StudioC_Wang_Jiaao(Wayne)_Journal

JOURNAL

Studio 34 - Contested States

Tutor - Heather Mitcheltree & Mitchell Ransome

Student - JiaAo Wang (Wayne)

Student# - 881703

Moonrise, Hernandez Ansel Adams 1941

Tenaya 265, 1991

made of pieces of warped plywood, 1979

1979 he has been making collages out of scraps of paper, foil, can lids, and whatever else he finds or people send him. He then photographed the collages with Polaroid positive/negative film, always in black and white. Using light, shapes, forms, and surfaces, the results are very unique images that encourage the viewer to let his or her imagination do all the interpretation.

He did create landscapes in a way that emphasized pattern, texture, and tone, paving the way for his future work in abstracts.

Peace Warrior (Don Quixote) 188, 2003

Don Quixote 190, 1993

Samurai 329, 1999 Carl Chiarenza

An early series that explored his feelings about nature is called Woods. But Chiarenza was not the first to create images of landscapes indoors. “While Siskind felt guilty moving one small item in a landscape photograph, he and Ansel Adams actually produced their final images (including Adams’s famous Moonrise Over Hernandez, New Mexico) through manipulation of light in the darkroom. They brought their visual ideas of looking out at nature into the darkroom, where they would make subtle or major changes by hand and tool, operating between negative and print.”

The reason that Cai choose to use gunpowder as his preferred medium is because it was not a normal medium that was used in art. He thought that is was perfect material for showing both frustration and respect. It incorporated both violence and beauty, thus making it his signature trademark.

The Ninth Wave”, Shanghai, 2014

the riverfront of the Power Station of Art, August 8, 2014.

The use of gunpowder in Cai’s work brings deep meaning. The material that Cai used was put together with a lot of different minerals that took hundreds of thousands of years to completely form and be able to be used. It is an element of traditional Chinese medicine that was thought to help make one never experience death. In other words they were trying to make people immortal with this medicine that they were creating. The connection between the ephemeral and the immortal, of bringing together heaven and earth, is a key factor for the creator/artist.

Cai believes that the destruction brings construction to life-which runs in a perpetual cycle. Whether seen through eyes of the political, the spiritual, or the personal. this sphere of life and death is tangible in all of his work. His explosive methods became a metaphor for the dance. One of Cai’s quotes says,” I am exploring the connection to unseen power.”

Spirituality and its link to both the seen and unseen universes, is a constant source of inspiration for the artist who dives into the history of Chinese traditions, which include the following: Taoism, Buddhism, Feng Shui, Qi Gong, Confucianism and other practices. Cai uses these these to help explore and find fodder for his work. His use of large amounts of black and muddied monochrome color represents the cleanliness of the undistracted spiritual.

Sky Ladder (2015)

“They were actually looking for an elixir to make themselves immortal,” he said.

In a way, the search for immortality was very much bound up in the two-decade-long process of bringing the vision of Sky Ladder to life—not for Cai, but for his 100-year-old grandmother, to whom the project was dedicated. “She has been my biggest supporter,” the artist noted.

“This is where I want to make a ladder to connect the Earth to the universe,”

the Guggenheim’s exhibition presents art as a process that unfolds in time and space, dealing with ideas of transformation, expenditure of materials, and connectivity. The structure of Cai’s art forms are inherently unstable, but his social idealism characterizes all change, however violent, as carrying the seeds of positive creation. Subverting tropes such as East versus West, traditional versus contemporary, center versus periphery, Cai offers a new cultural paradigm for the art of a global age and expands the meaning of the phrase “I want to believe.”

With its theatrical components, mainly derived from Cai’s studies in stage design, the work was a reflection on the psychological aspects, cultural problems, and overall political climate that defines our daily lives. In this sense, the moving car acts as a metaphor for the momentum of destruction. It was part of a series of installations developed in the 2000s, where Cai explored social and political associations and meanings.

Cai Guo-Qiang: I Want to Believe Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York, 2008

The installation also aimed to provoke a dialogue surrounding terrorist attacks, specifically the September 11 catastrophe in 2001 that profoundly affected Cai who was living and working in New York at the time. In this perspective the car can be seen as exploding, representing the unstable climate of terrorism and the unsetling atmosphere it bestows upon the world. “We live in a world full of terror, of discussion and fear of terror,” claimed Cai. The installation posed these considerations while framed in a shockingly vulgar beauty, which is something the artist has been criticized for, work in which vast spectacle mutes out the underlying substance.

