Gids zwitserland 2012

hotels Feldkirch Junges Hotel Feldkirch ReichsstraĂ&#x;e 111 6805 Feldkirch tel. +43 5522 73181 fax +43 5522 79399 www.hostelfeldkirch.com feldkirch@jungehotels.at Zimmer im Zentrum Alberweg 12 6800 Feldkirch tel. +43 664 393 17 87

ZĂźrich St. Moritz Youth Hostel Via Surpunt 60 7500 St. Mritz Bad tel. +41 81 836 61 11 fax +41 81 836 61 12 www.youthhostel.ch/zuerich zuerich@youthhostel.ch

studiereis zwitserland 2012

Sankt Moritz St. Moritz Youth Hostel Via Surpunt 60 7500 St. Mritz Bad tel. +41 81 836 61 11 fax +41 81 836 61 12 www.youthhostel.ch/de/hostels/st-moritz st.moritz@youthhostel.ch

programma

29-30-31 maart + 1 april 2012-03-19 6h00 12h00

16h30 19h00

dag 2 8h30 8h45

10h00 11h15 13h00

15h00 16h00 17h00 19h30

dag 3 8h00 9h30

10h31 11h30

Stuttgart - Bregenz

vertrek auditorium De Molen, Heverlee rondleiding Weissenhofsiedlung, Stuttgart (D) Mies van der Rohe, Le Corbusier, Walter Gropius, Hans Scharoun, Mart Stam, J.P.P. Oud, Victor Bourgeois, ... bezoek museumwoning Le Corbusier rondleiding Kunsthaus, Bregenz (AT) Peter Zumthor aankomst Feldkirch (AT) check-in + vrij

Vaduz – Sankt Moritz

vertrek Feldkrich Römer Villa, Feldkirch (AT) Marte.Marte bezoek Kunstmuseum, Vaduz (LI) Kristian Kerez stop Weingut Gantenbein + Haus Meuli, Fläsch (CH) Bearth & Deplazes rondleiding studio Valerio Olgiati, Flims (CH) Valerio Olgiati Das Gelbe Haus, Flims (CH) Valerio Olgiati bezoek atelier Bardill, Scharans (CH) Valerio Olgiati bezoek school, Paspels (CH) Valerio Olgiati puns da saransanz, Thusis (CH) Jürg Conzett aankomst St. Moritz (CH) avondmaal in jeugdherberg (vòòr 20h00 !)

Vals – Sumvitg – Chur – Zürich

vertrek Sankt Moritz raststätte Via Mala, Thusis (CH) Iseppi Kurat trein naar Sumvitg (groep trein) thermen, Vals (CH) 7 groepen (6 pers.) om het hafuur toegang (groep water)

studiereis zwitserland 2012

dag 1

13h50 15h00 16h00 17h00 18h00 19h00

dag 4 8h00 12h00 12h30 14h00 23h00

+ vrij bezoek Vals kapel, Sogn Benedegt (CH) Peter Zumthor trein naar Chur schutzareal, Chur (CH) Peter Zumthor vrij bezoek Chur vertrek naar Chur oppikken groep Berg, Chur aankomst Zürich (CH) avondmaal in jeugdherberg (vòòr 20h00 !)

Zürich

vrij bezoek Zürich vertrek naar Leutschenbach rondleiding school, Leutschenbach (CH) Kristian Kerez vertrek naar Leuven geschatte aankomst De Molen

studiereis zwitserland 2012

11h30

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F E L D K I R C H / AT

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S T. M O R I T Z / C H

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Z Ăœ R I C H / C H

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Z Ăœ R I C H / C H

selectie

projecten (vrij programma)

Feldkirch (AT)

1. Rotes Kreuz Zenntrale Voralberg Cukrowicz + Nachbaur Beim Gr채ble 10

2. Tennisclub Altenstadt Walser & Werle Beim M체hlbach 40

3. Busplatzbebauung Feldkirch Gohm & Hiessberger Hirschgraben

4. Kraftwerk Hochwuhr ARTEC architekten Leusb체ndtweg 49

5. Underberger Espresso Bar Gohm & Hiessberger Reichstr. 126

6. Bundesgymnasium Walser & Werle Marktplatz 23

7. Inselgeb채ude Grenze Tisis Aix Architects Liechtensteinerstrasse

8. SPAR Supermarket

Markus Gohm & Hiessberger Rheinstr. 54 Baumschlager & Eberle Reichstr. 126

Sankt Moritz (CH) 10. Chesa Futura

Norman Foster + Partners centrum

Vals (CH)

11. felsentherme Peter Zumthor

12. hotel therme Peter Zumthor

13. villa Vals

Search Poststrasse 38

14. hotel Alpina

studiereis zwitserland 2012

9. Gewerbepark Amberpark

Gion A. Caminada Platz 1

15. Annalisa Zumthor Haus Peter Zumthor Leis

16. brug

Jürg Conzett centrum

Chur (CH)

17. ingang parlement Graubunden Valerio Olgiati Masanserstrasse 3

18. Kunsthaus Chur

Peter Zumthor e.a.

Postplatz

19. Würth Holding

Jüngling + Hagmann Aspermontstrasse 1

20. Siedlung Tivoli

Jüngling + Hagmann Bahnhofplatz

21. Postautodeck des Bahnhofs Richard Brosi

22. Rhätischen Kantonspitals Bettenhaus D Silvia Gmur & Livio Vacchini Hirschbühlweg 20

23. Haus Gartmann

24. Bundner Lehrerseminar Bearth & Deplazes Scalästrasse 17

25. Wohnhaus für Betagte Peter Zumthor Cadonoustrasse 71-75

26. Wohnhaus Bär-Bearth Bearth & Deplazes helling

Zürich (CH)

27. Residentiëel complex ”Broelberg” Gigon + Guyer Landstrasse/Gheistrasse

28. Haus Zentner Carlo Scarpa

studiereis zwitserland 2012

Patrick Gartmann Böschenstrasse 5

Aurorastrasse 56

29. Heidi Weber Haus Le Corbusier Hoeschgasse 8

30. ETH Neue Hörsaal Gigon + Guyer Kunstlergasse 16

31. ETH lichtkorridor Boner/Deube Kunstlergasse 16

32. Aussersihl Gemeindschaftgebaude EM2N Hohlstrasse 67

33. SBB Stellwerk Vorbahnhof Gigon + Guyer Gottlieb/Dutweilerbrück

34. Stadelhofen Station Santiago Calatrava Aemtierstrasse 3

35. Bibliothek Rechtswissenschaft Santiago Calatrava Rämistrasse 74

36. Fachhochschule Sihlhof Giuliani.Hönger Lagerstrasse

37. Schulhaus ‘im birch’

Peter Märkli Margrit Rainer-strasse 5

38. Theater 11

39. Freitag Flagsship Store

Spielman.Echelse Architekten Geroldstrasse 17

40. Single wall house Kristian Kerez Burenweg 46-48

41. Forsterstrasse apartments Kristian Kerez Forsterstrasse 38

42. Im Viadukt

EM2N Limmatstrasse 236

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EM2N Thurgauerstrasse 7

W E I S S E N H O FS I E D LU N G appartementsgebouw s t u t t g a r t ludwig mies van der rohe 1 9 2 7

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Am Weissenhof 14-20 70191 Stuttgart Deutschland

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Bruckmannweg 2 70191 Stuttgart Deutschland

W E I S S E N H O FS I E D LU N G d u b b e l v i l l a s t u t t g a r t l e c o r b u s i e r 1 9 2 7

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Rathenaustr. 1 - 3 70191 Stuttgart Deutschland

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W E I S S E N H O FS I E D LU N G w o n i n g e n s t u t t g a r t m a r t s t a m 1 9 2 7

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Am Weissenhof 24-28 70191 Stuttgart Deutschland

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W E I S S E N H O FS I E D LU N G w o n i n g e n s t u t t g a r t j . p . p . o u d 1 9 2 7

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Pankokweg 1- 9 70191 Stuttgart Deutschland

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W E I S S E N H O FS I E D LU N G v i l l a s t u t t g a r t h a n s s c h a r o u n 1 9 2 7

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Hรถlzelweg 1 70191 Stuttgart Deutschland

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W E I S S E N H O FS I E D LU N G v i l l a s t u t t g a r t victor bourgeois 1 9 2 7

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Friedrich-Ebert-Str. 118 70191 Stuttgart Deutschland

k u n s t h a u s b r e g e n z p e t e r z u m t h o r 1 9 9 7

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Karl Tizianplatz 1 6900 Bregenz Ă–stenreich

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Towards a new vision of the museum: the Kunsthaus of Bregenz Mihail Moldoveanu

The idea of the `museum,' as it took shape during the nineteenth century, has become obsolete. Initially modelled on the cabinet of curiosities, this institution now has to house just about everything that society produces, admires or wants to remember. Today, museums are often first-rank commercial success stories.

They have much in common with theme parks ± Disneyland in Florida is the most famous archetype ± sharing with them not only a very large public but an increasing number of similar characteristics as well, beginning with the techniques to control visitor flow and ending with the installation of restaurants and shops selling a wide variety of `homemade' products which can now often be bought on the Internet.

The objective of attracting a very large public for museums may be seen as both a logical consequence of the process of democratizing access to culture and as an attitude of political demagoguery. None the less, a few voices can still be heard, from time to time, saying that mass education weakens the primary function of the museum, which is to exhibit, collect and promote research work by specialists. In general, politicians consider this point of view as that of an intellectual Âlite e group and attach little or no importance to it.

In the United States, which is experiencing a veritable boom in this field, more than 150 museums have been constructed or extended in the 1997±99 period alone.

Edward Able, president of the American Association of Museums emphasized in a recent interview that `Museums have not only become important educational institutions . . . they have also become the new town halls which play a central role in the cultural, social and economic life of their communities.'1

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An initial sign of this increased importance in relation to other public utilities is the quest for a `representative architecture', a term that in this case signifies a recognizable `stamp', or a building designed in a very particular way. The ideal solution is to have a well-known architect construct an extravagant building, museum administrators having become well aware of the effectiveness of the message that architecture transmits. To make sure of success when they envisage important architectural work, they organize restricted competitions to which they invite almost exclusively celebrities, or, to shorten the process, they simply give them the contract.

Examples of this evolution abound, and not only in the United States. None the less, the first major museum to make a radical departure from the `historic' model is American and dates back to the 1950s, namely, the Guggenheim Museum in New York. This pioneering architectural masterpiece by Frank Lloyd Wright rejected all previous experience in the field (Beaux-Arts as well as Modernist). In a single space, a very long spiral ramp ± the gallery ± turns and turns around a well of light formed by a magnificent central skylight.

The next stage in the definition of a new type of museum, more adapted to the `action' requirements of a society undergoing fundamental change, came in the shape of the Georges Pompidou Centre in Paris constructed by Renzo Piano and Richard Rogers in the 1970s. Here, the collections ± their very large number notwithstanding ± occupy only a fifth of the entire building, a kind of transparent box that also houses temporary exhibitions, libraries, cinemas, various activities and, most of all, a lot of visitors.

ISSN 1350-0775,Museum Internationa(lUNESCO, Paris), No. 207 (Vol. 52, No. 3, 2000) UNESCO 2000 Published by Blackwell Publishers, 108 Cowley Road, Oxford, OX4 1JF (UK) and 350 Main Street, Malden, MA 02148 (USA)

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Museum architecture and museum collections are not always compatible, and new buildings may overshadow the works they were designed to enhance. A notable exception is described by Mihail Moldoveanu, a freelance photographer and writer based in Paris.

The `museum rush' became widespread starting from the 1980s. A prosperous town like Frankfurt-am-Main had to construct, in addition to its venerable Sta Èdel Museum, a constellation of new museums by Richard Meier, Oswald Mathias Ungers and Hans Hollein. At the beginning of the 1980s, Meier, Ungers and Hollein already enjoyed the status of `internationally famous architects'.

During this period, France gave its Louvre the now world-famous pyramid constructed by I. M. Pei, designing an enormous car park in its basement at the same time. The National Gallery in London added a new wing by Robert Venturi, while the Metropolitan Museum in New York was enlarged in a manner lacking in grace: the new wing housing the Temple of Dendur seems to have been designed more for social functions ± such as banquets and receptions ± than for displaying art. Still in the 1980s, James Stirling built the Staatsgalerie in Stuttgart, Arata Isozaki was invited to construct the

56

MOCA in Los Angeles, and I. M. Pei finished the extension of the National Gallery in Washington, D.C. During the 1990s, the race for museums bearing a `stamp' gathered even greater speed. Much more often than before, the contents lost their pride of place in the general definition of the museum institution, and the `place' became the main attraction. Three Spanish museums fully illustrate this new order: the Centro de Arte of Galicia, executed by Alvaro Siza in Santiago de Compostela, the Museu d'Art Contemporani in Barcelona, designed by Richard Meier, and the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, the work of Frank Gehry.

The `stars' continue to be provided with plenty of work. Some of their museums opened recently, while others are still under construction. To cite a few of the most significant examples: Richard Meier and his enormous Getty Center in Los Angeles; Rafael Moneo and his Modern ß UNESCO 2000

studiereis zwitserland 2012

Mihail Moldoveanu

Mihail Moldoveanu

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`The two buildings mark out an urban space which has a surprising effect.'

extension work on the Prado in Madrid, and the Museum of Modern Art in New York will be redesigned and enlarged by Yoshio Taniguchi.

Mihail Moldoveanu

In regard to art museums, especially contemporary art, the risk is that many of these new buildings can complicate the viewing of their contents by their own overbearing architecture. In certain cases ± for example, the Guggenheim in Bilbao and the Modern Art Museum in Frankfurtam-Main ± the internal architecture is adapted to the specific needs of a number of exhibited works. Nevertheless, a certain degree of ambiguity, which is sometimes recognized, persists. It is largely the logical result of the symbiosis between a

`The Kunsthaus is the choice meeting place between contemporary architecture and contemporary art.' Here, a gallery on the third floor.

UNESCO 2000

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ß

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Towards a new vision of the museum: the Kunsthaus of Bregenz

Art Museum in Stockholm and the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston; Santiago Calatrava, who is working to finish his strange Milwaukee Art Museum; Tadao Ando, who is designing a museum for Fort Worth, Texas; Daniel Liebeskind who has finished the Jewish Museum in Berlin; Steven Holl who has created the remarkable Contemporary Art Museum in Helsinki; and Mario Botta who is working on the Modern Art Museum in San Francisco.

The expansion and modernization of major museums are also being carried out at an accelerated pace. After the extension of the Guggenheim Museum in New York, the Pompidou Centre has reopened after two years of renovation, Rafael Moneo is carrying out major

Mihail Moldoveanu

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`plastic' art, which ± led by the evolution of its own concepts and that of technology ± is constantly extending its own limits, and an architecture that is undergoing similar artistic changes, and constantly renewing its vocabulary.

assistance of one of Gehry's engineers and the backing of a technology that is comparable ± in other words, extremely sophisticated ± to the one used to construct this prodigious building. How many artists can repeat the same feat?

The Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao now offers the clearest example of the difficulty of such a relationship. When Richard Serra, the sculptor, was invited to exhibit enormous objects made of steel, he said recently that the room that had been reserved for him ± Room 104 which is used for temporary exhibitions ± `had always ``swallowed up'' all the works which had been exhibited in it . . . now you enter into the space of the works and not that of the architect'.2 But attention must be drawn to the price that has been paid: huge works which maintain a dialogue with Gehry's very particular architectural morphology, constructed with the

Today's architects often see the museum as providing the ideal opportunity for experimenting with new design forms, an approach that does not necessarily lead to the creation of spaces that improve the public's contact with the exhibited works.

However, the experience gained over the past few years can be used to define the characteristics of a new art museum capable of showing a high level of compatibility between its works ± which are extremely varied ± and its architecture.

