HANDS ON

THE VALUE OF BUILDING CULTURE

HANDS ON

Cover: Smokehouse, Hasle, 2019.

Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk

Hands On

The Value of Building Culture

P.4 Preface P.12 Uta Graff (Peer): Heritage and Creation of Knowledge.

P.20 Christoffer Harlang: Hammershus Revisited – Reflections on Strategies for a Contemporary Building Culture. P.30 Nicolai Bo Andersen: Sustainable Aesthetics – An Outline of a True Sustainable Building Culture.

P.36 Nicolai Bo Andersen & Victor Boye Julebæk: Joint Matter – An Annotated Visual Essay on Sustainable Timber Construction. P.48 Søren Vadstrup: Hurl Space – The Intangible Heritage of the Timber-Framed Farmhouse. P.62 Thomas Kampmann: Revitalising Building Archaeology – Coupling Traditional Building Archaeology, Surveying and LCA. P.74 Morten Birk Jørgensen: Crowning Svaneke – The Water Tower by Jørn Utzon.

P.86 Søren Bak-Andersen: All-Wood-No-Nails – Robotic Tooling Utilising Historical Material Knowledge. P.98 Victor Boye Julebæk: Tacit Matter – On the Surface of Things. P.110 Back Matter. P.112 Authors’ Biographies.

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PREFACE

Morten Birk Jørgensen, Victor Boye Julebæk and Christoffer Harlang.

In 2018, we – the researchers at TRANSFORMATION – issued the publication ROBUST in connection with a conference of the same name.

The conference was held in Danish for a local professional crowd and the publication written in English for non-Danish speakers. This format proved fruitful as a way to collect excerpts from the research and share them with colleagues and peers within the fields of architecture and cultural heritage. The publication at hand is a sequel to ROBUST, with the modifications we find worthwhile and with a content reflecting our latest research. When we decided to follow up in a similar format, we soon settled on the working title HANDS ON. More out of intuition than 4

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as a product of a particular thematic intention. This ambiguous phrase clung to the work, however, and was eventually elevated to the actual title of the publication. So, what made this title so catchy that we couldn’t wrench it off as the work evolved? Let us take a brief look at the etymology of the phrase and see what is revealed.

The American dictionary Merriam-Webster has an entry under ‘hands-on’ – with a hyphen, that is. According to this, ‘hands-on’ has two main meanings. The first being ‘relating to, being, or providing direct practical experience in the operation or functioning of something.’ Interpreting this in relation to the publication, several of the articles really do present ‘direct practical experience’ concerning their topic. As for the other meaning: ‘characterized by active personal involvement,’ we can vouch for this being a distinguishing feature of all the contributions.

In our version – without the hyphen – the phrase also relates closely to another entry at Merriam-Webster, namely ‘hand on’. This is synonymous with ‘hand down’, i.e., to ‘to transmit in succession (as from father to son).’

This allusion similarly appears somehow characteristic. Sustaining, revisiting, interpreting and disseminating both knowledge and buildings are the interests and responsibilities for the research group at TRANSFORMATION. First of all, the publication represents the work of a specific research project. Since 2018, the Danish philanthropic association REALDANIA has generously funded ‘Forankring og Forandring’ (English: Rooted Change), or simply ‘FORAN’, in collaboration with KADK. ‘FORAN’ is an umbrella covering a range of diverse projects by the researchers involved. Apart from the researchers engaged in ‘FORAN’, the group presently includes a PhD project as well. Each of the present projects contributes to the main content of this publication. HANDS ON thereby demonstrates the diversity of scopes and displays the common characteristics within the research group.

Each of the authoring researchers has had full authority and autonomy concerning the written content of their contributions. Editorial modifications have been confined to the presented figures apart from more practical aspects of layout, handling of proofreading etc. For the assessment of the content of the articles, we have engaged in an open peer review process with 6

architect and professor at the Technical University of Munich Uta Graff.

She has provided a written statement as a peer report on the research with comments for each article. This peer report is published here as part of the front matter to provide an external perspective on the work and to position the research conducted.

Each article opens with a synopsis that presents the content of the paper.

Instead of summarising the content in a preface, we will refer to these small texts and the comprehensive observations by our peer for orientation in the publication.

Rather than focusing on one specific theme, HANDS ON covers a substantive field of approaches to architectural heritage. Some articles deal with traditional architectural working methods, material science, the history of craftsmanship and its relevance and its opportunities of application in a contemporary or future building practice. Others focus on cultural heritage as a contemporary practice and engage with emphasising its present value. While others again engage more philosophically with aesthetic ideas and perception. As such, the publication has a heterogeneous approach to the subject matter.

Nevertheless, there is a common thread that joins the majority of the articles. In the spring semester of 2019, TRANSFORMATION was engaged in a project on the island of Bornholm. This specific project turns up in several of the articles while others are marked by this activity by engaging with experiences and discoveries obtained in connection with the visits to Bornholm.

In the everyday life as researchers at KADK, the focus on a common research production is easily lost between an abundance of activities among the staff members. HANDS ON is a welcome opportunity for the group to get a firm grip on things and align our perspectives on a common goal.

At the same time, it is an opportunity to present the ongoing research at TRANSFORMATION and for the researchers to point out directions for further investigation. We hope these articles find you well and look forward to discussing the content with colleagues at the conference HANDS ON and beyond.

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Opposite page: Evaluation in the Seaplane Hangar, 2018. Photo, Christian Minor.

This page: Salem’s workshop, 2019.

Photo, Nicolai Bo Andersen.

Page 5: ‘The Apprentices’ House’ pavilion under construction in Copenhagen, 2019.

Photo: Victor Boye Julebæk.

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This page: Marienlyst Castle, Exhibition, 2020.

Photo, Nicolai Bo Andersen.

Opposite page: Marienlyst Castle, Lecture, 2020 Photo, Nicolai Bo Andersen.

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HERITAGE AND CREATION OF KNOWLEDGE, UTA GRAFF

Heritage and creation of knowledge – Research approaches in Architectural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation.

Uta Graff, Peer Report, 2020.

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Prologue. The KADK Master’s programme ‘Architectural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation’ was developed in order to meet the current and future changes in our physical environment and the associated challenges in a qualified manner on a broad professional level. The focus here is not only on how to repair, restore or transform cultural heritage sites. But with regard to a sustainable consideration of the existing substance of our built environment, the focus is also on more recent buildings and those that are not or not yet listed. Specific methods and perspectives have been developed and implemented in teaching and research which can operationalise the built heritage both ideally and physically.

In order to work on a high level in research and teaching and with a common understanding and commitment the approach of the programme is based on a series of declarations, the ethical codes.1 They are guidelines of a high ethical standard, characterised by an awareness of the holistic perception of architecture and an appropriate withdrawal of possible new intentions towards the carefully determined qualities of the existing built environment as a place for human encounters. Beyond their sentimental value these approaches evenly address aesthetic matters and consider the actual creation and making in the physical realm as condition for action.

The Master’s programme focusses on ‘how to develop the world in which we live: how to further develop the structures, buildings, towns and cities that already exist and, figuratively speaking, how to learn from the building culture that evolved across the ages.’

And there is a keen interest in the fact, that the ‘understanding of materials and tectonics, and knowledge of architectural theory and history are inextricably linked with the concept of sustainable architecture.’2 This latter interest in particular is considered in very different ways in the contributions to this publication. The methodological framework of the programme derives from the intertwining of these spectral divisions.

The program’s research addresses the question of how to develop a more specific approach to the methodology of thinking, constructing and teaching architecture. This aspect is illustrated in various ways in the following contributions. Based upon the heritage of knowledgeable, procedural and creational aspects of architecture, the current and future thinking, action and making of the discipline are defined.

Introduction. The contributions address the different fields of work of the Master’s programme with shifting focus on: education, research and practice. They take various research perspectives and look at a specific topic with a different approach in each case. These attempts can be distinguished as theoretical, historical, technical and phenomenological. In some articles, these approaches complement each other, especially where interdisciplinary research projects are concerned.

All contributions are as much of a systematic and creative approach as of practical relevance. Furthermore, the synergy between research and teaching, one of the programme’s core values, is evident in many of the texts.

Despite the variety of articles, there is a common point of reference that runs through the publication like a red thread. All contributions refer to the Danish island of Bornholm in the Baltic Sea, which appears to form the common ground and field of investigation for the completely different topics and research questions considered.

The insularity turns the local context of research into an enclave, which forms a protected, self-contained framework for all research projects and appears to a certain extent as a laboratory for the acquisition of knowledge. In many cases, field research is actually carried out on Bornholm and work and research is done on site and in reference to specific objects.

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In the following, I will briefly discuss the individual contributions in order to locate them thematically, classify them methodically and emphasise their relevance concerning the focus of the Master’s programme. Finally, I will consider the entity of the anthology against the background of the overall theme of the master’s programme.

1. Christoffer Harlang formulates thoughts on a strategy for a contemporary building culture based on his own building project for the extension of a visitor centre on Bornholm.

Two aspects of the contribution should be emphasised: On the one hand, there is the examination of the thoughts of the architect Jørn Utzon, who had already worked on the same situation and had develeped an architectural proposal for it at the beginning of the 1970s, and on the other hand the not explicitly mentioned but legible division of the contribution into three sections in which key aspects of architecture are named.

The reference to Utzon’s work is evenly considered in regard to the theoretical reflection and the process of design and conception of the visitor centre. Studying the way of thinking of another architect holds possible conceptual answers to questions that arise in the context of place and task and that should be answered by contemporary architectural means. In this sense, the differentiated examination of the work of another architect is not just a reference, but always a reflection of one’s own principles and values, which play an essential role in the design process.

The second point mentioned pervades the entire contribution and reflects essential aspects of the design process. The author approaches the central question and the formulation of the task.

The preconditions of the design process are named, such as location, programme and history, the relationship between the existing buildings and their surrounding landscape context and the declared intention of maintaining the unity of nature and architecture, with the extension of the ensemble by the new visitor centre.

Beginning with a brief description of the site and the existing situation, the author mentions the functional and spatial requirements for the design and finally comes to the construction of the new building and its structural elements.

Through that the article provides an insight into the process of architectural design and shows in an exemplary way the three essential aspects of every architecture. If one follows Kenneth Frampton, ‘the built invariably comes into existence out of the constantly evolving interplay of three converging vectors, the topos, the typos and the tectonic.’3 Despite the mention of essential aspects and elements of the design process, the actual procedural strategies and techniques are not explicitly addressed. The question of strategic choices in the design process remains open. Is it not rather a comprehensible and excitingly readable description of the creative process of designing architecture, into which the article provides an enlightening insight?

2. Nicolai Bo Andersen creates an inspiring connection between significant and relevant current demands on architecture and the search for answers to the question of sustainable aesthetics in the examination of philosophical writings. Based on the juxtaposition of traditional economic theory and the concept of recycling management, Nicolai Bo Andersen formulates a clear appeal to the necessity of the durability of buildings. He clarifies the concept of sustainability, the origin of the term and its historical roots.

In order to substantiate the argument for beauty as an essential aspect of sustainability, Nicolai Bo Andersen explores the concept

of beauty, starting with the Egyptians, through the Greek philosophers, the thinkers of the 17th and 18th centuries, and further to modern times with Heidegger and his thoughts on human existence in the world and Gadamer’s affirmation of the relation between beauty and human play. Amongst other, the author outlines the traditional positions of conservation theory up to the contemporary perspectives.

Considering the specification of highly demanding requirements for architecture, which are self-evident against the background and relevance of the topic, the question how and to what extent these formulated goals can be achieved remains open. But this is not the purpose of his research. Rather the article reads as a theoretical overall concept to the particular projects, which will be explained and examined in the following and which search for answers to the urgent questions of the present on all relevant levels and also on a high aesthetic stage.

On the basis of the values formulated by Plato, as truth, good and beauty, Nicolai Bo Andersen’s contribution ultimately pursues a discourse of values. In that sense, ‘Sustainable Aesthetics’ is not only a profound contribution to durable and resistant architecture but can also be read as an appeal to the creators of building culture to stand up for these values.

3. In their mutual contribution, Nicolai Bo Andersen and Victor Boye Julebæk very precisely describe the experimental set-up of a design build project. Starting with the basic conditions for the construction of two wooden pavilions, the justification of their identical geometry, the naming of the constructional connections based on a historical survey, their sustainability potentials and the process of their realisation.

Basically, architecture can only be invented and realised in an interdisciplinary way. In projects of this kind, which are realised on a scale of 1:1, this fact can be specified in the sense of an experimental field on a real basis in the cooperation of different participants. For the pavilion on Bornholm, cooperation with apprentices has been established, whereas the pavilion in Copenhagen was built by students. The ‘Joint Matter’ has become a core concern of the project.

The creative and constructive development of the pavilions is based on a detailed study of traditional building techniques in timber construction, which do not require metal connecting elements. Their reinterpretation defines the design and leads to a contemporary architecture. Although the identical geometry and structure of the pavilions, the details are different and refer to the historical principles of the connection typical for the respective locations.

Precise drawings and expressive photographs are part of the design- and practice-based research project. They provide an insight into the construction process, give an impression of the completed pavilions and enrich the textual contribution both visually and in terms of content.

In a different way than in the contribution by Søren Vadstup, the aspect of forward-looking relevance must also be emphasised in this research project. Just as the investigation and scientific analysis of historical building constructions can be fruitful for a contemporary development of resource-saving and site-specific adaptable construction methods, the project conducted and presented by Nicolai Bo Andersen and Victor Boye Julebæk is a productive current contribution to construction methods that will prospectively gain relevance as they deal with the constant ecological and geographical change of coastal regions with regard to possible changes in the course of the coast.

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4. In his contribution Søren Vadstrup deals with autochthonous historical building methods of timber-framed constructions in Denmark. Through a precise observation and description of the construction and building method, he fathoms the meaning and origin of this construction method and discusses how it is conceived.

Søren Vadstrup adresses the question, why these crooked crosstie-beam structures have such a long tradition in Danish building history and date even further back in the specific context of Bornholm. Most interestingly, this investigation is not only conducted alongside historic means and the reconsideration of the genesis of this constructive building type, but evenly considers etymological and terminological means of its development.

He traces the reason for the frame construction and, based on the linguistic foundation, also clarifies the origin of this construction method in Denmark. It does not only name a building type but rather the underlying process of production and the making. In this sense, language serves as the key to a profound understanding, tracing their origin and evolution. The reconstruction drawings are to be regarded as part of the scientific work, as they have a clear focus, are concise and contribute to the gain of knowledge in a meaningful and legible way.

Archaeological findings allow conclusions to be drawn about context specific medieval wood technology and processing tools, which differ significantly from common processing techniques. After an extensive excursus on the history of timber construction and its technology, the author eventually examines his considerations on the specific subject of timber architecture on Bornholm.

The distinct this investigation explores the history of cross-tiebeam constructions, the little it fathoms their potential to serve the contemporary discourse on sustainability and conceiving resources: Due to the minimal use of material, aligned with expertise in craftsmanship and carpentry, they offer a profound resource-saving attempt to architectural construction.

Their inherent tradition of deconstruction, relocation and reassembly bare yet another great potential for adaption as future-oriented technology in wood construction. The perspective necessity to move and relocate buildings due to the elevation of sea-level4 attributes significant relevance to this investigation of historic building constructions and the conservation of knowledge on this construction technique. Although, this aspect is not taken into account as part of the contribution, it opens the realm for the general question, how the investigation and scientific analysis of historic building constructions can contribute fruitfully to contemporary development of resource saving and site specifically adaptable building constructions. Maybe – and this might be a hypothesis – construction methods as such will prospectively gain relevance and become significant references for the development of attempts to deal with the constant ecological and geographical changing of coastal regions in regard to the relocation of buildings due to the elevation of the sea level.

5. Based on a holistic view of the environmental impact of buildings in relation to their total life cycle, Thomas Kampmann examines the question of how an existing building can be reused and thus energy consumption in buildings can be reduced. The aim is to show that it is useful and necessary to anticipate a possible future lifespan of a building and its building components and thus to conduct a credible life cycle assessment. In cooperation with DTU a case study was investigated, the subject of which was a building on Bornholm.

The article gives a detailed insight into the structure of the procedure of a systematic building archaeological survey, graphical documentation with the extensive measurement of the building and

This page: Skt. Ols Kirke (Olsker Rundkirke).

Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk, 2019.

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the methods of surveying, as well as cooperation with the conservators, collecting of archive material, comparison of the data gathering with the existing building, determination of construction phases, up to the elaboration of a wooden construction method typical for Bornholm.

reasons of sustainability, the premise is that the structure has a lifespan that exceeds the duration of growth of the wood used.

The model for the construction method and building type is one of the oldest post-and-plank buildings of Danmark, which has been built about 350 years ago.

Thomas Kampmann concludes his contribution with a critical discourse on the appropriateness of building archaeological survey and summarizes that this type of investigation will raise awareness of the qualities of a building in historical, technical and architectural terms. Regarding to the holistic and sustainable consideration of existing buildings, it is reasonable to carry out archaeological investigations on more recent buildings as well.

On the basis of a definition and consideration of wood and its inherent principles, criteria for the selection of the material and its workmanship are established and described in detail. They convey the concrete demands on the project and the targets of the research project. This is based equally on the strengths of historical knowledge, as well as on the profound expertise of wood as a material and the conditions of its processing.

The detailed investigations not only lead to a gathering of the physical facts and data of a building, but they also bring the architectural, historical and technical qualities of a building into consciousness. In this sense, the research contribution provides a precise and profound insight into the sense of established and new technical tools in building archaeological survey and shows the necessity of interdisciplinary cooperation in order to achieve the complexity of the aim formulated at the beginning.

The contribution considers a broad spectrum of relevant aspects in the context of sustainable timber construction: among other things, the obvious cutting of fresh tree trunks for post-and-plank construction is thematized and described in detail; the way in which wood is joined together is considered, as it historically arose from the tools and the possibilities they offer. Also the discourse on the origin of wood, reforestation and timber production and the critical questioning of political goals in favour of sensible and sustainable proposals is an aspect of the investigations made.

6. In his article, Morten Birk Jørgensen discusses the historical development of an infrastructure building by the architect Jørn Utzon on Bornholm. He focuses on two essential aspects: the history of development that resulted in the work and the work as heritage, as a sculptural architectural form and as an urban edifice, and, finally, he highlights the consequences of the analysis for the contemporary engagement of architecture in the rural context.

While he tries to get to the bottom of the history of the water tower, his arguments are enriched by numerous aspects of the building’s construction process. For example, the political aspect plays a decisive role in the project’s realization when the young architect Jørn Utzon was awarded the contract.

Many aspects worth reading are brought together and could be considered individually as consistent. Even if the contribution aims to find a new reading of Expressionism in Utzon’s work, the interest and explanations are more concerned with the circumstances of its development than with the reasons for the architectural appearance of the building in the context of the surrounding landscape.

The author examines the circumstances that led to the connotation of the water tower in Svaneke as a valued landmark for a local community and asks how this particular case can be of significance and exemplary reference for the recent architectural discourse. The question is also interesting in regard to the fact that Jørn Utzon’s infrastructure building has only been sparsely investigated so far. These are aspects from which questions of cultural heritage, the constitution of meaning and identification also arise.

With these questions, the author arouses interest in a more precise examination of the building, its structure and its relevance as a land-based navigation mark.

The contextualization of this singular building seems to be of immanent importance for his analysis, both with regard to the broad spectrum of Utzon’s œuvre and the significant landscape area of the island of Bornholm.

7. Søren Bak-Andersen explores the question of what implications the post-and-plank construction can have for current construction methods. The investigations of historical buildings and the knowledge gained from them will be transferred into the current technology of robotic tooling. With this technology the attempt is made to produce and erect an all wooden pavilion. For

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A selection of precise illustrations and photographs complement the text both visually and in terms of content. They simplify and deepen the understanding and ultimately convey an impression of the built object and its details shaped by the technology of production.

They attempt to construct a post-and-plank house using modern machinery, based on the inherent principles of the historical construction method and transferred into the present. Based on the strengths of traditional knowledge and craftsmanship, the project uses a novel technology in a way that takes into account the diversity of the living material wood. Therein lies the potential of this innovative contribution.

8. Victor Boye Julebæk explores the relevant question of whether the experience generated by working with specific materials and the phenomenological debate associated with it can contribute to sensual and physical qualities regaining significance and meaning in thinking and building and, understood as a tacit knowledge, becoming more involved in the thinking, making and experiencing of architecture.

His own photographs of clearly outlined sections of building views of simple historical buildings from the island of Bornholm are an essential part of his work.

At first sight it is surprising that the phenomenological observations refer to planar segments of the building elevations, since they aim at a holistic view of the building.

The clear naming of the criteria for the selection of the photographs, the careful consideration and precise description of the clearly defined photographic parts of the building give an impression of the compositional, creative, constructive and ultimately architectural quality of the building as a whole.

Through the methodically clean, photographically precise and linguistically differentiated working method it is possible to convey an overall impression of the building.

The theoretical background forms the essential basis for his work.

Thus the concept of resonance plays a decisive role in his work and the perception of the buildings themselves, reading his contribution also evokes a resonance in a figurative sense.

The profound reflection expands one’s own view and opens a new perspective on fundamental qualities of thinking and building architecture. Likewise, the photographically documented works raise the question of both tacit and explicit material knowledge and the craftsmanship of their builders. The contribution succeeds in broadening the awareness of the relevant aspects of architecture through careful and appreciative observation and to extend both the view and the knowledge.

The article is scientifically sound, based on an independent method and a careful phenomenological approach. The project can confirm a high degree of independence of research, which breaks new ground and thus creates opportunities to generate and pass on knowledge.

Summary. It may at first seem surprising that the publication of research contributions is entitled Hands On. The title aptly addresses the different ways of thinking and thus opens up perspectives that correspond to the various approaches to architecture as a holistic undertaking.

On the one hand, it is certainly the reference to practice and the connection to the physical world, on the other hand speaking and acting correlate. According to Hannah Arendt, and as she elaborates in The Human Condition,5 action and speech are inseparably connected. Action therewith is directly linked to making explicit; implicit knowledge manifests in explicit expression. Wordless action does not exist. Without this mutual interrelation of action and speech, the beautifully and functionally designed world would remain an assembly of isolated things, lacking legibility, meaning and specificity. And without the design of the world as a place worth living in and lasting for generations, all human activity would remain futile and pointless. Through speaking and acting, each person presents himself as a unique and unmistakable individual.

They both require reciprocal coexistence: without reference to other people neither of both can be meaningful. Acting and speaking take place in the public sphere, and are therefore impossible to considered private matters, but are of tremendous social impact and relevance. Through action and speech, practice and research, creation and thought, people are able to reveal their identity and their personal skills and talents. Both action and language are essential to gain and pass on knowledge.

In the compilation of the contributions, it becomes clear that it is only when the actual knowledge is approached from different perspectives that a holistic approach to a complex subject area such as building in existing contexts becomes possible.

Research, education and practice are areas that stand on their own and require different methods, but which nevertheless interlock, stimulate each other and lead to new insights. The transfer of knowledge and the resulting changes in viewpoints become clear in many contributions and lead to new insights and knowledge creation. In this sense, the articles succeed in demonstrating that architecture is both a profoundly scientific and an elementary artistic discipline.

Given the variety of approaches and attempts, the present publication adequately reflects this fact because the diversity of the contributions opens a broad and manifold spectrum of views.

The individual contributions can stand on their own and be read independently. In the context of this publication, they complement each other as a whole and convey themselves as an interconnection of historical investigations and the knowledge gained from them with current questions on building technology coupled with a high design standard.

This is not only about preserving knowledge, but always directed to the transformation of the insights gained from building archaeological studies into a contemporary practice of preservation, adaption and further construction. And this, as Søren Bak-Andersen states in his text, ‘by continually building upon history, as a continuation of tradition, and not in mimicry’ to uphold ‘our cultural foundation and connection to tradition.’6 The publication as a whole is thus the valuable and comprehensive product of a research activity, which corresponds to the academic quality within the Master’s programme ‘Cultural Heritage, Transformation and Restoration’ and with its different perspectives contributes to the development of the research field of the programme itself. It is also of interest to all those who are interested in architecture which is based on historical knowledge, and which is meaningful in terms of construction and craftsmanship, of high design quality and thus sustainable in every respect.

The title of this anthology accentuates the desire to avoid an academic distance and emphasises that material substance and the making are directly addressed and dealt with. This is confirmed by all contributions, as they enable the reader to trace the individual genesis of each research project – from the ground of its cultural heritage, through analysis, observation and investigation, towards its recent and perspective attempt.

Through the individual contributions from the research with their respective genuine origin, the publication has a relevant scientific quality that I recommend to read. The anthology is led by the intention to draw the line from history to present, grounding the recent theoretical and practical acting in the discipline of architecture in a consecutive development from heritage to current state and beyond to future perspectives. History is thereby above all understood as the knowledge embodied in the built environment itself.

Hands On is an imperative to grasp the knowledge derived from the investigation of historic architectural contexts and to channel it into the present discourse of the discipline as well as the creation practice and the making. The heritage of preconceived knowledge is retraced and considered the basis for further investigation, development and knowledge-creation.

Each individual presentation not only illuminates a particular aspect of research, but also applies different methodologies according to the questions it addresses. Due to their different focuses – theoretical, historical, technical and phenomenological – the contributions complement each other and show you the complexity of the topic as a whole. The aspect of sustainability is the focus of all contributions. The critical questioning of one’s own actions always appears essential. Thus, the research projects presented are always developed with a view from the present and with the question of their potential for the future in mind.

1. Harlang, Christoffer (ed.); Steenberg, Charlie (ed.); Andersen, Nicolai Bo (ed.); Julebæk, Victor Boye (ed.), Lost and Found. Architectural Transformations in Architecture, Copenhagen, 2013, p. 26f.

2. https://kadk.dk/en/programme/cultural-heritage-transformation-and-restoration 3. Frampton, Kenneth: Studies in Tectonic Culture: The Poetics of Construction in Nineteenth and Twentieth Century Architecture. The MIT Press, Cambridge, 1995, p. 2

The structure of the publication is a stimulating alternation between theoretically grounded and practically oriented contributions. The variety of the topics, the different questions, the fundamentally different focal points of the observations and the related methods of the research projects complement each other in an inspiring way.

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4. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change IPCC: The Ocean and Cryosphere in a Changing Climate, Sept. 2019.

5. Ahrendt, Hannah, The Human Condition.

Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1958.

German Title: Vita Activa oder Vom tätigen Leben, 1960.

6. Bak-Andersen, Søren, Post-and-Plank Today – All-Wood-No-Nails, Robotic tooling utilising historical material knowledge, Discussion – Why we did it. In: Hands On, 2020.

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HAMMERSHUS REVISITED

Christoffer Harlang. The Visitor Centre at Hammershus is discreetly incorporated into the rocky, west-facing slope above the castle moat, on a spot originally suggested by Jørn Utzon in his 1971-proposal for a visitor centre. Utzon’s project was never realized but formed the basis for a international design competition won in 2014 with a project developed as a collaborative venture between Arkitema, Christoffer Harlang Architects and BuroHappold Engineers.

This paper unfolds how the architecture reads and processes the curvature of the landscape, by developing a number of geometries that form the basis of the vis- itor centre’s floor, walls and roof. By studying the terrain profile and superimposing the morphology on top of the organisation model, we developed a complex spatial figure that, through the use of three principal modular geometries, was able to follow the shape of the site, establish a safe foothold and provide the necessary orientation towards the view from within the building.

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Hammershus Revisted. In the middle of the Baltic Sea lies an eastern outpost of Denmark: the rocky island of Bornholm. Here, on the northern tip of the island, we find the largest castle ruin in Northern Europe, the 12th century structure Hammershus, whose new visitor centre is the subject for this text.

Bornholm, a community of around 35,000 souls, was previously known for its fishing but is now primarily a destination for entrepreneurs and tourists with an interest in gastronomy and arts and crafts.

The visitor centre is discreetly incorporated into the rocky, west-facing slope above the castle moat, on a spot originally suggested by Jørn Utzon (1918– 2008) in his 1971-proposal for a visitor centre. Utzon’s project was never realised but formed the basis for a prequalified international design competition which we won in 2014 with a project developed as a collaborative venture between Arkitema, Christoffer Harlang Architects and BuroHappold Engineers.

The competition called for a project that was ‘rooted in Utzon’s proposal and the architectural and landscape qualities it contains.’ As part of our preliminary investigation, we found that Utzon’s vision of an articulate building raised on stilts indeed represented a reversible and deliberately gentle approach to landscape in general and the site’s vegetation and characteristic features in particular, but also that this approach was unable to satify the brief’s functional and spatial requirements, which were about four times as high as the ones Utzon operated with.

Jørn Utzon envisioned a composition of wooden bridges and platforms connecting a number of simple wooden houses with mono-pitched roofs supported by wooden posts. It has been reported, but not verified, that the basic idea for Utzon’s tentative composition of oblong buildings at Hammershus came to him during a visit to the Ganges River in India. Here Utzon admired how boats found their place in between each other in a highly complex, tentative but rational way that Utzon found very beautiful.

This compositional mindset has a direct reference in Alvar Aalto’s motifs1 in the siting of a building or building complex, where apparently random but very beautiful juxtapositions and transitions are prioritised over orthogonal schematics and regularity.

Alvar Aalto’s architecture – and Utzon’s – diverges from dogmatic modernism’s ethos of order and geometric regularity, introducing a more open-minded understanding of the interplay between site and building, which is based on intuitively arranged tensions and balances. This tradition where building and landscape find each other in a mutual understanding is as old as building culture itself, but it is in the Nordic modernism that it is given such an inspirational contemporary interpretation.

From the very beginning of the development of our ideas for the competition scheme, we felt that something akin to Utzon’s strategy would be right, but on the other hand something very different was needed, we thought. We were looking for something that would enable the more comprehensive programme to be folded into place without disturbing the fundamental balance of the place.

So we started to look at what was already there as statements from the dialogue between man and nature. At Hammershus, the man-made and the natural have been working together for centuries. The castle is the product of a fruitful meeting between the rock’s prominent position, 75 metres above sea level, and the ability of time to shape the monument with stone and timber, and let the shape be informed by the contours of the terrain.

The monument’s encounter with the landscape is unique to Hammershus.

The ruin lies in the borderland between the constructed and the organic, and the experience of the landscape is therefore an inseparable part of the experience of the ruin. Understanding this and the movement in the landscape spaces is key to understanding our approach. .

Both the story and the monument itself are staged through the visitor’s walk in the countryside, in the same way Utzon suggested – building and path thus become a means of framing monument and nature.

The scenery is hierarchical, dominated as it is by the experience of the castle, and we felt that the new visitor centre had to submit itself to that.

To maintain the hierarchy, a dynamic landscape path was designed independently of the centre’s function. The bridge is also an independent process and part of the staging. The bridge thus becomes an architectural element, a walk through the forest and the valley, which emphasises and highlights the violent dynamics of the landscape along the route.

The same narrative runs through our project for Hammershus Visitor Centre.

At the edge of the rocky moat we have traced and adapted the curves of the landscape space, translating them into geometries that define the visitor centre’s floor, walls and roof.

The site and the surroundings encouraged us to work with complexity in more than one sense. How do you place a house on a slope without destroying the slope? How do you handle the premise that the rationality and economy of the building require modular buildability, while nature responds with levels and directions that are much more complex? How does one achieve a heterogeneity that is not chaotic or messy but holds an inner balance? Which is tranquil.

We found some pictures of mountaineers attached to the cliffs with wires.

We found pictures of Nepalese houses standing on stilts on a hillside. We went to the library for in the history of architecture as well as in contemporary architecture to find inspiration on how to build a cliff edge; how have people done such a thing before?

The curvature of the site is so complex that we had to begin by imagining something which, on the one hand, is suitable for the function, but which, on the other hand, also consists of smaller parts or entities capable of responding to the inherent morphology of the place. So the building we were designing had to be able to satisfy both demands, where the landscape is one and the functionality the other.

On aerial photos and the site plan of Hammershus you can clearly see that we have traced the landscape, and how the age-old conversation has informed our design. (Fig. 2, 5) We tried to figure out how to intervene in that.

How do you draw a path, place a wall and make a space in such a set-up?

Those where the questions we asked ourselves.

As a consequence, we came up with the idea that the terrain should be somehow distilled and transformed as a self-acknowledged piece of modern architecture and translated into a building that does not angle for attention but instead seeks to frame the visual connection with the castle ruin, the landscape space, the sky and the sea.

If you look at the photo in figure 1, you will see how the building is reduced – or exalted – to a floor or a platform for the viewer’s participation in the space, constituted by the landscape and the castle ruins.

Figure 3: Initial conceptual section by Christoffer Harlang.

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The 1,200 m2-building is based on a simple programme: about half of it is used for various forms of storytelling about the castle ruin and its dramatic history, while the other half contains café, shop, education unit and toilets.

But during our development of the design, we came up with the idea of

Page 16, figure 1: Hammershus Castle with the Visitors Centre in the foreground. Photo, Rasmus Hjortshøj.

Page 19, figure 2: The Visitors Centre in the landscape.

Photo, Rasmus Hjortshøj.

This page, figure 4: The Visitors Centre in the landscape.

Photo, Rasmus Hjortshøj.

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Above, figure 6: Visitors Centre, shop.

Photo, Jens Lindhe.

Right, figure 7: Visitors Centre, cafe.

Photo, Jens Lindhe.

Previous page, figure 5: Site plan.

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adding an additional functionality to the programme in the shape of a public roof terrace or platform, which constitutes the third and very significant element of the buildings programme.

notion of the building’s roof as one large wooden deck, which – thanks to a variety of gently sloping ramps – connects to the new path system and the parking facility.

The building is organised with two kinds of spaces: open spaces with public access and direct visual contact with the landscape and the castle ruin; and, against the slope, a variety of closed spaces that provide back-up and secondary functions, with limited access to the public. The layout thus follows familiar principles known from both Mies van der Rohe’s open plans with their closed service cores and Louis Kahn’s thinking, which distinguishes between served spaces and servant spaces.

The project carries on a tradition that may be described as Nordic as it draws primarily on the work of Gunnar Asplund, Sigurd Lewerentz and Alvar Aalto, using and expanding their ideas to emphasise the correlation of space, tectonics, matter and detail. Much of the furniture and fittings, including door handles, lamps, benches, shop fittings and tableware were therefore custom-designed for the building, and, together with the service building and the visitor centre’s bus stop, conceived and designed as an integral part of the architecture at Hammershus.

The exhibition consists of simple panels, which are mounted on the concrete walls, a large analog model and 3D animations projected directly onto the walls of the exhibition spaces.

By studying the terrain profile and superimposing the morphology on top of the organization model, we developed a complex spatial figure that, through the use of three principal modular geometries, was able to follow the shape of the site while establishing a safe foothold and providing the necessary orientation towards the view from within the building. (Fig. 3) As a counterpoint to this tight but adaptable rhythm, we tugged the building’s servant spaces up against the slope, using free geometries when arranging the load-bearing, in-situ cast concrete walls. These undulating structures, which enclose spaces by wrapping around them, were conceived as fluid sequences of insulated, double-layered external walls and simple partitions that interact by forming dynamic spatial relations, with no visible difference between inner and outer walls. Radius for the curvatures was studied and, based on the effects at Arne Jacobsen’s kayak club at Bellevue in Klampenborg, the guiding geometry for inner corners was fixed at an external radius of 90 cm.

This dichotomy, which divides the building’s geometric entity into two parts in the form of modular repetitions and organic exceptions, respectively, articulates the building’s overriding organisational pattern with served and servant spaces. The same dichotomy characterises the building’s tectonic structure, which consists of two separate but interconnected elements: the folding and the lining. While the folding comprises the floor and the undulating cast walls, the lining is the applied level with roof construction, panel walls and doors.

In Denmark this was not unsual a few decades ago in the works by the protagonists of modern architecture such as Arne Jacobsen, Kay Fisker and Palle Suensson and was last seen in the magnificient church by Jørn Utzon in Bagsværd, completed in 1976.

This ambition to attempt a continuation of the now almost abandoned buildding culture is not a sentimental reference to a lost world of coherence but instead an attempt to safeguard what Frank Lloyd Wright called the integrity of a building: ‘What is needed most in architecture today is the very thing that is most needed in life – Integrity. Just as it is in a human being, so integrity is the deepest quality in a building...if we succeed, we will have done a great service to our moral nature – the psyche – of our democratic society... Stand up for integrity in your building and you stand for integrity not only in the life of those who did the building but socially a reciprocal relationship is inevitable.’ 3 Being able to mentally switch fluidly between scales, between the reading of a landscape and the mastery of a building’s design and all its parts, is one of the most important aspects of all design processes, it seems to me. And that was exactly what we were striving for in our quest to continue a contemporary building culture at Hammershus Visitors Centre.

This obvious reference to the craft of the tailor originates from the writings of Adolf Loos in his legendary Das Prinzip der Bekleidung, published in 1898, where Loos explains that each material has its own design language ‘and none can claim the shapes of another material. Because the forms are formed from the usability and production method of each material, they have become with the material and through the material. No material allows an intervention in its circle of forms. Anyone who dares to intervene like this will brand the world as a fake. But art has nothing to do with falsification, with lies. Your paths are thorny, but pure.’ 2 The building is constructed with in-situ cast foundations, floor and walls, and with roof structure in laminated wood and oak. Windows are in steel frames with oak casings; doors and partitions in oak planks. Footbridge and platforms likewise made of oak planks.

These elements, which are all made from sawn oak, serve to inhabit the folded concrete structure, adding a welcome and necessary touch of tactile warmth and functionality to the interiors. Foldings occur in a matter or in the crust of a material when the material’s surplus or structural displacements in the distribution of layers reach a certain level. In this case, the folding is used as an architectural device that makes the spatial figure interact closely with the morphology of the landscape, as opposed to a building designed as an object in the landscape.

The folding’s obvious reference to textiles is elaborated in the visitor centre’s artwork as the artist group AVPD has created an integrated work of art that doubles as room divider between the education unit and the café.

The idea of fitting the building seamlessly into the landscape has led to the

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1 For a further discussion of Alvar Aaltos approach to siting, see: Christoffer Harlang, ‘The Building of the Light’, in Nordjyllands Kunstmuseum, edited by Aase Bak (København: Arkitekturforlaget B, 1999), p. 37–49, and Alvar Aalto, ‘The humanizing of architecture’ [1940] and ‘The trout and the stream’ [1948], in Alvar Aalto in His Own Words, edited by Göran Schildt

(Helsinki: Otava, 1991).

2 Adolf Loos, Spoken into the void, Collected Essays by Adolf Loos, 1897 – 1900 (Boston: MIT Press, 1987).

3 For further reading on Frank Llyod Wright, see: Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer, ed., The essential Frank Lloyd Wright: Critical Writings on Architecture (Boston: Princeton University Press, 2010).

Figure 8: Hammershus bus stop.

Photo, Rasmus Hjortshøj.

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Figure 9: Cutlery designed for the Visitors Centre manufactured by BentBrandt A/S

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SUSTAINABLE AESTHETICS

Nicolai Bo Andersen. In sustainable building culture, three factors may constitute a theoretical framework: technical, functional and architectural parameters.

In this perspective, to achieve longevity, a building must be technically robust, functionally adaptable and aesthetically durable. But what does it mean when we say that a building is ‘classic’. Why is it that even though aesthetic ideals seem to change all the time, some buildings have the capacity to talk to us across temporal distance? It is argued that when a work of architecture become listed, it is because it is able to speak to us aesthetically through temporal distance. It is concluded that aesthetic sustainability is fundamentally a hermeneutic question. In this sense, the work of architecture is aesthetically sustainable when we understand something and ourselves. Some buildings talk to us because they say something true (alétheia) about being in the world.

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Resources. In traditional economic theory, thinking is linear. Materials are regarded as an unlimited resource, and waste is considered gone when it has left the economic system.1 Materials are put into the economy where they are processed, and when the products and buildings are outdated the resources disappear from the economy as so-called waste. In this traditional economic thinking, focus is on the economy as such and not the larger material context.

If the planet, on the other hand, is considered a closed system where only solar energy is fed from the outside and only low-grade thermal energy leaves, then materials are not an infinite resource and waste is not something that disappears.2 Energy is exchanged with the rest of the universe, whereas matter remains in the system since nothing is created and nothing is destroyed, only transformed. In this understanding, the finite material resources are continuously degraded with each transformation.

In a circular economy, waste is not considered non-existent but rather a resource in itself that may be part of the system one more time. In the conventional understanding of circular economy, it is a question of rethinking by reducing, reusing and recycling.3 However, both reusing and recycling material resources require energy and even more resources to be added for each transformation. A more elaborate version of the concept of circular economy advocates a hierarchic list of nine R’s: (1) Refuse, (2) Reduce, (3) Reuse, (4) Repair, (5) Refurbish, (6) Remanufacture, (7) Repurpose, (8) Recycle and (9) Recover energy.4 In this understanding, refusing consumption is better than reusing, which again is significantly better than recycling. In other words, in a true circular economy it is best to keep the resources in the system as long as possible.

In Danish building regulations, only operational energy used for e.g. heating and cooling is considered, whereas embodied energy related to all the life-cycle stages, from the extraction of raw materials to the end of life, does not count.5 However, recent life-cycle assessment (LCA) studies show that in the lifetime of new buildings, embodied energy accounts for significantly more greenhouse gas emission than operational energy.6 In a near future with increasing use of low-emission energy coming from wind and sun, the difference will be even more significant. All this point towards a strategy that prioritises ‘[to] sustain and preserve what is already made, in this case the current building stock, and boost its performance from the perspective of material reuse and energy efficiency.’7 In other words, in a truly sustainable building culture longevity is fundamental.

Sustainability. The concept of sustainability was used for the first time in 1713 by Hans Carl von Carlowitz in his book Sylvicultura oeconomica, oder haußwirthliche Nachricht und Naturmäßige Anweisung zur wilden BaumZucht.8 As a reaction to the acute scarcity of timber caused by the heavy exploitation of forests by the mining industry, von Carlowitz described how to balance growth and harvest through the principles of rationalisation, substitution and limitation. Timber should only be cut to the extent that forests could regenerate and ensure material resources for the future. A similar long-term thinking is expressed by Ernst Haeckel who coined the term ecology in 1866 using the Greek oikos that means ‘house’ and -logia that means ‘explanation’, i.e. the doctrine of household. Similarly, the word economy is created by combining oikos and -nomos, meaning ‘house’ and ‘law’, respectively, i.e. the description of the rules governing production and consumption of goods and services.

Today, the most common definition of sustainability is presented in the Brundtland Report of 1987, calling for ‘development that meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs.’9 In continuation of prior descriptions of sustainable development, this definition underlines the importance of focusing on long-term interests, not short-sighted profit. In continuation of the Brundtland Report’s understanding of sustainability as compatible with economic growth, different positions call for rationalisation, e.g. through energy efficiency, building insulation and technological development. Other positions call for substitution, e.g. through reusing and recycling by means of circular economy and principles of ‘design for disassembly’, as outlined above.

However, if the aim is continuous economic growth, the speed of reuse and recycling must constantly be accelerated, effectively resulting in a decrease of product lifespan.10 The notion of sustainable economic growth, also known as ‘green growth’, has thus been criticised for being a conceptual contradiction

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since the economic system, as described above, is a closed and limited system.11 Exponential economic growth on a planet with limited material resources is simply not possible. In continuation of this, a possible interpretation of a truly sustainable building culture is limiting the use of resources by conserving as much as possible, preferably in the same amount and quality as the existing.