Murmuration Melbourne, Australia, 2019

Terracotta Warriors

万只瓷鸟如魂似影，贯穿展览始终。时而零星单飞，时而在兵马俑远方如乌云密布、千军压顶；时而以龙卷风之势，翻腾形成秦陵背后的骊山脉络。 《鸟云》灵感来自艺术家年轻时，俯瞰地坑内兵马俑军阵的视觉气势，和造八千雕塑只为埋葬的观念性之震撼。“海外兵马俑展常孤零几座雕塑，流 于异国风情文化怀旧。既无感秦汉精神的大气，更无中国今天，及它与世界的关系——对它的速度、能量、复杂、混沌和不安的表现。鸟云的变幻莫 测，像墓穴浩荡兵马魂魄追来，也似中华帝国不散的阴影漂浮。” “我是希望通过这个鸟从美术馆的入口到结束，它像一条灵性的时间[纽带]，看到悠久的历史文化，但同时这些鸟也反映了当今中国的速度、能量、 混沌，还有矛盾。也就是说一种不安感。” 他说：“我们每一次去参观兵马俑的时候，看到几千个兵马俑在地坑里面，那一种力量和我们在国外看兵马俑展，五个、十个放在那边根本就是不一 样的。所以我想如何通过一万只鸟表现那种从地坑感受到的那种精神和灵性，飞出来的那种气势。”

Cai Guo-Qiang – Head On, 2006, 99 life-sized replicas of wolves and glass wall, installation view, Guggenheim Museum Bilbao, 2009

human beings must live together and care about the planet and each other if the planet is to survive. Additionally, since the piece was commissioned by the Deutsche Guggenheim in Berlin, Heads On was also a metaphor that was central to understanding the Berlin Wall and the effect that the wall had in the country. Heads on is definitely a captivating piece where the realistic appearance of all the wolves helped to transport audiences into the world of the strange and the unfamiliar.

PAV I L I O N S I T E

BUFFER ZONE BUYUK HAN

site section scale 1:200

Cyprus became an overseas colony of the Venetian Republic

C Y P R U S

Cyprus became a part of the Ottoman Empire

British occupation began. Britain agreed to help Turkey against future Russian attacks

1489 1571 1878

1572

1878

1898

1903 Britain annexed Cyprus in response to Turkey's alliance with Germany and Austro-Hungary in World War I

Cyprus became a British Crown Colony

Greek Cypriots demanding Enosis, the union with Greece, instigated their first serious riots

Cyprus became independent of foreign rule

The Cypriot National Guard and EOKA B, led by the Greek Junta, launch a coup and overthrow the democratically elected President, with the goal of Enosis

UN Forces remained as buffer between the two zones

The line which divided the two parts of Cyprus was partly opened. Thousands of Turkish and Greek Cypriots crossed the buffer zone to the "other side" after 30 years

restored for use as a prison, under British control

used as an inn

used as central prison of Nicosia

1914

1925

1931

1947

British occupation ended

built under the first Ottoman governor of Cyprus

became a refuge for poor families where they could rent rooms cheaply

1960

1960 1974

1975

2003

1990s

used as arts centre, consisting of several couryard cafe, souvenir shops, galleries and workshops.

B U Y U K H A N historical timeline

LEDRA STREET CROSSING POINT BUFFER ZONE

T U R U N C LU MOSQUE

K U M AC I L A R HAN I P L I K PA Z A R I MOSQUE BUYUK HAN

SELIMIYE MOSQUE

BUYUK HAMAM

PAV I L I O N S I T E

FINAL PROJECT SITE ‘ V. E . C A R PA R K ’ NICOSIA MAP

site mapping and analysis scale 1:2000

conceptual frame collage

Memory of absence: Contemporary countermonuments Sabrina Deturk

The memorial thus occupied a space between presence and absence; neither permanently vanishing like the Gerz monument, nor explicitly occupying a negative space, like Hoheisel’s fountain, the perpetual appearance and disappearance of the text may evoke the idea of a memory lapse and our need for continual reminders of the past.