Able to adapt to the various requirements of its contents without dominating them, such architecture must reflect the noble character of these works. ß UNESCO 2000

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Mihail Moldoveanu

The Kunsthaus of Bregenz, situated on the esplanade of Lake Constance.

esplanade and painted in black with a few white touches here and there. The two buildings mark out an urban space which has a surprising effect on the town centre.

The strange presence of the black building heightens the mysterious character of the big `ice cube', whose continuity of surface is broken only by a modest entrance door and a barely distinguishable service access.

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UNESCO 2000

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Mihail Moldoveanu

The main volume of the building is original in many respects. Light is treated with particular deference. Diffused, soft and omnipresent, it is homogeneous in a most uncommon way. All the interior spaces are `enveloped' by very large technical chambers in order to be able to control ± without disturbing the visual aspect of the rooms in any way ± not only the diffusion of light but also the heating system, the various changes required by museum activity, air circulation and acoustics. All these `workings' are hidden away between the external fac Ëade and the corners of the rooms, as well as behind The entry hall and exhibition space ceilings and underneath floors. A system showing works by Danish artist Per of mirrors is used to `transport' daylight Kirkeby.

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Towards a new vision of the museum: the Kunsthaus of Bregenz

A `stamp,' not a `style' This new ideal was brilliantly illustrated by the Kunsthaus in Bregenz, Austria, on the border with Switzerland. The story of this fascinating building, which was finished in 1997, is very special. If the municipal officials are today well satisfied with the overall result of the entire operation, it is only because the architect had to ignore most of the numerous pressures being applied on him during the project's design and construction. This building is `signed' by the Swiss architect Peter Zumthor, who enjoys a surprising degree of fame despite a very scanty output. The great strength of his buildings lies in their coherence and their total adaptation to their given functions. In 1999, he was awarded the prestigious Mies van der Rohe Prize for the Kunsthaus in Bregenz. Winner of a competition, this project embodies a radical position with respect to its siting on the esplanade of Lake Constance, its function and its internal construction. The main volume of the building stands out with elegance and sobriety: an opaque glass prism, designed to represent a sanctuary of art, without making the least concession to the `picturesque'. It continues the frontage line in this central area of the urban nucleus, but without entering into a more sustained dialogue with the neighbouring structures. The building creates its own environment and provides neither spectacular views of the lake nor a cafeteria on its terrace; visitors remain focused on the purpose of their visit, in close communion with art. The intransigence of this architectural approach is also witnessed in the functional separations: a large translucent section is designed to house only the works of art while the subsidiary functions ± administration, archives, shop and cafeteria ± are grouped together in an independent building situated behind the

over the entire surface of the translucent primitive art works as well as Renaissance ceilings in such a way that all the floors paintings or constructivist sculptures. The benefit from a mysterious zenithal light. A building as a whole can enter into a sophisticated lighting system compensates dialogue with contemporary experimental the variations of natural light. The Kunst- art, a very rare quality. haus Âą `art house' to give it a literal translation Âą comprises four storeys that The Kunsthaus is the choice meeting enjoy daylight and two basement floors. place between contemporary architecture The skin is surprising at close view, being and contemporary art. It possesses the an endless succession of `scales' made of capacity to heighten the effect of the translucent glass. Their disposition creates works, which resonate with the space. In the optical effect of a vibrating surface, certain specific cases, architecture and art but in fact they are the same smooth use a common vocabulary, each intensifypanels that make up the inside ceilings. ing the other. They are then united in an This material, which dissolves in daylight, experience that the visitor will find n glows in the evening when the building unforgettable. functions like an urban lamp.

Notes 1.International Herald Tribun,e23 October 1999, p. 10.

2.Connaissance des Arts, No. 564, September 1999, p. 113.

Ă&#x; UNESCO 2000

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The spartan elegance of the interior favours concentration, as does the very discreet contact with the outside world and the restricted number of `visual accidents' that could catch the eye. The spiritual nature of the exhibited works is emphasized. Such rooms can enhance

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Sportplatz Brederis 6830 Rankweil Ă–stenreich

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St채dtle 32 9490 Vaduz Liechtenstein

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Im Feld 7306 Fl창sch Schweiz

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Via stretga 1 7017 Flims Schweiz

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Via Nova 37 7017 Flims Schweiz

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T

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b a r d i l l r a n s o l g i a t i 0 7 Fravgia 10 7412 Scharans Schweiz

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exit Thusis Nord A13 7430 Thusis Schweiz

BENZINESTATION, THUSIS (CH) Bron:

DeZeen Magazine 9 Maart 2010 http://www.dezeen.com/2010/03/09/viamala-raststaatte-thusis-by-iseppikurath/

Viamala Raststätte, Thusis In the course of an invited architectural competition for a highway service area, a proposal of the young architectural office from Grisons Iseppi-Kurath was selected as the winning project. The design of the two architects achieved to translate the theme of the “window towards the region” with a complex layout and in a consequent and exciting fashion.

The Viamala Raststätte Thusis is located next to the exit Thusis-Nord at the highway A13 in Grisons, Switzerland. The unique access of an existing highway exit, that has a connection to both sides of the highway, allows this project to service the alpine traffic from south and north alike.

The expressive roof of the fuel station combines the architectural prelude of the building and brings together the entrance and exit of it, along the 24-hour service area (WC, fuel pumps, telefone and bancomat). When entering the building, the customer experiences a generous entrance area.

Circling the building clockwise, the customer passes by the shop for local produce and products, restaurant, bar area, take-away, tourism information and finally arrives at the shop, the register and exit area.

The cross shaped layout allows to accommodate quieter areas for conference purposes and a serviced restaurant. These areas have large-format windows opening towards and establishing connections to the Viamala canyon, Muttnerhöhe, Schin canyon and the Domleschg valley.

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Therefore the service area isn’t only available for transit but also local traffic and is furthermore connected via pedestrian and cycling ways to the sporting grounds of Thusis and the neighbouring villages of Cazis, Sils i.D., Fürstenau and Fürstenaubruck. The service area is located at the southern end of the plot and offers an internal connection to the surrounding agricultural landscape.

Additionally to those great views, the wooden interior of the service area expresses warmth and cosy concealment. This atmosphere is supposed to contrast the outside appearance.

Including the fuel station, the service area has a gross volume of 8500 m3 and an underground floor below the entire building.

Accessible via stairs and a freight elevator, the underground floor hosts heating, building technology, storage and staff wardrobes.

The public areas like restaurant, conference room and the shop have direct access to the outside, therefore no particular fire emergency precautions were mandatory. The main load bearing elements are wood, complemented by some stiffening concrete slabs.

These elements carry the interior wooden finishing and the exterior façade from metal. The building with its weatherproof and low maintenance façade from metal references through the formal design and choice of materials the surrounding landscape but also automobile technology.

Project: Viamala Raststätte Thusis Location: Viamala Raststätte Thusis, 7430 Thusis / Switzerland Client: Viamala Raststätte Thusis AG (corporation) Architecture: Iseppi/Kurath GmbH, Thusis Building Engineering: Pöyry Infra AG, Chur Wood Construction Engineering: Walter Bieler, Bonaduz Materials: Wood for construction: laminated (composite) wood 202 m3 Slat/two-by-four scantling 124 m3 Planks (timber roofing) 1525 m2 Multi-functional boards 456 m2 Wall and ceiling finish (cover): timber 980 m2, teel 3200 kg Construction costs (total): CHF 9.5 Million.Plot area: 24’000 m2 GFA: 1300 m2 groundfloor, 380 m 2 basement Building volume: 8500 m3 Price per cubic meter (BKP2, Swiss building cost indices): CHF 541.-

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The roof construction of one meter thickness, consisting of beams from laminated wood and rafters in between is not insulated and completely aerated. The insulation is installed through a suspended ceiling. The wall elements of timber frame construction where prefabricated and mo unted at the construction. For the Viamala Raststätte wood was used for the construction, interior finish and for heating, employing woodpellets.

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oberstufenschulhaus p a s p e l s v a l e r i o o l g i a t i 1 9 9 8

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Alte Domleschgergasse 95 7417 Paspels Schweiz

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p첫nt da suransuns t h u s i s j u r g c o n z e t t 1 9 9 9

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Viamala 7430 Thusis Schweiz

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therme + hotel v a l s p e t e r z u m t h o r 1 9 9 6

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Hotel Therme 7132 Vals Schweiz

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Valserrheinbrücke Vals-Platz

Projektleiter Jürg Conzett

Charakteristik der betonierten FahrbahnplatDie neue Brücke ersetzt die te und den gemauerten hochwassergefährdete, alte Wänden erfolgt über eine Sachbearbeiter Standort Verzahnung aus Zinken und Dorfbrücke. Sie überquert den Carli Cavigelli Vals Platz Fluss schiefwinklig und ist Keilen. Die Fahrbahnplatte ist dadurch gut auf den Dorfplatz in Längsrichtung stark vorgeGesamtkosten exkl. MwSt. hin ausgerichtet. Das Trag- spannt, die Lagerung erfolgt Auftraggeber Tiefbauamt Kanton Graubün-SFr. 1.6 Mio. werk ist eine Trogbrücke mit über elastische monolithisch den tragenden Wänden in Valserverbunden Stützen hinter den Foto © Gneis. Der Verbund zwischen Uferwänden.

Martin Linsi, Wädenswil Referenzperson Heinrich Figi 081 257 38 35

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Erstellungsjahr 2008 – 2009

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MICHAEL KIMMELMAN

‌Later that morning, we drove to a pair of small wooden houses he recently completed for himself and Annalisa near a peak above Vals.

She grew up at these heights. A wood house was her dream. For his part, Zumthor welcomed an excuse to rethink the local log-cabin design. He stuck with classic wood-beam construction, but in place of the old four-walled box structures that produced small, dark rooms, he essentially turned the boxes into towers spanned by broad sheets of glass that allowed for wide-open spaces framing spectacular views.

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The Ascension of Peter Zumthor

Working with the traditional wood beams was crucial, he said. ''Solid wood has almost disappeared as too expensive, complicated and old-fashioned,'' he explained. ''I reintroduced it as a construction method here because it feels good to be with, to be in.

You feel a certain way in a glass or concrete or limestone building.

It has an effect on your skin -- the same with plywood or veneer, or solid timber. Wood doesn't steal energy from your body the way glass and concrete steal heat. When it's hot, a wood house feels cooler than a concrete one, and when it's cold, the other way around. So I preserved the wood-beam construction because of what it can do for your body.''

''That was on purpose,'' Zumthor told me. ''I put a slight warp in the floor to make the creak, which would exist just below your level of consciousness. Call it romantic, I guess. All music needs some kind of container, and this container must be designed. That's what architecture can do. I always think, 'What should be the acoustic in a museum, a chapel, your bathroom?' Architects may not ask clients this question, but people can always tell you what they want.''

He looked around. ''It's so touching to see after all these years,'' he decided. ''I told the priest, 'What I can offer you is the memory of the church I had as a boy.' '' At that moment, he caught sight of a cheap wood cabinet, crammed near the front door, installed without his approval, he said. ''But it is O.K.,'' he told himself. Then he opened the front door, listening for the satisfying clunk of the door handle, squinted into the winter sun and crunched back through the snow toward the car. ‌

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You can feel exactly what he means if you travel an hour or so away to Sumvitg to see another chapel he designed, nearly a quarter of a century ago. An avalanche during the mid-1980s destroyed the Baroque chapel there. The village priest held a competition for its replacement. Zumthor's plan called for a pointed wedge of dark shingled wood clinging to a mountainside, like the mysteriously stranded bow of an ancient ship, with clerestory windows, a modest single door atop simple concrete steps and two bells perched on a slender tower. The interior, light-bathed and exalting, suggests the ship's galley: a wooden jewel box with a creaky wood floor.

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Sogn Benedetg Sumvitg Schweiz

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2007 Brother Klaus Field Chapel Wachendorf, Eifel, Germany (this page and opposite)

The feld chapel dedicated to Swiss Saintnicholas von der Flße (1417–1487), known as Brother klaus, was commissioned by farmer hermannJosef Scheidtweiler and his wife Trudel and largely constructed by them, with the help of friends, acquaintances and craftsmen on one of their felds above the village.

The interior of the chapel room was formed out of 112 tree trunks, which were confgured like a tent. in twentyfour working days, layer after layer of concrete, each layer 50 cm thick, was poured and rammed around the tentlike structure. in the autumn of 2006, a special smouldering fre was kept burning for three weeks inside the log tent, after which time the tree trunks were dry and could easily be removed from the concrete shell.

The chapel foor was covered with lead, which was melted on site in a crucible and manually ladled onto the foor. The bronze relief fgure in the chapel is by sculptor hans Josephsohn.

Photo by Walter Mair

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sketch by Peter Zumthor

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Photos by Pietro Savorelli

2000 Swiss Sound Box, Swiss Pavilion, Expo 2000 Hanover, Germany Photo by Walter Mair

We called the Swiss Pavilion for the 2000 hanover expo “klangkörper Schweiz”. instead of showing theoretical or virtual information to promote Switzerland, our basic idea was to offer something concrete to expo visitors, who would be tired from studying all the messages in the other national pavilions: a welcoming place to rest, a place to just be, a place offering a tasty little something from Switzerland for thirsty or peckish visitors, and live music “unplugged”, moving and changing throughout the space, a relaxed atmosphere as well as beautifully dressed attendants.

The idea of creating a Gesamtkunstwerk had fred our imagination. dramatic music played by musicians moving around, culinary offers, fashion and key words about Switzerland written in light on the eams and with a light hand: all this was designed to merge with the architecture, a spatial structure of wooden beams.

Taking the expo theme of sustainability seriously, we constructed the pavilion out of 144 km of lumber with a cross-section of 20 x 10 cm, totalling 2,800 cubic metres of larch douglas and pine from Swiss forests, assembled without glue, bolts or nails, only braced with steel cables, and with each beam being pressed down on the one below. After the closureexpo, of thethe building was dismantled and the beams sold as seasoned timber.

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(this page and opposite)

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Photos this page by Thomas Flechtner

2002 Luzi House Jenaz, Graubünden, Switzerland

Photo by Walter Mair

Photo by Walter Mair

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Private residence with a separate granny fat or a “Stoeckli” as it is called in Switzerland. Te clients: a local couple with six small children in the centre of Jenaz.

“A spacious, expansive house with lightflled rooms, everything constructed of solid wood; a further development of the blockhouses typical of this village, without any extra frills, with large windows and large balconies full of fowers” – as the couple specifed in the brief.

Photo by Helene Binet

The town of Biel-Benken near the Alsace border is a desirable residential area near Basel. People work in the city and live in the country, in a house with a garden. Building a small residential estate here, in a prime location at the upper edge of the village and below the historic Spittelhof farm, required special permission from the village council.

The semi-private Basellandschaftliche Beamtenversicherungskasse (an organisation that insures civil servants) acted as developer/investor; their brief called for rental fats and terraced houses at a ratio of roughly 1:1. We built two rows of terraced housing with gardens on the south side and a building with rental units (which at the time we calledulm”/ “k Summit ) at the upper edge of the central green courtyard.

The bedrooms face east towards the nearby forest, while the living rooms have a wide view to the west and the hills of the Sundgau region.

The “kulm” contains fve ground-foor fats for elderly people and on the two upper foors ten lats of different sizes, all with separate access stairs and entrances from the canopied forecourt on the east side. The foor plans of all three buildings were designed to provide light-flled living rooms and bedrooms lined up – porch-like – along the facades.

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Photo by Helene Binet

1996 Spittelhof Estate Biel-Benken, Baselland Switzerland

1997 Kunsthaus Bregenz, Vorarlberger Landesgalerie Museum and Administration Buildings Bregenz, Austria (this page and opposite)

The competition brief of 1989 called for a conventional provincial gallery. Step by step, the special format of the house as kunsthalle a evolved into a four-storey building.

Administration, cafĂŠ and museum shop were relocated to a separate structure in front of the museum proper. initially we planned to direct daylight into the building through obliquely placed facade slats. Tested on models, this solution proved unsatisfactory. The best results were obtained by using etched glass shingles that refract the light before it enters the building. no matter what direction the light is coming from, it is always transmitted horizontally into the interior. Therefore, we placed a cavity above every foor to catch the light coming in from all four sides.