In this understanding, exploitation of the earth’s resources may be limited by prolonging the lifespan of buildings through conservation, transformation and restoration.12 Conservation. In A History of Architectural Conservation, Jukka Jokilehto points out that conservation is in fact a cultural question, arguing that ‘[i]n the pre-modern world, it was part of a process where one learnt not to repeat mistakes, and instead recognised successes, taking these as a reference for further improvement.’13 In this perspective, practical knowledge has been developed and cultivated through generations in a process of continuation. Classical authors gave particular attention to durability. More than two thousand years ago, Vitruvius argued that ‘[a]ll these [the art of building, the making of time-pieces, and the construction of machinery] must be built with due reference to durability, convenience, and beauty.’14 Later, Alberti described his concern for the unnecessary destruction of buildings and the need for maintenance and conservation, crying out: ‘God help me, I sometimes cannot stomach it when I see with what negligence, or to put it more crudely, by what avarice they allow the ruin of things….’15 Modern conservation theory may be seen as a continuous negotiation between two positions, one arguing for maximum intervention, the other for minimum.16 As the architect responsible for the restoration of many medieval castles and cathedrals, Viollet-le-Duc argued for the unity of style.17 According to Viollet-le-Duc, ‘to restore a building is not just to preserve it, to repair it, and to remodel it, it is to re-instate it in a complete state such as it may never have been in at any given moment.’18 The ideal of architectural conservation was the unity of the structural and visual style of the building. In opposition to this, John Ruskin argued that stylistic restoration ‘means the most total destruction which a building can suffer.’19 To Ruskin every building is a unique creation made by an individual architect in a specific historic context.

The specific qualities of the work of architecture situated in time and space can never be repeated, and the building consequently not restored. Instead, the original material that has ‘matured’ through the passing of time, wear and weathering should be protected as long as possible. In continuation of Ruskin, the Manifesto of the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings underlines the importance of conservation, arguing that ‘[i]t is for all these buildings, therefore, of all times and styles, that we plead, and call upon those who have to deal with them, to put Protection in the place of Restoration.’20 The aim was to conserve the buildings materially and ‘hand them down instructive and venerable to those that come after us.’21 In the 20th century, the Venice Charter is considered to be the principal document in architectural conservation. Describing buildings and monuments as imbued with a message from the past it is pointed out that ‘The common responsibility to safeguard them for future generations is recognized,’22 thus underlining the importance of a long temporal perspective. The Charter continues by arguing that ‘It is our duty to hand them on in the full richness of their authenticity.’23 In continuation of the principles described in the Venice Charter, Sir Bernard M. Feilden reasoned that ‘…a historic building is one that gives us a sense of wonder and makes us want to know more about the people and culture that produced it. It has architectural, aesthetic, historic, documentary, archaeological, economic, social and even political and spiritual or symbolic values; but the first impact is always emotional, for it is a symbol of our cultural identity and continuity – a part of our heritage.’24 To Feilden, conservation is about preventing decay and ensuring that the meaning of the object continues to be comprehensible.

Just as the values of architecture, as described by Feilden, are multiple, the reasons for conservation are numerous, including personal, social and scientific values.25 In a Danish context, the law regarding listed buildings and conservation of buildings and built environments allows the Minister of Culture to list buildings or independent landscape architecture of ‘significant architectural or cultural-historical value.’26 Some researchers challenge the materialistic understanding of cultural heritage and argue that cultural heritage is ultimately intangible. Criticising the authorized heritage discourse, Laurajane Smith argues that cultural heritage is a cultural and social process that occurs at

particular locations or by undertaking specific actions when values, meanings and identity are created and recreated.27 In contemporary conservation theory, sustainability and conservation are considered two sides of the same coin. According to Staniforth as referenced

by Muñoz Viñas, the whole purpose of preserving cultural heritage is equivalent to the aim of sustainability, i.e. to ‘pass on maximum significance to future generations.’28 As ways to secure cultural meaning and reduce the use of resources to the benefit of current and future generations, both sustainability and conservation aim at longevity. The question is how may architectural longevity be achieved? Buildings change all the time due to decay caused by physical effects and alterations demanded by change in use, just as changing ideas of beauty seem to cause constant alteration. Using Vitruvius’ above-mentioned distinction between durability, convenience and beauty as a framework, it may be argued that sustainable building culture is about achieving technical durability, programmatic usability and aesthetic quality.29 The question is why some works of architecture quickly go out of style, while others have greater resilience to changing ideas of beauty.

Beauty. While both conservation and sustainability aim at longevity, ideas of beauty seem to change all the time.30 One may even get the impression that architecture more and more is a question of fashion and that stylistic features change ever more rapidly. In the Orient, beauty was connected to light and shine. The Semitic god Baal, the Egyptian god Ra and the Persian god Ahura Mazda were all personifications of the sun. The Egyptian pharaoh Akhenaton, ‘the spirit of Aton’, and his wife Nefertiti, ‘the perfect’, changed the belief of Egyptians from many gods to only one, Aton, the god of the sun. The Pythagoreans founded the classical understanding of beauty as a question of harmony and proportions to the cosmic order, whereas the Greek sophists identified beauty in the concrete, sensuous world. Socrates, on the other hand, believed that beauty was not a physical thing but must be found in what beautiful things have in common, linking beauty to the useful and the appropriate.

For Plato, truth, good and beauty are inseparably linked. The sensuous beauty is relative, transient and changeable, pointing towards the spiritual beauty of the physical world. According to Plato, beauty must be understood as an absolute, eternal and unchangeable idea. For Aristoteles, on the contrary, it is the ideas contained in the physical forms that make things what they really are.

Beauty is unity in diversity. In Aristoteles’ classic definition, beauty is defined by the fact that nothing can be removed and nothing added. For Plotinus, the founder of Neoplatonism, beauty again had something to do with light. Sensuous beauty was caused by something spiritual in the form itself, the light from the highest god, the One. This understanding grew into the Middle Ages where beauty became a question of divine perfection identifying god with a shining light, a luminus current, penetrating the universe.

Until the middle of the 1700s, beauty was regarded as something divine, manifested as an absolute quality. But by the beginning of the modern world, David Hume argued that beauty only exists in the mind of the perceiver and not in the things themselves. And with Immanuel Kant the classic idea of beauty as an objective property was definitely replaced by an understanding of beauty as a subjective product of human consciousness. For Kant, beauty is characterised by disinterested pleasure, universality and regularity. Aesthetic thinking in the mind of the subject is a play between sense and imagination, manifesting itself in a kind of well-being that supports the subject in being realised as a moral creature. According to this perspective, beauty is the symbol of moral good.

Even though the concept of beauty has existed as long as humanity, the concept of aesthetics was founded as late as in the 18th century. Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten defined noeta as the object of logic, whereas things perceived were defined as the science of aesthetics.31 Baumgarten do not consider logic and aesthetics as contradictory, but as two mutually complementary ways to knowledge. For Baumgarten, aesthetics is not just a matter of personal taste, but rather a scientific question; episteme aisthetike. Aesthetics is, in this understanding, the philosophy of sensitive cognition identified with the experience of beauty. In a modern understanding, the work of art is no longer a manifestation of an eternal idea or divine order, but rather considered the result of the artist’s personal experience. However, the concept of beauty has seemingly disappeared from the vocabulary just as the concept of aesthetics is considered precarious. Today, theories of art and architecture are often inspired

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by social and cultural studies, represented by, for instance, Pierre Bourdieu and Michel Foucault. And in art theory, the description of formal language and stylistic features of architecture is in focus, in favour of aesthetic experience.32 Experience. According to Martin Heidegger, human being (Dasein) is always practically engaged in the world.33 In this everyday ready-to-hand (Zuhanden) activity, perception is never isolated but always related to something specific.

Through the practical use of equipment (Zeug), we understand the material world and the things we use without giving it much thought, just as we continuously test new potentials by making projections (Entwurf) based on past experiences. However, if the equipment suddenly breaks, the practical understanding is replaced by an understanding of the equipment as an object. When the everyday relation characterised by practical concern (Sorge) is broken, the material world is looked upon with an analysing and objectifying gaze.

This present-at-hand (Vorhanden) perspective makes us observe the world in a more theoretical and scientific way.

However, both in the ready-to-hand, everyday, concerned activity and in the present-at-hand, analytic objectiveness, the world becomes distant. To Heidegger, our relation to the world is neither just instrumental nor scientific, but also aesthetic.34 In the eyes of the artist, a pair of shoes is not just ordinary and trivial equipment for walking, just as the picture is not simply a result of an objectivising, scientific description. Rather, art is aesthetic knowledge, but on its own terms ‘a becoming and happening of truth.’35 Art is about beauty, but not in the banal sense of the word, rather as a question of disclosure. To Heidegger ‘[b]eauty is one way in which truth essentially occurs as unconcealment.’36 A work of architecture may be understood as a spatial articulation of physical matter.37 The formal elements used in building may have to do with the form, colour, proportion and material effects,38 just as rhythm, daylight and acoustic effects are elements in experiencing architecture.39 Material properties, structural principles and tectonic articulation may allow bodily communication as resonance through sensing or affective involvement, and the produced feeling of identification between the body of the house and the felt body of the perceiver may create meaningful situations.40 In this perspective, experiencing architecture is not a question of ‘understanding’ the work logically, just as it is not a question of ‘understanding’ a piece of music. Rather, the elements of architecture constitute a vocabulary in its own right, which can be communicated aesthetically through sensing and affective involvement. Through the vocabulary of architecture, the architect articulates matter into a meaningful whole, which can be experienced by a perceiver.

Meaning. According to Hans-Georg Gadamer, the work of art is dependent on a process of abstraction.41 It may be perceived as a ‘pure work of art’ if the context in which the work is rooted is disregarded. In a process of ‘aesthetic differentiation’ the work exists in its own right, independent of reference to social, religious or political interests. The positive side to this mode of pure perception is that art is art on its own terms. What is important is how the work works, not external references such as stylistic features, concepts or fashion trends. However, when we look upon a thing, is it never not just characterised by simple perception of what is there, but rather always associated with an understanding of something. Thus criticising the mode of pure perception, Gadamer argues that ‘[o]nly if we “recognize” what is represented are we able to “read” a picture; in fact, that is what ultimately makes it a picture. Seeing means articulating.’42 To Gadamer, pure perception is an abstraction that reduces phenomena. The work of art is more than just simple perception since its meaning and content are determined by the ‘occasion’. When the relation to the world is lost, the work of art loses its meaning because ‘only when we understand it, when it is “clear” to us, does it exist as an artistic creation for us.’43 In this perspective, a building is never just a work of art. A spatial arrangement of pure formal elements or only material effects would make no sense since our understanding of what we perceive is closely dependent on how the work is related to the world. At best, the pure work of architecture would be no more than stage design or a ‘Potemkin village’.

Using the concept of play, Gadamer understands the work of art not just as a question of pure perception but rather as ‘an event of being—in it being appears, meaningfully and visibly.’44 When a play or a piece of music is per-

formed, the play reaches presentation through the players. Similarly, experiencing architecture is the coming-to-presentation of the work through the participation of the perceiver. Experiencing a work of architecture is neither just characterised by sensuous stimuli nor is it a material manifestation of an eternal idea or divine order. The meaning of the work is not an objective property of the thing itself nor a purely subjective question. Rather, in the work of art, presentation is an ontological element in which the presented experiences an increase in being by being experienced. The picture (Bild) is not just a copy (Abbild) but a re-presentation of the original (Urbild) as the ‘specific mode of the work of art’s presence is the coming-to-presentation of being.’45 In this perspective, aesthetic experience is not a question of subjective taste or personal opinion but an event in which a world is coming to presentation.

World. The Parthenon, located at the Acropolis, is the archetypical example of an architectural synthesis between matter, place and use. According to Heidegger, ‘[a] building, a Greek temple, portrays nothing.’46 Rather, the work of architecture ‘sets up a world’, and in this ‘setting forth’ ‘[t]he rock comes to bear and rest and so first becomes rock; metal comes to glitter and shimmer, colors to glow, tones to sing, the word to say.’47 In the Parthenon, blocks of marble are erected against the downward pull of gravity, creating a place for worship on the highest point on top of the city, close to the sky. The Acropolis is a built manifestation of human dwelling on Earth, and in this gesture ‘[t]he work lets the earth be an earth.’48 As a coming-to-presentation of being, the work of architecture is never isolated but always part of a context. Physical matter is articulated on a specific location at a specific time in accordance with material properties and static and tectonic principles in order to create space for human inhabitation on this earth. A work of architecture is never defined by just pure perception or formal elements, rather it always belongs to a specific place in time and space. To Gadamer, a work of architecture extends beyond itself in two ways, ‘as much determined by the aim it is to serve as by the place it is to take up in a total spatial context.’49 By adding something new that fulfils a purpose in a town or in a landscape, the building presents an increase in being and thus it becomes a work of art. If, on the other hand, the building is separated from the use and the place, it loses its meaning and becomes a vague shadow of itself.

However, in a rapidly changing reality, physical matter as well as use and place change all the time. John Ruskin points out that ‘imperfection is in some sort essential to all that we know of life. It is the sign of life in a mortal body, that is to say, of a state of progress and change.’50 To Ruskin, original material, traces of craftsmen’s tool and the result of wear and weathering is what gives the building character. In fact, ‘in all things that live there are certain irregularities and deficiencies which are not only signs of life, but sources of beauty.’51 Similarly, the Danish architect Johannes Exner understands buildings as living organisms, ‘[t]hey are born, they get ill, they are cured, they grow old, they die.’52 The identity of the work of architecture is not just defined by its condition at birth but also conditioned by the physical effects of weathering and changes caused by alterations during a lifetime.

Just as physical matter changes, so does use. In fact, the only thing architects can be sure of is that functions change. Describing what happens after buildings are built, the American writer Steward Brand argues that ‘[a]n adaptive building has to allow slippage between the differently-paced systems of the Site, Structure, Skin, Services, Space plan and Stuff. Otherwise the slow systems block the flow of the quick ones, and the quick ones tear up the old ones with their constant changes.’53 If a structure is planned for a specific programme, it will most likely be demolished when functions inevitably change.

According to Brand, rather than planning for a fixed program, ‘scenario planning’ must allow room for an unknown future if buildings should be built to last. Similarly, the context of a work of architecture is in a constant process of change. The Danish landscape architect Sven-Ingvar Andersson describes significant landscape relations in a Bruegel painting as ‘in the centre’, ‘on top of’, ‘in middle of’, ‘at the edge’, ‘at the bottom’, ‘inside’ and ‘in a niche’.54 According to Andersson, the whole reason we may say that a building rests beautifully in the landscape is that we understand it in relation to its surroundings. However, just as the building in itself is always changing, so are the surroundings. According to Perez de Arce, this constant transformation is not a problem as towns need permanence as much as they need transformation, pointing out that change balanced with permanence is a quality to buildings and cities.55 In this perspective, it is not only the experience of the work of

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architecture that is new for each coming-to-presentation, it is also the context to which the work is related that is changing all the time. The work of architecture is in itself constantly changing with regard to physical matter, use and place, just as it is continuously coming to presentation through the perceiver.

In the coming-to-presentation, something that was not there before presents itself as something: a world is set up. And when the presented work of art is clear to us, we understand it. Heidegger points out that the German word for space (Raum) has its etymological origin in clearing.56 The word clearing (Lichtung) means making light, which at the same time is making space within a boundary, i.e. to make place for the light to come in and making clear, i.e. to shed a light on something. Referring to Plato, Gadamer points out that ‘[t]he beautiful is of itself truly “most radiant” (to ekphanestaton),’57 arguing that the beautiful is something that emerges as ‘one out of a whole’. In this perspective, the work of architecture is the clear coming-to-presentation of a complex content in an ever-changing reality.

Tradition. When we experience something, we understand what we experience and what we do not know based on what we already know. We never start from scratch but always from a specific place and time in history. According to Gadamer, prejudice is the way in which this knowledge is manifested in the individual as tradition. In this understanding, prejudice constitutes the historical reality of the individual and forms the horizon that frames what we already know. However, the horizon is not static. When we understand something, our horizon is widened in the meeting with the horizon of the new. Thus, ‘understanding is always the fusion of these horizons supposedly existing by themselves,’58 where what we already know is widened into a communion with the new. In this way, reaching understanding is a transformative process in which a new truth is constituted as an increase in being.

In continuation, tradition is not static but must be constantly affirmed, embraced and cultivated, even changed. In fact, tradition constitutes an element of freedom, effective in all historical change. Even though the history of architecture and ideas of beauty seem to change all the time, some buildings have the capacity to talk to us across temporal distance. To Gadamer ‘it remains irrefutable that art is never simply past but is able to overcome temporal distance by virtue of its own meaningful presence.’59 A classic work of architecture is not classic because of an eternal idea or divine order. Rather, a work is classic because it is continuously relevant and constantly open to new interpretations. The period in which the building is constructed gives meaning to the work of architecture, just as historic buildings represent ideas of their age. The work may be understood on many levels and interpreted in multiple ways. Generations may have different sensitivities, and ages may have different physical manifestations, which are subsequently referred to as styles.

However, architecture only based on stylistic features or fashion trends may not be relevant for long. The work of architecture that is only tied to a specific place in time is not able to be meaningfully re-presented and will at best be a shallow tourist attraction, empty of the complexity of the work of art.

The classic seems raised above the ever-changing style and taste of a period.

It describes something significant that is enduring and independent of fashion and trends. The classic work has a timeless quality in which ‘the duration of a work’s power to speak directly is fundamentally unlimited.’60 The work of art continuously adds something new to the world by re-presenting the complexity of the content each time anew. In a certain sense, ‘[a] classical work of literature is one that can never be completely understood.’61 Due to this polysemic quality, the classic work of architecture is richer than what may be experienced at first, just as the work of architecture may be more ‘intelligent’ than the architect. The classic work of architecture suggests that there is more to be understood. What comes to presentation through meaningful inner correlation and understandable outer relations is a totality of meaning that may be repeated across temporal distance because the work has a power to speak that is fundamentally unlimited. The classic work of architecture is the continuously clear coming-to-presentation of a complex content.

Sustainable Aesthetics. As pointed out above, the work of architecture may be preserved for many reasons: architectural, historical, social, among others.

And the strategies of conservation are multiple, ranging from minimum intervention (Ruskin) to maximum intervention (Viollet-le-Duc). As ways to secure cultural meaning and reduce the use of resources, the aim of both sustainability and conservation is longevity. ‘Sustainable building culture’ may be

interpreted as limiting the use of resources by conserving as much as possible, preferably in the same amount and quality as the existing. It is about achieving technical durability, functional adaptability and aesthetic quality, aiming at giving buildings a long life to the benefit of current and future generations. In a globalised and emancipated world, meaning is not static. Personal taste and ideas of beauty seem to change all the time. However, in a hermeneutic, phenomenological perspective, as presented above, aesthetics is not about stylistic features, subjective taste or fashion trends, just as the experience of architecture is not an absolute value judgement.

Aesthetic experience is not a matter of subjective opinion, just as it is not just a question of sensuous stimuli. Rather, experiencing architecture may be understood as an event taking place between the perceiver and the work, an event in which a world is coming to presentation. Through the vocabulary of architecture, a complex content is articulated into a meaningful whole. Since presentation is an ontological quality to the work of art, the work is always new to our experience. In this sense, the work of architecture is renewed through our participation every time it is experienced. When architecture happens, we understand something and our horizon is widened. What we understand is material matter articulated in a meaningful synthesis with place and use. Even though the formal elements of architecture may be regarded as a meaningful material language in its own right, the meaning of architecture ultimately depends on its relation to its context.

hances architectural meaning. Similarly, the conservation architect must make sure that not only material matter is preserved but the whole meaning of the work of architecture, including its relation to physical context and lived life.

As pointed out above, the formal elements of architecture may themselves hold a potential in an aesthetic sustainable architecture. Bodily communication as resonance through sensing or affective involvement may create meaningful situations that may inspire us to take better care of the world’s resources.63 However, sensuous stimuli and affective involvement do not make a work of art in themselves, just as usefulness and physical location do not make a building a work of architecture. To qualify as a work of architecture, the spatially articulated physical matter must convey meaning given by the architect, and be able to be re-presented when experienced by the perceiver. And for a work of architecture to be aesthetically sustainable, it must continue to be meaningful every time it is experienced.

While pure perception or sensuous stimuli – whether characterised by the pleasure of the familiar or the pleasure of the unfamiliar62 – may allow an emotional connection to the object, only meaningful aesthetic experiences make continuous connection possible. For a work of architecture to remain meaningful across temporal distance, the work must possess not only a formal, inner correlation between material quality, tectonic articulation and spatial character but also understandable outer relations. In a truly sustainable building culture, the architect must make sure that the inevitable future change in physical matter, spatial context and lived life does not reduce but rather en-

On a technical level, a building may be repaired, reused or recycled; on a functional level, a structure may be converted to accommodate a new use to be sustained, and on an aesthetic level beauty may be a sustainable parameter.64 The aesthetic sustainable work of architecture has the timeless quality of the classic and, as such, greater resilience to changing ideas of fashion.

It is a work characterised by being a clear articulation of a complex content and able to be continuously experienced aesthetically. In other words, the aesthetic sustainable work of architecture has a capacity to stay meaningful with regard to matter, use and place – even if the world seems to change all the time. It may be continuously re-presented across temporal distance by being experienced each time anew, reaching a renewed state which may be even more durable than the so-called original. It is not dependent on stylistic features, subjective taste or fashion trends. Rather, in the aesthetic sustainable work of architecture, we continue to understand something and ourselves when architectural meaning happens through our participation.

The aesthetic sustainable work of architecture has the power to continuously say something true (alétheia) about being in the world.

1 Finn Arler, ‘Bæredygtighed og bæredygtig udvikling’, in Bæredygtighed – værdier, regler og metoder, edited by Finn Arler, Mette Alberg Mosgaard and Henrik Riisgaard (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2015).

2 Nicholas Georgescu-Roegen, The Entropy Law and the Economic Process (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1971).

3 ‘Advisory Board for cirkulær økonomi 2017: Anbefalinger til regeringen’, Ministry of Enviroment and Food of Denmark, 10 July 2017, http://mfvm. dk/fileadmin/user_upload/MFVM/Miljoe/Cirkulaer_oekonomi/Advisory_Board_for_cirkulaer_oekonomi_Rapport.pdf 4 Nicole van Buren et al., ‘Towards a circular economy: the role of Dutch logistics industries and governments’, Sustainability 2016, 8, 647 (Summer 2016), http://www.mdpi.com/2071-1050/8/7/647 5 ‘Bygningsreglementet’, Trafik-, Bygge- og Boligstyrelsen, accessed 23 September 2019 http:// bygningsreglementet.dk 6 Harpa Birgisdóttir & Sussie Stenholt Madsen, ‘Bygningers indlejrede energi og miljøpåvirkninger.

Vurderet for hele bygningens livscyklus’, Statens Byggeforskningsinstitut (2017), https://sbi.dk/ Assets/Bygningers-indlejrede-energi-og-miljoepaavirkninger/SBi-2017-08.pdf 7 ‘The Circularity Gap Report’, Circle Economy, p.

36, accessed 23 November 2019, https://bfc732f780e9-4ba1-b429-7f76cf51627b.filesusr.com/ugd/ ad6e59_ba1e4d16c64f44fa94fbd8708eae8e34.pdf 8 Finn Arler, ‘Bæredygtighed og bæredygtig udvikling’, in Bæredygtighed – værdier, regler og metoder, edited by Finn Arler, Mette Alberg Mosgaard and Henrik Riisgaard (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2015).

9 ‘Our Common Future’, UN, Chapter 2: Towards Sustainable Development, 13 November 2018, http://www.un-documents.net/ocf-02.htm 10 Finn Arler, ‘Bæredygtighed og bæredygtig udvikling’, in Bæredygtighed – værdier, regler og metoder, edited by Finn Arler, Mette Alberg Mosgaard and Henrik Riisgaard (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2015).

11 Herman Edward Daly, ‘Sustainable growth: an impossible theorem’ in Valuing the Earth: Economics, Ecology, Ethics, edited by Herman Edward Daly & Kenneth N. Townsend (Cambridge MA: Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 1993).

12 See, for instance: Christoffer Harlang and Albert Algreen-Petersen, eds., Om bygningskulturens transformation (København: GEKKO Publishing,

2006) and Umberto Eco, On Beauty. A History of a Western Idea (London: Seeker & Warburg, 2004).

31 Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten, Reflections on Poetry (Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1954).

32 Dorthe Jørgensen, Den skønne tænkning: veje til erfaringsmetafysik – religionsfilosofisk udmøntet (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2015).

33 Martin Heidegger, Being and Time (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Ltd, 2001).

34 See, for instance: Nicolai Bo Andersen, ‘Beauty Reclaimed – towards an ontology of sustainable architecture and design’, in BEYOND BAUHAUS – New Approaches to Architecture and Design Theory, edited by J. Warda (Heidelberg: Arthistoricum, 2020), (In press).

35 Martin Heidegger, ‘The Origin of the Work of Art’ in Basic Writings: Martin Heidegger (London: Routledge, 2008), p. 127.

36 Martin Heidegger, ‘The Origin of the Work of Art’ in Basic Writings: Martin Heidegger (London: Routledge, 2008), p. 116 37 Nicolai Bo Andersen, ‘The Necessary, the Appropriate and the Beautiful’, in Robust – Reflections on Resilient Architecture, edited by Albert Algreen-Petersen, Søren Bak-Andersen and Christoffer Harlang (Copenhagen: GEKKO Publishing, 2017), pp. 40–57.

38 As described by: Carl Petersen, ‘Stoflige Virkninger’, in De gamle mestre, Carl Petersen, Ivar Bentsen, Kaj Gottlob, Kaare Klint, Kay Fisker, edited by Karen Zahle, Finn Monies, Jørgen Hegner Christiansen (Copenhagen: Arkitektens Forlag, 2000).

39 As described by: Steen Eiler Rasmussen, Experiencing Architecture (Cambridge: The M.I.T. Press, 1959).

40 Nicolai Bo Andersen, ‘Beautiful Tectonics – Corporeal Aesthetic in Tectonics as Sustainable Parameter’, in Structures and Architecture – Bridging the Gap and Crossing Borders, edited by P. J. S. Cruz (London: Taylor & Francis Group, 2019), pp. 134–142.

41 Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method (London: Continuum, 2004).

42 Ibid., p. 79.

43 Ibid., p. 79.

44 Ibid., p. 138.

45 Ibid., p. 152.

46 Martin Heidegger, ‘The Origin of the Work of Art’ in Basic Writings: Martin Heidegger (London: Routledge, 2008), p. 106.

47 Ibid., p. 109.

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2015); Albert Algreen-Petersen, Søren Bak-Andersen and Christoffer Harlang, eds., Robust – Reflections on Resilient Architecture (Copenhagen: GEKKO Publishing, 2017).

13 Jukka Jokilehto, A History of Architectural Conservation (London: Routledge, 2017), p. 1.

14 Vitruvius, Ten Books on Architecture (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1914), p. 17.

15 Leon Battista Alberti, On the Art of Building in Ten Books (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1988), p. 320.

16 See, for instance: Nicolai Bo Andersen,’Transformation og restaurering’, in Om bygningskulturens transformation, edited by Christoffer Harlang and Albert Algreen-Petersen (København: GEKKO Publishing, 2015), pp. 30–39.

17 Eugene Viollet-le-Duc, Restaurering, edited by Vagn Lyhne and Kristian Berg Nielsen (Aarhus, Arkitektskolen, 2000).

18 Ibid.

19 John Ruskin, The Seven Lamps of Architecture (New York: Dover, 1989), p. 184.

20 William Morris, ‘The Manifesto of the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings’, 17 December 2014, http://www.spab.ong.uk/what-is-spab-/ the-manifesto/ 21 Ibid.

22 ‘International Charter for the Conservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites (The Venice Charter 1964)’, Icomos, 18 December 2014, http:// www.icomos.org/charters/venice_e.pdf 23 Ibid.

24 Bernard Melchior Feilden, Conservation of Historic Buildings (Oxford: Elsevier, 2003), p. 1.

25 According to Michalski as referenced in: Salvador Muños-Viñas, Contemporary Theory of Conservation (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2005).

26 ‘Bekendtgørelse af lov om bygningsfredning og bevaring af bygninger og bymiljøer’, retsinformation. dk, accessed 23 November 2019, https://www.retsinformation.dk/Forms/R0710.aspx?id=199864#id72fbc2b6-e111-4ec0-b211-2a41a55fe197 27 Laurajane Smith, Uses of Heritage (Abingdon: Routledge, 2006).

28 Salvador Muños-Viñas, Contemporary Theory of Conservation (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2005), p. 195.

29 Nicolai Bo Andersen, ‘The Necessary, the Appropriate and the Beautiful’, in Robust – Reflections on Resilient Architecture, edited by Albert Algreen-Petersen, Søren Bak-Andersen and Christoffer Harlang (Copenhagen: GEKKO Publishing, 2017), pp. 40–57.

30 See, for instance: Dorthe Jørgensen, Skønhed: en engel gik forbi (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag,

48 Ibid., p. 110.

49 Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method (London: Continuum, 2004), p. 149.

50 John Ruskin, ‘The Stones of Venice, Volume II’, p. 171, 2 February 2020, http://www.gutenberg.org/ files/30755/30755-h/30755-h.htm 51 Ibid.

52 Johannes Exner, ’Den historiske bygnings væren på liv og død’, in Fortiden for tiden, edited by Ellen Braae et. al. (Aarhus: Arkitektskolens Forlag, 2007), p. 56.

53 Steward Brand, How buildings learn: What happens after they’re built (New York: Penguin Books, 1994).

54 Sven-Ingvar Andersson, Bygninger og landskab – spredte tanker om at ligge smukt i landskabet (København: Kunstakademiets Arkitektskole, 1988), p. 13.

55 Rodrigo Perez de Arce, Bymæssige forandringer og additionsarkitektur (København: 1981).

56 Martin Heidegger, ‘Building Dwelling Thinking’, in Basic Writings: Martin Heidegger (London: Routledge, 2008), p. 250.

57 Hans-Georg Gadamer, Truth and Method (London: Continuum, 2004), p. 476.

58 Ibid., p. 305.

59 Ibid., p. 158.

60 Ibid., p. 290.

61 Friedrich Schlegel according to Gadamer, ibid., p. 375.

62 As argued by Kristine. H. Harper, Aesthetic Sustainability: Product Design and Sustainable Usage (London: Routledge, 2017).

63 Nicolai Bo Andersen, ‘Beautiful Tectonics – Corporeal Aesthetic in Tectonics as Sustainable Parameter’, in Structures and Architecture – Bridging the Gap and Crossing Borders, edited by P. J. S. Cruz (London: Taylor & Francis Group, 2019), pp. 134–142.

64 Nicolai Bo Andersen, ‘The Necessary, the Appropriate and the Beautiful’, in Robust – Reflections on Resilient Architecture, edited by Albert Algreen-Petersen, Søren Bak-Andersen and Christoffer Harlang (Copenhagen: GEKKO Publishing, 2017), pp. 40–57.

Page 31, figure 1: A building may be preserved for multiple reasons. The Gudhjem Line station buildings designed by Aage Rafn and Kay Fisker 1915-16 may continuously be experienced as clear and complex works of architecture and may as such potentially be aesthetically resilient.

Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

JOINT MATTER

Nicolai Bo Andersen & Victor Boye Julebæk. This paper presents three pavilions built in wood. The designs of the pavilions are based on traditional building techniques which have been used historically in Denmark and in Ise, Japan. Both pavilions are informed by historic references and re-present experienced architectural phenomena. The ‘Hortus Conclusus’ pavilion was built in the summer 2018 by students from the Master’s Programme in Architectural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation in the garden of Design Museum Denmark. ‘The Apprentices’ House Pavilions’ were built during the spring 2019 by students from Campus Bornholm in Tejn on Bornholm and simultaneously by students at the Master’s Programme in Architectural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation in Copenhagen. It is argued that historical building techniques and traditional wooden joinery may present technical as well as aesthetic properties that may be relevant in today’s building practice.

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Joint Matter. At the Master’s Programme in Architectural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation at the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, Schools of Architecture, Design and Conservation an integral part of the teaching is the 1:1 building workshop, which thematises three tectonic principles.1 This paper presents three timber pavilions built as part of the curriculum, one in 2018 and two in 2019.

As part of the joint project ‘The Apprentices’ House’,2 two wooden pavilions were designed and built in the spring 2019. Both pavilions were designed by the authors as a re-interpretation of traditional building techniques. Instead of the traditional pitched roof, the two pavilions have a one-sided, tall pitch, giving the structures a tall, characteristic profile. One pavilion was built by apprentices from Campus Bornholm in front of the actual ‘Apprentices’ House’ in Sandkås near Allinge, Bornholm (Fig. 4 and 6). 3. The other was built by students at KTR, KADK, on the waterfront in Copenhagen (Fig. 1-6). Both structures were built entirely from wood without the use of metal fasteners or nails. The two pavilions have exactly the same outer geometry, but while the Bornholm pavilion was designed with variations on joints traditionally used on the island,3 the Copenhagen pavilion was instead designed with variations on joints traditionally used on Zealand.4 The ‘Hortus Conclusus’ pavilion was conceived for the Danish Design Festival 2018, and built in Designmuseum Danmark’s courtyard, ‘Grønnegården’ (Fig. 7-9). The pavilion was designed by the authors in collaboration with Charlie Steenberg, Morten Gehl and Søren Vadstrup and built by students from KTR, KADK. Inspired by the traditional Japanese ‘sage-kama’ joint,5, the structure was made entirely from wood without metal fasteners or nails. The foundations were made from reclaimed bricks and the roofing was reclaimed scaffold tarpaulin, otherwise intended for disposal. The U-shaped plan of the pavilion duplicates the geometry of the museum and the enclosed garden. The building complex, originally a hospital designed by Nicolai Eigtved and Laurids de Thurah 1752–1757, was dimensioned using the bed as module. In 1926, Ivar Bentsen and Thorkild Henningsen converted the hospital into a museum, using furniture by Kaare Klint and lamps by Poul Henningsen.6 All three pavilions were built using locally grown Douglas fir, a species introduced in Denmark during the 1860s. The material has prominent grain, with a warm, slightly yellow-reddish hue that turns silvery grey when exposed to weather. The Bornholm ‘dovetail’ joint was commonly used all over Bornholm from the mid-1800s.7 Interestingly, the joint is similar to the wedged through half dovetail joint found in Japan.8 According to Japanese architect Kiyosi Seike, this ‘sage-kama’ joint is possibly devised by ancient carpenters as the least destructive method of connecting the necessary stabilising rails to the posts.9 In Japanese architecture, flexible joints have traditionally been used to resist strong lateral forces such as earthquakes or the high winds that accompany typhoons.10 Also, because of the wedge the joint is easy to tighten and easy to disassemble. Lacking the diagonal braces common in the West, the ‘sage-kama’ is common in furniture such as cabinets, tables and chairs.

The three pavilions may have (at least) three sustainable potentials. First, the building material in itself may have a potential to store CO2. Through photosynthesis plants capture CO2 that may be stored in wood and wooden structures, e.g. furniture and buildings, as long as they live and released to the atmosphere again when they decompose or burn. However, used as a general strategy for trapping CO2 it requires a major shift in land use and management, including a stop to deforestation in favour of forest regeneration and a massive forest expansion.11 Second, the pavilions may have a potential as a method to design for disassembly. As part of a strategy for circular economy (CE),12 the construction method used in the two pavilions may inspire an architecture that allows the materials to be disassembled and reused in another context. However, the strategy of reuse is listed only third in the hierarchical list of nine R’s: (1) Refuse, (2) Reduce, (3) Reuse, (4) Repair, (5) Refurbish, (6) Remanufacture, (7) Repurpose, (8) Recycle and (9) Recover energy.13 This suggests that is it better to keep the materials in the building system as long as possible for instance by using wood protection by design to improve life expectancy. Third, the pavilions may have a potential in relation to the Sustainable Development Goals (SDG) as defined by the UN.14 SDG 11 is about ensuring access to adequate, safe and affordable housing for all (11.1)

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and sustainable and resilient buildings utilising local materials (11.c). SDG 12 is about the efficient use of natural resources (12.2) and reducing waste generation through prevention, reduction, recycling and reuse (12.5).

The ‘Hortus Conclusus’ pavilion was built as part of the exhibition ‘Design X Change 2018’.15 In relation to the Danish Design Festival 2018, Designmuseum Denmark hosted the annual exhibition in the courtyard ‘Grønnegården’ during the weekend 26–27 October 2018. The festival had a specific focus on sustainability and material reuse, thematising the 17 UN Sustainable Development Goals (SDG).16 At the end of the exhibition the ‘Hortus Conclusus’ pavilion was disassembled, moved and reassembled at a school for mentally vulnerable children.

For a period of three months, the two ‘The Apprentices’ House’ pavilions – like siblings – greeted each other across the Baltic Sea: similar but different. The Bornholm pavilion was part of an exhibition in connection to the People’s Democratic Festival (Folkemødet) in Allinge 13–16 June 2019, thematising the 17 UN Sustainable Development Goals (SDG).17 This pavilion, which is still located outside ‘The Apprentices’ House’, is planned to be part of a future exhibition on craftsmanship and sustainability. In September 2019, the Copenhagen pavilion was disassembled, moved and reassembled at the ‘CLIMATE – Change for a sustainable future’ exhibition in the great exhibition hall at KADK as part of the ‘Building Culture Reclaimed’ contribution by KTR.18 At the end of the exhibition, the pavilion was disassembled again, moved and reassembled, this time in southern Sweden, where it will be transformed into a guest house.

The three pavilions demonstrate how the re-discovery of a traditional building techniques, lost in modern building industry, may inspire apprentices and students of architecture to become aware of material qualities, tectonic principles and the value of craftsmanship. Also, the pavilions prove how a hands-on approach may be used when teaching architectural history and the characteristics of regional building culture. Even though the three pavilions are very simple and do not (yet) consider (important) aspects like thermal insulation, the pavilions demonstrate how a re-interpretation of traditional building techniques may point toward a contemporary sustainable building practice. It is a matter of the material properties and qualities themselves as well as the way the materials are assembled. Finally, the joint projects demonstrate how cooperation between schools and institutions, apprentices and students of architecture may inspire a sustainable building culture on many levels. In other words, joint matter.

1 Nicolai Bo Andersen, ‘Sammenføjning – Stabling – Støbning’, in Om bygningskulturens transformation, edited by Christoffer Harlang and Albert Algreen-Petersen (København: GEKKO Publishing, 2015), pp. 40–69.

2 ‘The Apprentices’ House’ (Lærlingenes Hus) project is a cooperation between Dansk Håndværk, who owns the house, and KTR, KADK, who used the house as a case study project in the spring of 2019.

3 Niels-Holger Larsen, Bornholmsk byggeskik på landet (Rønne: Bornholms Museum, 1983), p. 72.

4 Chr. Axel Jensen, Dansk bindingsværk i renæssancetiden. Dets forhistorie, teknik og dekoration (Copenhagen: C. E. Gads Forlag, 1933).

5 Kiyosi Seike, The Art of Japanese Joinery (Boulder: Weatherhill, 2017), pp. 119–120.

6 See: ‘Historien og Arkitekturen’, Designmuseum Denmark, accessed 18 February 2020, https://designmuseum.dk/om/historien-arkitekturen/ 7 Niels-Holger Larsen, Bornholmsk byggeskik på landet (Rønne: Bornholms Museum, 1983), p. 72.

8 Edward S. Morse, Japanese Homes and their Surroundings (Dover Publications, Inc., 1961), pp. 14–15, and Kiyosi Seike, The Art of Japanese Joinery (Boulder: Weatherhill, 2017), pp. 119–120.

9 Kiyosi Seike, The Art of Japanese Joinery (Boulder: Weatherhill, 2017), pp. 119–120.

10 Kiyosi Seike, The Art of Japanese Joinery (Boulder: Weatherhill, 2017), pp. 119–120.

11 ‘Missing Pathways to 1.5°C. The role of the land sector in ambitious climate action’, CLARA,

accessed 23 September 2019, https://www.climatelandambitionrightsalliance.org/report 12 ‘Advisory Board for cirkulær økonomi 2017: Anbefalinger til regeringen’, Ministry of Enviroment and Food of Denmark, 10 July 2017, http:// mfvm.dk/fileadmin/user_upload/MFVM/Miljoe/ Cirkulaer_oekonomi/Advisory_Board_for_cirkulaer_oekonomi_Rapport.pdf 13 Nicole van Buren et al., ‘Towards a circular economy: the role of Dutch logistics industries and governments’, Sustainability 2016, 8, 647 (Summer 2016), http://www.mdpi.com/20711050/8/7/647 14 ‘The 17 Sustainable Development Goals’, UN, accessed 23 September 2019, https://sustainabledevelopment.un.org/ 15 ‘Design X Change – Designmuseum Denmark’, Danish Design Review, accessed 18 February 2020, http://danishdesignreview.com/ kbhnotes/2018/5/31/design-x-change-designmuseum-danmark 16 ‘The 17 Sustainable Development Goals’, UN, accessed 23 September 2019, https://sustainabledevelopment.un.org/ 17 ‘Om Folkemødet’, Folkemødet, accessed 18 February 2020, https://folkemoedet.dk/om-folkemoedet/om-folkemoedet/ 18 ‘CLIMATE – Change for a sustainable future // Architecture, Design and Conservation’, KADK, accessed 18 February 2020, https://kadk.dk/ kalender/climate-change-sustainable-future-architecture-design-and-conservation

Previous page, figure 1: ‘The Apprentices’ House, Copenhagen Pavilion’. Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

Opposite page, figure 2: ‘The Apprentices’ House, Copenhagen Pavilion’. Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

Page 40, figure 3: ‘The Apprentices’ House, Copenhagen Pavilion’. Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

Page 41, figure 4: The pavilions in split view, dotdashed line separating. L: Sandkås R: Copenhagen.

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Previous page, figure 5: ‘The Apprentices’ House, Copenhagen Pavilion’. Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

This page, figure 6: ‘The Apprentices’ House Pavilions’, isometric joint sketches.

Opposite page, figure 7: ‘Hortus Conclusus’ pavilion, Grønnegården. Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

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Opposite page, figure 8: ‘Hortus Conclusus’ pavilion, Grønnegården. Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

This page, figure 9: ‘Hortus Conclusus’ pavilion, Grønnegården. Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

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HURL SPACE

Søren Vadstrup. Danish architectural history features a strange and intriguing design concept that goes under an even stranger name: styrtrumskonstruktion1 (literally: ‘hurl space’ construction; in the following referred to as ‘cross-tiebeam construction’). This is sometimes found in timber-framed townhouses but is most common in timber-framed farmhouses from before c. 1800–1820.

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Bornholmsk bindingsværk

Above: Erection of a hurl space construction on Bornholm. The drawing is digitalized by student of architecture Anders Rødgaard Bojesen, based on hand drawing from Niels-Holger Larsen.

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Introduction. Danish architectural history features a strange and intriguing design concept that goes under an even stranger name: styrtrumskonstruktion1 (literally: ‘hurl space’ construction; in the following referred to as ‘cross-tie-beam construction’). This is sometimes found in timber-framed townhouses but is most common in timber-framed farmhouses from before c. 1800–1820.

I first became aware of this structural oddity years ago when I was contacted by a Norwegian museum, where a carpenter had been charged with building scale models of Nordic wood structures, including a section of a Danish timber-framed house. The poor man had been provided with a drawing of a half-timbered Funen house from the 1700s, made with a so-called styrtrum construction – a pretty building type that still dots the Danish countryside. I myself am the proud owner of two such houses. (Fig. 1, 2, 3) However, the task had left him completely mystified: Do you mean to say that houses are built this way in Denmark? Even on a scale of 1:10, he had to stabilise the structure with glue and screws; otherwise, it would fall apart at the slightest touch. His question made me stop and think. Because, now I came to think of it, the man had a point – there really is a strange lack of structural stability and strength in this construction.

In order to provide an answer, I will explore the following three questions: 1. How did the Danish cross-tie-beam construction come about, and what’s the background for this peculiar, weak and unstable construction?