For Young, these projects meet the criteria of a counter-monument, which [‌] flouts any number of cherished memorial conventions: its aim is not to console but to provoke; not to remain fixed but to change; not to be everlasting but to disappear; not to be ignored by its passersby but to demand interaction; not to remain pristine but to invite its own violation and desecration; not to accept graciously the burden of memory but to throw it back at the town’s feet.

(1992: 277) the counter-monument is messy, challenging and provokes its viewers. It does not stay neatly within bounds of space or time but calls our attention to the ongoing work of memory and to those lapses of memory that threaten to compromise our reckoning with the past.

a twelve-metre high, one-metre square pillar, its surface covered by a thin layer of soft lead. At each corner of the pillar a steelpointed stylus was attached and an inscription next to the monument invited viewers to inscribe their name on the pillar.

Monument Against Fascism, Harburg Jochen Gerz and Esther Shalev-Gerz 1986 - 1993

Monument Against Fascism, Harburg Jochen Gerz and Esther Shalev-Gerz 1986 - 1993

As a section of the pillar became covered with names (and other graffiti), the column would be lowered into the ground, presenting a fresh surface for inscriptions, until the entire pillar was submerged. Between 1986 and its final descent in 1993, the monument was lowered eight times (Gerz 2016). Today all that is visible at the site is a small viewing window and a plaque describing the project with photos of the pillar during the stages of its gradual descent.

Aschrottbrunnen Fountain Horst Hoheisel 1989

Horst Hoheisel with a model of his Aschrottbrunnen

This was a neo-Gothic fountain that had been gifted to the city of Kassel in 1908 by one of its Jewish citizens, Sigmond Aschrott, and destroyed by the Nazis in 1939, leaving only the remnants of the base.

Hoheisel opted not to recreate or preserve the original fountain, instead constructing what Young terms a ‘negative-form monument’.

Aschrottbrunnen Fountain Horst Hoheisel 1989

By building a hollow concrete form that followed the design of the 1908 fountain and then inverting it and sinking it into the ground, leaving the hollow open for water to run down into, rather than spraying upward.

Gedenkstätte KZ-Auβenlager Sonnenallee Neukölln district of Berlin Norbert Radermacher 1994

the movement of passers-by triggered the projection of varying texts discussing the history of the site, which is now a sports field.

The text moved slowly downward until it reached the sidewalk, where it became most legible, before it disappeared, to be triggered by the next person passing the site.

The Stolpersteine project by the German artist Gunter Demnig began in 1997 and is still ongoing.

Stolperstein can be translated as ‘stumbling stone or stumbling block’ and while the smooth surfaces of the memorial plates do not literally cause one to trip, they may be seen as psychological stumbling stones, meant to disrupt the path of the viewer and to force them to confront the lived reality of a single victim of the Holocaust.

That many of those who have participated in the commissioning, researching and installation of the Stolpersteine are of a generation far too young to have a personal tie to the Holocaust means that the stones serve a didactic purpose, a function in keeping with the characteristics of counter-monuments, particularly recent memorials and associated memorial museums.

Kraków’s Jewish Ghetto Memorial installed in 2005 in Ghetto Heroes Square designed by Piotr Lewicki and Kazimierz Łatak

Piotr Lewicki and Kazimierz Łatak, Jewish Ghetto Memorial (2005).

Photo: Sabrina DeTurk 2015.

Its design was inspired by films and photographs of Jewish victims of the Holocaust carrying their possessions through town squares, as they were moved from house, to ghetto and eventually to camps was described as left full of useless, dilapidated objects, abandoned when their owners were killed or taken to the camps. Lewicki and Łatak reduced that image of a square filled with abandoned goods to a simple symbol: the empty chair, standing for loss and absence.

Through its integration with the public, lived space of the city the memorial will wear and change as time passes, people will interact with and use it and thus, wittingly or unwittingly, participate in the memory work that counter-monuments are intended to provoke.

Its insistent presence and interaction with the space of the city it precisely refuses to ‘seal memory off from awareness’ (Young 1992: 272) and instead prompts its viewers to continue the work of memory in the present and future.