And now, once again, we exploited the ability of the etched glass to diffuse the light; it strikes the glass ceiling and is defected down into each exhibition gallery. To encourage a special form of concentration on the four stacked exhibition foors, the building was designed without windows. And yet daylight is everywhere.

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sketch by Peter Zumthor

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Photos by Helene Binet

1996 Termal Bath Vals Graub체nden, Switzerland (this page and opposite)

sketch by Peter Zumthor

Photo by Helene Binet

Photo by Helene Binet

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in 1983 the commune of Vals acquired the bankrupt hotel complex, built in the 1960s, for very little money, but without much enthusiasm. But something had to be done in order to rescue existing jobs. When a larger new building with integrated thermal baths and new guest rooms proved too costly, the authorities opted for the thermal baths as a frst step.

We were told it should be something special, unique. it should ft in with Vals and attract new guests. in 1991 the project was presented at a village meeting with a water-flled stone model. construction started in 1994, and the thermal baths were opened in 1996. Since then, over 40,000 people have visited them every year. Since completion, the overnight stays in the village and hotel in theTherme have increased by about 45 per cent.

The load-bearing composite structure of the baths consists of solid walls of concrete thin slabs and of Vals gneiss broken and cut to size in the quarry just behind the village. Te thermal water which comes from the mountain just behind the baths has a temperature of 30째C.

Photo by Helene Binet

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Photo by Helene Binet

1994 Truog House Gugalun, Versam Graub端nden, Switzerland (extension and renovation)

sketch by Peter Zumthor

Photo by Helene Binet elatives of the present ow

Photo by Helene Binet

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r and ran the small Gugalun farm in Arezen at the entrance to the Safen Valley. The small manor house looks north, facing the moon (luna), as the name of the estate indicates.

To make the simple wooden house habitable in future, an extension was built. it contains a kitchen, bathroom and bedroom and a modern hypocaust heating system.

To create the space for the annex, the late 19th-century kitchen at the back of the house, on the side of the mountain slope, was demolished, while the entire 17th-century living-room section was preserved. A new roof connects the old and the new.

1993 Homes for Senior Citizens Chur, Masans, GraubĂźnden, Switzerland

sketch by Peter Zumthor The twenty-two fats of the residential development for the elderly in Masans near chur are occupied by senior citizens still able to run their own households, but happy to use the services offered by the nursing home behind their own building.

Many of the residents grew up in mountain villages around the area. They have always lived in the country and feel at home with the traditional building materials used here – tuff, larch, pine, maple, solid wood fooring and wooden panelling.

The residents are welcome to furnish as they please their section of the large entrance porch to the east, which they overlook from their kitchen windows, and they make ample use of this opportunity. The sheltered balcony niches and the living room bow (bay) windows on the other side face west, up the valley, towards the setting sun.

Photo by Helene Binet

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Photo by Helene Binet

1988 Saint Benedict Chapel Sumvitg, GraubĂźnden, Switzerland in 1984 an avalanche destroyed the baroque chapel in front of the village of Sogn Benedetg (St. Benedict). A recently built parking lot had acted like a ramp pushing the snow from the avalanche up against the chapel.

The new site on the original path to the Alp above the small village is protected from avalanches by a forest. The new wooden chapel, faced with larch wood shingles, was inaugurated in 1988.

The village authorities sent us the building permit with the comment “senza perschuasiun� (without conviction).yet the abbot and monks of thedisentis Monastery and the then village priest Bearth wanted to build something new and contemporary for future generations.

Photo by Helene Binet

diascan by Peter Zumthor

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Photo by Helene Binet

1986 Protective Housing for Roman Excavations Chur, Graubünden, Switzerland

in the 4th century Ad roman capital of the province ofcuria – hence the name “chur”. The romans inhabited the area now called the “Welschdörfi” (French-speaking Swiss village), chur’s small amusement strip just off the historic town centre, where, it is said, people still spoke “churerwelsch” though the people in town were already speaking German.

Archaeological excavations in this area have uncovered a complete roman quarter. The protective structures – wind-permeable wooden enclosures – follow the outer walls of three adjacent roman buildings (only a small part of one of these was excavated). The site’s display cases along the street skirt the protruding foundations of the former house entrances.

A wall painting was found lying on the foor of the larger building.restored and returned to its original position, it gives an impression of the probable height of the single-storey houses.

The charred remains of a wooden foor at the back of the larger building are fromoman r times.

, chur was the

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Photos this page by Helene Binet

1986 Zumthor Studio Haldenstein, Graubünden Switzerland Photo by Helene Binet

sketch by Peter Zumthor

in the early 1980s we were able to buy an old farmhouse with some land right next to the farmhouse in the Süsswinkel inhaldenstein which we had converted in 1971 into our family home.unfortunately the newly acquired house received very little sunlight, having been built onto the north side of a neighbouring house. We drew up many conversion plans in order to lure the sun into the house, without much success. Finally we decided to take the leap: we pulled down the old house and replaced it with a new studio house and garden.

The new wooden building – a reference to the barns, stables and workshops in the village, and a salute to the few fellow architects in the Vorarlberg region who had begun building good new houses of wood – now occupies the northern, and the garden the southern section of the site, as is proper. The studio contains two south-facing rooms: the upper one for working, the ground-foor one with a freplace, a view of the garden and a small kitchen for entertaining.

For a long time a concert piano stood there under a wall painting by Matias Spescha and, in front of the freplace, a group of easy chairs with the sofa that Alvar Aalto designed for Wohnbedarf zurich. in Today the room is used as a drawing studio.

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Photo by Helene Binet

Limits to Representation: Peter Zumthor and Hans Danuser Philip Ursprung

In 1987, Peter Zumthor (b. 1943) commissioned the photographer Hans Danuser (b. 1953) to portray his newly built chapel Sogn Benedetg in the village of Sumvitg, in the Swiss Alps. The atmospheric black-and-white photographs marked the radical shift from a documentary device in the style of straight photography of architecture to an artistic interpretation of the architectural work. These photographs stood at the beginning of a series of fruitful dialogues between architects and photographers as testified by the cases of Herzog & de Meuron and Thomas Ruff, Gigon Guyer and Heinrich Helfenstein, Peter Zumthor and Hélène Binet.

Danuser was known for his photographs of the interior spaces of nuclear power plants. His photographic campaigns evoked a conflict that during the 1980s remained invisible and could not be easily articulated, in part because of the debate on the apparently conflicting dependence of the Alpine regions on the production of hydroelectricity and the exploitation of the landscape’s beauty for tourism purposes. The photographs Danuser made of Zumthor’s architecture proposed a link between the isolated chapel and the problem of postindustrialization, rendering evident a discontinuity of space and time that few contemporaries were able to grasp.

Visual 10.1080/01973762.2011.568180 GVIR_A_568180.sgm 0197-3762 Taylor 2011 20Article 27 ursprung@khist.uzh.ch PhilipUrsprung 000002011 Resources andFrancis & Francis (print)/1477-2809(online)

Until a few years ago, I was quite certain of my view of Peter Zumthor’s (b. 1943) architecture. I greatly respected the beauty and atmospheric effect of his designs. I was also skeptical about his notion of authenticity, about what seemed to me an anachronistic concept of Nature, and the ever-present Romantic undercurrent in his work. As an art historian and critic, I was left little room for maneuver by the self-referentiality and autonomy of his architecture. My view of his work had been formed partly by my visits to some of his buildings, but much more importantly by the photographs Swiss photographer Hans Danuser (b. 1953) took of the Sogn Benedetg Chapel in 1987 and 1988; these were my first introduction to Zumthor’s work. Most notably, a shot that shows the chapel seemingly dissolving in the mist (Figure 1) had become inextricably connected in my imagination with the name Zumthor. Associations with Romantic ideals, otherworldliness—even cultural pessimism—inevitably arose whenever I thought of Zumthor’s architecture. My view of Hans Danuser was just as certain. I first encountered his work in 1989 in the exhibition In Vivo in the Aargauer Kunst1 His grainy, black-and-white images of cooling towers, laboratories, and haus Aarau. dissecting tables were both fascinating and discomfiting. In much the same way that I Visual Resources, Volume 27, Number 2, June 2011 ISSN 0197–3762 © 2011 Taylor & Francis

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Keywords: Zumthor, Peter (b. 1943); Danuser, Hans (b. 1953); Neo-Expressionism; Economic History; Alpine Landscape; Energy Industry; Nuclear Power

Limits to Representation 173

Figure 1 Hans Danuser,Caplutta Sogn Benedetg Sumvitg (Switzerland), no. I of six parts (I, II 1–II 2, III, IV 1–IV 2), 1988. Photograph on baryt paper,◊ 50 40 cm. Image © and courtesy of Hans Danuser.

responded to Zumthor’s architecture, skepticism colored my reaction to an artistic approach that seemed to be rooted in the Neo-Expressionism of the 1980s, and that favored an antimodernism and pathos that were wholly alien to my way of thinking.

Then, in spring 2004, I went to see the hamlet of Sogn Benedetg, up above Sumvitg, and I immediately had to revise the images in my head, my views of Zumthor and Danuser. Instead of finding a desolate edifice tucked away in the Alps, merging with the landscape, I came face to face with one of the most elegant structures I had ever seen. Not since my first sight of Herzog & de Meuron’s Eberswalde Library in Eberswalde, Germany (1999), had any new architecture made such a deep impression on me. Everything about it seemed to be of our own time, as though this chapel had been built only yesterday—not, as it was, almost twenty years ago. The building itself, or so it seemed to me, consisted exclusively of layered surfaces. It appeared to have nothing to do with space in the usual sense, as a tangible, three-dimensional entity.

Nor were there any windows, marking a transition between exterior and interior— which would have served as indicators of spatial continuity of some kind. Instead, the roof was marginally raised to let light in. And the wall, that is, the outermost layer, faced with shingles—that was drawn around the structure like a textile membrane— was splayed open just far enough to create an opening, although hardly one that could be described as a door. Additionally, this structure was anything but earthbound. On the contrary, the few steps leading up to the entrance seemed to shy away from actually touching the chapel, as though a direct connection between the ground and the building were impossible. The topography of the Alpine landscape and the topology of the architecture were at odds with each other, discontinuous.

Zumthor’s chapel anticipated much of the architectural debate of recent years.

Even so, the topological designs inspired by the Möbius strip and produced by architects such as Ben van Berkel (Dutch; b. 1957) or London-based Foreign Office

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Figure 1 Hans Danuser, Caplutta Sogn Benedetg Sumvitg (Switzerland), no. I of six parts (I, II 1–II 2, III, IV 1–IV 2), 1988. Photograph on baryt paper, 50 ◊ 40 cm. Image © and courtesy of Hans Danuser.

174 Ursprung

Architects looked—in comparison to Zumthor’s much earlier solutions—like illustrations for a theoretical treatise. Moreover, Zumthor’s chapel was not, as I had feared, simply self-referential. On the contrary, it changed the way that I perceived the surroundings and seemed to imbue the whole valley with a sense of movement. It was not about autonomy and isolation. Far from it—this design was as much about focusing on details as about associations with a larger context. The built structure sharpened my eye for the terrain as a whole and it articulated the energy flowing through this region. This was not in the sense of esoteric energy lines, but of the institutional connections that still link the Catholic Church in this part of the Rhine valley with the once mighty Kloster Disentis, which in turn connects with the global Catholic community—as well as in the sense of the production of electric power crucial to this region. This Alpine landscape was also an industrial landscape. But to me there seemed to be no contradiction with urbanism. Zumthor’s architecture made it very clear that there could be no alternative to urbanism for it told of a landscape that was entirely made by the human hand. I was not on the periphery, but right at the heart of a network that extended to Berlin, New York, and Tokyo.

The point of describing this experience was not to make much of my own subjective reaction. For my revised view is a consequence of the general shift in a notion that pervaded architecture in the 1980s but has only recently been satisfactorily described.

I am referring to the transition from the notion of architecture as a system of signs, as a text or language that can be “read,” to that of architecture as an image that affects the viewer and is “experienced.” Central to this transition—part of a cultural trend that is today generally referred to as the “pictorial turn” or “iconic turn”—is the role of photography. And in this process the meeting between Danuser and Zumthor was to 2 be highly significant.

This revision of my view of Zumthor’s architecture—prompted by my encounter with the chapel—also gave me the urge to take a closer look at Danuser ’s photograph.

It was only then that it dawned on me that, of course, this photograph did not exist in isolation; it was part of a series that in my mind had run together into a single image.

In response to a commission from Zumthor, in 1987 and 1988, Danuser had taken these black-and-white photographs (with a medium-format camera) of the newly constructed chapel, inaugurated in September 1988. The result was a series of six square, black-and-white photographs. They were first shown in the exhibition Partituren und Bilder: Architektonische Arbeiten aus dem Atelier Peter Zumthor 1985–1988 — which also contained pictures of Zumthor’s “Protective Housing for Roman Archeological Excavations in Chur” and his studio in Haldenstein—presented in the Architekturgalerie Luzern and the Architekturgalerie Graz in 1988. They were subsequently also published in the magazines Du, Ottagono,and Domus.3 Danuser had photographed different aspects of the interior and the exterior, as though a single image could not do the chapel justice. So his interest was not, as I had imagined, simply in evoking things irrational and capturing the atmosphere, but rather

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Pictorial Turn

Limits to Representation 175

in addressing a much more fundamental issue in art, that is to say, making the invisible visible. The series begins with a shot of the chapel and its surroundings. Danuser passed up the chance to photograph the spectacular view out over the Surselva. In traditional architectural photography, the connection between landscapes and buildings had become so conventional that in effect each would cancel out the other. By deliberately turning his back on the view, he managed to sidestep the “Grisons” cliché —and in so doing drew attention to the focus on the surfaces and textures of the specific materials from this area that is so characteristic of this region’s architecture.

Another factor that was at odds with the picture I had created in my mind’s eye was that the chapel was not shrouded in banks of mist, as I had thought. In reality, the mist conceals what is beyond it. Consequently it is not, as in German Romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich’s (1774–1880) paintings of isolated churches, for instance, as though this world were indistinguishable from the next; on the contrary, it is distinctly non-sublime, sobering. The chapel looms large in its setting, a foreign body that has landed there with the same brutality as the sharp-edged rocks that bespeak the destructive power of Nature. At the time, many would still vividly have remembered the terrifying powder avalanche of February 1984 that had destroyed the original medieval chapel just 200 meters away. And the bell tower is equally unsettling. In my memory, it was something like a tree. But in reality it looks more like a pylon for the cables and mountain railways that crisscross this area, an element that both connects and divides.

In short, my Romantic image of architecture that has become one with Nature— presumably inspired by Danuser’s photographs—was out of kilter with both Zumthor’s architecture and Danuser’s interpretation.

My new view of Danuser’s photography now gave me the impression that it is not about the aesthetic connection between a building and the landscape but that it brings to light something that is generally overlooked, that is to say, the economic connec-

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Figure 2 Hans Danuser,Caplutta Sogn Benedetg Sumvitg (Switzerland), no. III of six parts (I, II 1–II 2, III, IV 1–IV 2), 1988. Photograph on baryt paper,◊ 50 40 cm. Image © and courtesy of Hans Danuser.

176 Ursprung

tion. Witness the shot that shows the fence almost touching the chapel (Figure 2), which is more than just “picturesque”—although this may be one’s first impression.