2. Why the two different variants: the eastern and western types, with a range of geographical sub-variants?

3. And why are these so different when it comes to construction, joinery and technology?

Key to all three questions is the 1993 excavation of the village of Tårnby on Amager, a part of the groundwork for the upcoming Oresund link which I became involved in by chance. Here, archaeologists found 3-4 pieces of structural timber which the present writer interprets as the missing link that effectively explains the differences in technology between East Danish and West Danish high-plate structures, as well as the process leading up to the emergence of the East Danish cross-tie-beam construction.2 We already know from history why country people, in particular, stopped building cross-tie-beam houses around 1810–1820. This was due to new building regulations being issued as part of a major complex of agrarian reforms between 1778 and 1820. These simply banned the problematic concept from use in all new construction from c. 1800 onwards.3 However, one thing is theory, quite another is practice. In out-of-the-way places, such as Bornholm, where the long arm of the law had difficulty reaching, people carried on as before until c. 1880. As part of my exposition, I will try to explain why. The late cross-tie-beam houses on Bornholm may be able to tell us how this strange building type was actually produced, assembled and erected.

The Styrtrum. The word styrtrum refers to the extra loft space that is created by a lowering of the tier of beams to a position below the wall plates.

This is used as a drying loft for storing grain, hay and straw, which doubles as thermal insulation above the dwelling while waiting to be used as stock feed. The term styrtrumskonstruktion is explained by the fact that the material is styrtet (hurled) into this space through hatches under the eaves.4 This enigmatic construction consists of sets of vertical wall posts through which the ceiling joists are mortised, so that they extend into the open on either side in the shape of slender tenons, which are only held in place – secured, if you will – on either side by two flimsy cross wedges.

On top of the wall posts, through which the joists are mortised, lies a horizontal wall plate that is mortised onto the posts with a long through tenon, which projects 2.5 cm (!) above the face of the plate. (Fig. 1, 2) On top of this vertical through tenon rest the rafters with a corresponding indentation (cog) underneath. Apart from that, the fastening of the rafters to this tenon – and of the entire roof structure – is left to gravity. This is where

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our Norwegian friend proposes to use some glue. Or in real life, some sturdy, through-going iron bolts.

The way in which the base of the rafter presses down on the wall plate and the small end of the through tenon is downright irrational and structurally unsound, as it applies a considerable diagonal, outward pressure, which is further amplified by the weight of the roof and by gravity. And as the collar beams hover two metres above the base of the rafters, they only serve to relieve the pressure slightly. In fact, it is really only the tie beam, with its through tenon and its two small wooden wedges on either side, that keeps the upper part of the walls from giving way to the diagonal pressure from the rafters.

The Extended Tenons. Adding to the peculiar instability of the construction is the fact that the long through tenons from the tie beams and the two flimsy wedges in each end of them are highly exposed, protruding as they are from the facade. Under the eaves, that is true, but still exposed to, if not direct rain, then wind-generated splashes, sea fog, damp, deathwatch beetles and other insects. Several of mine have actually split over time. (Fig. 5) If the foundation stones – which are quite big but merely placed on the ground – settle just a few centimetres, the through tenons will act as ‘hinges’ for the diagonal pressure from the rafters, thereby forcing the top of the wall outwards and ‘pulling’ the opposite facade with it. Not just a few centimetres but at least twice as much. Now the – previously vertical – walls lean outwards and inwards, making them even more unstable from a structural point of view.5 The tie beams in this construction were originally braced with small, mortised, diagonal brackets (like the ‘knee braces’ used in ship construction), but those have been removed over the years, and the more recent timber-framed houses from the 1700s were built without them. Timber-framed townhouses are sometimes equipped with exterior brackets, so-called eave brackets, which serve the additional purpose of protecting the extended tenons.

But is this really how we build houses in Denmark? The answer to that is yes. Although, given that we have one crooked cross-tie-beam structure after another to confirm it, it might be more to the point to ask why.

Figure 1: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

There are thousands of houses built with this peculiar half timber construction in Denmark.

This paper will try to explain, how this so-called cross-tie-beam construction came about, and what’s the background for this rather weak and unstable construction? Second question deals with why there are two different variants I Denmark: the eastern and western types, with a range of geographical sub-variants?

Figure 2: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

The mythical vertical and horizontal through-going mortise joints on a timber-framed cross-tie-beam house from Funen.

Figure 3: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

Væggene lidt skæve står… (The walls lean a bit...)

Hans Christian Andersen provides an apt description of one of Funen’s cross-tie-beam houses in his famous song ‘Hist hvor vejen slår en bugt.’ If the foundations below a cross-tie-beam house, which consist of large boulders placed directly on the ground, settle just a bit, the heavy diagonal pressure from the roof will rack the walls. And if the tie beam is not braced on the inside, the wall will then give way, eventually skewing the entire house.

‘Then even the door will ‘sink to its knees’, causing the poor dog to bark in alarm’.

Figure 4: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

It’s all down to the plough. When the first agriculture was introduced in the Neolithic period 4.000 B.C. the fields were ploughed with a so-called ‘ard’, made of wood (on top). This plough could only make a groove in the soil, so it was impossible to fertilise the fields properly. Therefore they had to move the villages a little bit every 100-150 years.

About 900-1000 after Christ a new type of ploughs were introduced, the wheel plough (below), which could turn the soil by a twisted ploughshare. These were made by the village blacksmith. Both types required the use of two oxen as draught power.

Figure 5: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

A so-called ‘three-aisled’ house, excavated in Tårnby village and dated to 1435. I have indicated the posts that, two by two, make up the five-metre-wide nave – on each side of which, except for an irregularity that may be due to the excavation, are the so-called side aisles. These must, per definition, have been lower than the central part of the house, and the two tiers of posts must have carried the roof. These top sections of three trust posts were found in a well and therefore quite well-preserved. They date from the same period as the building, which suggests that we are dealing with a so-called ‘high-plate structure’.

Figure 6: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

High-plate house from the village of Vinkel, by Viborg. Dendrochronologically dated to 1546 and now relocated to Open-Air Museum Hjerl Hede. Joints A and B match the joints in cross-tie-beam structures from Jutland and Funen, except for the use of heavier timber. If one removes the side aisles – which is exactly what has been done at Vinkelgården– what is left is quite clearly a cross-tie-beam construction.

From Zangenberg, 1925.

The Movable House. The first answer is: because the cross-tie-beam house is so simple and easy to dismantle and relocate. The mere fact that there are two conspicuous wedges inserted at the ends of each tie beam, as easy to hammer out as the dowels in a shaker table, makes this a perfect example of usability. No need for any instruction manual. (IKEA has a lot to learn from the Danish cross-tie-beam house).

Once the thatched roof and the laths have been removed, the rest is straightforward. You just follow a few simple steps. First, remove the rafters by lifting them off, placing them on the ground and disassembling them. All the rafters were numbered before construction to keep tabs of what goes were.

Next up are the timber-framed walls. Remove the interties by hammering out the mortised pegs one by one. Do the same with all other pegs in the plates and brackets. These have also been numbered to allow for reassembly. Pull the four wedges out of the beams’ extended tenons, one truss at a time, before separating the remaining parts – and then you’re good to go.

It’s All Down to the Plough. And why, then, did the Danish granary house have to be so easy to dismantle? The reason for that is that during the Neolithic Period, the Bronze Age and the Stone Age – from 6,000 years ago to around 1,000 years ago – people only had primitive tools for cultivating the land with. Their plough – the so-called ‘ard’ – only produced a furrow in which to sow the seeds. This meant that they were unable to turn the soil over or plough in cow manure to release the much-needed nitrogen. The result was that the soil became more and more exhausted and the yield lower and lower with every year. (Fig. 4) However, they had discovered – possibly as a result of a fire – that the soil under the village and its infield, which had been well manured and oxidised through many years of use by cattle and people, was much more fertile and gave a better yield than the exhausted fields.

We know form archaeological excavations6 – including those of two villages from the Iron Age: Hodde og Vorbasse – that villagers in the Iron Age, and probably sometime before that, had come up with the inconvenient but nevertheless necessary plan that every 100–150 years, or every fourth or fifth generation, they would shift the entire village – people, cattle, houses, fields, fences and all – to a spot some 150 metres away from its previous location.

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This is what we call a ‘migrating village’. It is therefore not surprising that villagers deliberately ‘designed’ their buildings for easy disassembly and relocation. The only problem was that this would necessarily have to be performed by someone who had never tried it before but only heard about it The numbering on the timber says it all. Even a child can count to 20 or more on its fingers, which is why Roman numerals are such an obvious choice for counting and numbering. After four fingers comes the number five – V– which symbolises a hand with two fingers. Two fingers more on one side of the V produce the number 7. The number 10 is made with two Vs = X. This probably more than 2,000 years old numbering system, which is similar to the runes used in the Iron Age, is still there for all to see on the majority of early timber-framed buildings – and, what is more, is still used by carpenters for keeping tabs on the timber in new timber frames or roof structures. (Fig. 31) The High-Plate House. There is only one problem; namely that archaeological excavations of the two Iron-Age villages show that the buildings people lived in at the time in question were three-aisled. What this means is that they consisted of two tiers of posts, set c. 1.5–1.8 metres apart and arranged in pairs, with a 5–6-metre wide space (nave) in the middle. This central aisle was flanked on both sides by c. 1.5-metre wide side aisles, built as light structures, that formed the building’s exterior walls. (Fig. 5, 6) It seems reasonable to interpret these houses as ‘high-plate structures’, even though all we have to go on are marks from the partly buried posts.

But we have found parts of the matching roofing timber in a single find in Tårnby (see image) and interpreted these as ‘high-plate’ posts.7 And as we moreover have a few high-plate structures left in Denmark which can be dated back to the 1500s, in open-air museums and elsewhere, we can now establish that they, just like the excavated ‘aisled houses’ in Hodde, Vorbasse and other places, consist of a 5–6-metre wide central space supported by two tiers of trust posts with some 1.5–1.8 metres in between. This central space is flanked by two low and narrow, 1.5-metre wide spaces, built with a lighter construction. These so-called aisles form the building’s external walls (Fig. 5).

But we can also see from existing high-plate houses at Open-Air Museum Hjerl Hede etc. that the interior truss posts are connected lengthwise by two ‘wall plates’ which have been mortised to the posts with vertical tenons.

These tenons extend about 2.5 cm above the top face of the ‘wall plate’ (A on the drawing). The truss posts are connected across the building with transverse tie beams fastened with tenons that extend through the mortised timber to be wedged in place on the outside of the post (B on the drawing).

The rafters in this high-plate structure stand on the ‘wall plates’, cogged in place over the 2.5-cm high plug tenons. Just like the Funen cross-tie-beam house, as shown above. (Fig. 6) The load-carrying posts in a high-plate house are protected against wind and weather – as long as the roof holds up. This gives them a long service life.

Major high-plate structures like Vinkelgården are built with a transverse set of double tie beams, which are further reinforced with brackets and knee braces. Here, nothing is left to chance.

The two side aisles, one on either side of the nave, prevent the diagonal pressure from the rafters from forcing the ‘wall plates’ outward and racking the posts. They also serve to protect the structural frame itself, including the relatively slight wedged tenons. As the aisles’ external walls are no more than 1.5 metres and moreover screened by the overhang, the building does not require much maintenance, except that the thatch has to be renewed at regular intervals.

The high-plate house is thus a sound, resilient, well-conceived and functional structure. You can sleep and spend your time on separate, raised platforms in the low aisles, open to the nave or screened off with cupboard doors, as required. The long fire down the middle of the house is well separated from the woodwork, the thatch and other inflammable parts of the construction.

The high posts are solidly placed on top of large boulders to prevent them from rotting from the bottom up – a precaution which, in the case of Vinkelgården, has kept them dry for 480 years. In fact, nothing seems to suggest that the house cannot live for another 480 years at least, as the first 480 have

Figure 7: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

Carpenter’s axes for making timber frame buildings 1. Carpenter’s axe/hatchet (in Danish: ’Bindøkse’ – an axe for ’bindingsværk) 2. Twybil (double bit mortise axe) (in Danish: Cross axe) 3. Broad axe (in Danish ’bredbil’ – for straighten timber’ 4.

Mortise axe (in Danish: sticking axe for smoothen the wood) 5. Adze (in profile and from above) (in Danish: ‘Skarøkse’ – to make fittings) From C. Nyrop: ‘Københavns Tømrerlav’ (The Carpenter’s Guild, Copenhagen)

Figure 8: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

In his large triple-volume work ‘De diversis artibus’ (On various arts), published around 1123 under the pseudonym Theophilius Presbyter, the Benedictine monk and craftsman Roger of Helmarshausen describes how to make windowpanes from ‘cylinder’.

These are still made in more or less the same way in a few European glassworks.

Figure 9: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

The east Danish farmhouse type, known as the ‘stove house’, only features one hearth, which is positioned just in front of the entrance, below the roof ridge. The baking oven is attached to the back of the hearth, crosswise of the building’s longitudinal direction, and often protruding from the northern facade. The smoke stove in the living room can be fired through one side of the hearth, supplying the living room with heat, while the scullery copper is fired through the other side of the hearth.

gone more or less unnoticed – and then we are looking at a life expectancy of almost 1,000 years.

The Term ‘Timber-Framing’. There is therefore no doubt that the high-posted houses of the Iron Age – just like the contemporary ridge-post houses – were deliberately ‘designed’ for easy disassembly, relocation and remounting. This theory of flexibility and mobility is corroborated by the excavated ‘migrating villages’. And that the buildings could stand the heavy handling is proved by the Vinkelgården’s great age and excellent state of preservation – and the fact that the building was indeed relocated in 1930 without losing any of its constituent parts. It was obviously built for it.

The Danish word bindingsværk (‘timber-framing’) actually reflects this very process. According to Ordbog over det danske Sprog (the Danish equivalent of the OED), the word originates from the verb afbinde, which means ‘to fit and (provisionally) join timber before it is finally erected in a building.’ The following terms are also offered by the dictionary: - Afbindingsplads (fitting space) = ‘a space where the entire tier of beams can be lined up at the same time.’9 In the case of timber-framing, which is not mentioned specifically, however, this means that ‘the flat surface formed by planks is used for fitting the [timber] pieces horizontally, in the relative position they will occupy in the building, after which the frame is erected as a test and then taken down again.’

- Afbindingsjærn (fitting iron) = a broad chisel used for chiselling out/making mortises when fitting the timber.

- Bindøkse/Bindeøkse (fitting axe) = large, short-edged (carpenter’s) axe; carpenter’s hatchet (no. 2 on the drawing).10 - Binding (fitting) = joined logs in or for a (timber-frame) wall.

- Bindig = regarding timber: joined in such a way that the pieces are aligned on one side.

The Danish word ‘bindingsværk’ (timber-framing) thus refers to the actual process of producing the building, as a kind of prefab that is afbundet (fitted) in one place and erected somewhere else. This is actually quite unique for a building term but may stem from the fact that it dates back to the Iron Age or before that.

Another explanation offered by literature11 is that the term ‘bindingsværk’

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(timber-framing) originates from the fact that the long beam connecting the posts across the width of a building is called a bindbjælke, or bindt (plural bindter; truss in English). It is thus a case of one particular element lending its name to the whole construction: bindingsværk – which, in carpenter jargon, is put up ‘bindt for bindt’ (truss by truss).

However, this explanation does not account for the fact that carpenters still afbinder (fit) a timber frame or roof structure in an afbindingsplads (fitting space), before taking the structure apart again and erecting it somewhere else. Neither does it account for the technical terms afbindingsjern, bindøkse, tømmerbinding nor bindig (fitting iron, carpenter’s axe, timer fitting, aligning) – all of which refer to different parts of a cross-tie-beam construction. But that the timber frame is afbundet (fitted), as the basic eponymous activity, does not prevent it from being assembled in bindt’er (trusses) or put up bindt for bindt (truss by truss).

German, Dutch, British, Swedish and Baltic Timber-Framing. The available literature on the subject also claims that we owe our Danish timber-frame traditions to Germany and/or the Baltic countries. However, this theory is disproved by the Danish carpenter term ‘bindingsværk’.

The German word for timer-framing is Fachwerk, which means repeated facade panels separated by vertical posts = bays. The Swedish word is korsvirke. They both describe the construction as seen from the outside, as opposed to the Danish word that describes the manufacturing process itself.

The Dutch word for a timber-framed house, betimmerde huis, refers to the activity, a ‘timbered’ house, but without dwelling on the specifics. The English language, on the other hand, combines the two using the equally valid terms a timber-framed house, a timbered house or a half-timbered house (where the timber is left exposed on the facade). This is interesting as it offers a choice between, respectively, a house with a ‘framework’ of timber, as in German, and a ‘timbered house’, as in Dutch. Once again it is worth noticing that the Danish term conveys a much more detailed picture of the building’s manufacturing process.

However, there is an important parallel to the Danish term, namely that both Germany, Holland and England use the same prefabrication process as we do, which involves the use of a ‘fitting space’ (Abbindungsplatz in German).

In the Baltic Sea area and the Baltic countries, from where certain elements of Danish urban timber-framing are thought to derive, the technical terms merely refer to the building’s formal qualities, same as in Germany, Sweden, Holland and England. In Latvian: Mezains = ‘of wood’; in Lithuanian: Medinis = ‘of wood’; in Estonian: puitlaastplaati-depoolt = ‘frames of timber’; and in Polish: muru pruskiego = ‘Prussian wall’.

Therefore, it does not seem to be in the Baltic countries, and least of all Poland, we should look for the origins of Danish timber-framing – neither in terms of appearance nor craftmanship. And sure enough, if we look at Danish urban timber-framed houses and details, it is evident that they originate from Northern Germany and the Baltic States.

The Mouldboard Plough. In the early Viking Age, around 700–900 BC, the so-called wheel plough or mouldboard plough landed on the Danish shores and fields. Unlike the old ard, this new plough was able to turn the soil over thanks to a twisted piece of wood or board, which was reinforced with an iron plate, and a sharp, vertical iron knife in front of the mouldboard, the so-called ploughshare, that cut a furrow in the ground. This more efficient type of plough made it possible to plough the rich clay soil and thus cultivate much more land than before. (Fig. 4) Together with two other more or less contemporary advances: the agricultural three-course system and the separation of livestock from living quarters, this made for a better crop yield and reduced the amount of diseases and the infant mortality rate, resulting in a population surplus – which was part of the reason for the ventures into the British Isles and the formation of a Danish ‘North Sea empire’ during and after the Viking Age. But it also meant that the rural population no longer had to move their villages and buildings in order to increase or maintain a high crop yield.

Consequently, the villages became ‘stationary’ – and the great majority of them are still right there where they were last moved to in the early Viking Age. Meanwhile, people went on building and living in their well-constructed and functional high-plate houses.

The ‘movable’ construction system again came in handy when a number of Danish villages had to be relocated from their position less than 2–3 kilometers from the coast and moved further inland to prevent them from being attacked and looted by the Wends. Most of the minor islands remained deserted up until the mid-1400s.

The third time was during the agrarian reforms in 1788–1810, where many village farms were relocated to new fields outside the villages as part of a major redistribution of holdings.

Glazed Windows, Ceilings and a Stove Fed From Another Room. In the Norwegian king’s saga ‘Heimskringla’, Snorri Sturluson supplies the following information about King Olaf Kyrre, the son of Snorri’s favorite king, Harald Hardrada, who ruled Norway during 24 peaceful and prosperous years from 1069 to 1093 – as an example of the new and modern lifestyle he introduced in Norway – that he, King Olaf Kyrre, on his royal estate in the recently founded city of Bergen, moved the high seat from its previous position in front of the side wall, opposite the long fire, to a raised platform at the end of the room. As the first in the country, he also had special stove rooms appointed with ‘straw on the floor in winter as well as in summer.’12 When the saga specifically mentions the warming but highly inflammable straw on the floor, which a stray spark from the open long fire could easily set on fire, it must be to convey that the rooms were fitted with ultra-modern so-called smoke ovens made from clay tiles, which were fed from outside the room itself – ovens of the sort we in Danish call a bilæggerovn. As these required a brick-built vent pipe for channeling smoke and sparks up and away from the roof, they could only be placed at the end of the room, which explains why the king had to move his high seat from the side wall to the end wall, next to the oven (Fig. 22).

We have here a very precise description of what happens to the spatial layout of Zealand’s farms and cottages a few hundred years later. The only difference being that this was not initiated by the king but by ordinary farmers who had recognised the potential for creating an externally heated, smokeless and soot-free home. Snorri himself uses the expression a ‘stove room’ to describe Olaf Kyrre’s new living space. This term refers to a brandnew invention within interior design, made in Southern Germany in the 900s, namely the living room (Stube in German; stue in Danish).

Between 800 and 1100, glassworks in the woods around Cologne redeveloped glass-blowing, a technique originally invented by the Romans at the beginning of the Christian era and since then primarily used to make tumblers, bottles and vessels, to moreover produce very large cylinders, about 60 cm long and 20 cm in diameter. If they heated up one of these cylinders several more times, they could cut it free and open it in the side, heat it up again and straighten it out to create a square glass sheet. This sheet was then cut into appropriately sized pieces, or rather broken by applying heat, as the diamond cutter was not yet invented. After this, the pieces could be joined with the help of newly invented lead ribbons and fitted into a wooden frame.

Thus, it was now possible to make apertures with glazed wooden casements for the building’s external walls (fenestra in Latin = aperture; Fönster in German). (Fig. 9) This was combined with two other inventions that owed their existence to the unlimited access to wood and clay: one of them was the jointing plane or moulding plane, which could plane long planks and boards, including with tongue-and-groove edges, or window frames, likewise with planed profiles; and the second was earthenware pots and so-called clay tiles made with fire-proof clay. (Fig. 22) The pine logs were first sawn up by hand with pit saws, handled by two men at a time. However, the really innovative feature was the planing itself.

The jointing plane made it possible to line the houses with tongued plank floors, plank ceilings and plank walls, all of which were closely joined, as

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well as panels, doors, windows and profiled mouldings – in addition to large cupboards and wooden beds. The development of fireproof tiles made of fired clay led to the invention of the so-called pot furnace, the ceramic stove and the bilæggerovn or smoke stove, which is built from glazed clay tiles or clay pots, arranged so that it can be lit from a hearth in the adjoining room, which was precisely why the smoke stove had such a positive effect on the indoor climate.14 The Living Room. The glass window, the tight and ‘warm’ wooden floors, walls and ceilings and the externally fired stove that kept the room free of smoke gave this new space an unprecedented level of comfort – both in terms of daylight, warmth and a clean, smokeless and soot- and particle-free environment. The invention was so new and ground-breaking that it was given its own special name: a living room or a stove room. Stube in German = ‘a room made entirely from wood’, cognate with the Danish word for the stump of a tree: stub.15 Over the course of the 1000s and 1100s, the concept of the living room spread northwards up through Germany and Europe and soon reached Denmark, Norway and Sweden. However, the brick-built chimneys were dangerous too, because if the wood used for firing was not entirely dry – and this was particularly important with beechwood – a centimetre-thick layer of soot might form over time due to the cooling down of the smoke, and this layer then could begin to smoulder and eventually catch fire – often after the original fire was put out and the family has gone to bed.

The Division Into Two Separate Building Types. The risk of dangerous chimney fires may have been one of the reasons that the ‘German’ stove room spread to Denmark between 1100 and 1400. However, in rural architecture it never reached further than Scania, Zealand, Lolland-Falster and the area around Limfjorden in Jutland – plus Sweden, Norway, Iceland and the Faroe Islands. (Fig. 10) In most of Jutland and on Funen – as indeed in Friesland, Holland and England – rural houses were still built with a large, central hall, which was open to the roof and had an oculus in the middle. This central nave revolved around an open fire, which sent out smoke and sparks into the high, open space beneath the rafters. Throughout Southern Jutland, Friesland and Holland, livestock and people were housed under the same roof, as the cattle Figure 10: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

The geographic diffusion of the imported ‘living room’ with its ‘smoke stove’, windows and ceilings, as manifested in vernacular, is one the most peculiar developments within Danish building typology and interior design. On Zealand, the rural population already tore down the side aisles from their high-posted structures in the 1300s and 1400s in order to put windows in the external walls and add ‘smoke stoves’ and ceilings to their ‘living rooms’. On Funen and in Jutland, on the other hand, they stuck to the high-posted building type with its open interior with an oculus at the top and low side aisles on either side.

Figure 11: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

There’s an interesting difference between the way farmhouses were organised throughout Zealand, Lolland-Falster (and Scania) and northern Jutland – and the rest of the country. The drawing shows the East Danish stove house and the West Danish fireplace house (fig. 12) as they appeared in the period leading up to the 1500–1600s. The chief distinction being that the East Danish farmhouse was organized around a central hall, referred to as the living room, with wooden ceilings, south-facing windows and a separate stove that was fired from an adjoining room, namely the small kitchen in the entrance area. [...]

Figure 12: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup. [...] To allow windows to be fitted in the south wall, the side aisles had to be eliminated from the highplate structure. The West Danish farmhouse, by contrast, is organised around a central space, known as the hall, which is open to the roof with its oculus at the top and heated by an open fireplace (hearth) at the end of the room. The structural frame is a highbrace construction with lower side aisles on either side for sleeping in etc. The hall has no windows but receives daylight from the oculus, known as the ‘vindauge’ (roof or wind eye) – a term that we know well in its modern form: ‘window’.

and horses supplied a welcome heat input during the cold winter months.

In the 12th or 13th century, a masonry hearth, a so-called fireplace, was sometimes added to the central space, but still without chimney or chimney pipe.

Danish vernacular architecture was thus divided between two construction principles; east of the Great Belt and north of a horizontal axis between Randers and Viborg reigned the East Danish stove house, whereas the West Danish fireplace house held sway west of the Great Belt, except in North Jutland. (Fig. 10) The East Danish Stove House. In East Danish rural buildings, the kitchen was part of the entrance area, with a transverse baking oven projecting from the outside of the north wall, which is why a small porch is always added to the East Danish cross-tie-beam house. In this so-called entrance kitchen, food was cooked on a warming-pan inside the chimney, or, alternatively, the living room’s ‘smoke stove’ could be fired up to allow bread to be baked in the large scullery copper’s built-in baking oven. This is why the East Danish cross-tie-beam house only has this one hearth in the entrance area, from where the living room was heated via an enclosed ‘smoke stove’. Only one chimney pipe was visible from the outside. The house is therefore sometimes called a ‘stove house.’ (Fig. 11) In the centre of the building was the living room, complete with three windows in the south wall and bed recesses along the north wall, where the farmer and his family slept at night. In front of the windows stood the refectory table, with the master of the house seated at the head of the table, and here was the ‘smoking cabinet’ where he kept indispensable items such as the schnapps bottle and his tobacco. Closest to him sat his eldest son and after him the other sons and farmhands, ranked according to age. Women and girls ate standing – on the other side of the table, facing the windows.

Apart from cooking the food, their job was to serve it and clear the table afterwards. To help them manage, the table was raised to a height of c. 90 cm, allowing them to take part in the meal without having to stoop.

In the western part of the farmhouse the unheated end space, the so-called shelter, developed into a nice parlour, lined with chests of drawers covered in cloth and other paraphernalia, which was only used for special occaFigure 13: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

An East Danish/Zealand cross-tie-beam construction – where the side aisles from the high-plate house have been dismantled, probably as early as the 1300s or 1400s, to allow for windows and let in more light. Adding sills under the posts or mortising interties between them was therefore out of the question. The only option was to notch on horizontal battens.

Figure 14: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

The East Danish/Zealand cross-tie-beam construction. Apart from the structural timber being pinewood and very flimsy, it is plain to see that this type of timber frame is very different from the one used on Funen and in Jutland. The posts are without sills, and only locked together by horizontal battens. The special dovetail joints on theese was used because the posts were already there (in the Middle Ages) when the battens were added. Contrary to tradition on Zealand, the owners have succumbed to the temptation of accentuating the timber with black.

Figure 15: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup.

The special dovetail joints on the horizontal battens.

They were used because the posts were already there, when the battens were added.

sions. At the opposite end of the house was the scullery with its copper, which was linked up with the kitchen hearth. This was where the food was prepared, milk was churned to make butter and cheese, dough was kneaded for bread-baking, beer was brewed, and clothes were washed. This was also where the maids slept, and food was stored (the larder). (Fig. 19) The East Danish Cross-Tie-Beam House. The production of clay tiles for ‘smoke stoves’, glass panes and tongue-and-groove boards etc. spread from Southern Germany up through Central and Eastern Europe, and by 1000– 1300 these had already reached the new Danish market towns and other trading posts, including the so-called ‘beach markets’, via Nordic ratchet spanners, the cargo ships of that time, or on other merchant ships. Oresund soon became the preferred shipping route, partly because of the vast shoals of herring that found their way to the sound and here were caught, pickled, barrelled and exported to much of Europe. This was common practice throughout most of the Middle Ages.

The merchants peddled their ‘assembly kits’ for the new, state-of-the-art ‘stove rooms’ to market towns along the way, including Ystad, Malmoe, Lund, Køge, Copenhagen (the ‘port’ of Roskilde), Helsingborg, Elsinore, plus Aalborg and Nykøbing Mors a.o. From there, the new windows and the smokeless room with its ceiling and chimney stack spread to villages and farms on Zealand, in Scania and along Limfjorden.

But you cannot set up a ‘stove room’ with wooden ceilings, plank floors and wall panels without throwing in a few windows. Otherwise, it will be a very sombre place. However, it is perfectly possible, as exemplified by an Amager farm from the 1400s, to put windows in the facades without fitting the rooms with ceilings or heating them with a ‘smoke stove’. In Sweden, Norway and on the Faroe Islands, the early stove rooms were placed in separate buildings made as corner-jointed constructions and with tiny windows.

On Zealand and Lolland-Falster, though not in North Jutland, farmers tore down the side aisles on their high-plated houses – probably first in the southern side on the existing houses but later also in the northern side – as the walls in the side aisles were too low for windows. In some places, including on Lolland, they retained a smaller aisle on the northern side (figure 20).

However, once the high-posted structure had been stripped of its side aisles, it became difficult to fit in new external walls between the existing posts. As the posts were already resting on solid, half-buried boulders, the only option left – apart from tearing down the whole structure – was to notch horizontal battens onto the existing posts and thus tie together the posts. At that stage, during the 1300s or 1400s, interior tie beams were usually fitted with so-called knee braces to add rigidity to the frame. However, these were since removed from existing buildings – or omitted in new buildings.

As will appear from the drawing, we are now left with an East Danish cross-tie-beam house, which, if anything, is even more rickety than the one from Funen/Jutland. Without a sill there is really nothing to secure the posts. They just balance on their round stones. There are no diagonal braces in the facades or gables and no horizontal interties, just flimsy, notched-on battens. And, to make it even worse, the rafters are not even morsised to the wall plate but merely secured with a cog at the end of the rafter.

No wonder, then, that more recent farmers on Zealand and Lolland-Falster were not tempted to touch up the timber in a brighter colour. That would only expose the embarrassing lack of all the nice timber that characterised Funen’s and Jutland’s rural architecture. Instead, they modestly covered the whole lot with whitewash. Nevertheless, the East Danish cross-tie-beam house shows how quick these parts of the country were – as early as the 1300s or 1400s – to adopt the sophisticated concept of the stove room, with its wooden ceilings, glazed windows etc., and apply it to their homes We can only wonder why Zealand farmers persevered with their cross-tiebeam structures, churning out exact copies of the old faulty design, and with all the same structural flaws, because that’s what they did over the next 4–500 years, right up to around 1800. Compared to that, they seem to

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Figure 16: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup Since the village of Tårnby on Amager near Copenhagen, had been destroyed by fire back in 1858, leaving behind only the church and a few farms, it was decided that the motorway for the Oresund link was to pass through this area. Here, archaeologists found the remains of a farm that could be traced all the way back to the 1100s. In a well near the farm the archaeologists found 3 pieces of timber, which I interpreted as posts from an aisled high-plate house. The timber was logged in 1435 and the house built shortly after.

Figure 17: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup This part of a post can, with its clear traces (notched joints) of two cross-tie-beams, supported by crossbraces, and a strut, be interpreted as the (next to) uppermost part of a high-plate post. Although there are no actual traces of the wall plate itself and the rafters, it seems safe to assume that they were placed as indicated on the drawing. The excavated building that best matches the date of 1435, the so-called ‘Face d house’ from 1300–c. 1400, is quite clearly a three-aisled structure. Se illustration no 5. The building comprises living quarters with a hearth and separate entrance and a stable with separate entrance and two side aisles.

Figure 18: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup Fragments of window panes found during excavation. The darkness of the decorated pane suggests that it may have been part of the external entrance door (reconstruction).

have been a bit smarter on Lolland-Falster and Møn. At least they had the forethought to use a sill for their new buildings in the 1600s or 1700s (not always but in most cases anyway).

However, the fact that this construction seems poor and primitive from a modern perspective does not change the impression that Zealand’s farmers in the 1300s and 1400s were very innovative and open-minded towards making home improvements – here in the form of letting in more daylight by use of windows, creating a healthier living environment with less soot, smoke and airborne pollutants and introducing pleasanter and less fuel-requiring forms of heating. All of which are prudent and commendable innovations. And by no means the work of lazy, lethargic and drunken farmers.

If we add to this that glass, clay tiles and tongue-and-grooved boards were expensive articles that had to be purchased, then there is really nothing to suggest that farmers on Zealand were less affluent than their ‘colleagues’ in the rest of the country. Rather the reverse, in fact.

The Tårnby Timber. These deductions about the differences between East Danish and West Danish timber-framing traditions, with their different layouts and technologies, are based entirely on what structures we have left from the period between c. 1600 and c. 1800. However, an archaeological find from 1993 confirms our assumptions.

In 1993, the construction of a fixed link across Oresund made it necessary to carry out a series of ‘emergency excavations’ on Amager, including at the spot where the new motorway was to cut through the village of Tårnby. This offered a rare opportunity for archaeologists to study the development of a vernacular building through time and space, right from the 1100s and up to the 1800s, as a 7,500-square metre area with well-preserved culture layers proved to be the site of a medieval farm.16 (Fig. 5) In addition to a string of horizontally excavated building sites, complete with ditches, fences and paths, the Tårnby excavation also revealed remnants of buildings in the shape of foundation stones, mud walls, bricks and tiles, bits of mortar, parts of windowpanes, iron rivets, spikes and iron fittings etc. However, there was also a small surprise. Four of the excavated wells proved to contain a variety of wooden objects, partly from the well covers, partly from the so-called well crate on top of this and partly other

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objects which had either been placed in or had fallen into the well itself.

A well-preserved plane with an intact plane iron was found here, and as the present writer had previously worked with and published on tools from the Viking Age, including when full-scale replicas of the ‘Skuldelev ships’ were made at the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde,17 they asked me to take a closer look. While doing this, my interest was caught by other wooden objects, among them three pieces of timber with a variety of indentations, mortises and in-place wooden pegs.

This was clearly a case of recycled structural timber, probably from one of the excavated houses. I also recognised what seemed to be the side pieces of a winch for hoisting up the sail on a major square-sail vessel, such as the fair ship ‘Skuldelev No 1’. However, it soon became evident that the Tårnby winch had a much more obvious purpose: as a so-called windlass for the very well in which it was found. (Fig. 31) The thing that really caught my attention, however, was three pieces of oak timber – each of them c. 13 by 13 cm, hand-hewn and with a number of indentations. With the help of dendrochronology, these were dated to c. 1435, which is right in the middle of one of the Danish king Eric of Pomerania’s, the Kalmar Union’s, the Kingdom of Denmark’s and, incidentally, Danish agriculture’s worst crises. Oddly enough, this is the point in time where a bunch of villagers from Amager decided to cut down oak trees for a new house.

The three pieces of structural timber found in the wells at Tårnby are (Fig. 16) not representative enough to explain how medieval rural buildings looked above ground. But when seen in conjunction with the building’s excavated layout – or the supposed layout – they provide a tentative but nevertheless clear answer for our three questions. Tentative because the timber only measures some eight metres in total, but nevertheless clear because the marks on these eight metres fragments all point in the same direction. The timber fragments from 1435 are first of all interesting because: - they can be interpreted as posts in a ridge-post construction from 1435, whose contours seem to indicate that it was aisled; - their wooden joints have ancient predecessors – one of them is actually a cross-tenoned joint of a type associated with stave houses; - these timber fragments can help us understand the origins and evolution of Danish timber-framing, including the East Danish cross-tie-beam construction.

On top of this, the timber fragments can tell us something about medieval wood technology and wood-processing tools, not only in connection in terms of rural buildings but also on a more general level. Take these two beautiful windlasses, for example. These are made with what I call wet hardwood technology – which, first of all, is an ancient tradition of the Nordic countries, known from the Iron Age and particularly from the Danish territories, as opposed to the rest of Europe; and secondly it is a characteristic of East Danish rural timber-framing, and probably the reason why eastern Denmark uses entirely different wood joints than the ones found in western Denmark. However, the three timber fragments may also throw light on our three questions.

1. The timber can be interpreted as posts from a high-plate house (from 1435), whose contours seem to indicate that it was aisled. (Fig. 17) 2. We can thus establish that there were aisled high-plate houses on Amager in 1435 – and that this building type probably was common all over Denmark in the 1400s. (Fig. 10) 3. The notched joints in this timber are clearly reminiscent of the lashing used before the invention of wood tools such as iron axes, augers and chisels – which means that they reach back to the Stone or Bronze Ages (Fig. 20).

4. These notches on the inside of wall posts are interpreted as belonging to internal braces, thus suggesting that this high-plate house at some point has been stripped of parts of its side aisles to allow leaded windows to be fitted in the southern wall. Octagonal panes found during the excavation confirm this theory. (Fig. 19) The Tårnby timber can thus offer a provisional explanation for the first of our three questions: 1. How and why did the Danish cross-tie-beam construction come about,

and what’s the background for this peculiar and moreover weak and unstable construction?

The cross-tie-beam house is simply a three-aisled high-plate house which has been stripped of – first some but later all of – its side aisles to allow for windows. This expensive upgrading was probably confined to the southern facade.

‘Wet’ Hardwood Technology. We are used to thinking of carpentry as something that necessarily involves dry wood, since wet wood has a tendency to warp, crack or shrink when dried. However, analyses of excavated ships, carts, building parts etc. from the Viking Age, and observations gained from working with replicas of contemporary wood-processing tools, seem to suggest that carpenters at that point in time primarily used wet and unseasoned wood. The advantage of this is that wet wood is soft and workable, whereas dry wood often is hard as bone.18 The wood was prevented from warping, shrinking and cracking afterwards by using a variety of methods that were based on a thorough knowledge of wood’s inherent qualities – a knowledge that seems to be more or less forgotten today.

This ‘wet’ wood technology seems to have been a primarily Nordic phenomenon, as its most eminent products are Nordic ships, carts, houses etc.

Structurally, these make good use of the flexibility and resilience while minimising the materials consumption by using curved, often distended forms, naturally grown members and joints made entirely from wood etc.

Further study will reveal that wet wood technology featured three highly specialised processes, which are more or less forgotten today: - careful selection of types of wood - splitting of wood - storing in water These processes are, in fact, a result of each other and the specific ambitions for the eventual outcome: to ensure that the members follow the grain in the wood, it is necessary to split these along the grain and then carve them out with an axe, as this is a better way to follow the grain than by using a saw or similar methods. In order to split the wood and to carve the form, one has to use new, freshly cut wood. Unlike dry wood, this is soft and easy to split.

In order to control the drying process after the splitting and the carving, the rough-hewn timber is then soaked or ‘leached’ in water.

By placing the finished – or nearly finished – members in water, preferably running water, for certain spaces of time, one can relieve stress in the wood and prevent it from cracking while, at the same time, ensuring that the wood can handle subsequent variations in humidity without splitting or warping.19 The Tårnby Timber. The three oakwood posts from the ‘Tårnby house’, built 1435, and the so-called well windlass were also made using ‘wet wood technology’, which translates into East Danish cross-tie-beam construction as: 1. notched joints (1/3 in 1/3, displaced surfaces) made with an axe and a cooper’s adze; 2. notched joints (1/2 in 1/3, flush surfaces) made with the same tools, in five different variants; 3. rivet holes made with a shell auger; 4. naturally grown knees, riveted through the knee itself, not the sides; 5. mortise joints – apart from the well windlass, there are five different kinds: slit notch, cross slit notch, straight tenon, halved tenon and cross tenon.

The Dried Wood Technology. South of the Danish border, ships, carts and houses were produced with a very different kind of wood technology.

Here, wooden parts were sawn out with no consideration for grain or fibre, which is why the timber is often either heavy-duty or bracketed. This was a technology that relied on the processing of dried and seasoned wood through bracketing, steam-molding and gluing.

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Figure 19: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup Somewhere along the line, the high-plate house from Tårnby has been stripped of its southern side aisle, on the outside of the fire-heated rooms. This was probably done to let in daylight through the fitting of windows. However, the existence of a traditional hearth shows that further innovations such as ceilings or a chimney had not yet been introduced.

Figure 20: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup Here we see all the notched joints in the timber fragments found at Tårnby – five in total and all of them quite specialised.

1. Straight notched joint 2. Dovetail joint 3. Splayed scarf joint 4. Splayed scarf joint with heel 5. Splayed scarf end joint

Figure 21: Drawing, Søren Vadstrup The well-preserved tool marks on ‘the Tårnby timber’ are evidence of a consistent axe technology (axe, broad axe, mortise axe and knife) used on hardwood in connection with both housebuilding and manufacturing of more technically sophisticated elements such as the well windlass.

1) Axe, working angle 30°; 2) broad axe, working angle 10°; 3) mortise axe/chisel, working angle 0°; 4) spoon auger /oval well; 5) knife, cuts; 6) saw, kerfs.

In structural terms, these two wood technologies represent opposing principles: weight and rigidity vs. lightness and flexibility. If, for instance, you compare the light and flexible Nordic clinker-built vessels with the carvelbuilt cogs from northern Germany, you will see that there is a significant difference.

Tools. It goes without saying that the two technologies use different tools.

The wet wood technology has the axe as its principal tool. This is found in a range of variations, including a highly efficient felling axe for lopping off wood and a variety of single-sided axes for smoothing and straightening surfaces etc. A tool such as the drawing knife, sometimes hafted as a kind of plane, is also typical of wet wood technology, just like the shell auger, the gouge and the knife. Wedges and hammers are essential tools, when it comes to cleaving and splitting up wood.

It is characteristic that there are no kerfs among the tool marks found on fragments, just like no large saws have been found in the Nordic region. We cannot say for sure if the plane was part of the Viking toolset. The principal tools of the wet wood technology were the saw, the plane, the chisel and, to some extent, the axe, particularly the adze.

The wet wood technology has to some degree kept alive in the Nordic countries, where it is still used by specialised professions such as the cooper, the pump maker and the wheelwright. One of its last strongholds was farmers’ workshops, for which books were publish as late as the mid-1800s, instructing farmers how to make typical workshop carpentry using wet wood and tools such as the axe – a special single-sided ‘workshop axe’, in fact – as well as a drawing knife and a shell auger.20 When it comes to making major objects, such as ships or carts, by means of wet wood technology, it is clear that this ancient Nordic specialty, at least in three respects, represents a more or less forgotten art; those three are the splitting of large trees, the use of different kinds of woods in combination and the storing and leaching of wood in water.

To save space I will just briefly touch on three other specialties associated with wet wood technology, namely the important preparation of the tree before it is cut down, which involves debarking it in places to reduce the content of tree sap, the sophisticated techniques involved when drying the

wood after storing it in water, where you deliberately play on the different ways flat and round edges dry up, and the use of joints which can absorb shrinkage and swelling.

cleavability, durability as well as drying shrinkage and shrinkage direction.

This knowledge, which primarily relates to hardwood, has survived to some extent, but it is seldom used.

Finally, carpenters minimised the wood’s tendency to warp by consistently following the grain – if possible, the heartwood as well, though not the pith itself but 2–3 cm from this – and by deliberately positioning the ‘silver grain’ in a certain way in the object.

Storing Wood in Water. By placing the finished – or nearly finished – timber in water, preferably running water, for a certain period of time, one can relieve stress in the wood and prevent it from developing drying cracks while, at the same time, seasoning the timber so that it can handle variations in humidity without splitting or warping.

Wood-Splitting. An important process in Nordic wet wood technology is the splitting of often large trees into planks and timber, without using a saw.

