to the traditional society with its unsophisticated technological skills, instead of looking into the promising future whereby the digital revolution, smart cities and artificial intelligence seem to offer solutions to life and urbanisation?

personally see a great value of studying vernacular architecture. To me, this is especially useful to understand the concept of ‘environmental determinism’, of how the physical built environment and architectural form influence human behaviour and society. To scale this up into the modern urban design and planning, I’d like to seek the inspiration from the vernacular built environment as a source to answer some of the classical but contentious urban planning issues. What is a good urban form? How to design a good urban space for neighbourhood and community? What does community mean? How to build for the community? How to create a place for the community with social cohesion? How can we bring back the ‘Kampung Spirit’ into the modern urban life, and transform the negative psychological and mental life into a happy and insane society?

Paul Oliver, in his essay, “Why study vernacular architecture?” (1978), has at least critically categorised three key reasons, especially for trained architects, to study vernacular architecture. To Oliver, studying vernacular architecture is useful for the purpose of conservation, gaining design inspiration, and for reference for special sensitive development (1978: P9-12). In addition to Oliver’s argument, I’d like to propose another reason for studying vernacular architecture. However, this purpose should not be exclusively framed only to the discipline of architecture, but rather to the general multidisciplinary study of architecture as part of urban studies. Therefore, my key proposition here is to highlight the key importance of studying vernacular architecture, especially in the postmodernism era, under criticalregionalism movement, of which vernacular architecture is seen as a new alternative solution to the ‘failure’ of modern architecture—which is manifested in its homogenous and repetitive form known as ‘international style’. Beyond that, even to this era of the digital revolution, I still

The term critical regionalism was coined by architectural theorist Alexander Tzonis and Liane Lefaivre (Nesbitt 1996: P483). This idea—regionalism—was borrowed from an architectural and urban historian, Lewis Mumford, who proposed a new vision in urban design and planning, by using the past via “regional reconstruction” (Ibid; Ellin 1999: P73). Regionalism was especially relevant during the postmodernism era, due to the effort to create a ‘sense of place’ in urban design; a counterbalance to the domination of technology; and a rejection to ‘international style’ which dominated the city with the homogenous architectural form without respecting the local site and context.

Kampung in Malay language means village. Kampung Spirit in Singapore, for instance, simply means the sense of community, solidarity and cohesion, which existed in the past traditional village.

efficiency to the buildings which influence the architectural typologies we know today: residential blocks and skyscrapers. In the proposal, he standardised buildings—what he called industrialize building—to reduce its cost of production, which at that time would fall in the proportion of 10 to 2 (Ibid: P323)

Critical regionalism in Tzonis and Lefaivre’s theory does not propose a nostalgic celebration of vernacular architecture or local tradition, nor does it reject the past traditions. The point of critical regionalism here is central to the re-evaluation of local culture and its strategic adaptation to a modern building in its local context and environment (Nesbitt 1996: P483).

The boring and pragmatic HDB blocks of the modern city today, for instance, is a direct influence of Le Corbusier idea. It was developed by the pragmatic calculation of means of production (i.e. to house as many people in the limited land area with lowest possible cost) which framed unique individual beings into a standardised cubicle-unit. Therefore, can we associate HDB with dwelling? Is there a belonging? As Heidegger once said, “the real plight of the dwelling does not lie merely in the lack of houses… the real plight lies in this, that mortals ever search anew for the nature of dwelling, that they must ever learn to dwell”(1971), we must now re-contemplate the distinction of production of the modern building in its relationship to the people, diversity, and locality.

Departing from Tzonis and Levaifre’s critical regionalism, I would argue that the importance of studying the vernacular architecture is to regain the values that have been missing in the production of architecture and built environment today. They are people, diversity and locality. Using ‘the village’, as a reference, we could explain vernacular architecture as architecture that is built by people, with a diverse expression based on its local context and site. Contrast to vernacular architecture, modern architecture is no longer built by its people (residents/community), and it is often uniform and homogenous (due to economic production) and thus can be placed in any site of tabula rasa.

Contrast to the modern HDB, Masons of Djenne, for example, is a masterpiece of vernacular architecture which worth of investigation and study, as it embodies series of meaning and social relationship through its materiality (Marchard). Located in the town of Djenne, central Mali, West Africa, the Masons of Djenne is currently under the protection of UNESCO as the world heritage site. Its grand and unique architecture is a product of a culture, a society, and a community, which reveals the social cohesion and solidarity, similar to kampung spirit which contemporary Singaporean society is longing for.