In Centricity, Woods drew a mythical city where towers appear to grow up out of the landscape, bearing a closer resemblance to machines than buildings, but with the same organic shapes that are more commonly found in nature.

the architect said: “What I’m most interested in recently, in the end of the Centricity series, is this idea of curvilinear things, of double curvations and triple-curvations, of hyperbolic geometry and compound geometry, so you are not just dealing with pure Euclidean forms.”

Centricity, 1987

The A-City project was completed around the same time and investigates the relationship between technology and patterns of life.

The 4 cities drawings predate both of these series and show the beginnings of Woods’ ideas about deconstruction, replacing traditional building features with abstract forms and symbols.

A-City: Sector 1576N, 1986

The A-City project was completed around the same time and investigates the relationship between technology and patterns of life. ”In these places I’m drawing, the high-technology is invisible, because it’s already so miniaturised, and so compact, and so industrialised, that it’s not a major physical artefact,” said Woods. “And the city is indeed low-technology in the sense that people are participating in the making of it.”

4 Cities & Beyond, 1983

The 4 cities drawings predate both of these series and show the beginnings of Woods’ ideas about deconstruction, replacing traditional building features with abstract forms and symbols.

Lebbeus Woods: After Destruction ”After destruction, it is not possible to immediately resume the old, disrupted ways of living. Indeed, this can only be done by regressing to them, led by the resurgence of social, political and professional institutions under whose authority they once existed.

But too much has been suffered and lost, too much learned at too great a price to be quickly forgotten. The spirit of invention that makes survival possible under the extreme conditions created by destruction makes possible the new ways of living in a city that will, in a sense, always remain in a paradoxical state of destruction and construction. That the dynamics of change, were at the same time political, technological, epistemological and personal, are the ingredients of what may correctly be called a creative form of destruction in the city’s day to day existence. Rather, it elevates the “paradox” to a more complex plane of experience for everyone. The spaces of the old city were shaped to sponsor conventionality. In their damaged state, they offer an entirely new possibility for understanding the origins of both space and habitation. The architect leads the way by codifying this new understanding only in terms of space, without the fixed reference of habitation. The architect is a designer of space, not of living. The spirit of invention demanded by perpetual transformation thrives best in space shaped by its own invention.”

“I’m not interested in living in a fantasy world … All my work is still meant to evoke real architectural spaces. But what interests me is what the world would be like if we were free of conventional limits. Maybe I can show what could happen if we lived by a different set of rules” “Architecture and war are not incompatible. Architecture is war. War is architecture. I am at war with my time, with history, with all authority that resides in fixed and frightened forms. I am one of millions who do not fit in, who have no home, no family, no doctrine, nor firm place to call my own, no known beginning or end, no ‘sacred and primordial site’. I declare war on all icons and finalities, on all histories that would chain me with my own falseness, my own pitiful fears. I know only moments, and lifetimes that are as moments, and forms that appear with infinite strength, then ‘melt into air’. I am an architect, a constructor of worlds, a sensualist who worships the flesh, the melody, a silhouette against the darkening sky. I cannot know your name. Nor can you know mine.

Tomorrow, we begin together the construction of a city.”

Lebbeus Woods, 1940 – 2012

https://www.penccil.com/gallery.php?p=818385683261

WAR AND ARCHITECTURE: Three Principles Lebbeus Woods https://lebbeuswoods.wordpress.com/2011/12/02/war-and-architecture-the-sarajevo-window/ https://lebbeuswoods.wordpress.com/2011/12/15/war-and-architecture-three-principles/

“Architecture and war are not incompatible. Architecture is war. War is architecture. I am at war with my time, with history, with all authority that resides in fixed and frightened forms. I am one of millions who do not fit in, who have no home, no family, no doctrine, nor firm place to call my own, no known beginning or end, no ‘sacred and primordial site’. I declare war on all icons and finalities, on all histories that would chain me with my own falseness, my own pitiful fears. I know only moments, and lifetimes that are as moments, and forms that appear with infinite strength, then ‘melt into air’. I am an architect, a constructor of worlds, a sensualist who worships the flesh, the melody, a silhouette against the darkening sky. I cannot know your name. Nor can you know mine.

Tomorrow, we begin together the construction of a city.”