This has required a considerable know-how as to possible methods, which trees to select, which tools to use etc. – knowledge that, in our part of world, has not survived either orally, in writing or via representation.22 Splitting oakwood radially, down the centre of the trunk, will produce timber of supreme strength and flexibility. Planks can then be made very thin (2–3 cm), which means that they can bend up to 45 degrees, without being subjected to steam, and twist almost 45 degrees.

In brief, splitting the wood radially involves dividing the split pieces carefully into halves. This is done by opening up the split as much as possible, while making sure that it remains equally long on both sides of the trunk.

Still, you will do well to make a usable split that is more than four metres long or to get more than 16 usable planks out of one trunk.23 Types of Wood. Another key element in Nordic wood technology is the use of different types of wood, often in quite sophisticated combinations, where the wood’s tendency to shrink while drying is put to good use. This is true, for example, of the way cartwheels are made, which harnesses the special qualities of wet wood. Here the rim flange is made of beechwood or alder, both of which are prone to longitudinal drying shrinkage, as opposed to the spokes, which are made of oak or ash. When the rim flange thus contracts while the spokes retain their form, the wheel becomes stronger and more resilient than would have been the case if everything was made from the same type of (dry) wood.

Wet wood technology thus represents a deep knowledge of the specific qualities associated with various types of wood, in terms of flexibility, Figure 22: Drawing, English woodcut from 1506, after Trevelyan, 1964.

A typical dinner scene that could well take place in a West Danish fireplace house. The man sits on a bench with the table in front of him and his back to the warm fireplace where the housewife is busy cooking. The dog patiently waits to be served.

Figure 23: Drawing, German woodcut from 1482, after Frantz, 1969.

Another dinner scene set in what might be the living room of an East Danish stove house. Husband and wife sit at the table by the windows. Two other persons sprawl in front of the smoke stove, which is built from tiles. Everyone seems very relaxed and comfortable. What you don’t see is the maids that keep the fire going from another room while preparing the food.

Figure 24: Drawing, Søren Vadstup A fully-fledged West Danish fireplace house or cross-tie-beam house from sometime around the 1500–1600. The high-plate structure has been stripped of its aisles to allow for the fitting of windows and ceilings, and the whole structure has been dismantled and re-erected in order to place the frame on a sill and mortise all joints. New cross-tiebeam houses were built the same way. The abundant timber, with both ordinary posts and studs in between these, is emphasised with colour to demonstrate its luxuriousness. Houses in East Jutland had an extra row of studs between the windows and the wall plate.

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As this technique is no longer in use – though still lingering as vague reminiscences among wheelwrights and other artisans – we don’t really know what happens to the wood during the process, how long it needs to be stored etc.

If you instead air-dry the timber, as is common practice, it will take comparatively longer for the tree sap to penetrate the cell wall, via osmosis, in a piece of freshly cut timber. Experiments suggest that soaking in water washes out sugar and starch from the tree sap. Once these water-soluble substances have been leached, the wood will dry up faster and more leniently, and without the disruptive strain.24 The West Danish Fireplace House. The new developments within interior design and construction, with innovative features such as ceilings, windows and houses without aisles, probably did not reach the areas west of the Great Belt until sometime in the 1500s or 1600s. Up to that point, the West Danish farmhouse contained a central room that was open to the roof, with an oculus at the top and a masonry fireplace at the end, from which smoke rose unhindered up through the space.

Opposite the fireplace or sometimes at the same end of this Viking-era dwelling was a scullery with another hearth for preparing the food and a built-in baking oven. At the other end of the three-roomed house was an unheated space for storing cloth, clothes, weapon and other precious objects, which were kept locked away in chests. This also served as a guest room and was therefore referred to as the herberg (hostel/inn), from herr = ‘a gathering of people/some people’ (today this has grown to a crowd, an army; hær in Danish) plus bergi = ‘seeking shelter/keeping safe’. Yet another Danish term that has translated into English in the form of the word ‘harbour’ – a place where ships can seek shelter and keep safe. The word herberg is no longer used to describe this room; instead, it is called storstuen (the grand parlour), øverstestuen (the supreme parlour) or den fine stue (the best parlour).

I can think of several explanations for why the two parts of the country developed so differently. The first one, which is corroborated by the geographic diffusion of the ‘stove house’ and the ‘fireplace house’, respectively, is that the notion of stove ovens, windows and ceilings first spread along the early medieval trade routes through Oresund and the Limfjord. Perhaps combined with the fact that West Danish households were more concerned about the risk of chimney fires, which often happened when everybody had gone to bed. After all, the Viking era’s original tree-room dwelling, which also prevailed in East Denmark, had two hearths, one in the central hall and one in the scullery, and these were now being fused into one. (Fig. 11, 12) If West Danish rural carpenters were trained to use mortise joints, considered scarf joints and notched joints to be rubbish and moreover were instructed ‘from above’ to use sill plates for their timber frames, it must have been downright impossible to transform the internal tiers of posts into new external walls without having to tear down the entire house and rebuild it from scratch. Here, the famous Jutlandish thoroughness kicks in, but immediately comes up against a deep-rooted skepticism against anything new.

I will just mention en passant that Jutland and Funen largely held on to their old Old Norse beliefs right up to the 1500s or 1600s, which was longer than on Zealand. We know that the oculus, the small bright patch in the top of the roof of the high-plate house, was known as the ‘roof eye’ – vindauge in the Old Norse dialect, a word that lives on in the Danish vindue and the English ‘window’. The latter owes its emergence to the Danish cultural and political dominance in England in the 900-1000s. But whose eye is it, then, that hovers above the room and closely watches the residents? It is, of course, the

Figure 25: Drawing, Søren Vadstup Drawing showing a section of the West Danish cross-tie-beam house. To the right is shown the timberframe construction of the East Danish crosstie-beam house and the West Danish cross-tie-beam house – and the quite large differentials between them.

Figure 26: Drawing, Søren Vadstup Drawing showing the East Danish cross-tie-beam house (left) and the West Danish cross-tie-beam house (right). As mentioned, I take the East Danish wood joints to be typical representatives of the ‘wet’ wood technology. The West Danish cross-tie-beam house (right) is regarded as an example of the ‘dry’ wood technology, primarily because of the mortise joints, but some of the joints show clear reminiscences of the wet wood technology as well.

Figure 27: Drawing, Søren Vadstup The cross-tie-beam at the West Danish crosstie-beam house. Notice (again) the quite ‘loose’ construction and structural strength. Especially the rafters fastening to a very small bit of the tenon from the post end. When the rafters apply a heavy diagonal pressure on the top of the wall, the extended tie-beams and their fragile through tenons and flimsy wedges act as a kind of hinges, which has the effect of racking the entire structure. The low placed tie-beams have been raised in many old buildings, but this only makes the construction even more unstable than before.

one-eyed Norse god Odin’s. Probably best not to part with him. And even if the ‘Odin’s eye’, or the Christianised ‘roof eye’, still watches from the outer wall, there are now suddenly four eyes, which seems to dispose of Odin.

The final, and perhaps most probable, explanation has to do with ‘the power of women’. Because as comfortable, smoke-free, beautifully bathed in daylight and inclusive the East Danish living room must have been, just as impractical, cold, draughty, smoke-filled and sooty, not to mention dark and lonely, was the East Danish entrance-hall-cum-kitchen. Standing there under the chimney pipe all day long must have been hell, but that was what the housewife and the maids did when cooking, keeping the fire going, smoking meat and heating up water for the washing of clothes. Now this is just a theory, but maybe the women on Funen and in Jutland were wise and powerful enough to say no to all of this. Apparently, the much better comfort, light and general well-being offered by the living room counted for more in the eastern parts of the country, among the women too. That could happen today as well (figure 39. 39a).

The West Danish Cross-Tie-Beam Construction. But why, then, do farmers from Funen and Jutland fit their timber-framed houses with sills under the posts and mortised interties between them in the 1500s or 1600s when they finally succumb to the new design craze with its living rooms, wooden ceilings, windows and chimney pipes? My guess is that this is because of a decree from the King, and the fact that their farms are now actually owned by the lord of the manor.

Serfdom. In 1350, Denmark was hit by the plague, known as ‘the Black Death’. The fatal disease spread rapidly across the country, reducing urban and rural populations with as much as 30–40 per cent and leaving many farms, sometimes whole villages, deserted or unpopulated. By the mid or late 1400s, the King and the nobility therefore introduced the so-called ‘serfdom’ – originally to ‘protect’ the remaining farmers against this horrific threat, in exchange of payment from farmers, but it soon developed into the opposite: a situation where the nobility more or less ‘owned’ the farmers and these were not allowed to leave their farms or villages without permission from the lord of the manor.

The King Needs the Oak in the Woods. Add to this the fact that the king ever since the 1300s had been busy building up a battle fleet to help defend

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the country, for which he needed oakwood in vast quantities. By 1554, King Christian III therefore issued a letter on behalf of the Council of the Realm, instructing lord lieutenants all over Jutland to ensure that villagers would stop using boles for their timber-framed houses – the so-called bole houses made from broad, cleaved oak planks – and moreover stop using half-buried wall posts as this was ‘ruining the country’s forests.’

‘Sills and other timber should be placed on top of stones to preserve them for as long as possible,’ writes the king.25 As the penalty for building bole houses or for half-burying the wall posts was to ‘forfeit half of the property to the King’ – some punishment! – the landowners made sure that this didn’t happen. Especially since it would affect them as well.

In his 1933 book Dansk bindingsværk fra Renæssancetiden (Danish timber-framing during the Renaissance), the historian Christian Axel Jensen writes: ‘As regards Funen, it was emphasized in 1473, 1492 and 1547 that all new houses should be built on stones; in 1554, Christian III forbade the North Jutlanders, whose building method was ruining the forests, to bury posts, sills and other kinds of structural timber; these should be placed on stones ‘to preserve them for as long as possible.’

The ‘Amputated’ High-Plate House. So, as the village farmers later, when finally getting back on their feet after having lived through disease, hunger and misery during the 1400s, wanted to fit in windows in their high-plate houses and therefore had to remove the low side aisles, the landowners insisted that they place the structures on sills, properly raised above ground on top of large boulders. Otherwise, the king could seize half the property.

However, that doesn’t seem to have done the trick either, because the king had to repeat the decree and the threats again in 1577. And we know for a fact that people in South Jutland kept on building their bole houses right up to the 1600s.

Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining. When it came to the high-plate structures in Jutland and on Funen, matters were slightly different. Here, the farmer apparently felt compelled to tear down the whole house and then build it up again from the ground with sills, interties, braces and chantlates, most of which were mortised in place. This abundance of timber made the houses much more stable, compared to the East Danish cross-tie-beam house. It may also be the reason why new high-plate houses, complete with central hall and oculus (roof eye), were built here and there in western and northern Jutland even as late as the late 1800s.26 However, the West Danish cross-tie-beam houses that were stripped of their aisles and fitted with windows, floors, ceilings, sills and braces were not furnished with smoke stoves, stove rooms and entrance kitchens like their eastern and norther counterparts. Even though the farmers now begin to refer to the central hall as the living room, they retain the fireplace at the end of the room and use it for the day to day preparation of food. The scullery serves as a workshop or pantry with its own hearth, baking oven, copper – and chimney. The herberg becomes a parlour and is only used for festive occasions.

And when the typical 18th-century cross-tie-beam house from Funen is so (annoyingly) unstable and structurally unsound that it can drive a perfectly good Norwegian carpenter to despair, then it is because it is basically a high-plate house from the Iron Age that has been stripped of its ‘exoskeleton’ of aisles in exchange of new-fangled windows, sills and braces.

The point didn’t go unnoticed at the time either, because when a major complex of agrarian reforms was introduced between 1788, where serfdom and drudgery were abolished, to around 1810, a general upgrade of rural construction practices was one of the most important and financially prioritised points on the agenda – an interesting aspect which has been more or less ignored by the relevant literature. To promote the exchange of strip holdings for more compact properties, and in particular the scattering of farms, the government in 1781 introduced a new system of subsidies that encouraged renovation or construction of relocated farms.27 On the essential condition that these were not built using the old, flawed cross-tie-beam construction but instead the new roof-truss construction, for which constructional drawings were dispatched to parishes and clergymen, so that these could admonish the farmers with reference to God.

In 1789–90, the Exchequer (the foreign office of that time) issued a questionnaire to all county governors in Denmark, except in the Duchies, asking them to describe in detail how local farms were constructed. And in particular what it would cost to build a ‘new’ farm.28 This timber-frame construction is known from South Jutland as far back as the 1600s and also from one- and two-storey urban timber-framed houses from the Renaissance and one-storey timber-framed houses from the landed estates of the mid-1700s. This is probably a sign of influence from Schleswig-Holstein timber-framing, such as the three-bay half-timbered wall with two rows of interties.

The Roof-Truss House. The roof-truss structure is created by notching the floor joists onto the wall plate, with a small overhang for a tilted so-called fascia board at the base of the roof. The rafters are mortised onto the upper face of the beams, forming a so-called coherent ‘roof truss’, consisting of beam, rafter and collar beam, which is assembled and mortised in place before the frame is erected.

This new form of roof structure ensures that the frame is stable, as the rafters, instead of pressing diagonally down on the wall posts, rest on top of the beams, with the result that the vertical load is distributed evenly across the entire wall. The resulting higher ceilings make it possible to fit in larger windows and thus bring in more daylight in the rooms.

And as both the pinewood used for making cross beams and end beams and the pinewood rafters were now produced and supplied in heavier and longer dimensions, the new houses became 60 or 70 cm wider than the old cross-tie-beam houses, increasing their overall width from 5.90 metres to 6.50 metres, which was a significant improvement. This had a significant impact on the spatial layout of the houses after 1800, when partitions are introduced, and for their overall appearance as their roof level increased markedly.

therefore uses the name ‘roof-truss construction’, as the new and significant feature is the use of entire mounted and mortised roof trusses which are cogged onto the wall plate, and not just beams.29 The terms used to signify the other construction types – cross-tie-beam construction, high-plate construction and ridge-post construction – all focus on roof structures as well.

We can thus establish that the scattering of farms, which was a consequence of the agrarian reforms in the last half of the 1700s and first half of the 1800s, apart from the operational advantages, led to major environmental improvements, including by introducing ceilings in the houses, smoke stoves made from wrought iron, later air furnaces/ceramic stoves, in the living room and glazed windows in the buildings’ outer walls.

This wave of building improvements that washed over the country at the beginning of the 19th century also inspired a boom within peasant culture, not just in terms of architecture but also in terms of interior design and intellectual life. It was now possible to read books thanks to the new windows, and the state of health improved now smoke and soot were banned from the rooms. To celebrate this new and more civilised existence, people began displaying their finest china in the living room itself, as the air in there was no longer polluted with soot. This led to the birth of the famous triangular ‘Amager shelf’.

Bornholm. Timber-framing on Bornholm differs from the East Danish tradition it is usually associated with in terms of construction, colour scheme and spatial layout. This is due to the fact that most of Bornholm’s remaining farmhouses were built after 1800 and therefore follow the national codes for construction and layout that were introduced as part of the agrarian reforms.

None of the available Danish literature on the history and evolution of rural Danish timber-framing, such as Harald Langberg’s Danmarks Bygningskultur (Danish building traditions) from 1955, which specifically mentions the above publication, supply a name for this ‘new’ construction type from c.

1800, where the beams are cogged onto the wall plate. The present writer

However, it’s interesting that the rural population of Bornholm stick with the old cross-tie-beam construction from before 1810 – they even use the extended, wedged tie beams we know from Funen and Jutland – in most new timber-framed houses right up to the 1880s. The explanation is that a cross-tie-beam house is erected from one end, truss by truss, including the extended beams, which are mortised through the posts, after which the through tenons are wedged in place on the outside. A 19th-century roof-truss house, on the other hand, is built by assembling the different sides (facades and gables) on the ground before erecting them and locking them in place with the cogged-on beams.

Figure 28: Drawing, Søren Vadstup The much more stable roof-truss construction, where the pressure from the roof and rafters is distributed vertically down through the upper walls.

The building also has higher ceilings and bigger windows.

As the building sites on Bornholm often slope, from the middle of the island down to the sea, their timber-framed houses usually have relatively high stone foundations, either on one side or at one end of the house. Add to this that homeowners, even in houses built on relatively flat terrain, preferred to have a low basement below floor level.

Figure 29: Photo, Søren Vadstup To comparison, the high of the tie beam from the floor in the 1. High plate construction (year 0 – 1750), 2. the cross-tie-beam construction (year 1300 – 1800) and 3. the roof-truss construction (year 1800 – 1880).

Figure 30: Drawing, Niels-Holger Larsen ‘Bornholmsk byggeskik på landet’ (Rural buildings on Bornholm).

Constructing a timber-framed house on Bornholm involved erecting the structure from one end, truss by truss, and then locking the trusses in place with the wall plate. Houses without a sill – these were the most common, just like in the rest of eastern Denmark – were erected using the same method.

The rafters were then cogged on top of the wall plate and the through tenons.

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This made it difficult, or near impossible, to erect one side of the structure ‘from the side’, 50–150 cm above ground, which is a necessary method if constructing a roof-truss house.30 People on Bornholm therefore preferred the ancient method of assembling the houses from the end, truss by truss, with mortised beams and posts that are locked in place with four wedges per truss (figure 44).

The tall stone foundations, a result of the sloping terrain, explain why the islanders stuck with the old cross-tie-beam construction until around 1880 – or more than 80 years after the rest of country had given up on it.

This can help us understand how the cross-tie-beam house (and the highplate house as well) was built, which was: from the end, one truss at a time, assembled provisionally and then, after every third truss or so, with a wall plate placed on top. This explains why the wall plates, even in major structures such as the ‘Vinkelgården’, are so relatively slender, only 7.5 by 15 cm (horizontal dimensions).

The shape of the roof follows East Danish traditions with vertical wooden gables, often with a relic from the Viking Age in the shape of a small post or finial on top of the gable.

The Intangible Heritage of the Half-timbered House. As individual human beings, we tend to perceive old houses and their special atmosphere, identity and soul very differently. This is because a building’s communica-

tive powers and individual appeal depend very much on our historical, technical and architectural understanding. But that’s not all. Its atmosphere and soul are moreover bound up with elements and qualities beyond its physical and material components. This is what I call its immaterial and intangible heritage.31 A definition of a building’s immaterial heritage comprises three different levels which often appear at once, or as a result of each other: First, we have the architectural idea, philosophy and identity. These more or less visible qualities offer a narrative that stimulate the imagination of residents and users. Secondly, traditions, knowledge or practice represent immaterial values handed down from previous ages, typically in connection with the construction of the building or city in question; this includes the craftmanship and methods used. Finally, we have sense impressions of atmosphere, soul, character and ambience, all of which are immaterial values that concern the materials, proportions, lighting and colours of architectural interiors and exteriors.

Cultural Identity. The intangible heritage of traditional architecture has great impact on our cultural identity – that is, those aspects of identity (Latin: i’dentitas = sameness; from Latin idem = the same) which, by being shared by a group of people and by individuals as well, make us feel connected and give us a sense of belonging to a place, and particularly the building, where we live.

The Bornholm cross-tie-beam building, as discussed above, is not least an example of buildings being ‘one of the media by which one communicates cultural affiliation with others, while also being a daily means of affirming the residents’ own identity.’32 Call it a symbolic communication or an intangible signal to the surroundings and neighbours that one is a ‘real Bornholmer’ – visible beam ends and all. (Fig. 31) The incredibly long-lasting cross-tie-beam construction, which has been an important feature of the island’s building traditions from the 18th century and onwards, or more than 70 years longer than in the rest of the country, thus first of all offers visible proof that the timber-framed houses of the Iron Age have been moved and re-erected, and secondly it shows us how important vernacular architecture is and has been to the cultural identity of the ‘Bornholmers’, right up to 1960. This role of architecture as a ‘community and identity marker’ is therefore undoubtedly manifested in other ways today. We just need to learn how to read the intangible traces.

Intangible Traces of the ‘Movable House’. The name bindingsværk (timber-framing) tells us that we are dealing with a building conceived as an assembly kit. Danish carpenters still talk of the timber being afbundet, which means ‘fitted and assembled provisionally’, at an afbindingsplads (fitting space), after which the pieces are provided with numbers and moved to the actual building site. The clever part, and probably the whole purpose of this (fitted) timber-frame construction, is that the building, if desired, can be moved again and again. Simply because it was built for it. It is also worth noting that most of the names for the different parts of a timber frame date back to the Iron Age and the Old Norse language that was spoken in the Nordic region during 800 and 1350 – and long before that, of course: - Binde = binda (forms part of the word bindingsværk) = fix, fasten, hold in position, join - Bånd = band (part of the words sidebånd, skråbånd (batten, brace)) = tie together, secure - Rem = reim (part of the words fodrem, tagrem (sill, wall plate) = tie together, fasten - Stolpe = stolpi (the present stolpe) = place in upright position - Bjælke = bialki, balk (the present bjælke, bindbjælke (beam, tie beam)) = beam - Spær = spjorr, sparr (the present spær (rafter)) = lance, long piece of timber, smaller than a beam - Holt = holt (part of the word løsholt = låsholt (intertie)) = originally ‘forest’ but via German holtz = wood, plank - Fjæl = fjol (part of the word sugfjæl (fascia board)) = split, cleave a piece of wood = board - Knægt (knee brace) = from the maritime Old Norse = kne = L-shaped (grown) piece of wood on a ship

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These Old Norse names show us that the timber frame was actually conceived and named during the Iron Age, and the fact that we still use them today means that we, hypothetically, would be able to communicate with farmers in their ‘movable’ villages more than 1,000 years ago. A post is called stolpi (stolpe in modern Danish), a beam bialki (our present bjælke) – simple as that.

Another interesting aspect is that several of the terms are still used to signify temporary conditions or activities. If you binder (tie together) something, maybe even with a bånd (tie) or a rem (plate), it is to be able to take it apart again, and the same goes for the verb to stille something (place it in an upright position) – that is, with the specific intention of dismantling it afterwards.

Still visible on West and East Danish cross-tie-beam houses, where they tell their own tale of usability and mobility, are the extended through tenons with their conspicuous locking wedges. Originally conceived for the more protected position on a high-plate house, these are reminiscences of the fact that it used to be necessary to shift the entire village every 150th year or so.

(Fig. 27) The Flexible House. Most studies on the subject of traditional rural timber-framing, such as Bjarne Stoklund’s Huset og Skoven (The house and the woods),33 suggest that these houses have been extended, shortened – and perhaps extended again, several times – which is corroborated if you study the numerals on the timber of the existing houses. Again, we’re reminded of the structure’s flexibility.

And just as many farms in the villages had their ceilings raised thanks to the new roof-truss construction, while their external walls and partitions were left standing. Many timber-framed houses were also extended, farms were ‘wrapped’ around quadrangles, or derelict wings were renovated by replacing the timber.

Other Immaterial Traces. Another aspect is the layout of rural timber-framed houses, which, as already mentioned, were built as so-called stove houses with an externally fired smoke stove in one end of the living room in areas east of the Great Belt and in North Jutland, whereas the rural farmhouses

Figure 31: Photo, Søren Vadstup ‘Apprentices’ House’ in Sandkås in Northeast Bornholm. The extension of the ‘old’ brick house from 1879, built in 1959, which is clearly seen here on the concrete base, has partly ‘fake’ painted timber in plaster and partly ‘fake’ cross tie beam ends, similar to the others in the house , but ‘glued’ on. (they are seen just above the lamps). This is hardly done for ‘restorative reasons’ (in 1959!), But because the half-timber and the cross tie beam ends means a lot to the local, cultural identity as ‘real Bornholmer’.

Figure 32: Photo, Søren Vadstup Traces from sleeping recesses along the north wall of the house are reminiscences from the high-plate house. Or they can be reconstructed – as in this case.

Figure 33: Drawing, Søren Vadstup One of the two windlasses which were excavated from the bottom of the well. In terms of wood technology, these feature something as sophisticated as a straight tenon joint, a halved tenon joint, an inserted hardwood bearing and two naturally grown knees (only traces) with through wooden pegs.

west of the Great Belt were so-called fireplace houses with an open fireplace in one end of the living room and a scullery with a separate chimney.

These differences between East and West are still visible in the shape of the solitary chimney pipes on Zealand, as opposed to the two or three chimneys on houses in West Denmark. Or as traces after the original sleeping recesses.

Even though these elements are now long gone, you can often find traces of them, like an intangible heritage that tells us about significant differences between the eastern and western parts of Denmark – differences that still linger as vague reminiscences. in the living room, as the position of external doors or the position of the ‘parlour’, the scullery or even the pantry.

Roofing materials, thatching methods and details, including ridges, gables and eaves, gable posts (Læsø and Bornholm), paved drains and joints. All these have an interesting story to tell about life in rural Denmark at the time of construction – including about the community and cooperation needed to make wattle-and-daub, now replaced by masonry, or to thatch the roofs, dig the wells or pave the yards.

Concluding Remarks. I opened this article by asking three questions: 1. How did the Danish cross-tie-beam construction come about, and what’s the background for this peculiar and moreover weak and unstable construction?

2. Why the two different variants: the eastern and western types, with a range of geographical sub-variants?

3. And why are these so different when it comes to construction, joinery and technology?

The answer to question 1 is that the new ‘stove room’, which reached Denmark between 1100 and 1400, required that the structure’s low side aisles were taken down to allow windows to be fitted in the southern wall.

However, this radical transformation, which was implemented through-

1 Also known as a ‘styrterumskonstruktion’.

2 Søren Vadstrup, ‘Bygningstømmeret’, in Tårnby.

Gård og landsby gennem 1000 år, edited by Mette Svart Kristiansen (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2005).

3 Søren Vadstrup, ‘Never waste a good Crisis.

Sustainability in the wake of an energy crisis: Historical research on the energy crises of the 18th century and the 1970s’. in ROBUST – Reflections on Resilient Architecture, edited by Albert Algreen-Petersen, Søren Bak-Andersen and Christoffer Harlang (Copenhagen: Gekko Publishing, 2017), pp. 74–80.

4 Jørgen Ganshorn, ‘styrtrum’, Den Store Danske, Gyldendal, 2 February 2009, http://denstoredanske. dk/index.php?sideId=166325.

5 Søren Vadstrup, Huse med sjæl. Om nænsom istandsættelse og bevaringsmæssig forbedring af ældre bygninger. (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 2004), pp. 201–203.

6 Steen Hvass, ‘Årtusinders landsby’, SKALK, No. 3, (1984): pp. 20–30.

7 Mette Svart Kristiansen, ‘Tårnby. Gård og landsby gennem 1000 år’, Jysk Arkæologisk Selskabs skrifter 54, (2006).

8 Inger Leigaard, ‘Vinkelgården’, SKALK, No. 2 (2014): pp. 26–30.

9 Johannes Emil Gnudtzmann, Lærebog i Husbygning (Copenhagen, 1888).

10 Chr. Axel Jensen, Dansk bindingsværk i renæssancetiden. Dets forhistorie, teknik og dekoration (Copenhagen: C. E. Gads Forlag, 1933), p. 7.

11 Curt von Jessen et al., Landhuset. Byggeskik og egnspræg. (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 1975), pp.

18–19; Bjarne Stoklund, Bondegård og byggeskik før 1850 (Dansk Historisk Fællesforening, 1980), p. 30.

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12 Snorre Sturlason, Kongesagaer. Trans., Gustav Storm. (Kristiania: J.M. Stenersen & Co., 1900), p. 651.

13 Søren Vadstrup, Byhuset. Historie, bevaring, istandsættelse (Copenhagen: Gyldedal, 2014) p.

100.

14 Bjarne Stoklund, ‘Nordatlantisk byggeskik.

Kontinuitet og forandring 9.-19. årh.’, Københavns Universitet, Institut for Europæiske Folkelivsforskning (Working paper 1, 1987); Else Roesdahl, ed., Bolig og familie i Danmarks Middelalder (Jysk Arkæologisk Selskab, 2003).

15 Bjarne Stoklund, ‘Nordatlantisk byggeskik.

Kontinuitet og forandring 9.-19. årh.’, Københavns Universitet, Institut for Europæiske Folkelivsforskning (Working paper 1, 1987).

16 Mette Svart Kristiansen, ‘Tårnby. Gård og landsby gennem 1000 år’, Jysk Arkæologisk Selskabs skrifter 54 (2006).

17 Erik Andersen, Ole Crumlin-Pedersen, Søren Vadstrup and Max Vinner, ROAR EGE. Skuldelev 3 skibet som arkæologisk eksperiment (Vikingeskibshallen i Roskilde, 1997).

18 Søren Vadstrup, I vingernes kølvand (Vikingeskibshallen i Roskilde, 1993); Søren Vadstrup, ‘Materialer’, ‘Værktøj’, ‘Bygning af skroget’.

In: Erik Andersen, Ole Crumlin-Pedersen, Søren Vadstrup and Max Vinner, ROAR EGE. Skuldelev 3 skibet som arkæologisk eksperiment (Vikingeskibshallen i Roskilde, 1997), pp. 36–37.

19 All this is essentially based on my own empirical observations from many years of experimenting with wet wood technology in connection with the making of six different Viking-ship replicas, two of which were made for the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde. See: Søren Vadstrup, I vingernes kølvand

out East Denmark during the 1300s and 1400s, meant that the previously unexposed high-plate posts with their rickety foundation stones now suddenly became part of the outer wall. This marked the birth of the so-called ‘cross-tie-beam house’ – which is basically an ‘amputated’ high-plate house (Fig. 49).

The answer for question 2 is that this development seems to have reached Zealand and Scania first – plus Norway, Iceland and the Faroe Islands. On Zealand, where all joints were notched and cogged, internal and external battens were notched between wall posts to connect them crosswise and buttress the wattle-and-daub. To further stabilise the frame, wooden groundsills were sometimes attached between posts, though not directly integrated in the structure.

All this was done without shifting or raising the building. As an added bonus, the alterations produced an extra space above the ceiling. This was used as a drying loft for hay and grain, which moreover formed a welcome layer of thermal insulation above the living room.

You can only wonder why farmers on Zealand, as their renewed or replaced their timber-framed houses with new structures during the 1600s and 1700s, did not take the opportunity to improve this structurally poor construction. This was not done until after 1830, and then only per instruction ‘from above’.

Farmhouses on Funen and in Jutland were eventually fitted with windows and ceilings as well, but this did not take place until 1500–1700. By then, freedom had been replaced by serfdom throughout the country, and the landed gentry had effectually taken over the farms. Because of the royal ban against the burying of wall post during the 1400s and 1500s, the landowners demanded that farmhouses on Funen and in Jutland were fitted with sills under the posts, which meant that the entire high-plate house had to be taken down and re-built as a cross-tie-beam house, complete with sills, mortised battens etc.

This explains why cross-tie-beam houses on Zealand have no sills, battens, braces etc., whereas their counterparts west of the Great Belt have an abundance of these. Which answers question 3. (Fig. 13, 14)

(Vikingeskibshallen i Roskilde, 1993).

20 N. C. Rom, Vejledning i Landbohusflid (Copenhagen, 1877).

21 Mette Svart Kristiansen, ‘Tårnby. Gård og landsby gennem 1000 år’, Jysk Arkæologisk Selskabs skrifter 54, (2006), p. 356.

22 Von Burgsdorf has briefly described and illustrated how oakwood was split, see: Fridrich August Ludwig von Burgdorf, Versuch einer vollständigen Geschichte vorzeuglicher Holzarten in systematischen Abhandlungen zur Naturkunde und Forsthaushaltungs-Vittenschaft. Vol. I and Vol. II (Berlin 1787), Volume II, p. 14.

23 Erik Andersen, Ole Crumlin-Pedersen, Søren Vadstrup and Max Vinner, ROAR EGE. Skuldelev 3 skibet som arkæologisk eksperiment (Vikingeskibshallen i Roskilde, 1997), pp. 88–99.

24 Erik Andersen, Ole Crumlin-Pedersen, Søren Vadstrup and Max Vinner, ROAR EGE. Skuldelev 3 skibet som arkæologisk eksperiment (Vikingeskibshallen i Roskilde, 1997), p. 40 and 91.

25 Mogens Clemmensen, Bulhuse – Studier over gammel dansk Træbygningskunst, Vol. I: Tekst, Vol. II Tavler (Copenhagen: Levin og Munksgaard, 1937).

26 Grith Lerche, Bøndergårde i Danmark 1789-90.

Byggeskik på Landboreformernes tid (Landbohistorisk Selskab, 1987); Søren Vadstrup, ‘Never waste a good Crisis. Sustainability in the wake of an energy crisis: Historical research on the energy crises of the 18th century and the 1970s’. in ROBUST – Reflections on Resilient Architecture, edited by Albert Algreen-Petersen, Søren Bak-Andersen and Christoffer Harlang (Copenhagen: Gekko Publishing, 2017), pp. 74-80; Søren Vadstrup, ‘Man skal aldrig lade en krise gå til spilde… Energikriserne

i Danmark i 1770-erne og 1970-erne’, In: Søren Vadstrup, Vedvarende holdbarhed. Bæredygtighed og cirkulær økonomi for bygninger (Copenhagen, 2018), pp. 81–86.

27 Grith Lerche, Bøndergårde i Danmark 1789-90.

Byggeskik på Landboreformernes tid (Landbohistorisk Selskab, 1987), p. 43.

28 Grith Lerche, Bøndergårde i Danmark 1789-90.

Byggeskik på Landboreformernes tid (Landbohistorisk Selskab, 1987).

29 Harald Langberg, Danmarks Bygningskultur (Fonden til Udgivelse af Arkitekturværker, 1955), reprint 1978.

30 ‘Den Store Danske’ defines a roof truss as ‘A common rafter structure consisting of two rafters, often stabilised with collar beams. The roof truss distributes the load from the roof down and outwards to the external walls.’, see: Claës Dyrbye, ‘spærfag’, Den Store Danske, Gyldendal, 5 February 2009, http://denstoredanske.dk/index. php?sideId=163767 31 This can, of course, be done ‘from within’ as well, from the middle of the house outwards, but this still makes it difficult to keep the walls from racking.

32 Niels-Holger Larsen, Bornholmsk byggeskik på landet (Rønne: Bornholms Museum, 1983).

33 Søren Vadstrup, ‘Genius Loci. Bygningskulturens immaterielle kulturarv’, accessed 17 February 2020, https://www.bevardithus.dk/wp-content/ uploads/10-genius-loci-2-2018.pdf 34 Bjarne Stoklund, ‘Det færøske hus i kulturhistorisk belysning’, Færoensia, vol. 14 (1996).

35 Bjarne Stoklund, Huset og skoven. Et sjællandsk husmandshus og dets beboere gennem 300 år (Wormianum, 1980).

REVITALISING BUILDING ARCHAEOLOGY

Thomas Hacksen Kampmann. As the looming climate crisis is becoming directly apparent to most people, there is an increasing focus on how our buildings affect nature. This raises the question of whether it is better to demolish the existing buildings and replace them with new low-energy buildings or gently insulate the old buildings. Of course, they will have a higher energy consumption for heating, which is increasingly covered by renewable energy, but on the other hand they have already strained nature during construction perhaps many years ago. Lifespan is therefore a very important parameter for assessing the overall environmental impact. Restoration architects are used to researching existing buildings to find out when they were built and what alterations they have undergone in the period up to now. This article attempts to investigate whether such archaeological investigations can be helpful in assessing the future lifetime of buildings for use when making overall Life Cycle Assessments.

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Abstract. The purpose of this study is to investigate whether archaeological building studies can help us estimate the overall life expectancy of building parts for use in Life Cycle Assessments (LCA). At KTR we teach and research how to reuse the existing building stock and, as part of this of course, how to reduce energy consumption in buildings. As buildings account for a very large part of our total environmental impact, and because we believe that older, energy-optimised buildings have a much lower overall environmental impact than building new, it seemed obvious to take an interest in making accurate calculations of buildings’ total environmental impact.

Especially the comparison between brand-new high-insulated buildings and older buildings that usually cannot be pre-insulated to such a high standard – but where, on the other hand, the physical building already exists.

To find a building’s total environmental impact one uses the established method for LCA, which consists of a systematic analysis of the accumulated environmental impact of products during their entire life cycle. This includes production, use and disposal during the whole life cycle and thereby the total environmental impact divided by lifetime – or, to put it differently: the longer the lifetime, the less impact will it have per year.

This shows how important it is to be able to estimate the possible future lifetime of a building and its building components in order to perform a credible LCA. Architects with specialised knowledge of building archaeology know how to determine the age of historic buildings and therefore can tell how long they have lasted so far and thus establish their durability. Furthermore, they can evaluate the historical, aesthetic values, provide instructions on how to refurbish and energy-improve, and from this give a qualified estimate of the building’s life expectancy.

In order to investigate whether our assumption that it is less environmentally harmful to restore/transform than to make new construction, we decided that the semester assignment in the spring of 2019 should include an LCA calculation in addition to our usual training programme.

KTR had got in contact with ‘Dansk Håndværk’, a Danish employer association for small and medium-sized enterprises within the construction, crafts and woodworking industry, who had recently purchased a small house on Bornholm, an island in eastern Denmark, with the purpose of creating an ‘Apprentices’ House’ for the training of young artisans.

In order to provide a reliable LCA we entered into collaboration with the Technical University of Denmark (DTU), so they could make a proper energy frame and LCA calculations.

The fieldwork took place on site in the house on Bornholm, and we managed to find the age of the whole building and all the important building parts. Unfortunately, we did not succeed in calculating the energy frame, making an LCA much less relevant, including our estimates of the life expectancy of different building parts.

Fortunately, this autumn a crop of students at DTU used the Apprentices’ House as an example for making an LCA, and the preliminary results show that the environmental impact is much less for renovated buildings compared to new buildings, despite the fact that lifetimes for all materials were set to the same.

Previous page, figure 1: Example of different colour layers on an inner door, work done by the conservator.

Above, figure 2: Historical view of the house, as seen from the north. Bornholms Ø-arkiv.

Middle, figure 3: ‘The Apprentice’s House’ as it appears today with corrugated fibre-cement roof, emulsion painted walls, plinth and timber-framing, of which some is applied directly on the wall.

Bottom, figure 4: Marking of horizontal level with water hose – the surface of the water is at the exact same height at both ends of the water hose.

The study clearly showed that a building archaeological survey almost certainly provides an invaluable tool for qualifying the future durability of older buildings – and this means a completely new way for architects to use building archaeological surveys.

Introduction. Often the lifetime of building components entered in LCA calculations matches very poorly with real-life experiences. Part of a traditional restoration architect’s work is to make building archaeological surveys, e.g. in connection with major restorations, remodellings or transformations.

The study also called attention to the fact that a similar qualified lifetime assessment is lacking for newer buildings and building components listed after the 1950s, as well as for completely new buildings.

Since a substantial part of architectural assignments deal with remodelling/ renovation/restoration of the existing building stock, and this is exactly what we are doing at KTR, it is only natural to investigate how different transformation scenarios will affect the the potential climate impact of different transformation scenarios. Generally, restoration architects have wide experience in assessing the lifetime of building components. To use the findings from traditional building surveys or archaeological surveys as input in LCA calculations therefore makes so much sense.

This suggests that building-archaeological surveys should also be made for newer buildings, which is not common practice today. Such a survey can both highlight the environmental impact of replacements in newer buildings and help us make more accurate assessments of the life expectancy of new buildings.

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However, since there is not yet an established tradition or knowledge among architects on how to make an elaborate LCA, we tried to seek a collaboration with the DTU, which have precisely these competencies. We succeeded in getting a collaboration started, and the question was then how we, as architects, could contribute to these calculations.

An architectural survey of an existing building provides information on the structure of the building and, for example, the areas and wall thicknesses needed to calculate heat loss. Once a project is done, you also have an idea of the amount of materials to be disposed of and the amount and kind of new materials to be added.

In addition, a traditional building archaeological survey will attempt to date all the essential parts of a building to get a picture of the development of the whole building from when it was first built and right up to the present day. The ages of the various building parts are important to make a reliable valuation, which you need when assessing which parts can be replaced and which parts contain the essential preservation values. Thus, you get a complete age estimate of all the building parts that says something about how long they have lasted so far and what technical state they are in today.

At KTR, the education in each semester is built around a selected building that is being worked on throughout the whole period. In the first third of the semester, most of the education takes place directly on the site where the students make a careful building survey, analyze and assess the essential architectural values and make a photographic record (phenomenological study). In the next third of the semester, they come up with their first preliminary suggestions for the future use of the building based on their observations and drawings, which will culminate in their final project in the last third of the semester.

In 2017, KTR had received a request from the trade association Dansk Håndværk (Danish Craftsmanship), which had purchased a small, neglected timber-framed house in a place called Sandkås on the island of Bornholm.

The purpose of the house purchase was to create a place where young people can come and get an introduction to various crafts. The idea of the project originated from the fact that the craft sector currently experiences a waning interest among young people, and thus a poor influx of new apprentices. Therefore, KTR decided to use this building as an object of study in the spring semester of 2019. (Fig. 3) Field Survey. A group of 21 architecture students, four engineering students, one conservator student and several teachers went to Bornholm at the beginning of February 2019 and began recording the building.

Measuring the building. The actual survey work was carried out by architects only. The students were divided into two-person teams, and the work started with a very quick sketch survey of the house in scale 1:50, done in just one day.

The sketch survey quickly gave us an idea of which parts would have to be measured, a rough indication of the size of the building and a valuable basis for the collaboration with the conservator and the engineers. After getting an overview of what drawings we had to make, each team was assigned a drawing set; however, the floor plan and the longitudinal section were divided into two teams.

The first preliminary measuring of plans was also used to record numbers on all doors and windows throughout the building, so that everyone was aware of which detail they were working on.

For each of the building elements we examined which parts it consisted of and then measured it in scale 1:1. For doors and windows, this meant that the profiles of casements, frameworks and mullions were measured together with metal parts such as hinges, handles and anchors.

When you have accurately measured these details in 1:1, it is relatively easy to make the 1:10 drawings where you use the profile drawings together with the key measurements of the door or window.

Once a profile is measured in scale 1:1, and not before that, it is relatively easy to find other doors and windows with similar profiles and thus determine if they date from the same building period. All doors and windows were scrutinised and assessed in this way. To provide us with a comprehensive overview, a detailed door/window diagram was prepared, in which each element was given its own column. (Fig. 5) All the selected building components were drawn to a scale of 1:10, the drawings consisting of plans and cross sections as well as exterior and interior elevations. This served as a basis for the execution of the 1:50 drawings.

You only have to measure the position of each door and window in the 1:50 drawings and then insert the detailed drawing – after simplifying to ensure that the lines do not overlap. While all the details were being measured, work was done on setting up the measurement system.

Survey 1:50. The actual measurement of the building was done using the traditional method popularly known as the ‘knife and fork method.’

DØRSKEMA FEBRUAR/MARTS 2019 Here everything is measured from a measuring system consisting of Opmåling af Lærlingenes Hus DØR NR. TYPE

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Survey 1:1 and 1:10. In order to make the most of our time, and to ensure that all students quickly became familiar with measuring accurately, we started by selecting important details such as doors, windows, timber joints etc., and these were also assigned to the various survey groups who could then immediately start surveying. The advantage of this method is that everyone can get started right away, but it also increases the awareness of which building elements have been added when and enables us to start estimating their age.

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Opmåling D1.1 Detaljer 1:10

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Dato 04.03.19 Art Opmåling Opmålt Emne D1.1 Detaljer Dato Opmåling 04.03.19af Mia Baltzer Nielsen Ramme, spejl, Opmålt indfatning, Anna Elizabeth Rosendahl D1.1 Detaljer af Mia Baltzer Nielsen slagliste, frise Ramme, spejl, indfatning, Anna Elizabeth Rosendahl 1:1 Mål frise slagliste, 1:1

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On this assignment, we chose that the actual surveying should be done in the traditional way with measuring tapes, plumbs, double right angle prism, braided mason line and clear vinyl water hose. This is a time-consuming method of measurement, and it takes about a third of the total surveying time just to set up the measurement system. On the other hand, one gets an incomparable insight into all corners of the building.

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Figure 5: Example of door/window diagram.