The product of modern architecture such as housing has been driven by the concept of economic production which treats houseunit as a standardised component that can be easily replicated into buildings. The same standardised buildings are also treated as a unit which can be reproduced, laid, and freely extended into the geometric urban grid of the city. This modern architecture principle was introduced by Le Corbusier through his Contemporary City proposal (1922). He evidently understood the relationship of mathematical geometry with economic efficiency, as he wrote: “…having worked through every necessary technical stage and using absolute ECONOMY, we shall be in a position to experience the intense joys of creative art which is based on geometry.” (2000: P321).

From the case study of Masons of Djenne, we can see the significant purpose of studying vernacular architecture to unravel the unique social organisation and built environment from its materiality. One key lesson learnt from the anthropological study of this mud architecture heritage is, as what Trevor Marchant elucidated in his paper, the connection and engagement of the people— builder—with his society and the built architecture. Marchant summarised it as:

As a result of this, the Contemporary City proposal came with a geometric land use form, which Le Corbusier called gridiron system with plots of about 400 yards square (Ibid: P321). He did not stop there. He continued applying the principle of economic

himself, worked in a simple situation. Today we have great factories and industries and organisations producing the environment. What is lacking today is a vernacular, our own vernacular. We need to create one which is an expression of our life and technologies.” (Ellin 1996: P73). Therefore, our next big question is how do we create our own vernacular?

“A guarded lore of secret incantations and benedictions, as well as claims to ethnicity, religious identity and local histories, is inculcated in young builders from their earliest days as labourers on construction sites.” (P6) The connection and engagement of people with his house and built environment is a crucial thing that is missing in modern architectural production. The building today become the ‘industrial product’, a standardised object to contain the life of heterogeneous needs of its inhabitants. Yes, it is true that the current modern society is very different from the traditional circumstances when the vernacular architecture was born. The well-known world architect, Moshe Safdie once exclaimed that “the people who built their village, the man who designed his own house and built it

(Over twenty years ago, I was so assured that the village in front of my bedroom was a disease. It needs to be modernised. Today, the moment I opened my front door house, there sits a giant modern housing block right in front of my very eye. It is a series of homogenous cells that contains hundreds of inhabitants. Not sure if their life is much better off than the people of ‘the village’. Not so sure if they are existing or dwelling.)

Figure 04 (left above). Le Corbusier sketch for the Contemporary City 1922. Figure 05 (left below). Proposal for HDB development in Singapore. Figure 06 (below). View of HDB block in front of my unit (by author).

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The Garden

Joo Chiat, 2007

The Garden The Poetics of Space

Sleep deprivation has caused me a serious problem. I cannot concentrate at work due to the persistent acute headache which travels down with pain to neck and shoulder. I have lost my appetite too which further lead to gastric pain. And recently It has gotten worse with nausea and faint whenever I sit and stare on my desktop screen. The result of my medical diagnosis showed no evidence of any disease nor physical disorders. Series of a blood test, Spine X-ray, and MRI show no root cause until a psychology-student friend reminded me that I have sleep deprivation. Really? Sleep deprivation? A recent study has indicated that Singapore is ranked as the third most sleep-deprived cities in the world after Tokyo and Seoul. The fast-paced culture with a long working hour causes this condition. Sleep deprivation, though sounds like a simple matter, could lead to a series of serious diseases, including mental health and even kill you in the longer term. Only until a recent lucky coincidence, when I met the landlord of this beautiful terrace house, whose son died of mental illness and depression which was allegedly caused by sleep deprivation, I started to believe in the importance of maintaining a good sleeping habit. Without hesitation, I finally decided to rent the common room at the terrace house, a hidden jewel behind the famous historical Joo Chiat shophouses. It is a big compound of about a thousand square meter land where two blocks of three-floor red brick wall houses are sited. The owner, a retired couple, lives at the backside block, which occupies a larger land with car porch and big empty yards—of plain grass. The frontside block, which has three rooms were left empty and unoccupied for many years and are only recently rented by the owner to earn a ‘maintenance fee’ to keep this old structure ages gracefully. Most importantly, this old couple, who spend most of the time idling at the terrace house, wanted to keep the front side block alive again. “It is good to have someone live here, after for nine years these rooms are empty, since our two daughters moved overseas, and our son passed away…” said the wife in her elegant Peranakan kebaya, when she showed me around the spacious interior. The good thing about this house, other than its best rental deal, of only $600 a month, was its view through two windows, into a small pocket garden. The two windows are located on two opposite side of the room, which allows natural cross ventilation throughout the day. The worrisome thing, which causes my anxiety especially at night time—when the silent solitude darkness fills this room—is that next to this room, connected by the bathroom, sits the empty room previously occupied by the late son. Although the door at the shared bathroom, which leads to the other empty room is locked, there is always in my 27