Much more interesting than its formal effect is what it tells us about the financial pressures that are ever-present in this mountainous region and the pragmatic solutions resolved by the locals. By including a section of the new chapel with its visible concrete substructure in this image, Danuser avoids any hint of the nostalgic evocation of a supposedly intact, preindustrial world. He shows the viewer how these artifacts, the fence and the chapel, were made. The roughly worked branches rammed into the ground supporting the cheap bark offcuts from a sawmill are byproducts of the timber trade that produced, for example, the more durable and more expensive shingles that protect the exterior of the chapel from the elements. By viewing the chapel, as it were, with the eye of the farmer, the joiner, and the carpenter, Danuser illuminates the work process—and with just a few photographs tells us more about Zumthor’s architectural methods than any text that happens to mention his training as a cabinetmaker. A similarly subtle insight into the chapel’s making is found in the details of the floor before and after the benches were installed (Figure 3). Although the boards are small—and hence cheap—the variety and ornamental nature of the wood grain greatly enhances the chapel’s interior. The shot of the interior (Figure 4) looks at first almost like a technical commentary on the construction, showing how the load-bearing uprights are connected to the shell. Yet for me it is highly significant in terms of spatial theory. It shows that for Zumthor it is just not possible to think of a space other than as being defined by a sequence of textile planes, like a tent, or a stage that achieves its effect by means of curtains and sets—all flat surfaces.

With his shots of Sogn Benedetg, Danuser radically affected the conventions of architectural photography. Instead of producing a neutral documentation, he pursued his own personal interpretation. Instead of reducing the phenomenon of the chapel to Figure 432

Hans Danuser, Caplutta Sogn Benedetg Sumvitg (Switzerland), no. II III21ofofsix sixparts parts(I,(I,IIII1–II 1–II2,2,III, III,IV IV1–IV 1–IV2), 2),1988.

1988.Photograph Photographon onbaryt barytpaper, paper,50 50◊ ◊ 40 40cm. cm.Image Image©©and andcourtesy courtesyofofHans HansDanuser.

Danuser.

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Figure 3 Hans Danuser,Caplutta Sogn BenedetgFigure 4 Hans Danuser,Caplutta Sogn Benedetg Sumvitg(Switzerland), no. II 1 of six parts (I, II 1–II 2,Sumvitg(Switzerland), no. II 2 of six parts (I, II 1–II 2, III, IV 1–IV 2), 1988. Photograph on baryt paper,◊ 50 III, IV 1–IV 2), 1988. Photograph on baryt paper,◊ 50 40 cm. Image © and courtesy of Hans Danuser.

40 cm. Image © and courtesy of Hans Danuser.

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a single shot, he in effect divided the building into individual components, as though for a short film that dissects its subject matter into sequences, showing it from different perspectives—an approach that would be described these days as “performative.”

These fragments allow viewers to reconstruct the building in their own imagination.

In doing so, Danuser colored the reception of Zumthor’s architecture. In the same sense that anyone who has ever seen Hans Namuth’s 1950 photograph of Jackson Pollock at work in his studio, so, too, will Danuser’s photographs forever be linked with Zumthor’s work.

How did Zumthor and Danuser make contact? In the early 1980s, Danuser was already working his way from photography as an applied art to art photography. In 1984, he was the first photographer to be awarded an atelier grant by the City of Zurich that allowed him to go to New York. In 1985, he exhibited three series of photographs in the Kunstmuseum Chur. Zumthor saw this exhibition and later decided to commission Danuser to take the photographs of Sogn Benedetg. The two agreed that Danuser would have a free hand. It was this encounter between Hans Danuser’s photography and Peter Zumthor’s architecture that was to instigate change in the portrayal of architecture both in Switzerland and far beyond the realms of Swiss architecture. Over the next decade or so, both photography and architecture set about redefining their territory, during which time the architects allowed the photographers the greatest possible freedom. At the same time that Danuser’s photographs were on view in Lucerne, the Architekturmuseum Basel was showing the exhibitionArchitektur Denkformby Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron (both b. 1950) in which they confronted the problem of the representation of architecture by completely covering the Modernist window-panes of the museum with transparent photographs of their own buildings (Figure 5). It was not until three years after Zumthor had chosen the art photography route that they followed

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Figure 5 Herzog & de Meuron,Architektur Denkform , exhibition at Architekturmuseum Basel, Switzerland, October–November 1988. Photograph. Image © and courtesy of Herzog & de Meuron.

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suit at the Architecture Biennale in Venice by showing photographs of their building 4 Since the 1990s, German photographer shot by a number of different artists.

Thomas Ruff (b. 1958) has been mainly involved with their work; Jeff Wall (Cana5 dian; b. 1946) was involved just once.

This period of just over ten years has a particular place in the long history of the relationship between photography and architecture, and has much in common with the late 1920s, when Ludwig Mies van der Rohe’s (1886–1969) Barcelona Pavilion for the World Exhibition of 1929 was famously photographed. Dismantled again after the exhibition, it is as though the Pavilion had been built just for the camera and it was only through photography that it became an icon of modern architecture.

After 2000, the onset of “signature architecture” marked the end of this period during which architecture and art converged so productively. Although many artists have actively engaged with architecture, these days—aside from notable exceptions such as Swiss-French photographer Hélène Binet (b. 1959)—architectural photography is once again firmly at the beck and call of the architects as a propaganda tool, and not as an aid to critical reflection. In the meantime, the medium of video has established itself as a useful means to represent architecture. Peter Zumthor was aware of this when he commissioned the Austrian artists Nicole Six (b. 1971) and Paul Petritsch (b. 1968) to produce a series of video installations of his buildings for his exhibition Peter Zumthor: Bauten und Projekte 1986–2007 at the Kunstmuseum Bregenz.

Herzog & de MeuronA, rchitektur Denkform, exhibition at Architekturmuseum Basel, Switzerland, October–November 1988. Photograph. Image © and courtesy of Herzog & de Meuron.

Figure 5

In view of the bleak outlook in the realms of traditional architectural photography at the time, it was only natural that Zumthor would look for someone in the still young field of art photography to create a fitting record of his first major project. In order to shed additional light on his final choice, I would like to take a look at Danuser’s exhibition in Chur and, in so doing, also revise my own skeptical reaction to the exhibition In Vivo. Both exhibitions arose from a project, dating to 1979 or 1980, that was known in Chur by the title “Wirtschaft, Industrie, Wissenschaft und Forschung,” and that was exhibited in 1989 (now with additional series) with theIn title Vivo; at the same time it was also published as a richly illustrated book and as an exhibition catalog with 6 On view in Chur were shots from the series A-Energie , Gold, and selected works.

Medizin. As the catalog tells us, these photographs were taken “in a nuclear power station and in the context of research into nuclear reactors,” “in the context of refining, pouring, and storage,” and “in the context of research in anatomy and pathology.”7 In Aarau, the series Medizin II, Physik I (Los Alamos) , Chemie ,I and Chemie II were also on show. When I revisited these works, it became clear to me that Hans Danuser’s approach was not primarily expressive, that for him the creation of atmosphere and the evocation of the uncanny were less important than analysis—not only the analysis of an object, but above all of the way that the public perceived it in those days. For the public’s reaction could be so emotional that any chance of critical reflection on the role of the pictures just fell by the wayside. With hindsight I find it

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interesting—almost twenty years ago it was scarcely tolerable—to see that Danuser does not deny this emotionality, but even nurtures it in the viewer. So Danuser was not out to deconstruct emotionality, or to undo the sublime—as in the photo series of certain American conceptual artists such as Allan Sekula (b. 1951)—or was he endeavoring to evoke the numinous, in the spirit of photographers such as James Welling (b. 1951). His strategy was the pursuit of ambivalence. Looking back now, it seems clear that his work articulated precisely the indeterminate nature of the situation in those days and that it was also addressing a dilemma. This was very much a live issue in the more general theoretical debate of the day (discussed by philosophers such as Jean-François Lyotard [1924–1998] and Peter Sloterdijk [b. 1947]), namely the problem of art neither being able to establish a critical distance from its own subject matter, nor being able to identify with it.

Danuser had taken pictures in a variety of places, for instance, in nuclear power stations in Switzerland, Germany, the United States, and France. However, his aim was not to identify his shots with particular places, as a documentary photographer 8 He showed how human beings had would do, but rather to represent general types. penetrated the very heart of matter, the innermost workings of the mechanisms of life, how they sought to control and manipulate the forces of Nature, and how, in the process, they were stopped in their tracks by the limits of what human senses and minds can cope with. His work was about centers of power that elude representation: places that were inaccessible to most people yet preoccupied the collective imagination in those days with thoughts of taming the forces of Nature, of human life, of natural resources. Danuser’s approach combined the methods of photo-reportage— small-format shots, shifting perspectives that reflect a mobile viewpoint—with artistic aspiration that strove for images that would have a wider relevance, for totality and formal coherence in each individual image. The term “in vivo,” used by scientists to

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Figure 6 Hans Danuser,Shelters for the Roman Archaeological , IISite 2 of seven parts (I, II 1–3, III, IV 1–2), 1988. Photograph on baryt paper, ◊ 50 40 cm. Image © and courtesy of Hans Danuser.

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describe a process that runs its course within a living organism—in contrast to the processes that are managed outside a living organism and are referred to as “in vitro”—points to the impossibility of achieving any real distance. Nowadays one might cite the concept of “biopolitics” or the notion of “biopower” coined by Michel Foucault (1926–1984) in the 1970s, in order to lend extra weight to the notion of power and institutional controls.

One can readily understand why Zumthor was attracted by Danuser’s approach.

On one hand, his own designs are based on images, that is to say, his intention is to give three-dimensional expression to particular images in his mind’s eye. He must have been fascinated by the fact that Danuser concentrated almost exclusively on interiors. He may have felt an affinity with his own design methods that always work out from the inside and that assume an element of discontinuity—in other words, that assume it is impossible for the interior to fully correspond to the exterior. Yet most importantly, it seems to me, his own work—like that of Danuser—is about articulating latent processes, about envisioning the invisible. This is very clear, for instance, in his 1986 “Protective Housing for Roman Archeological Excavations in Chur,” where the architectural shell not only echoes the contours of long-gone Roman houses but also directs the viewer’s gaze to the scarcely visible remnants of a lost civilization; this comes out all the more clearly in Danuser’s photographic interpretation (Figure 6). In Sogn Benedetg the “invisible” is the religious faith that architects, painters, and sculptors have sought to portray ever since antiquity. But it is also the complex historical, economic, and social makeup of the Surselva, a topic that was for its part too often sidelined and rendered invisible by the cliché of the intact mountain region.

Comparing the images of Sogn Benedetg and the works shown In Vivo, in one cannot help but be struck by the similarity between the first picture of the chapel and the picture of the nuclear power plant.

In Vivo opened with a shot taken inside a cooling tower (Figure 7). While the silhouettes of cooling towers are familiar visual signs, the interior of these towers all but defies representation. The dark space, only dimly lit from above, is filled with swathes of mist. Were it not for the sloping concrete columns—and for the titleKühlturmtasse —one might easily take this for a cathedral, a tunnel, or even a factory site at night. This shot of the dark interior matches the shots of the pale upper edge of the cooling tower that show the thin concrete wall cloaked in mist (Figure 8). In the same vein, one might easily imagine that this shot was taken from a viewing platform in the Alps or on the crest of a dam. The natural phenomenon of the mist mingles with industrially produced steam. The invisible threat inherent in the technology—the explosion of the reactor at Chernobyl in the Soviet Union on April 26, 1986, had drastically demonstrated the deadly danger of nuclear power— counters the atmospheric beauty of the intrinsically perfectly harmless water vapor.

Once again, we could do with a small digression into the past. In the 1950s, the construction of hydroelectric power stations in Grisons heralded a period of rapid economic growth. This economic undertaking, together with tourism, drove the region’s upsurge, and many mountain communities—including Vals, that commissioned Zumthor’s famous thermal bath in the late 1980s, for instance—owe their prosperity to these power stations, that is to say, to the construction of large-scale complexes and the payments levied for the water they use. Since the 1950s, the Hans Danuser, Shelters for the Roman Archaeological Site, II 2 of seven parts (I, II 1–3, III, IV 1–2), 1988. Photograph on baryt paper, 50 ◊ 40 cm. Image © and courtesy of Hans Danuser.

Figure 87 Hans Danuser, “Cooling Tower,” Tower Cup,” 1983.1983.

Photograph Photograph on baryt on baryt paper,paper, 50 ◊ 4050 cm. ◊ 40From cm. From A-Energie, A-Energie, 16 photographs; 16 photographs; exhibited exhibited in In in Vivo, In Vivo, 1989.1989.

Image Image © and©courtesy and courtesy of Hans of Hans Danuser.

Danuser.

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Figure 7 Hans Danuser, “Cooling Tower Cup,” 1983. Photograph on baryt paper,◊ 50 40 cm. From A-Energie , 16 photographs; exhibited In in Vivo, 1989. Image © and courtesy of Hans Danuser.

Figure 8 Hans Danuser, “Cooling Tower,” 1983.

Photograph on baryt paper, 50 ◊ 40 cm. FromAEnergie , 16 photographs; exhibited in In Vivo, 1989. Image © and courtesy of Hans Danuser.

Nordostschweizerische Kraftwerke AG (NOK) has been the main player in these developments. In 1950, a plan was first mooted to construct one of Switzerland’s largest power-station systems in the Surselva, with seven giant reservoirs, 140 km of tunnels, eight operating stations, and an annual output of 2000 GWh, almost a quarter 9 Even though these plans were of the capacity a nuclear power station would produce. only partially realized, the region was fundamentally affected. The hydroelectric power stations—Vorderrhein, built between roughly 1962 and 1968 in the upper Surselva, and Ilanz (constructed between 1984 and 1992) with its complicated systems of reservoirs, tunnels, and operations centers—literally ploughed up the wider mountain landscape around Sumvitg.

This region is now inextricably connected with the factories and transportation routes in the heavily populated areas of Switzerland’s heartlands. The nuclear power stations run by NOK at Gösgen (since 1979) and Leibstadt (since 1984) are connected with numerous pumping stations in the Alps. Cheap energy, namely energy produced by atomic powerplants, is used to pump water up into the reservoirs where it is turned into expensive hydroelectric energy. Nevertheless, in contrast to the cooling towers of the nuclear power stations that are visible far and wide, for the main part, the infrastructure in the Alps is barely visible and wholly suppressed in tourists’ perceptions of the landscape. The problem only attracted attention in the late 1970s when large numbers of ordinary people were mobilized to protest against NOK’s proposal to 10 create a new reservoir that would flood the Greina Plain.

The ensuing conflict dragged on for over a decade. In 1986, NOK finally yielded to public and political pressure and abandoned its plans. Subsequently, the parishes of Vrin and Sumvitg, which include the Greina in their terrain, and were deemed to have been disadvantaged by the loss of potential earnings from water rights, were offered compensation; in 1986, they received a first symbolic payment from donations.

Following a national referendum in 1992 and the passing of the relevant laws—nicknamed the L“ andschaftsrappen ” (landscape penny)—in Parliament in 1995, financial compensation for preserving the landscape by nonexploitation was introduced throughout the country. Since then, a community such as Sumvitg, for instance, 11 receives annual compensation of over CHF500,000.

It could be said that there is an economic connection between the photographs Danuser took in the nuclear power station at Gösgen in 1981 and the shots 12 Both reflect burning issues in the 1980s in the he took in 1988 of Sogn Benedetg. politics of the nation’s energy supply. The fragile chapel—nestled in a mountain landscape that carries a potential for destruction but that has also been partially destroyed by industry—stands in stark contrast to the rawness of the power station in the heartlands. And yet the former is dependent on the latter. For it seems reasonable to assume that without the wealth created by the energy industry and without the output from nuclear power stations, politicians would not have been in a position to halt the construction of additional hydroelectric plants in the mountains and hence to preserve the illusion of an intact landscape and domesticated Nature that is so important for the tourist industry.