Arkitekt Ukendt Bygning Lærlingenes Hus Adresse Brinkevej 2A 3770 Allinge Årstal 1887

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horizontal braided mason lines and measuring tapes. First, we selected the height in which the plan should be drawn and then made accurate horizontal measuring points throughout the building exterior and interior using a clear vinyl water hose. (Fig. 4) KTR had just acquired a multi-line laser, but the water hose proved more useful, being more accurate on an unstable wooden floor and moreover able to measure around corners.

Once the horizontal level was established, cords were mounted on boards, fastened with screws, and then with measuring tape and angular prism cords parallel or perpendicular to the exit line around and inside the entire house.

A similar system was done on the second floor with plumbs and measuring tapes all linked to the measuring system on the first floor. The cords were set up so that all structures, plans and sections could be measured from them.

The fact that all cords are set up accurately as part of the same measuring system means that everyone can work simultaneously with them for all the different drawings, even several teams on the same drawing at a time.

Selection of the scale 1:50 drawings. Traces of earlier building stages are measured and indicated on all drawings, with different hatchings signifying different kinds of building materials. Hidden constructions are presumed where they cannot be seen – to show that these are only assumed, there is no outline here.

Note the narrow post in the third section from the left on the southwest elevation; this indicates that there was supposed to be a partition behind the post. This is the only original partition that did not follow the stringent modular pattern. (Fig. 6) Collaboration with the School of Conservation. KTR has long been hoping for a collaboration with the School of Conservation. Conservators, who are now part of the education at KADK, are experts at uncovering paint, layer by layer, on both joinery details, i.e. on doors or windows, and on walls.

This expert skill, and their further ability to analyze which pigments and binders have been used in both paints and mortars, make conservators invaluable partners in all restoration tasks. (Fig. 1) Building Archaeological Studies. Making a building archaeological survey is like doing detective work with the object of decoding the entire history of the building. The building archaeological survey combines measuring with archive studies to give you an idea of the year of construction and any important rebuilds and renewals. Archive studies consist of finding cadastral numbers, historical maps, old photographs (Fig. 2) and paintings of the building, compiling a list of all owners of the house as far as you can go back in time and, based on this list, investigating deeds, fire assessments etc.

These data can then be combined with the traces found in the building to provide an overview. It is also very important to get in touch with people who have visited the house, have rented it, or even remodelled it, to learn all the changes from ‘man’s memory’. Major alterations are mostly confined to the period since the middle of last century. Based on this it is often possible to give a complete list of the history of the building.

Measuring a building means that you stay in it for a long period of time, and as the survey progresses, you get into every corner of the building. If you compare your knowledge from the archives with the traces you find during the survey, you can gradually begin to piece together the history of the entire building. It goes without saying that the more there is left of the original building, the easier it is to make an informed survey.

Ideally, the archaeological survey, which is often very complex and comprehensive, is presented through spatial drawings of the development of the house through all the various stages from the construction to the present day – unfortunately we did not have time for that.

Fortunately, it turned out that many of the original building parts had been preserved. The entire roof structure with all the rafters is the original, and from this we could see that the building was first built with only seven bays, but later extended with two more bays. Likewise, the vast majority of the original doors and windows are preserved, since it is only the south-eastern part of the building, a former barn, which has been comprehensively renovated with e.g. new windows, floor, tie beams etc.

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Timber-framed buildings are normally assembled with interties, the horizontal pieces of timber between the posts just below the windows, joined by tenons and pegs, but in this house there was only one single peg. It turned out that the interties were attached according to a rather special method known at Bornholm from the 1840s.1 (Fig. 20) Once the method of assembly was recognised, all posts were examined to see whether there were any traces of tap holes as these would suggest the previous existence of an intertie instead of the present outer door.

Findings. The age of the building. Determining the age of the building proved tricky as the tusk tenoned timber joint normally belongs to the late 1700s. However, here the special assembly method with the interties, door and window profiles and gables erected without timber frames, combined with the archive studies, showed that the building was erected on site in 1887, and the absence of older traces in the timber shows that this is not recycled timber from another house.

Description of the way we found the time periods. The Apprentices’ House is characterised by many additions and rebuilds, and the house has undergone some heavy-handed modernisation, in particular during the past 30 years.

The south-eastern end of the building has been remodelled with partly new walls, beams, doors and windows, and the roof is a re-adjusted, corrugated fibre-cement roof everywhere.

A search through the archives did not produce as much material as one could have hoped, but some pictures from around 1930, most of which must have been recorded on the same day (windows and doors are open/closed the same way in all the pictures). The oldest sources, which date back to 1887, describe a house of seven bays, but the building is equipped with tusk tenons that is a building style usually associated with the late 18th century.

What really made the pieces fall into place was the study of the roof construction. By examining all the roof trusses from one end, it was found that the northwest gable was made out of pine, which is normal for roof constructions. Since this gable is clad with both older boards and later plywood, it was not possible to inspect it from the outside, but it could be Figure 9: Construction detail at north-western gable. Here, the rafter is made from pinewood and provided with a groove originally intended for the attachment of gable boards. The pinewood rafter is typical to roof constructions and in contrast to the other rafters, presumably made from poplar.

Photo, Thomas Kampmann, 2019.

Figure 10: The top joint of rafters in the roof construction in the apprentice house. The timber mark, here on rafter no. VI, indicates a seven-bay house of two gable in pinewood rafters and 6 numbered rafters in between in poplar.

Photo, Thomas Kampmann, 2019.

Figure 11: Joint between rafter and collar beams.

The rafter and the collar beams are made from the same type of wood.

Photo, Thomas Kampmann, 2019.

Opposite page top, figure 6: Elevation SW Opposite page middle, figure 7: Section BB Opposite page bottom, figure 8: Plan, ground floor

established that the boards had not originally been nailed on the outside but instead notched into a groove in the rafters themselves. (Fig. 9) No timber marks were found on this rafter, but the next rafter had ‘VI’ scratched into the wood. (Fig. 10) This rafter and the next ones were all numbered in a descending scale down to No. I. The rafters were roughly processed with an axe and not made from pine, as is normal practice, but presumably made from poplar. The collars beams that were preserved were also numbered and made from the same type of wood as the rafters. (Fig. 11)

rebuilt to a wall with no timber frame, and to the south-west, the outer wall has been hidden/disappeared because of the extension here.

Following rafter No. I came another pinewood rafter, as with the first pinewood rafter with no visible timber marks. This matched the description from the archive of the original seven-bay house – two gable rafters without a number and six numbered rafters in between – and exactly matched the extent of the boulder foundation on the north-eastern side. (Fig. 17) The next rafter was another unnumbered pinewood rafter ending with a stronger pinewood rafter at the south-eastern gable.

The investigation made it clear that the present building is the one that was first mentioned in 1887 – consisting of seven bays: a dwelling of four bays in the north-western end and three bays stable to the south-east. The addition of two bays to the south-east probably means that the original gable has been completely replaced; at least there are no traces of the gable other than the pinewood rafter in the ceiling. The tusk tenons, which usually indicate a building from the end of the 1700s, are thus a sign of a conservative approach – which, in fact, was typical of Bornholm at that time. (Fig. 21)

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These observations gave a clear picture that the original rafter structure has been preserved despite the roof having been relayed with new corrugated fibre-cement plates – the roof construction has only been reinforced with new auxiliary rafters between the old ones and then provided with readjusted laths all over.

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Above, figure 12: Historical building changes over time. The colours on walls, doors and windows indicate 2. ETASJE how old they are – the red ones are the original from 1887, the orange are extensions from about 1895, the green from after 1916, the blue ones from after 1947, indigo from 1967, and purple is 1970s remodellings.

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I 1887 – 1888 Red Emil T. Bohn Erected, 7-bay, 4-bay living room and 3-bay stable 2. ETASJE II 1888 – 1912 Orange August O. Funch The stable is expanded by 2 bays and

the porch built sometime around 1895 1912 – 1913 Mathias C. Funch III 1913 – 1947 Green Martin Silberstein 1916

1920 + stairs and dormers for a room cour age north-west of the stairs on the 2nd floor

and an extension in full wall towards the sw.

IIII 1947 – 1967 Blue O., A. & C. Andersen V 1967 – 1999 Indigo Knud Fiil Housing and rental for barmaids

Maybe the chimney was gone with dormers Water damage 1973–74 VI 1999 – 2017 Violet Bill R. Hansen Reception for rental of holiday apartments VII 2017 - Dansk Håndværk

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Historical drawings. Remarkably, there were quite a lot of historical drawings of the house. The first shows a combined survey of both 1st and 2nd floor. (Fig. 14) This is the most accurate drawing, probably made on site and with ‘odd’ cm dimensions, which fit well with our measurements.

The next drawing has rather imprecise measurements, especially when it comes to the original kitchen, but they probably mixed up the cross- and longitudinal dimensions here. Note that the text is in both Danish and German. (Fig. 15) One drawing was a bit of a puzzle. (Fig. 16) This drawing was among the archive material for the Apprentices’ House delivered from ‘Bornholms Ø-arkiv’ (Bornholms island archive) but is apparently dated 1825 – and thus before the construction of the house! Or could this drawing of a well be from 3.9.1895, where the number 9 is first written incorrectly? It fits with the initials A. F. as August Funch was the owner at that time, and the fact that humans are in metres and not inches which one would expect in 188

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The oldest windows and doors are all assembled with mitre joints, and thus planed by hand, as well as with hand-forged steel. This dates back to an older age but the number and proportion of fillings on the doors confirm that they are from the late 1800s. (Fig. 12, 13)

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The dating to 1887 was supported by the fact that the north-western gable, which is still intact, is not made as a timber-frame construction but as a fullbrick wall, by the distinctive collection of interties in the posts and by the fact that the walls were originally limewashed in a rose-pink colour.2

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Furthermore, there were only a few remnants of the original tie beams in this end of the building, as these have been replaced with new beams throughout the great room. This part of the house used to be a stable/storage room since the building was erected and this has probably been quite hard on the house.

Two other 9’s in the drawing are also fixed and the cartoonist’s 2’s are round at the top like his 9’s. The drawing seems to indicate that there was a porch already then (Fig. 2) and a door with a window above and railings, suggesting a balcony on top of the porch. Note, that there are no dormers. This indicates that the porch and the extension with two bays were added at roughly the same time, around 1895. Both sections are built with cast foundations.

Summary. As can be seen, all construction periods could be dated fairly accurately and at least with considerable accuracy with regard to assessing the lifetime of the important building parts.

The current corrugated fibre-cement roof may well contain asbestos and it is scheduled for replacement, both for the sake of health and for architectural reasons.

The timber frame is made from oak, while fired bricks have been used as infill in the panels; these were originally limewashed on the outside.

Strangely, the bricks are not laid in lime mortar but in pure clay mortar, and the inside of the walls is lined with standing bricks on the entire surface so that they also cover the timber. (Fig. 21) The original partitions, made from unfired bricks, were unfortunately destroyed around 1970 as a result of frost damage, and virtually all of them have been replaced by new light plaster walls on a wooden frame with glass wool fillings.

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Top, figure 14: Probably the first survey of the building. Note that the 2nd floor is rotated 90 degrees compared to the 1st floor?

Middle, figure 15: Drawing texted in both Danish and German. Probably done by the German owner Martin Silberstein.

Bottom, figure 16: Sketch survey of the northern gable in connection with the establishment of a well, probably dated 1895.

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Arkitekt Ukendt Bygning Lærlingenes hus Adresse Tejnsvej 64 3770 Allinge, Bornholm Årstal "1887"

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Arkitekt Ukendt Bygning Lærlingenes hus Adresse Tejnsvej 64 3770 Allinge, Bornholm Årstal "1887"

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Judging from old photos, the full-walled extension from about 1920 probably had concrete roof tiles, which were later replaced with a corrugated fibre-cement roof; this was probably renewed around 1980.

Perhaps there was also a misunderstanding when the students figured out how much climate change the building would inflict if one rebuilds the house as it stands today – what no one probably wants to do.

The building is amazingly old-fashioned for the time of construction, but this is probably due to the local materials having been easy to get hold of for a not so wealthy artisan.

The preliminary observations on the students’ work from their professor was as follows:

All the original building parts that have been preserved are thought to have a high architectural and technical value, whereas most of the redevelopments that took place in the 1970s and later are very unfortunate and therefore recommended for removal.

End of the survey on Bornholm. The building survey on Bornholm was finished after three weeks with the drawings partially done. Back in Copenhagen, the drawings were completed together with the door/window diagram, drawings of details and archive studies.3 The conservator carried out her studies in parallel with the architects, and the study of pigment types complemented the overall picture of the building archaeological sequence.

Collaboration with DTU. By then, the collaboration with DTU had begun to crumble and it was of course a problem that the final drawings and building-archaeological studies were not completed until relatively late for the engineers – and that the architects started their sketch projects immediately after having completed the survey.

Due to various circumstances, it ended up with neither a heat loss calculation nor a LCA calculation of the building – and thus no discussion about the durability of building materials!

‘Five teams of engineering students made a life cycle calculation (LCA) at the Apprentices’ House in the fall of 2019 as part of an assignment at DTU. The calculations were made on the basis of two scenarios: 1: restoration consisting of post-insulation, thatched roof, windows etc. and 2: renovation consisting of post insulation with Rockwool according to BR2018, replacement of windows, roof tiles etc.

Their calculations showed that restoration is much better than renovation in terms of the parameters of CO2 emissions, human health and resources, while renovation is slightly better than restoration in terms of ecosystems.

The latter is due to the thatched roof occupying a large land area during the growing season. The conclusion was that restoration is significantly more environmentally friendly than renovation.

Discussion. The Building Archaeological Survey of the Apprentices’ House clearly showed that it was possible to place all important building elements within a historic time frame of ten years, which is considered sufficiently accurate for an LCA, at least when the age is more than 50 years. The building archaeological method for examining the existing building stock has been used by restoration architects for decades, and there is reasonable consensus on how they are performed and described. This represents an important knowledge – the only problem is that it is not compiled in one place but lies unavailable in different case files at various private architectural firms or public and educational institutions.

Fortunately, the collaboration was resumed in the fall of 2019 by five teams of engineering students using the Apprentices’ House as an example to calculate an LCA. The students were in their 3rd semester and this was their first introduction to the making of LCA’s.

We set up two scenarios for the calculations: Scenario I, in which the project was carried out as if the building had been protected, i.e. a restoration with the least possible interference with the existing building, roughly similar to the looks shown on the two old photographs (Fig. 2); and Scenario II, in which we imagined it as renovated by architects/technicians/engineers/ craftsmen in the usual way.

The drawings show Scenario I, the restored house, where most of the recent alterations (the purple colour in figure 12) have been removed, such as the interior plaster walls, the plywood-covered north-west gable, the shed here as well as the roofing.

The main features of the restoration were to refurbish all doors, windows, walls and roofing, as well as mounting secondary glazing with energy glass in front of all windows, rebuild the chimney and the partitions (in unfired bricks), insulate exterior walls and ceilings moderately and replenish thatch on the roof with two rows of roof tiles at the bottom. We also made an estimate of how much of e.g. the timber and bricks in the walls would have to be replaced/repaired.

In Scenario II, all windows and exterior doors were replaced with new Velfac windows, the roof was tiled and all exterior surfaces were insulated with Rockwool in accordance with the standard of the Building Regulations 2018.

We followed the DTU students’ reviews, but as they have not yet submitted their reports at the time of writing, it has not been possible to assess the results properly, especially with respect to how they have estimated the lifetime of the different materials.

It was not clear from their reviews, but all building parts are, presumably, supposed to last for 100 years – which seems reasonable for the original building components but very optimistic for the newer building parts, such as new doors and windows.

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Above top, figure 20: Detail of post, the vertical piece of timber is supported by two interties. These are kept in place by the tenons being inclined at the bottom and then locked with wedges at the top. This is a rather unusual construction, here reproduced from ‘Rural building traditions on Bornholm’ by Niels-Holger Larsen.

Above bottom, figure 21: Detail of post, tie beam secured by two pegs trough the wall plate and the lower part of the rafter. The method of using tusk tenons was abandoned after the late 1700s – except on Bornholm where it, as here, appears in the very last timber framed houses from the late 1800s.

Opposite page top, figure 17: Scenario I, northeast elevation with rebuilt porch and chimney.

Opposite page middle, figure 7: Scenario I, section with reopened gable window, thatched roof and dormer.

Opposite page bottom, figure 8: Scenario I, 1st plan as if the building had been protected.

Of course, the age of a particular building part does not say anything about how long it can continue to last with its original intended use, it can only give an indication. However, the estimate of the future lifetime of a building and its building parts can be qualified when its present age is combined with the condition assessment of how the element is now, how it can be repaired and maintained correctly and possibly how it can be improved to reduce energy loss.

Taking windows as an example, which has been studied for many years, we have many windows that are 100–250 years old and which can still be advantageously repaired and used. They can even easily be energy enhanced4 so they lose less energy than similar new windows and in the same way; this is even cheaper5 and gives better noise reduction.6 These renovations and energy improvements have been practiced for decades, and this experience indicates that they can continue to meet all the requirements for a beautiful, functional window for many years to come.

However, if you continue with the window example, most of the windows in the existing building stock are now replaced, but this is not because they could not advantageously be refurbished or energy-enhanced, but rather because of a desire to ‘get new’. Furthermore, there is the problem of the amount of money involved from the consultant’s and the craftsman’s side, and that the climate impact is not taken into account at all. The price of polluting is very low!

While older buildings erected before World War II are generally made from relatively few and well-known materials, developments have since then moved toward more and more industrialised and complex construction with significantly more materials. We have extensive and well-known experience in the renovation and maintenance of older buildings, but with the newer ones, they have become so complex that it is often very difficult or directly impossible to maintain the entire building or a large part of the building elements. During this period, PCB and asbestos have also been used in large quantities, which is very difficult and associated with high costs to remove.

awareness of the qualities a building contains both historically, technically and architecturally, thus shifting focus away from the widespread replacement/new construction and over to repair/improvement, which can lower our climate impact significantly.

So far, building archaeological investigations have only been carried out on historic buildings, but this should be extended so that it applies in principle to all types of buildings, including relatively new buildings. This is also very important to sharpen the awareness that there can also be many valuable building elements in this type of buildings, and to learn that the future new buildings are not erected without awareness of how they are aged, maintained and used in the future.

Consequently, building archaeological investigations should be carried out and combined with condition assessments, restoration proposals, energy improvement recommendations and future life assessments in connection with all major renovations/alterations/transformations/restorations.

Since such work is quite extensive, calculations should at least first be published for a range of common buildings types to give an indication of how similar buildings will affect the climate if there is no means to have a proper LCA done.

A further argument for making valid LCA studies, based on realistic lifetimes, is that today’s climate impact is of little economic consequence for the individual construction case – as yet, we only have the honour or shame to help us limit the negative impacts!

The work with the Apprentices’ House also made it very clear to us how important it is to have a very close collaboration between architects, who can do a building archaeological survey and architectural assessment, and engineers, who can do qualified heat loss calculations and LCA investigations. It is simply necessary for architects to gain an understanding of how to calculate LCA and learn to do it themselves, or at least participate in the calculations, not least to assess the lifetimes.

Often, such a renovation will only preserve a small, load-bearing part of the building,7 so the residual life of newer buildings is probably much shorter in practice than for older ones. However, no studies are known about this area, but it will be essential to have reliable lifetimes for newer buildings that can be used in an LCA, both for the whole building and for the important building elements. The next big question is how long a life new buildings can be expected to have?

Thank You. Thanks to Amanda Stevne Pihl, archivist at Bornholms Ø-arkiv, for sending the museum’s archives of old photographs and drawings regarding ‘the Apprentice’s House’.

Of course, it is impossible to predict precisely, but one can get an indication by looking at how newer buildings perform after 1, 5 and 10 years, as well as by examining a typical building element’s ability to be repaired and modernised. This will probably be the best way to assess future durability. You can also get an idea of future ​​ lifetime by looking at the guarantee the supplier gives, whether it is possible to purchase spare parts and if the producer offers the possibility of maintaining their products for a longer time than the rather short period of guarantee usually given.

Thanks to architect Niels-Holger Larsen for sharing his great knowledge of Bornholm’s building practices and for references to ‘Rural buildings traditions on Bornholm’ and ‘Building traditions on Bornholm, a graduation project 1979’ with the invaluable descriptions of historic buildings. These are a treasure trove of information about older buildings – throughout the country! They can be freely downloaded from the web.

Going back to the example of windows, modern windows are very complex and often built of extruded profiles that can only be replaced as long as they are still in production, and in practice they are only very rarely repaired but instead replaced – with the a resulting great climate impact.8 Apart from the fact that wooden windows can be easily repaired with established, widespread knowledge, they also bind carbon as long as they sit in the building.

Concluding Remarks. It turns out, perhaps not surprisingly, that a building archaeological survey is very well suited to finding out how old the different parts of a building are. The knowledge of how to make a building archaeological survey is often limited to a very small circle of architects and probably very seldom combined with an assessment of future life based on a recommended repair method to be used in an LCA. Unfortunately, archaeological investigations are not as widespread outside the restoration world, but they can be, not least in view of how useful it is as a tool for a qualified LCA calculation.

In addition, a thorough building archaeological survey will often raise

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Thanks to former owners Bill Richemeier Hansen and Gitte Fiil for information on the latest part of the building’s history as well for coffee and cookies to all the students.

Thanks to architect Jens Riis Jørgensen for great help with finding archive studies.

1 Niels-Holger Larsen, ‘Bornholmsk Byggeskik’ (Diploma project, Royal Academy of Fine Arts, 1979), accessed 18 February 2020, http://www. kulturarvbornholm.dk/uploads/1/1/2/5/11258347/ bornholmsk_byggeskik._afgangspr._1979._ niels-holger_larsen.pdf.

2 Niels-Holger Larsen, Bornholmsk byggeskik på landet (Rønne: Bornholms Museum 1983).

3 ‘Lærlingenes hus’, Building survey (Copenhagen: KADK, 2019).

4 Thomas Kampmann, ‘Unfair Building Regulations for Windows? An examination of how multi-framed and/or secondary glazing windows are treated in the Danish Building Regulations 2018 – and in the rest of the Nordic countries’ (Conference paper in review, Nordic Association of Architectural Research, 2019).

5 Thomas Kampmann, ‘Hvad koster et vindue?

Totaløkonomisk valg af vinduer’ (Lyngby: RAADVAD, 2004), accessed 18 February 2020, https:// www.bygningsbevaring.dk/uploads/files/vinduers_totaloekonomi_GI_arktikel_4.pdf.

6 Thomas Kampmann, ‘Støjgener! Hvordan opnås den bedste støjisolering af vinduer?’ (Lyngby: RAADVAD, 2004), Accessed 18 February 2020, https://www.bygningsbevaring.dk/uploads/files/ vinduers_lydisolation_GI_arktikel_2.pdf.

7 ‘Ørkenfortet’, Building survery (Copenhagen: KADK, 2018).

8 Thomas Kampmann, ‘Vinduers samlede miljøbelastning Livscyklusanalyse af fire vinduestyper – eller hvordan man billigt og bekvemt begrænser CO2-udslippet mærkbart!’ (Lyngby: RAADVAD, 2004), accessed 18 February 2020, https://www. bygningsbevaring.dk/uploads/files/vinduers_livscyklusanalyse_GI_artikel_2.pdf.

Figure 22: Exploded axonometry seen from the west showing the house in 2019. This drawing makes it more practicable to draw the house in the various construction phases – one will ‘just’ have to remove the various newer elements in order to reproduce the building as it looked at the time of construction.

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CROWNING SVANEKE

Morten Birk Jørgensen. Constructed in 1952 as the first built public work

by Danish architect Jørn Utzon, the water tower in Svaneke has become an important reference point for a local community. As for the architectural community, the water tower is sparsely explored, however. Designed only few years prior to the winning proposal for the Sydney Opera House, the water tower is likely to be assigned a more significant role in architectural history. This article picks up the histories of the water tower and discusses it as respectively a heritage object, as an architectural sculpture and as an urban edifice in the local community. I argue that the achievements of the work rest mainly on the fact that it is a result of an entrenched civic demand in combination with a courageous architectural reading of the given context. And that it all appeared due to the visions of a newly elected young mayor.

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Above, figure 1: According to the local history association, this was among the first proposals for the water tower and the one preferred by the newly elected mayor. Image retrieved from www. svanekesvenner.dk.

Right, figure 2: Image from the construction of Svaneke water tower. One notices the three girders that was removed from the initial design. Image retrieved from www.svanekesvenner.dk.

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Introduction. On 9 April 2018, a flag was raised above the former town hall of the coastal town Svaneke on the island of Bornholm in the Baltic Sea. This was done to celebrate the 100th birthday of deceased architect Jørn Utzon, who in 1952 completed a water tower on the brink of town. The initiative was taken by a local history association called Svanekes Venner, or Friends of Svaneke. Throughout the summer the association hosted lectures and several trips with opportunity to enter the water tower and an associated waterworks, none of which are accessible on a daily basis.1 The regional municipality contributed to the celebrations by allocating resources for a restoration of the buildings, but a survey found them to be in a decidedly good condition. In the end the works only amounted to regular maintenance with minor spot repairs of the facade and some protection of the wooden surfaces.2 A modest effort for the then 66-year old structures.

In local media the two works by Utzon occur frequently with news about events, anecdotes or political decisions concerning them. A search for ‘Svaneke Vandtårn’ in the local paper Bornholms Tidende on the Danish media database Infomedia produces 93 results, including stories of a lecture about Utzon in Rønne Bio,3 a possible sale of the water tower4 and the naming of a new path, ‘Jørn Utzons Sti’ in Svaneke in 2012.5 6 It has become a favoured emblem for the region, it seems, and a search on social media confirms this impression. On Instagram, the hashtag #svanekevandtårn reveals a yoga-pose named ‘Utzonasana’, a poster with the water tower in a children’s room and a hand-knitted sweater with stylized images of the water tower surrounding the neck.7 Institutions promoting the booming Bornholm tourism industry have also discovered the potential of the water tower, which is promoted on maps of main attractions accompanied by dedicated articles.8 National authorities have likewise honoured Utzon’s small structures on Bornholm. In 1990, the water tower was listed under national protection, two years after it was taken out of use due to increased water consumption that called for new technological solutions. In 2015, the listing was expanded to also include the waterworks.9 In 2004 the water tower was furthermore immortalised as it was chosen as one of ten Danish towers to adorn the opposite side to the Queen on a coin in the so-called tower-series from the central bank of Denmark. ‘The towers are chosen as a theme because they represent national and historical symbols,’ it states at the website of Danmarks Nationalbank, where Svaneke water tower appears in the company of some of the most iconic medieval churches, renaissance towers and Aarhus Town Hall by Arne Jacobsen, as the only other representative of modern architecture.10

case of Steilneset by Peter Zumthor in northern Norway, arguing that a lack of local involvement in the process of project development, design, construction and basic place-conception present in the architecture has resulted in a lack of local identification with the memorial.15

These many diverse representations of the water tower paint a picture of an architectural work that is beloved from many sides. This feature of the work is also evident from both newspaper articles, official descriptions and architecture publications calling the water tower a ‘landmark’.11 However, a range of sources suggest that it was not always this cherished.

Applying a similar logic to the construction of the water tower reveals both similarities and differences. The design of the water tower seems to have been chosen despite local resistance. No accounts suggest any local involvement by the architect, who had no specific knowledge of the town, or of the island for that matter.

Multifarious histories have been collected on the birth and life of the water tower by the local historical association in Svaneke. Mixed with anecdotes and rumours like all good storytelling, they account for disagreements about both the position and the design of a new water tower at the time of development. While the then newly elected mayor, 36-year-old Emil Andersen, requested a ‘special’ structure designed by an architect, other parts of the municipal council argued for a more traditional design. An anecdote even suggests that dirty tricks were used in the final enactment of the proposal.

The mayor, who wore a hearing aid to compensate for a hearing impairment, chose to turn off the volume during the discussion. Turning it back on as the discussion was over, he declared the proposal to be passed by the council, or so the story goes.12 Emil Andersen is later to have said that, ‘Utzon’s water tower is the only water tower in Denmark that has been accepted by a municipal council by all votes but one.’13 That the water tower was not initially embraced locally is clear from several newspaper articles and even a large monograph on Utzon, which puts it like this. ‘Reduced to structural essentials and novel in form, Utzon’s solution did not prove popular at first, but is now a protected landmark, valued by the local community as their very own “Utzon Tower”.’14

As I will describe in the following, the design may even have been imported from London and a first draft produced on a napkin in Copenhagen Airport. Furthermore, the form of the tower, the materials and construction techniques do not seem to contain any evident reference to local traditions in Svaneke or Bornholm. While a repeated reference to a certain kind of seamark relates the construction to the rather generic situation of being close to the coast, the tower does not appear site-specific according to a contemporary understanding of the concept. Instead, it has references to a modern architecture of the 50s that was characterised by a rejection of tradition in favour of progress. Yet, other aspects of the structures relate them intimately to the place and the local community. The water tower and the waterworks were the result of a local civic demand for a modern welfare amenity, a demand which was only satisfied by the local authorities after fierce public pressure. This was first and foremost a piece of basic infrastructure providing an essential convenience in a time of societal modernisation.

This is a schism worth exploring: a structure initially disliked by a local community but over time embraced to the extent of becoming a valued landmark; a determinant of local identity. I have previously worked with the

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Figure 3: Elevation of the water tower with the originally intended fibre-cement slades. Drawing based on original elevation by Jørn Utzon, retrieved from www.svanekesvenner.dk and digitalised by Anders Rødgaard Bojesen.

After these initial comments I would like to take a closer look at this rarely studied work of architecture to shed light on the circumstances under which it has become a treasured reference point to a local community. As a technical facility, the water tower is only functional together with the waterworks in the village of Listed. However, my main focus will be the water tower, due to its inevitable symbolic character as a landmark for the town of Svaneke. First, I will look into the history of development that resulted

in the work as we know it. Next, I will discuss the work as heritage, as a sculptural architectural form and as an urban edifice. Finally, I will reflect upon the consequences of the analysis for contemporary involvement of architecture in small-town situations similar to Svaneke.

Development History. Tracing the history of the water tower has been surprisingly difficult and the trajectory of events will remain incomplete after this article. Surprising, because one would think that the history of the constructions of a world-famous architect like Jørn Utzon would already be extensively chronicled. However, when it comes to the water tower in Svaneke, and even more the waterworks in neighbouring Listed, this is not the case. While the ‘birth’ of a building is never clear-cut, this case is actually full of contradictions.

Having graduated from the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts during the German occupation of Denmark in 1942, Utzon emigrated to the neutral Sweden to find work. Returning to Denmark and short of commissions, he was fortunate enough to have his childhood friend from his hometown Aalborg engineer Preben Wistisen asking him if he would make a proposal for a new water tower in Svaneke. According to Jørn Utzon’s son Jan Utzon, who supplied the story in a lecture held at the UNSW in Sydney, the fee for the job was a mere 80 dollars.16 However, the water facilities in Svaneke became the first realised public project by the architect, who would soon after rise to stardom as part of the international architectural elite. The above mentioned local historian association in Svaneke has written an account of how the commission landed on Jørn Utzon’s drawing table that goes as follows.

Of the royal boroughs across Denmark, Svaneke was the last one without running water. While neighbouring communities like Aarsdale and Nexø had running water installed already in the 1910s, the municipal council in Svaneke were happy with what they had and considered the construction of a waterworks to be too expensive due to the rocky underground. During the 1940s, discontent with the lack of a modern water supply grew in the community and plans to construct a privately funded co-operative waterworks were initiated. At a meeting in April 1950, the municipal council yielded to public pressure and decided to establish a public waterworks for the town. The project plans from the cooperative project were inherited by the municipality, including engineers Preben Wistisen and Jørn Klindt-Jensen and a contractor for the drilling and the pipework. The contracts were signed by the newly appointed mayor, the 36-year old Emil Andersen. Disagreement as to the design and the location for a possible water tower divided the municipal council, but further discussions were postponed.17 It was Preben Wistisen who engaged Utzon as the architect for the project.

Emil Andersen, with ambitions for a spectacular structure, asked Wistisen to supply the architectural proposals. Wistisen knew Utzon from grammar school, however it is unclear how the first proposals from Utzon came about. According to the website of the local association, Utzon presented the mayor with 4-5 proposals in the shape of architectural models, from which Andersen fell for one (Fig. 1).18 An article from 2018 in the local newspaper Bornholms Tidende quotes former board member and local doctor Flemming Larsen who claims that Wistisen and Utzon coincidentally met

Figure 4: Detail from elevation made for the competition proposal for Chrystal Palace in 1946 by Utzon, Tobias Faber and Mogens Irming. Compared to the initial model proposal by Jørn Utzon (Fig. 1), this proposal is the likely predecessor to the water tower in Svaneke and the explanation why several central sources date the design of the water tower to 1946. Drawing retrieved from memorandum by E. Jensen, see note 26.

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during a transfer in Copenhagen Airport. According to the latter they shared a coffee and Wistisen told him about the water tower project in Svaneke and asked whether that would be interesting to Utzon. Utzon instantly replied with a sketch on a napkin, which Wistisen later presented for the mayor Emil Andersen, who saw it as brilliant.19 Whether or not the stories are true, the model of figure 1 is probably an early-stage proposal. As appears from the model, this proposal includes three girders in the space under the water tank. Due to import regulations for iron it was necessary to apply to the Ministry of Trade for permission prior to construction. The ministry found that the structure used an abundance of iron, and the structure was therefore modified to the simpler one we know today.20 The competitive tender for the building work was carried out on 16 May 1951, and on 5 June 1951 contracts were awarded to a local entrepreneur from Rønne for the water tower and for the waterworks to one from the Copenhagen suburb Lyngby.21 The facades of the water tank were initially meant to be covered with plain gray fibre-cement slates (Eternit) of 40 by 40 cm as shown on the drawing in figure 3. After negotiations on the price and durability of the fibre-cement slates, Utzon suggested a horizontal clapboard cladding for the facades made from 120mm wide planks. This was agreed upon on 2 May 1952 and became the final expression. By the end of 1952, the water tower was completed, about one year after the opening of the waterworks, and thus the facility could finally use gravity to provide running water for the inhabitants of Svaneke.

While the above account primarily relies on information from the local historical association, a wider view of the literature on the water tower show great confusion as to when it was actually designed. The homepage of the Danish Utzon connoisseur Flemming Bo Andersen states that the design for the water tower and even the waterworks was conceived as early as 1946.22 The same year features on the homepage of the Utzon Centre for the water tower.23 When asked about where they have this information from, the Utzon Centre refers to the monograph by Richard Weston.24 And sure enough, this claims that the water tower was designed ‘…in 1946 as part of the island’s reconstruction following a period of Russian occupation (…) but not realised until 1952.’25 Weston’s claim is based on an interview with the engineer Preben Wistisen; Jørn Utzon himself made an active contribution to the monograph, and he of all should know what is true and what is not. This mystery is taken up in a memorandum by a member of the local historian association, Egil Jensen. He rejects the claim about the water tower being part of the island’s reconstruction as the reconstruction funds never reached Svaneke. Instead, Jensen shows that a competition entry by Utzon in collaboration with the colleagues Tobias Faber and Mogens Irming for a new ‘Crystal Palace’ in London, which had burned down in 1936, includes an antenna structure that is strikingly similar to the first model of the water tower for Svaneke (Fig. 3).26 A comparison between the antenna mast from this entry and the initial model proposed by Utzon for the water tower in Svaneke makes this explanation seem probable. Surprisingly, the only monograph that seems to have gotten this right is written by a Majorcan architect, who describes the water tower as having references to both the Crystal Palace project and a project by Gunnar Asplund for the Stockholm Tower in 1935.27 The enchanting and brilliant napkin sketch, the less poetic four or five parallel proposals, a combination of the two or perhaps some third yet unknown trajectory might all be the actual origin of the water tower design. In any case, the untraditional design proposal appealed to the young mayor who managed to overcome local dissent in the municipal board. While Svaneke got running water and a characteristic landmark, architectural history was enriched with a noteworthy monument.

Writings on the Water Tower. The meaning of the water tower can be approached from countless perspectives. With regard to the widespread appreciation both locally, regionally and nationally that appear from the previous exposition of representations, three perspectives appear particularly pertinent. First, as a heritage object representing a specific epoch of history when modern welfare facilities reached the geographical outskirts of the Danish society. Second, the water tower considered as an architectural form in its own artistic integrity. And third, as a landmark for the town of Svaneke with effect on the urban form and the community. Though intimately entangled, the three perspectives will here be addressed in turn.

Above, Figure 5: In silhouette, the sculptural expressivity of the water tower appears most evidently as the entire structure seems to slant to one side, the stair is decentralized, and the fissure appear irregular towards the sky. Photography retrieved from Jorn Utzon, works and projects, see note 27.

Right, Figure 6: The sea mark that is said to be the main inspiration for the shape of Svaneke water tower. Photo: Larsbg dk

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Heritage object. The water tower officially became a heritage object28 when it was listed under national protection in 1990, two years after it was taken out of service. At that time the building was only 38 years old. Ten years earlier, in 1980, it had become possible to list buildings of less than 100 years of age, and that only if they contained ‘outstanding values’.29 The water tower was therefore among the youngest listed buildings in the history of Danish heritage listings. The heritage authorities classify the heritage values in three categories of respectively ‘cultural historical values’, ‘architectural values’ and ‘essential listing values’.30 The descriptions that specifically address the water tower go as follows: Cultural Historical Values: ‘The cultural historic value of the water tower at Jørn Utzons Sti 2 applies in the exterior to the functionally defined expression that is characteristic of a water tower. The cultural historical value also applies to the design as a sea-mark which the ships used to navigate after. The water tower originally functioned both as water tower and as seamark. The open, readable construction, the wooden formwork that follows the direction of the legs up to the tip of the water tower and the wood facing all testify to the credo of material honesty that prevailed at the time of construction.’31 Architectural values: ‘The architectural value of the water tower applies to the building’s location in the open land on a ridge, where the lonely and solitary building appears as a distinctly different element and a visual landmark. The water tower is well-proportioned in an easily readable construction of three slim concrete legs which carry the water tank and a painted wood facing between the upper parts of the concrete legs: The steps, also in concrete, wind down effortlessly from the bottom of the water tank, contributing to the elegant yet characteristic appearance.’32 Essential listing values: ‘The essential listing values of the water tower apply in the exterior to the well-proportioned edifice in concrete and all the building components and details, such as the spiral staircase, wooden formwork and wood facing.’33 To celebrate the centenary of the enactment of the Danish listing law, a comprehensive record of the history of built heritage in Denmark was published under the name Fredet, or in English simply ‘Listed’. Here the water tower is described as follows: ‘The water tower was listed in 1990 and is part of a narration about the public built works of the welfare society, where in some cases architectural qualities were given very high priority.’34 It also says that the town’s two windmills are listed and that... ‘In principle, the town could be listed as a whole.’35 This appreciation of Svaneke is not unprecedented.

In a vote initiated by the interest group Bygningskultur Danmark, Svaneke won the price as ‘Denmark’s most beautiful royal borough’ with 22% of the votes, ahead of larger and more prominent historic towns such as Ribe, Ebeltoft and Elsinore.36 The high heritage value of Svaneke has not gone unnoticed as a preservation plan for the town was devised remarkably early.37 The local history association Svanekes Venner was established in 1944, and in 1969 a preservation plan was enacted.38 The development and enactment of the preservation plan took place under the rule of same mayor Emil Andersen who earlier forced through the spectacular design of the water tower: simultaneously a champion of contemporary architecture and of the protection of the historical town – a political versatility that would later earn him considerable acknowledgement from his fellow townsmen.39 The indication in Fredet that the ‘architectural qualities’ were focused on in the listing of the water tower is confirmed when looking into later authoritative descriptions of preservation values on Bornholm. In the extensive series of ‘cultural environment atlases’, compiled by the Ministry of Culture during the 2000s, the water tower is represented by a single photo, but apart from that absent.40 A recent so-called ‘screening’ of cultural environments in Denmark finds Svaneke town to be a case in point, but disregards the water tower as part of this.41 The website of a significant heritage expert, writer of influential books and native ‘Bornholmer’ Niels Holger Larsen, which focuses on cultural heritage on the island, similarly doesn’t mention the water tower as part of the built heritage on the island.42 To these actors, cultural heritage seems to be something more distant in time than the modern constructions of Utzon in Svaneke.

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While the decision to list the water tower in 1990 in this light can be considered a particular focus on architectural quality, this quality is fully embraced by the local historian association who conducted the comprehensible research on the emergence of the water tower referred to earlier.

As mentioned above, the national tourist organisation also promotes the water tower as a sight to visit during a vacation on Bornholm, and here it is moreover promoted as a ‘protected historical monument.’43 The purpose of this may be to build up local community, to attract attention from the region or to attract tourists from abroad. In September 2014, a group of locals gathered in what used to be Vestergade to pay tribute to former mayor Emil Andersen for his contributions to the town. The local municipality, now merged with the neighbours and with a town hall in main town Rønne, had decided to comply with a local request and re-name a part of Vestergade as Emil Andersens Vej. With home-baked cake the municipality gathered in the sun; made and listened to speeches, including by the former mayor’s two sons, the former vicar and the present head of the local historian association, sharing anecdotes on the deceased townsman.44 If we think of cultural heritage as a cultural practice rather than the physical structures themselves, there is no doubt that the water tower is such a ‘heritage object’ around which heritage can take place.

Sculpture. Another view on the water tower concerns its presence as a sculpture, as an autonomous form and in relation to the landscape. The architectural representations I have referenced so far have primarily been of descriptive character. There is a lack of specific artistic inquiries into the work, however certain points appear in several of the descriptive texts. I will review them under one and follow up with my own formal analysis in the later discussion.

Like mentioned earlier, the monograph by Richard Weston seems to be the reference work for many other descriptions, and, despite the suggested factual misunderstandings, it does offer a couple of analytical points. One concerns the stair which according to Weston ‘…seems to wind its way mysteriously down from the tower rather than rise to meet it.’45 Weston also relates the design to the role models of the contemporary architecture ‘Seen half a century later, it has the same timeless authority as the nineteenth century engineering works beloved of early advocates of “the functional tradition”. Equally, it might almost be a sculptural installation, a three-legged colossus bestriding the landscape.’46 In the more descriptive end of the spectrum, Weston claims that local planners suggested referencing the windmills in the landscape, but Utzon ‘…dismissed such a ridiculous idea out of hand and said the tower should be more like the coastal sea-marks.’47 The reference to the sea-mark reoccurs across most, if not all, comments on the water tower and points towards a specific beacon, in Danish called a ‘båke’, present at many shores in the region (Fig. 6).

The monograph Jørn Utzon – Drawings and Buildings by Michael Asgaard Andersen also comments on the water tower. On the beacon-reference Andersen writes as follows: ‘While the water tower has certain features in common with the beacon, it is not trying to be one. Rather, it expresses a sense of belonging to a culture in which the sea and the buildings relating to it are valued. (…) Hence, it contributes to developing and continuing a building tradition.’48 A general comment on Utzon suggest that ‘…his projects seems both to be linked to its specific place and to reach beyond it,’49 and is caused

by Utzons interest in ‘other cultures’ building methods.’50 The Spanish architect Jaime J. Ferrer Forrés describes the water tower as an ‘…exceptional reference in a landscape accentuated by the windmills and lighthouses situated on the coast.’51 ‘…three 100x50 centimetre pillars, thirty metres high, support the truncated pyramid which forms the walls of the water tank. A slender, hexagonal, hollow mast is situated in the centre of the footprint and permits the circulation of water and the installing of the stairway which ascends through the tank to the upper platform. From the raised “platform,” as Utzon himself called it, the boundaries of the island are visually encompassed.’52 The book Den Danske Arkitektur similarly makes a brief comment about the water tower. It borrows many points from its predecessors, including the probable misunderstandings, however it is also more analytically courageous than the aforementioned. Like several other, it describes the water

tank as a ‘pyramid-shaped building volume,’53 repeats Westons statement of the stair winding down rather than up and continues ‘The spiral staircase makes clear the scale for the passer-by and imparts a human dimension to an otherwise impersonal building.’54 ‘The water tower stands as a sculptural installation in the landscape – firmly positioned, as any tripod is. It appears humble and conspicuous at one and the same time. Humble because of its formal, geometrical simplicity. Conspicuous because of its distinctive figure which differs from the surroundings. As edifice the water tower appears reduced to a consistently rationalised whole, which only exists to meet its function – a logic construction and mathematical solution, whose dimensions are carefully adapted to its purpose. The appearance seems universal and timeless – exactly like the structural wonder-constructions of early modernism.’55 Other comments I have mentioned are almost purely descriptive and will be left out in this section. Considering the superficiality of the general observations on the water tower, the descriptions from the authoritative listing is a considerable part of the formal analysis that has been conducted. However, as it follows analytical points from the discourse, I will not restate them here but continue to some points on the water tower in context.