At that time, I was responding to an urgent situation in Sarajevo, Bosnia—a city under a sustained terrorist attack that, in the West, was considered a siege, as though it were part of a normal war, which it was not. Snipers had turned streets into lethal shooting galleries and artillery gunners had turned ordinary buildings where people worked and lived into incendiary death traps. It was clear that architecture was part of the problem—the killing of thousands of innocent men, woman, and children—and I felt strongly that as long as the attacks continued (it turned out to be for more than three years) architecture also had to be part of the solution.

Without the help of architects, people had built temporary walls as shields against snipers and thrown up all sorts of improvised repairs to their homes and workplaces. I reasoned that these makeshift structures, though more or less effective for their purposes, created a degraded environment, which was exactly the goal of the terrorists. To survive, and to frustrate the enemies of their refined culture, people need a sense of order in their world, one that is consciously created, or designed. Sarajevans nobly showed this need by the way they dressed, in spite of the lack of water, heat, or lighting, somehow always in clean, pressed clothing, the women elegantly coifed and made up, incongruously strolling in the parts of the city center that were screened from snipers if not from mortars and cannons in the hills above, like players from an Alain Resnais film. Inspired by this and a dash of Michelangelo’s designs for the fortifications of Florence, I set out to consider how to repair damaged houses and offices in ways that embodied the elan of their inhabitants, as well as kept out the rain, snow, and cold. These were extremely modest designs, made from scavenged metal, wood, and even cardboard.

The First Principle: Restore what has been lost to its pre-war condition. The idea is to restore ‘normalcy,’ where the normal is the way of living lost as a result of the war. The idea considers the war as only an interruption of an ongoing flow of the normal.

The Second Principle: Demolish the damaged and destroyed buildings and build something entirely new. This ‘new’ could be something radically different from what existed before, or only an updated version of the lost pre-war normal. Its application is very expensive financially, at the least.

Both of these concepts reflect the desires of most city inhabitants to ‘get back to normal,’ and forget the trauma they suffered as a result of the violence and destruction. Yet, both concepts ignore the effects of the war and destruction on the people who suffered through them, not only the personal psychological effects, but also those forcing changes to people’s social, political, and economic relationships. Before the war, Sarajevo was the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina, one of the states in the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. After the war, it was the capital of an independent country and no longer Socialist. The impact of this change alone on people’s everyday lives has been enormous, and particularly so in the ways they perceive each other and themselves. In this sense, it is not possible to get back to normal. The pre-war normal no longer exists, having been irrevocably destroyed, Still, this does not mean that many—even most—people will not desire to do so. In such a society, wise leaders are needed to persuade people that something new must be created—a new normal that modifies or in some ways replaces the lost one, and further, that it can only be created with their consent and creative participation. In effect, a new principle of reconstruction needs to be established.

We’ll call it the Third Principle: The post-war city must create the new from the damaged old. Many of the buildings in the war-damaged city are relatively salvageable, and because the finances of individuals and remaining institutions have been depleted by war and its privations, that salvageable building stock must be used to build the ‘new’ city. And because the new ways of living will not be the same as the old, the reconstruction of old buildings must enable new ways and ideas of living. The familiar old must be transformed, by conscious intention and design, into the unfamiliar new.

It is worth mentioning that the most needed buildings are the so-called ordinary ones—apartments and office buildings, primarily. Symbolic structures, such as churches, synagogues, mosques and those buildings of historical significance that are key to the cultural memory of the city and its people, must also be salvaged and repaired. With these latter buildings, the First Principle—restoration to the pre-war state—is almost always justified, whatever the cost, which is always high. However, the application of this principle to ordinary buildings makes no sense, because there is nothing especially memorable to restore. To the contrary, the apartment and office blocks that survive destruction must provide the day-to-day spaces for the new ways of living to be enabled by their ‘radical reconstruction.’

The projects for Sarajevo that demonstrate exactly what is meant by this term, accompanied by extended captions, are presented below. I think it is possible, and just, to project the Third Principle into the reconstruction of today’s war-damaged cities.

(above) A typical residential block, badly damaged in places, reconstructed with new types of spaces for residents’ use. The principle here is that reconstruction integrates people’s experiences of the destruction into needed social changes, as well as architectural ones.

(above and below) Typical residential blocks, damaged and reconstructed as described above. It is important to remember that most of such ordinary buildings are damaged only in part and can be salvaged by reconstruction for the post-war city and its new ways of living.