Neither Zumthor nor Danuser allude to the connection between the chapel in the mountains and the energy debate—the exploitation of the mountain landscape by the energy companies—although both were no doubt aware of this. They had close links with the region by dint of their roots and in Zumthor’s case, through his work. During the 1970s, when he was working for the cantonal department of historic monuments, he encountered the dialectics of modernization and destruction first-hand and knew from his daily praxis the extent of the upheaval in the landscape that ensued from the unprecedented level of construction work going on at the time. Thus he knew a great deal about the forces that were threatening the ethos of building and construction in the Canton of Grisons. However, I would venture to suggest that the connection between cutting-edge architecture in an apparently intact landscape and nuclear power could, in those days, only be demonstrated through the medium of photography, or rather, through photography that was overtly artistic. Danuser went far beyond reportage photography when he chose to address the problem of the invisible rather than succumbing to the cooling-tower cliché. He abandoned the conventions of architectural photography when he chose not merely to illustrate his subject matter, but rather to interpret it, to transpose it into a different artistic medium. He developed his own perspective that allows us—at least with hindsight—to connect seemingly disparate factors. It is also possible to make this connection because, at the time, for a short while, the barriers between different genres had been lowered and the photographs became the common denominator.

For one short moment, architecture, uncertain of its role in society and striving to escape the isolation of its own ivory towers, put its trust in the mediating powers of

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photography. And photography, well on the way to artistic autonomy, was enjoying a wholly new freedom that allowed it to use images to make connections that could not be expressed in words. So it was that Zumthor, keen to make the move from historic monuments to architecture, briefly delegated at least some responsibility to an artist.

Danuser, for his part, keen to turn himself from photographer into artist, was willing, by way of an exception, to take on the occasional commission. By now, architecture and photography have once again staked out their own territories and their exponents have gone their separate ways; but in terms of cultural history, this chance constellation has been more than fortuitous.

Acknowledgments

PHILIP URSPRUNG studied art history, history, and German literature in Geneva, Vienna, and Berlin, receiving his PhD from the Freie Universität Berlin. He taught at the Université de Genève, at ETH Zürich, and at the Hochschule der Künste Berlin. In 2007, he was visiting professor at the Graduate School of Architecture, Planning, and Preservation of Columbia University, New York. From 2005 to 2010, he was professor for modern and contemporary art at the University of Zürich. Since 2011, he is professor of the history of art and architecture at ETH Zürich. He was a visiting curator at the Canadian Centre for Architecture in Montreal where he curated Herzog & de Meuron: Archeology of the Mind and edited the catalog Herzog & de Meuron: Natural History (2002). His publications include Grenzen der Kunst: Allan Kaprow und das Happening, Robert Smithson und die Land Art (Munich: Silke Schreiber, 2003). He contributed the introductionStudio to Olafur Eliasson: An Encyclopedia (Cologne: Taschen, 2008) and is the editorCaruso of St John: Almost Everything (Barcelona: Poligrafa, 2008). His most recent book Kunst is der Gegenwart: 1960 bis heute (Munich: Beck, 2010).

1 2

Hans Danuser, In Vivo: 93 Fotografien , exh. cat. (Aarau: Aargauer Kunsthaus, 1989).

See Ilka Ruby and Andreas Ruby with Philip Ursprung, Images: A Picture Book of Architecture(Munich: Prestel, 2004).

3 See Wilfried Wang, “Un architettura di silenziose articolazioni: sull’opera di Peter Zumthor,” Ottagono97, “Domestico/Antidomestico” (December 1990): 48–80; Du: Die Zeitschrift für Kultur 615, no. 5, “Pendenzen: Neuere Architektur in der Deutschen Schweiz” (1992); and Martin Steinmann, “Peter e Annalisa Zumthor: Cappella a Sogn Benedetg, Svizzera,” Domus710 (November 1989): 44–53.

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Earlier versions of this essay were published under the titles “Zumthor’s Oberflächen” in 31: Das Magazin des Instituts für Theorie (Zürich) 12/13 (December 2008): 49–52; “Earthworks: The Architecture of Peter Zumthor” (The Pritzker Architecture Prize, 2009 Laureate Peter Zumthor [http://www.pritzkerprize.com/laureates/2009/ essay.html]), and “Envisioning the Invisible: Hans Danuser and Peter Zumthor: A Revision,” in Hans Danuser, Köbi Gantenbein (ed.), and Philip Ursprung , Seeing Zumthor: Images by Hans Danuser (Zurich: Scheidegger & Spiess, 2009), 61–78. My thanks go to Hans Danuser, Köbi Gantenbein, Maria Antonella Pelizzari, Paolo Scrivano, and Peter Zumthor.

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5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

Architektur von Herzog & de Meuron , photographed by Margherita Krischanitz, Balthasar Burkhard, Hannah Villiger, and Thomas Ruff, text by Theodora Vischer (Baden: Lars Müller, 1991).

SeePictures of Architecture, Architecture of Pictures : Conversation between Jacques Herzog and Jeff Wall , Moderated by Philip Ursprung (Vienna: Springer, 2004).

Hans Danuser, Drei Fotoserien , exh. cat. (Chur: Bündner Kunstmuseum, 1985); see also Danuser,In Vivo.

Danuser,In Vivo.

Hans Danuser, in conversation with Philip Ursprung, June 11, 2008.

See Hansjürg Gredig and Walter Willi, Unter Strom, Wasserkraftwerke und Elektrifizierung in Graubünden 1879–2000 , ed. Verein für Bündner Kulturforschung (Chur, Bündner Monatsblatt, 2006), 326.

SeeLa Greina, Das Hochtal zwischen Sumvitg und Blenio (Zürich: Schweizerische Greina-Stiftung [SGS]; Chur: Verlag Bündner Monatsblatt, 1997).

Aluis Maissen, Sumvitg/Somvix. Eine kulturhistorische Darstellung (Gemeinde Sumvitg, 2000), 218.

“The shots inside and outside, on the cooling tower of the nuclear power station come at the beginning of the cycle.” According to Danuser they were taken in 1981 in Gösgen. See also Cornelius Krell, “Formale Elemente der fotografischen Bildsprache bei Hans Danuser,” (master’s thesis, Philosophischen Fakultät der Universität Zürich, Kunsthistorisches Institut, 2007).

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Steven Spier Author’s address Department of Architecture and Building Science University of Strathclyde Glasgow G4 0NG UK s.spier@strath.ac.uk

Place, authorship and the concrete: three conversations with Peter Zumthor Wishing to write about his work, I approached Peter Zumthor in February 1996. We agreed to do something substantial but still accessible, and eventually settled on the format of a long interview.

We then chose three of his buildings that would raise different issues – the now famous Thermal Baths in Vals, the Wohnsiedlung Spittelhof and Topography of Terror in Berlin.

The interviews were held in English on 22 July 1997 over the course of the day in his studio in Haldenstein. They are published in the order in which they were held. We edited them together in August 2000, resisting the desire to amend them.

I first learnt of his work in 1988 when he was a visiting professor at the Southern California Institute of Architecture in Santa Monica where he first delivered the lecture later published as ‘A Way of Looking at Things’. I would like to thank him for agreeing to share his thoughts on architecture, and for the often difficult and unfashionable reminder that to do things well takes time.

Steven Spier

Readers unfamiliar with these three buildings will find them comprehensively described and illustrated in the superb Peter Zumthor Works: buildings and projects 1979–97 with text by Peter Zumthor and photographs by Hélène Binet, published by Lars Müller Publishers, Baden, 1998, ISBN 3-907044-58-4. This and the related Thinking Architecture by Peter Zumthor were the subject of an extended review in arq 3/1.

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Thermal Baths, Vals, Graubünden SS When we spoke last August (1997) you were very enthusiastic about the baths, then under construction; you could hardly wait until they were filled with water. You also said that the two most important things about the baths were: one, that it belongs to the village, that it is their stone; and, two, that it looks like it is simply there (einfach da sein). Could you elaborate on that second comment?

PZ All my buildings are sort of in a critical dialogue (eine Auseinandersetzung) with the site, with the place.

And maybe, ultimately, if you have a good result, then it’s a nice metaphor to say that the building looks as if it has always been there because then, maybe then, you have reached some kind of rapport between the place and the building. At Vals this has also to do with hot springs and water, mountains and stone, things millions of years old. Stone and water, these images are close by.

Your original competition entry had a stone plinth and a timber-clad structure on top, which as you then yourself pointed out is precisely the typology of the buildings in the valley. Did you abandon this idea because the hotel was dropped from the programme, or was there some other thinking?

We did only have to build the bath, but actually it had as much to do with thinking more about what the bath could be. It started out as this nice, cool kind of bath in a hotel, and this is not the case any more. As soon as we finished the competition we said, yeah, this is nice, but there are more possibilities. And then came this idea that if you do a bath there you have to dig deep, although that’s obvious. At the beginning maybe we obeyed a little the programme of a hotel swimming bath.

What you see up there now is my not believing in any given programmes, but rather in Steven Spier

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developing it in the process of designing, in maintaining the freedom to develop the new content and form of a known building type, like a classical architect.

The gaps between the roof slabs certainly add a complexity to the building since it cannot be understood simply as being hollowed-out from within the mountain.

Carving into the mountains is the original image of this building. You can make a system of caverns in the mountain and they’ll remain blocks or plinths or something. You can do this horizontally as we did, and the caverns are hollowed out to the open, to the slope side of the mountain. But nobody can prevent you taking your chisel and also making a hole upward [Fig. 1]. If you have the idea to make a cavern system a bath, then there is the danger – because the whole thing’s stone and in the mountains – that it would be heavy and sinister, and then you’d lack elements, surprising elements like tension, huge

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1 ‘And there, all of a sudden, you see a construction which is completely modern, with really big spans, and it has nothing to do any more with being in the mountains and being underground’ 2 ‘All of a sudden it becomes a huge artificial stone block set into the mountain … Then the baths has an elevation, but the elevation shows the process as it comes from inside’ 3 ‘There were some parts where we wanted the surface to be stone, so for these parts … we invented this composite of concrete and stone which forms a structural unity’ 3

windows, light, and so on. So there it starts. If you want to show that it’s dark in the mountains you need, as everybody knows, a small opening where the light filters in, these table tops resting on these pillars. And there, all of a sudden, you see a construction which is completely modern, with really big spans, and it has nothing to do any more with being in the mountains and being underground. We always do this. You have to work dialectically always. I mean, if you want to do something heavy you have to think about lightness, and if you want to design something dark you have to do something light as well. Otherwise you won’t have any resonance or whatever, you don’t have a chance to develop its soul, it would be too onedimensional. And a building with a soul probably has a lot of dimensions.

The baths as almost primeval but also of its time, also modern, brings me to the elevation. I walked to the other side of the valley, and even though the baths is tucked away among other buildings and the main entrance is actually through the hotel, it has a proper facade which spares it being naturalistic. I suppose it asserts that while the idea of hollowing out a mountain is an elemental act, the act of architecture is a cultural one.

If you start with these ‘naive images’ at the beginning, you always know in some way that they’re naive; like opening up a quarry in this case. This is professional naiveté, right, because you know at the end this will be a piece of architecture. This is really important in the work process: that you leave these steps behind in order to make a whole, and the whole is something artificial, a piece of architecture. It’s a building. It’s not a cavern and it’s not a mountain [Fig. 2]. This is maybe what students don’t understand. You start out with a piece of a mountain, yes, that’s nice, but that’s not it. In the end it’s a building like a chair is a chair

and a bath is a bath. We didn’t think about the elevation. But in the office I had to say that now we transform this into architecture. Because sometimes my young architects say, ‘but this doesn’t’, or ‘according to the first idea this cannot’, and I say, hey listen: Now we turn. We turn this around and then all of a sudden they come up with new definitions, you have to make new definitions, and then it’s not a cavern system in the mountain.

All of a sudden it becomes a huge block, a huge artificial stone block set into the mountain, carved out in this way, into swimming pools and so on. Then the baths has an elevation, but the elevation shows the process and comes from the inside. It has no big considerations about it, no more than it’s a big block set into the slope, sort of dovetailed in the back, into the mountain. Ah, another consideration was important here, that grass would grow on top, on this big artificial block. But all the rest came from the inside. A Finnish friend told me that in Finland people would look much more to the elevation, and would think it somehow strange that it doesn’t have an elevation. I don’t think so, but I know what she means. There’s of course a tradition that you make an elevation which makes a reference to other people and the surroundings, which is friendly, which probably is really what my Finnish friend means. You used to make a facade which was the house.

A kind of good neighbour.

Yeah, that you make a nice facade to be a good neighbour. But this, maybe that’s another thing, this will be read by the people up there. They’ll recognize that this building doesn’t have a facade, that something could look so primary, elemental, because they know buildings like that on their Alps, for the sheep and the cattle, which have this atmosphere, where nobody cares about being a good

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4 ‘It’s like a granite but a little softer, and the finishes range from polished … to sawn, chiselled, and the way it comes out of the quarry – split.

This was the idea, to use it in all these ways’ 5 ‘You can have a lot of sexy things with stone … the feel of it when you walk barefoot, and how it feels if you go over it with your hands’

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neighbour. It’s just simply building and surviving.

They’re the things you have to do.

Again about the elevation. The small windows on the exterior are flush with the outside. I know that this gives the depth of the wall to the interior, but it is also strikingly contemporary looking, as are the window frames. Are you purposely mixing a traditional agenda of mass and depth with contemporary concerns of surface and thinness?

Yeah, it could be that. I mean, I am a contemporary person so everything which exists is at my disposal, as at everybody else’s. The idea there was to insert translucent stones, because these windows only have to provide light for the smaller rooms. This was the diagrammatic idea, or conceptual idea, and this is actually the best we could do. The idea, or the knowledge that the glass is actually made out of stone perhaps helps a little bit. This is the closest you can get. It’s actually not an issue, to be contemporary or old fashioned.

Let’s talk briefly about the distinction between the structure and the surface, which in the baths is complicated because it’s a stone building in the experience of it. And yet when you look at the drawings it’s obvious a large part of the building is concrete. And while the stone is not quite a veneer, one could talk about it as a surface.

Of course it does have a surface, like everything has a surface, but it’s not a skin. And it’s entirely structural.

The way I have to think about this building is that concrete and natural stone are not so different. If you make a natural stone wall you need stones and you need some kind of plaster or cement for the joints.

Or, you have stone and cement poured into a form.

There were some parts where we wanted the surface to be stone, so for these parts, not all the walls, we invented this composite of concrete and stone which forms a structural unity [Fig. 3]. If you look at the Steven Spier

drawings you will see that these stones at the back are staggered to form a composite. It’s a structural, loadbearing wall. That was the design, but we then had to determine where to use this compound construction and where to use just stone, or just concrete. So this is the repertoire. If you go through the building I think you are able to see how the rules work. For instance, whenever the building faces the mountain it is completely made out of concrete; we would say poured stone. And as soon as these cliffs start, which are free standing, they become this compound. This building is obviously made up of, 50% of what you see is concrete. You don’t have to look at the drawings to see this. Think of all the ceilings that are concrete.

And I think you can feel that these compound walls must be load bearing. I feel it.

Could you elaborate on how you chose where to use exposed concrete and where to use exposed stone?

All the interiors of the small, enclosed baths are in integrally coloured concrete, most of them black, with two exceptions: the red and the blue. And we all kind of expect that the red concrete is the hot bath and the blue one is the cold one. They are separated from each other in a ritual of hot and cold. All the insides of the baths are made of concrete. There are only two baths which on the inside are made of stone. One is the drinking fountain where you have the original water source coming out, but the stones are stacked on top of each other on these brass pieces so that you can see that they’re sort of artificial or just stuck there. The other one is where you have to swim around to get inside it, where they sing, the humming space, where you have a broken surface of stone. This is conceived in a different way, as if it had been carved out, as with a cavern.

Were you surprised by any qualities of the stone as you worked on the building or when it was finished? Were you

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surprised, for example, that light falling on the walls picks up the joints even though they are flush? Were there cases of unexpected effects, pleasant or otherwise?

No, no. Luckily, when you work a long time on the construction and with the material it always comes out right. You try to bring them somehow to right.

It’s loving the material, loving the atmosphere, the radiance it has, and then, if you work a long time with these materials, a set of materials, all of a sudden you get it. I go there and things look better than I thought they would, even. You do have sort of surprises which I think has to do with the material itself. Material is stronger than an idea, it’s stronger than an image because it’s really there, and it’s there in its own right. And all of a sudden it’s there in a public role. I experienced this at Bregenz also [Kunsthaus Bregenz opened in August 1997].