Urban Edifice. Several of the analytical points in the former sections concern the water tower in relation to the landscape and the community. It seems evident that the heritage practices of raising flags, eating cake and sharing anecdotes relate to the sculptural expressivity of the structure on the ridge and to its affiliation to the maritime culture of Svaneke. The structure is discussed in relation to the architectural discourse of early Danish modernism, specifically the ‘functional tradition’ and the fascination of the rational early industrial structures.56 However, the expressivity of the sculpture also re-occurs. The ‘mystery’ of the staircase, a ‘three-legged colossus’ and an ‘exceptional reference’. These ephemeral comments, I believe, hold a key to an alternative reading of the structure. One that distinguishes it from other contemporary architectural works like those associated with the ‘functional tradition’. This is where the vertical section through history is flipped into a horizontal one, giving the work the ‘timeless’, ‘universal’ and ‘transcendental’ quality that is vital to its function as a landmark. I will open this discussion by taking a look at a perspective on the tradition of ‘expressionist’ architecture.

In an article on ‘Expressionism and the New Objectivity’, architectural historian Rosemarie Haag Bletter argues that expressionism as an architectural style has been neglected in the dominating histories of modern architecture.

She explicitly accuses the seminal book Space, Time and Architecture by Sigfried Giedion from 1941 of being guilty of such a negligence. Giedion, Bletter claims, is more a promoter of the specific ‘International Style’ than an observer of architectural history. Thereby, he actively excludes former expressionist architects and theorists from his modern history.

In the book, Giedion directs a subtle criticism against the German architect and theorist Bruno Taut, who in the interwar period promoted the theory of the Stadtkrone, or ‘city crown’. Inspired by both the pagodas of Eastern and the cathedrals of Western urban traditions, Taut considered the Stadtkrone an important monumental feature to avoid chaos in the modern city. According to Bletter, expressionism has in fact continually been present, though marginalised in architectural history. What had been marginalised during the blossoming of the International Style and further outlawed due to the inclinations of the Third Reich reemerged during the 1950s and 1960s as a neo-expressionism, from which Eero Saarinen’s Yale Hockey Rink (195658) and Dulles Airport in Washington D.C. (1958-63) and Jørn Utzon’s Sydney Opera House (1956-68) are the most prominent examples.57 Bruno Taut was closely associated with the Garden City movement and a main figure in the promotion of these originally British ideas in the German context. The movement was not a narrow architectural one, but closely related to socialist political ideas.58 It considered architecture and town planning to be vessels for making social reforms and in the German context to construct a new and better society on the ruins of World War I. Before the war, the prevailing theories associated social hierarchies with urban form and concluded that traditional centralist town structures were counterproductive to social reform and should be replaced with decentral urban plans.

With Taut’s theory of the Stadtkrone the traditional urban monument was

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reestablished as a symbol. Still a symbol of a societal order, though now not celebrating the church or the aristocracy but the cultural institutions of the people. Having had an immense influence on architectural theory during the interwar period, Bruno Taut was marginalised after the war. The architectural avant-garde turned towards the International Style and considered these hierarchical ideas old-fashioned.59 In Denmark, the revolutionary influence of the International Style architecture was more restrained. During the interwar period, there was a controversy between the Arts and Crafts- and Garden City-inspired association ‘Bedre Byggeskik’, which focused on traditional and local vernacular building culture, and the more progressively oriented ‘cultural radicals’, who promoted so-called functionalism. As fierce as this controversy was around WWII, from the historical distance of today it is fair to say that both movements were more aware of the local context, more focused on maintaining a historical continuity, than the international discourse around figures like Le Corbusier, Mies van der Rohe or Walter Gropius. By the time of WWII, Bedre Byggeskik had been marginalised at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts, and the functionalist movement had largely taken over the academic discussions on architecture. A formally modest architecture in well-known materials and with an underplayed monumentality prevailed.60 When architectural expressionism was rediscovered in writings on architectural history from the 60s and 70s, it refers specifically to a period of Dutch-German architecture in the interwar period and misses the important continual trajectory of expressionist endeavours across the 20th century.

When the fifth edition of Space, Time and Architecture was published in 1967, it included an entire new chapter devoted to ‘Jørn Utzon and the Third Generation’. In light of the argument advanced by Blatter, this addition by Giedion might be viewed not only as an update to ensure that his book was still relevant and fresh, but also as a post-rationalisation after the rectilinear international style had gone out of fashion. The new attention that Utzon receives makes up for the premature dismissal of the theories of Bruno Taut in architectural history. The decades after WWII showed a new playfulness among many of the former International Style architects that rendered possible the rise of Jørn Utzon and his spectacular shapes that never succumbed to the dominating architectural trends on either the Danish or the international design scene.

Analysis and Discussion. As an entangled discipline, architecture can be addressed from innumerable perspectives. The preceding section is structured around three of them, namely a heritage perspective, a sculptural perspective and an urban perspective. In the following I will discuss these three perspectives and thereafter relate them to contemporary architectural discussions.

Heritage Object. As mentioned, the water tower was one of the youngest buildings under Danish heritage protection when it was listed in 1990. When the Sydney Opera House was added as a UNESCO World Heritage site, it became the youngest building ever to enter the list.61 It seems like Utzon’s architecture has a particular attraction for heritage authorities. It is therefore credible when the record of Danish listings, Fredet, suggests that architectural values were prioritised in the decision to list the water tower in 1990.

The description of the preservation values seems to embrace this fact. Even the cultural historical values are described in sentences that might as well figure in an architectural review as in a heritage assessment. The conclusion likewise covers the protection of the water tower in its entirety, as ‘a work of art’, rather than specific aspects of the structure that convey certain historical traces. The water tower is listed to protect an inalienable piece of modern architecture from a rather recent past in which a belief in modernity and progress prevailed. It is symptomatic that the recently produced heritage descriptions do not include the water tower as a central part of the heritage on the island or to the cultural environment in Svaneke. Symptomatic of the difficulty of defining the context that are to be included in the perception of a ‘cultural environment’ and of the yet difficult position modern architecture undertakes within the heritage community.

It is worth noticing that the mayor under who’s rule a preservation plan was initiated was the same mayor who insisted and seemingly dictatorially forced through a design for the water tower that strongly contrasted with

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Figure 7: Section showing the functionality of the water tower with the hexagonal central pole as pipeline. Drawing based on original elevation by Jørn Utzon, retrieved from www.svanekesvenner.dk and digitalized by Anders Rødgaard Bojesen.

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Arkitekt

Jørn Utzon

Bygning Vandværk i Svanneke Adresse Jørn Utzons sti 2 3740 Svaneke Årstal 1951

Emne Mål

Planer og snit 1:100 og 1:20

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the existing urban structure. A mayor with a penchant for the existing but also one with ambitions for its continued development. Sufficiently locally rooted to know that insidious behavior would be necessary to force an aberrant design proposal through a tory municipal board. It was a risky game he played the then 36-year-old Emil Andersen, insisting on an expressive design from a foreign and unknown architect. A game that turned out well, that is. To the local community who thereby was enriched with a monument to navigate by that would generate community spirit and local pride half a century later.

Can we imagine a similar case unfold in our present society, respectively in the present architectural community? Would we dare to promote an architecture so expressive in an architectural context as treasured as Svaneke?

These questions will remain unanswered, but the questions in relation to the case are worth asking when similar cases unfold today. As the case was unfolding in Svaneke, Europe was re-emerging from half a decade of war, devastated both physically and morally. Svaneke was now, as the last of the Danish royal boroughs, ready to install running water and with the choice of the water tower by Utzon also to confidently meet the second half of the twentieth century.

Sculpture. In his 1962 essay ‘Platforms and Plateaus’, Utzon describes the architectural potential of these elements through a journey to different archaic built structures around the world. On the plateaus of temples built in the dense Mexican jungle they ‘had from here the sky, the clouds and the breeze.’62 With reference to Chinese temples, Utzon describes a ‘magic in the play between roof and platform.’63 Later he stresses the importance of the relation between the platform and the structure on top of it. ‘To express the platform and avoid destroying it is a very important thing, when you start building on top of it. A flat roof does not express the flatness of the platform.’64 The relation between the straight horizontal line and playful and expressive shapes on top of it is consistent throughout Utzon’s portfolio. With regard to the water tower, designed long before the essay was written, I would argue that this relation is already established. That the tower is to be understood in relation to its site. The position here at the brink of Svaneke literally is a plateau in the landscape. The rocky underground that expresses itself along the coastline establishes a solid bedrock on which to build. Compared to more generic water tower structures at that time, the structure chosen is lighter and more playful in its formal design. It distinguishes itself more evidently from the ground, the plateau, than the typical solid structures in concrete or brick. Bornholm, being a geological exception in Denmark as the only island with a rocky underground, becomes the solid plateau in the Baltic Sea from which the water tower rises.

Like the historically distant structures that Utzon refers to in his essay, the shape of the water tower likewise refers to ancestral structures. Often described as a ‘pyramid’65 it is worth noting the formalistic differences between the four-sided pyramid structure that inevitably springs to mind when thinking of this geometrical structure. The water tower is a tripod, and as structurally serene as it is, it still escapes the static expression of its four-sided relatives. It is evident from several of the construction drawings by Utzon that he was aware of this feature. (Fig. 7) When seen from anywhere other than the direct symmetrical axes, one ‘leg’ appears longer than the other which adds a measure of imbalance to the form; it perilously slants to one side. In the case of the smaller-sized tripod structures we usually see, such as camera mountings, this feature of the geometry never features due to the bodily superiority and ability to command the object. But when scaled to a tower like the one in Svaneke, the vibrancy becomes overwhelming and contributes to the expressivity of the work.

This overall sculptural instability is further emphasised by the screens covering the water tank and their fissure in the top of the tower. Especially evident when the water tower is experienced in silhouette, the fissure appears irregular, thereby adding to the formal complexity of this offhand, simple structure. The central position of the stair in this specific geometry furthermore contributes to the changeability of the form. Though geometrically placed at the centre, it appears displaced when seen in silhouette and thereby further increases the dissolvement of the regular geometry. (Fig. 7).

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Figure 8: Seen from the Northern island, the water tower is the main landmark to indicate the town of Svaneke that hides down the slope towards the harbor. Image retrieved from www.arkitekturbilleder.dk.

I have in the introduction described the water tower as a work associated with modern architecture. In this case ‘modern’ is to be understood as the specific period of architectural history characterised by a break with long-lasting building cultures and traditions among other historical references. This is easy to conclude given the materiality and the untraditional formal expression of the water tower. Not least the images of craftsmen and entrepreneurs in traditional suits manually building the tower show the structure as a somewhat futuristic element in rural 1950s’ Denmark (Fig. 2). Even today the futuristic references seem recognisable. The water tower in Svaneke bears witness to its pre-existence as an antenna mast, which it – by the way – has eventually become since it has ceased to be used as a water tower. It is detached from a specific place and from a specific time in history. It becomes mysterious, seizing the entirety of past and future.

As an alien, somewhat oversized sculpture, it is related to the great ancient structures that Utzon refers to in his essay. And at the same time, one could imagine it to be an extraterrestrial spacecraft on a visit and see the spiral staircase be turned back up in the upper volume to let the structure take off and float through the air like radio waves and eventually disappear into outer space. Speculative as this is, I am convinced that these features of the water tower trigger the interest in the structure and have attracted curious attention since its construction.

According to the monograph by Richard Weston, local planners had prior to the involvement of Utzon envisaged a structure resembling windmills of which two exist in Svaneke. ‘Utzon (…) dismissed such a ridiculous idea out of hand and said the tower should be more like the coastal sea-marks – which it had to double as – that he and Wistisen knew so well from their experience of sailing as boys.’66 Here Weston insists that the architectural work transcends the architect behind it, and looking at the images of the water tower hovering over the town, its vibrant shape escaping the static nature of a water tower, the windmills are hard to absolutely dismiss as reference.

Though maybe not an intention in itself, the existence of these windmills still seems to contribute to the acceptance of the unconventional water tower on the top of Svaneke. With this I will move on to the structure as an urban edifice.

Urban Edifice. Based on the previous analysis I have argued that the water tower as an autonomous sculptural form is refined to an extent that far exceeds the descriptions as ‘simple’. This sophistication increases when it is related to the terrain, as argued above. Other contextual aspects enhance this sophistication further.

As a functional edifice for the town of Svaneke, the water tower alone is pointless. It needs the pipework that creates the direct connection to all the households to which it provided water. Furthermore, it needs the waterworks with pumping station. When the water tower was listed in 1990, the preservation status of the waterworks was left unresolved. It was not included in the listing until 2015. In this article the pumping station has likewise been left out despite its functional significance. The focus here is on the water tower; however, assigning some attention to the pumping station can

provide further clarification on this too. The physical distance between them makes it impossible to take in the two structures at once, but as an architectural work the two structures together form a whole. Acknowledging this circumstance, as the preservation authorities did 25 years after listing the water tower, provides further artillery for architectural analysis. The water tower and the waterworks are of essentially different natures. While the water tower is a tall and open structure, the waterworks is small and chunky.

The tower structure built from reinforced concrete contrasts the sculpted rocks that form the walls of the waterworks. Serving each their essential purpose for the water supply, their contrasting appearances likewise make them function as architectural counterparts; one emphasising the character of the other. In this relationship the water tower is here the vociferous one, reaching out to the sea and beyond to the outside world of architectural histories and material progression. The waterworks, on the other hand, hides in a geological gorge, surrounded by vegetation. It is one with the rocky island and closely associated with a local tradition on Bornholm to transform the terrain by shaping the rocks into building foundations. The waterworks stays close to the ground, creating a solid body for its technical interior, which is only accessible through a heavy oak door. From its grass-covered roof a small zinc-covered, hexagonal oxidation stack rises.

As mentioned, the water tower and the waterworks formally contrast each other. However, the hexagonal shape of the oxidation stack on the waterworks reappears in the central column that the staircase of the water tower winds around. Here, in this slender, hexagonal column, the water from the waterworks is pumped up to the water tank and down again through the same column to feed the households.

According to the above-mentioned article by Bletter, architectural fashion around WWII was characterised by an ideologic desire to promote the rectilinear International Style architecture as predominant in the modern architectural project. With that in mind, it is interesting that Utzon in 1951 develops a proposal like the one for the water tower in Svaneke. Here Utzon retrieved the most expressive feature from the competition entry from London he had developed with colleagues a few years earlier and transformed it into a functional structure for the present assignment. Not only did he solve the practical problems of elevating the water tank to an appropriate height.

Svaneke, majestically perched on a headland on the more or less rhomboid island tends to hide unobtrusively down the slope towards the harbour (Fig. 8). Neither the lighthouse nor the compressed historic church tower presents the town to the visitor arriving from either the inland or from the sea. With the water tower Utzon also created an anchor point in the landscape, which makes Svaneke visible from afar. With reference to the theory of Bruno Taut, here was an opportunity to provide the town of Svaneke with its missing ‘crown’.

With its citizen-organised formation and its purpose of supplying the citizens with fresh water, the programme matched the ideas of a civic crown that could replace monuments of religion and monarchy or military with a modern landmark of and for the community. To this end it was legitimate to enlist ‘the artillery’ and create an expressive structure. With the water tower in Svaneke Utzon got the opportunity to explore the expressionism that would pay off a few years later when he did a competition for another prominent location, this time in the harbour of Sydney, and raise him to the stars of the international architectural firmament.

decisive for the importance of the work to the town. To conclude that popular resistance is indicative of great architecture would be absurd, however.

But whenever cases of public outcry over some proposed architectural work appear in the media, as they frequently do, it might be worth remembering the history of the water tower in Svaneke. Not as an excuse to ignore the possibly good arguments of opponents but to remind each other that great works of architecture can appear and become publicly treasured despite such initial public resistance.

While the architectural proposal was not a consequence of public dedication, the programme of the water tower was. It was a sustained public pressure on the politicians that ended in the municipal board’s capitulation and decision to take over the self-organised cooperative project and create a municipal water management facility. Crucial to the public appreciation of the water tower is the fact that it is part of an infrastructure public amenity that eased the everyday lives of the people in the town. In this case, the involvement of the architectural discipline is a consequence of a practical need. Many present cases of employment of architecture seem to happen the other way around: politicians, tourist boards or the like with ideas of ‘over-animated’ architecture for new town halls, museums or similar recreational purposes. Cases where spectacular architecture appears to be the main driver and where finding a function seems to be nothing more than an afterthought. In such a contemporary landscape where architecture is reduced to a branding tool, the water tower in Svaneke is a call from the past, suggesting that the discipline is much richer and with a much larger potential. When integrated in the development of a basic societal infrastructure and an answer to actual needs, the design is not left as a communicative surface but has the ability to become part of the self-understanding in a local community. Edifices that stories can evolve around, that generate practices and foster local cohesiveness.

A third lesson to be learned from this case concerns ideas of contextuality in architecture. Architecture is frequently considered contextual if it contains immediately recognisable references to its near surroundings, be it either material or formal. In the water tower in Svaneke no such direct contextual references are present; however, it cannot be described as un-contextual.

Instead, it connects to a much larger context, one that involves the historic realities, contemporary architectural discourses, ways of inhabiting a terrain and an analysis of the desires of an urban structure. It is an example of an architecture which not only inherits, interprets and conveys a place. By its physical presence it actively engages with the situation and changes it for good. The water tower is contextual in an understanding of an extended contextuality. One that is aware of the place, not in a narrow sense, but as a universal reality. Building culture and craft techniques are there, and they are important. But they are not necessarily celebrated by being repeated – even in a stylised way – in the buildings of later periods. The context idea in the water tower incorporates time. A vertical section in a horizontal time that is exactly the time, the societal conditions, the architecture-theoretical discourse and the conditions for construction that are present when the work is being built. Aware of this vertical section, it also seizes the horizontal time of which it is inevitably a part.

Final remarks. The purpose of looking into the water tower in Svaneke was to clarify the circumstances surrounding a work of architecture that has become a treasured landmark for a local community in Svaneke. In the following I will reflect upon how the case can inform the present architectural discourse.

From the ridge above Svaneke it looks to the pyramids in Egypt, to temples in Mexico and China, to a naval history and its yet existing practice. This is an inclusive context-idea, one that unconsciously, thanks to its very grandeur, its dignity and generosity, puts to shame the banal and exclusive place conception of much contemporary architecture. A contextuality that does not even exclude the idea of transmitting a design for a radio mast in London to a water tower in Svaneke. And one that made Utzon’s later work Bagsværd Church an important point of reference for ‘critical regionalism’ in the seminal article by Kenneth Frampton.67

A critical aspect of the development history revolves around the lack of support for the specific design from both the public and the municipal council at the time of construction. In this case we can conclude that the lack of local support during the selection of the proposal has not hindered local ownership over time. Applying this fact to a broader discussion on the selection of architecture, it is reasonable to question the idea that selection based on public opinion is conducive of local appreciation over time. In the case of the water tower in Svaneke, I will argue that the choice of a surprising and unusual proposal that on the face of it seems alien to the context has proved

The water tower gained its local popularity by satisfying a public demand for modern water facilities, which eventually and under significant pressure was acknowledged by the authorities in the shape of the municipal council.

Dirty tricks played by a visionary mayor lifted the project above the ordinary and handed over the design to Jørn Utzon. His talent ensured a form capable of justifying its existence far beyond the practical needs. And his later fame will make the water tower not only a reference point for landfall when approaching Bornholm by boat, but also for the history of modern architecture.

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1 Bjarne Hansen, ‘Svanekes Venner fejrer Jørn Utzon’, Bornholm.nu, 2 April 2018, https://bornholm.nu/?Id=83881 2 Tommy Kaas, ‘Et stykke dansk kulturhistorie: Uzons vandtårn får en opfriskning’, Bornholms Tidende, 9 April 2018, https://www.tidende.dk/ tidende/archive/2018/04/09/et-stykke-dansk-kulturhistorie-utzons-vandtarn-far-en-opfriskning/ 3 Torben Østergaard Møller, ‘Jeg et hus mig bygge vil’, Bornholms Tidende, 25 June 2008.

4 Dan Quitzau, ‘SF afviser salg’, Bornholms Tidende, 20 May 2009.

5 Elisabeth Krogh, ‘Svaneke opkalder vej efter Utzon’, Bornholms Tidende, 26 November 2012.

6 Search conducted 11 November 2019, https:// infomedia.dk/ 7 Search conducted 14 November 2019, https:// www.instagram.com/ 8 See e.g. article by the official Danish tourist agency: ‘Svaneke Watertower’, Ferieøen Bornholm: The official Guide, accessed 30 November 2019, https://bornholm.info/en/svaneke-vandtaarn/ 9 ‘Svaneke Vandtårn’, Kulturministeriet: Fredede og Bevaringsværdige Bygninger, accessed 30 November 2019, https://www.kulturarv.dk/fbb/ sagvis.pub?sag=23524955 10 My translation from Danish. ‘Tårne er valgt som tema, fordi de repræsenterer nationale og historiske symboler.’ ‘Tårnmønter’, Danmarks Nationalbank, 10 February 2014, http:// www.nationalbanken.dk/da/sedlerogmoenter/ Temam%C3%B8nter/Sider/T%C3%A5rnm%C3%B8nter.aspx 11 ‘Landmark’, or the Danish word ‘vartegn’, is used by local media; ‘Svaneke Watertower’, Ferieøen Bornholm: The official Guide, accessed 30 November 2019, https://bornholm.info/en/ svaneke-vandtaarn/ and Elisabeth Krogh, ‘Svanekes vartegn har 60 års jubilæum: Vej i Svaneke opkaldes efter Utzon’, Bornholms Tidende, 26 November 2012, https://www.tidende.dk/tidende/ seneste-dogns-nyheder/2012/11/26/svanekes-vartegn-har-60-ars-jubilaeum-vej-i-svaneke-opkaldes-efter-utzon/ by local authorities; ‘Utzons vandtårn får en opfriskning i anledning af 100-året for arkitekten’, Bornholms Regionskommune, 9 April 2019, https://www.brk.dk/Nyheder/Sider/ Utzons-vandt%C3%A5rn-i-Svaneke-f%C3%A5ren-opfriskning-i-anledning-af-100-%C3%A5ret-for-arkitekten.aspx, by national authorities; ‘Svaneke Vandtårn’, Kulturministeriet: Fredede og Bevaringsværdige Bygninger, accessed 30 November 2019, https://www.kulturarv.dk/fbb/ sagvis.pub?sag=23524955) and by academic publications; Mogens A. Morgen and Janne R. Bendsen, Fredet: Bygningsfredning i Danmark 1918-2018 (Copenhagen: Strandberg Publishing), p. 262, and Michael Asgaard Andersen, Jørn Utzon – Drawings and Buildings (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2018), pp. 101–102.

12 Jørgen Jensen, Kathrine Lykkegaard Jeppesen and Josefine Alberg, ‘Utzon mødte stor modstand på Bornholm: Bygning var tæt på at blive droppet’, dr.dk, 9 April 2018, https://www.dr.dk/nyheder/regionale/bornholm/utzon-moedte-stor-modstand-paa-bornholm-bygning-var-taet-paa-blive 13 My translation from Danish: ‘Utzons Vandtårn er det eneste vandtårn i Danmark, der er vedtaget af et byråd med alle stemmer imod én.’ ‘Svaneke Vandtårn – Utzons Vandtårn’, Svanekes Venner, accessed 18 November 2019, http://www. svanekesvenner.dk/Utzons vandtaarn/Svaneke Venner Utzon.html; Peter Tiemroth, ‘Sådan kom unge Utzon til at bygge vandtårnet: Borgmesteren slukkede høreapparatet.’ Bornholms Tidende, 7 March 2018.

14 Richard Weston, Utzon: Inspiration, Vision, Architecture (Copenhagen: Edition Bløndal, 2002).

15 Morten Birk Jørgensen, Small-town Architecture: Three Critiques on Architecture as an Instrument for Regional Development in Peripheral Small-towns (PhD dissertation, KADK, 2018).

16 ‘Jan Utzon on Jorn Utzon’, Youtube / UNSW, accessed 7 November 2019, https://www.youtube. com/watch?v=EKeoK3lX0Kc 17 ‘Svaneke Vandtårn – Utzons Vandtårn’, Svanekes Venner, accessed 7 November 2019, http:// www.svanekesvenner.dk/Utzons%20vandtaarn/ Svaneke%20Venner%20Utzon.html 18 ‘Svaneke Vandtårn – Utzons Vandtårn’, Svanekes Venner, accessed 7 November 2019, http:// www.svanekesvenner.dk/Utzons%20vandtaarn/ Svaneke%20Venner%20Utzon.html 19 Peter Tiemroth, ‘Arkitektonisk gåde er opklaret: Sådan kom unge Utzon til at bygge vandtårnet’, Bornholms Tidende, 13 January 2009.

20 ‘Svaneke Vandtårn – Utzons Vandtårn’, Svanekes Venner, accessed 7 November 2019, http:// www.svanekesvenner.dk/Utzons%20vandtaarn/ Svaneke%20Venner%20Utzon.html 21 ‘Svaneke Vandtårn – Utzons Vandtårn’, Svanekes Venner, accessed 7 November 2019, http://

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www.svanekesvenner.dk/Utzons%20vandtaarn/ Svaneke%20Venner%20Utzon.html 22 ‘Watertower’, Guide to Utzon, accessed 28 November 2019, http://www.utzonphotos.com/ guide-to-utzon/projects/watertower/ 23 ‘Om Jørn Utzon’, Utzon Center, accessed 28 November 2019, https://utzoncenter.dk/da/indhold/om-joern-utzon-6086 24 Line Nørskov Eriksen, personal e-mail, 25 November 2019.

25 Richard Weston, Utzon: Inspiration, Vision, Architecture (Copenhagen: Edition Bløndal, 2002), p. 44.

26 Egil Jensen, ’Blev Svaneke Vandtårn tegnet af arkitekt Jørn Utzon allerede i 1946?’, DocPlayer, 2016, https://docplayer.dk/50438726-Blev-svaneke-vandtaarn-tegnet-af-arkitekt-joern-utzon-allerede-i-1946.html 27 Jaime J. Ferrer Forrés, Jorn Utzon, works and projects (Barcelona: GG, 2006).

28 I use the concept ‘heritage object’ from Laurajane Smith to emphasise that the tower is not itself the heritage but an object around which heritage is constructed through discourse, practices. See: Laurajane Smith, Uses of Heritage (Abingdon: Routledge, 2006).

29 My translation from Danish: ‘fremragende værdier’. ‘Bekendtgørelse af lov om bygningsfredning og bevaring af bygninger og bymiljøer’, Retsinformation.dk, 20 March 2018, https://www.retsinformation.dk/Forms/R0710. aspx?id=199864#id5e1c8486-828f-4a7d-be4c4c550f78f022] Accessed 1 December 2019. In 1997 the law was changed so that instead of an age limit of 100 years the authorities would only have to apply the argument of ‘outstanding value’ for buildings that were less than 50 years old, see [https://slks.dk/omraader/kulturarv/bygningsfredning/fredning-saadan-foregaar-det/bygningsfredningens-historie/ 30 My translations from Danish: ‘Kulturhistorisk værdi’, ‘Arkitektonisk værdi’ and ‘Bærende fredningsværdier’. ‘Svaneke Vandtårn’, Kulturministeriet: Fredede og Bevaringsværdige Bygninger, accessed 30 November 2019, https://www. kulturarv.dk/fbb/sagvis.pub?sag=23524955 31 My translation from Danish: ‘Den kulturhistoriske værdi ved vandtårnet på Jørn Utzons Sti 2 knytter sig i det ydre til det funktionsbestemte udtryk, der er karakteristisk for et vandtårn.

Den kulturhistoriske værdi knytter sig også til vandtårnets udformning som sømærke, hvilket skibene brugte til at navigere efter. Vandtårnet fungerede oprindeligt både som vandtårn og sømærke. Den åbne aflæselige konstruktion, bræddeforskallingen, der følger benenes retning op til vandtårnets spids, og træbeklædningen vidner om den herskende, ærlige materialeforståelse på opførelsestidspunktet.’ ‘Svaneke Vandtårn’, Kulturministeriet: Fredede og Bevaringsværdige Bygninger, accessed 30 November 2019, https:// www.kulturarv.dk/fbb/sagvis.pub?sag=23524955 32 My translation from Danish: ‘Den arkitektoniske værdi ved vandtårnet knytter sig til bygningens beliggenhed i det åbne land på en højderyg, hvor den ensomme og solitært liggende bygning fremstår som et markant anderledes element og som visuelt vartegn. Vandtårnet er velproportioneret i en let aflæselig opbygning af tre slanke betonben, der bærer vandbeholderen, og en bemalet træbeklædning imellem den øverste del af betonbenene. Trappen, også udført i beton, smyger sig ned fra vandbeholderens bund, og bidrager til bygningens elegante og samtidig karakterfulde fremtræden.’ ‘Svaneke Vandtårn’, Kulturministeriet: Fredede og Bevaringsværdige Bygninger, accessed 30 November 2019, https:// www.kulturarv.dk/fbb/sagvis.pub?sag=23524955 33 My translation from Danish: ‘De bærende fredningsværdier for vandtårnet knytter sig i det ydre til den velproportionerede bygningskrop i beton og alle bygningsdele- og detaljer som spindeltrappe, bræddeforskalling og træbeklædning.’

‘Svaneke Vandtårn’, Kulturministeriet: Fredede og Bevaringsværdige Bygninger, accessed 30 November 2019, https://www.kulturarv.dk/fbb/ sagvis.pub?sag=23524955 34 My translation from Danish: ‘Vandtårnet blev fredet I 1990 og indgår i en generel fortælling om velfærdssamfundets offentlige bygningsværker, hvor man i nogle tilfælde valgte at prioritere de arkitektoniske værdier meget højt.’ from: Mogens A. Morgen and Janne R. Bendsen, Fredet: Bygningsfredning i Danmark 1918-2018 (Copenhagen: Strandberg Publishing, 2018), p. 262.

35 My translation from Danish: ‘I princippet kunne byen fredes som en helhed.” Mogens A. Morgen and Janne R. Bendsen, Fredet: Bygningsfredning i Danmark 1918-2018 (Copenhagen: Strandberg Publishing, 2018), p. 262.

36 Søren Munch, ‘Mini-købstad er Danmarks smukkeste’, Jyllands-Posten, 25 May 2013,

https://jyllands-posten.dk/kultur/ECE5498676/ minikoebstad-er-danmarks-smukkeste/ 37 In Fredet, the protective plan for Svaneke is described as one of the early in the history of Danish preservation history, implemented at a time of general opposition to protective regulations from the municipalities. Mogens A. Morgen and Jannie R. Bendsen, Fredet: Bygningsfredning i Danmark 1918-2018 (Copenhagen: Strandberg Publishing, 2018), p. 184.

38 Published by The National Museum of Denmark in 1969. Niels-Hoger Larsen, ‘Bygningsbevaring på Bornholm: En historisk gennemgang’, Kulturvarv Bornholm, 2003/2014, http://www. kulturarvbornholm.dk/uploads/1/1/2/5/11258347/ bygningsbevaring_p_bornholm.6.udg.20.12.14. pdf 39 The street in which Emil Andersen used to live was in 2014 given the name Emil Andersens Vej, and an article on the local tribute to the former mayor cites the water tower and the preservation plan as two of his main achievements. Bjarne Hansen, ‘Svaneke hædrer borgmester’, Bornholm. nu, 1 April 2014, https://bornholm.nu/nyheder/ svaneke-haedrer-borgmester/57380 40 ‘Bornholm – Atlas over byer, bygninger og miljøer’, Kulturarvsstyrelsen, Kulturministeriet, 2003, https://kma.brk.dk/ 41 Mogens A. Morgen et. al. ‘Screening af Kulturmiljøer’, Arkitektskolen Aarhus, September 2016, https://aarch.dk/se-kommunernes-kulturmiljoeer/ 42 ‘Kulturarv Bornholm’, accessed 5 November 2019, http://www.kulturarvbornholm.dk/ 43 ‘Svaneke Watertower’, Ferieøen Bornholm: The official Guide, accessed 30 November 2019, https://bornholm.info/en/svaneke-vandtaarn/ 44 ‘Indvielse af Emil Andersens Gade’, Byforeningen Svanekes Venner, 8 September 2014, https://svanekesvenner.typepad.com/svanekes-venner-deleted-20130925-2o1cp/2014/09/ indvielse-af-emil-andersens-gade.html 45 Richard Weston, Utzon: Inspiration, Vision, Architecture (Copenhagen: Edition Bløndal, 2002), p. 45.

46 Richard Weston, Utzon: Inspiration, Vision, Architecture (Copenhagen: Edition Bløndal, 2002), p. 45.

47 Richard Weston, Utzon: Inspiration, Vision, Architecture (Copenhagen: Edition Bløndal, 2002), p. 44.

48 Michael Asgaard Andersen, Jørn Utzon – Drawings and Buildings (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2013), p. 101.

49 Michael Asgaard Andersen, Jørn Utzon – Drawings and Buildings (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2013), p. 101.

50 Michael Asgaard Andersen, Jørn Utzon – Drawings and Buildings (New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2013), p. 101.

51 Jaime J. Ferrer Forrés, Jorn Utzon, works and projects (Barcelona: GG, 2006), p. 72.

52 Jaime J. Ferrer Forrés, Jorn Utzon, works and projects (Barcelona: GG, 2006), p. 72.

53 Lara Juhl Jakobsen, ‘Vandtårnet i Svaneke’, in Den Danske Arkitektur, edited by Anne-Louise Sommer (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 2009), p. 415.

54 My translation from Danish: ‘Spindeltrappen slår skalaforholdet fast for den forbipasserende og tilfører desuden en menneskelig dimension til et ellers upersonligt bygningsværk.’ Lara Juhl Jakobsen, ‘Vandtårnet i Svaneke’, in Den Danske Arkitektur, edited by Anne-Louise Sommer (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 2009), p. 415.

55 My translation from Danish: ‘Vandtårnet star som en skulpturel installation i landskabet – solidt placeret, som enhver trefod er det. Den virker ydmyg og iøjnefaldende på en og samme tid. Ydmyg i kraft af sin formmæssige, geometriske enkelhed.

Iøjnefaldende på grund af sin særegne skikkelse, der afviger fra omgivelserne. Som bygningsværk synes vandtårnet reduceret til et gennemrationaliseret hele, der kun er til for at opfylde sin funktion – en logisk konstruktion og matematisk løsning, hvis dimensioner er nøje afpasset deres formål. Udtrykket synes universelt og tidløst – akkurat som den tidlige modernismes byggetekniske vidunderkonstruktioner.’ Lara Juhl Jakobsen, ‘Vandtårnet i Svaneke’, in Den Danske Arkitektur, edited by Anne-Louise Sommer (Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 2009), p. 415.

56 The functional tradition is a concept coined by Danish modern architect Kay Fisker, who argues for an adaption of modern architecture to an existing, culturally rooted building culture. See: Karen Zahle, ‘Funktionel tradition’, Den Store Danske, accessed 5 December 2019, http://denstoredanske. dk/index.php?sideId=80784 57 Rosemarie Haag Bletter, ‘Expressionism and the New Objectivity’, Art Journal, Vol. 43, No. 2 (Summer 1983), pp. 108–120, https://www.jstor. org/stable/776647 58 For more on the concept of Garden Cities, see:

Ebenezer Howard, To-morrow: A Peaceful Path to Real Reform (Cambridge: Crambridge University Press, 2010).

59 Rosemarie Haag Bletter, ‘Expressionism and the New Objectivity’, Art Journal, Vol. 43, No. 2 (Summer 1983), pp. 108–120, https://www.jstor. org/stable/776647 60 Joyce Morgan, ‘Opera House wins top status’, The Sydney Morning Herald, 29 June 2007, https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/opera-housewins-top-status-20070629-gdqhy0.html 61 Jørn Utzon, ‘Platforms and Plateaus’, Zodiac No. 10, 1962.

62 Jørn Utzon, ‘Platforms and Plateaus’, Zodiac No. 10, 1962.

63 Jørn Utzon, ‘Platforms and Plateaus’, Zodiac No. 10, 1962.

64 See e.g.: Mogens A. Morgen and Janne R. Bendsen, Fredet: Bygningsfredning i Danmark 1918-2018 (Copenhagen: Strandberg Publishing); Jaime J. Ferrer Forrés, Jorn Utzon, works and projects (Barcelona: GG, 2006).

65 Richard Weston, Utzon: Inspiration, Vision, Architecture (Copenhagen: Edition Bløndal, 2002).

66 Kenneth Frampton, ‘Towards a Critical Regionalism: Six Points for an Architecture of Resistance’, in The Anti-Aesthetic – Essays on Postmodern Culture, edited by Hal Foster (Washington: Bay Press, 1983).

Above: Detail of the gable of the boat house in Heimi Í Húsi on the island of Koltur, Faroe Islands.

Photo, Christoffer Harlang, 2019.

Right: Chasers tools.

Photo, Christoffer Harlang, 2019.

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ALL-WOODNO-NAILS

Søren Bak-Andersen. What are the implications of post-and-plank1 construction in a contemporary context? Until the 17th century, this proven construction method was at the centre of vernacular building culture in the Scandinavian region in various adaptations. In southern Scandinavia, as focused on in this article, the use of post-and-plank was abandoned as a result of extensive deforestation between the early Middle Ages and the end of the Enlightenment. However, some of these buildings, typically barns and farmhouses, are still found today. By studying the most noticeable post-and-plank buildings still in existence in Denmark and learning the secret to their 350-year lifespan, we attempt to construct a post-and-plank house using modern machinery, based on the principles inherent to the historical construction method.

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Introduction. This academic article deals with the lessons learnt from designing and building an all-wood pavilion for the exhibition ‘CLIMATE – Change for a Sustainable Future’ at the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts.

the remainder of the timber-framing tradition in this region. By the 1790s, for reasons of timber scarcity, bricklaying is now for the first time cheaper than timber-framing.7

The basis for the pavilion project is an investigation into the properties of the Scandinavian vernacular tradition of post-and-plank construction. By defining inherent characteristics of the post-and-plank construction method and historical use, the project aims at testing how this traditional construction method can be used in a contemporary context. Investigations include: Material properties, Choice of wood, Tooling, Selection and Water-proofing by design.

After the agricultural reforms of the late 18th century, new attention is given for a time to the planting of trees. On Bornholm, Hans Rømer is responsible for recreating Almindingen woods in 1800–1836, and a wave of afforestation projects is carried out across the country, many in connection with the Forrest Reserve Act of 1805.

It is maintained that any resilient timber building must last longer than it took to grow the trees for the timber. Only by ensuring this can we claim it as a reliable method of carbon trapping. Anything equal to or shorter than this would result in a status quo of carbon trapping or at best a delay. It is therefore an aim of this project, and its derived successors, to design and construct a building with a projected lifespan of 200 years, using only natural wood products.

The project is a collaboration between Associate Professor Søren Vadstrup, KADK; NEXT Copenhagen; and the author, PhD Fellow Søren Bak-Andersen, KADK.2 Background. Wood has for some time been acknowledged as the next material to come;3 as the solution to the issues concerning the inherent energy of building materials; and the problems of energy use and carbon emissions during production.

The increasing interest in timber construction does, however, give rise to certain thoughts on history and continuation within vernacular architecture as an field of research. Denmark is inherently a wood-building country,4 or at least it used to be so. By the mid-16th century, the forested areas had shrunk, not only as a result of timber production but also because of the need for fuel.5 This resulted in a dramatic shift in the building culture, effectively moving the boundary of wood-building to the Sound/Kattegat6. The timber scarcity originated in the early Middle Ages, and as early as 1473, when the bylaws for Funen were passed; here it was prohibited to use posts dug into the ground when building houses, as the bylaws dictate post-on-sill construction.7 By the end of the 15th century, the wall infill used for peasant buildings was mostly wattle and daub. The lack of wood in many regions led to the import of timber from Norway, primarily pine.7 To buy timber, you needed money.

As natural economy was governing in the countryside at the time, most people were denied the luxury of buying timber.

The use of post-and-plank construction continued where large oaks were still abundant, e.g. in south-eastern Jutland and in northern Jutland. All the remaining non-museal post-and-plank buildings are found in these areas. On the island of Bornholm, a fire appraisal from 1709 describes a large, newly built post-and-plank house of 19 modules at St. Gadegaard Farm in the village of Pedersker. By the end of the 17th century, forests on Bornholm still yielded enough timber, though partially supplemented by the royal permission of 1618 allowing the islanders to buy timber in Blekinge.4 Museum curator Halvor Zangenberg of the National Museum reports in 1928 on the farmhouses of Bornholm that the tradition of post-and-plank has long been abandoned, and he too mentions the St. Gadegaard Farm as one of the last post-and-plank houses on the island.9 The Crown has much to say on the use of oak for building materials, and in 1554, Christian III thus imposes a ban on all post-and-plank construction in northern Jutland. Again in 1577, his successor Frederik II lets the people of south-eastern Jutland know that it is henceforth punishable by half of one’s earthly positions to build a farm using post-and-plank construction.4 & 7 Furthermore, during the peak of the timber crisis, in 1733, it is prohibited to use saplings of oak and oak boards for cladding.10 The distinction between upper and lower timber first appears in the 1740s.

Upper timber, being the rafters and beams, is made from pine or spruce, as oak is reserved for posts and plates. This distinction is sustained throughout

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This seems to suggest that post-and-plank was a widespread building method in medieval times and in the Renaissance. But after the deforestation this construction method was largely confined to south-eastern Jutland.

The post-and-plank barn at Tyrstup Vicarage in south-eastern Jutland serves as the basis for our investigations into the construction and tooling of the post-and-plank building method. This barn is the longest and oldest postand-plank building in Denmark which remains in its original position.

Dating back to the year 1668, the barn is now more than 350 years old. In terms of scientific experiments, it is hard to find any case study of exposed wood durability running longer than this. The vicarage barn offers an insight into the mechanisms of maintaining a building over time using the same materials and construction techniques as on the original building.

Post-and-plank construction can, in the broader spectrum of national building heritage, be seen as the link between other kinds of timber-based construction within the vernacular tradition, such as stave-, log- and half-timbering 4. Half-timbering, which has since been regarded as the nucleus of our national vernacular building culture, continues as the primary means of construction, but here the regional scarcity of timber is visible as well.

Definitions. This article only deals with wood from exogenous trees, as the tradition of building with timber in this part of the world involves only these. Particular emphasis will be given to the species Quercus robur, also known as European Oak, a member of the White Oak family. And emphasis is only given to the trunk of the tree, as this is most relevant in the case of the post-and-plank houses. This is not a paper on wood biology, however some definitions are needed, as the biology of the tree is essential to the material qualities of the timber product. (Fig. 2) To simplify matters a bit, two major distinctions can be made regarding the cellular structure of a trunk. Water-leading and stabilising cells are dead and mostly found in the heartwood. The cells storing or carrying nutrients are alive and only found in the sapwood. The cells capable of cellular division, found in the cambium layer directly below the inner bark, which is responsible for the growth of trees, are, of course, also alive.

Left, Figure 2: Cross section of an oak log. This illustration shows the different parts of a trunk responsible for the fundamental material properties. 1. Pith, 2. Growth rings, 3. Medullary rays, 4. Heartwood, 5. Sapwood, 6. Cambium and Bark. See the paragraph, definitions for a fuller explanation of the properties.