Architecture should never be flexible. Rather it should be firmly and unconditionally what it is... it should be definite, precise, unequivocal, so that people can respond to it in whatever way they choose. Only by being singular, original, authentic can architecture offer to people spaces in which they are encouraged to be the same.

http://archtalks.com/archtalkshome/2010/11/1/as-it-is-interview-with-lebbeus-woods-part-1.html The Fall installation at the Cartier Foundation for Contemporary Art, Paris.

The exploration of a space of radical transformation. Paul Virilio and I, in our different ways, share an intense interest in the changes brought about by technological innovation, by cultural and social upheavals, by natural catastrophes like earthquake and the social and architectural responses to them. I see these extreme cases as the avant-garde of a coming normality, one that we must engage creatively now, inventing new languages, rules and methods, if we are to preserve what is essential to our humanity, that is, compassion, reason, independence of thought and action. Paul, in this exhibition, confronts ‘the accident’ as an integral part of progress. He wants to face its terrors as a way of transcending them. I respect that. For my part, I want to face the consequences of destruction in order to employ them in the service of constructive aspirations. This means engaging the consequences of destruction—whether from war, earthquake, neglect or abandonment—head-on, neither attempting to erase nor memorialize them, but rather to use them as the starting points for a new sensibility, a new basis for creative action. “The Fall” uses a hypothesis, not an actuality, in this way.

The essence of the modern condition—the contemporary condition—is transience. Things pass, they evolve, and quickly. There is hardly time to absorb a new mode, a new technique, a new place, a new situation, before it is made obsolete by something newer, which we must adapt to without having the time to do so. This kind of transience, which used to be called revolutionary and is now hardly noticed, demands of us an adaptiveness, a creativity that uses entirely different rules than history—classicism—can provide. Classicism and the monumental are still very much with us today. Bilbao is a classical monument. The architecture of transience, the architecture of our true modernity, has barely been imagined, let alone attempted in construction.

What you describe as a “steel beam jungle,” I thought of as a Kabinett, a collection displaying the accumulated artifacts of random centuries. I also thought of it as a labyrinth, a complex circuit of spatial frames in which it is easy to become lost or confused. Confusion, in our Western tradition, is the first step in the process of learning. The artifacts of many epochs were juxtaposed, blurring comfortable timelines. Architecture here was neither rhetorical or didactic—it conveyed no ideology—but was instead heuristic: its structure liberated unexpected associations between the artifacts of civilization, making multiple interpretations of its lineage possible.

The installation in Paris had quite a different ambition, even though the means of creating space had something in common with the installation in Berlin. There were no artifacts, for one, but the biggest difference was a higher degree of abstraction in Paris, a more purely tectonic realization.

This brought it closer to an architecture that I consider a constructed idea of itself.

Architecture’s comprehensiveness, though, is not to been seen directly... it’s synthetic, abstract... It must create a complexity that offers highly individual interpretations and uses. Programmatically speaking, it can only do this if it is, in the first place, ‘about’ itself.

The installation Civilization at the Martin Gropius Bau exhibition 7Hills: Images and Ideas of the 21st Century, Berlin.

Architecture creates a field of potentials, defined by spatial limits, and also by its own imbedded methodology, within which people may choose to act, or not. Traditional architecture tries to choreograph people’s movements, even their thoughts and feelings. The architecture I envision is more anarchic. For some years I called it freespace, free of predetermined purposes and meanings. The difficulty of occupying such spaces confronts the crisis of contemporary existence, namely the necessity to invent one’s self and meaning in the face of world-destroying changes.

Cyprus became an overseas colony of the Venetian Republic

C Y P R U S

Cyprus became a part of the Ottoman Empire

British occupation began. Britain agreed to help Turkey against future Russian attacks

1489 1571 1878

1572

1878

1898

1903 Britain annexed Cyprus in response to Turkey's alliance with Germany and Austro-Hungary in World War I

Cyprus became a British Crown Colony

Greek Cypriots demanding Enosis, the union with Greece, instigated their first serious riots

Cyprus became independent of foreign rule

The Cypriot National Guard and EOKA B, led by the Greek Junta, launch a coup and overthrow the democratically elected President, with the goal of Enosis

UN Forces remained as buffer between the two zones

The line which divided the two parts of Cyprus was partly opened. Thousands of Turkish and Greek Cypriots crossed the buffer zone to the "other side" after 30 years

restored for use as a prison, under British control

used as an inn

used as central prison of Nicosia

1914

1925

1931

1947

British occupation ended

built under the first Ottoman governor of Cyprus

became a refuge for poor families where they could rent rooms cheaply

1960

1960 1974

1975

2003

1990s

used as arts centre, consisting of several couryard cafe, souvenir shops, galleries and workshops.