This is more beautiful than I ever imagined it could be, and we were always really crazy about this facade, how the light comes in, but it’s much much better because now it’s a real phenomenon.

But are there times when you’re disappointed in the built reality?

Not too much. A small detail here and there, but I’m going through my buildings now. Not really. There is a prevailing feeling that the things are really more beautiful than I thought, that they do have this atmospheric quality I’m looking for. I’m not looking for formal or aesthetic qualities – to please the eye or something. I am looking for this milieu. Like sitting here, in this space, and I think it’s really nice, the birds, the light, the temperature.

Is part of your satisfaction with your work because you keep a rein on the size of the office, don’t do too many projects and take your time with each one?

I can only say one thing: I need this time. Even if the clients are suffering – and in Berlin (site of Topography of Terror and subject of the third interview) they have started to call me crazy or nuts or something, that I don’t know anything about building or timetables when the opposite is true.

I insist on knowing something they have long forgotten or have never known: that to do something well you need time. Of course you have to put up with systems and undergo pressures. But every architect knows how much time is needed for this kind of careful, thorough work. I mean, I need it because otherwise I cannot create an atmosphere, so what good would it do me to do a building which wouldn’t have this atmosphere. I have to do it this way. I have this obsession because I can feel that the windows are important, and the doors, door hinges might be important, or all these things. So I have to be careful about these things otherwise I won’t have this atmosphere and the whole objective of my work, the whole goal of my work somehow would be gone.

That’s the way I work.

To get back to materials. Does the building’s reduced, even traditional palette of materials, concrete, stone, brass, and glass, provide a discipline which you find useful?

No, but it is a method. You need working methods, and one of them is the good old discipline of reduction.

What is the name of the stone, and could you list the different finishes you have used?

It’s a gneiss. It’s like a granite but a little bit softer, and the finishes range from polished, sandpaper grading 550, to sawn, chiselled, and the way it comes out of the quarry – split. This was the idea, to use it in all these ways [Fig. 4]. Another finish is called gestockt, which is made with this hammer which has a special pattern.

It reminds me of Richard Serra’s Verb List [1967–68].

How does that go?

To roll, to crease, to fold, to store …

Yeah, it’s something like that, sort of this repertoire.

You take one material and then you develop the repertoire.

What was the logic that dictated where you used what finish?

First of all there are practical reasons in a bath, and the practical reasons are also essential reasons, I think especially with stone. You can have a lot of sexy things with stone, stone and naked skin: the feel of it when you walk barefoot, and how it feels if you go over it with your hands. So practical also means pleasant, and in the end, more classically, also pleasant to the eye. But maybe pleasant for the body comes first [Fig. 5].

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6 ‘I always like to do the kind of things that may be armatures of a building at the end … the fittings, because they are the small shiny parts … otherwise it’s only this one thing, this stone. It warms it up somehow’

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Why did you cover the tie holes in the concrete with brass?

I wasn’t interested in the process of making the concrete, in showing that this is concrete. I was more interested in its monolithic appearance, but again not in showing that it’s monolithic, but that it does have this silk-like surface when you touch it. When I cover the tie holes it creates an air of luxury. And this is what I really like, that you can take this poor material and with this small invention it becomes a luxurious kind of thing. And bathing, this ritual kind of bathing, has something to do with that, with a pleasing atmosphere for the body.

Because the bath is so strong in volume and mass, I would think that designing the handrail would be one of the trickier details.

No, I was looking forward to designing the handrails.

Because of the stone and the water, the light, the environment, I was looking forward to introducing things, like jewellery pieces on a black evening dress [Fig. 6]. It’s nice that there’s a reason to touch them. I always like to do the kind of things that may be armatures of a building at the end. The fittings, because they are the small shiny parts, windows, handles, fixtures, otherwise it’s only this one thing, this stone. It warms it up somehow. This image, this model of the evening dress, when you then put on a necklace or something and all of a sudden these two materials, the silk and gold or whatever, it seems as if both materials look more valuable together than if they’re apart. And this is what I mean when I say that I have learnt from guys like Beuys and other artists, that two or three materials can charge each other and be more than themselves alone. This is what I always do in my buildings, you usually find a trio of materials, a triad. Sometimes it’s just like music, where it’s different when you have three notes, three tones sounding rather than two or one. And it doesn’t matter then, it is not a question of having to decide, it doesn’t matter whether there are two really dominant tones and more subtle ones that enrich the whole.

Earlier you told me that the building should sound like what it is, and that one evening before it was open or even filled with water you took the Vals yodelling club in there with a flashlight to hear the acoustics and were pleased. I am sure that the acoustical engineer had other ideas about what a public building should sound like.

Yeah, but I believe that buildings should sound the way they look. But you have to be careful still, you have to be careful about the use, that it doesn’t neglect the use of the building, the purpose of the building, in this case a bath. The bath starts to sound terrible when there are more than a 100, 120 people in it and the children start to yell and scream. But this is OK because there should not be that many people in there and so it sounds too crowded. I think it’s really beautiful when 20, 30, 50, 70 people are in there. Then it sounds really nice, then you hear all the sounds, you hear the space. Of course the acoustical engineer would say, yeah, but you can’t

prevent this overcrowding, you have to build it also for 200 people. But here, well, the building can tell you better what it wants.

Doesn’t the baths also reject the idea that acoustics should be normative, that there is a prescribed decibel range within which every building should be. I would think this holds for the lighting in the baths too, which is more subdued than one is accustomed to in public buildings and yet is perfectly fine.

But it does come as a bit of a surprise.

Well, I start from scratch in trying to develop an idea.

I have accumulated a personal body of experience, and out of this I develop the ideas for the buildings I make in these places. I have to get into all the possible qualities which could be brought, which arise within me, out of my memory, experiences, fantasies and images, to generate this building. And this I do maybe without any programmatic ideas in my head. I was brought up to be independent, almost disobedient. As soon as a rule comes to me I get angry, I don’t even look at it. The way I have been brought up helps me to start really independently from rules, books, and things, so that I can try to be true to what I feel. Because this, as everybody knows, is the only real truth. I am true to my feelings and I use my head to control them. In order to create architecture you have to use the head, but the substance, in my case, doesn’t come from the head but from my gut.

To come back to what you asked. It seems natural to say, OK, start with everything open – dark, light, silence and noise, and so on – that the beginning is open and the building, the design, tells you how these things have to be. Now the world is of course organized, the world of building and construction is organized so that people can have nice vacations, and don’t go bankrupt, so they can sleep well at night. They make rules to take responsibility away from themselves. This is true, this is how these building regulations come about. It’s a matter of responsibility. You can say, well, my clients and I will take on these responsibilities, all day, during the whole building process, because we want our building. And we will maintain this idea of doing a building and starting from scratch.

How prescriptive was the programme, and how much of it did you come up with?

The programme was precisely prescriptive: they wanted a bath like they exist. So there were all the ground rules that the management consultant could think of. But all the special items you find up there except for the indoor and outdoor pool are invented and generated by the architect in the process of design; kicking out things, eliminating other things, developing the building as a form, as a mass, as a body. This is actually what I always do. It’s not that I want to change the programme. I just insist on developing my own programme while designing the building, on authorship.

It sounds like you pushed the client quite far. You have also

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told me that you had kept the village involved and happy with the building. Could you explain the relationship with the client and the village?

The client happens to be the village in this case.

There’s a lot of autonomy in these villages, not just formally but really there. They decide on planning processes and so on. And they paid for the baths, so it was necessary every once in a while, at different phases and stages of the project, to go to a communal meeting and have the project approved. This is one thing, we talked to them. The other thing is that there were these two or three guys from the village who wanted to do something special, not something usual, a bath like everybody has, and they got excited as they found out slowly what we as architects were trying to do. We became this team, where they were open enough and cultivated, culturally minded enough, to get into my world, to participate critically but participate really and then take on the responsibility of doing a lot of things in another way; to say, but we want to do this. This has a lot to do with the sense of independence you can still find sometimes in certain people in these villages, in these places. You can feel this old sense of independence there. They say, we don’t care what they do in New York. If we want to do this, we’re going to do it.

To me the building calls attention to the difference between being serious and being earnest. It would be easy to mistake your work as the latter, though there is certainly a lightness of touch too. I am sure you are being humorous, for example,

when the solution to getting to the exterior bath is simply to remove the glazing from the frame which descends into the water. Elsewhere you use artifice to achieve a desired effect: the skylights, for example, have blue glass and are lit from the outside with lamps. Are these elements which are always in your work?

I think life is a playful thing, or can be a playful thing. It’s everything: pain and enjoyment and delight. Everything. In the case of architecture I like to be a little bit more careful because jokes age so quickly. So I think you have to be more careful. But with the bath I every once in a while said, hey, this is a bath, you know. This is also a playful and joyful thing.

There is also a little bit of, almost a little bit of theatre in some places, for the bathing ritual. My attitude depends on the building. It’s never the same. First of all, there is the way that has always existed of reducing your means in order not to become poor but rich. And if you create the kind of atmospheric qualities, or soulful qualities, that I am after, they’re of course much deeper or longer lasting, and somehow also more open to life than if you are, as you see in a lot of architecture, too fast. Making something really funny won’t hold up too long, like that plaza by Charles Moore in New Orleans [Piazza d’Italia].

So where in the baths do you think you’re displaying these playful or joyful qualities?

The basic thing is that I have tried to make spaces that people look really beautiful in, and people who are pale faced and wrinkled look nice there too. It’s easy to

7 ‘… coming down this long, long stair. This is like making your entrance, like in some movies, or in old hotels. Marlene Dietrich coming down a flight of stairs or something’ 8 ‘“the city like some large house, and the house in its turn like some small city.” – I also think in this way’

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and so on. And then you come back to the same place. This is not like a Western sports bath, right, where the name says it all, where you just get in and do your laps.

And then you get out.

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make a pool in which only, what’s her name, Claudia Schiffer looks good. There was an old woman there who told me, I know exactly why you are doing what you do here; so that people look nice. Ordinary people come in, older people come in and say it’s good that I can come in here and it’s not this cool atmosphere where I would like to wear a robe going into the water.

In the bath there is a little bit of a mythological place, the drinking fountain where the water comes out. It has a red light and is purely an artificial, theatrical piece. It does have a tradition though. The old spas had these marble, shaped drinking fountains, so this is the new version, but it is also a little bit theatrical.

Also, coming down this long, long stair [Fig. 7]. This is like making your entrance, like in some movies, or in old hotels. Marlene Dietrich coming down a flight of stairs or something. You make an entrance into the room. Also, the mahogany in the changing rooms looks a little bit sexy, like on an ocean liner, or a little bit like a brothel for a second, perhaps. They are where you change from your ordinary clothes to go into this other atmosphere. The sensual quality is the most important of course, that this architecture has these sensual qualities.

And the room where you dry your hair before you leave has an urbane feeling.

Back to life.

The entry sequence is particularly ritualistic – a corridor lined with spigots, a trough, the stepped ramp. This is not the bathing tradition in Western Europe really. Once one is at the level of the baths themselves, however, the ritual is not prescriptive any more; rather, one is enticed to discover the variety of experiences available. I know that you have returned from your first trip to Japan. Have other traditions, other rituals of bathing informed this design?

Then you get out. There’s practically a clock telling you that it’s been an hour and you have to go. You change your clothes, and there are these metal doors which have this cheap clang. But if you go to Turkey you find out what a ritual is, how sensual it can be.

It’s so gentle. This I learned at about the time I made the final judgement on the entrance sequence and designed these changing rooms where people get close, almost get in body contact with each other depending on how many are in there. As opposed to this locker system, where you just stand, get in and then go out on the other side. Here you have this kind of vestibule. This is a bit the Oriental influence, I must say.

One can’t help but get glimpses of people inside them changing.

Yeah.

So they are part of the transition towards becoming body conscious.

Yeah, exactly.

I have always been struck by the strong figure-ground of the scheme, and how much it reminds me of Alberti: ‘the city is like some large house, and the house is in turn like some small city’. Did you work with this idea at all?

It’s hard to say where it comes from. I don’t read too many books, architecture books, so it’s hard to know where this comes from [Fig. 8]. I know exactly what you mean, and I also think in this way, I feel in this way, but it’s not something intellectual I learnt.

Somehow it’s there, but don’t ask me how.

The baths, because of the programme, really forces the distinction between one’s formal understanding of the building through drawings, say, and one’s experience of it.

One could, for instance, like the space of the cold bath best of all, but one’s experience of it is determined by the fact that you can’t be in there for more than probably five seconds. My favourite space is when you come down the stairs and make a left. I think you called it the grotto. It always has someone in it.

The one with people humming.

Do you have a favourite space in the baths?

I don’t know much about the ritual of bathing. I know something about Turkish bathing, and this has influenced the entrance sequence strongly I think. I was trying to bring people a little bit into this nice mood you get in Turkish bathing, where you come to the first room and then you change and walk around, you come out in this long bathrobe,

No. Is there anything that you would like to add before we move on to the Siedlung?

No.

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Wohnsiedlung Spittelhof, Biel-Benken, Baselland SS If the design for the thermal baths was rich in its potential for metaphor and ritual, what did you see as the possibilities inherent in housing? Which is a way of saying, where did you start?

PZ In Germany, in Switzerland, maybe in Austria, there’s this tradition of making a Siedlung.1 This means that you plan a settlement, that you provide a structure which at the beginning is basic, elemental; then people start to use it, become part of it. I think a Siedlung needs something like 10 or 20 years before it’s really nice, before a second generation starts to say that we want to stay here. It needs these traces of different uses. As I said earlier, I’m trying to make architecture that is elemental and sort of a background so that life – here how people use the gardens and the balconies, the living rooms and the spaces inside – so that life comes in. This is one thing.

And then these living spaces are grouped in a form called a Siedlung, which has many connotations [Fig. 9]. To make a Siedlung there is a challenge because it is one of these nice, upper class, singlefamily home areas and has been so for a long time.

It’s a nice place for wealthy people to have a singlefamily home because it’s not too far from the city.

Now to make a Siedlung there, this is for many of these people a problem. For a Siedlung is, of course, about making a place. It’s a monument in the sense of Aldo Rossi or something. There is this old farm,

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9 ‘... it is one of those nice, upper class, single-family home areas not too far from the city … Now to make a Siedlung there … is for many of these people a problem … for a Siedlung is about making a place’

10 ‘The whole beautiful landscape looking over to the Alsatian sunset and so on, this is what the Siedlung reacts to and how it sits in these soft rolling hills’

11 ‘… you concentrate the building mass in an intelligent way, and then you have the splendour of a huge sort of courtyard in the middle … This is the … reward if we would be willing to live in a terrace house’

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Spittelhof, up there, so there is something to react to.

Inserting this Siedlung there is a little bit of a social and urban surgery. Putting it there physically or topographically is the easier part.

You grew up in that region of rolling hills by the Rhine, in that specific landscape, and the Swiss place great importance on one’s Heimat.2 Did this affect the specificity that you are after in your work?

No, I don’t think so. I know the area well of course, since I did grow up two or three kilometres north of that place. Yeah, maybe because of this it’s tougher than normally it would be. I always had the idea that it had to be a little bit urban, to mark a border, a delicate border between city and country. And the three big bars making this figure-ground, this interior courtyard that opens its perspective to the Spittelhof farm, the urban elements – repetition and so on – add a certain elegance. But in the materials, if you look at the concrete and this black stained wood and the shutters, it’s very rural. You can open up all these balconies, all these french windows, and this whole Siedlung consists of only verandahs.

Everything, bedrooms, living rooms, is a verandah. This is not urban, right. A verandah is countryside. The idea was to have a little bit of both up there.

But balconies are urban.

Yeah, it could be urban. But see, if you’re really an urban person then you don’t hang your underwear on the balcony to the street. That is not city culture.