Right, Figure 3: Most sawmills cut their wood green to avoid cracks forming as a result of tension during the drying process. The cells of the tree contain free water, which can evaporate without deforming the wood, leading to cracks, as the tensions from deformation mostly occur after the cells have reached the fibre saturation point. The problem, however, is that exposed end grain dries significantly faster than the rest of the log due to the open vessels of the cut, resulting in cracks in the lowest and most valuable wood.

Previous page, figure 1: Detail of the all-wood pavilion on exhibit, Climate – Change for a Sustainable Future, The Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts – School for Architecture, 2019.

the rays will reach the pith. For instance, if the rays are formed in the eighth year of the tree’s life, the rays will extend from ring eight and outwards.13 In addition, the medullary rays of oak are very long, making them visible to the naked eye and a subject of aesthetic accentuation in cabinet-making and veneer production.

Tyloses: All white oak species form tyloses, particularly within the vessels of dead cells. Tyloses are the sides of the cell wall clogging up the vessel, making it essentially watertight, which is why white oak is favoured for ship building and barrel making (figure 3).

Above left, figure 4: The log has been quarter-sawn, yielding four primary pieces of timber. In addition to these, several (undepicted) secondary pieces of timber can be fitted within the heartwood and sap. Notice how the two primary cuts run parallel to the medullary rays. This type of sawing emulates the way the log naturally splits. The saw was not invented until the late Bronze Age and did not become a popular tool until the early Middle Ages. The lack of a saw meant that woodworkers spilt the logs using axes and wedges. Logs only split in half, as an uneven split runs off to one side. The act of splitting gives the same inherent material properties as quarter-sawing. Another reason for quarter-sawing is the form stability of the finished product.

When shrinking, quarter-sawn timber keeps its shape within the original geometry. A plain sawn board will often deform during the drying process to form a shape that is outside the original geometry, making it difficult to tool. By using quarter-sawn timber, one can minimise the waste in the subsequent tooling of the posts and beams.

The original quarter-sawn timber, showing growth rings, medullary rays, heartwood and sap. Within the geometry of the original cut is stippled an exaggerated geometry of the shrinkage of this cut.

Middle: The cut after shrinkage with the optimal positioning of a square piece of timber inside it.

Right: The finished product. Note how the sap has been removed, as it serves no purpose, and the two opposite sides, marked with right angles, have cuts parallel to the medullary rays and perpendicular to the growth rings.

Above right, figure 5: This log is also quarter-sawn. Most of the properties are similar to those of the posts in figure 4. When cutting a plank, form stability is of the essence, as a limited amount of material is available for subsequent tooling. As with the posts, the planks have two sides on which hardly any medullary rays cross, one long and one short. The planks for the post-and-plank house are first quarter-sawn, then dried and tooled. The planks are positioned in the wall, with the corner closest to the pith facing up and outwards. The planks are profiled on the top and bottom to increase the strength of the joint. Gravity holds the planks in the track, and the joint is less susceptible to horizontal rain coming through, as a result of the curved joint.

Heartwood:11 The cells in the heartwood are dead. As such, only the cell walls remain, and the plasma that filled the cell has gone. Instead, the cell may be filled with different minerals such as silica and also tannins. In the case of pine and other resin producing trees, the heartwood cells can also be filled with resin. Depending on the conditions of growth, the formation of heartwood begins when the tree is 15–30 years old. A mature oak usually has between six and twenty growth rings of sapwood, the rest being heartwood, whereas pine trees often have far more.

Sapwood: The cells in the sapwood are for the most part alive. They are responsible for transporting nutrients up the tree but also for storing fat and carbohydrates during the winter. The sapwood is significantly more susceptible to rots and pest attacks.

Growth rings: In most deciduous trees, like oak, the growth rings are affected by our temperate climate zone. The early wood12 has larger vessels, and the late wood has smaller vessels. If one studies the end grain, the vessels of the early wood will appear as small holes, with cells so large they are discernible to the naked eye.

This project does not consider the growing conditions of trees, as it was not specified in the brief to the sawmills. Ideally, a rapid growing oak is preferred, as the ratio between early wood and late wood becomes stronger the faster the tree grows. Late wood is simply denser than early wood, and the annual growth of early wood is very consistent and not as season-dependant as the late wood.

Medullary rays: The medullary rays transport nutrients, mainly starches and fat, on a lateral level within the trunk. The cells of the medullary rays are very small and compact, and not visible without magnification. Hence a ray will often be many cells wide. Every year, when the tree forms new growth rings, medullary cells form on the outside of other medullary cells, making the rays wider each year. On the other hand, the rays only extend as far into the trunk as the year the rays were conceived, which is why not all

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Core Studies – What We Did. The main premise of the project is to design and build a pavilion14 with a projected lifespan of 200 years, using only natural wood products. This broad premise is divided into nine sub-criteria based on our knowledge of how historical post-and-plank buildings have endured time and weather. The sub-criteria relate to: material, craftmanship and automation. These criteria are also used for evaluating the achievements of the project in the discussion and conclusion of this article.

Sub-criteria: 1. No steel fittings, nails or screws may be used for the final product.15 2. Only locally sourced timber.16 3. All timber is quarter-sawn, with maximum percentage of heartwood.

4. All planks are quarter-sawn with vertical grain.17 5. All timber and planks are of green wood.

6. Constructions are based on tried and tested principles.

7. Nodes and joints are based on regional historical traditions.

8. Water resistance by design.

9. CNC automation is used for the production.

Ad criterion 1. Post-and-plank construction was chosen as the basis for the project, specifically with this criterion in mind. It is an example of a facade of non-loadbearing boards/planks, fitted without the use of nails. Historically, the use of nails in this construction was not omitted for the reasons presented in this paper, but rather because steel was something of a luxury commodity.

Ad criterion 2. In the initial phases of the project, a meeting was held with a group of sawmills’ representatives. The aim of the meeting was to match expectations between the sawmills bidding for the assignment and the other stakeholders of the project. In the end, half the sawmills submitted offers and two of these were chosen as suppliers of respectively the posts and beams and the planks.18 The posts and beams are of mixed origin, and the timber for the planks is logged on the island of Funen, near Korinth.19 Ad criterion 3. The criterion specifies quarter-sawn posts and beams, as depicted in figure 4. By quarter-sawing the log, most of the naturally beneficial qualities of the timber are taken advantage of. As a result of the quarter-sawing, two sides of each post run parallel to the medullary rays. As the cells of the medullary rays are very small and compact, the finished beam is less likely to run cracks or absorb water along the two sides parallel to the rays.

It is therefore also essential to orientate the post in such a way that these two sides face outwards when installed in the building.

Ad criterion 4. The planks are quarter-sawn like the posts and beams. After sawing, the planks are honed to thickness, and the shorter sides are profiled, figure 5. The profiling has two physical effects: gravity compacts the wall, wedging the planks tighter together, so that the horizontal rain is repelled better. The profiling on the Tyrstrup vicarage barn is at a roughly 30-degree angle, which can be explained by the use of axes and hand planes. However, the triangular shape has a tendency to crack on the sharp edges, a tendency the project hopes to overcome by making the profiling round. Making it round ensures that less pressure is put on one sharp edge, and more material is left at the periphery.

Ad criterion 5. Historical wooden buildings were built with hand tools, particularly the axe. Anyone who has ever tried shaping seasoned oak with an axe will know that seasoned oak is hard and does not yield to the axe.

For that reason, post, beams and plank were tooled from green wood before fitting. However, this is now a historical anachronism, as the bandsaw and

electrical planes are largely indifferent to the hardness of the wood. In this particular case, the pavilion is cut by a robotic milling machine.

The question of moisture content therefore mostly resides with the process of drying the timber to a satisfactory level and avoiding cracks from the tension within the log. If left to dry the log will form cracks according to the internal tensions, most often along the medullary rays (Fig. 3). Therefore, most timber mills cut the logs green, and use ovens for drying the timber.

Cutting the timber before it reaches its fibre saturation point ensures that no discernible distortion takes place in the timber, as the cell wall retains its size until this point. In the case of the quarter-sawn posts specified in this project the wood was cut green. The posts can therefore be expected to dry according to the schematic drawing in figure 4, and are afterwards milled to the desired size.

Ad criterion 6. The pavilion construction is based on a building typology similar to that of the Tyrstrup vicarage barn. It is a gabled construction with a dual pitched roof of 49 degrees and eaves of similar length. Unlike the inspiration, the pavilion has no top plate. This design feature was instigated by the specialist teachers of NEXT CPH, some of whom have worked with North American timber-framing. Constructing each module flat enabled them to raise the modules individually with the rafters in place, thereby limiting the need for a hoist or crane. The modules were then subsequently connected with interties.

Ad criterion 7. A catalogue of historical joints and nodes is prepared for the project. This catalogue is used by the apprentices of NEXT CPH when working with the project. The catalogue consists of several different joints used historically in this region. To ensure that all joints for all nodes end up being drawn during the workshop, the architects provide the apprentices with a fail-safe solution for all nodes. The historical joints are a combination of scarf joints, mortise-and-tenon joints and lap joints, this in combination with either pegs, dovetails or wedges. The finished result is a combination of the fail-safe joints provided by the architects and a number of new solutions designed by the apprentices during the workshop. Individual members with all the joints modelled into them are also presented for the apprentices, as the complexity of the project is hard to grasp for the individual only working on a single joint or node. (Fig. 8) Ad criterion 8. The steep roof is a historical trait of this rainy region. The wet costal temperate climate with little snow calls for a roof where water is led off the roof and away from the walls and foundation. Other elements in the building also incorporate water resistance by design, e.g. the use of a

footplate to protect the end grain of the posts from moisture. In the 18th century, this type of footplate was commonly used on Funen and in Jutland, but rarely on Zealand. The bottommost plank of the wall has a drip, a feature found on the Tyrstrup vicarage barn. On photos from the early 20th century, only a number of the modules has this feature. Today, with the 20th century replacements, the entire west facade features drips on the bottommost planks.

Ad criterion 9. The posts, beams, rafters and planks were cut using a CNC machine. The machine used by NEXT CPH at their training facility in Rødovre, Denmark, is a 5-axis machine capable of handling the 125mm squared members in their full length of up to 3.5 meters. The drill bit is a 16mm x 62mm tungsten carbide scrub tool, which quickly removes excess material. The tool is chosen for its effectiveness at removing shavings quickly, resulting in less clogging of the drill head. The machine was programmed with the joints individually and afterward programmed with the coordinates at which to cut, thereby allowing the individual programmed joints to be used in multiple places. In the workshop at NEXT CPH, a class of ten cabinetmaker/joiner apprentices and their specialist teachers had three weeks to complete the technical course, in which the assignment was to understand a given set of historical wood connections, programme these into the CNC machine and build the small exhibition pavilion.

The basis for the assignment is research into the special characteristics of post-and-plank construction and joinery. The architects, Søren Vadstrup and the author of this article Søren Bak-Andersen, provided the apprentices with a basic geometry, defining the overall dimensions of the pavilion, and also a pre-modelled catalogue of all the nodes used for the wooden construction.

In addition to this, an extensive back catalogue of historical joints for inspiration was provided. When working with the project, the apprentices had to adhere to the previously stated principles and criteria.

In the first week, the apprentices drew and programmed the joints and assembled them into nodes. In the second week, the apprentices tested the joints and made modifications. And in the third week they built the pavilion.

By the end of the workshop, the apprentices had a new catalogue based on their own work and interpretations of the historical joints.20 The overall geometry of the pavilion is decided upon before the workshop (Fig. 9). It shows a pavilion of two by three metres. The pavilion is closed off on three sides with plank-walling and left open on the fourth side, to allow it to be used in an exhibition. The pavilion consists of two modules and three timber frames connected by footplates, beams and interties. The individual joints are based on historical timber joints used in Denmark and the surrounding region. The joints are individually interpreted by using the logic of the machine used for cutting the joints and the tool used by the machine.

Discussion – why we did it. When faced with a project of this kind, one might ask whether it is really necessary to go back 350 years in order to understand our present difficulties when dealing with wooden constructions.

It can be argued, though, that it is essential that we revisit the past time and time again, including the recent past. Every pass we do at history reveals new nuances, as we are now changed people. By continually building upon history, as a continuation of tradition, and not in mimicry, our cultural foundation and connection to tradition is upheld.

‘Tradition is not to preserve the ashes, but to pass on the flame.’ G. Mahler21 The discussion is divided into criteria as per the above core studies, however the main premises are dealt with first.

Primary premise. Wood is being hailed as the material of the future. The primary reason for this is the capacity of wood to store the CO2 absorbed by the tree whilst growing. However, one primary factor of using wood for this very reason is often neglected when the potential of the material is debated.

Figure 6: Shrinkage occurs in both the radial and the tangential direction of the grain; the result is an accumulative shrinkage of the planks in the wall, leading to gaps forming in the upper part of the wall. The Tyrstrup Vicarage Barn, Drawing by Mogens Clemmensen.

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If the capacity to store carbon is to be utilised to its full potential, it dictates that the wood stays in the building longer than it takes to grow it, preferably a lot longer. This is why this project aims at designing a building made only from wood and capable of lasting at least 200 years.

Multiple products made from wood exist on the market today, however fibre- and veneer-based products have so far had difficulties in proving their capacity due to their short lifespans. To put it simply, the quality of the product is too poor to withstand a rebuild of the building they are in.

To name an example: MDF in this region is often made from beech trees.

However, it is rarely made from the parts of the tree not suitable for timber production, i.e. the branches, as would be expected, but more often from the trunk itself or from recycled timber. The reason for this is that the bark needs to be removed before producing the boards, and the factories are not capable of handling the branches with the machines used. A beech tree ready for harvest is approximately 80 years old. We have yet to see MDF boards last more than 80 years. A similar, though less pronounced, situation characterises the way we use light rafter walls. The rafters simply do not have reusable qualities after the wall has been rebuilt and are therefore most often downcycled or burned.

Ad criterion 1. It is hypothesised that steel fittings have a number of undesirable effects on wooden constructions. Several of these undesirable effects have to do with the thermal conductivity of steel. Steel has a thermal conductivity several times higher than wood.22 In this coastal temperate climate zone, the relative humidity is between 70 and 100%, depending on the season and temperature. With many daily temperature changes and consequent changes in relative humidity, condensation will most frequently occur on or around the steel fittings as a result of the relatively larger thermal conductivity. This condensation leads to increased humidity in the timber around the fitting, leading to wet rot.23 Condensation around the steel fittings also decreases the life expectancy of the galvanisation, particularly when fitted on wood containing tannin, such as oak and locust, as the increased moisture level leads to increased corrosion.24 The thermal conductivity may also be a problem in the event of fire, as the steel fittings heat up and scorch the wood along the nails, causing the bond to fail.25 Finally, there is the aspect of designing a construction intended for extremely long lifespans. When doing so, it is imprudent to combine structural parts of different life expectancy. The study case, it is hypothesised, has managed to accommodate several structural changes from the past 350 years with its consistent use of wood-on-wood connections.

Ad criterion 2. At the beginning of the 19th century only 2–3% of the Danish area was covered in forest.26 For comparison, that number is now 14%, with a political ambition across parliament to reach 20% by the year 2100.

However, it has yet to be made clear which afforestation strategy that is to be implemented. Since the Forest Reserve Act of 1805 spruce has been the dominant plantation tree, however other species may be more valuable in the long run if a transition to a timber-dominated building industry is to be expected. Our forestry does not cover the demand for timber in this country and has not done so since the Middle Ages. In 2016 it was estimated by the University of Copenhagen that 90% of the building timber used in Denmark was imported.27 It can be argued that Denmark is no longer rich in resources, as industries using raw materials such as timber, gravel and clay experience supply problems. Gravel is an abundant material in Denmark, but many deposits sit under settled areas and can therefore not be extracted,28 and the brickyards, which were formerly scattered all over the country, have now consolidated into a few large factories, resulting in a want of clay for brick production in their local area.29 Ad criterion 3. A concern voiced by the sawmills during one of the initial meetings was the internal tensions in the logs and the way they behave when quarter-sawed. When a log is split down the centre, the top can shear off to one side due to the release of internal tensions. We have no study to suggest that this is the case, though it is noted as a concern for further investigation.

However, it should be said that although quarter-sawing was used historically, no record of this problem has been registered. Most of the other objections from the sawmills concerning quarter-sawing had to do with the processes added when cutting. When a log is cut, in what is referred to as normal cut, the log is secured only once and driven through the saw continually. When quarter-sawing the machine needs to grip and release the log and its quarters multiple times, making the process more time-consuming.

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Figure 7: The joint connecting the wall brace to the footplate. On the left is depicted the joint made with hand tools. It has a through-cut dovetail, leaving the end grain of the wall brace exposed to the sill stone.

On the right is the joint cut by the CNC machine, the dovetail is not through cut, leaving the bottom of the footplate intact. Note the rounded edged of the cuts.

Ad criterion 4. Historically, the planks of the post-and-plank houses were not sawn but rather split with an axe and wedges and afterwards trimmed on the sides to shape the planks. This process always results in planks with vertical grain as a result of the splitting of the wood. Historical evidence of this technique can be seen in the strakes of the ships exhibited at the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde.

The original planks of the Tyrstrup vicarage barn are shaped by axe, but most of the 20th-century replacements have been sawn. One may argue that a true vertical-grain plank is cut directly from the pith and outwards, however this way of cutting only results in two planks per log, and both sides have medullary rays running through them.30 Ad criterion 5. It was a criterion to use green timber for the project, for the reasons stated in the core studies chapter. Though seemingly harmless, this criterion is by far the most influential of the choices made in this project.

The timber was ordered only weeks before the workshop in which to produce the pavilion. This resulted in timber with a very high moisture content.

The timber was dripping when delivered, a clear indication that it was still way above the fibre saturation point.

This project was part of a school assignment, and as the planning phases of such seldom allow two years of drying time, the schedule was hurried. In the subsequent project, this factor will be ruled out. The delivered timber was of a decent quality, but the cutting of it was unacceptable, as it did not meet the criteria specified in the brief. However, the lateness of the delivery meant that the workshop went ahead with the delivered timber despite the unacceptable product.

When the criterion was written, the focus was on energy consumption for drying the timber as well as for historical reasons. The mills spend a large percentage of their energy consumption on the drying processes. This is done to control the finished product as much as possible,31 but also because the turnaround of the mills in this late industrial age is very short. To have a large stockpile of wood at hand, as would be the case with a natural drying process, simply means delaying the profit for the mill.

Working with green timber, as described in criterion five, means that the timber still has free water within the cells. The resulting moisture content is more than 28%, which is the typical value set for the fibre saturation point.

As such, it is well above the 18%MC used for contemporary incapsulated wall constructions. However, the post-and-plank construction is exposed to the weather and can therefore not be expected to hold the preferred 18%MC or less all year round. It is estimated that the moisture content in wood runs as high as 23% from November till February,32 and as temperatures in this period, particularly in November, average more than 5OC, the proposed construction would be susceptible to rot.

Wood should only be as dry as the intended use requires. It makes little sense to dry it further, as the moisture content will balance itself out, and the additional energy therefore will be wasted. The natural drying process would therefore be acceptable in the case of a post-and-plank house or any other exposed wood construction, but never in an incapsulated construction.

Ad criterion 6. By using a construction with no top plate the project strays from its starting point in the Tyrstrup vicarage barn. However, this proved to be an advantage thanks to the specialist teachers of NEXT CPH, because the pavilion was erected indoors without the use of a crane or hoist for the rafters. Instead of a top plate, the pavilion is held together in the longitudinal direction by side inter-ties. The tradition of side inter-ties can be seen on 18th century farms throughout Zealand, though interties in the historical tradition are usually used instead of hip rails.

One feature found in all vernacular buildings, no matter the origin, is the ability for repairs. By constructing this pavilion from a raw natural material, timber, we made it possible for future generations to make repairs using the same material and same technology as intended originally. This problem is evident in most contemporary buildings, as they are built from components and products rather than raw materials. This poses a problem, as most building components have a relatively short shelf life. Finding particular components for a restoration project often becomes impossible, because they are out of stock. By building with generic materials, worked by craftsmen or machines, future generations can ensure that they will not have to struggle with diminishing shelf lives of building components.

Ad criterion 7. When building plank walls with green wood, one is faced with the difficulties of timber shrinking during the drying process. When studying historical post-and-plank buildings one gets an idea of the level of shrinkage. (Fig. 6) To accommodate this problem, the project features a horizontal groove in the gable beam, which allows for any excess height caused by the greenness of the planks. When the planks shrink to their correct sizes, the wall shows no gaps at the top as a result of this special detail. Historically, this detail is known in Northern Jutland where examples of walls, partially built with post-and-plank and partially with wattle and daub, are found. Separating the two types of wall is a waist rail with a groove underneath, similar to that of the posts. This construction ensures that the planks have ample room to move during the seasons. (Fig. 1) The historical tradition in Denmark when building timber constructions is to fit the individual joints. This fitting process accommodates for any inconsistences and crooked timber pieces. The contrasting way of building timber constructions is to work to tolerances. When working to tolerances, the carpenter relies on timber, typically rafters, being straight enough and having the correct moisture content to build with.

the same amount of energy and time to cut, whether it is a through cut or a mortise.

The router bit has a radius of 8 mm, which means it cannot reach the inside corner of a mortise or other recess. This can be seen as a trait of the tool, similar to how carpenters are reluctant to use the chisel. The 8 mm radius does not change the function of the joint, but rather the aesthetics. (Fig 7) Machine aesthetics as a term is seen as early as the first industrial revolution and is a pet subject of the Arts and Crafts movement. William Morris was strongly opposed to the machine, as he believed it was not capable of creating art. Nevertheless, Morris also saw the machine as a way of relieving the worker of dull and repetitive work.

Lewis Mumford, the American historian, points out in 1928 that it is wrong to use ‘machine methods to achieve forms and qualities that are antagonistic to the nature of the machine’,35 thereby saying that we should accept the way the machine works the material, instead of forcing it to work the way a carpenter would work based on the tools at hand.

Even Walter Benjamin, who was highly critical of mass-produced craft, accepts how an object designed for reproduction does not lose its authenticity when made by a machine: ‘To an ever-greater degree the work of art reproduced becomes the work of art designed for reproducibility. From a photographic negative, for example, one can make any number of prints; to ask for the “authentic” print makes no sense.’36 Ad criterion 8. In vernacular buildings, the roof is often the component most locally adapted. In arid climates the roof is flat and used for collecting water or for household purposes. In snowy climates, the inclination is low to keep the insulating snow on the roof. In our temperate costal climate, emphasis is on getting the water off the building and away from the facade.

The drip at the bottom of the wall is a sacrificial element. On the Tyrstrup vicarage barn, the drips have been changed multiple times, whereas the bottom plates have not. By using sacrificial elements, combined with easy accessibility and mechanical connections instead of glue, the drips are easily replaceable whereas the footplate, on which the entire building rests, is not.

Ad criterion 9. The final criterion, and perhaps the most important one from a research point of view, is that the posts, beams and planks for the pavilion should be cut using CNC technology. Instead of a simple investigation into a historical building technique, this feature makes it an exploration of what this method could mean today.

Historically, post-and-plank construction comprises both methods of construction. The posts, plate and beams are fitted to one another, and the planks of the walls are made to tolerances.

When working on this project with the CNC machine, we had the problem that the machine does not accommodate for any inconsistencies, as it has no scanning capabilities, and as such no knowledge of the material it is working with. The project can therefore be said to fall into the ‘working to tolerances’ category, despite its antecedents in local vernacular tradition.33 When the carpenter historically designed and cut timber joints, he did it using the tools available to him, namely the axe, the saw and the chisel.

With these tools follow a certain way of wielding them, and subsequently a tradition of joints arises from the tools.

An example of this is the tradition of having joints with through cuts because the carpenter prefers to use the saw over the chisel. It is less labour-intensive to saw and more time-consuming to use a chisel, so, for practical reasons, the saw becomes favoured. This may be why lap joints and scarf joints are cut through. Making mortises by hand is hard, though often necessary. The CNC machine uses a router bit for all the tooling.34 The router bit therefore does the job of both the saw and the chisel. It takes the machine

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Above, figure 8: The complexity of the corner posts is evident. The apprentices typically worked on two or three joints only, and never saw the whole post before the end of production.

Opposite page, figure 9: The all-wood pavilion on exhibit, Climate – Change for a Sustainable Future, The Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts – School for Architecture, 2019. Photo: Søren Bak-Andersen.

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Many studies deal with the potential of robotic wood tectonics. Most of these studies, it is hypothesised, underestimate wood as the highly versatile materials it is – perhaps the most versatile natural material – and instead focus on what might be described as a ‘white material’. That is, a material without differentiating properties and with a homogeneous density. Hardly any wood, in its natural form, has these properties in connection with desired strength and durability. This is why studies of robotic wood tectonics often use glulam or another synthetic wood product with high stability.

It would seem obvious to have carpenters build a pavilion like this instead of cabinetmakers and joiners. Indeed, talks with the carpentry school were first initiated. However, the carpentry school declined the project as they did not see the potential of working with the CNC machine, and subsequently the project proceeded with the joiners/cabinetmakers. Some advantages transpired from this. As a union regulation defines the borderline between carpenters and cabinetmakers as being whether or not the timber is honed to precise dimensions, this was a defining criterion for working with the wood.

This criterion has to do with two fundamentally different ways of working with wood constructions. One is to produce all members to tolerances, and the other is to fit non-uniform pieces of timber together using carpenter’s construction techniques. As the cabinetmaker, and indeed the CNC machine, knows nothing about fitting non-uniform pieces of timber, the first approach was chosen. This means that all timber members were produced within tolerances without the need to fit them together.

This approach may seem counterproductive, as much of the previous text has concentrated on defining historical traits and material properties. It then becomes much more about the machine and the materials themselves than about the craftmanship of the worker.

Concluding Remarks and Recommendations. This small project shows some of the implications of building an all-wood construction. The project links historical knowledge with 21st-century craftmanship and technology.

To bring forth that which has been forgotten, or at least neglected, helps us renew the way we look at historical constructions and materials. Our current fascination with wood products and what that might mean to the turnaround of the building industry helps projects like this gain momentum. Two primary conclusions can be drawn from this.

1 There are several different names for this type of construction. In older texts, particularly concerning buildings predating European middle-age, the post-and-plank construction method is known as Bole. Bole within botany is the trunk of the tree, and in such terms comparable with the Danish name Bul, which also means trunk. The names Bole/Bul is known in words such as Bulwark, fortifications build from whole tree trunks. In this article, the term post-and-plank is used throughout.

2 All the involved parties in the project are: From KADK: Associate Professor Søren Vadstrup and Ph.D.-Fellow Søren Bak-Andersen. From NEXT CPH Leader of The Information Centre Jens Kjartan Mogensen, Leader of Education Jørgen Richter, Specialist Teaches: Karsten Brik, Mikkel Roskjær Andersen, Thorsten Schmaltz and Toke Bang. The Project has been documented by Palle Demant.

3 Re-emerge would perhaps be a more accurate verb, considering timber has been the primary construction material, apart from earth, since the active involvement of man in buildings 4 Mogens Clemmensen, Bulhuse – Studier over gammel dansk Træbygningskunst, Vol. I: Tekst, Vol. II Tavler (Copenhagen: Levin og Munksgaard, 1937).

5 Denmark had been at war for a substantial part of the 17th century with Sweden. Most notably losing Gotland in the Torstenson War and present-day Southern Sweden in the Carl Gustav I War. The combination of a country at war and little thought of conservation led to the diminishing of the forests.

6 Present-day North Germany suffered from similar deforestation.

7 Harald Langberg, Danmarks Bygningskultur (Fonden til Udgivelse af Arkitekturværker, 1955), reprint 1978.

8 Marvel Vellinga, Paul Oliver, and Alexander Bridge, Atlas of vernacular architecture of the world (London: Routledge, 2007).

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9 Halvor Zangenberg, ‘Bornholmske Gårde’, in Bornholmske Samlinger, Nittende Bind (Rønne: Colbergs Boghandels Forlag, 1928).

10 Adolf Oppermann, ‘Vore Skove i Fortid og Nutid’, in Danmarks Natur – Skildringer af danske videnskabsmænd, edited by Jul. Schiødt (København: Det Nordiske Forlag, 1899).

11 Not all species form heartwood, e.g. beach and birch, in which the entire cross section has live cells capable of transporting nutrients.

12 Early wood is also referred to as spring wood, and late wood referred to as summer wood.

Throughout this article the terms early- and late wood are used.

13 Gregor Paulsson and Ole Wanscher, Møbelsnedkeri 1-4 (København: Egmont H. Petersens Kgl. Hof-Bogtrykkeri, 1937).

14 In a broader perspective the pavilion is a pre-feasibility study for a larger house. Insulation and installations are not part of this project. For a number of technical reasons, touched upon in the discussion paragraph.

15 Nails, screws and fittings used temporarily during the production are excepted, as they are regarded as a tool, all of which presumably are of steel.

16 The original intention was to define ‘locally’ as the Island of Zealand, however, due to the hurried timeframe of the project, this definition was extended to cover all of Denmark.

17 The planks for the project were sawn from either side of the pith, yielding four planks per trunk section.

18 Jens Kjartan Mogensen of NEXT, was responsible for choosing the most favorable offer.

19 It is the ambition of the next instalment of this project, to have full transparency on the origin of the timber for the construction, preferably selecting the actual tree for the job ourselves.

20 The pavilion was not finished within the work-

One: historical joints not only arose from the inherent qualities of the material but just as much from the way in which humans tooled them. The tools of the carpenter are instrumental for the shaping of wood. Hence a new machine, with different tools, is bound to shape the wood differently.

The robotic technologies lead to new ways of working the timber, simply because it handles the tool differently.

Two: in much research concerning robotic wood tectonics, the material is neglected and reduced to a non-material of homogeneous properties and density. Wood, as is pointed out in the text, is perhaps the most versatile natural building material and cannot be reduced to homogeneity. Instead, let us assume the responsibility and accept the diversity of the material and let it work to the strengths of the product. Instead of making indifferent glued solutions, with altering grain directions leading to weakened hydrodynamic properties, let us play to the strength of the historical knowledge we have of wood. It is foreseeable, with all the attention wood products get at present, that the first sawmill capable of delivering mass-produced high-quality products, like the ones described here, to the building industry will have a head start in the market. The sawmills are hereby invited.

When presenting this project at the original exhibition, many participants raised concerns as to whether it constitutes a comedown for the craftmanship of the carpenters. The introduction of the machine has always been seen as a sign of failure for the craftsman right from the beginning of the first industrial revolution. And many of the advancements of the industrial revolution have indeed led to a deprivation of knowledge in a general attempt to replace the craftsman with unskilled labour. On the other hand, it would be foolhardy for any profession to deny technological progress simply because the road leading forward is uncharted. It would be better for the profession of the carpenters, as has been with the cabinetmakers/joiners, to embrace the technology and make it their own.

This project now moves into its next phase, which is to build a post-andplank house for living in. Inspiration for this comes from the island of Gotland, where numerous 17th century houses have been insulated and modernised in order to offer comfortable living conditions. Other vernacular all-wood technologies, such as log- or stave-construction, display some of the same properties as post-and-plank and would be equally interesting to analyse from a contemporary perspective. And with this, the idea is passed on.

shop and was subsequently finished by apprentices of the next semester, thanks to whom the pavilion was ready for the exhibition.

21 Original German citation ‘Tradition ist nicht die Anbetung der Asche, sondern die Weitergabe des Feuers’ Gustav Mahler.

22 It varies according to steel alloy, but is in the 50 W/m K, area. Thermal conductivity of wood varies equally, and is largely dependent on moisture content and density. Oak, with a moisture content of 12%, can be expected to have thermal conductivity of 0,1-0,2 W/m K depending on density. i.e. as high as 1:500.

23 As a general rule, a moisture content of more than 20% in an encapsulated timber construction will lead to rot.

24 Søren Vadstrup, ‘Reparation af Bindingsværk’, Kulturstyrelsen, May 2012, https://slks.dk/fileadmin/user_upload/SLKS/Omraader/Kulturarv/ Bygningsfredning/Gode_raad_om_vedligeholdelse/3.4_Reparation_af_bindingsvaerk.pdf 25 The basic premise is that the fire burns at a steady rate reducing the circumference of the timber by a certain length a minute. The more filigree the construction, the faster it is brought to critical instability.

26 Martin Einfeldt, ‘Træ – Fra Istiden til Fremtiden’, Træ.dk – Danmarks Træportal, accessed 10 October 2019, https://www.trae.dk/leksikon/danmarks-skove-fra-istiden-til-fremtiden/ 27 Thomas Nord-Larsen et al., ‘Skove og plantager 2016: Forest statistics 2016’, Københavns Universitet (Frederiksberg: Institut for Geovidenskab og Naturforvaltning, 2017).

28 Mads Thorup Thomsen, ‘Sand er blevet mange penge værd. Så mange, at nogle vil slå ihjel for det’, Information, 7 September 2019, https://www. information.dk/moti/2019/09/sand-blevet-pengevaerd-saa-slaa-ihjel 29 It is symptomatic for the discussion about timber

for the building industry that very little attention is given to the product itself, instead of looking at shear volumes. The same attention could be given in the case of gravel or clay. Gravel in Denmark has a relatively high content of opal, which makes it unsuitable for certain types of concrete constructions. And only banks of stone free ceramic clay can be used for brick production, of which deposits are predominantly formed in south-eastern Jutland and in Thy. 30 By cutting as shown in figure 5, one side of the board has hardly any medullary rays running through it. The other side has more than the plank with true vertical grain, but this side is intended to face inwards, and is therefore not as exposed to the weather.

31 To reach a moisture content in accordance with: DS/EN 1995-1-1, And the national index: EN 19951-1 DK NA. 32 ‘Fugtighed og Træ’, Teknologisk Institut, accessed 11 October 2019, https://www.trae.dk/ leksikon/fugtighed-og-trae/ 33 Larger sawmills, typically abroad, as of now use scanners for optimising their production. This setup, in time, could be expected to be used in prefab using natural timber. However as natural timber is subjective to all the changes described in this article concerning moisture, the scanning process would need to accommodate for this as well.

34 The machine used for the project had other tools at its disposal, e.g. a circular saw, but it was chosen for this project to use a scrub bit of 16 x 62 mm for all the cutting.

35 Lewis Mumford, ‘Art in the Machine Age’, in The Saturday review of Literature, 8 September 1928.

36 Walter Benjamin, The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, edited by. Hannah Arendt, translated by Harry Zohn (New York: Schocken Books, 1935).

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Previous page, figure 10: Facade of the all-wood pavilion on exhibit, Climate – Change for a Sustainable Future, The Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts – School for Architecture, 2019. Photo: Søren Bak-Andersen.

Opposite page, figure 11: Detail of the brace connecting to the bottom plate. Note the tolerance around the dovetail joint as a result of the tangential shrinkage of the green timber. Photo: Søren Bak-Andersen.

This page top, figure 12: Test cut in fir produced with CNC machine at NEXT Copenhagen. Photo: Søren Bak-Andersen.

This page bottom, figure 13: CNC machine in operation at NEXT Copenhagen. Photo: Søren Bak-Andersen.

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TACIT MATTER

Victor Boye Julebæk. Distinct spatial arrangements of materials with particular qualities are continually available to our senses. They are something we intimately interact with every moment of every day through the capacities of our bodies, often in a tacit1 mode of ‘knowing how’ rather than an intellectual of ‘knowing what.’2 As part of a material language,3 it may be through these physical gestures that we access architecture, and, conversely, it may be through this tacit vocabulary that architecture addresses the world.

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Material Qualities. Distinct spatial arrangements of materials with particular qualities are continually available to our senses. They are something we intimately interact with every moment of every day through the capacities of our bodies, often in a tacit1 mode of ‘knowing how’ rather than an intellectual of ‘knowing what.’2 As part of a material language,3 it may be through these physical gestures that we access architecture, and, conversely, it may be through this tacit vocabulary that architecture addresses the world.

Today, the messy plurality of new buildings are mostly erected with the same basic construction and subsequently clad with a suitable and interchangeable multilayer skin – it even hardly seems to matter what they are clad in.4 As with timbre in 19th-century music, Parcell argues that western architecture theory tends to regard materiality as a tertiary characteristic of substance; ‘an incidental quality that can be defined only indirectly, as the leftover attribute that differentiates two substances with the same form and size.’5 Material imagination seems lacking, and the nuanced vocabulary of the architectural language seems to have diminished, having lost the particular knowledge of material qualities on the basis of experience.

Through time, the significance of material qualities6 as an integral constituent and a vocabulary in its own right within the field of architecture has changed. Currently, there is within academia a renewed interest in materials as evident in the ‘material turn’. Conversely, in traditional architecture7 as well as in the works of certain modern and contemporary architects such as Kahn, Lewerentz, van der Laan, Döllgast, Zumthor, Sergison Bates, Olgiati and others, the consideration of the spatial articulation of material on the basis of experience can be found to have a meaningful place in practice – even though they might not say so themselves. Kahn’s Writings, Thinking Architecture by Zumthor and Papers 2 by Sergison Bates, for instance, show a particular awareness of spaces by means of their material presence that may inspire an alternative approach to thinking and making architecture.

In continuation of the paper Spoken Matter,8 this paper aims at investigating and further developing two particular notions that, in a Danish context, generate a distinct awareness of the connotations of experienced material qualities and spatial character. The Danish architect Carl Petersen designates them Material Effects (Stoflige Virkninger) and Oppositions (Modsætninger).9 The hypothesis of the paper is that working with materials through experienced phenomena may give access to a material language inherent to the qualities of things themselves, and that a more nuanced understanding of the effect of experienced material qualities may contribute to reinserting the sensual and embodied essence of materials10 as a meaningful part of architectural practice. In other words, the physical gestures of architecture may be considered a distinct, tacit vocabulary that seems to have diminished.

Architects have, through time, accessed and used this vocabulary in different ways in both thinking and making architecture. The question is, may this tacit vocabulary, understood as material qualities, again become significant and meaningful in thinking and making architecture through an alternative approach inspired by the above?

Investigation. The investigation of the two notions, Material Effects and Oppositions, consists of two parts. The first part is a brief background-reading on the relevant positions of Gottfried Semper (1803–1879), Carl Petersen (1874–1923) and Steen Eiler Rasmussen (1898–1990). The intention with the tripartition is to draw on specific aspects of the architectural debate that went before Petersen, and similarly to highlight principles spawned through Petersen’s thinking from the discussion that subsequently followed.

The reading will be further elaborated by drawing on observations by thinkers and practitioners who have reflected on similar subject matters.

The second part is a photographic study that intends to investigate and develop the above notions in vernacular11 architecture on Bornholm as seen through a phenomenological-hermeneutic lens. The fieldwork consisted of identifying and photographing12 listed buildings,13 churches and former industrial sites14 with the intention of finding examples of local vernacular building culture that may uncover characteristic ways of working with material qualities. The fieldwork on Bornholm was inspired by Petersen. Semper, Petersen as well as Rasmussen were all three interested in the history of architecture. Contrary to Semper and Rasmussen, who travelled quite extensively, Petersen drew his knowledge locally, only travelling abroad once.15 Alongside Kay Fisker, Povl Baumann, Aage Rafn and others, Petersen was

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associated with The Society of December 3rd, 1893, a society of architects devoted to the study of architecture through sketching and surveying.16 The members of the society did not restrict their studies to masterpieces or certain styles but were equally attentive to buildings of an anonymous and mundane character in their development of artistic competence.

Wall. In his essay Preliminary Remarks on Polychrome Architecture and Sculpture in Antiquity (1834), Gottfried Semper put forth his contribution to the (at the time) ongoing debate on the role of applied colour in classical architecture. Colour or colour dressing (Farbenbekleidung), Semper argued, was used to soften and accentuate form, and it is through this that he covers subjects that would later develop into his theory of dressing17 (Bekleidung).

In the essay, Semper demands that each material should speak for itself, ‘let it step forth undisguised (unverhüllt) in the shape and proportions found more suitable by experience and science. Brick should appear as brick, wood as wood, iron as iron, each according to its own statical laws.’18 Further on, he clarifies that he is not a speaker for a theory of truth to materials; ‘true simplicity is not enough’, ‘Wood, iron, and every metal need a coating (Ueberzug) to protect them against the corroding effects of the air.

This need can be fulfilled quite naturally, in a way that contributes at the same time to their embellishment.’19 To Semper, the contradiction in tying the undisguised and the coating or dressing did not necessarily represent an inconsistency, rather it proposed a mutual relationship.20 On one side, the material as such is revealed in its experienced, structural form, and therein lies the true simplicity. On the other side, the coating or dressing serves a distinct and decisive technical and experiential purpose, and the material as such need not be revealed in the covering.

It was later, in Style in the Technical and Tectonic Arts (1863), that Semper further developed his theory of dressing (Bekleidungstheorie or Prinzip der Bekleidung). Der Stil is divided into five parts – Textile Art, Ceramics, Tectonics, Stereotomy and Metallurgy – according to manufacturing techniques rather than materials. A rational interpretation of techniques as a source of style is stressed, and it follows that for Semper, the material as such is revealed in how it is worked. Semper advances his theory with research into the etymology of German words, relating them to ancient building practice.

He draws parallels between the words for house and skin, Haus and Haut, and between hus and hut, meaning enveloping (husen) and referring to spending time within this cover.

Similarly, he identified the common origin of the words for wall and garment, Wand and Gewand, both suggesting a notion of spatial enclosure and a sheltering from the elements. In continuation, Semper argues that ‘the beginning of building coincides with the beginning of textiles’21 and that wickerwork (Wandbereiter), the weaving of branches, was the ‘original space divider.’22 What is central here to the notion of wickerwork as the origins of the wall, is the relationship between material and effect; as Bates puts it, ‘the wall affects the spatial enclosure, and, therefore, the function of the wall cannot be thought of as independent of the operation of the material.’23 As such, Sempers Bekleidungstheorie may be understood as a condition in which wall (enclosure, structure or space) and surface (coating or ornament) are contingent,24 and where the material gives character through its spatial composition and worked material effect.

Material. Where Semper theorised on the relation between wall and effect in a larger historic and cultural context, Carl Petersen concentrated on the particular material effect (Stoflig Virkning) of the surface in relation to the spatial experience (Modsætning). In three lectures on Materials Effects,25 Oppositions26 and Colours, held between 1919 and 1923 as a professor at the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts - School of Architecture, Petersen put into words the experience gained from his practice as an architect and ceramicist. The lectures, which were later published in the Danish architectural journal Architekten, deal with subject matters eclectically spanning in subject of thought and scale from the thickness and application of porcelain glaze to the lack of a coherent delimited urban interior in (the then) modern Copenhagen.

In his 1919 lecture Materials Effects (Stoflige Virkninger), Petersen describes perceived qualities of materials in relation to human experience.

He points to form, colour, proportion and material qualities as the four

most important elements in the plastic arts.27 Through descriptions of the character of different materials, including stone, ceramics, metals, glass and wood, Petersen advocates in favour of a clear, compact and firm surface. For instance, Petersen describes how one may experience two competing surfaces in polished granite. Underneath the shiny surface defining the overall geometry there is, according to Petersen, a landscape made of the material parts, doubling the surface and resulting in a ‘weakening’ of the form.

With the 1920 lecture Oppositions (Modsætninger), Petersen further develops observations from his practice, outlining how the experience of architecture can be intensified or subdued through form, structure, coherence, relations, scale, rhythm, interiority, the horizontal and the vertical, profile, contour, mass etc. when working methodically with the notion of oppositions as a logic structure in shaping architecture. Petersen argues in favour of proportion, not only as conceived by mathematical ratios, but rather as based on bodily spatial experience, asserting that ‘we always unconsciously perceive things in relation to the size of the human body. This is what we call the golden standard.’28 Following this, Petersen prepared a lecture on Colours (Farver) in 1923, in which he reiterates his observations on material effects, inserts colours and elaborates on their technical, historical and experiential properties. He describes how space may attain character through the restraint, nuanced and artistically skillful use of pure, clear and strong colours. Stating, in reference to the polychromatic reconstruction of Greek temples, that a scientific approach to colour- and form studies is in and of itself of little value unless developed with a personal artistic knowledge, he suggests how art and architecture may be a way of accessing history and the world as such.