mental state, an awareness that the empty space there is alive, as it retains a memory of a human soul. And the most disturbing thing to me is the fact that the son died due to mental illness caused by sleep deprivation. That’s illogical and absurd. However, I could not find any further explanation of his death, as the owner seems very reluctant to talk about it. Similarly, I also did not mention to her about my ‘sleep deprivation’ issue which influenced my decision to rent and move into this room. It was just a strange intuition and feeling that by moving into this house, I would regain a better sleeping quality which would eventually cure all my symptoms. It is also because of the garden. The first time I looked into it, I knew it was more than just a garden. It transcended a meaning, another dimension of space, which was once vanished and now rediscovered. My first week in this terraced house has just passed. Everything seems ok. I haven’t had a real lived experience in the house, as throughout the weekdays I was busy with work, which usually started as early as eight in the morning and ended as late as eleven at night. An architect is a demanding profession. A long working hour plus stressful days are a common thing. To have enough five to six sleeping hours, with at least three hours deep sleep is already considered a good achievement. However, since moving here, I felt slightly better. This place is so quiet and hidden away from the main road with busy traffic. Sometimes it can even be too dead, as if I am living here, floating alone in the space of no trace of life: no sounds, no voices, no neighbours. It is just fresh moving hot air, which is humid with a bit of scent of salty ocean water from Eastcoast Park, which is just about less than a mile away. And the empty living room on the second floor—without any furniture except a large dining table of solid timber—echoes my footsteps which wandering around, from space to space and one room into another. Large kitchen with baking oven sets and island counter; An empty bathroom with double sinks; A storeroom full of clothes and luggage; and next to it is an empty bedroom underneath the staircase that leads into my room at the third floor. In the third floor, there are only two bedrooms which share one corridor and bathroom. And as I mentioned before, the other bedroom is empty. And my curiosity of the space it contains is protected by the solid timber door with iron trellis. Only my imagination can wander into the memory it retains, of the late son. In this quiet and peaceful weekend, I take a restful nap in my room with two windows wide open. Above my head, through the window, I can see the shimmering spectrum of sunlight travels through the blue sky over the clouds and filtered by layers of dark green leaves of a mango tree that rises from the garden on the ground. The constant changing of light and shadow, which penetrate through those leaves and fall into my forehead, moves me between a dream and reality. A moment of light in this Saturday afternoon; and another moment of the shadow of memories. A daydream. It is a mystical moment, as I have forgotten the last moment I had a daydream. I cannot even recall my last dream. Not even sure if I have ever had one in the past few years. To have a piece of garden in land scarce Singapore is such a luxurious thing. In a simple rectangular shape of about six by six meter, the poetic garden at the ground protects and nurtures a mango tree, which grows tall and wide, rises above my window. Its strong trunks and dense leaves shelter my room from the heat of direct sunlight and rain. In the morning, it will become a playground for many Javan Myna, the black colour bird with a yellow beak, 28