B U Y U K H A N

the inn has been revived as an arts centre, consisting of galleries, shops, cafes and workshops.

buyuk han that is the largest caravansarai in Cyprus

buffer zone barricade and barbed wire commercial area full of small-scale retail stores

many bars and cafes

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Restarted from the idea of my carbinet Using geometry, fragmented surface to create unsettling and unstable atmosphere The shape is inspired by the situation when a wall burst by being crashed to remind visitors of the ruins after war

Opening is created in Buyuk Han as entry of the pavilion

This pavilion is attached on the west facade of Buyuk Han where people can have a view of Selimiye Mosque, Buffer Zone, and closer touch of Buyuk Han

In this pavilion isitors can hear and communicate with others about the history discussions and debates are welcomed to happen here to create dialogue with the past

Also there is a raised platform facing the small plaza at west

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T U R U N C LU MOSQUE

K U M AC I L A R HAN I P L I K PA Z A R I MOSQUE BUYUK HAN

SELIMIYE MOSQUE

BUYUK HAMAM

PAV I L I O N S I T E

FINAL PROJECT SITE ‘ V. E . C A R PA R K ’ NICOSIA MAP

SITE ANALYSIS

KUMARCILAR HAN LEDRA PALACE HOTEL

SELIMIYE MOSQUE

UN TOWER

BUYUK HAN

CROSSING POINT MAIN STREAM BUFFER ZONE

CONCEPTUAL DIAGRAM NORTH WING - MAIN GALLERY

SOUTH WING - FOYER

- block

- block

- central void created as main courtyard

- boundary pushed back to create front plaza and secondary

- program space around the void

courtyard

- height difference created

- central void created as foyer

- boundary pushed back to create in-between space

- circulation around central lobby connecting spaces

-linkage connecting all space to create circulation

- introduce vegetation in central courtyard

- introduce vegetation in front plaza as welcoming gesture

- vegetation in in-between space for urban context

- vegetation in secondary courtyard to blur the boundary between surrounded buildings

PROGRAMATIC DIAGRAM

gallery

SECOND FLOOR

outdoor cinema

multi-functional room

gallery office with tea room

FIRST FLOOR

central courtyard gallery

shop foyer entrance

office reception toilet

courtyard cafe

GROUND FLOOR bike rack car park loading bay artwork storage toilet (for staff) changing room (for staff)

BASEMENT

GROUND FLOOR PLAN

10

6

10 7

4

9

6 3 2

10 10

5 1 8

1 entrance 2 foyer

4

3 reception 4 cafe 5 secondary courtyard 6 toilet 7 office 8 shop 9 central courtard 10 gallery

1:200

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0

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8m

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20m

FIRST FLOOR PLAN

5

3

7 1

4

6

2

4

1 office 2 toilet 3 multi-function room 4 gallery 5 ourdoor cinema 6 storage 7 tea room

1:200

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0

4m

8m

12m

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20m

SECOND FLOOR PLAN

1

1 ‘scope’ gallery

1:200

4m

0

4m

8m

12m

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20m

BASEMENT PLAN

6

5

3 1

4 2

1 car park (for staff) 2 loading bay 3 artwork storage 4 changing room (for staff) 5 toilet (for staff) 6 bike rack

1:200

4m

0

4m

8m

12m

16m

20m

SECTION A-A A

A

1:100

2m

0

2m

4m

6m

8m

10m

SECTION B-B B

B

1:100

2m

0

2m

4m

6m

8m

10m

SECTION C-C

C

C

1:200

4m

0

4m

8m

12m

16m

20m

RENDER VIEW

SOUTH-WEST BIRD VIEW

ENTRANCE

FOYER

GALLERY SPACE

LINKAGE SPACE BETWEEN GALLERIES

GALLERY SPACE

CENTRAL COURTYARD

‘SCOPE’ GALLERY