Experience. Petersen’s emphasis on experience over form was according to Steen Eiler Rasmussen overlooked, arguing that ‘seemingly, the message […] was not understood: to create a richer architecture, or rather, to create a richer experience of architecture through oppositions in colour, material, form, and space.’29 Rasmussen further developed the notion of experience into an operational framework of parameters that may contribute in determining architectural experience, including objects, space, colour, proportion, rhythm, material, light and textural effects.

To Rasmussen, we achieve a sensitive, bodily understanding of the world throughout our upbringing; ‘By a variety of experiences [the perceiver] quite instinctively learns to judge things [the perceived] according to weight, solidity, texture, heat conducting ability.’30 As such, we experience the minute and barely perceivable differences in the surface of architecture physically, even before we are aware of it intellectually. Correspondingly, it is according to Rasmussen difficult to explain the essential differences in textural character that affect you so strongly; ‘you cannot give a reason for your different evaluations but the difference you perceive is real enough.’31 Rasmussen elaborates on the capacity of textural effects through two examples of vernacular Native American craft techniques that are subsequently set in relation to architecture. First, similarly to Semper, he describes the process of weaving a traditional basket and details how the material, technique, form, pattern and colour mutually inform each other and the object, and similarly affects the experience of the finished basket. Second, he describes traditional pottery built up through layering as being influenced by the same technical approach, interpreting it as reminiscent of a very primitive form of basket weaving. While the rough form and textural effect of the basket can be said to emphasise structure, the smooth form and textural effect of the clay vessel emphasises the surface and gives no impression of structure or technical origin.

Following this characterisation of the relations between technique, application and experience, the operational parameters relating to textural effects that Rasmussen identify may be summarised as: material, form, colour, sheen, opacity, pattern, surface, texture, imprint, relief, proportion, resistance, weight, scale, temperature, time and their potential opposites.32 Although distinct parameters with distinguishable techniques, traits and qualities, it is according to Rasmussen, difficult to differentiate entirely between the impressions of, for example, texture and colour33 within the subject matter. As with the English walnut chair,34 in which the organic structure of the wood has become one with the chair, the full experience, or the affect of the textural effect, is always dependent on the sum of relations.

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Resonance. Reflecting on what a non-alienated form of being in the world may be, Hartmut Rosa develops the concept of resonance as a ‘sociology of world-relations’35 that suggests an alternative way of being in the world or encountering the world, that is, people, things, matter, history, nature and life as such.36 Differing from the acoustic phenomenon of resonare,37 which is defined as to sound again, to resound, to reverberate or to echo, ‘resonance comes into being only if and when, through the vibration of one body, the frequency of another body is stimulated.’38 According to Rosa, resonance is something that happens in the inter-space, between actors, constituting an experiential relationship in which humans and the world are ‘formed, coined by and even constituted in and through their reciprocal relation.’39 The relationship is, according to Rosa, made possible through a) af←fection: ‘we feel truly [emotionally, cognitive and bodily] touched or moved by someone or something we encounter’,40 and b), e→motion: ‘we feel that we answer this “call”, we react to it with body and mind, we reach out and touch the other side as well – in a word, we experience self-efficacy in this encounter.’41 Resonance presupposes a relation in which both sides are closed or consistent enough to speak with their own voices, and open enough to be affected,42 leading to mutual reinforcement and thereby magnifying the amplitude of the vibrations. Through the process of being touched and affected by something, i.e. reacting and answering to it, Rosa argues that ‘we are transformed – or we transform ourselves in the sense of a co-production.

Whenever someone has an experience of resonance – with a person, a book, an idea, a melody, a landscape etcetera – he or she comes out as a different person. And the other side is transformed as well.’43 Resonance is as such not a passive quality, but rather an elusive, mutually active and transformative process. Despite the non-disposability (Unverfügbarkeit) and moment-like character of resonance, it does not mean that it is completely incidental. People develop relationships of resonance with, for instance, their work. Timber responds to the carpenter, as does the stone to the mason and the text to the writer. When working with the material, you may experience resistance – the material may say something different from what you thought it should say. What you do has, as such, a transformative effect on the material, and working with the material may transform you as well.44 Surface. At KTR,45 architectural phenomenological description is used as a method to present experienced phenomena and aspects thereof in text and drawing.46 In this case, the relevant aspects are limited to the experienced architectural elements visible in the photograph of the facade. As such, it is the photographs that are at the centre of the analysis rather than the buildings themselves.

The phenomenological description, here coupled with a hermeneutic reflection, comprises three levels: a description in accordance with the parameters as defined by Semper, Petersen and Rasmussen, the so-called synesthetic characters,47 i.e. form and colour associations,48 as described by Schmitz,49 and finally additional noteworthy observations. Aspects regarding the buildings plan, section, spatial character, historical, political, social context etc. are not included in the descriptions.

The three photographs described in the following are selected according to three criteria. First, a selection with the aim to represent different aspects of materials and assemblages, i.e. stacked / stacked, joined / joined, stacked / joined etc., was conducted. Second, the photographs that gave an intense effect as described by Barthes50 were selected for further analysis. Barthes argues for a punctum, being the specific intense effect of a specific photograph on the viewer; ‘The punctum of a photograph is that accident which pricks me (but also bruises me, is poignant to me).’51 Third and final, photographs captured en face, with straight horizontal and vertical compositions were selected for the continued work. Images composed en face reduce depth and draw the attention from the spatial composition towards the surface character of the subject matter.

In addition to the three photographs selected for description and analysis, a series of impressions from the field studies are presented as part of a photo-essay that is distributed throughout the publication.

Page 99, figure 1: Smokehouse, Årsdale, 2019.

Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

This page, figure 2: Smokehouse, Hasle, 2019.

Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

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Bornholm Railway Museum, Nexø. (Fig. 3) In the photograph, the building expresses itself as a closed timber screen, uniformly painted in a matte, blood red hue, toned with a small portion of blue, the layer being thin enough for the texture of the timber to come through. The monochromatic colour scheme and consistent material use are interrupted only by a small window perforating the screen and simple blackened metal door furniture distributed throughout the motif. The screen extends to the edge of the frame of the photograph, suggesting a continuation beyond the field of view, while simultaneously masking any impression of figure, contour and building volume. It is divided into three horizontal bands that decrease in size upwards and are separated by a slender, protruding horizontal profile. Each of the three bands constitutes a different rhythmic assemblage of vertical lines with varying degrees of depth, dimension, imprint and texture.

Towards the bottom, the band consists of three loose-fitting layers that form a relaxed composition, set in movement by the shift in the doors in relation to the position and size of the window. There is first a base layer of roughsawn timber with a coarse vertical-grain surface, visible in the recesses at the foot of the hinges. The spacing, positioning and robust dimensions of the timber seem to indicate a modular structural system, and marks from previous fastenings as well as surface checking and weathering suggest age and use. The second layer consists of planed timber planks with a soft sheen, coupled in three sections as hinged doors of different sizes. The spacing between the boards forms delicate vertical lines that differ slightly in width, depth and interval, making room for shadows and heightening the independence of each board within the plane. At surface level, the softness of the edges, the warmth of the material, the subtle drawing of the grain and the planer marks become present and reveal information about technique and a consideration to the hand. Similarly, a pattern of indentations becomes discernible, suggesting an underlying cross bracing and a stiffness to the doors. Protruding from the second layer, the third layer consists of a squarish window with four panes. Braced by a simple casing that projects in line with the profile between the bands and slides over the sides of the door, the window seems very fixed in place and stable. The hardly noticeable difference in tone of the timber, the shift of the door beneath and the change in profile dimensions add to an impression of separation between skin and structure, suggesting different states of temporality in the different layers of the building.

In the centre, the band comprises two layers with slightly open joints, arranged vertically in a 3:2 rhythm. The base layer consists mainly of rough sawn timber with a coarse vertical grain, paired with a more even surface below the hinges. The slight textural differences in the surface and the flying joints indicate that the smoother surface is a sheet material rather than individual timber planks. Protruding from the first layer, the second layer is composed of roughly sawn, rectangular profiled timber battens that overlap the joints of the underlying planks. The battens add depth of shadow, relief and rhythm to the band, each one displaying slight variations of interval, tonal value and textural character. The upper band continues the overall composition established with the middle band. Although similar at first glance, the surface texture and tonal value differ subtly from the second band, and the weathering towards the bottom of the bottom tells of exposure to rain and wind, further drawing the passage of time and revealing the utilitarian operation of the drape (skin).

Punctum. The rhythmic combinations of vertical and horizontal lines in the timber screen are neither mechanical nor uniform. Rather, they give a handmade impression, achieving a distinct quality at different viewing distances.

Close up, each element and the space between each element that constitute the timber screen are defined. Variations in joints, the drawing of the grain and the scale of elements are articulated, and the subtle differences in texture, tone, sheen and shadow become present. From a distance, the whole becomes apparent, and variations and differences grow fainter, unified by the strong impression of the monochromatic layer of intense red. The dynamic balance encompassed in this bodily experience of space in relation to material contributes to nuance and introduces depth, reinforcing the building as a whole through the use of one material.

Smokehouse, Hasle. (Fig. 2) In the photograph, the building expresses itself as a low, elongated, matte, dark grey timber body, articulated by a tall, slender black, red and white sculptural masonry figure. The ensemble

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is situated on a slight incline and consists of two different construction techniques, the stacking of bricks and the joining of timber, latched into one building. It is divided into three vertical segments that are separated by variations in the individual material character, and three horizontal segments that, in addition to the material character, are separated by slight imprints in the depth and protrusion of building details. The vertical and horizontal segments of the composition simultaneously establish a connection and separation between the body and the sculptural figure of the ensemble, and each of the fields within the composition constitutes a different assemblage of depth, dimension, mass, relief and pattern.

At the bottom, the ensemble is tied together by a blackened base running the full length of the motif. The base is divided into two segments, pertaining to the two different construction techniques, which are denoted by a shift in height that accommodates the lightly sloping terrain. In the base, the segment on the left is the larger and more noticeable one. Carried out in slightly uneven and yet smoothly rendered stonework, with a uniformly dark, warm grey finish with a red patina, it projects from the facade, establishing a level mass for the above wall. Retaining the impression of mass, the segment on the right is less pronounced and darker. Set in relation to the verticality of the above facade, the base on the right expresses a continuous horizontality that is only broken by an opening that is flanked by two doors. The obscuring of shadows and highlights in the black tone make textural details difficult to discern and add a softness to the blistered and deep surface. The changes in level, height, darkness and texture have the effect of creating a subtle variety within a narrow field, while at the same time being held together by the relation to the ground, the above facade, the overall tonality and the impression of weight.

In the centre, the band consists of three segments, rhythmically drawn by the three openings in the facade and characterised by a variation in material, hue and in height towards the base. The first segment of rendered stonework is completely closed, bound by two black, circular metal tie plates with a geometrical ornament at each side. At surface level, the uneven, flaky, almost dusty quality of the render, contributes with variation of texture and depth to the thin, matte and luminous layer of intense red. This layer of red meets the neighbouring segments under three different, distinct conditions: towards the bottom, it ends in a geometrically well-defined edge where it meets the protruding base; at the top, it meets the angled base of the above brickwork in a slightly frayed edge that strays beyond the demarcation line; on the side, the white base comes through the red coating in an uneven margin that traces the bumps of the base layer towards a similarly thin, dark painted surface. Together with more saturated sediments of pigment, the variations in base, colour and edge produce a vibrant, textile-like quality in the material, softening and nuancing the immediate effect of the strong hue.

The eaves run the full length of the two final segments in an irregular line, creating a shadow of varying depth and intensity across the facade. The second segment of similarly rendered stonework continues the tonality and mass from the base, forming a dark grey, smooth surface with a light, brightly white wooden window sitting in a darkened recess at the center. The depth of the embrasure emphasises the heaviness of the stone wall, further articulating the disparity between the individual construction techniques.

At surface level, the render is softly uneven and crackled, and the colour is uniform with only slight variations in tint and shade. While the neighbouring red layer has a textile quality in the mineral grain, the smooth dark grey layer of the second segment seems to be soft and closed, holding together the irregularities of the underlying render through an elastic, membrane-like quality.

Slightly recessed from the second segment, the third segment constitutes a change in construction technique and material character. It consists of wide, loose-fitting timber planks arranged vertically, one atop the other, in a continuous 1:2 rhythm, disrupted by a window and a large opening with two hinged timber doors. The setback of the timber building and the resulting increased overhang create a covered recess that appears as a shadowy space in the already dark facade. At surface level, the grain of the timber is further shrouded by an even layer of matte black tar that forms an opaque, blistered skin. Similarly, the open door reveals a light grey interior of rough-sawn timber that is stained by a thin and uneven layer of black. The spacing between the individual boards in the facade, the overall rhythm, the edges

of the timber and the shadowy gaps of the doors are obscured by the deep shadow and dark hue, creating an impression of the facade as a unitary entity rather than an assemblage of single elements.

Drawing a horizontal line across the ensemble, the upper part of the chimneystack and the long roof express the differences in construction technique, scale, figure and material quality that are brought together in the building.

The leaning chimneystack rises from the ensemble as a white, vertically articulated figure, free of protrusions and added elements. The exposed brickwork is flush with the mortar and covered with a matte, luminous limewash, muting the color and blurring the distinctiveness of the brick and mortar while keeping the texture legible. At the base of the chimneystack, the lime has been washed thin, revealing the intricate pattern of the brickwork. The brick courses are set perpendicular to the slopes and cut to taper, irregularly weaving into each other at an open angle towards the middle. At the slope, every other course of stretchers meets the edge in a mortar covered head, creating a seam-like effect and suggesting an interlocking joint with the subsequent face round the corner. The above, more blurred and regular brickwork rises over the ensemble, asserting the presence of the figure in a slender pipe. The irregular pattern of the brickwork indicates a structural requirement rather than an ornamental objective that, together with the dilute application of lime, gives an impression of both animation and poise. Contrary to the chimneystack, the dark grey roof has a calm and soft surface, holding together the different elements of the ensemble. The surface consists of roofing felt with a matte sheen, rhythmically divided into narrow sections. The joints between each of the sections form an articulated ridge that builds subtly from the flat surface and is fixed in place by a tight seam of flat-headed, light grey nails. At surface level, the felt has a slight shimmer and the edges a rounded chamfer, adding to the overall expression of a textile-like draping.

Punctum. The assembly of material qualities within the building is not simply arranged on to a background as a collage. Rather, they are working in relation to each other to produce an overall material character. Each of the surfaces forms stronger or weaker relations (spatial, textural, tonal, synesthetic) to the others, and each surface has a spatial, textural, tonal, synesthetic presence of its own within the whole. These gestures encompass a unified whole that gives the impression of having found its form in and of time, through a considered weighing of space, place and purpose. The experience of a balanced whole occurs from the material qualities themselves and their relative openness and closedness, contributing to place-making and introducing meaning through a form of listening and answering.

Smokehouse, Årsdale. (Fig. 1) In the photograph, the building expresses itself as an elongated, windowless one-storey volume with a centrally located truncated-pyramid-shape rising above the ridge of the pitched roof. The building is situated on a soft slope and divided into three elements: wall, roof and smokestack, distinguished by a luminous white, weathered metal and massive brickwork. Each element has a particular material quality, gesture and position in relation to the other elements, giving the building an overall character of dynamic balance in which the individual architectural elements are working in relation to each other within a whole.

At the bottom, a staggered base that is divided into two segments, accommodating the slight shift in terrain, runs the full length of the house. The relative height of the base to the shifting terrain registers the topography and makes the relation between the two more articulated, while simultaneously negotiating the horizontality of the eaves. The base has a rough surface in a black hue with a slightly shiny, almost sticky finish that binds the irregularities of the underlying layer,while contrasting both tonally and texturally with the wall.

Retaining the impression of mass from the base, the soft, luminous white wall establishes a horizontal delineation that traces the transfer from wall to roof and establishes a level ground for the elements above. Merged by the matte, bright limewash, the wall comprises three subtly different textural qualities: a pattern of large stacked stones at either side (aerated concrete bricks?), the horizontal grain of the timber top plate and a thicker, more uneven and flaky render at the middle. The thin layer of lime gives the surface a shimmering luminosity, as the layer appears to be veiled over the irregular render, timber and stonework. The mattness and light hue furthermore has the effect of making the wall susceptible to light conditions, absorbing and reflecting light so that the surface is subtly changing with the environment.

This gives the wall an overall visual sparseness, emphasising the textural

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qualities of the different underlying materials, while simultaneously retaining the particular character of the limewash.

Towards the top, the wall meets the above elements in two distinct ways. Towards the smokestack, it meets the angled base of the above brickwork in a frayed, slightly convex line, delimited by the bottom grout of the brickwork, and at the eaves of the roof, the whitewashed top plate is enveloped in the shadow of the overhang, shrouding the transition between the two. Protruding slightly from the wall, the reddish-brown roof comprises three layers of weathered metal sheets, joined by rounded standing seams that are arranged in a 1:1 rhythm. The metal has a coarse and mottled surface, altering from a warm reddish-brown in the flat sections, to a cooler brown with bluish-white variations at the ridges. The overlapping of the metal sheets, the rhythmically distributed seams and the uneven surface, together with the thinness of the metal sheet, add to an overall pleated quality that accentuates the lightness of the roof.

In opposition to the low volume of the house and sheerness of the roof, the smokestack expresses mass in a strong, massive, vertical form. The brick is orange-red, combined with paler, lightly yellowish bricks and grey, more weathered bricks that are obscured by a combination of lichen and moss growth. The exposed brickwork is free of protrusions and added elements and has a slightly recessed, dark grey mortar joint distinguishing each masonry unit. The brick courses at the sides form triangular, jagged shapes that are set perpendicular to the slopes and cut to taper. Weaving into the horizontal courses at regular intervals, the jagged pattern diminishes in scale upwards, adapting to the tapering of the form. At the slope, every other course of stretchers meets the edge in a mortar-covered head, creating a seam-like effect and suggesting an interlocking joint across the corner. Similarly, a centrally located line of brick heads forms a bond, running the full height of the smokestack and dividing it into two faces. The brickwork conveys a strong and monolithic character, produced by the heaviness of the brick and the clear form. Every brick seems to have a specific position within the whole, where the expression of the surface is directly linked to the construction technique (gravity) and the operation of the format (hand).

Punctum. On the surface, the building expresses composure with balanced relations in material and composition. Each part constitutes the whole and evokes an overall calm and strong character. Beneath, there is a depth to the building that is not immediately evident. Similar to the reciprocity between the stonework and the veil of limewash, the calm exterior of the building encompasses an experience of strong inner movements. The rhythmic52 attuning of the inner tension through material qualities engenders the outer repose and overall presence of the building. The experience embodied in this tension between material and effect contributes to complexity and introduces character through its spatial composition and worked material effect.

Framework. Virkning defines the way in which a material affects us or ‘works’ on us, i.e. how the material is received by the senses and experienced emotionally and mentally through the body. Following the above analysis and description of the three photographs, a number of formal properties (surface, texture, uniformity, nuance, brightness, hue, tone, figure, rhythm, proportion, scale, form, pattern etc.) that produce a number of experienced effects (soft, delicate, warm, cold, rough, smooth, strong, clear, open, closed, composed etc.) may be identified. The experienced effects may be organised into three categories: material character, tonal character and spatial character set in relation to the synesthetic characters, encompassing the virkning.

As the full experience is dependent on the total sum of relations, many bodily perceivable aspects of architecture should be taken into account so as not to limit or reduce the experience. All characters are as such furthermore influenced and transformed by environment, time, viewing distance, position in space and each other.

Tacit Matter. It is, as pointed out above, difficult to explain the essential differences in character that affect you so strongly. Material qualities are, in other words, easy to perceive but difficult to conceive. According to Olsen, ‘we need to pay far more attention to the questions of why and how things are significant. What difference do they make in making the world meaningful?’53 To Olsen, what is needed for this is ‘means by which to activate the implicit thing knowledge we already possess, as well as means to become more sensitive to the inherent qualities of things themselves.’54

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To analyze material qualities exhaustively, an innumerable number of formal parameters would have to be considered as well as its many constituent characters at different distances, times, positions in space etc. As the surface of things conditions a response to space and place, the term material quality is furthermore dual, describing both the particular physical properties of a material and correspondingly the affect that informs both our perception of it and our interaction with it. As such, a framework must inevitably be considered incomplete. What a (preliminary) framework for experienced material qualities based on Semper, Petersen, Rasmussen, Schmitz and Rosa on the other hand may contribute, is aiding in providing clarity and in operationalising experienced phenomena, giving access to a material language inherent to the qualities of materials themselves.

In Life as a Voyage, Bernard Rudofsky writes; ‘The house has to become what it was in the past: an instrument for living.’55 This would, according to Rudofsky, ‘make all the difference in our conduct of life – like the difference between playing a violin and playing a jukebox.’56 In stating so, he opposes the distanced and instrumentalised notion of the house as a machine for living, emphasising the sensitive dimensions of architecture as an attuning frame for the conduct of life. Similarly, the mechanical properties of materials may tell us how a material is performing according to set of predetermined measurable criteria, but they cannot tell us whether that material is meaningful or touches us.

Material qualities constitute a nonverbal, tacit vocabulary in their own right and possess real qualities that may affect and shape both our perception of them and our cohabitation with them.57 In continuation, we experience the barely perceivable differences in the material qualities of architecture physically, even before we are aware of it intellectually.58 As such, the physical gestures of a building may be understood to be more directly connected to the sensual capacities of our bodies than to thoughts and words,59 and may constitute a meaningful bodily communication. In this view, the tacit, sensitive dimension of architecture is not a passive thing to be looked at, it is instead active and may work as bodily communication through resonance.

In continuation, Kahn argues that ‘when you’re making something you must consult nature, like the conversation with the brick,’60 and that you may make the same conversation with concrete, paper, papier-mâché, marble or any material that has its nature. ‘It’s the beauty of what you create that you honor – the material for what it really is.’61 Similarly, Zumthor argues that

Previous page, figure 3: Bornholm Railway Museum, 2019. Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

Opposite page: Skt. Ols Kirke, 2019.

Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk.

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making architecture is ‘less about form, and more about the relation between the architectural material body and the body of us – human beings.’62 As such, the experience of resonance, in which the material responds bodily through difference and resistance, may propose a condition in which the experiencing and making of architecture entails a balance between openness and closedness, between listening and answering, where the maker and the material reciprocally work together to bring forth the qualities that may slumber63 in the material.

In this challenging of the subject-object dichotomy, the notion of experience as resonance proposes a relationship that takes place in the inter-space, between actors, constituting them in and through their reciprocal relation.

Materials may, in this view, be understood as actors in the world alongside other actors such as humans, plants, and buildings. All these actors are kindred, sharing certain material properties, qualities, flesh, and membership in a dwelt-in world.64 They all share the capacity for making a difference to the world and to other actors by establishing meaningful connections as transformative, non-instrumental encounters that (trans)form both sides – in this case, the I and the world experienced.65 The question as to how a tacit vocabulary, understood as material qualities, again may become significant and meaningful in thinking, making and experiencing architecture, may be summarised as three brief observations.

First, as discussed above, working with material qualities is complex and it is difficult to account for the detailed essential differences in experience.

The experience of architecture is multifaceted and always dependent on a total sum of relations in a specific situation. A (preliminary) framework for engaging with material qualities based on the formal properties (tacit vocabulary) of materials may be organised into categories understood as different characters (language) and may together form a whole from parts that may resonate with a perceiver (meaning). Second, an attuned attention to the tacit vocabulary of materials through methodical studies inspired by the above may provide grounds for thinking in and working with materials in a reciprocal manner through listening and answering (Rosa), giving place to both the perceivable and masked sensitive dimensions of architecture. Third, what experienced phenomena (Rasmussen) may do is reveal the world of materials (Semper) through material qualities (Petersen) and simultaneously engage in communication as resonance (Rosa), adding to creating meaningful encounters that may further connect us to the world of materials and the world as such.

1 The word tacit comes from Latin, meaning ‘that [which] is passed over in silence, done without words, assumed as a matter of course. See: ‘Tacit Etymology’, Online Etymology Dictionary, accessed 10 December 2019, https://www.etymonline.com/word/tacit.

2 Bjørnar Olsen, In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects (California: AltaMira Press, 2010), pp. 15–16.

3 Nicolai Bo Andersen & Victor Boye Julebæk, Spoken Matter – Towards a New Vocabulary for Architectural Description (Paper in review, Nordic Association of Architectural Research, 2019).

4 Uta Graff, Thinking through Material (München: Edition Detail, 2018), p. 143.

5 Stephen Parcell, ‘An architectural Creation Myth Borrowed from the Phenomenology of Music’, in Architecture’s Appeal, edited by Marc J. Neveu and Negin Djavaherian (New York: Routledge, 2015).

6 According to Hegger, Drexler and Zeumer (2006), material meaning may be described on three levels. A visible level, the perceivable surface of a material as experienced by the senses; an inner level, as in the technical, mechanical and chemical properties of a material; and an associative level, relating to memory. Correspondingly, this paper distinguishes between three levels of material meaning. A technical, mechanical and chemical level of material properties, in this case sand, cement and pigment, as described above; a visible level of material qualities, as described

by Linnet, and a level of experienced effects as synesthetic characters, i.e. form and colour associations, as suggested by Schmitz. See: Nicolai Bo Andersen & Victor Boye Julebæk, Spoken Matter – Towards a New Vocabulary for Architectural Description (Paper in review, Nordic Association of Architectural Research, 2019).

7 ‘It is evident that the architecture of traditional cultures is also essentially connected with the tacit wisdom of the body, instead of being visually and conceptually dominated.’, see: Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin (Chichester: John Wiley & Sons Ltd, 2005).

8 Nicolai Bo Andersen & Victor Boye Julebæk, Spoken Matter – Towards a New Vocabulary for Architectural Description (Paper in review, Nordic Association of Architectural Research, 2019).

9 The most frequent English translation of Stoflige Virkninger is ‘Textural Effects’, likewise the most recurrent translation of Modsætninger is ‘Contrasts’. In this paper the term ‘Material Qualities’ will be used in place of ‘Textural Effects’, as based on the paper ‘Spoken Matter’ (2019) by N. B. Andersen and V. B. Julebæk. Likewise, the term ‘Oppositions’ will be used in place of ‘Contrasts’, as described in: Christoffer Thorborg, ‘The Powers of Observation’, in When Architects and Designers Write / Draw / Build / ? : essays on architecture and design research, edited by Jørgen Dehs, Martin Weihe Esbensen and Claus Peder Pedersen (Aarhus: Arkitekskolens Forlag, 2013).

10 Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin (Chichester: John Wiley & Sons Ltd, 2005), p. 32.

11 Vernacular architecture is architecture characterised by the use of local materials and knowledge, usually without the supervision of professional architects. Vernacular buildings are typically simple and practical, whether residential houses or built for other purposes. See: ‘Vernacular’, Wikipedia, accessed 18 July 2019, https:// en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vernacular_architecture.

12 The photographs were recorded on a Sony A7 II, 24-megapixel full frame sensor digital camera house, mounted with a Sony FE 55mm F1.8 Zeiss prime or a Samyang 35mm F2.8 prime, held by a Benro tripod. Adjustments, crops and further processing was conducted in Adobe Lightroom Classic CC 2018 and Adobe Photoshop CC 2018.

A record of all adjustments created and added in Adobe Lightroom Classic CC and Adobe Photoshop CC 2018, i.e. spot removal, exposure adjustments, highlight adjustments, adjustment brushes, saturation shifts etc. is kept in the software catalogue.

13 Mogens A. Morgen et. al. ‘Screening af Kulturmiljøer’, Arkitektskolen Aarhus, September 2016, https://aarch.dk/se-kommunernes-kulturmiljoeer/; ‘Fredningslisten’, The Agency for Culture and Palaces, accessed 18 August 2019, https://www. kulturarv.dk/fbb/fredningsliste.htm.

14 Niels-Holger Larsen, Industriminder på Bornholm, Fra stenbrud til silderøgerier (Rønne: Bornholms Museum, 2005).

15 Steen Eiler Ramussen, ‘En gammel arkitekt taler til unge’, In De Gamle Mestre, edited by Karen Zahle, Finn Monies, Jørgen Hegner Christiansen (Copenhagen: Arkitektens Forlag, 2000).

16 Christoffer Thorborg, ‘The Powers of Observation’, in When Architects and Designers Write / Draw / Build / ? : essays on architecture and

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design research, edited by Jørgen Dehs, Martin Weihe Esbensen and Claus Peder Pedersen (Aarhus: Arkitekskolens Forlag, 2013).

17 ‘When Semper’s term “Bekleidung,” has been translated into English as “cladding,” rather than as “clothing” or “dress,” it has lost its original sartorial connotations’, see: Rebecca Houze, ‘The Textile as Structural Framework: Gottfried Semper’s Bekleidungsprinzip and the Case of Vienna 1900’, Textile, Volume 4, Issue 3 (Summer 2006), pp. 292-311, https://doi. org/10.2752/147597506778691486 18 Gottfried Semper, The Four Elements of Architecture and Other Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), p. 48. Via: U. Poerschke, On Concrete Materiality in Architecture (Arq, vol. 17, no. 2, 2013).

19 Gottfried Semper, The Four Elements of Architecture and Other Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), p. 48. Via: U. Poerschke, On Concrete Materiality in Architecture (Arq, vol. 17, no. 2, 2013).

20 Gottfried Semper, The Four Elements of Architecture and Other Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), p. 48. Via: U. Poerschke, On Concrete Materiality in Architecture (Arq, vol. 17, no. 2, 2013).

21 Gottfried Semper, Style in the Technical and Tectonic Arts; or, Practical Aesthetics (Los Angeles: Getty Research Institute, 2004), p. 247. Via: Á.

Moravanszky, The Principle of Dressing (Berlin, Boston: De Gruyter, 2017).

22 Gottfried Semper, The Four Elements of Architecture and Other Writings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 103–104.

Via: P. Meninato, Unexpected Affinities (New York: Routledge, 2018).

23 Stephen Bates, ‘Wickerwork, weaving and the Wall Effect’, Papers 2 (Barcelona: Editorial Gustavo Gili, 2017).

24 Semper further emphasises: ‘But masking does not help when the thing behind the mask is not right or when the mask is no good.’

25 In this paper the term ‘Material Qualities’ will be used in place of ‘Textural Effects’, as based on the paper ‘Spoken Matter’ (2019) by N. B. Andersen and V. B. Julebæk. Likewise, the term ‘Oppositions’ will be used in place of ‘Contrasts’, as described in: Christoffer Thorborg, ‘The Powers of Observation’, in When Architects and Designers Write / Draw / Build / ? : essays on architecture and design research, edited by Jørgen Dehs, Martin Weihe Esbensen and Claus Peder Pedersen (Aarhus: Arkitekskolens Forlag, 2013).

26 In this paper the term ‘Material Qualities’ will be used in place of ‘Textural Effects’, as based on the paper ‘Spoken Matter’ (2019) by N. B. Andersen and V. B. Julebæk. Likewise, the term ‘Oppositions’ will be used in place of ‘Contrasts’, as described in: Christoffer Thorborg, ‘The Powers of Observation’, in When Architects and Designers Write / Draw / Build / ? : essays on architecture and design research, edited by Jørgen Dehs, Martin Weihe Esbensen and Claus Peder Pedersen (Aarhus: Arkitekskolens Forlag, 2013).

27 Carl Petersen, ‘Stoflige Virkninger’, Architekten (1919).

28 Carl Petersen, ‘Modsætninger’, Architekten (1920).

29 Steen Eiler Ramussen, ‘En gammel arkitekt taler til unge’, In De Gamle Mestre, edited by Karen Zahle, Finn Monies, Jørgen Hegner Christiansen (Copenhagen: Arkitektens Forlag, 2000), pp. 10–39.

30 Steen Eiler Ramussen, Experiencing Architecture (Cambridge: The M.I.T. Press, 1959), p. 18.

31 Steen Eiler Ramussen, Experiencing Architecture (Cambridge: The M.I.T. Press, 1959), pp.

163–164.

32 Steen Eiler Ramussen, Experiencing Architecture (Cambridge: The M.I.T. Press, 1959)., pp.

159–185.

33 Steen Eiler Ramussen, Experiencing Architecture (Cambridge: The M.I.T. Press, 1959), p. 170.

34 Steen Eiler Ramussen, Experiencing Architecture (Cambridge: The M.I.T. Press, 1959), p. 178.

35 Hartmut Rosa, Resonance. A Sociology of Our Relationship to the World, Translated by James Wagner (Cambridge: Polity, 2019). Via: Simon Susen, ‘The Resonance of Resonance: Critical Theory as a Sociology of World-Relations?’, International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, (2019), https://doi.org/10.1007/s10767-019-9313-6 36 Bjørn Schiermer, ‘Acceleration and Resonance: An Interview with Hartmut Rosa’, Acta Sociologica, p. 3, accessed 18 February 2020, https:// www.uni-erfurt.de/fileadmin/public-docs/Max-Weber-Kolleg/10_Sonstige/Rosa_Interview_Acta_Sociologica.pdf 37 ‘Resonance Etymology’, Online Etymology Dictionary, accessed 18 August 2019, https://www. etymonline.com/word/resonance.

38 Hartmut Rosa, Resonance. A Sociology of Our Relationship to the World, Translated by James Wagner (Cambridge: Polity, 2019). Via: Simon Susen, ‘The Resonance of Resonance: Critical Theory as a Sociology of World-Relations?’, International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society (2019), https://doi.org/10.1007/s10767-019-9313-6 39 Hartmut Rosa, Resonance. A Sociology of Our Relationship to the World, Translated by James Wagner (Cambridge: Polity, 2019). Via: Simon Susen, ‘The Resonance of Resonance: Critical Theory as a Sociology of World-Relations?’, International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, (2019), https://doi.org/10.1007/s10767-019-9313-6 40 Bjørn Schiermer, ‘Acceleration and Resonance: An Interview with Hartmut Rosa’, Acta Sociologica, p. 3, accessed 18 February 2020, https:// www.uni-erfurt.de/fileadmin/public-docs/Max-Weber-Kolleg/10_Sonstige/Rosa_Interview_Acta_Sociologica.pdf 41 Bjørn Schiermer, ‘Acceleration and Resonance: An Interview with Hartmut Rosa’, Acta Sociologica, p. 3, accessed 18 February 2020, https:// www.uni-erfurt.de/fileadmin/public-docs/Max-Weber-Kolleg/10_Sonstige/Rosa_Interview_Acta_Sociologica.pdf 42 Hartmut Rosa, Resonance. A Sociology of Our Relationship to the World, Translated by James Wagner (Cambridge: Polity, 2019). Via: Simon Susen, ‘The Resonance of Resonance: Critical Theory as a Sociology of World-Relations?’, International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, (2019), https://doi.org/10.1007/s10767-019-9313-6 43 Bjørn Schiermer, ‘Acceleration and Resonance: An Interview with Hartmut Rosa’, Acta Sociologica, p. 3, accessed 18 February 2020, https:// www.uni-erfurt.de/fileadmin/public-docs/Max-Weber-Kolleg/10_Sonstige/Rosa_Interview_Acta_Sociologica.pdf 44 Hartmut Rosa, ‘The Idea of Resonance as a Sociological Concept’, Global Dialogue, Volume 8, Issue 2, 9 July 2018, http://globaldialogue. isa-sociology.org/the-idea-of-resonance-as-a-sociological-concept/ 45 Master’s Programme for Cultural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation, The Royal Danish Academy – School of Architecture.

46 Nicolai Bo Andersen, ‘Phenomenological Method’, in Formation: Architectural Education in a Nordic Perspective, edited by Elise Lorentsen and Kristine Annabell Torp (Copenhagen: Arkitekturforlaget B, 2018), pp. 74–95.

47 To Schmitz, a list of synesthetic characters, that may be expanded, include: the sharp, cutting, delicate, pointy, bright, hard, soft, warm, cold, heavy, massive, gentle, dense, smooth and rough., see: Nicolai Bo Andersen & Victor Boye Julebæk, Spoken Matter – Towards a New Vocabulary for Architectural Description (Paper in review, Nordic Association of Architectural Research, 2019).

48 Hermann Schmitz, Kort indføring i den nye fænomenologi, translated by Sune Frølund (Aalborg: Aalborg Universitetsforlag, 2017).

49 Nicolai Bo Andersen & Victor Boye Julebæk, Spoken Matter – Towards a New Vocabulary for Architectural Description (Paper in review, Nordic Association of Architectural Research, 2019).

50 Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography (London: Vintage Classics, 1993).

51 Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography (London: Vintage Classics, 1993).

52 Aage Rafn, ‘Rytme’, Architecten, (1918).

53 Bjørnar Olsen, In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects (California: AltaMira Press, 2010), p. 156.

54 Bjørnar Olsen, In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects (California: AltaMira Press, 2010), p. 18.

55 Monica Platzer, ed., Lessons from Bernard Rudofsky: life as a voyage (Basel: Birkhäuser, 2007).

56 Monica Platzer, ed., Lessons from Bernard Rudofsky: life as a voyage (Basel: Birkhäuser, 2007).

57 Bjørnar Olsen, In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects (California: AltaMira Press, 2010), p. 4.

58 Steen Eiler Ramussen, Experiencing Architecture (Cambridge: The M.I.T. Press, 1959), p. 18.

59 Mari Lending and Peter Zumthor, A Feeling of History (Zurich: Scheidegger & Spiess, 2018), p. 32.

60 Louis. Kahn, Writings, Lectures, Interviews, edited by Alessandra Latour (New York: Rizzoli, 1991), p. 323.

61 Louis. Kahn, Writings, Lectures, Interviews, edited by Alessandra Latour (New York: Rizzoli, 1991), p. 323.

62 Peter Zumthor, Thinking Architecture (Basel: Birkhäuser, 2010), p.20.

63 Bjørnar Olsen, In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects (California:

AltaMira Press, 2010), p. 158.

64 Quoted from Merlau-Ponty, 1968, see: Bjørnar Olsen, In Defense of Things: Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects (California: AltaMira Press, 2010), p. 9.

65 ‘Of course, the notorious problem with this claim is that it immediately provokes the objection that while the subject might well be transformed by the interaction with the violin or the ocean, the latter hardly changes. But while this argument in fact depends on a perhaps not-so-innocent epistemology in which the only things capable of responding are human beings, that is, on an ‘asymmetrical anthropology,’ it cannot be disputed that the experienced world is affected by such encounters. That resonances of this sort are vital elements of any identity formation, can be read from the fact that claims such as ‘after reading that book,’ or ‘after hearing that music’ or ‘after meeting that group’ or ‘after climbing that mountain,’ ‘I was a different person’ are standard ingredients of almost all (auto-)biographical accounts given, for example, in interviews. It is important to notice here that the transformative effects of resonance are beyond the control of the subject: when something really touches us, we can never know or predict in advance what we will become as a result of this.’

See: Hartmut Rosa, ‘The Idea of Resonance as a Sociological Concept’, Global Dialogue, Volume 8, Issue 2, 9 July 2018, http://globaldialogue. isa-sociology.org/the-idea-of-resonance-as-a-sociological-concept/

In addition to the three photographs selected for description and analysis (figure 1,2 & 3), a series of impressions from the field studies are presented as part of a photo-essay that is distributed throughout the publication, see: Publication cover page: Smokehouse, Hasle.

Photo, Victor Boye Julebæk, 2019.

Page 15: Skt. Ols Kirke (Olsker Rundkirke).

Photo: Victor Boye Julebæk, 2019.

Page 31: Gudhjem Station Building.

Photo: Victor Boye Julebæk, 2019.

Page 106: Skt. Ols Kirke (Olsker Rundkirke).

Photo: Victor Boye Julebæk, 2019.

Page 109: Smokehouse, Hasle, 2019.

Photo: Victor Boye Julebæk.

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Det Kongelige Danske Kunstakademis Skoler for Arkitektur, Design og Konservering

Hands On

The Value of Building Culture

© 2020 Christoffer Harlang, Morten Birk Jørgensen, Nicolai Bo Andersen, Søren Bak-Andersen, Søren Vadstrup, Thomas Hacksen Kampmann and Victor Boye Julebæk.

KADK, The Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts School of Architecture, Design and Conservation – School of Architecture.

Philip De Langes Allé 10, 1435 Copenhagen, Denmark Institute of Architecture and Culture – Master’s programme for Cultural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation.

Editors: Morten Birk Jørgensen and Victor Boye Julebæk with Christoffer Harlang Graphic design: Morten Birk Jørgensen and Victor Boye Julebæk Peer review: Professor Uta Graff, Technische Universität München Copy-editing: Cornelius Holck Colding Font: Times New Roman, Helvetica Neue © Texts: by the authors or their legal successors © Illustrations: by the authors, their legal successors or as stated © Photography, cover: Victor Boye Julebæk All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or part is prohibited without prior written agreement.

Effort has been made to contact copyright holders and to ensure that all the information presented is correct. If proper copyright acknowledgment has not been made, or for clarifications and corrections, please contact the publishers.

Digital edition 2025, first published in print in 2020 ISBN: 978-87-7830-923-5 This publication is a part of the research effort FORAN – a partnership between Realdania and KADK – The Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts Schools of Architecture, Design and Conservation.

110

Christoffer Harlang, born 1958, studied at the Architectural Association, London, and graduated from The Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, School of Architecture. Christoffer is professor at KADK at the Master’s programme for Cultural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation, as well as a practitioner of architecture and design. Besides being the author of several books and articles on Nordic architecture and design, Christoffer heads the research unit presented in this publication.

Morten Birk Jørgensen, born 1985, studied at Universität der Künste, Berlin, and graduated from The Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, School of Architecture. Morten completed his PhD at KADK in 2018 and is currently engaged as an assistant professor at the Master’s programme for Cultural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation. His research focuses on the assessment and valuation of architecture with a core interest in architectural criticism. As part of FORAN, Morten focuses on relations between architecture and matters of belonging and identity.

Nicolai Bo Andersen, born 1970, studied at the Cooper Union, New York, and graduated from the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, School of Architecture. Nicolai is a senior researcher and associate professor specialising in sustainable building culture.

Nicolai is Head of the Master’s Programme in Architectural Her itage, Transformation and Conservation. He is appointed member of the Historic Buildings Council by the Danish Minister for Culture and is a visiting professor (2019-20) at the TU München.

Søren Bak-Andersen, born 1982, graduated from The Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, School of Architecture. Søren is a PhD-fellow at KADK specialising in historical building techniques and materials, and the application of these in contemporary modern architecture. The PhD project entitled Old Knowledge for New Buildings is based at the Master’s Programme for Cultural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation.

Søren Vadstrup, born 1949, graduated from The Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, School of Architecture. Søren is an accociate professor at KADK specialising in historical building techniques and material studies. He is the author of several books on the topic of historical buildings and has a long-time influence on the public guidelines on restoration and conservation.

Thomas Kampmann, born 1954, graduated from The Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, School of Architecture and The Technical University of Denmark. Thomas is an accociate professor at the Master’s Programme for Cultural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation. He primarily teaches building surveying and restoration. In FORAN, Thomas focuses on the energy optimisation of historical buildings with a particular interest in Life Cycle Analysis.

Uta Graff (peer), born 1970, is professor for Architectural Design and Conception at the Department of Architecture at the Technical University of Munich. She studied architecture at the TU Braunschweig and the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology, Zürich.

After graduating she worked as an architect with Peter Zumthor in Switzerland, at gmp Architects in Berlin, as a research associate at the Berlin University of the Arts and as a professor at the University of Applied Sciences in Würzburg. Uta has authored and edited several books, most recently Black Spaces. An architectural phenomenon (2020), Thinking Through Material (2018) et. al.

Victor Boye Julebæk, born 1983, studied at The Swiss Federal Institute of Technology, Lausanne, and graduated from The Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, School of Architecture. Alongside his architectural practice, he has for several years been teaching at the Master’s Programme for Cultural Heritage, Transformation and Conservation as adjunct teaching professor. Currently Victor is working on the PhD project Material Qualities – Spatial Character.

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