which is very common in Singapore. They are infamous for making a lot of disturbing noise. And as the sweet aroma of ripe mango melts into the air, Javan Myna will rush in flock into the tree, celebrating their feast in high tone voices. Unlike in Singapore, a garden is a very common feature of houses in Indonesia. Most of the people who live in low rise dwelling, regardless of their socio-economic status, rich or poor, will usually have a garden attached to their house. Back then in my grandmother house, on Moluccas island, where I was born and raised as a kid, we had a garden. It was larger than the one below my window here — probably four or five times larger. Instead of a mango tree, we had a cluster of Papaya trees, lemon tree, herbal plants and collection tropical flowers. Inside the garden, my parents raised chickens and quails for their meat and eggs for our daily consumption. At the corner of the garden, we had a shallow natural pond with koi fish, believed to bring prosperity and longevity. Garden is a place of poetic space. It is a realm where macro and micro cosmos unite. It is a place for relaxation and daydream. As a kid, I would spend most of my spare time in the garden. I would look into the deep well, where the ripple of water would fade into the darkness, ten meters below the ground, and the echo of my voices would continue into the bottom of the water, where I was told, “You would die if you fall, as there is no air to breathe there.” Under the lemon tree, the white cocoons were hanging in between the ripe lemons. It was miraculous to observe their transformation later into the beautiful butterflies. With their colourful wings, they would fly across the flowering shrubs across the pond, where the reflection of their silhouette would touch the surface of calm water. And a second later, they will ascend high above the lemon tree towards the tip of the papaya tree, and disappeared into another world, beyond my sight. The moment I lean towards my window and push my head outside, closer to the mango tree, I remember the bedroom of my childhood memory. It had a similar window, which I could climb and watch the microcosmos in the garden. Once in a while, the ripe papaya would drop to the ground and hit the rectangular shape hardscape of black stones and gravels. Soon after, a flock of birds would gather around to enjoy the fruit’s sweet reddish flesh with juicy black seeds. The chicken will participate too, followed by cats which most of the time would spoil the party. And lastly, the tiny little creatures of insects would dissect the remaining food. I remember the plain rectangular shape of the ground surrounding the root of the mango tree, where the pattern of red bricks and streel gutter form its borders. It reminds me of the dark memory which I could never comprehend. A mystery and curiosity, which I tempted to break into, the way I am eager to break into the next door which protects the memory of the late son who was sheltered by this house. That rectangular hardscape, at the bottom of the papaya tree, covered by black stones and gravels, was the place, my late twin brother was buried. Deep down inside the solitude darkness of the earth, laid a memory of the soul, who though connected, never recognised. It was an agony to never break into that memory. I wish it were just a daydream!

features of childhood house—which contribute to the well-being of our emotions ((1998: P6-7).

To Bachelard, as elucidated in his “The Poetics of Space”, a house is more than just an object. Our modern life, with metropolis lifestyle, has obscured our phenomenological view towards the house. A house—for many people who live in a capitalist society—functions as an object with abstract space9 and exchange value for investment and capital accumulation, what Marxist political economy defines as commodity fetishism.

Unfortunately, in Singapore, there are not many people who have the luxury to dwell in a terrace house with a poetic garden as I did before. Even if they do, the fast pace working lifestyle, with the high rate sleep deprivation, would not ever allow them to enjoy the daydream. As the daydream in the modern neoliberal capitalist society is laziness, idling equals to sin!

A house is also an object of political legitimacy, especially in Singapore, whose citizens are mainly housed within public housing—built, operated and maintained by government board (HDB). The importance of a house is beyond its physical representation—its aesthetic form, spatial container and decoration—but its function to retain, what Bachelard called, images and body of images which represents our imagination and reality, of the phenomenon.

The deprivation of daydream has suppressed many Singaporeans into a monotonous, stressful life, which affect their well-being, and all of a sudden has driven the recollection of the collective memory of past ‘childhood life’ in Kampung. This logic is supported by what Chua Beng Huat presented in his “Nostalgia for the kampung”. Kampung Spirit is a reflexive nostalgia which implicitly rejects the modern lifestyle and capitalism. It a resentment towards the long and stressful working hour, where people no longer has a moment of relaxation to idling around with the neighbour (2002: P157-160).

In contemporary Singapore urban landscape, probably not many of us could make a conscious choice of a house that we desire to live. The limitation of house typology, land constraint, and high property prices, have limited our selection of a house to live. Therefore, in this context, the pragmatic Singapore built environment, gives a very narrow path for its residents to imagine a house as—what Bachelard described—a cosmos (1998: P4). It is a ‘corner of the world’, he argued, which gives the power to integrate ourselves (I) with the external things (non-I) through a daydream.

To investigate the nostalgia of Kampung Spirit further, and to relate it to the function of a house that is capable of sheltering a daydream, I think another reason for this nostalgia correlates with the form of (public) housing Singaporean are living today and their incapability to daydream.