Architects don’t know this any more, not even in Europe. It’s terrible, we’re losing a whole culture. To the street you would make a more representative facade, like hiding a little bit, like wearing a dress or something. So these large verandahs have to do with the countryside. The Siedlung reacts to the larger landscape and not to the immediate neighbourhood. Its landscape is seen like a large park in which the building sits. The Siedlung says that we are in a park, and that all these single-family houses could just as well be gone. The whole beautiful landscape looking over to the Alsatian sunset and so on, this is actually what the Siedlung reacts to and is how it sits in these soft, rolling hills [Fig. 10]. There is a little bit of a protest here against these single-family homes, and that’s why it will take some time, 10 years maybe, until this Siedlung settles in. This explains the protests against it. There’s a little bit of missionary spirit in it. It would be nice to have more Siedlungs, more concentration, not to use up everything for single-family homes with fences around them. So all of this you can see in it, I guess.

Well, yes, it does stand out in that area, which is countryside but has suburban houses sitting in the middle of their plots.

Was the decision for a courtyard scheme a conscious reversal of this figure-ground?

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No, it’s not contextual in terms of the buildings around it. It reacts instead to the major topographical elements – the old farm, the edge of the woods, the hills, the sunset, the view, the mountains, the old castle, the old village there, and so on. In itself it goes back to this elemental idea of a Siedlung, which is not contextual but has an autonomous form. You can also see on this piece of land, with its three bars and courtyard in the middle, a higher percentage of land used than is typical in the neighbourhood. But it looks somehow less dense because you concentrate the building mass in an intelligent way, and then you have the splendour of a huge sort of courtyard space in the middle. This is what you can learn, that this is how we all could live if we didn’t want a fence around our house. This is the space we could get as a reward in turn, if we would be willing to live in a terrace house [Fig. 11].

and readers write nasty letters to the newspapers.

Right after it was finished I went down there to meet with the community and the village president to give an open, kind of guided tour with the architect. I went there on a Saturday, and there were over two hundred people from all over, a lot of really critical people, there was an uproar. Although there are people living there now who really like it, more intellectuals. They then have to withstand Sunday hikers stopping there, blaming them, swearing at them, cursing the houses with negative remarks.

And they answer, what are you doing here, this is my home, don’t look into my window. And they say, it’s your mistake for living in such a terrible place.3

Its density doesn’t strike one as a problem at all.

Without you having to defend your critics, have there been criticisms of it that surprised you?

It’s the other guys, who actually have lower densities, who look crowded.

Do you really want to call that central space a courtyard? It’s more like a meadow, isn’t it?

No, it’s an informal kind of courtyard which interweaves, interlocks with the surroundings. Its biggest opening is toward this old farmstead up there. There is a friendliness to the surroundings which is a friendliness to the landscape. And one of the bars is something of a bellavista piece, the one where the flats have separate entrances.

But formally it’s one piece.

Yeah, but this particular building up there says, look how beautiful these rolling hills on the horizon are.

It’s a bellavista situation, where from one side you can look at the sunset overlooking the whole valley, and from the other that beautiful edge of the woods in the east. The other two pieces of the Siedlung are put into the landscape to talk about its softness. Like linen hanging there, this thing following and not disturbing the soft lines of the landscape. One lies a bit higher, and they are at different angles to talk about the softness of the landscape. The Siedlung talks very much about elemental landscape elements. Which is also why the courtyard is open to the landscape, offers these views, and in some places has a forced perspective. There’s no right angle. The pieces are sort of freely, informally placed. This is friendly to the landscape and the topography.

What social group lives in the Siedlung. Are they private?

It’s about half and half. Half of them are to be sold, those are the terrace houses, and the flats are to be rented. At the moment it’s a bad time to be selling houses. But it’s not only that. They have had particular problems selling these. The Siedlung has been a topic in the newspapers now for half a year.

It’s really been bad, terrible. I get anonymous letters, Steven Spier

Really?

Yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty emotional.

No, actually not, because it’s so clear. Although I didn’t expect that what we thought would come back to us so clearly, that we’re rejecting suburban sprawl, this individualistic approach of a family home. That this comes back so emotionally and strongly I didn’t expect, but now when I think about it, it’s obvious. If you look at these single-family homes they say, ‘Look at me. We have made it. We’re not in a flat any more’.

Right? And, ‘Look at me. Now I’m an individual. See on this facade I have these three types of windows.

And here I have a bay window, and here I have an outdoor fireplace and here I have the half round windows. Now I have made it.’

Now this is in a way understandable and OK. If the Spittelhof Siedlung had been done by an average building company they would have put so-called blocks there – cheap, ordinary housing blocks, apartments. And the protest would have been less because this company would have spent a few francs to have some dark-stained wood board. And you’d say, OK, yeah, they tried. And there wouldn’t have been so much complaining because everybody would know that this is cheap housing. They might say that this doesn’t belong here, why did you put this here. Now the provocation is that they look at this Siedlung and they see repetition, they see that this has been made not by a bad architect, but has been made like that on purpose. Now imagine this. These people are there and on purpose have their bay windows and all these pseudo-individualistic things, and there comes someone who does the opposite. And this guy is a famous architect. He is professor at so and so, and they don’t understand the world any more. It’s a real provocation. It could be that the provocation is too large, but I think it will be accepted.

This is a little bit the history of Siedlungs, that there is this provocation because with Siedlungs comes this air of, ‘We do it better’. And Germany or Switzerland always have the good architects doing the Siedlungs, not the bad ones. Siedlungs work. It is not just housing, and so this provocation is not new, it’s actually really old. In planned housing like a Siedlung,

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12 ‘There are 12 entrances off it …

So they have this double-storey verandah created by a huge cantilevering piece containing only bedrooms looking eastwards onto the woods … It has nothing to do with the street’

13 ‘I often see in cheap housing the common stairwell with no real qualities and the entrance called out on the facade … the Siedlung flats have the comfort of a single-family home with their own entrance and own staircase’

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and now talking to you for the first time I find out that of course, the fact that I grew up there influenced the design. When people ask me, where do you come from, I say from there, this place, but I never go there any more because I grew up in a farmer’s village and now it’s suburbia. They have destroyed everything. The only thing that is left is the landscape, in some places. Now look what I do.

This is the first time I realize this, exactly the way I feel, that I hate these houses destroying the landscape of my youth. And maybe, most likely, the people can feel this from the Siedlung, that I actually despise them somehow. Not personally, but in using up land in this American way, which in America might work, but Europe is, I don’t know, too tight or something. We lack the big spaces that they have still; they have all this land.

Well, there’s also a different tradition here, a more urban one. Were you a little bit surprised by the intensity of the reaction? In hindsight you could say that it shows the strength in the work, that the attitude about housing comes across very clearly.

Yeah, I was surprised. Then I had to do a little bit of thinking, and look at what we did. So this interview has just helped me to find out something else, that I actually do think that this Siedlung should react to the landscape, and that’s why I explained it has to be

a thing in a park, reacting to the primal elements of the landscape.

The building on the east side, the one with the flats, really does turn its back to the street. You cut a void from the mass at street level which becomes a verandah, and a common space for all of these flats to use. It’s a very generous space.

There are 12 entrances off it. It reacts not to the street, but to the edge of the forest. And I know that across the street will remain free, there won’t be any buildings there. So they have this double-storey verandah created by a huge cantilevering piece containing only bedrooms looking eastwards onto these woods. This is the idea. It has nothing to do with the street [Fig. 12].

The plan of this eastern bar goes from being single-loaded on the ground floor to double-loaded above. The living rooms always face the view, you avoid corridors, everyone gets to have this big generous verandah as an entry. It’s really quite cleverly worked out in the plan and section. Usually discussions about your work focus on the materials. Is that a distortion of your work?

I don’t know how people talk about my work, and I’m not too interested. Housing poses questions of floor plan organization [Fig. 13]. For me what I detest is what I often see in cheap housing: the common

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14 ‘… I am reacting to the landscape …

The idea was to build only verandahs … all the flats have this circulation spine with the verandahs to either side … the elevation is completely open’ 15‘It has this nice quality that these belts between the floors lap. The dark glass and the dark wood are sort of the same during the daytime. This becomes uniform, really quiet in a way …’

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stairwell with no real qualities and the entrance called out on the facade. I know there are some architects who claim this can be a strong zone of social contact, but I have always disliked it. So this is one thing, that these flats do have the comfort of a single-family home with their own entrance and their own staircase. Then I have never liked buildings which have a facade and all of a sudden you have this staircase called out. It brings me down when I see such a facade. Maybe it has to do with it feeling like a big block. It has a stale odour or something. So here again I am reacting to the landscape, looking at my Heimat as a large park. The idea was to build only verandahs, meaning that all the circulation is in the sanctuary, linearly, that they all have this circulation spine with all the verandahs to either side.

Well yes, the whole elevation on the side of the long view dissolves. Even where it can’t literally open up it still dissolves.

Yeah, this is completely open [Fig. 14]. And the kitchen reinforces this too. I don’t like European kitchens where one looks at a wall. I don’t think many Americans would accept such a kitchen. So all these kitchens are laid out not to be deep but to have their length facing this ancient landscape. And then when you are in the rooms you notice that the finish is better than usual. And we worked very carefully to make sure that you can really use them as bedrooms for instance, that you’re not missing five centimetres here, that the bed won’t obstruct opening the door, that you can have the wardrobe there, and so on. This is of course not talked about. This is something, these qualities, that people will start to appreciate once they move in.

What is its construction?

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It is a concrete skeleton with a central spine, cantilevering off which are concrete slabs – floors and services and ceilings. The rest is timber framed.

And the exterior surface?

This is cheap pine, stained dark with a kind of translucent paint which has a little bit of glimmer to it. Depending on the light you can tell that the material’s wood. It will develop a natural patina in 10 years. But if you don’t do anything in the beginning with this kind of wood it will look really cheap. So it’s pretty dark, and just a little bit urban, a little abstract, a little bit cool. Only on second sight do you see that this is actually just wood. You see the knots and things when you look carefully. So this makes it a little bit delicate.

But in the same way that the idea of a courtyard is critical of suburban sprawl, the colour of the Siedlung is more than a bit urban, don’t you think? If a builder had done it, he certainly wouldn’t have made it dark like that. It would have been probably rendered plaster, or if it were wood it would have been painted something cheery.

It has this nice quality that these belts between the floors lap. The dark glass and the dark wood are sort of the same during the daytime. This becomes uniform, really quiet in a way, and, as you know, if you paint something white it jumps toward the eye; if you make it dark, it recedes [Fig. 15]. It is interesting that ordinary people apparently don’t see this. If you would paint the Siedlung white, then I think it would be aggressive, that would be the most aggressive. You can see that with this single-family home just around the corner which is completely white and jumps at the eye. It’s terrible. Here you have these quiet, dark bars behind it. But I’ve heard this before, that it is

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aggressive. It’s the same idea again. It develops its ideas from the landscape. This is highly biographical maybe because I like the landscape and I dislike the use they have made of it. It is the landscape of my youth. But I suppose it’s also a political idea.

One last question on the Siedlung. Why didn’t you use, say, Eternit as opposed to this stained pine?

Eternit. This wood, this is really important. There are a lot of buildings there which use this wood, including barns, and the wood was always stained.

It’s normally natural grey, or grey-black or even Scandinavian red. And I personally grew up two kilometres from there with a farm nearby with a barn stained red like in Scandinavia. This now is a reference, you see. Maybe it’s more biographical than I thought, because I do accept this wood, this old stained wood. Wood belongs to the countryside. But also for another reason: Eternit would have no softness. It would be like the concrete slabs. I would never have used it. This softness is important. As you have seen, the facade has two layers, there’s the stained layer, and then it has a more refined layer with natural wood windows which show that there is a warmer coat, or layer inside, which belongs to the building.

Which is actually what the building will move towards as the exterior gets a patina.

Yeah, much more into that.

Is there anything about the Siedlung you’d like to add?

No.

Topography of Terror4 SS Because this project exists only through drawings and that incredible wooden model, it gives us the opportunity to talk about how you get to the specificity that you have talked about with the other two buildings. You have said elsewhere5 that when an architect or historian looks at drawings they are like a musician looking at sheet music: they reveal structure, form, the abstracted idea, but they are not music.

It’s the same when one is designing, isn’t it?

PZ Yes. What problems or opportunities face the architect in having to design through drawings and models instead of being able to work with the thing itself? Which is a way of asking you how you work.

That is not a problem. I always start out with the place, with the use, and maybe some first ideas, and then I start to work. But the ideas, the emotions, have to tell you how to work, so I sometimes have to talk with somebody. Many times I have to talk to somebody to get to it. When I talk about these emotions, I ask, ‘Do you know what I mean?’, and sometimes I can then listen to what I am saying.

When you verbalize something your brain is working. So sometimes I have to talk, and while talking sometimes it is easier just to take a pencil to show somebody what you mean. Then the process of designing moves on. You need working drawings, which are something else again, and detail drawings.

Sometimes you have to study things, so you draw, but I don’t think you can study too much through drawings. Sometimes you need a model, sometimes you need a scale model, sometimes you need three pieces of material, even if it doesn’t matter what size,

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16 ‘… it’s really good that … right here where it happened – it was the most terrible address in Europe … Gestapo headquarters … there will be shown something, the remnants, so that this doesn’t get forgotten’

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17 ‘… I right away have to think if I could do a building which would be pure construction … a building which would be as abstract as possible to resist being typed and all this normalcy’

and so on. Actually, if you have a clear image of what you want to do, it tells you how to work, what the problem is now, at the moment, where the problem is. If somebody asks a question from a different level of drawing or a model, how can you proceed? The problem hasn’t arrived, it is not yet my problem.

You said to me once that the drawings of some architects, as beautiful as they might be, show that they have given up on the idea of it being of a building.

That’s right.

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And you have said that it is important to you that all the projects you work on are to be built. Why is that, and does it affect the way you work?

I have this passion for buildings, nice spaces, beautiful spaces, for independent buildings set into specific places to start a dialogue with the surroundings, the place. It is a feeling that there can never be enough nice spaces, nice objects, in the town or in the landscape. There can never be enough.

There then arises the possibility to do something.

When I say nice I mean more than nice, to do something that tells something of the place, and fulfils a kind of longing or wish I have within myself.

And when I do think like that I can see that other people have these dreams too. It’s not so singular what we feel, you know. It’s just that my passion is to bring this forth, to bring this out, to do it. You can call this being a professional architect. And other people like drawing maybe, or like to deal with forms maybe. I don’t care, it’s OK if they are also called Steven Spier

architects. My sources come more from memory and experience – from reading literature and poetry, from listening to music, going to the movies, travelling, looking at things, than from formal education.

Let’s talk about place and programme in relation to Berlin, where they’re both so charged. How did you understand the site and the programme? What were your reactions?

My first reaction, when I saw the place for the first time, was that it was actually such a terrible thing that had happened there that I couldn’t do a building there. The idea that there would be a building with all these ordinary features belonging to a museum or a cultural building or whatever is dreadful, like a Holocaust Museum with window shutters, and air conditioning, and lavatories. It’s a

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strange idea to have this normality, this type of a building, so it felt like any type of building would be wrong. Then I looked at the existing, small exhibition and thought, the fact that they want a building is OK. It’s actually really important. I think it’s really good that on this place, right there where it happened – it was the most terrible address in Europe at that time, Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 9, Gestapo headquarters, that in this place there will be shown something, the remnants, so that this doesn’t get forgotten [Fig. 16]. Later, when I visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington, then you see the difference, right. Berlin is the place, and there is no need like in Washington to reconstruct concentration camp entrances in papier mâché to make people feel it.

But back to the question. So I said, I don’t want to build, it’s too terrible. Then I thought, actually the purpose is OK. So I didn’t reject the programme, but I needed to invent a building which would resist all existing typologies, a building which would be close to the ground, close to the earth, a building which would be almost a little bit uncomfortable. A building which would be 20 degrees [Centigrade] all year, all the time, was impossible for me there. So there it starts, and then I right away have to think if I could do a building which would be pure construction, only construction, a building which would be as abstract as possible to resist being typed and all this normalcy [Fig. 17]. And it’s clear that if we succeed with this building, because it’s so empty of pre-existing typological models and forms, it will become a symbol. I mean, you resist symbols and then they’ll come in. And this is, I think, OK. Because the building is then genuinely unique, in this intense relationship with the place and the way it’s made; and to be all this there and always to see the place wherever you are in this building.