Daydream functions as a passage to recollect the memories of the earliest life— under the protected shelter of maternal

It refers to abstract space, defined by Henri Lefebvre as the simplification of

space value into quantified monetary value. In this process, many unquantifiable values would be lost (1974).

Figure 07. View towards the street and neighborhood from the terrace house inner yard (by author).

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Shrinking horizon

Zhongfu Zhen, 2003

The Shrinking Horizon Post-modern Urban Domesticity

My first experience moving to the high-rise apartment was so awesome. From the 20th floor, the scale of human being was so tiny, a moving dot within a gigantic landscape of modern civilisation. It felt great to be on the top, escalated up high above the ground with a new perspective of spectacles. Despite being surrounded by giant walls of towers, right there in the middle of my vista were the old low-rise houses. It reminded me of the kind of environment from which I was coming. The only thing that was missing from experience living in the high-rise was the poetic relationship with the sun. There was no longer a chance to observe the rise and the set of the sun on the horizon, unlike my previous experience living on the ground level of a lowrise urban environment, where the sun was always felt so close. I would always be able to encounter its rise and set at the long horizon which marked the cycle of days: the beginning and the end. At this new high-rise living environment in a high-density living, the horizon was disappearing, hidden behind the rising towers. The horizon was shrinking, and I was escalating to the new high-rise dwelling. In regard to the debate of whether living in the high-rise built form or low-rise is better10, one thing that I think is missing from the discussion is our relationship to the natural environment. The sun and the horizon. It seemed that the transcendental element of the dwelling, the phenomenological experiences, has been neglected or forgotten.

10 This refers to the readings from Chua Beng Huat: “A practical concept of community in a high-rise housing environement”, and Brenda S.A. Yeoh: “From colonial neglect to post-independence heritage: the housing landscape in the central a rea of Singapore”.

The Horror Interior

Telok Blangah, 2009

The Horror Interior The modernity and affordability of Singapore Public Housing

3 NG HDB Unit: Resale Price = S$ 250,000 Cash Over Valuation (COV) 11 = S$ 18,000 Total Price = S$ 268,000

IKEA Furniture Shopping List: EKTORP - Three-seat sofa, Vittaryd white = S$ 595 YPPERLIG - Dining table, ash = S$ 349 YPPERLIG - Armchair, Gunnared dark grey = S$ 298 (@ S$ 149 each) POÄNG - Armchair + Footstool, birch veneer, Knisa light beige = S$ 209 TARVA - Bed Frame, Queen-size, pine, Luröy = S$ 199 HAFSLO - Sprung mattress, firm, beige = S$ 199 MALM - Bed frame, King-size, high, w four storage boxes, white stained oak veneer, Luröy = S$ 599 HÖVÅG - Pocket sprung mattress, firm, dark grey = S$ 499 INGO - Table, pine =S$ 79 MALM - Chest of 2 drawers, white stained oak veneer = S$ 79 MARIUS-Stool, black = S$ 11.80 (@ S$5.90 each) FROSTA-Stool, birch plywood = S$ 27.80 (@ S$ 13.90 each) GUNDE - Folding chair, black = S$ 11.90 Total furniture price = S$ 3,156.5

11 COV is an additional price for resale HDB flat in Singapore. It is an additional cash value, based on the negotiation between seller and buyer, on top of the unit valuation price.

Moving into our own HDB is a great experience and one of the key milestones in my life. Although, it is, in fact, a downgrade, as my wife and I was previously always lived in the rented condominiums. And this is my first experience living in public housing, socalled HDB. However, the good thing is, it belongs to us. Our own house and property. A home.

concrete with the lush greenery and local facilities such as wet market; while my workplace area was surrounded by commercial buildings (office blocks and shopping mall) of glass facades surrounded by busy traffic and commuters. This fragmentation, as theorised by Walter Benjamin, has driven an individual to consume domestic goods (i.e. furniture), to decorate their living units as an expression and identification to distinguish ‘living space’ from ‘working space’ (2007: P574).

As a permanent resident, we are only allowed to own and move into a secondhand HDB flat, also known as a resale unit. It means we are only allowed to select a home from the range of the older HDB units. And so, we found this small 3NG (3 rooms, New Generation) unit. It is more than 40 years old, but located at the central Bukit Merah area, in a small estate with a lively community surrounded by Southern Ridge park.

With as little as S$3,500, I had that freedom to decorate my uninformed and massproduced 67 sqm HDB unit, into a personal home: where I could escape from the hectic working space to find a piece of private living space. IKEA home furnishing was the solution. With its wide range of massproduced furniture products, IKEA provides liberation to homeowners to customise and personalise their affordable units with affordable modern furniture to meet their personal needs and aspiration. And as you can check on my shopping list, with these rudimentary items, I could at least afford to have a ‘living space’ of sufficient level of comfort.

Our 3NG flat is decorated in a simple industrial look—modernism style—and is affordable. With about S$ 270,000, of which you can pay with a bank loan of up to 90%, we can get two-bedroom home complete with a storeroom, an open living room connected to a kitchen, and two very small bathrooms. The total resale price is about 50 times my monthly salary—as an architectural designer—which is almost equivalent to my five years total income after tax and CPF12. In short, theoretically, with the constant and stable income rate, if I am able to save at least half of my annual income, I should be able to pay off my mortgage in ten years. That’s not too bad! Similar to European 19th-century experience, as elucidated by Jacobs (2007: P574), the interior of public housing—at least of my unit—is linked to the expansion and intensification of Singapore urban experience under modernisation and industrialisation of neoliberal capitalism. This condition is obvious from the fragmentation of (HDB) residential area and the CBD commercial area where I work. The two areas have a very distinctive character and physical attributes. For example, the HDB residential area is characterised by long and tall housing blocks made of

In Jacobs’ “The modern touch: interior design and modernisation in postindependence Singapore”, it is clear that public housing interior in Singapore is a representation on modernism, capitalism, and affordability. Many areas of physical design from planning, to architecture and interior, have been widely studied and articulated. The modernism design interpretation into the interior design with its challenges and limitation against personal aspirations to build a home is presumably widely known to the public, especially those who have experienced living in an HDB unit like myself. However, one dark side that may not be studied and discussed is the phenomenology aspect of the interior: the horror of the interior. Despite its modern, clean, simple and even sleek industriallooking space; and its eclectic minimalistdecorative furniture, my home, was a space of horror. It is a space of constant distress, annoyance, and even fear.

12 Central Profident Fund (CPF) is a compulsory comprehensive saving plan managed by government

for working Singaporean and Permanent Residents to fund the housing, healthcare and retirement needs.

disturbances will often draw serious attention from surrounding neighbours and sometimes will end only when the police arrive. It happens for a different type of conflicts. Most often are either due to the quarrel between wife and abusive husband or fight between a teenager with a parent.

As all the lights are off, and I am laying on my bed, ready to depart into a peaceful relaxation and deep sleep, series of disturbances is started to begin throughout the night till the dawn arrives. First, from my front wall facing the common corridor, mild and random noises from vehicles at the parking lot below will penetrate through the glass louvre window. In the beginning, those random noises evaporate in a stable tempo and low intensity which can be easily perceived as a background sound. And suddenly it would strike my inner ear when a delivery truck horns, a motorcycle makes a brutal exhaust noise, and even the car alarm—for whatever reasons—blaring in high tone and echoing for minutes.

The fragile interior container, unfortunately, cannot uphold the noises and protects my ears from other disturbances. The vibration of the ceiling slab caused by washing machine from above. The banging frying pan from the adjacent neighbour. The children’s crying in the long common corridor. The karaoke parties. The renovation work from the community centre on the ground floor. The alarm from primary school at the back of my block. And even the bedside alarm which will break a long momentary silence before my neighbour above will eventually drag himself to shut it down. It is five in the morning already! Oh no! It is time for him to awake to start his work. But NOT for me yet! It is too early! And I haven’t dived into the valley of the dream.

Usually later, after midnight, a sound of banging iron door gate of my neighbour will travel from my living room, signifies her presence back home. As the night fades slowly and blends into my deep sleep, my bare concrete ceiling will emit a gentle urinating sound followed by a harsh to toilet flush and the waterfall effect of the fluids travelling down through the void of utility pipe, down through my master bedroom toilet and dispersed all the way down ten floors below. Gosh! I know it is around two in the morning now. During this time, the uncle on the upper floor gets back from his night shift job working at the food stall. And for sure, soon after this, he will spend another fifteen minutes showering, stepping back and forth between the living room, kitchen and toilet.