So even after its construction the building is going to be abstract, and therefore close to the drawings, isn’t it?

No, not at all. This building could be like the drawings if you look at it from two hundred metres away or something, but I don’t even think then, because it’s transparent and you will see the life inside the building. Probably not only at night, certainly at night, but also at day you somehow will feel it. And then there is the weathering which will effect this building very soon. And then the problem of the production of these concrete posts is not even resolved yet. So I think it will look pretty abstract, but not as abstract as you might think from the drawings. It will look material, that you’ve seen something like that. Then, as you approach and get closer it will, it’s what we are working on now, this building will turn into architecture. It will have glass, and it will have doors with handles. It will have certain things. And it will have small scale details, the necessary ones. So then it will be architecture and not an abstraction. It will be concrete and material. And if I succeed, if we succeed, it will be once more better even than we thought. I have to develop the qualities that go beyond imagination and drawings, and they can only come out of

thorough work on all the issues and functions of the buildings, to find out what it wants to be.

That’s a difficult task though, to design a building that strips out references and typologies. But it is a difficult programme and a difficult site which you said you felt particularly challenged by.

It’s not more difficult than any other building. It’s not more of a challenge than any other building.

This idea of how to approach it came really easily. We did the competition in three weeks, not even. I went there. I trust my first intuition, the first ideas that I have. I always work like that. I try to keep them protected during the long process of constructing the building. No, I would say it was easy. All good projects somehow have this easy part which is joyful, where I say, yeah, this will be nice. Also with this. This is not going to be a tough building, you know. This is going to be a soft building. The light will make it soft.

It will have really nice, calm, soft spaces.

Many people think, and you could make this mistake from looking at the drawings, that this is going to be some really stark and tough kind of thing. I’m not working towards that. The idea is strong enough. We are working on turning that into architecture. All of a sudden it will have details, and we are working on these details. There’s concrete, glass, and stainless steel. Where is the glass, where is the concrete, the stainless steel? And there’s another layer of metal that’s not stainless steel but a dark paint with a metallic shine [Eisenglimmer]. It still has a metallic shine. And yet it’s a coat, a paint that is another layer that we can play with. We can say, here is this shiny stainless steel surface, and here it recedes where it’s not so important. So we establish hierarchies.

The building will have some Japanese-like parts – light and rhythm, and should be meditative in the most part. And we are working with the shiny edges of the glass, where you polish the edge, the shiny part where the glass is green, that this gives this reflection, a fine, luminous line that relates to the shine of the stainless steel which might be a frame, or maybe in a door. So the building is not dreary and dull.

How do I explain this? It’s good that the building is there, you see. It’s an important building. It should not be dreary. It should be a meditative building. It should be simple and beautiful for this function. It’s not going to be all black or rusty iron, or sad because of concentration camps. It should not reflect cruelty and terror. This doesn’t work for me. The actual place and the documents the building houses will do that instead. This is always the same, this is what’s most interesting for me. It’s the most interesting, the nice thing to do now, to think of this building, to know more and more about its appearance inside and outside, and to bring all of this into balance through a trial-and-error process.

And you go and do and try, and your feeling can steer you usually. The feeling comes first, telling you yes, which you must notice. Sometimes only afterwards you find that you say why, why do I feel

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good now? Something seems to be right. As for the theme of abstraction, for me it is actually the opposite. I said that I have to look for the most abstract building possible, but soon I stopped saying this because what I mean is reducing the form and other aspects, and letting the form come out of the functions and the construction and things which seem matter of course. Then this whole thing develops a sort of poetry and is sensual and concrete and not abstract. So abstract, I think now, is probably the wrong word.

Why, or how, did you choose to have a trabeated structure?

I would like to have a building which could solve its problems, most of its problems, by being a pure structure, and this building is a pure structure. In this structure we cannot subtract a single post. We fight with the engineer sometimes to take a post out somewhere, but he needs them all. You cannot take anything away. He goes, no, the door cannot be larger, and so on. The construction is made like this and allows 50% of the surface, of that space to be glass. The other thing is the way the building touches the ground. You can describe this building as a big fence [Fig. 18]. And within this, which defines a long rectangular shape, within this fence is another fence which houses the excavation. Then you have the interstitial space in plan and section and that’s it.

This brings the presence of the place into the building from every single point, from wherever you stand.

There is always the place coming in. And in addition to that, it’s always only there when you are standing at the correct angle to the facade. When the gaze goes off obliquely you don’t see out any more. So you always have this one specific kind of view as you Steven Spier

go through the 130 metre length of it. That’s pretty nice. And we take care that you have this also in the offices and so on. And as you know there are these hills, these mounds, mementos from the war which will create shadows in there. So the presence, again, the presence of the place is in the building. Also because of the gravel floor which is inside and outside. And it will get a bit cold.

Berlin gets very cold.

I mean in the exhibition, because we won’t heat it really. We have hung something into the framework of the structure, compartments upstairs for the people who work there, but not for the visitors at ground level. The rest of the building has a more modest temperature which varies with the weather.

Is the main space heated at all?

No, though it does profit from waste heat. There will be a little bit of warm air. It will be blown into the gaps in front of the window panes – they’re just ordinary glass, just one 19mm thick glass, so that you don’t have condensation. This whole energy system allows for a completely exposed superstructure, inside and outside. There won’t be any cladding or anything, and it still will work, it will have to work energy wise. This is going to be a challenge this time, because in other buildings, like Vals or the Kunsthaus Bregenz, we incorporated a lot of things into the sculptural mass of the poured concrete. But this time it is all additive. To the framework of the structure we add layers – floors, glass, and so on, but always clearly added and open. But at the same time we are trying to keep everything simple and not decorative, trying to avoid the high-tech look.

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18‘You can describe this building as a big fence. And within this, which defines a long rectangular shape, within this fence is another fence which houses the excavation’ 19 ‘And then there are a few things the glass needs to be. A few details come from the glass which fills in between the gaps’ 20 ‘You have reflections. The closer you come, the more it turns into architecture, the more transparent it gets until finally you are in … body contact with the building’

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material you can use for something like this, which is a good starting point.

Why concrete, and was it concrete from early on?

It was always concrete. I wouldn’t know what other material to use for this. No tree is large enough. And if you did take an oak tree, if there was one 20 metres tall, which there isn’t, it would give the wrong connotations; German oak and its mythical connotations.

Steel?

Yes. If you take steel then it needs to be painted and it starts looking like a factory. I think of concrete as artificial stone or something. It’s the most ordinary

You’ve spoken very clearly about bringing the outside in. But what about the perception of the building from the outside, as an object, in this site?

You won’t be reminded of any other buildings you have seen before, which is what I want for this building in that place, this kind of appearance.

Maybe if we succeed this will be amazing enough, somehow in all its simplicity to show the negative, and today positive, importance of the place, to manifest this. I hope so. Positive today

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because I think it’s necessary to deal with this history.

Where in the walls is the glass going to be set?

Always in the middle.

So it’s going to be a very articulated surface in reality.

You’ll see the construction. You’ll see the floors, and you’ll always see in. I can see it. It has these small irregularities, where you read floors and voids.

Suddenly you see this. And then there are a few things the glass needs to be. A few details come from the glass which fills in between the gaps. [Figs. 19, 20] The doors. You have reflections. The closer you come, the more it turns into architecture, the more transparent it gets until finally you are in one to one contact, body contact with this building.

What will the entry sequence be like as you cross the exhibition hall, into these other shells with free-standing lifts and stairwell?

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21 ‘It’s going to be impressively tall and full of light … It will be like the inside of a Zeppelin … but it will have nice light … with a lot of articulation of light and shadow’

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22 ‘But I have the feeling that it could be something you’ve never seen before.

Maybe pretty crazy.

You enter these concrete towers which have stainless steel doors but which are not unfriendly’ (construction view, spring 2000)

It’s going to be really impressively tall and full of light, and you’ll see the shafts of the circulation towers rising [Fig. 21]. It will be like the inside of a Zeppelin, or of some kind of maybe industrial thing, but it will have nice light, 50% is glazed, with a lot of articulation of light and shadow. And then you’ll see, you can look up and see this, yeah, these compartments, where you have somebody in there working. You want to go up there, and we invite you to just walk upstairs. I can imagine it and I get excited. All architects have that. But I have the feeling that it could be something you’ve never seen before, somehow. Maybe pretty crazy. You enter these concrete towers which have stainless steel doors but which are not unfriendly [Fig. 22]. Upstairs in the

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upper shell you have a lot of glass again, but insulated glass, thicker thermo-glass. And there the gaps are widened because we play with the structure.

Upstairs we don’t need all the posts, maybe a third are structural, so we take these away to create a more open atmosphere for working. The outer fence always stays, is always the same.

How do you see the smaller, louvred building that’s over the excavated detention cells and that stands opposite the entrance. What will it be made out of?

I don’t know exactly. I think it will be coated with black tar to have an organic quality. It has to have something to do with the excavation there, and to protect it. Because this is actually a monument. It’s more important historically than the excavation inside the building itself. These detention cells are more important. They get something more biological, more organic as a casement. This was the idea. And it stands as a somehow more organic, softer object in front of this light mineral-like background of the main building and marks the entrance.

And it’s much, much smaller …

Yes, much smaller.

How did you see the relationship between these two?

Both volumes mark the found remnants.

Did the idea that the area should be covered by a plain shed come from the director, or from you?

I sort of resented how they wrote the programme.

This one Berlin architectural theoretician who was on the jury said it should be an undecorated shed or something. But this was not important because I don’t pay much attention to these things. But maybe he meant something like my solution, because I heard that when he saw this project he said that this is it, this is our undecorated shed, the one that we are looking for.

You have said that you wanted the exhibition hall, this huge space, to induce a mood of contemplation, or an atmosphere of quiet. How are you going to achieve that?

These two layers of light filters, this double fence, will I think do this. I imagine it as a long perspective with a lot of light and shadow, and no view outside except, as I said, for the immediate view where you are standing. I think this should work. Right now, it’s important how the floor and the exhibition are made. I have the idea that the exhibition and the documents they show there should all be on tables, on ordinary tables, 500 tables, under glass of course, which are lit up, like glowing table tops. These rows of tables contain the documents in their original size, so that the encounter with them will be an intimate one. Most of them are A4, DIN [Deutsche Industrie Norm(en)].A4. I picture the exhibition being like a big book there, lying in the space. The didactic

element should be reduced to pure necessity, and, like in a good newspaper, the comments, the exhibitions, these tables, should be made in a way that the comments of the historians are clearly separate from the original documents, so that these comments, didactic captions or whatever, are separated.

Basically you will have two parts to the exhibition.

You will have the lower region with its excavation, the basement piece. There they will have vertical panels showing, I think one should show and they want to show, the history of the house and of the jail there. Then on the other side of this foyer area, there I think should be these tables, and a long passageway which enables you to go to these rows of tables, or just cut across the space lengthwise, just reading, looking at maybe an introductory chapter for instance. And now this is important: that nothing hangs from the ceiling, nothing is connected to the building. All that is shown, this is the idea with the tables of course, is on the ground, on the historical ground, and the historical ground will be some kind of hardened gravel or something, the same gravel which covers the whole historical area outside the area of Topography of Terror. This enters and actually becomes the flooring, the simple flooring of the whole exhibition, of the whole place, the whole parcours. Then comes very clearly this fence, this double fence-like building, sort of like a hold, like something carefully placed over these documents.

This vision is very clear. When I first thought about the exhibition half a year ago, or a year ago, they said that nothing can touch the ground, that everything should hang.

That the ground is sacred.

Yeah. But as soon as you start to think about it the opposite is true: everything has to be connected to the place and the ground. The building should have nothing to do with what you show there, with these documents. It should be pure structure, a protective structure around this ground. To me this idea is so convincing that it must be right. It seems so clear, so clear to me. It belongs to its place. The place is now historic.

When you describe documents on tables like that, you’re talking about providing the visitor with an almost unmediated experience, one that is not themed. But how would you design a banner, for instance?

Yeah, I know.

And it’s quite a contrary position to take, Peter, that you don’t have to theme the exhibition, that you don’t have to mediate this for people.

Contrary to what?

Well, to contemporary museum design.

Yeah, true. I’m for the original. I’m not for mock ups.

I don’t like that too much. If somebody puts one of

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these letters of former prisoners in Gestapo headquarters there on site in front of me, and just says when it was written and so on, I get the information. It doesn’t need to be reduced or blown up, with a gold frame around it. I want to deal with reality and not with something didactically prepared. This is the place, the place is reality, and I want to see the documents one to one. But some historians want to mediate everything.6 Nothing which is, is OK. You have to treat it, do all kinds of things to it, theme it in order to bring it to people.

But people are not stupid. And if you are lazy and want everything prepared for you in this way, you might find out that you never experience reality. I mean you have to present the things, so there does exist the problem of how to do this. Do I present it standing on the flat ground, do I present it on tables horizontally, do I present it one to one? If I present it my way, you look 80 metres deep in space with a lot of tables and a lot of documents. So I’m not exactly saying that this is not mediating something.

What I like about my idea is that you can go down one of these aisles, or two of them, or another one, and look at documents. You don’t have to go and look at all of them. But having this overview of how many there are gives you a consciousness of course of

Notes 1. Typically translated as housing estate, though Siedlung does not carry negative connotations as it does in Britain. The verb form siedeln means to settle.

2. Means both home and hometown.

In Switzerland it also means where you were born and has lifelong bureaucratic importance.

3. Since the interviews, the Siedlung has already grown in popularity and acceptance and is settling into a normal existence.

4. Peter Zumthor won an international competition in 1993 to convert the exhibition spaces over the ruined cellars of the former headquarters of the Nazi secret police into a building devoted to the study and documentation of Nazi terror: the

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what they did there. You can’t cop out of mediating things. I have to expose them and I want to expose them, but in a more, almost art historical way.

It would be fair to say that in such a space you’re invited to contemplate. You can read those documents or not, but you’re not going to be able to mistake the scale of what happened there. Libeskind in the Jewish Museum in Berlin insists upon the importance of silence too, but a silence which is so polemical that it becomes rather loud, in a way.

The silence that you’re talking about, the silence that you’re demanding from this building, is different. Isn’t it?

That is for you to say because I don’t know the Libeskind project.

Are there different kinds of silence, then?

For me, as an architect, there must be many kinds of silence.

I think that’s all my questions. Do you have anything you want to add about this building or about anything else?

No. You asked the questions and I tried to concentrate.

Foundation Topography of Terror.

Construction began in 1997 and has been interrupted several times because of politics and shortage of money. It will be completed in 2003.

5. See Zumthor, P. (1998). Thinking Architecture, Lars Müller Publishers, Baden, Switzerland.

6. At the moment Peter Zumthor is still struggling for the unity of approach to both building and exhibition.

Illustration credits Architektbüro Peter Zumthor, 1, 3, 8, 9, 13, 16-21, 23-28 Hélène Binet, 2, 4-7, 10 Heinrich Helfenstein, 11, 14, 15 Steven Spier, 12, 22 Acknowledgements arq gratefully acknowledges

Place, authorship and the concrete: three conversations with Peter Zumthor

Architektbüro Peter Zumthor, Hélène Binet, Heinrich Helfenstein and Steven Spier for consent to use their photographs.

The interviews were held while the author was a senior lecturer at South Bank University. He gratefully acknowledges having been awarded a research grant there.

Biography Steven Spier is a professor in architecture at the University of Strathclyde. He has been a lecturer at South Bank University London, ETH-Zurich, and SCI-Arc Vico Morcote. He has practised architecture in Los Angeles and Berlin. He has a masters degree from SCI-Arc Los Angeles and a first degree in philosophy.