This horror of contrast distress of noise disturbances will just continually, day after day, accompany me, like a shadow. The moment the light is off, and the dark night fills the space; I will float on my bed, standing at the edge of the valley of dream and anxiety. There is a fear to jump into the dream, as any noises, out of my control and at any time, will drag me awake into anxiety. As I lay in the cosy IKEA armchair and stretch my leg into a footstool, my mind is floating, suppressed by my tiny home interior. It is too early for bedtime yet, but I need silence, peace and relaxation. My alarm clock is ticking. It synchronises with the Qing (metal bowl) and Faqi (percussion) tempo from the Taoism funeral procession at the ground level void deck. Someone in the neighbourhood must have passed away.

I sink my head deeper into the IKEA duckfeathers pillow and try to cover my ear as much as possible. And just before I fall into the valley of the dream, a hysterical yelling voice, calling for help, punches through the layers of my interior wall, window and door, and drags me back to moments of awareness. Family violence seems to happen again! Strangely it often bursts out at night at the opposite block, of the rented single-unit flats, which are occupied by lower-income residents. The voices usually come in different languages, most of the time in Malay and Chinese, which I can barely understand; and other uncomprehended dialects which my ears will perceive as a discordant noise. These

In this old Telok Blangah Drive residential estate, on average, there is at least a natural death case every month. When a death occurs, the interior of the deceased home will be ‘cleaned’ with a certain ritual and procession. It is later followed by “the

It resonates deeper and deeper into my inner ear and later occupies my entire consciousness.

wake” ritual which may take three to seven day and is usually performed at the void deck. During this ritual the family member, relatives and friends have a last chance to pay their last respects.13

As the dark night fades into a dream, I am lying on my white EKTORP sofa facing a pitch-black hole. I am ready to jump into the valley of the dream, but the horror of death keeps me awake still.

The melodies from singing and prayer of the wake ritual continue, raising from the ground towards the staggering floors of homes above. Like a spirit, it penetrates every wall, door and windows of my interior.

Figure 08. Range of affordable and modern IKEA three-seat sofa

13 Chinese death rituals: http://eresources.nlb.gov.sg/infopedia/articles/SIP_2 015-11-30_175737.html

Figure 09. Floor plan of typical 3 New Generation (3NG) HDB flat.

Gaze

Huilong Guan 2011

The Gaze The Continuum of Space

As I gaze through my frozen window, I found the white world covered with snow. It is cold and no sunlight, only a thick polluted air hovering in the sky. Layers of homogeneous windows, buildings and towers are queueing in geometric orders along the line of perspective. It fades at the end underneath the grey sky. To live is to dwell, or to dwell is to live? As the journey of life is to preserve the continuum of space, no one knows what tomorrow is like. And instead of wondering how one should live, instead, it is worthwhile to ponder on how one may live.

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References

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Pérez-Gómez, Alberto. Built Upon Love. The MIT Press. 2008. Simmel, Georg. “The Metropolis and Mental Life” in Leach, Neil, Rethinking Architecture, a Reader in Cultural Theory. Routledge 1997: 69-79. Vellinga, Marcel. “The End of the Vernacular: Anthropology and the Architecture of the Other.” Etnofoor 23:1. 2011. Yeoh, Brenda S.A. “From Post Colonial Neglect to Post-Independence Heritage: The Housing Landscape in the Central Area of Singapore.” City and Society. 12(1): 103-124.

Images Source:

The Little Thai House: http://ofhouses.tumblr.com/post/182699560624/641-tony-duquette-dawnridge-los-angeles Figure 01: https://www.architecturaldigest.com/story/hutton-wilkinson-tony-duquette-dawnridge-design-jewelry Figure 02 : http://www.iamnotastalker.com/2013/08/26/dawnridge-the-tony-duquette-house/ Figure 03 : https://katieconsiders.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/03/tony-duquette-dawnridge-2.jpg Figure 04: last retrieved 5 March 2019 http://lapisblog.epfl.ch/gallery3/index.php/20140709-01/le_corbusier_ville_contemporaine_1922_02 Figure 05: last retrieved 5 March 2019 http://www.chinaconstruction.com.sg/cms/upload/images/201410/141378823638.jpg Figure 08: https://www.comfort-works.com/news/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/discontinued-ikea-sofas-featured2.png Figure 09: https://lunaxehome.files.wordpress.com/2014/01/08-186100064.jpg?w=660&h=900